30 September 2013

Wishing for Wings

Day 19: Imagine if you had wings. Are you the only one or does everybody have them? Why?

Source



They vary in size, like ears do. Old people have huge ones. Children have little ones with bright and clean feathers that grey and grow dull with age. Some are hair free. Bare. Bald. Shiny. Like angel wings.

You learn to fly when you're about six. Like when you learn to ride a bike, your Dad holds your hand, and, a few inches off the ground he takes you to the corner shop. Then, in the back garden he'll hold you by the waist while you practice levitation. You forget he's there and don't rely on his support when you fly to the garage door and then into the house to show your Mum, but then knock over a vase and realise why flying indoors is not allowed.
"Not until you master spacial awareness," Dad says. 
Like, it's an actual thing. All human beings face it, but it's not something you'd think to talk about. Children run into things, it's the same with flying. Having wings is difficult, a nuisance, even. But also a gift from God. We are constantly reminded not to curse them when they get wet or dirty. We all get to a certain age, a point in our lives when we can find our way around in the dark, be able to walk down the stairs in pitch black and sit down on a chair without looking. That's mastering spacial awareness. And you're eighteen when it happens.

Who knows when they started sprouting from our backs. It makes us lazy, but everything gets done quicker, and we love that. We can fly to school and work. No need for cars apart from really long journeys. There are rules about how far up we can fly, but they're not very strict - I mean, no one actually patrols it. If you've got asthma, for example, you're required to fly five metres below everyone else in case you need to land in an emergency. If you have an allergy, if you have anything, really, there are rules. You have to take care of yourself. You have to take care of your wings.

The sky is a lot busier. I read and see photos of a time before we had wings, when stars and planets and clouds and sunshine were alone up there, with the occasional aeroplane marking a white line in the sky. It was cleaner, untainted. There are fewer aeroplanes now. Everyone's seen everything. There's no need to travel.

You can break a wing, like any other bone. I never have, because I am careful, and I groom them like I do with my hair. You can have them removed, but it costs a lot of money, and it leaves a scar. It hurts, I've read. There's no point. Now that everyone has them, there's no point. May as well keep them.

Clothes have optional holes for wings. Employers don't care anymore. Not now that everyone has them. Some days people walk. It's a rarity, but it's nice when you see it. Often on Christmas day, families out on a walk, games of football and tennis that refuse to change the rules set thousands and thousands of years ago. Someone's wish came true, a thousand, a million, probably more. Apparently that's what children used to wish for. To have wings, to be able to fly.
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Review - Urban Pie - Birmingham


Last weekend I went to visit my very good friend Rhiannon and on Saturday we went shopping. It was the Bullring's 10th Birthday and to celebrate there was a series of fashion shows in the shopping centre. We watched the beautiful models on the catwalk - featuring a favourite blogger of mine, Sam - post to follow on that soon.

In between shuffling around shops that were packed like sardines - tip: NEVER go to Primark on a Saturday - we stopped at Urban Pie for some food. We had read a few reviews prior to our visit that this was a hot spot, and the continuous queue inside backed up these claims. But did the food meet our expectations?



The menu displayed each item clearly and concisely and I was very impressed by the cost - very affordable, especially if you're a student. The exterior was certainly attractive and inviting with a patio seating area filled with happy customers. There were a few pies I fancied the look of and when we got inside a lot of them had sold out - good sign, surely?

Rhi queued up to order while I saved us some seats. The service was fast and commendable, despite a lot of items on the menu being unavailable. No peas for me :(


The seating area makes good use of the space and I liked the long benches - it creates a very relaxed and communal atmosphere which is always a plus point for me in cafes and restaurants. There is definitely a time and a place for separate tables and laid out cutlery but Urban Pie is perfect if you're out with a friend or on your lunch break. 


I loved the canteen style about the place and the plates on which the food was served. It felt homely and like I was eating a school dinner at the same time - and I mean that in a good way. Ah, nostalgia.

I settled for a simple steak pie with carrots and gravy. I decided not to add any potatoes as I expected the pastry would be filling enough for me. 
 
The carrots were done perfectly - I was worried they would be overcooked and mushy but they still had a lot of crunch which is how I like them. The pie itself was definitely full of flavour and I finished all of it, but the pastry was unfortunately quite soggy on the inside. I think this was due to the fact that there was too much sauce and not enough steak in my pie - disappointing when Urban Pie's promise is that their pies are deep filled.


The little steak I did get inside my pie was very good though and it was of the finest quality, but I do feel that Urban Pie make a false claim with their slogan - in this particular case, anyway.

