Festive Fires

I don't like rollercoasters

For the few months prior to now, I've not only neglected my blog but also my life, my friends, my family, my body and my emotions. 

As I prepared for my hat-rick of internships in March, set to run back-to-back, I was more than aware I'd signed up for 7 weeks (in total) of unpaid work whereby I had to exert myself more than in my actual job, long hours and a hell of a lot of commuting; my final two 3-week-long internships were based in Manchester. 

However, as a journalism graduate it was second nature to me. Over time I've realised, as students, we're not anything more than glorified volunteers - that's not me saying I'd be just as well owing my local Cancer Research shop a few hours per week. In fact, I wish to remove all negativity my previous statement may have brought. 

Thankfully, I'm not that student I once was. But, I am still stuck in student ways. 

On many levels, it's irrelevant to anything and it's a great thing but, to an extent, I must book up my ideas and make things happen. 

And once again it all boils down to taking risks and jumping in the deep end...head first. 

As a student, living in Newcastle, my life was very (excuse me) YOLO. If I wanted to do something then I did it and dealt with the consequences later. Having said that, I've always been quite level headed and when I make such statement which suggests I did 'whatever' I wanted, I've always been sure to weigh up the pros and cons, along with the negative consequences which could come as a result, within minutes before leaping in. And a lot of the time I would only dangle two feet off the edge rather than take the jump. 

As I grow up I'm finding myself torn between the 'risky' me and the 'play it safe' me. I guess there's a reason my parents call me Mary; I've never been one to fast make a big decision without a little guidance. 

Some mornings I wake up with the attitude that life's all about taking risks, and others I wake up feeling thankful I have a safe side to my muddled up mind. 

I'm not neglecting anymore; It's not what it's all about, living. 

Today I'm feeling risky and I hope the feeling lasts because, while I could be close to the peak of the roller coaster, nothing's to say I'm not just preparing for the quick, stomach-turning descent. 

That's why I've never been on the Pepsi Max. 

I've self-diagnosed...it's pushedontraintrackophobia

Life of a commuter

It's not unusual to walk head-on in to somebody; or to run down the platform with the train, chasing the nearest train door; or spray deodorant on yourself to cover up somebody's awful body odour at risk of choking your fellow passengers. And it's certainly likely that people will scour at you across the carriage when you land yourself the jackpot...a seat! 

Yes, commuting has a plethora of personal rules, aggravating instances and, more annoying than anything, fellow travellers. I've still not come to grips with the fact people want to travel at the same time as me...it's just rude, right?

Power-walking at 35mph, trying to dodge a speeding ticket (aka collisions with fellow travellers), through the train station you're faced with several problems - the majority down to people who don't know where they're going (they shouldn't even be allowed in the station), dawdlers (who think, when your train is leaving within the next 39 seconds, it's OK to block the escalators) and ticket checkers who decide to interrogate either me or the person before me WITHOUT FAIL every time I'm in a rush. NOT OK. 

With my blood pressure through the roof, every gland on my body swollen with stress, I find myself on a platform with only enough room left to breathe out the carbon dioxide my body's just cleverly converted within. And as we all see the train approaching the platform, our instinct is to step forward towards the edge of the platform. BEYOND THE WHITE LINE. Palpitations. 

AND THATS WHEN I GET THE FEAR. 

Every day, at risk of losing my head, I stand with my toes over the edge of the white line because everybody knows you get nowhere in life holding back. I can't help but imagine, each time the train nears my square metre of the platform, that somebody behind (somebody with fewer loose screws than my neighbours 97-year old, alcoholic gran) is about to push me down on to the track. And in that second I'd be over. My life would be done. Bones spread up Piccadilly and my belongings free to anybody witness. 

It's like a phobia but I'm not sure if it's only me who has sleepless nights over it. It'd probably be called something like pushedontraintrackophobia. Well it probably wouldn't. It'd be called something much more digestible and 'cleverer' than that. If anybody was to write a book on that, you'd need a novel just to write the title out. 

