The New 'New Girl'

Its a while since I've wrote a post and I have to say its been quite a hectic few months.  I've completed my last year at Glasgow Uni, graduated, traveled to Norway, moved home (Gretna), got a part-time job in a chocolate shop (mmm!), and am currently being trained to be a radio presenter at the Hospital Broadcasting Service in Glasgow.  However, the biggest and most exciting thing to happen to me lately is that I've been accepted on a Magazine Publishing postgraduate course in Edinburgh. 2012 is certainly the year of change!

So, as I'll be moving to Edinburgh in about 3 weeks I obviously needed to find myself somewhere to live.  I considered applying to move into student halls as it would maybe be the easiest option but I'm a postgraduate now, and although I'm still young I've already been there, done that and got the drunken photos to remind me of my cell and fellow inmates.  At the time it was fine and in a sick way I kind of enjoyed the environmental hazard that was our bomb-site of a kitchen and the challenge of not becoming hyperthermic when the showers failed to heat up in the winter; it was what student living was all about! But now, after having lived in nice(ish) private lets, I've become accustomed to things being more homely and less prison cell-like.  I decided I wanted to find a flat-share in Edinburgh instead, so began my search on Gumtree.

After a mildly successful Gumtree hunt, I'd managed to secure at least two flat viewings for the day and was still waiting to hear back from a few more potential flats.  My friend, Joanne, came with me on my flat hunt day in Edinburgh and we were feeling pretty optimistic about the day ahead of us.  There was glorious sunshine and the buzz of people from the Edinburgh Festival filled the air; I couldn't of been happier stepping off the train at Haymarket.  However, the first flat we viewed sucked all the happy energy out of us like a vampire draining the veins of its latest victim.

Walking down the street that the flat was located on was a bizarre experience in itself.  It suddenly felt really dark and cold and I'm not lying when I say this but there was a woman who looked like an actual witch walking in front of us.  I turned to Joanne and said, "I don't really have a very good feeling about this one."  She agreed, and by gosh our instincts were right.

The flat was on the top floor of an old tenement building and in comparison to flats I've lived in during my time in Glasgow, the hallway wasn't too gloomy.  The girl who was showing us around opened the door and let us in.  She seemed OK, if a little odd, and had quite a limp handshake.  Not a major issue but still, it wasn't very welcoming.  First we seen the kitchen which was tidy, modern and a decent size.  Then we went into the lounge which was quite small but bright and clean.  I was beginning to feel more positive about the flat and tried to ignore the 'bad feeling' Joanne and I had outside.  I always say you should go with your gut feeling and trust your instincts and with this flat I really should of practiced what I preach because the next thing to happen inside this flat shocked me and Joanne into silence.

The girl told me that the room she had advertised had in fact already been taken by a guy the day before but depending on how desperate I was for a room, she had a small box room available.  "A small box room" made me think "oh well, a smaller room would be OK. It'll just be a single bed which is fine."  It wasn't fine, it wasn't even a room.  It took her ages to open the door to this 'room' and when she eventually did open the door we were faced with a cupboard.  There are no two ways about it, the small box room was a cupboard.  There was a shelf with a make-shift mattress on top, a ladder up the wall to get onto the 'bed', no windows, no lighting and certainly not enough room to swing a mouse, never mind a cat.  Features included in the 'room' were an ironing board, vacuum cleaner and a set of golf clubs.  Harry Potter's living quarters under the staircase looked like a 5 Star luxury sweet at the Ritz in comparison to this "small box room".

Situations like this don't arise very often and I wasn't sure how to deal with it or what to set my facial expression to.  Apparently I looked surprised as the girl said "You look a bit shocked." I replied with "It's just a bit different."  I didn't want to hurt her feelings and tell her to shove her box room into an even smaller, darker hole so instead I changed the subject and asked what she does for a living.  This part was the icing on the cake.  She was a trained lawyer looking for work.  In my opinion, I think she needs to brush up on her Human Rights before going into such a profession.

We quickly made our excuses and left the flat feeling a bit shell-shocked.  She was offering me a cupboard to live in for the healthy sum of no less than £220 a month.  Even writing this now, I still can't believe how ridiculous the whole thing was.

In a bit of a daze, we sat in a cafe and tried to pull ourselves together.  I made more calls in response to adverts on Gumtree in the hope I could get more viewings that day but they were all to no avail.  It wasn't the best start to the day but things could only get better, right?  Wrong.  The other flat viewing I had organised for that day had fell through and we were left with nowhere else to go.  Our phones were running out of battery and we desperately needed to use the internet to find more flats to view.  This glorious summers day was turning into flat hunting hell.