Rhi chose the steak and stilton pie with gravy, sweetcorn and wedges. The flavour in her pie was incredible. It is not a combination i would go for myself, but it was delicious. Again, there could have been more steak inside.

All in all, Urban Pie is a good place to stop by if you want an affordable and quick, cooked meal, especially if fried fast food is not your thing. The soggy pastry and lack of steak in my filling was disappointing as I had high hopes for this place, but I would visit again, perhaps opt for one of the vegetable pies instead - and not add any extra gravy.

Have you been to Urban Pie? I think a revisit is in order despite the two cons in my first experience - the flavour was excellent and the atmosphere in the place was relaxed and homely, so I can't dismiss this place completely. You can visit their website here where locations, menu and more information are listed.
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29 September 2013

Fried Chicken - What's Not to Love?

Day 18: The taste of your favourite meal.


Don't worry. My favourite meal doesn't taste like an obese bunny rabbit sitting on a rock. I just thought this image was mildly amusing and conveys what I might look like if I ate chicken in oatmeal every day. It is so delicious though. I'll tell you why.

It's the sauce that holds the most flavour. It's made in the frying pan and it is creamy and mustardy and lemony. It goes with the fried chicken in oatmeal. The sauce is the best bit. It's always good to make too much.

Sarah describes chicken in oatmeal as a beige meal. In terms of colour, she is right - it isn't the most colourful dish, but in terms of taste, it goes far beyond the colour of a standard carpet. It is a myriad of varying flavours, textures and temperatures that delight both the tongue and tummy - isn't that what good food is all about?

I refuse to believe that this meal is unhealthy because the chicken is fried. As long as it's homemade and fresh, it's fine. I have never actually made this but my mum is the expert and she makes it to perfection every year for my Birthday. I LOVE IT.

Mum whisks up an egg wash to dip the raw chicken fillets into after they have been floured, and then coats them in oatmeal. Just regular oats - the ones you use to make porridge or flapjacks, I think. She fries them and then pours the sauce all over them on your plate with some boiled potatoes and veg. Really though, I could just eat the chicken. It is never undercooked, never too dry. Even when cold, it is delicious.

Unfortunately I don't have any photos of my favourite meal BUT trust me when I say it's a finger lickin' chicken lover's dream. Maybe I'll have a go at it myself soon and post the recipe... It's definitely worth sharing.
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27 September 2013

Daydreams About Yesterday

Day 16: How an event from yesterday could have gone.


Source
Nothing happened yesterday. I'm not exaggerating. I stayed home all day waiting for my ASOS delivery.
"It's not coming," I said. I was making a shepherd's pie for tea, pressing the mash down over the meat with a fork. 
Of course it did, when I put the pie in the oven and went out for a run.

I walked for five minutes, then started the repetition of ninety seconds jogging, two minutes walking until my phone vibrated 'End of workout' and I walked back to the house, ringing the doorbell as I tried to get my arms and head out from my sweaty hoody. 

I never thought I'd become one of those people who goes running, let alone enjoys it. It is hard work when you're as unfit as I am, but once you get going you get such a rush from it. I have found it to be good for when I am sad, angry, annoyed, bored and happy. It suits all moods. You just have to do it and see. Pace yourself and work your way up. Push yourself. It will hurt.

I'm training myself to run 5km. I should be there by November. It's not for a race or anything, just to improve my fitness and help boost my mood. Sometimes Sarah comes with me but she often has work and is too tired. Work can be a terrible thing. The one benefit I have had from being unemployed is that I am a lot less stressed now. There is more time, and space, and quietness and I can do more of the things that matter, like relax, write, read, cook and plan adventures. I think a lot of people could do with more than twenty five days off a year. We work too hard, but we like it too much to stop, or change anything. 

There were some boys in the park yesterday. I don't know why but I changed my route because of them. They were busy playing football so why would they look at me anyway? Perhaps I wanted them to. A lot of my friends have gone away now that summer is over. I met some great people at the food festival last weekend, but generally, Abergavenny is not the place to be when you're aged 18-30. 

I counted four steps for each breath in and out. It makes it easier to control my breathing and ensure that I don't start panting and throw up on the side of the road. I haven't cried from running yet. 
Every ninety seconds I slowed to a walk and looked around to see what was happening. There were dog walkers and a group of teenage boys mocking me running. I spat on the ground after they passed. 

