University: Moments Missed

There have been more times than I care to admit that the need for extra sleep has outweighed my need to attend my lectures and, although, this post may feign at being about how I have realised all the information I’ve missed, it’s not. I mean, duh, I can catch up on Blackboard. No, the act of playing truant has on many an occasion been for a worthier cause than eating cookies and playing sims. It has been for my grandmother. This is not to say that my gran demanded I stay or represented herself as a charity case in need of attention, but to say that there comes a time when savouring the small moments in life comes paramount to education. You see, upon scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed I stumbled across a post that haunted me with its veracity. It was the picture of a coat hanging off the end of a banister; a coat that once belonged to the photographer’s deceased grandmother. The woman commented on how she would never again see their grandmother put this coat on and nor would they witness any of the other inane, bog-standard things that she did. The Facebook post concluded with a particularly thought-provoking suggestion for its readers:

Appreciate it the next time you see your loved one put on their coat. Savour that second where they’re stood in front of you in the flesh; in glorious living form, touchable and huggable and real. Embrace the image of them cooking or drinking from their favourite mug or smiling as they walk through the front door.

So, you know what? I did, and here’s what I savoured…gran, I urge you not to get too emotional reading this one. I don’t want you breaking your computer with water damage. How else would you continue researching your family history or check your Ya-hoo account? I wrote’Yahoo’ like that because that is exactly how my dear gran pronounces it. It will never cease to make me keel over with laughter and it will never be okay for her to pronounce it any other way. Please don’t. We should all lead by your example. In fact, we should follow her example in a lot of things. You see, although my gran claims to be a Christian, I believe she has more Buddhist tendencies. With an empathy for the animal kingdom and an undemanding temperament, I feel she may have rather enjoyed a life with the monks. To me, at least, she is a spiritual advise-giver, the problem-listener and, always, the hope-holder. A woman that would defend me to the end. I will not lie, however, and claim that she is a woman without limits. Listening to other peoples problems can be a weary task for anyone, never mind a 78 yr old. Who doesn’t ignore peoples’ calls every now and then? I mean, I do daily. In all fairness, my gran is a better, more morally compassed, person than me. Unlike me, she does usually think that it is sales people trying to sell her stuff she would never need. Contacting her via her mobile is often a safer bet. She loves her mobile.

I know my gran loves her mobile because she often sends me my weekly horoscope. It’s my highlight of the week and I beg you nana to never stop doing it. My gran has always been fascinated with astrology and the universe at large. In another life I feel she would be married to Brian Cox whom she loves very much. It is my suspicion, however, that her deep rooted beliefs would clash somewhat with his scientific approach. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as to say she is a freethinker or a hippie, but her firm belief in something more, in something wholesome, is an attribute I admire and in many ways adopt. This being said, my gran is also a woman with some very strange opinions. When you’ve read as many books and watched as many house of Commons debates as she, however, it would be ludicrous to think that arguments on how the country should be ran would not be formed. Many of which are twittered at the telly. This is something she has done since forever or, you know, the 21 years I’ve known her. Finding her in her chair whilst watching a news show she likes or listening to ‘Classical FM’ is one of my most favourite sights in the world. There is always something quite therapeutic about watching telly with this lady. Perhaps this is because she is one of the few people I can have a running commentary with without being hushed. Probably because we’re both trying to work out what on earth is going on. Me more than her. You see, as one might expect when one has several years of retirement under ones belt, she’s seen many of the day time shows before. Especially ‘Pie in the Sky’. I remember this complaint distinctly.

My most favourite concern that my gran has, however, is how much I talk about my best friend Ellie. This is something that has become quite a joke among my friends and family, for you see…my gran thinks I am a lesbian. Admittedly, this conclusion is as much my fault as it is my gran’s era, as I have no filter. You see, upon me and my gran’s regular catch-up over pub grub, I have the tendency to vent about the month’s events. Now, the month in which I did all this savoring was a month in which I felt like a very left-out person. Ellie was no longer always with me but with our other friend Anya, and as I’ve already told Ellie, I was very jealous about that. Everyone else seemed to either be on their jollies, with their significant others or chilling with someone I didn’t much like and I was very grumpy about that. So, as you do,  I vented this out to my gran and I instantly saw my mistake when she said “you have an unusual attachment to this Ellie girl”. My back-tracks only made it worse.”Gran, for the last time. I’m not a lesbian. I’ve got with girls but I could never see myself in a relationship with one.” Clearly the wrong thing to have said. Even now, her response to myself and to my mother when we approach the subject is “I just want her to be happy and settled, whether it’s with a boy or girl”. Which I suppose is very cute. You see, I love my gran but once she has an idea in her head it’s exceptionally hard to shift. In fact anything you say will only reaffirm her thoughts so there’s no point arguing. She takes things very literally. In my gran’s head I am a lesbian and that is fine. That is good. In my gran’s head Borris Johnson and Nigel Farage are the best people to run the country. That is not good gran. That is bad. But that’s your opinion so I guess I’ll live with it. Mainly because it makes me laugh.

My fave ladies.

When I was younger (and even now) I felt as if  I would never get better unless she was by my side. Who else would bring me the perfect cup of tea and bombard me with all the correct remedies? Who else would give me a water-bottle and cook me amazing food for sustenance? Even my cat comes back fatter after a weekend stay. The amount of times I have played hookie from school and, even, University just to be with this woman is uncountable…little does she know it’s for the biscuits in her always full biscuit tin and the ready salted crisps in her cupboard. I’m joking. Who chooses ready salted? On a serious note though, my gran’s treat supply and food offerings are second to none. It was better when Fruitellas had sugar in them and she could remember the spice for her egg fried rice but it’s still pretty great. To this day, my gran even boasts of how I went to Italy the land of pasta and deliciousness and asked the chef for not his but “nana’s pasta“. I was 7 and I was exceptionally picky but still, even when she cooks that pasta now, I feel safe. I would feel safer if she added garlic, but she pretends to be allergic to it. A bit selfish. But you could say I am a pretty selfish person. No. I am a very selfish person. Because, even with my gran’s ailments, I allow her to make me brews and cook me dinner. This is mainly because I love to see the sight of her shuffling around in her little slippers, busying herself with this and that. Trumping here and there. She’s my favourite, which is why I’m glad that she is moving in with us…

…I can introduce her to my men…

…gingerbread men.

Laziness: A Strength

Sadly, the common malpractice of brushing ones thoughts under the proverbial rug, is a method I have become all too familiar with. The notion of “letting things go” or “seeing what happens” is a societal agreement, that previously, I have not only supported but proudly pioneered. I’m a fun-loving gal and the rise of unnecessary stress has, somehow, never appealed to me. It has never appealed to me, yet, still it tauntingly follows me because, quite frankly, I’m lazy. In fact, I’m worse. I’m idealistic. I’m that profoundly irksome girl that leaves her assignments until the very last day and still expects to get a first the following month. I’m that unbelievably vexing girl that gets ready 2 minutes before she’s meant to leave and still expects the men to come flocking. And in case I haven’t made myself clear, I’m also that severely confusing girl that avoids any kind of serious conversation with her romantic interests and still expects them to be on her wave length. “I’ll deal with it later” is my favourite mantra; closely followed by “there’s no point” ” I can’t be bothered” and “your greatest assets are your greatest flaws”. My laziness, unfortunately, is an asset only to me and, maybe, my cat. Okay, not my cat. She doesn’t get fed (by me). Nevertheless, until quite recently, it has been my assumption that my body language and pure psychic power is so well-founded that everyone must know what I think and feel already. Unfortunately, events have time and time again proven that this method, along with relying upon someone telling someone that will eventually tell him/her about my issues, isn’t a surefire way of getting my message across. Or, you know, at all. What I’ve also learnt from the process of not talking is the curse of assumption and an unresolved conscience. I’m going to assume my cat doesn’t want feeding because she hasn’t come to bother me yet. I’m going to assume that my mum doesn’t love me anymore because she hasn’t made me my brew yet and I’m going to assume that everyone is assuming. So, like, when do you stop assuming and start talking? My answer to this is..f**k knows, but bizarrely, I’m going to talk it out and see where I end up.

Me in cat form.