We were in a frenzy and running around the streets of Edinburgh looking for Free Wi-Fi.  We spotted Cafe Nero with its beautiful Wi-Fi sticker on the door, and in spectacular 'Challenge Anneka' fashion we burst through the doors in search of an electric socket to charge our phones up and use the internet.  Success, at last.  Downing cups of tea and frantically surfing the web we managed to find more flats to view and contacted various people to organise viewings.  However, while checking my emails, I had received a reply from two lads in a flat that I had quite a good feeling about.  I phoned them straight away and said we were on our way over.  We flew out the cafe and jumped into a taxi.

Almost immediately I knew this was the one and, without going into it too much, it was decided that I would move in.  So, after what can only be described as a stressful, rollercoaster of a day, we had finally found somewhere for me to live.  Joanne and I were both delighted on the walk into town... Well Joanne was maybe more excited than me as she shouted "You're going to have friends that are BOYS!" just as a hot guy in a smart suit walked by.  Thanks Joanne, your timing is impeccable.

So yes, I've got a place to live, I'm moving in with two lads and I can't wait! I feel like New Girl!







 

'Horrible Bosses' - My (slightly harsh) Review

As a student, wasting time and avoiding work has become second nature to me.  Levels of procrastination range from playing Angry Birds, to becoming a domestic Goddess, to making countless cups of tea, and to watching mind-numbing movies you have no interest in.  The latter time-wasting activity was my chosen form of procrastination last night when I decided to watch 'Horrible Bosses'.  However the word 'horrible' definitely sums up the entire experience of watching this film.

With a star-studded cast including Colin Farrell, Kevin Spacey, Jason Bateman and Jennifer Aniston I was actually expecting this to be a pretty good watch... How wrong could I have been?  The story line was clumsy, the acting was over the top and if I ever hear Charlie Day's squeaky, irritating voice again I will do a Van Gogh and personally chop off both of my ears.  Watching this film was as frustrating as playing an electric buzz wire game whilst being tickled under the arms; it was almost impossible to reach the end.

Bateman, Sudeikis and Day's characters each wanted their bosses gone and so the solution was to have them killed.  Of course this was supposed to be over the top comedy and almost slap-stick humour but the delivery made me want to actually slap the three actors with sticks.  Their continuous rambling and shouting over one another was enough to drive any sane person over the edge and into a fit of hysteria (maybe thats why I'm writing this post?).    

'Horrible Bosses' has been classed as a comedy/crime film but with its severe lack of comedy it can only, in my opinion, be described as a crime.    

'"There's a lid for every pot"... Or so they say'

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I was standing on my own waiting to meet a friend when I was approached by two men wearing suits and a ‘Jesus Loves Us’ badge.   They began to ask me what I think the point of life is.  Now as you might expect I was a little thrown by this question not just because I had been out the night before, so was a tad worse for wear, but it is a pretty tough question to answer when you’re put on the spot.  In all honesty I felt pressured and so just replied that in my opinion the point of life is “to have fun.”  They then asked me if I’d like to join them to learn more about the purpose of life which is not an offer I am used to and as delightful as it sounded I politely declined so I could get on with having such a blast.

I’ve been recently thinking about this question though, and without getting too deep, I’d like to share a few thoughts.  So, what is the purpose of life?  We have a childhood, we grow up, we become educated, find a job, meet a partner, settle down, have kids and grow old.  This is the purpose of life which is drummed into us at such an early stage in our lives.  I’m not some sort of rebel that goes against this; it seems a perfectly reasonable way to spend our years on this planet however there is just so much pressure!  My response to the Jesus Loves Us men was to have fun which is very true but there is also this over hanging weight on our shoulders that we must find someone to have a family with and do all the lovey dovey stuff.  I’m aware that I may sound like a bitter woman with too much time on her hands to moan about relationships but I do have a point to make. 

As little girls we watched Disney films with happy endings, played with Barbie who always had Ken by her plastic side and even made perfect little houses out of Lego for them yellow figures with bowl haircuts.  Yes, it’s very lovely and sweet but this is the message which is carried with us our whole lives; we have to find a Ken, live in a nice little house and have a happy ending.  This is the purpose of life that is forced onto us by the media and pretty much the society we live in.

So to comply and be normal we end up doing stupid things to get what we think we want and need.  We go on a quest to find ‘the one’.  I know it sounds pathetic but this is what we’re all looking out for; the elusive ‘one’.  Apparently I’m meant to ‘just know’ when I meet this incredible, amazing person who will change my life and make everything hunky-dory.  Smashing! I can’t wait, it sounds brilliant. 