I picked up the pace again. I ran out of the park and uphill towards Mardy, passed the spot where an ex-boyfriend had kissed another girl while I had been on holiday, then through some housing estates of which I recognised from old school friends. I ran up to my old school, through the gates - they remained open until the gym closed at 10 - passed upper school hall where assemblies took place, past my form room above the main reception, past the tennis courts so pristine and untouched, and down onto the pathway between the field and the astro-turf. I saw year ten and eleven and first camera phones and holding hands. The bus bays where we lined up at every fire drill. I ran out through the other exit and glanced up at the house I had stayed in at the weekend. I ran down the road we had walked up to get there. I saw us laughing and swaying and laughing and laughing. I ran on the edge of town and then I was back at the park, nearly home. I walked the last bit, like always. It had been ten minutes, and the workout was finished. 
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26 September 2013

The Road Goes Ever On

Day 15: The road goes ever on

Source
Waking up is the worst part. Untangling the mass of dreams to distinguish between fantasy and reality on a wet, white morning can be the confusing start of a cosy day spent inside with the fire or a long, thought filled day at work hammering fingers on keyboards, blocking out drivel about meeting targets in time for next week's targets and the week after that's targets.

Some split their days into units like that guy in About a Boy. It's satisfying to plan things out, make lists, tick each item off, or draw a line through each one. Some psychologist might know more about that.
Nobody talks about what's wrong. Yet this is what almost everyone has to say on the matter:
"Talk to someone." 
Where to start? There's breakfast, work, targets, meetings, appointments, small talk, texting, tweeting, Facebook status updates, comments, likes, drinks, dinner, tv programmes, sleep. Is there any time for talking?

The road goes ever on, the impossible distance that is time and life. Wandering from one day to the next. Wondering if there is anyone else who spends as much time thinking, and why is it so quiet and lonely when there are a thousand voices talking to you? 

Books are read, films are watched, meeting friends, taking pills, contemplating God, going on. Appetites come back, laughter isn't feigned, new thoughts replace the old. Then, one day, waking up is not the worst part. It is just a part. Another unit of the day. And the road that goes ever on is an adventure to be embraced.

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25 September 2013

In the Waiting Room - Elizabeth Bishop

Day 14: In the style of your favourite writer.

In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited I read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole --"Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities-- boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts-- held us all together or made us all just one? How--I didn't know any word for it--how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15211#sthash.IhH39L1n.dpuf
Do you ever feel like you are just - here - on earth, and your curiosity and intelligence as a human being begin to catch up with your ignorance and naivety (inevitable in such a huge world), and it is such a terrifying realisation that you are alive and a person. You are here. Well, this happened to me after reading this poem last year at University, and recently I have been thinking about it again. I don't have a favourite writer, but this is the closest thing I have written that is inspired by someone I believe was a true creative genius - Elizabeth Bishop.

In In The Waiting Room[1] Bishop explores a childhood memory that isn’t just a recollection – a few stanzas exploring imagery connoted with nostalgia (although these aspects are present), but a realisation of what it is to be human. In Lanae Celeste’s essay,[2] she draws specific themes of Bishop’s views as a feminist – and what it means to be a woman.[3] In the last stanza when the narrator is brought back to reality, she states ‘The war was on’ and Celeste notes that ‘The ‘war’ is both World War I (WWI) which was happening in the historical backdrop of Bishop’s memory, and the Women’s Rights Movement that was taking place a the time this poem was written.’[4] This is an interesting analytical stance to take on the main issue and theme of the poem, but I think it is broader and more universal than that – despite the fact that Bishop was indeed a feminist.

The poem reminds me of a comment David Foster Wallace makes in an interview, ‘We all suffer alone in the real world; true empathy’s impossible.’[5] This is a notion that the narrator in In The Waiting Room struggles with just by reading a magazine – a source of information and entertainment.

It is the harsh and eye opening images of the volcano, ‘black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire,’[6] the black women, ‘with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying’[7] that contrast with the reality of sitting in a waiting room with people who all look the same; ‘I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps,’[8] and trigger the existentialist in the narrator.

It is the specific reference that Bishop makes to the narrator turning seven in exactly three days that encapsulate this poem; ‘I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space.’[9] It is the date on the cover of the magazine that brings this to her attention, and as an evidently bright young girl, the narrator realizes for the first time what it is to be human; what connects and disconnects her from the world and everything, and everyone in it, or at least questions this concept of being human; ‘Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone?’[10] These questions and thought processes that the narrator has throughout the poem trigger similar ones in the readers mind. It is universal, much like a lot of Bishop’s other work. Why is she human? Why am I human? I didn’t get the choice to be or not to be; so who did choose, then?

