Hello My Leiblings...or something equally full of adoration and delight.
To celebrate (or rather mourn) the conclusion of another season of Game of Thrones, it seemed only fitting to this writer to find out which wonderful character she was most like. I thought maybe I might have the comedic stylings of Tyrion Lannister, the shrewd suspicion of most other women of Cersei, but let's be honest, I had my fingers crossed for the Mother of Dragons, and my home girl, Daenarys Targaryen. She's been my favourite character since I started reading the books, and she's brave, caring, feminine and strong: all the things I aspire to be.
Needless to say, my results was none of the above.
Sansa. Sansa Stark.
Seriously?? She's a bit of a wimpy girly weak character, isn't she? That result was a bit of a slap in the face, let me tell you!
For those not familiar with her ways, A Wiki of Ice and Fire describes her as "She was raised a lady, and possesses the traditional feminine graces
of her milieu, with a keen interest in music, poetry, singing, dancing,
embroidery, and other traditional feminine activities. Like many girls
her age, Sansa is enthralled by songs and stories of romance and
adventure, particularly those depicting handsome princes, honorable knights, chivalry, and love."
That's all quite pretty and nice but she never gets any of the best lines, or the action sequences, she's more of a passive recipient of Joffrey's absolute asshole-ry and people's leud comments.
Needless to say, I wasn't all that enthralled to receive that result, so I tried another quiz just to see if I got a different result.
I didn't.
Apparently I am, and can only be, a Sansa Stark.
See for yourself, here's my two quiz results:
http://www.buddytv.com/personalityquizresult/game-of-thrones-personalityquizresult.aspx?result=500000597&ucid=801262464&newResult=1
http://www.helloquizzy.com/results/the-game-of-thrones-character-test-1/?var_Bravery=1&var_Insanity=5&var_Anger=4&var_Pride=8&fromCGI=1&var_Morality=12&var_Extroversion=16&var_Intelligence=0&var_Scheming=15&var_Stoicism=5&var_Vanity=8&var_Hardworking=5&var_Humor=9&var_Sexuality=3&var_Loyalty=8&var_Debauchery=2&var_Kindness=9&var_Family-Orientedness=11&var_Violence=2
What did any of you get? I'd love to hear that maybe the test was rigged, and EVERYBODY is Sansa Stark. Maybe??
Anyway, my thoughts on the season finale. "Why is the rum gone??" Or rather, "Why is Game of Thrones gone??" :( I'll really miss the casual maiming of an Ironborn, the puns of a Lannister on the beginning of his bedding ceremony, the burning of slave masters by the wonderful dragons, Daenarys sacking cities and becoming a mother to a nation, Cersei's passive aggressive comments about indecent exposure in Margery Tyrell, Sam becoming the first White Walker slayer in 1000s of years, and, of course, that time one of the Unsullied got his nipple hacked off on live TV.
I won't miss the Freys being snivelly little gits, Red Wedding feasts, people playing the Lord of Castamere- that never ends well, the Stark family nearly seeing each other but missing every time, Direwolves being killed- Stop the Direwolf cruelty!!
What I'm most looking forward to in next season. Joffrey's wedding feast(Not because I want to wish him well on his wedding day but because of something else that happens *giggles gleefully*), the dragons growing up, Daenary's new romance with a certain hunky man, Tyrion when he gets handy with a crossbow.
Game of Thrones, you shall be missed indeed.
Oh yeah....why did I get Sansa Stark???
“Not all those who wander are lost.” – J. R. R. Tolkien
Monday, 10 June 2013
Friday, 24 May 2013
The 50th blog post/ The three things I really don't want to hear today
Here we are, readers. We've made it to the big 5-0. Not age, I'm not quite there yet. But my 50th blog post. In some ways this seems like a lot, but in others it doesn't seem like much at all. Considering where I was when I wrote that very first post and where I am now, many things have changed. When I started the blog I was full of direction, inspiration, joie de vivre- surrounded by friends and family and full of excitement for all my travel adventures to come. Now, I am somewhat directionless and lonesome, being hundreds of miles from most of my friends and family, without a real job and without much changing. You've probably noticed the decline of the frequency of my blog posts. This is a sorry shame. I always thought when things picked up a bit I'd start writing again...but things never really picked up.