So, to start with, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that I’m not alone in this whole ‘not fully-disclosing’ malarkey. This is because, generally, the admittance of having feelings isn’t cool. In today’s day and age, it’s not cool to “catch the feels”. If anything it’s a competition of who can care less. Who has the most sidechicks. Who has met the most fuckboys on Tinder. More specifically, it’s not cool to have feelings for someone that hasn’t yet “caught the feels” for you. Like everyone else, I usually assume my love un-interest hasn’t caught the feels and thus act nonchalant. I then hope my cryptic conversations with others will work their way back to him in an attempt to decipher whether I have a chance. Writing all this out now, I can instantly see that this whole idea and, almost, etiquette of flirting is ridiculous. For starters how would you even know whether they’ve caught the feels, because nobody f***ing communicates efficiently anymore.”We’re kiiind of seeing each other” “we’re talking” “we’re talking but I think we’re both talking to other people” “we’re hooking up” and “it is what it is”. Go on, enlighten me, what is it? Because, what becomes painstakingly obvious to me is that by disallowing myself these feelings of affection, these feelings of warmth that, in fact, make relationships so precious, I am willingly promoting and practicing clone-like love. Robot sex. In-out-jobs a good’un contracts, because I’m not allowed to want more or, you know, want full stop. “You think about me? That’s creepy.” Is it creepy though? Is it really?! Well, no, I don’t think so. Especially if we have been talking for a number of weeks or, you know, had a number of heated moments. After all, we are human and to be human is to feel and form connections. If you don’t daydream occasionally, what kind of monster are you?  To actually have emotion and have tangible thoughts and memories about the world around us is to be human. Having intellectual emotion is unique to the human race, so why are we rationing it out? Why are we advocating this fear of being honest to ourselves? Why? Why? Why?..

Oh! That’s right. It’s because, sometimes and often, other people suck. Fear is a big motivator people. A motivator for seclusion. Now, I don’t blame us all in this joint hibernation. Who would rather face rejection, heartbreak and resentment  over denial and sanity? Erm, not me. But maybe I should because this Melissa girl is right:

We live in a world where people are afraid to feel anything genuine, or at the very least, are afraid to show it. […] If you like someone, you don’t tell them how you feel; rather you act interested enough for them to pick up on it, but not enough to freak them out. Don’t like it? Too bad. It’s all a big game and if you don’t play by the rules then you lose, and if you lose you end up alone and drowning in a pile of your own insecurity, wondering what you did wrong.

Maybe we shouldn’t play by the rules. Maybe we should face our fear. The fear of saying to another human being “I care”. Worst case scenario we’re accepting heartbreak early; we’re time-saving, right? After all, what is so scary about touching or confiding in another in a way you do with so few? Maybe there is that complete loss of control we feel. Maybe there is that vulnerability of rejection, but doesn’t that make us stronger? Braver? I’ve come to believe with increasing vigor that doing the things that scare us is the most scenic  route to personal growth. In fact, I often wonder what my life would look life if I had learnt this sooner. Many times I have rejected the ebbs of my desires on account of fear or practicality. I have then later chastised myself for denying myself genuine pleasure. For being like everyone else and running away from displays of honest and strong emotion. Similarly, there have been even more times that I have lost my voice and I have been unable to say the words that were rehearsed in my head. “I really like you.” “I want you.” Or even, “I don’t want to be with you anymore” “You hurt me.” and, my personal favourite,”You’re a fucking prick. You prick”. Naturally, I have tortured myself with the “if only” requiem. Would saying these things have made any difference to the outcome? Will expressing my thoughts make any difference in the future? Well, I’d like to think so, because then I won’t have to bloody wonder about it. I predict that, actually, I would feel some sense of liberation of having been true to myself. Of having seen things out properly. I would hold some small hope that my honesty with not only myself but the people around me would be paid forward.

The pressure to be chill is the reason I pretended to be cool with an open relationship, even though that shit is really not for me. It’s the reason I never confronted men who fucked me, then ghosted me. It’s why I acted like it was fine when someone I was in an exclusive relationship with wouldn’t call or text me for days at a time. It’s why I let so many men lecture me on what it means to be “sex-positive,” why I accepted sending pictures of my ass and tits even when men said it was “too personal” for them to return the favor, and why I let these same men convince me that boys will be boys, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. – Alison Stevenson

For me at least, taking the chiller than chill pill (coz I’m already pretty chill) is no longer as cool as it once was. It has become some sort of sick sleeping drug guiding me into the most comatose kind of love. Honestly? It doesn’t make me feel like an empowered woman anymore, it makes me feel like a spare limb (useful when somebody needs it, a nuisance when they don’t).  Is there any chance we can maybe mobilize the development of real relationships again? Relationships that function because when it’s working we tell each other it’s working. When it’s not working we tell each other it’s not. Maybe, we all just need to be honest with ourselves and with each other because I know that sounds a lot simpler.

…that actually sounds much lazier, and lazy I can do.

Fate: A Foe

The idea that events are predestined is an idea that has been around since the dawn of time. It is as old as the discovery of sex and it is as old as the chocolate on my bed. Which, let me tell you, is pretty darn old. Did you know that chocolate dates back to the Aztecs? Cadbury’s World taught me that. Nevertheless, the consequences of this burgeoning desire to blame someone or something else for our circumstances is two fold. You see, on one hand it provides us with an agent to our misery but, on the other hand, it offers us hope and possibility. Recently, I must confess, I have been dancing on  what can only be described as the bridge  between the two. After a series of weeks containing exasperating events the events themselves have started to feel, well, exacerbating. The problem I have is that our elders consistently tell us that “if you want something, you have to go out and get it”, yet in the very same conversations they persistently tell us that “things will come to you with time, you’re only young”. Even our friends will advice us on the very same matters to”see how things go”, to “go with the flow” because, you know, we simply can’t tell that person we like that we actually like them. That would be silly. That would be easy. That would be forward and clingy. So, tell me, how should I be? How should I feel? What should I do? It seems there is an answer for everything yet nothing is synonymous. It appears that currently, as I’m sure a lot of gals and boys are doing in their twenties, I am merely treading water hoping the tides don’t kill me.

Last year I wrote an especially self-searching piece on incompleteness  and the feeling of being lost in the world and, honestly, it was rather odd  reading that piece back. I feel it was comparable to when you give yourself a drunken pep talk on a progressively wild night out. “Listen here pol. You are not a hot mess and you will probably forget that stupid thing you just did- you’re all good”. Strangely, however, just as I am by my intoxicated self I found myself reassured by prior self. I’m actually not a hot mess. In fact, I’m pretty smart. I did forget the silly things I’d done. Veritably, it is the silly things that are the subtle nuances between me and past me.Those silly things forced me to grow, albeit not always in the way I would like, but I’ve grown. Last  year I wrote:

I should be experimenting and going out my way to experience new things or do more of the things I like. I have been going stir-crazy. I need to get out more and go crazy.

And New Me can safely retort “Girl, I have been. I am!”. Undeniably, I don’t always do things that I’m later proud of (this can be seen in my many blog posts) but I do do what makes me happy. I do do more of the things that scare me. Ha. Do do. I’ve clearly grown loads…so why am I feeling so lacklustre? Why do I once again feel incomplete, incoherent and unsuccessful? Because, seriously, the dissatisfaction I feel is not with myself anymore. I’m fine. I am all good. Okay, not all good but, usually, very good and very well behaved. The dissatisfaction I feel is with this fate fella.Which, of course, sounds ludicrous and slightly biblical but I promise it’s not completely. I am just…fed up with fate. So I’m drinking Blue WKD and imagining I’m by a pool in Hawaii.

Monday Blues

Now, let me agree with you adults and confess that “if I want something, I need to go out and get it”. You hear me? I agree! If I want an internship and I want to strive for greatness in my chosen vocation then I need to apply for internships and strive for greatness. Working my life away as a waitress and getting drunk in my remaining spare time won’t fundamentally help- but it’s enjoyable. Likewise, if I want to find a boyfriend and I want to be having regular sex then I should, probably, take more days off and get drunk somewhere that’s not my bedroom…drinking something that is not Blue WKD. Completely agree. Understood. But on the other hand, your other notion is also agreeable “things will come to you with time, you’re only young””see how things go”. Much of the time life experience teaches us a number of things about ourselves. Uncontrollable and unpredictable occurrences unknowingly educate us on what we’re good at, how strong we are and what we want out of the future.It is these unpredictable and uncontrollable occurrences, however, that causes me bother as of late. It is these memes on Facebook reading “J.K Rowling didn’t publish a book until she was 40” that bother me. It is “he clearly isn’t worth it, he’s not for you” comments that bother me. Because, thanks to these reassurances,  I’ve found myself just waiting and waiting for a light bulb to go off in my head. I am waiting to suddenly be granted with the precious creativity or the abstract dream to write the next Harry Potter. To be endowed with the knowledge to do something with my life other than lose things and drink too much. To bump into someone “worth it” whom answers my messages when I will him to. I am waiting. Waiting. I am so tired of waiting.