The poem ends the way all of these questions and thought processes do; by going back to our day to day routines and just getting on with life, because there is nothing that can answer our questions definitely. ‘Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.’[11] Nothing in the world has changed, but for the narrator, everything has. The particular reference to the ‘night and slush and cold’[12] offers the possibility of pathetic fallacy, but Bishop carefully crafts this poem to finish with no insight to how the narrator is feeling, and so, the reader decides for themselves, perhaps by how they feel themselves after reading the poem.

Notes:
[1] ‘In The Waiting Room’ Elizabeth Bishop, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, p. 1521
[2] ‘Poetry Analysis – In The Waiting Room by Elizabeth Bishop’ Lanae Celeste, http://www.helium.com/items/1056260-poetry-analysis-in-the-waiting-room-by-elizabeth-bishop [accessed 5th April 2012].
[3] Ibid
[4] Ibid para. 5
[5] ‘A Conversation With David Foster Wallace’ by Larry McCaffery http://www.dalkeyarchive.com/book/?fa=customcontent&GCOI=15647100621780&extrasfile=A09F8296-B0D0-B086-B6A350F4F59FD1F7.html [accessed 5th April 2012]
[6] ‘In The Waiting Room,’ Elizabeth Bishop, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, pp. 1521-1522
[7] Ibid, p.1522
[8] Ibid
[9] Ibid
[10] Ibid
[11] Ibid
[12] Ibid
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited I read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole --"Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities-- boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts-- held us all together or made us all just one? How--I didn't know any word for it--how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15211#sthash.IhH39L1n.dpuf
In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited I read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole --"Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities-- boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts-- held us all together or made us all just one? How--I didn't know any word for it--how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15211#sthash.IhH39L1n.dpuf
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24 September 2013

Growing Up

Day 13: The place you grew up

One day I woke up and I was living in Wales. I was twelve, and had been preparing for this transition for over a year, but one day it happened, and we were there. 

My dad had lived in Caerleon, a small village in Newport for a year while Craig, Emily, my mum and I stayed in Dover. I endured a year of misery at an all girl's grammar school where I made some great friends but felt like the least intelligent and valued member of the form. Craig had to finish his GCSEs and Emily her A levels, but finally, at the end of the summer of 2004 we packed up and left, Craig holding a collage of photos of his then girlfriend as she waved goodbye from our old front garden. They cried while my own lips quivered until I could not hold in the tears any longer. Dad drove the four hour car journey to Abergavenny and by the time we got there, I had forgotten my grief and enjoyed a Pick a Pizza for my first meal in a town where we lived for the third part of my childhood.

Christmases felt different. There were no Sunday afternoon walks along the seafront, penny sweet mix ups after church, no overwhelming end of year exams and impossible homework. There were boys at my school. People made fun of my accent. 

"Say no," they would say.
"No," I would reply.
"Noy," they would mock, falling about laughing. 

This was when I began to understand that there were a lot of dumb people in the world.

But there were also kind, great, intelligent and interesting people too. I became acquainted with Bethan who became my third sister while the other two grew up in cities, studying at University. She saw to countless heartbreaks of mine and failed Science exams and abandoned friendships and being diagnosed with Crohn's disease. 

In Abergavenny there was no beach, no view of Calais from the cliffs on a clear day, no Mcdonald's happy meals, no familiar faces in the streets, but there were mountains to climb, trains to catch to Cardiff, and a church where the people waved flags and hugged everyone. And, somehow, this place, where I spent just six years of my life, felt like it had equal measure with Dover in delivering unforgettable memories and experiences. When I left in 2010 I never felt happier than when I came back to visit on weekends and at Christmas, and when I moved back indefinitely in July 2013. I don't pine for Dover.

Is the place you grew up the place you were born? The place you spent most of your childhood? For me it is the place that holds the most significance in my life. Where did you really grow up? And more questionably, when?
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Super Smooth - Soap & Glory



Last Christmas I got my first taste of the much raved about Soap & Glory in the form of the Clean On Me shower gel from a friend, and I was instantly won over by its scent, purpose and ability to make my skin feel super smooth. Since then I have purchased, received and loved many more S&G products and for that, my skin has been SO grateful.




I've always been a bit lazy when it comes to shaving my legs and never really bothered with the whole exfoliate, shave and moisturising lark, but recently I have found myself getting into the routine of using my Soap & Glory products to get my skin looking, feeling and smelling good. All for the sake of pampering myself.




The Breakfast Scrub is my favourite out of all my S&G products because it smells like FUDGE. It says on the lid that it's a maple scent but it just reminds me of my favourite fudge shop. It's so hard not to eat this stuff, seriously. It is also really therapeutic to use (if a bit numbing on the hands). I rub it all over my legs, paying particular attention to my knees because I find that is where the dry patches and dead skin collect (gross).



