The end of an era...

After three years, hundreds of thousands of words and more deadlines than I care to remember, that’s it. I have finished my degree.

Yesterday I submitted my dissertation; my very last piece of University work. Printed, bound and proof-read a ridiculous number of times, I popped it in the box and said goodbye to three years of Undergraduate study.

It’s a surreal feeling; there’s a mixture of excitement, pride, terror, nerves, relief and then pure happiness as friends congratulate you with the news that now you’re free! It’s almost as if Uni had us tied down in chains for the last few years…

But it does feel like a huge weight has been lifted. The deadlines are over, the stress has gone and there’s just a wait now to find out whether the hours spent in the library will pay off. In the meantime though, the fun can begin - I’ve begun to notice that University pretty much starts with a party, and ends with one too…

Heads or Tails.

I’ve spent two hours folding clothes into the smallest shape possible, calculating how much make up it’s possible to wear in 2 weeks, and prioritising work by how light the book is... it can only mean one thing. It’s the end of term.

Every time it’s the same :
- you pack light, and still have a heavy bag.

- you give everyone the biggest hug goodbye, and then remember it’ll only be a few weeks until you’re reunited.
- you excitedly get on the train home, anticipating the overjoyed welcome you always exaggerate in your mind, only to spend the journey terrified that your bag on the overhead shelf will fall on that small lady with her head stuck in a book. What a shock that would be...

But this time, it’s different.

This time, it’s the last time.
Reminiscing with friends this week about our very first day at University and the nerves involved with moving into halls, we all realised something. That feels like ages ago. And it is.

Next time I pack to go home, I’ll have finished University. I’ll be leaving...

Excuse me while I take a quick break to run around the house in a state of panic...

Regaining some composure, let’s have a look at the main issue here. As a final year Undergraduate, thoughts inevitably split between current study, as essays come out of your ears, and future plans. What am I going to do with my LIFE? I hear my friends moan. How do I pick a CAREER? HOW do I pay this loan off? and... it’s so UNFAIR we have to decide our future path at the horrifically young age of 21... That’s my personal favourite.  

Despite some insistence that student debt isn’t ‘real’ debt, students facing graduation feel the intense pressure of picking a career or gaining an internship and ultimately earning some money.

First arises the decision about living arrangements. Every student is terrified of going home. Although it’s a financially viable option, allowing you to eat proper food (rather than cereal for dinner), it can also be seen as a step back as you wave goodbye to the independence of living with friends and settle into the family hierarchy as if you never left.

Then there’s the choice of further study, an internship, or a direct job application. With the first two, there’s a further issue of income because, quite frankly, it’s unlikely you’ll have one. Facing the bank of Mum and Dad versus ANOTHER loan, further study is quite scary.

But regardless of these concerns, think about the real problem here. Every step is a risk. Moving back home is risky - what if you get stuck living with your parents for longer than expected? Living independently is risky - how are you going to afford it without the many loans and bursaries you’ve previously been used to? Further study is a risk - it’s another year between you and a career and another drain on the bank balance, but it could land you in that dream job. Applying for a career straight away is also a risk - you might hate it. Or you might rise up the career ladder and love it...

The way I see it, it’s all a big, fat risk. But surely at our age, now is the time to face it. The student loan will get paid back eventually, the job will eventually be landed, the dream flat will eventually be rented... it will just take time. So why not do what you want to do now, and chase the dream you have even if you do think it’s unattainable. If it doesn’t work out, you still have the rest of your life to change career and reconsider your options. So stop panicking and just go out there and do it. And if you don’t know what to do, it’s not the end of the world - you’re young enough to still have time to work this out. Remember the wise old words of Baz Luhrmann - some of the most interesting 40 year olds still don’t know what to do.

So yes Graduation is terrifying...it’s the end of an era. But it should also be stupidly exciting as it’s the start of another one, even if you haven’t planned everything about it yet.

With that thought, I’m off to flip a coin to decide my future now. Oh don’t judge...everyone knows no-one can take their own advice...

The Scrooge Epidemic

Is it me or has no-one felt particularly festive this year? The majority of people I’ve spoken to have told me how this year, they’ve felt less Christmassy than ever before. WHY?!

True I was one of these depressingly unexcited people…up until 9pm Christmas Eve when it finally sunk in…

Was it the weather? Rain does make everyone’s moods worse its true, and it’s hardly very festive. Is it the financial climate? No one has been particularly looking forward to the expense of Christmas, this year more than ever! Or is it simply because we’re all that one year older?