When I'm finally on the train, on my seat which I feel fully deserved of after risking my life like that on the platform, it's often a case of perching and hugging your belongings, taking as few breaths as possible along the way (because people don't understand the concept of showers and deodorant), until you hear the words 'we will shortly be arriving at...'. And that's when you feel ecstasy. I imagine if feels a little like being released from prison. Probably. 

And I forgot to mention, I'm unsure how as I'm currently sat dodging them, the thousands of white fluffy things flying round the carriage. Yes I sound crazy. But I feel like they've got it in for me. As if it's not bad enough they fly in my face at every opportunity, attacking my every body part, but as I lean side to side and forward and back to dodge them, my fellow commuters stare on as if I have a problem..

So with my pushedontraintrackophobia and the problem that all the other passengers go and home tell their families I have, I'm a bit (a lot) of a travel fail. 

I wasn't born to commute. And if it has to be done, I wasn't put on the earth to ride economy. Not even a snob... 

All aboard the peasant wagon. 

We fell in love in a hopeless place

It's going down...I'm yelling TINDER.

You've probably heard of Tinder - or you may have not...in which case I beg you to tell me where you've been hiding the last couple of months. 

For those of you pulling the 'I don't know what you're talking about right now' face, the only way I can describe it is by saying it's not a dating site...a dating app. But it's not your typical Plenty of Fish or match.com type of app. Tinder is set up through Facebook which means it can access all your contacts and their contacts and their contacts. And so on. 

Signing up to Tinder you may be horrified to learn the object of the 'game' is to judge people on their face value. YES...those values which were drilled in to us since we spoke our first word, of not judging books by their covers, are all completely irrelevant when it comes to Tinder. But it's ok. I can assure you. 

So logging on to the game you are presented with the profile photo of your first 'candidate' so to speak and you decide whether to swipe left, for a bit fat nope, or right, for a lovely 'I would'. 

Only when both you and your chosen candidate have agreed to each other - I'm still not 100% sure what were agreeing to, and it's often a pretty controversial agreement - will you show up as a match in each other's side bar. AND then you can speak and start making the agreements and conversation...but often you'll find a sarcastic and un-witty ice breaker which is enough to make you delete the app. 

You can't access anything more than the name they've chosen to display, the profile pictures they've chosen to advertise and their personally written life blurb below. More often than not, in less characters than a tweet. 9/10 times you'll find comments similar to 'because god couldn't be everywhere' or 'swipe right for the best night of your life'. Because all girls enjoy talking to an obnoxious pig...right?

What you can see however, and this is the biggest flaw in the entire thing, is the mutual friends you have. And it doesn't take Einstein to work out if I go on my mutual friend's friend list and type their first name...I'll be presented with their full name, full photo album (providing their privacy settings aren't reflective of the MI5 accounts) and life story across Facebook. And if I really wanted, I could inbox them regardless of which way either of us swiped. 

To go on a dating site at 21 is a bit like putting yourself on the shelf, but not being on Tinder is socially ignorant. It's oh so 2014. Of course, if you're in a long-term relationship it's not advisable. Or short-term, I'm not sure why I only specified it was unacceptable to go hunting talent if you were signed up to somebody on a long-term basis. I'm clearly neither. 

I guess it can be argued that Tinder is only an app, for fun, and focusing on the face value of potential victims (yes, victims) keeps it light hearted as oppose to a dating site which offers in-depth information about a person. But what I did forget to mention is that Tinder tells you exactly how many km you are away from the person at that exact time. Pretty scary stuff if you're sat on a train and it reads 'less than a km'...do look up before you swipe any which way because you could have yourself an awkward moment developing! And there's no quick escape from your carriage. 

I know a lot of people, many of whom wouldn't dare meet somebody off a 'dating site', who've met up with several people from this so called game - Tinder. Apparently the catfish thing isn't a concern, nor is the issue of being kidnapped. The fears of dating sites are absent here - is it something we should be worried about?