In terms of career, perhaps I am extremely wrong in believing that that it’s easier for people that know what they want to place themselves on the appropriate paths. After all, what if you’re not good enough for what you want? What if you decide too late about what you want?  We’re not all J.K Rowling. However, one quote by Jim Carrey, has always resided with me. He said “you can fail at what you don’t want so you might as well fail at what you do want” and I think that’s so powerful. I feel to have failed or found you are unable to do the things you wanted is- although awful- is incredibly educational. To float around on this planet not trying to neither succeed nor fail at anything of any worth to your own sense of purpose is mediocre. I suppose that this in itself is educational for different reasons, perhaps these seemingly useless occurrences in our lives are to prepare us for something greater. That’s what we hope. That “fate” has something better lined up for us around the corner. Nevertheless, although I have a year at university left, I can’t help but think that these assignments, these exams, these academic achievements that we fill our time with are just ways of distracting ourselves from the bigger picture, or in any case, give us time to decide on what it is we want to do from here onwards. 9/10, however, we leave university with debt, some jargon and a newborn loss of identity. Understandably, just because we have a degree does not mean we have a calling. We have credentials that may or not fit the mould of our future. We are but a bag of misfits from the Cadbury’s outlet. Distinguished and disturbed. In many ways you could say I’m early to the graduation pity party. Promptness will definitely come in handy later for my big job somewhere doing something for someone. Regardless, the point I’m making here is, going for what you want is hard when you don’t know what you want and you are just waiting to know what you want by doing things you don’t really want but you, kind of, want because it’s doing something. Amma right or amma right? Jim Carrey will make you feel a bit better. Watch watch watch.

The solution to this- besides watch inspirational Jim Carrey vids- would maybe be to travel; to do other enriching things whilst you decide. To grow in other areas of your existence. This solution was what I intended to set in motion before I lost my passport and broke a MacBook Air. Now, despite these two incidents being unequivocally my own fault, they also feel like some other force’s fault. The latter incident occurred because I was attempting to avoid the exact thing that happened. I intended to move the cider to avert spillage on said laptop and in the process I caused spillage on said laptop. Of course I spilled a drink trying not to spill a drink because I am me. I am a klutz. Of course I “lost” my passport because I left it in a taxi that I was sick in because, again, I am me. I am a lightweight and that taxi driver is a liar. But I beg to question, when will I stop being me? Or more specifically, when do I stop obstructing myself? I know that there are many people that feel this way also. The old “woe is me” “I’m so unlucky” reproach. But, these people are genuinely unlucky or, in any case, these people are assuredly being punished for being themselves. These laughable instances start to seem symbolic of a force telling them that being you is not okay. They become pivotal moments in your otherwise boring life. You want to go on holiday and see the world Pol? You want to travel and experience these moments that may or may not help you define yourself no matter how cliche? Nope. Not you. You’re not allowed because you’re a klutz and you don’t deserve a passport. It’s your own fault but it’s not entirely. Accidents happen and they happen to you. They happen to everyone. Although sometimes just sometimes timing is everything and that, my friends, is fate. I f**king hate fate.

So, you don’t have much ambition as of yet and you don’t have the means to travel. Maybe you can sort out your love life? Make the wait more pleasurable. Winky Face. Like, where the actual s**t do I start with this one? The modern dating world gets more infuriating with every year, the platforms to get rejected on increases every month and my tolerance for the whole thing diminishes a little everyday. Of course, the dating world is different for everyone and not everyone wants the same thing. Some want casual, some want commitment and some want an in between. Okay, cool. Cool. So, how do we know what a prospective partner wants? Erm…does anyone know? I mean, do people even mean what they say these days? “I’m not looking for anything serious”…3 months later said person is in a relationship. “I love my girlfriend”… said person is in bed with someone else 2 weeks later. “I don’t want a boyfriend but I want us to be exclusive”. Like, what? With the “seeing eachother” “getting to know each other” “shagging each other” “talking to each other” phase stretching for as long as the eye can see, it’s hard to know when you’re investing in something or simply wasting your time. Frankly, often it feels like I’m half-heartedly playing a game I’m destined to lose. Even when things are going well are they really going well? What if he swipes right to a better, more interesting girl? What if he likes this other girl more? What if he doesn’t reply? What if. What if. What if. These what if’s are paramount to the paranoia that builds upon real experiences made with real ghosts. “Ghosting” is the fear in every romantic venture. Now you see me and now you…

I don’t want to allude you into thinking that I don’t try. I do try. I try in ways many girls would be too fearful to exercise. Take for instance my recent encounter with a handsome waiter. Upon feeling chemistry with my aforementioned server I left my number on the table. A number that he later messaged extensively for several days. He asked me for drinks and, as any girl would, I got particularly excited…until he didn’t reply. Now, I know I am prone to doing things wrong but on this occasion, I vouch that I did no wrong. I can see no wrong. We were getting on. It felt different. It seemed so so different yet, it wasn’t. For whatever reason “it wasn’t meant to be” and, you know, these things happen. He was not my first ghost and he won’t be my last but, somehow, these experiences set precedents that are hard to overcome or rationalize. It makes me feel as if it’s not even up to either of the parties involved whether the relationship makes the cut. I could do everything “right”, I could receive all the “right” responses yet still come up short. It’s like finding the perfect dress on sale and finding out at the till it’s full price because someone somewhere wanted to fool me. It’s not my fault, it’s maybe not even the person who misplaced the labels fault but it still sucks. It sucks to be denied the emotions you have never felt or, at least, felt with infrequency. Excitement. Love. Surprise.

So much excitement and love in just one photo.

This all seems very dramatic but what it comes down to is the inability to just be. It is a well known fact that different people bring out different sides in you and me. Yes, I’m rhyming. Well noticed. This is because we feel we have to behave in a particular way to gain prestige. These days everyone has so many options. You can like different people for so many different reasons and you can meet them in so many different ways. Next to no one wants to commit. You don’t want to get yourself in a relationship because what if the next guy you meet is better than the last? In a weird way, our options are, in fact, limiting. In a weirder way we’re all in a perverse poly-amorous relationship with each other. Ew. It’s  disheartening. At least, I think so. You see, if I’m being all these different things to all these different people when can I just be me and stop carefully tip-toeing around “the meaning”? Or at least ,when can I be just me to just one person for whatever amount of time?  I’ve found that once you’ve set the parameters it’s hard to break out of them. Take for instance someone I’m “talking” to at the minute. We talk most nights, we get on most nights and we get along fine when we see each other. Yet, I find that I can’t be myself, not necessarily because of him but because of these barriers I’ve set for myself. If I’m too affectionate he’ll think I’m keen. If I send this message he won’t reply. If I’m a bitch he’ll think I’m a bitch. Thus, some nights I’m on the border; I can be myself for a moment and then in the same minute I urge myself to be cool and uncaring. It’s hard work. It’s sometimes infuriating. I don’t know when I’m being desired or being entertained and I, equally, can’t decide on whether I like him as much as I think or whether I like the possibilities he presents. So, I talk to other people. He talks to other people. I assume we explore these very same emotions with other people. But, I don’t really like being an option and I don’t really like seeing guys as options, it’s demeaning. I feel demeaned. So, what is this I’m even doing? Well, I’m going with the flow. Like everyone else, I am just waiting for a sign from someone. I wait to feel something that doesn’t get confused and clouded the next day. I am begging to know when people are “worth it”, but I don’t think you ever can, because for so many reasons it’s really not your decision. It’s the alignment of various thoughts, moments and people. It’s just life. Just letting each other know we’re here, reminding each other that we are part of a larger self. S**t just got deep coz she wishes someone would go deep. Ey ey. lol lol.

So many of us choose our path out of fear disguised as practicality. What we really want seems impossibly out of reach and ridiculous to expect, so we never dare to ask the universe for it. – Jim Carrey

Despite all the above due to my rubbish last month, fate has also brought me many things that I am grateful for. Fate constantly brings me things that make the asking for texts, meaning and money worth it. It has shown me in abundance that life doesn’t have to be planned, in fact, the distinctly unplanned stuff can be best. It would be a grave misunderstanding to think that life is anything less than unpredictable. It would be an even more sinister misconception to think that life has to be set and outlined for the entirety of your existence. Fate is what keeps the intrigue and our eyes to the sky. It has brought me housemates that tick all the requirements to manage me. Aka they buy me Blue WKD and Kinder Buenos when I’m having a crap day. It has brought me an exciting week with a handsome waiter (well done me for trying and always trying) and it has brought me valuable valuable friends that don’t get mad at me when I spill cider on their laptops…

…or Blue WKD on their bed sheets. My bad.

Friendship: Thinking Space

The process of getting older is an existential problem that is inescapable by anyone. It is a problem that led me to  cry on my 16th birthday and it is a problem that will lead me to cry on my 21st because, frankly, it’s not easy and it only gets harder. As we get older, everything becomes more measurable. Our lives become more comparable. Who’s got what job, who’s moving in with who and who’s travelled what continent suddenly feels more reflective of a person’s very being. They transform into insights of their passions “yeah, she quit university and became a dancer”. Into snapshots of their struggles “35 and she’s still not got a kid?”. To me at least, these arbitrary things start to suggest a certain kind of accomplishment or purpose. I’ll even admit that when judged from afar, these things feel indicative of what happiness can or should look like. A more”fulfilled” life. An “accomplished” life and as I get closer to leaving university, an impending insecurity has started to drape itself around my thoughts. Life  has begun to feel like a countdown within which I must cram in all these many many achievements and all these many many experiences before it’s too late i.e. I’m too old, too ill , too poor or, even, too distant from domestic prosperity. By this I mean I’ve spent so much time finding myself that I’ve forgotten to find someone else and  become the mad cat lady that I, never really, tried to avoid. You see, although I know more now then I did at 16; I strangely do not feel any different. The same pressures and fears of being forgotten are still present and, strangely, I still can’t predict the future. Annoying that isn’t it?