But that’s the thing isn't it? When you’re a kid, Christmas is all about the anticipation of Santa coming, presents to play with and too much chocolate to nibble on. When you get older, the realisation that Christmas is an expensive, stressful, bloated time of year finally sinks in. But actually, I beg to differ. I refuse to turn into a modern day Ebenezer Scrooge so here’s 3 lessons to remember about Christmas:

1)      The most successful present I gave this year was a sentimental one.
Lesson: You don’t need to spend half your inheritance to make people happy.

2)      Things usually work out even when you do forget to seal the envelopes down, or the Sellotape doesn't stick properly or the turkey gets freezer burn.
 Lesson: There’s no point in getting stressed about things you can’t change – especially when they often can resolve themselves.

3)      Just because there is a temptation to buy everything in the festive aisle of the supermarket doesn't actually mean you have to eat it all within 24 hours. Unless you’re going for a ‘Man VS Food’ style Christmas…
Lesson: You don’t need to be bloated every year on the 25^th December and declare, rather angrily, by 8pm that you will never, never be eating again.

Finally, let me remind all you Scrooges out there that, yes, it’s unlikely you are feeling particularly festive on a wet winters day when you still have wrapping to do. But that doesn't mean that Christmas can’t be something to look forward to. Take it with a pinch of salt; it is only one day after all. So remember the words of a great man, Mr Charles Dickens, and think of the true spirit of Christmas.

Now go and eat a mince pie and cheer the hell up – you’re giving Scrooge a run for his money…  

21: An 'adult' at last...

So it's happened. I've reached another major birthday and have thus worked my way through the age restrictions of youth. Now, the only thing I can't do due to age is get a pension. Or a bus pass. Oh the travesty!

Yes that's it folks - I've reached the grand age of 21.

AKA - OLD.

That's what people keep saying to me. Is 21 really old? Is it though? What does that make fifty year olds? Ancient?? Let's put this into perspective for a minute - 21 is just over two centuries. For me, a '91 December baby, it's seven thousand, six hundred and seventy days. Oh.

Alright forget the maths - it doesn't matter because it's not how old you are, it's how you are old... (good ol' Gavin and Stacey!).

Besides, I can honestly say that as people get older and reach that 'age of maturity', it's (ironically) quite unlikely that they will mature. Of course, you gain a sense of wisdom, experience and common sense, but even the most sensible, grown-up still feels like a child sometimes!

This is what I'm going to keep telling myself. After a fantastic birthday, where I was completely spoiled with cupcake flowers, visits from friends, the most sentimental presents ever and gorgeous keepsakes, I have realised that I am one lucky, lucky girl.

So despite constant references to how old 21 is, it doesn't matter. In my head, I'm 21, I'm still young and life has only just begun (metaphorically speaking...)

I'm 21 and I still haven't grown out of the cheesy grin...

Flamin' hell it's cold...

Following on from my last entry, any of the mid-term meltdown stress I was suffering from has well and truly disappeared with the traumatic incident that happened in our student house this weekend. Although it most probably should have contributed to my very own breakdown, it actually injected a bit of perspective and a strange amount of adrenaline.

Let me explain.

It’s Friday morning. I’m deservedly rather excited about the prospect of a night out after what feels like a year-long week. I spend the day working out at the gym and wading my way through more reading and yet another essay.  I do all of this with a little shiver; not out of horror at the work, but because the house is slowly getting colder and colder. So much so at one point, I’m sure I felt the house itself shivering.

My housemate and I investigated and linked the lack of hot water with the ominous red light on the boiler. Pretty sure that was green before… Wisely, she phones the landlord who comes and resets it and all is funky-dory again! J

 He’d probably only been away for an hour when the main bulb in my bedroom blew. Now, we’re not the type of household to have spare bulbs lying around, so I just phoned our landlord and he came straight back. It’s a good job he did too – the red light of death returned on the boiler. We waited anxiously on the stairs whilst he slowly took apart the metal box on the wall, both silently aware that we needed the hot water to come back on so we could shower for our night ahead…

He emerged from the bathroom with a grin (to this moment I still don’t know what he found so amusing.)  He told us that the boiler needed a new part and he didn’t have a spare one! YAY!

So to sum things up, we had no hot water and no heating and we hadn’t showered yet. Sometimes I just can’t believe my luck.

Our landlord did try to help…but that’s when things started to turn rather dramatic. He showed us how to get the electric shower to pump out hot water and said that he’d wait in his van for 20 minutes with a clip on one of the boiler tubes just to heat the house up for that duration. Then, once we’d showered, he’d come back in and take the clip off – that way we’d at least have taken the chill off the house. It sounded like a good idea at the time…in retrospect we probably should have considered that by clipping a tube he was blocking whatever was running through it and letting it pile up…

My housemate showered and came out with a shiver saying the temperature of the water dropped. I attempted to shower and could not for the life of me get any hot water. I was just thinking about giving up when I smelt gas.