Now, that's not to say that some wonderful things haven't happened from the start until now, I've met amazing people, I've seen lots of new things and done lots of new things, I've experienced a lot of things both fantastically great and horrifyingly low. And I've grown (not just around the waist). But I can't help missing the optimistic girl at the start. And I'm determined to get her back somehow.
Anyway, I've made it to 50...and here's to another inspired 50 posts of embarassing dancing, and strange encounters, and new places and a bit of sunshine (hopefully).
The point of today's post is to highlight a few things that I, and probably a lot of you too, don't want to hear these days.
1) The Guardian did a survey of all current graduates looking for jobs. The results were as I expected. We're all going through the same depressing farce. 25% of us have lost out on jobs we want, due to 'lack of experience.' This brings me to the first thing I don't want to hear. Every single job, in the hundreds I've applied for in the last 6 months, has ended with the same inevitable result. I've passed tests (even numerical), I've submitted CVs. I've gone to interviews. The final feedback is always the same: "We liked you but another candidate was more experienced for the role."
This really frustrates me. These are jobs advertised as first job positions. Jobs geared towards graduates. Job advertisments which say 'No previous experience required. Full training provided.'. The sheer magnitude of applications mean, however, that they are able to add further boundaries because somewhat over experienced people are going for these jobs as well, due to a never diminishing over-subscribed job market. I get it, honestly I do. I accept the fact that others are more qualified than me and deserve the job more. What I don't get is how you go about getting the experience needed. Because nobody hires without experience!!! 'Internships?' I hear you ask. Alas, according to the Guardian, another sizeable chunk of us found that unless you know somebody in the business, or have a relative working there, you aren't going to get in. Brilliant.
2) The second thing I really don't want to hear is "The orchid's dead, move on." Since a very kind friend gifted me with some beautiful purple orchids at a dinner party in March, I've been caring for them like they are my child. I've been watering them with tepid water (the instructions said TEPID), I been monitoring their moistness (MOIST) to make sure I don't over-water, and I've been moving them from room to room, and climate to climate, to ensure they have variety in their day to day life. And so far, much to my immense surprise, they've survived and they're healthy. I think they've become a social experiment for me. Keeping them alive is proving that I am not incompetent. That I can do something successful. It's a necessary component for my remaining optimism. So the day I hear, "The orchid's dead, move on" will be the day I officially give up. Maybe it's like the rose in Beauty and the Beast. Except I'm less mean (and less furry). If the last petal drops, I'll be stuck this way forever! But does that mean I won't age?? Because I really wouldn't mind that.
3) The third thing I really don't want to hear is 'Looks like snow's on the way again'. I'm a patient woman. That's a fact. If you remember my post last year about our current weather being much colder than other countries at this time of year (http://au-where.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/here-comes-sun.html) I wrote my complaint last year while it was still April, so obviously things had cheered up by this time of the year. It's a week until June. JUNE. This time last year, because I remember it was when my sister was visiting for Eurovision (http://au-where.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/nil-pointsbut-big-love.html) for the last time I saw her before she became a Californian Girl, we were sunbathing. SUNBATHING. In shorts! In England! It was literally high 20s! This year- it isn't even scraping mid-teens. And according to the weather people (not to be mistaken with the Village People http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InBXu-iY7cw- sorry, I have to sing that. Every time. Part of my own personal Constitution.) there could be snow in places in the U.K this weekend?? What??? I've gone so long without sun that my skin has become a dangerously white colour, the equivalent of Voldemort. Not an exaggeration.If I develop a snake's nose, you'll know something a tad more sinister is going on. It's gotten to that point that it usually gets to in mid-Winter where you think "I can't honestly imagine it ever being sunny again." Except that emotion has been continuing for about 8 months now. I haven't gone out without a jacket since mid-September. Wow.
So there you have it, crew. Sorry, that sounded a bit nautical, guess I shouldn't have watched the entire 'In the Navy' music video there
"I'm afraid of waaaater!"
Those are the three things I really don't want to hear today. What do you not want to hear? Do let me know. Unless of course it's "She's posted another blog, oh crud!"
QOTR
Now, that's not to say that some wonderful things haven't happened from the start until now, I've met amazing people, I've seen lots of new things and done lots of new things, I've experienced a lot of things both fantastically great and horrifyingly low. And I've grown (not just around the waist). But I can't help missing the optimistic girl at the start. And I'm determined to get her back somehow.
