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. 

-------

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. 

If it's meant to be, it will be

But does everything happen for a reason?

I often find myself convincing myself that bad things happen as an alternative to awful things happening. Like somebody would lose a valuable item as oppose to losing a valuable person. It's a little crazy to think like this, and maybe I should seek some help, but it's all in desperation to answer the 'why?' And retain some self-sanity. 

It's often said, 'no matter how impossible, unattainable, or unimaginable something may seem, if it's meant to be, it will be...'

And I can't help but challenge it and ask what is it that makes it so not meant to be? Nobody can answer that and we'll more than likely never know. 

So let me ask this; if something isn't meant to be now, does that mean it will never be? Or, as circumstance and people  change, will it eventually be?

I guess nobody can answer that either, but I've realised we've nothing to lose by trying. Sure it's deflating and annoying but the 'what if' would be so much worse. 

My new motto reads as so: 'take the hit, accept the fall...but stand straight back up and go back twice as strong'. At least that way you'll rest happy knowing you did everything in your power and nature to succeed in, or attain, whatever it may be. 

I'm as confused as this bog post is confusing. Answerless and, still, unanswered. 

Just power on.

The sky is my office

Put yourself in this situation: you've just finished university, moved home and can't find work. You aren't 100% sure what you want to do (other than bagging the exec job at the beeb) and looking for jobs is getting tiresome. You've filled out more application forms than you can count, typed out your education history enough times to fill your computer memory and learnt more about google than you thought existed. 

What now?

This was me back in June, when I thought times were tough and I had had enough (little did I know it would go on another 5 months, but that's irrelevant for now). 

One late June evening my dad was flicking through the evening paper, my mum more than likely watching escape to the country or the like and I was, again, searching for jobs when my dad shouts through the house, 'how do you fancy being cabin crew?'

'Doing what, where?' I ask. Bemused, confused and interested I ran through to the living room to see a 4-line article advertising the emirates' airline open day. When I came to realise exactly what this entailed I was intrigued and eager for the challenge. Not being a fan of flying and not really understanding what it entailed I became adament I would go along anyway (thinking it was to be a busy careers event with stalls and the like). 

Beforehand, I spent a lot of time asking my parents why people put themselves through this as a career and spend each day putting their lives at risk...yes, funny. It was only after extensive research I realised how ludicrous I was being. 

To cut a long story short, I attended the open day and thank The Lord I went in a suit (all my googling had finally come in handy) ...because everybody turned up with new suits (you could see that by the way their stitches hadn't been removed from the backs of their skirts and jackets), perfect hair and newly manicured nails! When we arrived it took a lot of gut for someone going on a 'whim' to get out of the car! The main of the day was videos and a presentation but then we were asked to go up one by one with our CVs and have a mini one-to-one interview. Woah. Why the hell was I here I kept thinking. I was dreading the question asking why I wanted to do this...(deep down I didn't want to do it at all!).  

ABOVE: Lipstick ready for assesment day

We were told to leave when we had been spoken to and we would be called by 4pm should we have been successful through to the next stage. Obviously, with my little knowledge, interest or enthusiasm, I left thinking that was over. 

Half past 3...I get a phone call. Oh no. 

After all, I had to buy a new suit and I only made it through one stage of the assessment day. But rather then sighing with relief, as I expected, I felt disheartened and angry with myself. 

Two weeks later I found myself suited and booted at London's Heathrow, being assessed for Etihad airways. One of the toughest things I've ever done. And again, sent home. 

Now I find myself in a part time job, still living at home and itching to get my career over in Dubai. But will I make it?

Sometimes I wonder if my determination comes from the two knock backs, or if it comes from deep within my desperation to get the career. 

It's 6 months on... And I'm still asking myself who would turn down a career which takes you places. Not only that but a job that gives you the opportunity to see the world (whilst being paid), meet, work with and live with people from different cultures and places around the globe and be part of a career which is never the same two days in a row. Thousands of feet up.

World, I'm coming for you. 

What does plus size even mean?

Petite, tall, plus size.  What does plus size even mean?

Plus size ranges, supposedly for the curvier woman, are cropping up across more and more high street stores. Whilst the concept is fair and inclusive, the actual endorsement and enforcement is turning in to a farse. 

Clicking on my Facebook app today I was offered the chance to view the latest plus size model. As I clicked on the story, presented with what I would call a perfectly proportioned and averagely sized young woman, I scanned my screen for her plus sized friend. However, to my horror, the story below the images explained the hypocrisy of the 'plus size'. I was amazed to learn that this girl was in fact the plus size model (pictured below). Whilst I knew society had its issues, this demonstrated exactly where the issues lie. 

Wow.

The image above should make you feel angry, and if you're anything like me, desperate to go to the gym. 

As I calmed down from my anger at how society seems to favour the anorexia look, I switched my television on to see Nigella Lawson. She's average, curvaceous and by no means overweight but if were going on anything like the plus size model pictured above, then she's probably best going in to hiding for a while. 