‘Don’t be stupid Steph. Why on earth would a bathroom have a gas leak?’  I thought. I turned the water off and poked my head round the shower curtain to look at the boiler.

The monster in the corner of the room. 

Or rather, the blue monster in the corner of the room as a tidy gas flame had engulfed the box.

I jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel before the less threatening little blue flame turned into an ever so slightly scary real flame of fire which was coming from the boiler and into the room. The very room I was standing in wearing only a towel and my owl slippers. I freaked.

Yelling ‘FIRE!’ I grabbed my phone and reached for the door, which, by the way, is right next to the boiler. Yes readers, that’s right. My only exit was right next to the flame that was potentially endangering my life. And all for the sake of a sodding shower and a little bit of warmth.

With my housemates shouting at me to come downstairs, the landlord ran up and it was extinguished, mainly thanks to the draft of air I’d let in when I legged it out of the room.

Danger averted.

Well, the good news from all this is that our fire alarms work! The bad news is that I was ever so slightly shaken up and spent the next hour when I was meant to be getting dressed and excitedly putting make up on drinking tea, having a little cry and then having group hugs with my housemates. And I still hadn’t had my shower.

So where are we at now? We still went on our big night out – we saw the life threatening situation as more of a reason than ever to let our hair down a bit and de-stress with some cheesy tunes at Ocean nightclub.  And I finally managed to have a quick shower. But the boiler still isn’t working and the house is still rather cold. But we did learn a few things from this.

1.  Student life is not only damaging to your mentality with the threat of a mid-term meltdown, but it’s also rather unpredictable. Unpredictable but never dull.
   
2. Blankets are better than flames....

Mid-term Meltdown...

There comes a time during a University semester when students begin to look a bit tired and pale. They are non-responsive in seminars and when they do finally say something, it's more of a grunt or a sniff. A vacant stare will appear over their face.

No, this is not an attempt to get into the Halloween spirit and create some ghostly account of University. This is a phenomenon I have decided to call 'mid-term meltdown'.

Think of it like a mid-life crisis but for overwhelmed, and tired, University students. (Oh woe is us!)

I almost had one of these this week, when (as luck would have it) everything just seemed to come at once. With no reading week this year, I was wary that I had an essay due in, meetings to attend, and a mountain of books to read, all for one week. It got to the point when, on the verge of tears in one of campus' coffee shops, I considered calling mountain rescue and just giving up.

But I persevered. I manned up. With the help of litres of caffeine and a combination of late nights and early mornings, I did it all. (You really don't need as much sleep as you think y'know!)

In my week of stress, I noticed that I wasn't the only one around campus who looked like it had all got a bit too much. You know the feeling, the work just piles up, the colds set in and you start counting down the weeks until Christmas (or in my case the weekend and a well deserved night out!)

On the bus this morning I was sat behind a girl wearing a woolly hat.
'Wise', I thought to myself, 'it's like the Arctic out there.'
Then I looked again. I can tell you for a fact that her hat was from H&M. I can tell you for a fact that her hat was fairly new ... because she'd left the tag on it. Hanging cheekily down underneath her little pom-pom was the square piece of cardboard that she has most probably spent the rest of the day cursing for making her look so silly. Undoubtedly, this was a symptom of mid-term meltdown - too tired to notice that the tag is still hanging off the bobble on a woolly hat. Tragic.

I then waded through a room of what felt like synchronized sniffs and fits of uncontrollable coughing. The cold's have hit Uni, and they just make everything feel so much worse!

I persevered through my day and went to pick up tickets for the aforementioned night out. Bright eyed and bubbly I struck up conversation with the staff. Only to find out that mid-term meltdown doesn't just hit students... Struggling to remember what day it was, forgetting to write my student number down, and then almost writing my first name where my surname should be, we eventually managed to sort everything out and I sauntered smugly away with my tickets.

So yes, I've successfully dodged mid-term meltdown; I had a stressful week but such is life. I survived that mountain and I have a weekend of freedom to enjoy before it all starts again! So far, it's 1 to me and 0 to 3rd year. You have not broken me yet!!

But be warned readers. If you're mooching around campus and towards you comes someone who looks paler than you think possible, could carry their library books in the bags hanging from their eyes and is wandering aimlessly like a...well, like a zombie... don't be scared. Be sympathetic. It's mid-way through the term and they're merely tired. Besides, you could be next.

RadioHead

So that’s it. I’ve come back to uni and I’ve broken into the world of radio.

The speakers aren’t going to know what hit them…

On Tuesday, I walked into the URN studios at my University filled with nerves & excitement. Before I knew it I was thrust in front of the microphone, reading the news bulletins and joking along with some of the afternoon’s friendly presenters. I felt so welcome. Then, two hours later, I was back in front of a microphone, sat around a table with 3 others discussing some intriguing news stories…and you know what?