Anyway, I've made it to 50...and here's to another inspired 50 posts of embarassing dancing, and strange encounters, and new places and a bit of sunshine (hopefully).
The point of today's post is to highlight a few things that I, and probably a lot of you too, don't want to hear these days.
1) The Guardian did a survey of all current graduates looking for jobs. The results were as I expected. We're all going through the same depressing farce. 25% of us have lost out on jobs we want, due to 'lack of experience.' This brings me to the first thing I don't want to hear. Every single job, in the hundreds I've applied for in the last 6 months, has ended with the same inevitable result. I've passed tests (even numerical), I've submitted CVs. I've gone to interviews. The final feedback is always the same: "We liked you but another candidate was more experienced for the role."
This really frustrates me. These are jobs advertised as first job positions. Jobs geared towards graduates. Job advertisments which say 'No previous experience required. Full training provided.'. The sheer magnitude of applications mean, however, that they are able to add further boundaries because somewhat over experienced people are going for these jobs as well, due to a never diminishing over-subscribed job market. I get it, honestly I do. I accept the fact that others are more qualified than me and deserve the job more. What I don't get is how you go about getting the experience needed. Because nobody hires without experience!!! 'Internships?' I hear you ask. Alas, according to the Guardian, another sizeable chunk of us found that unless you know somebody in the business, or have a relative working there, you aren't going to get in. Brilliant.
2) The second thing I really don't want to hear is "The orchid's dead, move on." Since a very kind friend gifted me with some beautiful purple orchids at a dinner party in March, I've been caring for them like they are my child. I've been watering them with tepid water (the instructions said TEPID), I been monitoring their moistness (MOIST) to make sure I don't over-water, and I've been moving them from room to room, and climate to climate, to ensure they have variety in their day to day life. And so far, much to my immense surprise, they've survived and they're healthy. I think they've become a social experiment for me. Keeping them alive is proving that I am not incompetent. That I can do something successful. It's a necessary component for my remaining optimism. So the day I hear, "The orchid's dead, move on" will be the day I officially give up. Maybe it's like the rose in Beauty and the Beast. Except I'm less mean (and less furry). If the last petal drops, I'll be stuck this way forever! But does that mean I won't age?? Because I really wouldn't mind that.3) The third thing I really don't want to hear is 'Looks like snow's on the way again'. I'm a patient woman. That's a fact. If you remember my post last year about our current weather being much colder than other countries at this time of year (http://au-where.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/here-comes-sun.html) I wrote my complaint last year while it was still April, so obviously things had cheered up by this time of the year. It's a week until June. JUNE. This time last year, because I remember it was when my sister was visiting for Eurovision (http://au-where.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/nil-pointsbut-big-love.html) for the last time I saw her before she became a Californian Girl, we were sunbathing. SUNBATHING. In shorts! In England! It was literally high 20s! This year- it isn't even scraping mid-teens. And according to the weather people (not to be mistaken with the Village People http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InBXu-iY7cw- sorry, I have to sing that. Every time. Part of my own personal Constitution.) there could be snow in places in the U.K this weekend?? What??? I've gone so long without sun that my skin has become a dangerously white colour, the equivalent of Voldemort. Not an exaggeration.If I develop a snake's nose, you'll know something a tad more sinister is going on. It's gotten to that point that it usually gets to in mid-Winter where you think "I can't honestly imagine it ever being sunny again." Except that emotion has been continuing for about 8 months now. I haven't gone out without a jacket since mid-September. Wow.
 |
| What I saw when I smiled in the mirror this morning |
"I'm afraid of waaaater!"
Those are the three things I really don't want to hear today. What do you not want to hear? Do let me know. Unless of course it's "She's posted another blog, oh crud!"
QOTR
Friday, 19 April 2013
Listen world wide! Better yet, take a picture of me with a Kodak!
I've decided something this morning. Bear in mind, this will most likely only be a phase but, for now:
If you could think of a way which ensured you were entirely distinctive, memorable and just downright charming, wouldn't you do anything to make sure you could maintain that way of life? Exactly! Well, guys and girls, I know what I'm going to do. If any of you savvy geniuses that read my blog (which is obviously all of you!) have noticed by the title of this entry, I am taking inspiration from one Senor Pitbull, or Armando Christian Pérez as his mother calls him, or Armie as I call him when we're alone ;)
What I've noticed this morning, as I tried to break up the mundanity of a Friday in the house, when the weather STILL hasnt breached 10 degrees, (in APRIL!) is that listening to Pitbull can make me feel exceedingly and unexpectedly chipper. This isn't just because I love rapping, or because he has an insane way of making you feel like part of the party, but because his rather famous way of shouting various accolades and delights at the start of a song seems to not only make him laugh but also makes me want to laugh along with his delightfully boyish chortle.