Then I use a loofer and four pumps of Clean On Me shower gel. It smells fruity but sweet at the same time and I love it. I started using this 500ml bottle in January this year and I'm only coming to the end of it now. I promise I do shower, but this stuff just lasts for SO LONG. It's excellent and I will definitely be repurchasing when it's completely finished.



When I'm out of the shower I slather my arms, legs and body with The Righteous Body Butter until it has all absorbed and I smell like a human marshmallow.





The Soap & Glory Hand Food smells like the body butter and shower gel and will be a handbag staple for me this winter - my hands get so dry and cracked and this stuff really works to soothe and soften them.

Do you like Soap & Glory? I used to be a bit skeptical about the brand because of the packaging - it made me think that the actual product might lack something but I have loved every single one of the products I have tried so far. My skin feels a lot softer, smoother and I am so pleased that the products do exactly what they promise.
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23 September 2013

Write Now

Day 12: Your Passion

Source


A solitary act, writing is taking the time to delve into one's mind and explaining everything carefully, slowly, with no pressure to hastily give out information or comments or ideas that may not be sound or true to one's character.

I believe that everything I have ever written reflected who I was at the time it was written, this included. I may cringe when reading back through entries of my diary from when I was thirteen, wonder why I spent so long writing seemingly meaningless pages of nonsense about some boy I was obsessed with, question my need for long/short sentences and lack of grammar and punctuation, but at the time, all of that was who I was, and I kept at it. My passion for writing has stayed with me throughout my whole life and I don't think it will ever go away. I think that is a passion worth having, and I am glad it is mine.

I don't necessarily expect or want anyone to read what I write - it is a privilege and a compliment any time anyone does, even if the feedback is bad. I think it is safe to say that whatever I write comes from a very honest and personal place within me, and that in itself exposes a certain vulnerability - in any writer. But what is the use in that?
I think we are all desperate to share parts of ourselves - our experiences, our thoughts, our dreams and ambitions with other people, and I have figured that these three things get in the way:
  • Social norms
  • Time
  • Developments in technology  

It might just be me who has difficulty opening up to any old person about what I write about on here. Who cares? Why would they want to know? Well, why does the internet need to know? Why am I writing this post? Because no one actually has to read it, but when you speak, I think social norms have made us polite enough not to say 'Sorry, I don't really want to listen anymore' and change the subject/walk away, like you can do with a blog post by clicking 'x' at the corner of the screen.

We always have time for small talk. The weather's horrible isn't it? Or, isn't it lovely today? How have you been? You rarely answer truthfully, unless you genuinely are ok every single time someone asks. We've always got other things to talk about, and only after we've gotten through all that jargon we can get to the good stuff - the stuff we really want to talk about, but don't have the time - and do they really want to know, anyway? The forecast for snow is much more interesting, right?

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Developments in technology continue to amaze and concern me. I am currently in the process of trying to reign in as much information as possible about my personal life from the world wide web. I know this blog partially represents me as a person as well as me as a writer/reviewer, but on here I don't have to change my status to 'in a relationship' the moment I start seeing someone or tell all my followers what I ate for dinner. This is, I feel, quite simply because over sharing on social network sites makes us lazy. We don't feel the need to actually communicate with people directly. Another contradiction I am making, as this blog post is aimed at a wide audience but you see what I mean - I am not sharing information that does not concern or interest you (I hope). Because, who really cares who so and so is going out with? Why can't they just tell people?

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Ultimately, I feel, as an introvert writing is my way of telling the world who I am without using my voice. For some reason as I have grown older my confidence as a speaker has dropped dramatically, and I am terrified of talking half of the time, but at a computer, with a pen and paper I can write my life story, right down to the nitty gritty details of my most painful memories and things I would never say to anyone, and let just about anyone read it. It might just be me, but I'm sure there are other people who have similar feelings on the matter.

What is your passion? Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Do you think there is a link between loud people and quiet people liking/disliking written and verbal communication?
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21 September 2013

Private Number Calling

Day 10: The Interview.

I'm settled down for the morning with my cup of tea and the third series of The OC loading on my laptop, when my phone starts bloody ringing. 

Private number calling.

What. Oh, hang on. Just, pause this a second. Oh, gosh. Who is that? Answer it. No, send it to voice mail. Answer and I'll have to speak - say something I didn't think about - didn't plan - uh... Send to voice mail and I have to listen to the message and ring them back. Whoever it is anyway. Could just ignore it. Could pretend changed number. No, that would be wrong. No. More complicated. Ok. Need to make a decision.