IT WAS SO FUN!

Yes I realise those capitals are going to look like I just angrily shouted that in your face, but I can’t stress this enough. 

I wasn't going to tell anyone about being on air; y'know. Just in case it went horrendously wrong. At least on radio anyone who didn't know who I was wouldn't recognise me around campus...But, once I'd had the practice of the bulletins, and caught the radio buy, I ended up telling almost everyone I spoke to that day what time I'd be on air and how they could listen in. My Dad even recorded it... 

I left the studios afterwards, with a mixture of emotions – thrilled that I could say I’d just ‘been on air’ and had spent most of the afternoon ‘in the studio’ (check me out...), disappointed that I hadn’t thought to join URN sooner, but excited that at the same time next week I’d be doing it all over again!

So what do you think…shall I open my horizons to include broadcasting?!  

In which I dabble in the world of modelling...

People always say that a good writer has ‘life experience’.  Basically this translates as: a good writer has a whole bunch of memories and adventures that they can draw on as inspiration for their work, giving it that much needed sense of realism.

So to my mind, that means that a good writer should act a little bit like Jim Carrey from Yes Man. They should become the epitome of spontaneity; they should have eagerly outstretched arms, ready to grasp every new opportunity that flies their way.

Which might explain why, when I got the opportunity to do a modelling shoot, I confidently said yes before kicking my shy alter-ego backwards into the freaky cupboard in my university room where she belongs.

And well, well, well, look who turned out to be called ‘talented’.
(Yes they may have been fibbing, but they still said it.)

A week or so ago, I dragged one of my closest friends with me to Leicester and spent about 3 hours in a studio; the focus of a camera lens. We had numerous shots taken in numerous outfits, all the while laughing about lighting and the inevitable language barriers we were having with our Polish photographer – whose English was actually really good, and simply made us realise that for two English students we use slang way too much

 Suddenly, midway through the shoot, confidence levels began to drop. Luckily, someone had some rather eclectic but mood boosting music on their phone, (I tried not to cringe too much when the familiar tones of Busted sounded out from my Blackberry….)

Then, a pink feather boa got brought out.

Cushions appeared.

 Wind machines were used and became known as ‘our little friend’.

 All in all, it was ever so slightly surreal.

But the fun didn’t stop there. We had to do an introductory video about ourselves after the shoot where we suddenly transformed into ‘part-time models’ and got spoken to like we were professionals, rather than two 20 year old English Undergrads who thought it sounded like something fun to do on a Saturday afternoon…

Our egos were boosted even more that day by the lovely young man who served us in the chip shop on the way to the station, as we guiltily gave in to temptation and bought some chips to share on our way home. He said:  ‘I’ve given you some extra chips because you’re both so pretty, is that ok?’

We beamed, we blushed, we left.

But now I’m home, the excitement has died down a bit and these niggling thoughts keep entering my head. Regarding the chips – yes of course free fast food is a lovely gesture, and a true student would never dream of saying no! But another part of me, deep in the depths of my conscience is saying, ‘Of course it’s ok! But when I get fat because of all those extra chips would anyone think the same then?!’

I’ve also just seen my video. My first thoughts were ‘OH.MY.WORD.’

 My hair is flat, I have an annoying strand covering my eyelid and I ‘um’ and look down at the script we got given way too much. Is this the start? Am I becoming too vain and self-criticising? Am I becoming a REAL model?

I know. I need to swat the thought away like I would one of those annoying flies that delight in buzzing around your ear for hours.

Besides, I’ve finally seen some of the photos from the shoot and I actually quite like them. Maybe a little embarrassing, but truly they’re not that bad at all...(I hope)

 Plus, it gave me another subject for one of these blogs – maybe experiences really do create words…

Perseverance & Planning

Plans. They make you feel more organised - more focused, don’t they? Maybe I’m slightly OCD about things like this but when I’ve got a checklist of things to do, or things to achieve with little check boxes to happily tick away, I swear my productivity soars.

There ain’t no stopping a girl with a plan…

Let me explain. Last week after researching my next steps after graduation - my baby steps into journalism if you like - I reacted somewhat melodramatically upon my discoveries. Postgraduate study is nowhere near as easily funded as Undergraduate study, studying in London is impossible unless I find a stash of money hidden in that hole Bailey’s been digging in the garden, and living back home whilst I study might be necessary if I actually want to still be able to eat for a year… This might not seem so bad, I’m still left with options after all, but to me it seemed like yet another mountain of obstacles in my path. Without a safety rope to climb over it, I did what any individual in despair did. I sulked for about an hour. Then I got upset for a further half hour. Then I gave Bailey a cuddle and thought about it all again. I spoke to a few people, did a bit of digging, a bit of writing and HEY PRESTO! With the help of my unbelievably supportive parents, I realised it’s not so bad after all. So what did I do?