I'll give you an example of some of his most well-known PSJ, or pre-song jargon as it's known in full. Should I copyright this?? I just google searched and no one else has ever used this term on the internet. Sweeet, Pre-Song Jargon is now officially mine- but that's neither here nor there, sorry Pitbull!
"Me not working hard?
Yeah, right, picture that with a Kodak
Or better yet, go to Times Square
Take a picture of me with a Kodak
Took my life from negative to positive
I just want y'all to know that
And tonight, let's enjoy life
Pitbull, Nayer, Ne-yo, Tesra"
(the PSJ of 'Give Me Everything')
"To these rappers I apologize, I know it ain't fair
Only ball I drop, New Years Times Square
The world is mine, sixth sense, I see the seven signs
Now baby, let's get started for life"
(the PSJ of 'Get It Started')
"You don't get them girls loose loose (TJR!)
You don't get the world loose loose
You don't get money move move
But I do I do
You don't get them girls loose loose
You don't get the world loose loose
You don't get money move move
But I do I do
I said, y'all having a good time out there"
(the PSJ of 'Don't Stop the Party')
Now, I'm not saying his PSJ is the dreams of a post-deconstructionalist modernist bongo-banging poetry reading, but it has the carefree jokey banter of a warm up act at a comedy stand up, of a drunk Uncle's speech at a wedding, of an extremely sassy and funny rapper- and I really dig this!
So, that's why I decided I was going to take to following a few Pitbull lessons in my conversation, and I have listed these for your much needed benefit also. You're welcome.
1. It's both a handy way to remind an acquaintance of your name, and a good way to make an entrance into a room, by announcing your name like a slogan.
Here's a scene where it could be used:
Person 1: What a fab party we are having
Person 2: Yes, so fab!
Person 1: There's that girl/boy, what's her/his name again?
Person 2: I do believe I've forgotten as well
You (for example purposes you are called Joey): Listen room, it's me again, hahaahahaha, JOEY!
Person 1 and 2: Ehhhhhhh Joey! You rock!
Perfection.
2. You're trying to chat up a really dreamy boy/girl in a club, but you're having a mental block so that all you can think of is the lyrics to your favourite children song? No problemo, amigo! Take a lesson from Pitbull again. Think you can remember the word 'sexy'? You're sorted! Pitbull used the song 'If you're happy and you know it' replacing the word happy with 'sexy'...obviously!
Here's an example for you, feel free to use it Chief!
"Baa Baa SEXY sheep, have you any wool?" Not having the desired effect? Here's another one
"This little SEXY went to market, this little SEXY stayed at home, this little SEXY had roast beef, and this little SEXY had none, and this little SEXY said "Hey Joey, you're so funny, can I have your number?"
You scored!
3. A little bit of self confidence goes a long way. Let's face it. You're great. Who wouldn't want you, amigo? Take a lesson from my main man, and here I use the example of the song 'I Know You Want Me'- the proof is in the pudding (or title, as this case is). This song, coincidentally, for those lucky enough to have witnessed me in Second Year of Uni, in my own livingroom (that limits it down a bit!) is a great little number for busting some major ballroom dancing moves with your nearest massively enthusiastic Bruno Tanioli adjacent friend!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3_WBVgpoC0
WATCH THE VIDEO!
A few points to learn from the actual video
*Look fresh, preferably in a large black overcoat and sunglasses inside
*If you're not sure if she ACTUALLY wants you, laugh it off. 'Do you remember me? Mr World Wide?'
'No....'
'Hahahaahah! I know you want me.'
*Be so confident that they all want you that you can slouch with your hands in your pockets and shrug whenever they come near to you.
*Make sure everyone knows you can communicate in at least two languages. Bi-linguality is the best!