But until then I’m now, metaphorically, sitting and watching the un-wanted ‘ones’ pass by on a conveyor belt just like the Generation Game until the star prize finally comes along.  On this conveyor belt we have the guy that definitely is not good for you, the guy that is unbelievably attractive but is equally unbelievably boring, the guy that everybody likes because he is a ‘lad’, the guy that is far too sensitive and talks about too much poetry and the guy that you always seem to make an idiot of yourself in front of (there isn’t just one of these types of guy in my case).  You get the idea, these men who are not well suited to us are zipping their way along until they find their own happiness.  So here we are still sitting, unsuccessfully, on our metaphorical seat watching the Generation Game pass by but it’s not all bad, there’s a chance of winning a cuddly toy!  Although when the quest does come to a bit of a heartbreaking end we get told not to worry ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea’, ‘there’s a lid for every pot’ and ‘whats for you won’t pass you by’.  We are advised to eat chocolate, watch Bridget Jones on DVD, have a girly night out and shop till you drop to feel fabulous!  (Eat so much you feel sick, weep at empowering films, get so drunk that you text the guy you’re not supposed to and buy too much so you’re broke) Us girls sure know how to dish out the advice.

Is this our purpose in life?  I have no idea but although we go through all these different emotions from excitement, feeling nervous and giddy to being angry, disappointed and a little crushed it’s all just part of the Generation Game.  Even though I slightly disagree with the way we feel pressured to live our lives a certain way, it is what the majority of us go through and it’s not going to change any time soon so I go back to my original answer to the Jesus Loves Us men; I believe that the purpose of life is to have as much fun as possible even if there are a few bumps along the way.

The 'rush' in "Rush Hour"

Its been a while since I've posted but there is a valid reason for this; I have a job! (woohoo!) Also I've been helping out at the Hospital Broadcasting Service in Glasgow at weekends (double woohoo!).  I guess its not the most adventurous way to spend my summer compared to those travelling to exciting and far out places but I'm pretty content with it.  Instead of exploring Australia, driving across America or island hopping in Greece, I'm sitting on a Scotrail train for 2 and a half hours every Friday and returning home every Saturday at about half five on the "Rush Hour" train.
Now, I'm calling it the "Rush Hour" train because as you might expect at half five it will be filled with workers and shoppers commuting home after a busy day.  However, this is only partially true.  Yes, there are a few workers and a few shoppers but the train is never really that busy or jam packed like you would expect through the week in London, for example.  The main reason why I call it the "Rush Hour" train is because of one man.
One man in a grey jacket carrying a Starbucks and a briefcase.  The one man who runs down the platform  in order to sit in 'his' seat on the four carriage train.  He has speed, agility and technique as he flies past oncoming families with their prams and little children running off in all directions.  He is the 'rush' in "Rush Hour".
Last week it was like any other Saturday in Glasgow Central as I stood there and waited for the platform to be announced for the Carlisle train.  I spotted grey jacket man almost straight away.  He was (of course) right at the front of the crowd of people looking up at the departure board, but wait, what was this? He had a friend with him.  I use the term 'friend' lightly as what he was about to do later on to his buddy is not what I would call looking out for a mate.
It was the usual scene in the station; groups of teenagers screaming and hugging each other, people ducking to avoid dive bombing pigeons and single travelers looking bored.  I was one of those bored looking travelers but when I spotted grey jacket man I devised a cunning plan.  I decided to challenge myself and make things just that little bit more interesting.  I would race grey jacket man to the train.
Tension started to build as we stood there watching the departure board.  Me with a master plan and him with no idea what was about to happen.  I decided to take a risk and edge towards platform 9 for a head start.  Potentially I could have been cut off and left battling through a crowd of people if the train was on a platform before nine.  I held my ground with nerves of steel and sussed out any obstacles that may hinder my swift approach to the train.  Time seemed to stand still as we waited on the announcement of the platform, the pressure was beginning to get to me and my eyes strained as I did not want to blink and miss the board change, but grey jacket man stood there calmly sipping on his Starbucks.  He was definitely a pro at this.
Then finally the departure board flicked on and off and 'Platform 9' was where my finish line would be.
My risk had paid off, I had the advantage and so with my ticket in hand I walked at super speed towards the Carlisle train.  I looked to my left and there he was.  He was gaining speed and rapidly approaching at a light jog.  He had distracted me and I was suddenly engulfed in a mob of teenage boys walking towards me,  I twisted and curved my body through them putting Keanu Reeves from the Matrix to shame.  There was no time to celebrate that exquisite maneuver, I looked over to my left to see grey jacket man hurry towards platform 7 so he could run behind the shops I was on the opposite side of.  What had I let myself into?  This man was like the terminator of train stations, nothing would stop him or get in his way.
I could see platform 9 in front of me but there were marshals checking tickets before we could get on to the actual platform.  With my ticket ready I managed to sneak my way past a few stragglers and past grey jacket man and his 'friend'.  He fumbled for his ticket, this was obviously not going to plan.  He found it, showed the marshal and sped after me.  In the distance his 'friend' cried out for help, he couldn't find his ticket and thought grey jacket man must of had it.  I would like to say it ended well but I really don't know what happened to grey jacket man's 'friend'.  He left him behind and continued towards the train and towards 'his' special seat.
My opponent was quickly closing the gap between us, we were heading for the front two carriages of the train.  It was the home straight, we were nearly there!  I was walking at lightning speed, I couldn't let this man of more than double my age beat me.  His light jog had turned into a light run and I could hear his footsteps get faster and faster and louder and louder and soon he was beside me. It was neck and neck with one more carriage to pass.  I continued walking as fast I could without looking uncool but that was my downfall.  He passed by me and stepped on to the train to find 'his' seat.
If only I'd ran. If only I'd lost all respect for myself and ran down that platform.  But no, in the end I had too much pride to physically run alongside a 50-odd year old man.
I sat on the train feeling frustrated and disappointed in myself.  Grey jacket man had won the race, a race he didn't even know he had entered.
I have all summer to perfect my technique and one day I will beat him.