I came up with a plan.

So now you’re wondering what this magnificent plan I keep banging on about entails right? Well, the first step is experience. Despite spending two weeks on a blogging internship this summer which I loved, I still need to get some media experience, so for ages I’ve been trying to get a contact or even get in contact with someone at a local paper to apply to spend a week there. But without success. For the Postgraduate Diploma in Journalism I want to do next year, you need some physical experience at a local/regional newspaper or magazine to even get looked at seriously when you apply. It’s a basic necessity. Yet, for an awful lot of local papers and magazines, you need to already be on this course to even get looked at for the experience. As a local journalist quite rightly pointed out to me, it’s a vicious circle. I took numerous rejections but in true journalist style I persevered. I phoned and emailed my CV everywhere I could think of and…I might have to wait until Easter but I’ve only gone and nabbed a week at a local paper! That’s a tick in box number one I think!

Secondly, whilst doing this I also sent some theatre reviews in to some local publications. I’ve hence transformed from dreaming of getting my name in print within a local paper to actually achieving it. I am on the website for one local paper (http://www.worthingherald.co.uk/lifestyle/entertainment/arundel-festival-s-shakespeare-season-the-taming-of-the-shrew-1-4205184) and in print for another local paper  (The Littlehampton Gazette)- published this week! Tick in box two, perhaps?

So that leaves me to my next step -locating where I want to study journalism once I’ve graduated from Nottingham. Ambitiously my first thoughts were of the bustling centre of London or the familiar yet lively city of Nottingham, but once I looked into the details I realised I might have to become a home girl once again….But to be honest, Brighton’s really not that bad is it?! Especially when the sun is shining!

So as I sit, awaiting numerous prospectuses to be delivered through the door, it feels like now I’ve identified what qualification I need to get and managed to book some experience in, I finally am moving on again in my progress. I can still apply for graduate schemes and internships etc, but for the time being my mindless floundering through the murky depths of journalism is at an end. I have joined the throng of dedicated writers, armed with nothing but a mind, perseverance, curiosity and a pen. I suppose it is true, if you want something hard enough you just need to keep trying until you get there.

So, after spending a minute doing a well-deserved victory dance in the style of Zingy – that little orange blob on the EDF adverts – I say bring it on. 

For I am a determined girl with an ambitious plan.
Watch out world.  

Twitter Grammar

So I’ve returned to Nottingham for a few days which has proven to be quite a nice change of scenery, despite the rain that has just attacked the world outside. So, sitting in my room with the rain hammering against the window I have decided to update you lovely readers with the amusing evening I had last night. It came in the style of a Twitter feud…

Remember when you were at school and your teacher used to correct spelling or grammar mistakes with the boldest red biro she could possibly find, scrawling over your work for everyone to see and placing a big red circle around any missed apostrophes and capital letters?

Well, the comment and reply features on social media have, for me, turned into something pretty similar to this. I’ll admit that when I first started texting and using the website Bebo before Facebook became popular, I ashamedly wrote in text-speak. That illiterate and indecipherable-to-adults language all teenagers at some point in their lives rejoice in using, spammed up my profile, my emails, my texts…everything except my everyday speech and thankfully, my academic work. Then you seem to hit a wall. You realise you actually have a Querty keyboard with all the letters readily available to you…you don’t need to shorten words when you can type just as quickly the full morpheme as you can the abbreviation. Text-speak died when that realisation struck. That and the one that made me think I just looked like an idiot typing ‘C U l8r bbz, luv ya’. Really?!

So, when I began writing properly again on Facebook and joined Twitter, I thought that any little grammar slip would easily go unnoticed because at least I wasn’t writing like a complete pleb anymore.

Oh how wrong could I be…

As an English student it seems that my friends delight in pointing out when something I’ve written in a hurry on my phone and speedily uploaded without proof-reading is wrong. When I’ve missed an apostrophe because I’ve been too tired to notice, or when, in my eagerness to upload my message I put two dots in the aposiopesis instead of three…

Last night was such an example. Laughing at my childish excitement at the return of The Great British Bake Off, I was called ‘cute’ and quickly made into a tweet… a tweet which I for once, could say was grammatically incorrect as my friend wrote ‘exited’ instead of ‘excited’. To my shame though, she was quicker to notice and promptly deleted her faulty tweet making my sly dig look rather stupid. But she still retaliated. And before I knew it we were firing amusing tweets at each other about grammar errors, which ironically led to more being made. In between our fits of laughter as we thought up the most annoying comebacks, I thought I’d be clever and explain that as Twitter was social media, my lack of compliance with standard grammar and punctuation rules was acceptable as it created a more casual, informal atmosphere with the friend I was speaking to.