I hope you all learnt some things
4. Final point, never forget where you came from or who your collaborators are. Pitbull always announces his collaborators at the PSJ of a duet, people matter. Haters gonna hate, Pitbull learnt a lot of lessons of coming from nothing and becoming incredibly successful. I think this is highlighted in his song 'Back In Time' and if you ever find yourself in a verbal stand-off with some little skunky punk, I recommend you shout these lyrics at them (with your shades on to hide your tears)
"Ok, I'm tryin' make a billion out of 15 cents
Understand, understood
I’m a go-getter, mover, shaker, culture, bury a boarder, record-breaker won’t cha
Give credit where credit is due don’t cha
Know that I don't give a number two
Y'all just halfway thoughts
Not worth the back of my mind
But to understand the future we have to go back in time"
Finally, always have the last laugh. No matter what happens. You can counteract anything by a little bit of counting and a big joyful chortle
"Hahahaah!"
If you could think of a way which ensured you were entirely distinctive, memorable and just downright charming, wouldn't you do anything to make sure you could maintain that way of life? Exactly! Well, guys and girls, I know what I'm going to do. If any of you savvy geniuses that read my blog (which is obviously all of you!) have noticed by the title of this entry, I am taking inspiration from one Senor Pitbull, or Armando Christian Pérez as his mother calls him, or Armie as I call him when we're alone ;)
What I've noticed this morning, as I tried to break up the mundanity of a Friday in the house, when the weather STILL hasnt breached 10 degrees, (in APRIL!) is that listening to Pitbull can make me feel exceedingly and unexpectedly chipper. This isn't just because I love rapping, or because he has an insane way of making you feel like part of the party, but because his rather famous way of shouting various accolades and delights at the start of a song seems to not only make him laugh but also makes me want to laugh along with his delightfully boyish chortle.
I'll give you an example of some of his most well-known PSJ, or pre-song jargon as it's known in full. Should I copyright this?? I just google searched and no one else has ever used this term on the internet. Sweeet, Pre-Song Jargon is now officially mine- but that's neither here nor there, sorry Pitbull!
"Me not working hard?
Yeah, right, picture that with a Kodak
Or better yet, go to Times Square
Take a picture of me with a Kodak
Took my life from negative to positive
I just want y'all to know that
And tonight, let's enjoy life
Pitbull, Nayer, Ne-yo, Tesra"
(the PSJ of 'Give Me Everything')
"To these rappers I apologize, I know it ain't fair
Only ball I drop, New Years Times Square
The world is mine, sixth sense, I see the seven signs
Now baby, let's get started for life"
(the PSJ of 'Get It Started')
"You don't get them girls loose loose (TJR!)
You don't get the world loose loose
You don't get money move move
But I do I do
You don't get them girls loose loose
You don't get the world loose loose
You don't get money move move
But I do I do
I said, y'all having a good time out there"
(the PSJ of 'Don't Stop the Party')
Now, I'm not saying his PSJ is the dreams of a post-deconstructionalist modernist bongo-banging poetry reading, but it has the carefree jokey banter of a warm up act at a comedy stand up, of a drunk Uncle's speech at a wedding, of an extremely sassy and funny rapper- and I really dig this!
So, that's why I decided I was going to take to following a few Pitbull lessons in my conversation, and I have listed these for your much needed benefit also. You're welcome.
1. It's both a handy way to remind an acquaintance of your name, and a good way to make an entrance into a room, by announcing your name like a slogan.
Here's a scene where it could be used:
Person 1: What a fab party we are having
Person 2: Yes, so fab!
Person 1: There's that girl/boy, what's her/his name again?
Person 2: I do believe I've forgotten as well
You (for example purposes you are called Joey): Listen room, it's me again, hahaahahaha, JOEY!
Person 1 and 2: Ehhhhhhh Joey! You rock!
Perfection.
2. You're trying to chat up a really dreamy boy/girl in a club, but you're having a mental block so that all you can think of is the lyrics to your favourite children song? No problemo, amigo! Take a lesson from Pitbull again. Think you can remember the word 'sexy'? You're sorted! Pitbull used the song 'If you're happy and you know it' replacing the word happy with 'sexy'...obviously!
Here's an example for you, feel free to use it Chief!
"Baa Baa SEXY sheep, have you any wool?" Not having the desired effect? Here's another one
"This little SEXY went to market, this little SEXY stayed at home, this little SEXY had roast beef, and this little SEXY had none, and this little SEXY said "Hey Joey, you're so funny, can I have your number?"
You scored!