I don't know about you but I don't even know what plus size means. 

And I sure don't understand who should be what size. 

Same stuff, different friends, different accent. Essex to Chelsea - reem daaaahling

Spending nights putting my parents through the likes of TOWIE and MIC (that's The Only Way Is Essex and Made in Chelsea if you were confused there!) has really got me thinking about reality shows. Not because their characters and storylines are a good conversation starter, nor because they're overly exciting. But because of my dad! 

"Why are we watching this? All we do is sit watching them live their lives."

"Nothing's happened in the past 2 episodes." (Yes dad you're right!)

These are just some of the complaints from my dad, who's obviously a keen fan of the likes of Antiques Roadshow and that gameshow Pointless - the name says it all on that one! 

So I started to wonder WHY? Why are we watching a group of friends argue, break up, cheat, get cheated on, bitch and drink endless litres of vodka cocktails (or the finest champagne for those on Kings Rd)? 

And I came to the conclusion that it gives us comfort. Comfort knowing that what happens in our own lives happens to celebrities. But all along it makes us realise that these people are actually normal people, like me and you. So surely it's just as effective as putting Jill and Roger, my neighbours from down the road, on tv?

No. 

Giving them as much coverage as a celebrity makes them 'famous'. And to get their fame all they've done is live...with as much drama and as many break ups as possible. I mean, Beyonce on the next page of Heat magazine to Spencer from MIC? 

Hardly on the same page are they?(No, not in any sense!)

We feel close to them, and can identify with them, whilst they show us where they party (like we do), how they celebrate and spend their days (as we do) and how they argue (like we all know too well).  Cleverly name dropping bars and, for the likes of the MIC lot, subtitling it makes their lives feel in reach to the average consumer like you and me. And we love that! More. Than. Anything. 

So that's why we all find comfort in our guilty pleasure - reality shows - but is it really still a guilt?

Hands up if you're addicted..

No wonder I'm so indecisive!

612. The number of decisions the average person makes each day. 

Waking up you have to decide which way to roll out of bed before deciding whether to put your dressing gown on. Right before you decide whether to brush your teeth now, or after breakfast. And then you must decide what to have for breakfast and which bowl or plate to use. 

Everything we do, even though it may seem un-thought-out, has derived from a subconscious decision that we, much of the time, have very cleverly made without realising. 

Pretty clever things, actually, humans..eh?

(Right there I just had to decide whether to use the ellipsis or whether to not use it. I'm still unsure.)

Out of the 4900 decisions we make each week, some are voluntary; we may discuss with a friend what we should do, make a pros and cons list or simply debate the possibilities in our mind. It's often the voluntary decisions which give us a good run for our money. 

They call me 'indecisive' and I still can't decide what it is that makes people think that. 

A lot of people, in fact a lot of my friends, make decisions, big and small, with only a blink of thought. As a paranoid, obsessed, cautious, safe and wild child (yes you really can be it all) I struggle to make a decision when it's one that can have effects. I like to figure out all of the possible consequences and figure out how to fix the consequences of my actions before the consequence has even happened. Wow. 

And then I realise that I live life like a tv drama, running risk assesments on my every storyline. 

Making a decision is my biggest downfall in life. I still don't understand how, often, you're expected to decide something or choose something which could end up, well, bad..wrong..a mistake.

[I sit writing this from a coffee shop, commando..with an overnight bag, trying to decide which colour knickers to put on..]

Appreciate now; stop wishing for tomorrow

If you won £10,000 on the lottery, you'd sit wishing it had been the jackpot. 

As humans, it's in our nature that we always want what we can't have. Or a simpler way of putting it would be that we're never happy with what we have and all we ever want is more. 

Is that greed? Aiming high? Looking forward?

I often find I'll fight with everything I physically have to get somewhere or get 'something' only to find that I didn't really need it or want it ...it was simply because I knew it was out of reach in the first place. What is it that makes us want to ache for the things we can't have, rather than appreciate the things we do have?

 

I've realised, whilst I constantly pray and wish I had different and better things, I'm missing precious time with the things that are here now. 

I don't know if life's teaching me a lesson, or what, but I find that if I'm not that bothered about something it's likely to come along for me. But the things I desperately need are a lot more difficult to achieve or find. 

And I came to the conclusion that I was trying too hard for the things I knew were out my reach. 

Appreciate now and here, not over there and 'next year'. You never know how long now and here will last, miss the 'now' and you'll probably find yourself wishing back to it. 

Nobody can control the time. 

It's ok to make mistakes; it's how we learn

An action or judgement that is misguided or wrong; a mistake. 

The word mistake has a plethora of negative connotations. It suggests something which won't be experienced twice, something which has drawn bad conclusions and possibly something which has affected the future. 