‘I sEE wot u meen! Good point!’ she quipped.  Text speak was back.

And so continued an evening of petty remarks amidst more laughter as we set about publicly shaming each other on our Twitter profiles. Thank God we found it funny, because the amount of people who normally delight in picking up on my grammar mistakes is ridiculous to the point of annoying. Am I not allowed to slip up occasionally?!

I suppose not. Twitter is a grown-up’s version of social media. You have 140 characters in which you have to be as witty and amusing as you possibly can…it’s no child’s play. They’ll be no Bebo gifts to send to your friends here.

I should have learnt my lesson . An aspiring journalist can afford no personal slip-ups when it comes to their own writing – especially when it gets published worldwide. Back to proof-reading everything I go.

But despite all that, it’s still tempting to create one tweet in the style of the good ol’ days…

TxtSpk FTW ! Lol. 

Ralph Meets Rust

Meet Ralph, my nice little red Ford Ka. 

Around this time of year I get, what I have less than affectionately termed, my ‘motor month’. Around now, everything from car insurance to the M.O.T expires. Taking a deep breath and a noticeable chunk out of my bank account, I keep my fingers crossed that nothing goes wrong. Ignoring jibes from male friends that this is such a girl’s car, and dismissing suggestions that I look for a newer vehicle or try to sell Ralph, I still vainly hope that all goes well so I can keep him for yet another year.

I have a history with Ralph you see. He’s ferried me to and from both college and work, as well as making it easier for me to get to my Dad’s house not to mention all my friends, who cleverly decided to live at least twenty minutes away.  He’s pretty much what you’d call a run-around car, which means he doesn’t have many miles on the clock, but nevertheless I still insist that Ralph is much needed and - strangely for an inanimate object - much loved.

So this week, I optimistically drove him to the garage for his yearly M.O.T, fully believing that all would be well. I waved away any doubts and fears that were expressed over his brakes, his clutch, his windscreen wipers and any kind of obscure mechanical fault that I wouldn’t fully understand. “He’ll pass” I insisted, giving him a confident pat before I zoomed off.

He failed. Ralph had rust.

Disappointed, we forked out just over £100 to cover the test and the welding Ralph ended up needing, whilst I silently cursed myself for being so confident and jinxing his fate. He’s back now, parked for the time being in the lay-by outside where I can see him. But I just can’t get something out of my head.

When I told a friend about my car’s failure, he grinned at me and slyly asked, “You know what they call rust for cars, don’t you?”
I shook my head.

“Cancer.”

I blinked. I laughed it off. But I faintly remember hearing this before…

So that’s it. Despite being reassured that he won’t need any more attention for at least 18months regarding his rusty underside, I can’t help feeling that I’m dealing with a case of impending car cancer.

Poor Ralph.
(...I wonder how much a Fiesta would cost...)

Money in the Boot

Car boot sales: a land of cowboy-hat wearing, banter loving traders of junk right? Wrong. 

This summer, cleverly missing all the seasonal job vacancies after my internship, I returned home, opened my wardrobe and decided I would make my millions like Del Boy; selling my childhood miscellany. I decided, sentimentally, that I couldn’t quite bring myself to part with my box of Barbie’s just yet, so I packed up the rest of my unwanted belongings and packed them snugly into Ralph, my little red Ka.

Yes I had to rise at an abominably early hour on the day, driving bleary eyed to the market. 

Okay I also had to sit in a queue for over an hour because, even at 6AM, it seems to be a universally known fact that no matter how early you arrive at a boot sale, there will always be a queue of cars waiting before you.

Nonetheless, I managed to grab a pretty decent spot next to a man who seemed to trade in hardware tools attending an impressive 3-4 markets a week! I’d like to think we became friends after he offered me some of the raspberries he’d just bought… Later a lady from the stall opposite rushed over, buying a pair of sunglasses from my display. She was so immensely grateful that I had these –on a hot day she’d tragically left hers at home. As I explained to my pitch neighbours that this was my money making scheme for the summer, they quipped that they expected to see me the following week. It seems my dear readers, that I have been welcomed into this dusty community… Trotter’s Independent Traders watch out!

Asides from breaking into this exclusive circle, I spied some other interesting characters. An elderly man wandered past my pitch with multi-coloured hair – I’m not even joking. If anyone does a remake of that McFly song about the girl with 5 colours in her hair, they should look to this guy for inspiration. Old and rocking it…

Or there was the little old lady who stopped by my table to rummage through her handbag looking for a small packet of Extra mints…once she finally found them, she kindly offered me one. Okay so she didn’t buy anything from me, but that’s rather sweet right? Or there was the kid, early teens, who flicked through every game I had repeating “got it…got it…got it”. Needless to say he didn’t find any he didn’t already own.