You tell them Buster.

It seems foolish to confess that I cried on my 16th birthday but, really, there were an embarrassing number of factors. Not only was I about to move schools but ‘I was here- Beyonce’ had just been released and Miley Cyrus was still Hannah Montanna. By this I mean, Beyonce was lyrically jibing me with “look at me, I’ve achieved so much that I could die tomorrow” and Miley Cyrus was screaming “I made loads of money at the age of 14, what are you doing?”. Well, Miley, I was awaiting my GCSE results. It may not have been starring in a popular TV show but, you know, we work with the parents we’ve got. My most important reason for crying, however,  was my cat. Hilarious, I know. I can still hear my friend Hannie laughing at my admittance of this. Nevertheless, this is a cat that has been part of my life since the age of 7 and to this day is the best birthday present I will ever receive. It was on my 16th birthday, however, that I realised that although this cat is a member of my family and is as fundamental to my childhood as ‘Arthur’ and ‘Mona the Vampire’, in another number of years she will no longer be with me. She will no longer be with me and, sadly, she will no longer seem important, for she is just a cat. I was crying about these things that are yet to transpire, because I knew I know that they will.  To everybody else she is merely my childhood cat, but somehow to me she seems symbolic of so much more. Probably because she is. Symbolic of my social life lol.

Okay, I’m being serious. The new year is a disconcerting time for me. You see, the new year makes me reflect on all the things I have or haven’t done and, sadly,  it makes me reminisce on all the people I have and haven’t “said goodbye” to. In fact, my friend Ellie  informed  me that we lose “approximately” 5 friends every year past our 18th birthday. This, surprisingly, makes me feel no better. In fact, it feels like salt in the wounds. I have already been brooding on the whole concept of friendships. How they are formed. How they are lost. And the conclusion I’ve come to so far is that life gets in the way…for the most part. More appropriately, my friends are busy travelling the world, humping their partners and securing big time internships whilst I’m extraordinarily busy admiring the new google logo and deciding what to have from the Chinese tonight. I can’t help but notice that my life seems less exciting somehow. One day this will change. I hope. You see, failures to also be successful in these meager pursuits are, simply, due to my inability to put my brew down and get a wiggle on. Admittedly, watching these things play out in front of me has taught me a valuable lesson. People cannot always do things so you don’t have to, and I don’t just mean going to the toilet. You have to experience certain things for yourself. More importantly I don’t want peoples’ insights into my passions to be “yeah, she stayed at home and ate biscuits. Girl loves biscuits”. I don’t want peoples’ snapshots into my downfalls to be “yeah she’s in a relationship…on Sims”.

Mr Ratburn telling it like it is.

As we get older though the days feel shorter. Time gets spent in other ways; down other paths, doing other things. Christmas holidays are no longer dedicated to seeing every pal, but spent on making deadlines, making money and making family plans. Long gone are the days that you can see everyone you love in one day or one week. You’d be lucky to see even a handful of them in one year. Ha. You’d be even luckier to be acquainted with any of the people they discuss. But, you know, it’s okay.  It’s fine. Everyone is busy living their lives. Everyone is busy investing time into the people that are immediately around them because it’s logical. It’s natural. But it’s also sad. It’s sad that for a number of my closest friends I am not always the person they turn to first or, even, the person they talk to second. It’s sad that people I used to talk to everyday can no longer cease their Snapchatting to grace me with one reply to the 50 messages I’ve sent. It’s sad that I often do not have enough hours in the day for people that live just 30 minutes away. So, you know, it’s definitely okay. It’s…fine. However, it is with these half-hearted acceptances and the succession of sh*t ordeals that I have started to feel forlorn. Can you tell?

Although 2015 was a year that I said goodbye to many things, both concrete and abstract, when I think about losing people time suddenly feels more real. “This time last year I was with such and such doing that”. “This time last year I was with such and such planning this”. I’m left thinking, “holy sh*t has it really been a year?” Yes. Even two years, perhaps. Clearly, there were people and moments that seemed so important and enriching to me in 2015 that in 2016 seem as significant as my cat may seem to you. Not at all. A quote once read “arrivals and departures run side by side” and this is not to mean that there is some weird one in one out policy as you may find in popular nightclubs but more a revolving door policy. People are constantly coming and going out of our lives and there’s not much we can do about it. Trust me. I’ve tried.

With all sincerity, it just seems bizarre to me that I will now say “just someone I used to know” or “I used to have a friend that” about people I spent so many of my days with. Albeit they were 3 years ago but still, I do know them. Kind of. Do people change that much? It also seems  insane to me that people who once meant something to me may not even get a ‘Happy Birthday’ on their Facebook wall. Wait. I don’t do that for many people and it’s completely my own choice not to do that but, still, at what point does someone stop being your friend? Not in the “I haven’t seen you in ages” way but in the “you haven’t even crossed my mind and probably won’t until I bump into you in Tesco” way. The answer is I sometimes know but I don’t always know. Although geographical distance and the general process of growing up plays some part in these alterations, I feel it’s unrealistic to think these are fully-formed explanations. I have a number of friends who are elsewhere in the world that I am still fully invested in, but does that thus mean I’ve failed to invest in others? I know, for me at least, my moments of silence do not necessarily mean I’ve stopped caring. I can go from not talking to you for weeks months to suddenly bugging you everyday for an entire week. I suppose this is why it irks me when  I realise that there are people that have slipped or are slipping out of my life. Is/was it me? Is/was it them? Are they just being rubbish too? Have I been too distant? Have I been too needy? WHAT WENT/IS GOING WRONG?…friendships are hard to maintain sometimes man. When do you stop crossing oceans for people that wouldn’t jump over a puddle for you?

Clearly, I have spent many minutes meticulously dissecting my life (as is necessary in the new year new April) and in the process I stumbled across this quote:

“It’s your road, and yours alone.
others may walk it with you,
but no one can walk it for you.”

Which I suppose combines the whole arrivals/departures analogy with the I have to do things myself muse. It’s made me realise that although I should use my friends achievements as inspiration, I should NOT compare myself daily. Inspiration is meant to make you feel better, help you improve upon what you already have. Comparison only makes you feel s**t. It tears you apart from the inside out. At the end of the day, I should not be making myself jealous about that one friend that’s visiting that place, or sleeping with that guy. I don’t like that guy and I don’t even want to go to that place…I don’t think. I shouldn’t be worrying about people having or not having the time to answer me because, hey, I suppose it means I have time to do something else. I need to just stop worrying what other people are doing and focus on my own journey- what’s right for me. After some self-indulgence (that has made me feel important) I see now that other people’s happiness should not stop you from seeing your own. I may not be on a  beach in Australia but, you know, I’m in a bed with pizza not getting sun burnt, so I’m still winning.

Pizza is life

Conclusively, some people, like gingerbread lattes, may go away and come back to me and to them I say “welcome back, it’s been too long”. Some people, like my small breasts, are here to stay and to them I say “you’re alright, you’ll do”. And some people, like my cat, are here with me for a good time and not a long time and to them I say “thank you for the memories”. Perhaps I have not lost any friends at all. Perhaps I have, like other things, just misplaced them for now. Maybe when I bump into them in Tesco we will decide to reconnect and laugh together about how many biscuits are in my basket. Maybe, when I bump into them in Tesco we will have awkward small talk and I will decide to put the biscuits back. But ultimately, its time to “get a wiggle on”…

…after I’ve finished this brew.

Luck: A Loss

Although it ails me to make this confession, I feel it is one that I ought to  confront whilst still feeling mildly progressive- I am a loser. As in I lose the majority of my possessions 40% of the time and there is no way that I can deny it. The time it takes me to leave the house is unbearable and the pain I inflict upon my awaiting friends is immense. It would please me to say that these are the reasons I stay at home but they aren’t. I just do. And although there are times in which I show great promise of being a sensible human being; these hopes are quickly dashed when I realise I can barely make 12pm lectures and I occasionally forget to brush my teeth. Staying indoors is safest right? In fact, I have so little faith in myself regarding these things that I once lost my glasses only to find them 3 months later in my glasses case. You see, I hadn’t bothered to check this rather obvious location because, frankly, I didn’t think I was adult enough to have put them back. Be that as it may, however,  I am also optimistic, if not annoyingly nonchalant. The disputable notions that “everything happens for a reason” and “emitting positive vibes reaps rewards” are theories I hold in very high esteem. Or at least I did until this week. Sadly, this week has given me a rude awakening. It has taught me that things don’t always turn up. Perhaps they didn’t even exist in the first place. I know my dignity certainly didn’t. Coming into the world naked you say? How humiliating.