Tinder's got a lot to speak for itself...a sex-agreement platform (yep!), dating site, and how-shallow-are-you-game. Maybe you did find love on Tinder - you can fall in love in a hopeless place. But it is only a game for most people...

So I guess I'm on the game...(NO dad, not that type of game). 

The blogging game

While I see blogging as an art of writing, I strongly believe it's passion that's responsible for the words. 

Some weeks, as you may have noticed, I can post a new blog each day, however others I struggle to post any at all. 

When I feel passionate or angry or happy or any kind of emotion for something, my brain comes alive. I can only liken the activity of my brain to a shower head; with ideas spraying from each opening and drowning my mind. 

Actually, my brain is a lot more useful and intellectual (I like to think) than a shower head. But you understand my theory, right?

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, as a hobby, I only write when I feel passion because I find a passionless blog post is as pointless as a perforated umbrella. 

I'll eat chocolate until my leggings rip. And what?

I write this as I crack another one of my chocolate eggs. I must add, it's my final one. 

It's only Thursday, where have the days gone where your pile of Easter eggs would last until mid October? Oh, they were left at childhood. That's when your popularity, life destiny and financial future was based on the number of eggs you received. Or that's what you thought. 

Every year, for no reason whatsoever, I give up chocolate for lent. Last year I ditched the diet coke aswell in a bid to prove my bezzies wrong - it's no secret I've got an addiction to the fizzy, low-cal devil we call diet coke. 

I'm not religious but I sure stick to the terms of lent religiously! Yes, I was close to a breakdown during my dissertation. And no, my chocolate-and-coke-celibacy didn't help. 

Over the years, I figured giving up chocolate was down to the well known saying, 'absence makes the heart grow stronger'. The taste of chocolate on Easter morning makes the 40 day and 40 night restraint worth its while! Nothing stimulates my taste buds like that of Cadburys chocolate early on an Easter Sunday empty stomach. 

And that's another thing, despite comparing the ingredient list on numerous occasions and finding no dissimilarity to any other cadbury product, I believe the shell of a cadbury egg is a rare form of cadbury heaven we can access only one season a year - although thanks to our keen and premature shops they're available from around Christmas if we look hard enough. Nobody's telling me that the solid shell is the same as a bar of dairy milk. Unless you're Mr Cadbury, then ply me with chocolate and tell me anything. 

I've had a big learning curve this Easter, most noticeable on my centre section. My new chocolate muffin top.   

Most importantly, I've learnt being greedy is perfectly ok when it comes to chocolate. Yes, you heard it here first. It's just a shame everybody else can see I've been greedy.  Thank god my jeans are just a sturdier form of leggings. 

Next time you see me, you'll see I look like Kacee ...who's eaten Kacee. 

You only really know yourself

See that lady stood at the bus stop? She's miserable because she wrote her brand new car off yesterday. 

See that old man, with the tweed jacket and flat cap, over there? He buried his wife yesterday; his eyes are red from all the crying.  

See the little boy in the green coat going down that slide over there? He's here with his auntie, putting on a brave face, because his parents are getting divorced today. And he has to choose mummy or daddy. 

And the cashier at the supermarket this morning? The one you called a 'moody little bitch'. She's like that because she's supporting her step-mother through her cancer treatments - she's usually grinning from ear to ear. 

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Anybody can walk through town judging every person they come in to contact with; on their face value. And sadly, a lot of us do. But next time you walk down the street and see a homeless man begging for spare change, take a moment to think past the stereotype. And consider why he may really be in the situation he's in. Just like the lady you saw earlier, struggling to walk, who was no less than size 22. She may not actually be the product of a chocolate addiction.  

Truth is, when there's something wrong it's hard to hide. No matter who you are. You think you're putting on a face but in reality it's branded across your emotion. 

And the real reality and truth is we never know anybody better than they know themselves. Not our best friends. Not our own mother. So think before you speak. Think before you judge. And take a little time to understand that the person in front of you may have problems deeper in their personality than you've ever delved.  