But some odd personalities did actually buy something. There was the father who bought his little girl a soft toy; a cuddly dog. This was her second choice though. She had originally reached for the fluffy purple unicorn provoking her Dad to say, “That’s a Unicorn – they’re not real.” Her face crumpled; I’m pretty sure her childhood dreams were crushed that day. She settled for the dog.

So asides from the people-watching that would make the likes of J.K.Rowling proud, did I actually make a cash profit, making the early morning worth it? Did I heck. £60 later and I found myself gleefully jingling my money bag home thinking to myself…I wonder how much I could get for those Barbies… 

An Ice-Rink, A Swimming Pool and Africa.

Although the title might suggest otherwise, I haven’t actually spent the last week travelling across the sahara on skates before jumping into the red sea. But I have been busy.

~ "Get your skates on..." ~
I conquered my fear and went ice-skating. Let me explain.
When I was about 12, I went ice-skating. I'd been before but I had never fallen over so I began confidently venturing nearer the middle of the rink. Then?
BAM!
A bulky ice hockey guy collided into me and i was knocked off my feet. Not in a romantic way either. I awkwardly got up, laughed nervously and attempted to skate off with a numb bum and a bright red face. I decided to get out of the middle of the rink (AKA the danger zone!) Then?
BAM!
Another guy, this time showing off, knocked me off my feet. I haven't quite mastered falling over gracefully, so I clumsily landed on my wrist....which fractured. (On the plus side, I got some pretty funky colours on that plaster cast...)

Since that, I’ve only been skating twice. Once was a fleeting experience with school - when I realised that my partner felt more fragile than me I decided this probably weren’t going to help my confidence levels much. The second time was somewhat better but I’m slightly hazy on the whole experience because it was back in high school and that seems like so long ago! Unless pure fear just blanked the memory out...

But last weekend I went ice-skating and I loved it. Genuinely. Even better? I’m still in one piece and avoided spending an afternoon in A&E! Happy face! :-) Perhaps it’s because this time I went with an ice hockey player rather than colliding with them. Yes I had a few wobbles, but I did it and it was fun! Maybe I will go again... or maybe that will be tempting fate..?


~ "No bombing..." ~ Either side of this skating adventure, I went swimming. My aim was to do this in replacement of the gym - gentle exercise considering I was ill last week and my stomach was angry. However, I have slowly become something of a fitness fanatic and I don’t think I can still term my swimming sessions as gentle, relaxing exercise. 40 lengths per swim resulted in some aching legs and a much needed rest-day - this gives me all the evidence I need for that statement. But what’s a bit of aching in the grand scheme of toning hey? No pain, no gain y’know...



~ "The pen is mightier..." ~

I have had an explosion of writing.
Someone told me once that if I wanted to get on in journalism I should use my student years to write for free, getting my name everywhere and anywhere. So, I’ve submitted another Huffington Post blog, finished my columnist application and managed to nab a news article for The National Student by responding to an email from the editor.  
Ok, I’ll admit, I didn’t know that much about Sudan when I replied. In fact, \all I really knew was that there was a humanitarian crisis in Darfur, courtesy of a volunteering stint at Oxfam. Now?
Now I know all there is to know about it. I know why the civil wars started, when South Sudan became independent, why so many refugees have fled and from where, and, crucially, who the president is. It looks like not only did i manage to grab another article to write which is now online (http://www.thenationalstudent.com/News/2012-07-18/the_situation_in_sudan.html) , but I also managed to get up to date with current affairs. Sometimes, I impress myself.



Now, I must love you and leave you as I'm staying up to do some more writing. I popped off to watch a play this evening, being the cultural critter that I am, and I have a very important review to write.
Watch this space.

Reflections From A Blogging Intern...

I know I've been a bit quiet on here recently, but I do have some excuses...

I got my results and, in high spirits, I scuppered off home for a week of R&R back home on the south coast; spending days with my Mum and our teddy-bear-like dog Bailey.
Except he'd had a haircut and looked more like a goat this time...

At the start of July, I returned to Nottingham and spent a lovely weekend with my Dad and his girlfriend. We checked in at a hotel in Eastwood & oh did I make full use of the leisure facilities! Think a gym, swimming pool, steam room, sauna...jealous yet?

Finally on Monday 3rd, I started my blogging internship at Skeleton Productions; a video production company in Nottingham. My main task was to contribute copy for their blog at Video Worth Sharing. But occasionally I managed to get some content on their official Skeleton Productions Website. Every blog had to be focused on video, acting as a marketing tool for the company.