Hello?
They ask for me.
Yes, speaking.
They're ringing to remind me that I applied for a job at their company about two months ago and do I want to come in for an interview tomorrow morning?
Yes I'd love to. Thank you so much.
They tell me they'll email me the address and they'll see me tomorrow.
Great. See you tomorrow. Bye!

Tomorrow morning. What was the company's name again? What was the job I applied for? Quick. Google search maps. Newport. Hmm. Close to the train station though. Good. Might as well go. Might as well. Can make cookies in the afternoon. Can have a lie in the next day. Can Sky+ This Morning and Friends and watch them when you get home and... Oh for goodness sake. Go to the interview. Go.

Hiya, I'm here for an interview with -
They ask me to wait.
Ok, thanks.
They come down to meet me.
Hi, nice to meet you. I'm - 
Great, have you traveled far?
Not far. 
Good, good. Let's get started then.

Ten minutes later, five rehearsed question and answers later - you know the ones - and I can let go of the tension in my shoulders and back, feel the sweat against my shirt, say goodbye and thank heavens there's a breeze outside. The nice walk home. Stob by at Tesco for a snack. I deserve a treat after all that. Who cares if I get the job or not. Who cares. I can deal with being unemployed a little longer. There'll be something better just around the corner. No matter. Never have to see them again. Forget about it. Forget it. Just go home. Just go and -

Private number calling.
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20 September 2013

Hangover Breakfast.

Day 9: Think of any word. Search it on Google images. Write something inspired by the seventh image. 

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Of course I googled breakfast.

You remind me of two great full English breakfasts I had: one was just over three years ago, the other was, errm, the same year actually. Wow, my only two memorable full English breakfasts were in 2010, a particularly unforgettable year all round, actually. That was the year I finished school, fluked an A* in my English A level (still proud), and went a bit 'crazy' - well, crazy for me. I think I had more boyfriends that year than ever in my life up to that point, and beyond, and I can't even remember how many that was. Whoops. It's okay - I'm pretty boring now. When you're eighteen you're allowed to make those mistakes though. And you're allowed to eat cooked breakfast without worrying about getting fat. Mm mmm.

Speaking of fat, we all love a bit now and then. Don't get bogged down by those diets that tell you everything must be fat-free/sugar-free. That's just a recipe for a hungry tum and ultimate sadness. Every now and then we must indulge in a cooked breakfast, whether it be a full English, French toast or some yummy pancakes with blueberry syrup.

Anyway, back to you, glorious plate of steaming hangover curing goodness. 

So neat how the beans are in that little pot avoiding contaminating the sausage and egg. Top marks.
Funny how I describe this dish as a hangover cure, when I don't think I have ever eaten this to aid a  hangover.
My biggest and best hangovers were in 2010/2011 - freshers year. My flatmates and I devoured bacon and egg sandwiches then spent the day as duvet women/men watching the entire series of Summer Heights High. We pretended to whinge about how bad it sucked to be poor, ill students.

I like breakfast at any time of the day. Lunch, afternoon snack, Sunday evening tea time. It is SO important to get the timing right. Probably why I've never made myself a full English.
I think I'll stick to the pancakes. It's the food festival this weekend and I'll get to try some ahmazin' food in town while I work two ten hour shifts, but next weekend I'll have a bit more free time to cook something like the above photo - maybe. 

Do you have a cooked breakfast on the weekend? What is your favourite hangover cure? This turned into more of a non-fictional blog post than day 9 of the 30 Day Creative Writing Challenge but it was inspired by the image nonetheless!

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19 September 2013

The Armchair Library

Day 8: A place that exists only in your mind.

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The armchair library is a really tall but compact space. It is hidden in the 'learning centre' at Francis Close Hall campus of the University of Gloucestershire in Cheltenham and only I have ever been there. I think there must be a God who made this for me.

The door is as tall as the ceiling. It is made of a thick dark wood with round brass handles on either side. I have to climb up a step to get in, and then sit on this enormous armchair and stretch to close the door behind me because no one is allowed find me. It is a secret and only I am supposed to be in there. The armchair library only has room for one, but I'll tell you about it anyway.

In front of me and behind me and beside me on either side are four walls stacked to the highest ceiling encasing spine after spine of titles of adventures and tragedies and horrors and comedies. What is it that makes them so wonderful? They are stories.

There is a fire somewhere. I can feel it, but I cannot see it. I have cushions and a blanket and slippers on my feet. There is room for a mug of tea or coffee or hot chocolate and underneath the chair is a stash of hula hoops and bananas and chocolate buttons in case I get hungry.