3. A little bit of self confidence goes a long way. Let's face it. You're great. Who wouldn't want you, amigo? Take a lesson from my main man, and here I use the example of the song 'I Know You Want Me'- the proof is in the pudding (or title, as this case is). This song, coincidentally, for those lucky enough to have witnessed me in Second Year of Uni, in my own livingroom (that limits it down a bit!) is a great little number for busting some major ballroom dancing moves with your nearest massively enthusiastic Bruno Tanioli adjacent friend!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3_WBVgpoC0
WATCH THE VIDEO!
A few points to learn from the actual video
*Look fresh, preferably in a large black overcoat and sunglasses inside
*If you're not sure if she ACTUALLY wants you, laugh it off. 'Do you remember me? Mr World Wide?'
'No....'
'Hahahaahah! I know you want me.'
*Be so confident that they all want you that you can slouch with your hands in your pockets and shrug whenever they come near to you.
*Make sure everyone knows you can communicate in at least two languages. Bi-linguality is the best!
I hope you all learnt some things
4. Final point, never forget where you came from or who your collaborators are. Pitbull always announces his collaborators at the PSJ of a duet, people matter. Haters gonna hate, Pitbull learnt a lot of lessons of coming from nothing and becoming incredibly successful. I think this is highlighted in his song 'Back In Time' and if you ever find yourself in a verbal stand-off with some little skunky punk, I recommend you shout these lyrics at them (with your shades on to hide your tears)
"Ok, I'm tryin' make a billion out of 15 cents
Understand, understood
I’m a go-getter, mover, shaker, culture, bury a boarder, record-breaker won’t cha
Give credit where credit is due don’t cha
Know that I don't give a number two
Y'all just halfway thoughts
Not worth the back of my mind
But to understand the future we have to go back in time"
Finally, always have the last laugh. No matter what happens. You can counteract anything by a little bit of counting and a big joyful chortle
"Hahahaah!"
Thursday, 21 March 2013
A Little Smog and a damn good Blog!
From my unpenetrable Lair of Quirk, I write to you as one woman with her hat off. I have removed my hat, in this case a flat cap, and have it eschewed against my jumper like a Victorian chimney sweep when Sir Jollington VI walks past. A single tear has left a white track down my blackened young chimney-sweeping face as I think in my head, 'Bravo, London, bravo'. Because, fellows, I have just returned two days ago from the social highlight of my 2013 so far. Not that there has been much competition. But oh, the ball I have had! :D
The scene was set for a good time, with a very jolly and thorough Heathrow delay. After struggling to land for upwards of 20 minutes, we were told upon landing that our steps were broken and we had to stay onboard. For an indefinite time. That was a barrel of laughs. Once I entered the airport, I made my way to the underground station. My dear pal Hannah was coming from the opposite end of Heathrow so I set out to wait. Unfortunately a ridiculous amount of delays happened her end so I was hovering like a lurking lurker for over an hour. Luckily, my 'puppy dog playing a game' face encouraged other arriving tourists to seek my advice about my 'native town' of London. I guess standing next to the arrivals board was a bad idea, I was tempted to hip jut and gesture at it and say 'I know how to commute, ask me how!' Still, I like to think I was able to help the Spanish ladies make the local phone call. And my fizzing coke bottle provided some lively entertainment for a French school group.
 |
| Stay at Premiere Inn. They match beds to your PJs. |
As a tube pro, it was a stress free commute to our delightful Stratford Premiere Inn, with a view of the Olympic Park. We used a self- service check in machine (SELF- SERVICE!!! It printed out our room keys and everything!!) and made our way to the lifts, me jigging with glee for the chance to exploit a hotel room, declaring "This is one of the true pleasures of my life!"
It was delightfully clean and well-laid out and I did the following testing.
1. Bed bounce test
2. Free biscuit check (none :( )
3. Free coffee check (two sachets!)
4. Travel kettle (yes!)
5. Bathroom products (Foamburst shower gel dispenser- score!)
6. TV working (Freeview channels)
7. View (car park and edge of Olympic stadium, and sometimes a lardy builder looking back at me)
8. Trouser press (none)
9. Spare stuff (two pillows, lots of towels.)
10. Reading room service/restaraunt menu (Burgers? Burgers in a meal deal? BURGERS!)
11. The Miranda two moves to kettle from bed dance (Successful in one teddy bear roll and a finger press)
Everything to my satisfaction, we decided to head on down for some dinner. Burgers and (triple-fried) chips- yummy! Summer fruit and jelly sundae for dessert- jolly roger! Returning to our room, we watched almost the entirety of comic relief in our PJs. Well, until David Tennant was trying to guilt trip us and we reached an angry limit!