My life in a picture. An ode to all the biscuits lost at tea.

For several years I have naively believed myself to be an extremely lucky person. I dearly wish I meant this in the humble “I have people that love me and I’ve not wanted for anything” way but I don’t. I mean it in the “how the hell am I at university and how am I surviving?” type way. Until recently, no matter where I had strewn my possessions, they were always returned to me. Admittedly, it was often after I had replaced them but for the most part it was appreciated. Particularly my bank card. Thank you Tesco’s shopper, but thank you me for not getting a contactless card. Obviously, there is hope yet. Nevertheless, to install this sense of foolishness further, I once lost my iPod only to find it in a pair of old shoes 6 months later. It is ridiculous, I know, but such is my life. A Facebook meme once read “I’m an adult but more like an adult cat…Like someone should probably take care of me but I can also sorta make it on my own” which, to be honest, is a too kind description of my lacking abilities.  This month alone I have lost some trousers, a fob, a perfume and my cool. My only feat is that I have not yet lost my job and somehow my ID is still on my person…wait…yes. Yes it is.

Before I recount my story of annoyance and irritation, I shall first disclaim that I am my own worst enemy. You see, regardless of being aware of my own failures and faults, I continue to plough forth with my limitations anyway. Whether this is bravery or just plain idleness is completely up to your own discretion, but personally I think DNA is a hard opponent to combat. I mean, to be biologically programmed to go against intuition is devastatingly crippling. Einstein once said “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome”. Although, I’d like to feign practicality and protest that, no, I do not repeat mistakes; the sad truth is I do. The sad truth is I did this week and the outcome was not best pleasing. Unfortunately, I lost my student card and, not only has it caused me inconvenience, it has caused me confrontation. A word that seldom features within my vernacular. However, I must firstly explain how losing my student card came about and how it irrevocably reinforces this suggestion of insanity. Read below.

It is with great shame that I admit that I have…or had, this terrible habit of putting my student card in the same pocket as my iPhone. I write this shamefully because, as you might expect, when I pulled out my phone my card decided to follow. The frequency of which this faux par occurred is embarrassing and something I should have addressed immediately. Me being me, however, I, of course, did not. I merely continued to pick my student card up off the floor and place it firmly back in its place- my pocket…with my phone. I believe my thoughts during this process were “I’ve noticed it fall out this many times, clearly, I’ll notice it fall out another number of times”. The only thought that should have gone through my head is “lets put this troublemaker in another pocket”. Oh well. Hindsight is the devil’s advocate. It is almost as annoying as when someone says “There it is! Right where you left it.” because a) duh and b) I didn’t know I’d left it there did I? Regardless, these things can be easily avoided, yet, for some reason my entire being says “avoid that? No Pol! Teach yourself a lesson”. A lesson that is seldom learnt. How do you think I lost my fob? Stupid phone pocket.

The moment before she loses her tea, her laptop…and her degree. JK. They’re all okay-ish.

Nevertheless, the losing of one’s possessions is something that is aggravating and is something that is far more hindering to the individual than it is to anyone else. Agreed? I do not want to sneak into the library like a secret agent (it’s not as fun as it seems) nor do I want to buy a new one. Because, honestly, my money can be better spent on other things like alcohol and Domino’s. So, when I was confronted with, possibly, the world’s rudest receptionist, I was already feeling pretty self-ashamed. You see, upon being unable to scan my student card through the barrier between me and my lecture, I was informed I had to go to reception for someone to let me through. The reception that, regrettably, homed the vilest woman I have yet to come across. Honestly, the tone in which she spoke to me could have made a grown man cry. Of course, although taken aback, I continued to be polite and cheery. I apologised for losing my card and I assured her that I would get a new one (eventually). I thought it was a simple slap on the wrists and a walk right through type procedure. Apparently, I was wrong. This receptionist informed me in an exceptionally snide voice that I had to sign in. She accompanied this with a remark that honestly made my blood boil. “You’re going to get far aren’t you?”…say what now? She wanted a conversation about getting far? I don’t want to have that conversation with myself never mind her. So yeah! *insert profanity* you.

This woman, who’s name and faculty I shall not disclose, was so impossibly rude that I could have self-combust with anger. Clearly, I lose things, but that day I lost something far more precious…my temper. The thought of even having one more conversation with this woman scared me, so confronting her face-to-face was out of the question. It was never in consideration. My supple skin and zen demeanor were not made for battle. I wrote an email to the complaints office instead and I got her fired. HAHA. Relax, I didn’t get her fired. I do, however, have a meeting with her superior tomorrow morning. You see, although I do not want this woman to lose her job, I do not want her dampening my day nor anyone else’s with that attitude again. You can protest that maybe she was having a bad day but I can inform you that that’s not the case. I state this because not only did I grace her dull world that day but because, on a separate occasion, she has dealt with my friend in a similar fashion. Which clearly suggests that this is an issue that should be addressed. At the risk of being dramatic, she made me feel unnerved and she made me want revenge. If not merely to understand that it is unacceptable for her to talk to students in such a way and that implying their imminent failure in life is not a good strategy. Only I can crack jokes about failure and sometimes I fail at that.

Nevertheless, this month has been testing. It has tested my faith in positivity and the strength of my own good luck. Although, there was a time in which my luck seemed misplaced, along with the rest of my worldly goods, and dampened like my ill dunked digestives; it has finally been restored. Today, after braving the torrential rain and making it to student services, I was informed that, no, I need not buy a new student card because my old one had been handed in! Woo hoo! From this turn of events, I can only deduct that my luck is on the rise. I shall find my trousers that are in my house somewhere and I shall find love. Okay, I was over ambitious with that one, I’ll rephrase; I shall find Domino’s. Seriously though, just you watch, things will start gravitating back. If anyone has ever watched ‘Cougar Town’ featuring Courtney Cox, you may be familiar with the character Andy. Andy is the kind of person we should all strive to be- an optimist. In one episode he loses all kinds of things but instead of moping around he radiates positive vibes, and eventually his possessions come back to him plus some. So lets all be Andy’s even if we’re losers. At least I think that was the message of the episode…

…who knows, the real one was lost on me.

 

Kendal Calling: See Me in The Fields

During summer, it is not unusual for the talk of music festivals to overwhelm the masses. Hailed and romanticized, the anticipation for a music festival is arguably the best summer has to offer. Daydreams of steamy kisses in sweaty dance tents promptly fill my mind and a deep desire to buy a Primark flower garland possesses my thoughts. Presumably, you will know it’s festival season because noodles will be in unlimited supply and your Facebook will have adopted 5 more group chats. These, of course, are group chats that completely ignore your small but wholehearted contributions. “So are you guys taking wellies?” “Seen by Everyone 18:43″…no response. The group I am receiving the most excitement from as of late, however, is “Krew does Kendal”. Kendal Calling, for those who have yet to come across it, is a local music festival held in Lowther Deer Park. The festival is family orientated and perfectly situated in England’s beautiful Lake District. For those that live in the Lancashire/Cumbria area it is also easily accessible. I’ve taken the liberty to mention this nugget of information because if you live in the general area of Kendal Calling, the chances are that on 30th Jul- 2nd Aug, you will be in attendance. In fact, it’s pretty much tradition. Winner of 2013’s best medium festival, Kendal Calling is known to be a fairground of delights- and this year is no different. It’s Kendal’s 10th bday don’t cha know. Bring yo coconut cups coz this festival sold out.

Although it is adamantly the case that 3/4 of my local area will be at this festival there is no guarantee I’ll see anyone. You see, the thing I find ironic about Kendal Calling’s slogan “see you in the fields” is that I see next to no one I know in the fields. A dead phone and several ciders later, I lose everyone and everything (besides Ellie). This, I’ve reasoned, is actually to my advantage. Despite my well polished ego, a young woman with smudged face paint, slurring words of  wisdom, is not everyone’s chosen encounter. Although I’d like to imagine that my dignity does not come part and parcel with my misplacements, the sad fact is, it does. I therefore praise the heavens for nanoscopic mercies; I can now reveal that, Kendal Calling, have unveiled a new area for this year’s adventures- ‘Lost Eden’. I have decided that it is an area with increasing potential. It may become not only my permanent dwelling but a rather profound meeting place. You know, for when you accidentally let go of people’s hands in mosh pits.