All my favourite books are here. From the first ones I read, like The Tiger Who Came to Tea and My Naughty Little Sister to The Babysitters Club and The Sleepover Club, to Jacqueline Wilson's entire collection and every Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket book ever written.

Then there are the books I read while I studied here, or attempted to. The ones that I loved - not many, because I began to read less and less as a student, and I became pickier and pickier, but there were some, like Atomised by Michel Houellebecq and a few Dave Eggers and the non-fictional ones like Quiet by Susan Cain and Wildmind by Natalie Goldberg.

Most are ones I have wanted to read forever but never have because there was always Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr or emails or text messages or missed calls or job listings or assignment deadlines or exam revision.

The quietness is not awkward like when you are stuck in a lift with strangers or boring like when you are wide awake in the middle of the night or lonely when you are home alone and missing someone. There are no librarians lurking or other people looking at what I'm reading. Surrounding me are a thousand friends, families and lovers who want to talk to me. They can be the voices in my head. I can fall asleep with them, wake up to them, listen to them, smile and laugh and cry at their stories.

Someone in there is hurting, dying, being born, running away, changing their life, starting a new job, losing friends, lovers, family members, falling in love, making new friends, forgetting about others - all in my armchair library - and I am there with them.
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Book Review - A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini

 

 “A society has no chance of success if its women are uneducated...”

Although educated to degree level, I do not consider myself to be the most intelligent, insightful, or knowledgeable individual, particularly in the fields of current affairs, history and politics. However, now that I am settling into the ‘real world’ I am keen to wise up in these areas as a key step in growing up.

I have been fortunate enough to live in a well-developed and (relatively) stable country in terms of economy and civility among citizens. Having only visited other well developed countries in my twenty-one years of living, I have been somewhat unaware of how much of a bubble I have been living in, and, however big my problems seem, there are others much more serious and scarring in other parts of the world that I rarely stopped to think about.

That was, until I read Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns. Warned by various friends and members of my family that it was heartbreaking, depressing and tragic, I read it anyway, after an old friend gave it to me for my Birthday. I was as touched by this novel as I was by Hosseini’s first, The Kite Runner, and felt it important that I encourage readers of my blog to pick up this book and read it themselves.

The story, and part one, opens from Mariam’s point of view, set in Herat, Afghanistan in the 1970s. It sets us up for the inevitable eruption of the Soviet War in 1979 which we feel the repercussions of in parts two, three and four.

But for this first section of the novel we get to know Mariam – we grow up with her, we endure with her the ordeals and losses she faces, the horrific marriage she has to enter. It is difficult to read at the end of this section that Mariam is just nineteen, and she has been through so much already, yet we know there is worse to come due to the time at which her story is set. Mariam’s story is, from the outset, a very real and seemingly inevitable tragedy. 

“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.”

It is in part two when we are introduced to Laila; a seemingly unconnected character to Mariam - and for the duration of this section I started to forget about Mariam - but it becomes apparent towards the end of part two that they are to play monumental parts in one another’s lives.

The four sections of the novel could be stories on their own - a clever technique Hosseini uses with what must have been great patience and hard work.  Having only written short stories and plays myself, the concept of writing a full length novel is something seemingly beyond my ability. To do it well, is even more commendable, and Hosseini deserves the success of this touching and eye-opening story and the techniques implemented in his craft.

It takes real talent to intertwine two protagonists’ stories into one full-length novel, balancing tragedy with hope and loss with reunited love. Hosseini writes with a universally readable flair; his ability to construct descriptive and informative, yet touching and relatable sentences, paragraphs and chapters are what make the novel suitable for most reading levels. 
I am in favour of the short chapter lengths. Perhaps it is psychological – but I seem to enjoy completing tasks in manageable chunks. Not that reading is ever a task, (not anymore now that I’ve finished university) but longer chapters can sometimes seem daunting to those with short concentration spans. I didn’t find mine faltering at any point while reading A Thousand Splendid Suns, however. I was gripped from start to finish, and one reason for this was Hosseini’s careful delivery of information throughout each chapter, often dropping little surprises in the very last few sentences of each chapter, urging the reader to go on and read the next.

If you’re looking to read something with a bit more depth than your average Nicholas Sparks chick lit, try this, something with no-nonsense, honest writing. A Thousand Splendid Suns is a novel that will introduce you to the world of books outside of stock relationship novels and comfort zone prose. It educates, entertains and intrigues, and as a result, I am urged to read about the Soviet War, the current situation and history of women in Afghanistan. If there are any new age feminists reading this, I suggest you do the same. There are startlingly big problems concerning women in that area of the world, which may make the ones we face seem a whole lot smaller.