Saturday morning: the reason we were there. Day One of the Country2Country festival in the 02- that's right, the U.Ks first ever Country Music festival. Stopping for a croissant and coffee breakfast and a Pizza Express lunch (my pizza- gorgonzola and leek- had an ACTUAL HOLE in the middle stuffed full of salad- two meals in one!) we made our way to the arena for an all day American country town explore and music revelation.
 |
| Us and a Pilgrim Choice cowboy |
It was amazing. We found people like us, of all imaginable generations, crazy for country, wacky for western! As a testament to this: queue back to tube, mass crowds singing along to 'Jolene' and middle aged and elderly women and men wearing cowboy hats and spangly boots.
 |
| Festival main stage |
The next morning, Sunday, we woke up to another day of delights to be had. We made our way into the Westfield centre for dinner and had a sudden filling of dread. Were all the shops shut until 12?? Could we not get any breakfast? But alas we went to a crepery and had a crepe and coffee for a few pounds. I had a Canadian crepe- my first ever real taste of bacon and syrup combined. I think, after all, I could easily be Canadian! I also learnt an important lesson: Macchiatto is actually just a really small coffee. Gutted.
 |
| Me in Zizzi with my beer |
An obviously drunk man got on a tube and said "I just need a few pounds so I can get off the streets, guys." We ignored him. We are soooo London!
Heading back to the O2 arena, we stopped for another coffee break in Costa and enjoyed the build up to the next stage of the festival. Now on good speaking terms with the couple next to us who had been there the previous evening, we had a nice chat and awaited our wonderful acts. As a personal show highlight: we saw LeAnn Rimes performing on stage and fulfilled a childhood dream since Coyote Ugly came out in 2000, we got to sing along with 'Can't Fight the Moonlight'. Dreams can come true! LeAnn nearly cried, and we did too. In other news, Brantley Gilbert was delectably good at being both Metal and Country. Carrie Underwood is apparently a performer that triggers multiple girl fights if the number of women being escorted out from the stadium is anything to go by. And Hootie and the Blowfish's own Hootie, Darius Rucker, is an awesome dancer and got us all singing along to 'Family Tradition' by Hank Williams Jr., country royalty himself!With the festival over there was a sense of sadness but also a real sense of gladness for having gone to it. It's definitely back next year and we can't wait! It was awesomely good.
Monday morning, we packed our bags and checked out, heading into the centre for some more sight seeing. We hit all the main sights, though Buckingham Palace disappeared off the map while we were looking for it, so we didn't make it there! Our dream of becoming Mary Kate and Ashley in 'Winning London' will have to wait until next year, when we've acquired colour lensed sunglasses and tartan trousers.
We went for lunch to a Chinese all you can eat buffet, where the food was nice, but they hid us in a creepy backroom, forced us to drink fizzy water and shouted at us until we paid them extra. Such fun!
 |
| Goodbye until next year, London! |
We went to King's cross to get our picture at Platform 9 and three quarters, but discovered a line of tourists paying to have their picture and decided that, surprisingly, we were actually too cool for something. Heading back to Heathrow early, there's nothing like an hour and a half squeezed onto a tube where the driver keeps repeating 'We do not have a final destination for this tube yet.' to get you in the mood for going back home.
I give my trip to London a 9 and a half out of 10- only thing that would have made it better would be if Carrie Underwood's promised 'very special guest' had bothered to show up and had bothered to be Brad Paisley.
In other news, last night I fell asleep and weird stuff happened. You've heard of sleep walking? Of sleep talking? I take things to a whole new level of cray-cray. As a child, I woke up multiple times at exactly 12AM to be sick, one time I worried so much about taking a plaster off the next morning that I woke up and it had disappeared, never to be seen again, and last night: for a couple of months, one of my teddy bears has been missing, leaving me just two in my bed. This morning, I woke up and the third bear was back!!!! How??? Why??? Amazing! So, apparently adult sleep walking is a sign of mental instability/psychological problems.
I actually find myself filled with dread as to what sleep Jeremy-Kyling means...
Monday, 4 March 2013
“Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.”
Hey there, old (only as old as you feel) friends!