It definitely opened up my eyes as to how writing can benefit businesses. I learnt about RSS feeds, how best to research content and I'm pretty sure I have now mastered GoogleDocs!

Now for the drama. My two weeks were rudely interrupted when, at the start of my second week, illness struck. I tried to plough on through but ended up going home early for two days before I agreed that a day off was needed. But fear not dear readers! I returned to full health for the remainder of my internship and I've travelled far down that road to recovery.

So my summary of the last two weeks? 

It's been incredibly beneficial. Skeleton Productions appear top on Google Search Results and I've gone and got my name all over their blog pages! I've done a bit of networking, gained some good contacts, learnt a lot and hopefully, after some team participation in a bar quiz, an office move and an office party, managed to gain some friends for life.

So what now?

My latest challenge is to apply for a columnist position at my University magazine...I won't say too much - I'm keeping my ideas tip-top-secret until I've applied...

But something has occured to me over the past few weeks. If I don't go into journalism, marketing most certainly is an option now. But being a columnist is still my dream.

However, I've always said I wanted to write something meaningful - something with a purpose. But doesn't all writing have a purpose? Isn't writing that makes you smile just as important as writing that informs you? Just because a piece is light-hearted doesn't make it irrelevant.
Sometimes people just want a break. 
A bit of a laugh. 
So why shouldn't I just try to focus on writing that shares the smiles?

Watch This Space. 

There's more to Cadbury's than chocolate...

I'm going to warn you in advance that if you currently don't have a cup of tea and a slab of Cadbury chocolate in your hand, at the end of this post you might well want one...

...because I'm going to write all about Cadbury World! 

Oh yes. I visited my best friend Hannah in Birmingham last weekend; we had a girly reunion with another friend, Clare from back home, mainly because our summers are all over the place and we'd started having break downs over how long we potentially wouldn't see each other for...

Anyway, on the last day following the all too quick departure of Clare the night before, Hannah & I decided to explore nearby Bournville & it's main attraction; Cadbury World.

To say we were excited is an understatement. We ended up following a few groups of school children & I'm pretty certain we looked more excited & giggly than they did...

Of course we got freebies, scoured the chocolate shop for some bargains & ate as much chocolate as we physically could...it truly was like something from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. They even had a ride! But, we also learnt something. It seems there's more to Cadbury's than mere chocolate.

The Cadbury story began in 1824 when John Cadbury began selling tea, coffee and drinking chocolate. Gradually over time, he experimented with chocolate manufacture until in the 1840s he managed to open a factory in Bridge Street. The success of his chocolate increased so that it became available to the masses, & in the 1860s when John retired, his sons took over, continuing his business success. With such demand & productivity, they were able to move out of their small factory & set up Bournville; named due to the nearby Bournbrook and replacing 'brook' for the in-trend French word ville. Their business expanded still, and today Cadbury is known by almost everyone whilst Bournville is a beautiful, quaint little village surrounding the chocolate factory.

Ok so that was a history of Cadbury in a nutshell; leaving out how they put a glass & a half of milk in their chocolate, merged with Fry's chocolate company etc... but you get the jist. What was most interesting though was the social consideration the Cadbury family had. Bournville was created to be an aesthetically pleasing, green village so that their workers could live in the houses it offered & enjoy their surroundings. They believed happy workers could be more productive workers. They created the Bournville Village Trust, printed lists about how to live a healthy and happy life, gave their workers benefits & bonuses that were well ahead of their time & ensured every worker was treated fairly; like one of the family. Perhaps it's through maintaining the feel of a family-run business that Cadbury have done so well. Perhaps they really do just seem like a genuine, friendly company. Plus, we found that Bournville really was a lovely little village; we both said we'd love to live there!

Not just taking Cadbury World's word for it, Hannah & I explored the local village & found the Visitor Centre.

Inside is a stone inscription claiming that the building was dedicated to one of the Cadbury sons when he married. It seems that the villagers & workers had a respect for the chocolatiers, which was returned by good working conditions & benefits.

The Village Trust still exists today, but is now just one of the many things Cadbury attempt to do to help their society; think of their recent involvement with Fairtrade...they even have a water project in less developed countries (unfortunately asides from a poster, this wasn't even mentioned during the exhibition...)

So there you have it. Asides from making mouth-watering, delicious, milky chocolate (I don't care what some of you say...it IS the best!) they also have a certain respect for their workers & society...

It's official. Chocolate really is amazing. Now where's my stash of freebies gone... 

http://www.cadburyworld.co.uk/CADBURYWORLD/Pages/Welcome.aspx