I believe there are several ways to look at 'making a mistake'. You can do one of the following:- sit, worry and panic yourself in to oblivion, plan to 'never do that again' or, as I try and protest, treat each mistake as lesson of learning. 

As Dale Carnegie said, 'The successful man will profit from his mistakes and

try again in a different way.'

I've made some mistakes in my life and I've chosen to spend time reflecting on these because I realised I wouldn't be who I am today without having made the mistakes and learnt from them. 

Everybody makes mistakes but not everybody understands how to turn them in to a positive. The man who lets go of his past, leaves nothing for him to learn from. If we have nothing to reflect on then what do we think about, and how do we asses, our future decisions?

From this point I'll make decisions based on what I've done, where I've been and how I've lived and I'll remember that whatever I decide to do now will create my futures' past. 

Even right now is tomorrow's past. 

Confusing, eh?

Lost in time and a lack of experience

I sit here writing this blog post with my motivation levels in rapid decline, my self esteem, well, long gone and my interest in day-to-day life hitting rock bottom. 

Ah, ok I exaggerated all that a little. But c'mon doesn't everybody feel a little 'down', disheartened and really bloody angry that it all went too quick...when Uni ends. You work really hard (spending three years earning free entry to the best clubs) studying and stuff, to the point where you often wake up feeling queezy (nothing to do with the hangover). And it's all a bit of an anti-climax really. Graduation day. You spend one half of the day wondering if you'll fall on stage, if you'll get to see everybody, if they'll pronounce your name right or if they'll even say your name at all! And the other half of the day, you're not likely to remember after your dads taken you for a few drinks (and let's be honest, when dad's paying, who has limits?). All in all though, seeing the proud glow on the faces of your family makes it all too worth it. All of it.  

I'd say I was still in the hangover stage, absolutely gutted that Uni has come to an end - mostly because I can't decide what my next step is (and believe me, I've tried to do it all since I left - move to London, move to Dubai, become the manager at my local Greggs). But I seem to be getting no further than my local Tesco for a loaf of bread and the evening gazette. 

It brings me to my quandary...how does somebody with no professional experience, or 2/3 years working background, get a job (get the experience) in a climate whereby thousands of people are applying for the same role and you're required to have experience. 

WHERE does the EXPERIENCE come from? 

I find it understandable why people come out of university, having had the best three years of their life, and end up progressing nowhere with their careers. Nobody tells us what to do, where to go or how to get where we want...but they were all quite happy to push us 150 miles away to university when we were 18 and unsure whether we wanted to go or not!

Experience comes from experience. If you can't get the experience, you won't have the experience. 

Of course, though, there's thousands of opportunities at big firms (and little firms) all over the country for people like me. They call them internships. They sound great. Who wouldn't want to interview celebs, make contacts, live in London for 3 months and get paid the lump sum of £5 expenses to cover their lunch? Oh...

Rant over. 

Au revoir, auf wiedersehen, ciao, GOODBYE. 

My best friend.

I've never been one to stress much...no, I'm kidding. I'm definitely one of the most stressful, worrying types of people you can imagine. I think I'm quite annoying at times really.

I usually start to stress and panic approximately Ten minutes before something's even happened...and that's on a good day. So you can only imagine what I've been like during the last two weeks running up to the dissertation hand-in deadline. A mess.

Some may say I need psychiatric help. Some may say I just need a slap. But what I really need, and it's quite simple, is reassurance and patience - not from me but from those that surround me. There's thankfully a lot of people around me that have these qualities. And there's those that just burden me with their own problems, on top of mine. But of course, aside from the bubble of stress I'm living in, I'm all ears to some.

I'm mostly sane down to my mum. She's strong-willed, tough, understanding, inspirational, all-knowing and can solve almost anything. If she can't solve something, I won't bother trying myself. If she can't find it-it's not there!

If I grew up to be half the person she is, I'd be over the moon. To be able to give my child what she gave me, not thousands of pounds, but time, love and answers - I'd call myself a good mother. And a best friend.

I'm growing (outwards)

It's been 9 days, 17 hours and 56 minutes since New Years Day ended. This usually means that we stop eating chocolate, sweets, pastries, chips, puddings and whatever else looks good enough to consent an expanding waistline.

My problem seems to be that I did 'think' about stepping back from the food and getting back on a diet, but the idea of it bored me. So, as a result of this, I haven't actually stopped eating yet - only for a few hours of sleep here and there.

My excuse is that there's still, what I like to call, 'christmas chocolate' left in the house and it would be ridiculous to go on a diet when there's non-diet food that needs to be eaten. Let's be honest, I'm finishing the goodies off purely for the fact that I don't like to waste food.

Hmm...

In fact, today's Daily Mail's cover story revealed that we throw away half of our food. Considering £10 billion worth of food is wasted, I'm glad I saved my 99p chocolate coins from the litter bin...

(My jeans are tighter than they were)