Watch out grey jacket man, my time will come...

Am I being replaced by a caravan?

As the title of this blog might suggest, I feel as though I am being replaced by a caravan.  Of course this is a bit of a strange and weird notion to suggest but I have a good reason behind it.  My mother and father recently bought a touring caravan.  Yep, my mum who used to be a disco diva and my dad who used to be a boy about town in his red Datsun 240Z with an engine as reliable as the Eurostar on a snowy day now own a portable home.  They may read this and shout "USED TO! We're still young and happening" but I challenge them to say this while they're towing a white, plastic, miniature home with embroidered cushions to match the neutral interior design down the motorway (in the slow lane).  Don't get me wrong I love my mum and dad and as parents go they are pretty cool but it is the caravan I have the issue with, its the newest family member and without sounding like too much of a spoilt brat it is receiving far too much attention for my liking.
My brother and I have been living away from home because of university and he is about to start a new job as he graduated last year so I therefore have a theory as to why my parents bought this attention seeking, little box.  It is a replacement child.  We are both growing up and moving out of the parental home which means they need something to nurture and care for.  I suppose that aspect of it is quite lovely that they want something to look after, but could they not have bought a cute puppy or a kitten instead?  The caravan dominates everything and whatever the caravan wants the caravan shall get.  There are shopping trips to buy little, pretty things for the caravan, objects around the house deemed unused will find their way into the caravan, there are even miniature ketchups, salad creams and HP sauce bottles specifically bought for the flipping caravan and whenever my grandparents visit the conversation inevitably turns to the caravan because, yes you guessed it, they have a caravan too!  There are conversations about the flushing system of their toilets, tales of parking up their caravans on a better spot than the one the park ranger had initially directed them to and a slagging match about the arrogant smart-arse with his flashy, monstrous, american motor home on their latest excursion.
If the caravan were a child it would be the favourite by far.  I was visiting home recently and my mum usually gives me a few bits and bobs of food to bring back up to uni with me but this time when I asked if there was any tinned steak (I eat a lot of tinned food) she replied "oh er, well there was but I put it in the caravan before it went to the caravan park".  This may not seem like such a big issue or a problem as I could just easily go and buy the tinned steak myself but it is the principle of the fact that the caravan got there first.  If it could speak I know for sure it would tease me about all the fun the three of them have had together, all the places they have been and the journeys they have shared.
Maybe its because I'm the youngest in the family, I'm used to being the one that gets away with everything, the one that gets more sympathy and the one that's wrapped up in bubble wrap.  Well my bubble wrap has well and truly been popped, squeezed, twisted and burst by the caravan.
I wonder if this is what my big brother went through when I came into existence?  He used to sit building towers with his Lego and I would roll into them when I was a baby consequently knocking the multi-coloured towers over.  Perhaps if I were to build a similar tower of tinned steak the caravan would unscrew its legs and roll into them knocking them over?  Its a radical thought but this is the stage I am getting to; it has a personality and one that I do not like.
This is not a man's world or a woman's world, but a caravan's world so beware if you ever hear your parents say "I think we might buy a caravan."