Inspired by folklore of the Eden Valley and supported by Arts Council England, ‘Lost Eden’, is a woodland wonderland hidden away from the main stage. Nestled in the trees, there will be giant bespoke installations, psychedelic/acid music and an abundance of audio-visual art content. Interestingly, this enchanting area will play host to costumed processions with looming puppets and gut-shuddering drum troupes. As if that didn’t impress us enough, there will be glowing stags, ballroom dancers, topiary-headed ladies and larger than life jellyfish—to, erm, name just a few. Personally, this all comes as fantastic news because the frustration felt at the selection of obscure meeting places is unexplainable. No, seriously. “I’m just by the stripey flag, on a hill, by the twisty tree, near the portaloos, near a man in a red top, watching Snoop Dogg’. Aha! Yes. I know exactly where that is…However, with the works of Mick Stephenson, Christopher Helson, and an array of performances enrapturing the forest, I have a slight suspicion that we will not lose our way. “I’m by the large-scale collection of clocks, computers and other devices bathing in artificial light while sprouting with lush vegetation.”

FULL LOST EDEN LINE-UP

 ART & CULTURE: ‘Nature Delivers’ Dan Rawlings / ‘Treeple’ Paul Calsey / ‘Liminal’ Christopher Helson / ‘Eden Avenue’ Sound Intervention / ‘Wild Life Strip’ Simon Williams / Spoken Word with Bad Language / Aziz Ibrahim Q&A / Lifestyle Talks with Betternotstop / Festival Culture Panel with Professor George McKay / Swing dance classes / Live art with John Pearson / ‘Paradise Found’ Mick Stephenson

 PERFORMANCE: Spark! / Kitsch & Sync / the Artful Badger / the Lantern Company / Sound Intervention / ‘Birdcage’ Caustic Widows / ‘White Stag’ Rhiannon White

MUSIC (LIVE): Aziz Ibrahim (ex Stone Roses) / The Church / Dogshow/ The Age of Glass / Twisted Tubes / Hermigervill / John Fairhurst / Wilf Stone (Pikey Beats)/ Bird to Beast / Fiona Clayton / Fading Face / Hardwicke Circus / Henge / Purple Heart Parade / RicBirtill / Strange Collective / Sykamore Sykes / Killer Computers / Beachmaster

DJS: Dub Pistols DJ set / Wolfie Razzmatazz / Culture Cuts / Mike Freear / Ki Creighton/ Lucid Dream DJ set / Mixmonster Menno / Mortisville / Vinyl Revival / Uber / Faux Queens / Engine DJs / DJ Mime / Lost Colours / Rubrick’s Crumpet Funk / Browlin / Understate / DJ Storm.

As I sit in bed with a cup of tea and the remains of pesto pasta, I have to confess that it warms my heart to see Dub Pistols on the line-up. Although, the likes of Snoop Dogg and Elbow will be a splendour to behold, there isn’t anything quite like the sounds of the Dub Pistols to reassure you you are at Kendal Calling. I have attended Kendal Calling since it’s 3rd year in 2008 (when it was, erm, actually in Kendal) and although Dub Pistols didn’t appear on the Kendal scene until 2010, they remain to be one of my token memories. This obviously means a lot because I have so many to choose from. No biggie.  Despite having seen Lucy Rose before, I am also looking forward to seeing her once again this year. In my opinion, that red-head is just too beautiful for her own good. And yes, don’t worry, I am also looking forward to listening to her. Haha funny. Nevertheless, although I could perch here all day listing a multifold of artists I am elated to see, it holds no necessity. I am far too busy watching ‘Monsters Inc’ and eating peperarmi. I will briefly mention, however, that Ella Eyre will certainly be watched and praised. This is clearly because I want to wail ‘Comeback’ to all those ex’s I have out there in the world. The grand total being none.

In fact, when thinking about the festivities and merriment that festival season provides, it would be logical to assume that there is a greater amount of ex’s by the end of the season than there is at the start. With alcohol flowing and an almost tangible electricity coursing through the crowd, it’s not irrational to presume some wrong doings will occur. In fact, it wouldn’t be unusual to hear something like this- “Point her out to me! Was it her? That zebra with the wings? I’ll pull her boppers off”. You see, one process that comes with the dawning of the festival season is the grand opening of the fancy dress box. We at once welcome the mass of Borat mankinis and applaud the atrocities that Smiffy’s joke shop has to offer. The theme for this year’s Kendal Calling is ‘Kendal Goes Through The Decades’- as if festivals weren’t a time-warp enough. Hello? No phone. Nevertheless, the typical protocol for such events is that women dress as slutty as possible and men dress as silly as possible. This being said, it is my expectation to witness many a 60s hippy loitering around the campsite this year. The reason for this is that a hippy costume is commendably easy to construct. This is particularly so when flower garlands, fringed jackets and floaty dresses are part of the festival dress code anyway. Yep. Just peace and pout sister. Frankly, I haven’t thought about my costume yet, but I shall console your minds and promise that the rules will be met. My outfit will be either a) skin tight or b) minimal. You all happy? N’awh, mum! Are those tears? I knew you’d be proud.

There are times at these kind of family festivals, however, that I yearn to reverse the clock and be a child again. They seem to have all the fun with none of the worries. Yes, Little Poppy Jones in her lady bug costume won’t be stressing over which outfit to wear tonight. She’ll probably be in bed. Nor will she be fretting over whether Munchkin Mark is going to kiss Hannah and Samantha as well as her tonight. She’ll probably be in bed. Kissing is also more an amusement than a declaration of attraction. Kiss chase anyone? Despite having given the impression that I do not partake in the kids activities, this is not the case. Circus classes and Big Hero 6? Sorry fellow festival-goers but I’m there. This year, Kendal Calling, is presenting ‘The Little Bugs Hub’. Yeah. I know. It’s too adorable. All festival long families can expect a hive of activity including games, creative performance, madcap mayhem, chill out zones and critter craft activities. Rumour has it that kids’ TV favourite Alex Winters from CBeebies will also be hosting the kids’ version of Tim Burgess’ on site café-Tiny Tim Peaks. These all sound remarkable but, really, Big Fish Little Fish, (Kendal Calling’s first ever Kids rave) is the one to look out for. Yep. Uh-huh. There is even going to be a BUG BIRTHDAY BASH and walkabout pirate crew. I do love alliteration.

Anyway, now I have sufficiently prepared you for what  ‘Kendal Calling’ has to offer, I feel it is time to stock up on baby wipes. I have pesto pasta all over my bed sheets and I feel portaloos are not going to be kind this year. See you in the fields!…

…maybe.

Disappointment: An Over-Thought

Disappointment is a feeling with which everyone can relate. It is a feeling that can be felt by your dog when you fail to give it your steak and it is a feeling that can be felt when you drop your last chip on the floor. Regardless of context, disappointment is a feeling that always seems to leave contemplation in its wake. The amount of what if’s and how could’s that fleet around my brain upon an incident (especially food related) are immeasurable but no less annoying. However, a while ago, I watched a buddhist talk on ‘disappointment’. It said don’t have expectations because once they are met the happiness is short lived and when they aren’t met you’ll just be, there’s that word again, disappointed. Although, I think this makes complete and perfect sense, this “not-expecting” thing, is clearly easier said than done. For starters, it seems logical for someone to expect their burrito to remain in their hand until they have finished it. The burrito falling upon a stumble is totally unexpected and almost beyond their control so how can one refrain from being disappointed by the unexpected? I presume with great difficulty and much practice. Consequently, when not-expecting does not work events call for the disappointment remedy-  a copy of Bridget Jones and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. Also known as, ‘The Unrequited Love Starter Kit’.

The dawning that someone you may care for may no longer care for you is a revelation that has been dealt with by men and women alike for as long as time. It is an age-old problem that, no matter the frequency of its occurrence, never fails to leave you disenchanted or dis-empowered to the ways that be. Its side effects are difficult to swallow but the acceptance of defeat is an important one to make and, indeed, one that should be confronted sooner rather than later. Personally, the reality check is usually delivered by my mother. This generally means that the truth bomb comes well after I’ve done about 1001 things wrong and I’ve discussed my problems with half the world and a stranger. Nevertheless the honesty needs to be handled and handle it I shall. As my mother quite rightly said “he’s not that into me”  and, strangely, I’ve accepted it. He’s not that into me and I don’t know why because, you know, I’m basically amazing. Ha okay, but honestly, you hardly ever know why. It’s part of rejection’s charm. It could have been the fart I emitted when I was sleeping or it could be the stress spots that have occupied my face (thank you exams). Who knows? I don’t know, but believe me I’ve thought.

