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...)