First Blog! The day it was sunny in Scotland...

Hello!
I have no idea who will read this, or if anyone actually will, but hello to you anyway.
So its summer, uni is finished for about three months and I'm on the hunt for a job and some voluntary work but creating a blog seemed a much more exciting prospect at 11.30pm on a Saturday night.  You might be thinking "why is this student not out drinking cheap wine and £1 jelly shots, dancing like she's the greatest dancer that ever lived, and eating food that should not be consumed by a hungry wolf never mind a hungry human, before discussing her latest philosophy of life with the taxi driver?"  Well I have an answer to this; I've had two nights out this week and potential sun stroke. Yes that's right, sun stroke.  I should probably mention here that I live in Scotland. Yes that's right, sun stroke in Scotland.
We had one day of glorious sunshine, one short window of opportunity to free our body's of sensible clothing, sit in the park, watch the world go by and feel that summer vibe!  We could treat our pasty skin to some much needed vitamin D, we could buy multi-packs of ice lolly's from Iceland, we could smell the BBQ air and we could finally accept that one guy who was wearing flip-flops back in February.  After a month of wind and rain summer was finally making an appearance but we were warned it was only to last for a day so it was not to be wasted.
Unfortunately I had been out the night before we were showered in sunshine but I did not let this phase me.  Not even being crushed on the subway, surrounded by school kids and feeling nauseous would stop me from finding a spot in the park and making the most of this fabulous day.  So the brave soul that I am, I pushed through the sickness, dizzy spells and the shakes and off I went to the park with two of my mates.
I always feel that the sun causes us to become more cultured and we adopt a Mediterranean personality as soon as we put on them sunglasses that have sat collecting dust since the last heatwave.  We'll try to look extra glamorous like the Italians, eat fresh salads with feta cheese like the Greeks and there will always be a group of lads smoking, sipping on a Stella Artois and strumming on a guitar just like in a Spanish bistro.  There are men that have been pumping iron in the gym just for days like this so they can rip off their shirts like the incredible hulks that they are, and then there are women (like me) who have their sunglasses at the ready so they can look without being too obviously in awe.  Isn't it brilliant!
So there we were sitting on the (damp) grass having a sophisticated game of eye spy, eating baguettes and admiring those around us.  It was perfect.
After a delightful day at the park we headed home feeling happy, cheerful and sun-kissed.  Little did we know we actually resembled three red lobsters that had escaped from the sea-food restaurant down the road.  We had not been lightly sun-kissed, we had been harshly sun-groped by the powerful, burning rays.  You're maybe thinking "what a bunch of silly girls, of course they were going to end up burnt in 24c heat!" and you'd be right to think that because yes we were stupid not to put sun cream on or cover up but I know that the majority of people have all been in the same situation; as soon as its sunny at home we all think we have some degree of immunity from the power of the sun just because we are not lying around a pool on our package holidays in Spain.
We had arranged to meet up with a friend that night for some drinks but this was obviously before we had turned into what I can only describe as three characters from Where's Wally with our red and white bodies being similar to the T-shirts they wear.  Moisturiser, coconut butter and fake tan were all slapped on in an attempt to calm the flaming red into a less aggressive skin tone but they didn't work.  It was time to take it to the next level and paint ourselves in foundation.  Once again you might be thinking "these girls are downright fools" and looking back I completely agree but at the time it was an ingenious idea, just like going to the park was a brilliant idea and look how that turned out...
Off we went to the club with our shimmery, flawless, slightly caked in make-up arms and faces with a determination to have a good night.  We sat quite a distance away from each other to prevent any touching of the arms for two reasons; firstly because our arms were painful to touch and secondly because we didn't want to accidentally brush our foundation-covered arms onto each other's clothes.  Not only were we facing this problem but also as a result of the sun we were like three human radiators, any contact between the three of us and we may have completely overheated causing an explosion.
The night went on and it became busier and busier making it hotter and hotter which you can imagine is not great when you could heat up a greenhouse in winter from just one arm.  The foundation I had applied so smugly to my scarlet arms melted away by the end of the night and I literally showed my true colours.  I was a fake and a phony pretending that I had been sensible in our one day of summer.  Embarrassed and ashamed of myself, not that anyone would notice as I was already a rosy red so there was no room for blushing, I made my way home and removed what little make-up was left.
A valuable lesson has been learned here and so with this first post I say to you pasty people like me, DO NOT put foundation on your arms if you end up sunburnt because it will just melt off.

...Oh and wear sun cream.