Indeed, preceding the days of rejection, it is common practice to re-think about all the many many conversations you had with this person, to try and deliberate whether the answer lies within them. It usually doesn’t. Let’s be frank, he’s not going to decide he doesn’t like you based on the fact you’re not a fan of his favourite pokemon. Even if he had based his decision on this disagreement a) he seems like an idiot and b) you can’t take it back. The inability to re-do things, to edit your choices and reboot the mission is tormenting. It sucks, I know. But the likelihood is, if it wasn’t the Pokemon it would have been something else because if it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. What is most often the case is that things just grind to a halt. Times move on and feelings change and although this is understandable and, even, unstoppable,you can’t help but feel slightly put out. No matter the reason for closure, it is impossible to not take it personally because, at the end of the day, it is. For whatever reason their feelings stopped or their motives changed and as a consequence, you didn’t fit the bill. You start to think there is something wrong with you and that there’s something you have to look out for in your next relationship. But stop. There isn’t. One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure. What annoys one individual may enrapture another, Marmite’s a testament to this, so don’t think about changing- unless it’s for yourself and, well, your health. So many people think that they’re going to transform and envision their ex begging to have them back. It would be nice but it’s also unlikely. Leopards rarely change their spots. The fact of the matter is, you can only be yourself. You can only be yourself when you’re nervous. You can only be yourself when you’re intimidated and you can only be yourself when you’re happy. If you feel like you’re inhibited and can’t be you even after a few months, then seriously, they’re not right for you anyway.

Another problem that arises is the whole “but we’re not even dating so I shouldn’t be hurt” kerfuffle. Honey. Prince. Princess. Pull yourself together. You do feel hurt. So stop telling yourself you’re not allowed to be. You bloody are. I apologise for my blatant sassiness but, frankly, if you feel hurt then whoever has hurt you has done something prior to this incident to make you feel safe. I’m not dating my friend, Ellie, but if she abruptly stopped answering my messages, avoided eye-contact and started hanging around with someone else, I’d be upset. I’d be v upset. So don’t do that Ellie. Please? K cool. The fact of the matter is, a friendship and agreement in whatever form has been made. Even if it is a casual agreement. Whether it’s an ‘I’ll see you when I see you’ or a ‘friends with benefits’ agreement; an understanding exists between you. So, when someone makes the same agreement with another person or, actually, just doesn’t see you when they can see you and gives you little attention when they do, then it kind of sullies it? It’s like too many chefs spoil the broth or, really, you’re just being used and put on hold for when it’s convenient. If anything, casual agreements are infinitely more vexing, because, yes, the intimacy is great but fundamentally you are friends and the balance between chilled and keen interlock. Therefore, upon the end of it all, it makes the whole “I don’t want him to think I don’t like him but I don’t want him to think I like him” dilemma so much harder. The impulse is to remain acting like friends but then in doing so, a simple affectionate touch or friendly message could spark the whole “s**t they still like me” debacle or even the “s**t I still like them” appearance. I take my friendships very seriously, so it makes me exceptionally devastated when situations change. It makes me feel insignificant and this sassy sister is so significant. Hollah.

Used. There’s that phrase that makes every girls legs close and their eyebrows join their hairline. Used is the word that so often has me running for the hills that I have a little house there. One of my best friends has recently been used and, honestly, it’s not nice. It’s selfish. The aggravating thing about this situation is that, of course, you don’t know you’re being manipulated and, maybe, even the person doing it doesn’t realise either. Subjectivity is the devil’s advocate. Like sending someone messages may seem totally chill to me but seem totally keen to them. With relationships taking longer to kick in and the “seeing eachother” period stretching on for as long as the eye can see, it’s hard to conclude when you’re investing in something or just wasting your time. Like myself, my friend, likes to see the best in people, she likes to form her own opinions and she likes to believe that people are as honest as we are to them. Unfortunately, it’s not always the case. There are people that do things just because they can and in fact, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have occasionally done the same. It’s empowering and naughty. There lies a difference, however, in the occasional flirtation with someone and the incessant encouragement to develop one’s feelings. If you have no intentions, don’t bother is my view on this. The distinct jump from kissing to there being so much distance you can see a vanishing point is degrading. Keeping someone as an understudy, isn’t okay. You’re keeping them from their own spectacular performance. Ha! Lame. I know. Just call me Bridget Jones and be done with it.

In conclusion, my ego is bruised but my optimism and forgiveness is not. Do I currently feel that boys are pricks? Well, yes, that’s a given but do I think this particular boy is a king-prick? Well, no. Of course, not. Honestly, I think he is a pretty fab guy and I find spending time with him exceptionally pleasant regardless. I feel like my annoyance stems from the fact, I want what I can’t have and I hate not getting what I want. I dislike the lack of romance in my life and I feel I now have to start all over again. As everyone is aware I detest anything that requires a huge amount of effort, therefore, starting again does not appeal to me presently. The thought of joining match.com has crossed my mind but then I figured I’m only 19 and I can wait. Even though it seems I won’t start a flame right now; I’m stupidly predatory and I know I will soon…

…after I’ve broken up with Ben and Jerry.

 

Work: A Buzz Kill

As I have mentioned in a previous post, the season of work is well underway and the end is not nigh. Surrounded by digestive crumbs and an array of tea-cups, I deliberate whether my essay even needs finishing. It does. I know it does. However, the prospect of completing this essay only to begin revision is almost too much to handle. 50% or not, I’m taking a break. I’m taking a break and I’m watching ‘Murder She Wrote’, because, really, there’s nothing more endearing than watching old people get themselves into trouble.

The thing I hate most about coursework season is curiously not the coursework itself but rather how it makes me feel. It makes me feel like a loser. A loser with no friends; stranded in a sea of ‘History of English’ essay plans and ‘World Cinema’ revision notes. In fact, it’s become almost unsurprising that even Miss Marple lives a more adventurous life than me.

Undeniably, during the revision days and the coursework nights, I transform into the most boring version of myself that anyone could ever imagine. These days my fun comes from the google logo changing and making ‘Dubsmash’ videos with my cat. Although I’m aware this is not cool, it’s not work. So yeah. It makes me happy. The fact remains, however, that for the short time frame that doing coursework and revising for exams takes, I am under the ridiculous impression that everyone has a preposterously better life than me. Is this my self-pity replacing logic? Well, of course it is. I know that the girl taking selfies with every member of the choir on Facebook is a boring sod but, still, that chick is preaching the right message; “I’m out having fun”. Sat in my pyjamas and eating hob nobs at one in the morning, I silently hate on everyone. I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed for the millionth time and I groan and wonder, once again, whether education is the path for me. I believe it is. I’m bad at organisation and I can’t fold up maps. No doubt I’d plan to travel Australia and never get round to it because I’d be too busy watching ‘Diagnosis Murder’.

Nevertheless, as I lay on my sofa watching Jessica Fletcher solve the murder with pure intuition, I can’t help but deliberate whether my friends do the same things as me when they are by themselves. Clearly, everyone runs up the stairs in the dark, because that’s just commonsense; who knows what’s behind you. But do they sometimes break into song just because they can? Do they occasionally hold their boobs because it surprisingly feels nice? And do they sometimes go over the week’s events and curse themselves for saying the wrong thing to that one person that one time? I’d like to think they do.The real question is, do celebrities? I always seem to find myself thinking about what other people are up to and whether the work they’re doing is more interesting. More interesting than translating 11th century texts? Surely not.

Ða cwaeð Stranguilio: ‘Hlaford Apolloni, ure ceaster is þearfende and ne mæg þine æðelborennesse acuman, forðon ðe we þoliað þone heardestan hungor and þone reðestan, and minre ceasterwaru nis nan hælo hiht, ac se wælreowesta ende stent ætforan urum eagum.’ Đa cwæð Apollonius: ‘Min se leofesta freond Strangiulio, þanca Gode þæt he me fliman hider to eowrum gemæran gelædde.’

Honestly, it’s by thinking about all these things that I start to accept my grim situation and concede that, actually, everyone has days where there’s not much going on. Pretty much every student shall be reliably experiencing the same lack of excitement. I’m not necessarily a boring person because I’m unable to go out every night and do fun activities everyday. I couldn’t do that because I have no money and I wouldn’t do that because I actually adore lounging on my sofa. It merely infuriates me that I don’t have a choice. I’ve finally come to understand that just because I’m not back home, doesn’t mean that there’s a party going on every night. Sometimes people are doing exactly what I’m doing with and without the stress of looming exams. My nothing days are more frequent this month but it shall come to an end and I’m aware I’m not alone. I have my cat.

Despite my rumblings and brainless ramblings about this present week, I will openly admit that this is almost entirely due to the work load. Regardless of the impending doom and my brain melting to mush, I have intermittently enjoyed many an adventure. In fact, earlier this week I returned from the remarkable city that is Amsterdam. Contrary to the impression I have given, there have been both highs and lows this month (and it’s only been a week). If you haven’t understood my pun in that last line, I am incredibly dubi-ous of your intelligence. Yes, this week, I have submitted not one but two pieces of coursework, hooray and I have probably failed, not one, but two modules, boo. I  got paid today and shall be going out, yay! But I shall be poor and hungover tomorrow. Eurgh. The life of a student in two lines no less. Although, returning from Amsterdam to a mountain of work was a buzz kill if ever there was one, it has spurred me on for summer. There shall be endless days of doing nothing without the feeling that I should be doing something. Alas, there will be sun shining days of lazing around, writing blog posts and deciding what to do next…

…with my cat.