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18 September 2013

Good Morning.

Day 7: Write a scene of what your mornings are like from when you wake up. Write it in second person.

Light creeps in between the cracks in your eyelids. Someone who watched you sleep once told you they never fully close. Maybe that's why you remember your dreams.
 
It's either too early or too late. Your alarm is useless. You lie in the jumbled mess of duvet and blanket and read the messages you received when you were asleep. You toss your phone on the floor and lie with your arm hanging off the bed until it tingles and numbs like a dead limb.

Five more minutes.

You pout at the floor. You can feel the Sudocrem on your spots oiling. 
Oh, just wait til the hour now.

You want to wash it off. When will it get better?
 
Ok. Getting up.

You shake your floppy arm with the other and search for your pills. Take two with water and make sure the one doesn't get lodged in your throat by swallowing a chunk of bread if necessary. Then, breakfast. Depending on the day, breakfast can be the most boring meal of the day, or the most delicious. Usually it's cornflakes. 

This Morning or Friends with your cornflakes. A bit of planning for the blog, checking social media. Any new job listings? Nope.

About an hour later you boil the kettle for your coffee and slice some bread for a peanut butter and banana sandwich. The toaster is in the shed so it's usually too much effort to get it out and plug it in to make toast. You make a plan for the day. Shower in a bit - no set time - look for jobs, read, make a salad for lunch, go for a run. Wait for everyone else to come home.

You should be grateful, you know. You don't have a horrible boss, you're not in hospital, you're not paying rent. Imagine the amount of people who would revel in a day like yours. Just the morning off, in fact. 

You make a plan for Christmas. Three months, less than one hundred days. You'll never have this much time to think again.
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17 September 2013

Your Friend Coffee

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Day 6: Second person coffee.

You used to hate coffee. When you were six or seven you watched your older sisters make the big glass pot after tea every night for your mum and dad. You wanted to push down the filter every time but you always had to wait a few minutes to let the granules settle. The smell was so warm and fresh. They let you try it once. Without sugar and milk. Just black. You took a teaspoon and sipped it like soup, stretched your face out.
"Your tastebuds will change when you get older," your mum said. You didn't believe her. That stuff tasted like soil.

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But you loved it in everything else. Coffee was one of your top three, along with chocolate and anything mint or fruit flavoured. You made coffee creams at Guides when you were ten. They were sweet and you ate five at once and when they were all gone you kept meaning to make some more, but by the time you got around to it you had left Guides to move to Wales and forgotten the recipe. You had to walk all the way to the library to use the internet. Thornton's was closer.

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You made coffee cake every year for your Mum's birthday, and Dad's too. You licked the icing bowl and you imagined one day you might enjoy the taste of real coffee like they do, but could it be better than the sugar laden topping of your favourite cake?

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When you went to university, tiredness became a daily problem. In year two, your housemate had some coffee and a cafetiere like the one your parents had at home. She made a pot and you watched with fond memory of your kitchen at home and after tea coffee and biscuits. She offered you a cup and you said you weren't sure.
"It's not very strong," she said. You were always saying you wanted to try new things. It didn't taste like you remembered. It was hot and dark and tasted like your mouth was being awakened.
"Thank you," you said. Finally, finally!

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You bought your own coffee pot. That idiot smashed it and didn't hide the evidence, then pretended he didn't know what you were talking about. You bought another and it was your incentive to get up at 8 o'clock every day, after six hours sleep and a day of writing ahead of you. You upgraded to strength 4, then 5. You asked for an extra shot in the University's refectory. You always took it black. No milk, no sugar. You felt your eyes drooping in the shivering IT suite one snowy January Sunday.

You drank more. Sometimes it made you so alert you couldn't sit still - couldn't concentrate on the work you needed to stay awake for. It made your stomach worse. You cut down to just one cup a day, in the mornings when you were most tired. You slept when you needed to. You worked when you could. You wished there was something that could make you happy, and give you the top grades too.

Eventually, it gave you the first class you never thought about until that year. By then it had become a chore to drink the stuff, it was your enemy. But it kept you going. Then, when it all settled - when you moved back home - you rekindled your love and made it slowly. Pouring the water into the pot a few mintues after it had boiled to save spoiling the taste. You toasted bread and spread with peanut butter and topped with sliced bananas. You watched This Morning and Friends and held it in your hands, your friend coffee. You drank it for its taste, and now you can sleep.




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