The 2014 Blackpool; decades from its original state

Bright lights. Illuminations. The Golden Mile. Arcades. The Pleasure Beach. Rock. Candy floss. The promenade. And Blackpool Tower; all 158m of it. 

It's the Las Vegas of the North. Well...lol. 

To the outsider, Blackpool may be fun, exciting and the perfect place for a quick and crazy weekend away. But to the local, it's just home and nothing more than a template awaiting stags and hens every week in their thousands. 

Today, for the first time since the last, we walked down the promenade around central pier. If I'm truly honest, I'm speechless. 

Visitors to our town see the promenade and everything else I mentioned above. The tourist attractions so to speak. And while the paint cracks off the front of buildings, the shutters of the seafront shops continue to rust and the abandoned shops deteriorate over the weeks, Blackpool is making a name for itself. Not a good one. 

As we walked along the endless row of rock shops, my grandad began to reminisce about the good old days where he owned a rock stall. Everyday is another anecdote, or just a repeat of yesterday's, about the bustling seafront back when he was in his 20's and 30's having the time of his life. From what I can gather, piecing the various stories together, the seafront was the money maker. And not only because of the umpteen amusements. It was a community that people could only dream about being part of and everybody knew everybody. The best part is, they seemed to work together. 

Walk down the promenade tomorrow and you'll find yourself amidst chavs in trackies. But the consolation is you'll win a stuffed toy you didn't even know you needed. So they promise. And if you're the lucky 1 in a million who does, good luck lugging that around for the day. Failing that, you'll squander a pocket full of change in the amusements and leave with a rusty keyring and sour face. 

I'm from Blackpool. So I can say this. 

Say a bad word about the place if you're not local...and it'll be the last thing you do. 

Limbo

A lot of the time we can find a way in, pay our way in or, although not really the right way to do it, force our way in. 

Most of the time it's based on who we know and how many digits we have on our latest bank statement. And just some of the time it's luck we can thank. 

No matter how you got there, or how you're planning to, you somehow made it and won't ever look back. But what if you're stuck in limbo? Stuck between two hard places: the unplanned life you lead now and the bright lights of your perfect career. To you, basically life and death. 

There are no words in the English dictionary (cover to cover) strong enough to stress the sheer frustration and panic when you can't find the front door, or a way in the door. Not even a toe in the door, nevermind a foot. You've not got the funds to pay your way in and you don't know anybody on the other side. 

So it's all down to you. I can only describe it as being stuck in a big square hallway. The type of hallway you expected to have loads of doors and corridors coming off it. You once thought you'd arrive and be spoilt for choice on which path to take. But when you arrived it was a completely sealed room. No routes. No doors. No options. 

They say good things come to those who wait...nothing's going to come of sitting, and waiting, in an empty room. Good things come to those who work for it.

So here's to finding a door. THE door. To get my foot in. 

Everyone has limits; nobody can do better than their best.

Following the completion of a law degree, achieving the highest grade available, you may be expected to stumble upon a high flying career in Canary Wharf. 

On the other hand, after finally scraping a C in Maths and English, 7 attempts and 4 years later, then getting a job in your local Tesco Express you could feel as equally elated. 

Strenghts and weaknesses vary from person to person. Despite being a straight A* type student, you probably couldn't score a goal to save your life. Nor in fact even kick the ball in a straight line. A lot of the time our abilities aren't even relevant. Sure, you can do trigonometry better than sohcahtoa himself (you can tell I was the brightest spark in my maths class, right?) but when it comes to getting higher sales at work, where will it get you? 

Book clever, good with your hands... whatever it may be we should treat every accomplishment the same if enough blood, sweat and tears have been used to get there. 

What I'm trying to say is that one persons biggest achievement may child's play to you...but to them it means everything. 

It's not about what you got, how many A*s at GCSE or how many attempts it took to pass your driving test. It's about trying your best and knowing you did the best you possibly could whilst retaining enough sanity and pride to enjoy the outcome. When it comes. 

So next time you achieve to, what you feel, your limit...smile and scream 'yes' from the rooftops even if your neighbour did twice as well.