Spring: A Difficult Transition

With the remains of a cold and a wardrobe that is almost completely black, I wistfully bid goodbye to my dear friend winter. Although, I’m aware that winter ended at least a good month ago, I feel that winter only really ends when the sun becomes to make a more regular appearance and the temperature rises that extra 2 degrees. This transition into spring is a hard one, not only because it requires a whole new wardrobe but it also requires constant deliberation. By deliberation I, of course, mean the ‘to wear a coat/to not wear a coat’ inner battle. I find myself asking anyone that has risked venturing outside “Is it cold outside?” at least twenty times before making my decision. You see, the sun is a trickster and I will be the first to be blindsided. I once went to school on non-uniform day in sandals because I thought the weather was warm. It wasn’t. My feet turned red and blue. Of course, if anyone asked “Aren’t your feet cold?”, I’d just reply “Pfft no; my feet are cold anyway.” Why? Because I don’t want to admit I made an error; that’s why. Needless to say I’m not handling the transition to spring very well. Making errors is my perfected skill.

To give but one example, the other day I met up with some friends wearing black leggings and a black band t-shirt (because I’m super indie). I’m super indie and I’m also exceptionally lazy; they were the first things I could find that were clean and seemed appropriate for the semi-hot weather. However, as I stepped outside I instantly regretted my outfit decision. Not only because it was a horrid outfit even for winter but I was definitely going to cook myself from the outside in. Error made and acknowledged; I ventured out in that outfit anyway because, well, I’m stubborn and I definitely could not be bothered changing into anything else. That day I walked past several women in sun dresses and several men in shorts. Predictably, I was given many a funny look. In their defense not only did I not dress for the weather as I had thought, but I also looked like a homeless person that actually had a home. A tip for people that have lots of black items of clothing and a white cat; invest in a lint roller.

Spring distresses me because it’s that in-between stage. With this cold sticking around I feel I have already failed the spring challenge. My only consolation is that those with hay-fever will be feeling worse than me. The weather during this season is the most infuriating. It’s like the skies are pondering whether to rain or shine all day, everyday. For someone that doesn’t handle heat very well and actually enjoys having an excuse to stay indoors you can imagine how the former choice would be to my preference, but ah well. In light of these concerns, I am glad to announce that ‘Topshop’ are actually catering for my needs. ‘Cropped knits’ are making a comeback apparently and although this is handy for the next month or so, I can’t help but think that it would be a waste of money to purchase anything. Realistically, who really takes knit wear on holiday with them and who really dresses nice to revise? Not me. I live in my pyjamas throughout the revision period. In fact, I live in my pyjamas full stop. Perhaps, I should be investing in some nice ones. You know, for those people that I won’t see for the next month.

If anyone is still in education like myself, you will know that ‘spring time’ is not a thing. ‘Exam time’ is a thing and there certainly isn’t any spring in my step concerning that. This transition from not working to actually working and attending lectures is the toughest of all the woes that spring has offered. Although, witnessing the baby ducks waddle to their pond has absolutely lifted my spirits, it also makes me contemplate my physique and whether I shall be waddling down to the pool some time soon. You see, amid the dawning of exams and coursework deadlines it is hard to find the will to stop eating. This, of course, is doing no wonders for my summer transformation and no wonders for my jean buttons. I’d love to go to the gym, I really would, but between the working and the consumption of alcohol to handle the working, “I just can’t squeeze it in”. A phrase my jeans have started to say to my muffin top.

Being your standard student I have opted to do other things that make me happy, like booking a trip to Amsterdam and buying festival tickets. Booking holidays is the best cure for exam time blues because it gives you something to look forward to. Obviously, it’s not great for my bank balance but it’s great for me. It gives me an excuse to finally buy the summer/spring wardrobe that I’ve been saying I don’t need. It also provides an array of ways to procrastinate. I love the word procrastinate; it sounds so naughty…

…I suppose it is when you’re writing blog posts instead of doing your essay.

Easter: A Sibling Understanding

As I’m sure was the case in any catholic primary school, the annual Easter play was the pinnacle of every kids christian calender. For those allowed to participate (years 4 to 5) the classroom quickly became a battle ground. Boys fought over the role of Jesus, girls fought over the role of Mary Magdalene and teachers probably fought over who had to choreograph the dance routines. If anyone has starred in or witnessed a nativity performance, imagine this monumental event with infinitely more proud mothers and inexplicably more nervous children. You see, unlike the standard nativity, children starring in the Easter play are bestowed with soulful solos and meaty monologues devised purely to bring every grandmother to tears. Ultimately, the children in the Easter play either shine in the spotlight or fade into the background.  Being a member of the Brown family, of course, the latter proposal was never an option for myself or my brother. No, just last week, I witnessed my brother take the stage and truly make the most of that one line he had. I found myself feeling unmistakably proud. Too proud. I now need to talk about myself with everyone just to reconfirm that I’m still the better child. In fact, if anyone in my family can recall, I got way more lines than my brother and he didn’t even get a solo song. So, ner.

Although there is 10 years between myself and my brother, I still find myself arguing with him over who farted and who ate the most crisps. At the age of 19, I have accepted that sibling squabbles will never mature and, seriously, they will never cease to be a source of entertainment. Last week, however, the deed of jibing the smallest family member couldn’t be executed. I scrutinised my brother’s body language and I could see that the little boy-man was silently nervous. It would have been heartless to wind him up and, quite honestly, I was too hungry. Watching him check his props fervently made me reminisce on how I felt before my Easter show. Understandably, at the ripe age of 9,  performing in a tiny church chapel feels more like performing at Wembley Arena. Psychologically, that small audience of 50 magnifies to 300 and you start to wonder whether the crying is coming from you or that baby in the audience. My brother, of course, wasn’t to know that old people are easily impressed and every parent only watches their own child anyway; so there really was no need to worry. Unfortunately, no one but me and my mum saw him pick his nose and it is highly unlikely anyone but us will remember his performance in general. The solo singers usually steal the show and, sadly, he didn’t get a solo. Sorry lad; Polly wins again. Queue, celebratory bunny dance and token easter photo.

My solo was fantastically dramatic. It came after the Crucifixion and it was to the tune of ‘The Snowman’. This is not to say that my brother’s performance was mediocre. No, his performance was extremely riveting and, impressively, believable. The role he was awarded was the role of a trader in the temple. In this scene, the traders are all selling their merchandise and Jesus arrives to throw them all out. Jesus picks up various objects and throws them around shouting “This is my father’s house!” or something of that essence. My brother’s line was “Oh no! My precious money!” before frantically picking up all his coins that had been scattered in the carnage. In all truth, my brother was the only child to actually recite his line with emotion and, essentially, act. When he exclaimed “Oh no!”, I truly felt the agony and anger he possessed at having to pick up all his coins. You could argue that I am partially biased, but I can assure you it would have made me equally happy to see him forget that line. Predictably, the cast members were all extremely cute, however, I couldn’t help but inwardly groan at the robotic pace most of them spoke. Remembering lines is a hard process I know, but come on, grandma was getting on. I also had a pepperoni pizza cooking in the oven.

Despite the slow pace, the play itself took no more than half an hour. The chirpy Easter songs, however, remained present until early this week. I can still remember a massive proportion of the songs sung in my Easter play and that was 11 years ago. The ability to devise songs about Jesus, that are both memorable and funky, is an impressive one. This is a bittersweet ability, however, because although singing about Jesus is gooder than good it’s also pretty pious and exceptionally annoying for those around you. Getting one line of a song you do not know stuck in your head is an aggravation if ever there was one. It’s incredibly hard to find on youtube. Especially if you’re typing in ‘E-A-S-T-E-R Easter’.

Although annoyingly catchy songs is an aspect of Easter productions that will never change, I noticed that the class names had. “This is Eucalyptus’s annual show;  please enjoy”. What? Year 5 was never called Eucalyptus when I was at school. Apparently reception is called ‘Apple Class’. Seriously, this need to rename everything to seem more progressive is beyond me. In my opinion it’s just confusing and incredibly pretentious, if not belittling. Which parent can be bothered to remember the actual name of the class that their child is in, it’s hard enough remembering when non-uniform day is. My dad once took me to school when it was teaching training day. Needless to say that school newsletters get lost in school bags and class names are lost on me. Besides this less than subtle change, everything about my old primary school has stayed the same, including the teachers and the priest. I like this because it feels like a time warp and often gives me and my brother something to talk about besides Disney films.Thrilling conversations all round. Talking to your old teachers never gets less awkward.

Although the school play was an enjoyable family outing, it unfortunately came to a sad end. Here, I don’t mean Jesus dying or even coming home. Apparently that ten minutes talking to fellow parents and classmates was ten minutes too long because the sad ending to which I refer to is returning home to a burnt pepperoni pizza. “Oh no! My precious pizza!”. See, I’m clearly the better child. I even executed that one line better than my brother, not just because of the raw emotion but because…

…everything is better with pizza.