This Saturday I found myself reading 'The Bell Jar'. Reading 'The Bell Jar' and eating cake. I can tell you are all thinking 'Oh no, it's one of THOSE posts.'
It's not.
I actually had a jolly sort of day and it provided some sort of comfort for my current apres-education predicament.
The character in the novel, Esther, is an English graduate who can't get a job. An English graduate who likes writing and has based her years of education on being commended for a good job, for being creative. Of course, Esther goes one further by ending up in an asylum, and I don't think I'm quite teetering so close to the edge of a break down (though some mornings when the air is rife with the stench of rejection letters, I find myself Patrick Bateman laughing and Chris Brander face pulling), but the general sudden realisation of I don't know' when asked what you're doing after college is certainly familiar. ( “What do you have in mind after you graduate?'
'I don't really know,' I heard myself say. I felt a deep shock, hearing myself say
that, because the minute I said it, I knew it was true.”)
Not much has changed since the 50s/60s: “I didn't know shorthand either.
This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand would be something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter.
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.”
It all seems to be about who has the most additional skills they can contribute to a job. And with every Tom, Dick and Harry constantly bettering themselves, it becomes a bit of a challenge. I lived abroad so I could improve my German. Additional language: check.
I got relevant experience in several different mediums of writing: check.
I have a range of interests and, let's face it, a rather amazing personality.
But it doesn't seem to be enough.
I was recently talking to my friend in the U.S, and she said something that has really stuck with me. "I feel as if my life has slowed down considerably in the last few months, and I'm trying everything I can to speed it back up." And this is something worryingly familiar to a whole generation of 18-25 year olds at the minute. Very few of my friends who have jobs are doing jobs they imagined they'd be doing, or that have any long term prospect of increased prosperity. Those of us unemployed hear of wonderful statistics such as our universities having a 95% after education employment rate and we can't help but laugh at our incredible good fortune to be the minority. A vast number have gone on to further education as a chance to get ahead,, but for those of us with no funds and no chance of affording the fees, even with scholarships, there is a bleak sense of no possibility whatsoever.
It's a strange place to be in, this no-man's land, and I find myself increasing losing my capacity to think. I'm slower at doing the Times crossword, I haven't been reading enough, I feel like the best sentence I can form sometimes is 'Me like cookies!' and there's a sort of silence that descends on me when I don't find any jobs to apply to and when I don't know what to do with myself.
Meanwhile, I had to Sign On a few weeks ago, but so far all I've received is four trips to the centre, a patronising talk about how to make a CV, several accusations of being foreign and zero money whatsoever...so it begins to feel like all I'm doing is spending a few hours questioning my own person and my own abilities just for the fun of it, with no compensation for my time.
We were promised a lot more by the older generations for our early 20s- this is supposed to be the time we truly become ourselves, with the people we are destined to love, and live in the places we are meant to be and that we've always dreamed of.
I've prepared a film referencing system. Here we were: fresh faced youth ready for our next big adventure, straight off the graduate train of success and exam completion.
Pretty happy, eh?
After a few months of being minimum wage workers, or unemployed, or emotionally ravaged by the pressing loneliness of suddenly being without your closest friends indefinitely, we somewhat more resemble these poor guys:
"Yeah, yeah, you...
you make my dreams come true!
IRONY!
So, I guess my point is: if anybody's got a way to turbo charge these years back into the good times they are meant to be, please go right ahead!
In other news, I'm going to see a comedy show with my mum at the weekend....but we're sitting in rows C +Q...so really it's going to be like going to a comedy show on my own! Which is the emotional equivalent of listening to Saint Saens 'The Swan' while doing a sad Mime Artist routine which involves (real) Ugly Crying silently while an audience breathily salivates over popcorn and smelly nachos.
Good times!
This Saturday I found myself reading 'The Bell Jar'. Reading 'The Bell Jar' and eating cake. I can tell you are all thinking 'Oh no, it's one of THOSE posts.'
It's not.
I actually had a jolly sort of day and it provided some sort of comfort for my current apres-education predicament.
The character in the novel, Esther, is an English graduate who can't get a job. An English graduate who likes writing and has based her years of education on being commended for a good job, for being creative. Of course, Esther goes one further by ending up in an asylum, and I don't think I'm quite teetering so close to the edge of a break down (though some mornings when the air is rife with the stench of rejection letters, I find myself Patrick Bateman laughing and Chris Brander face pulling), but the general sudden realisation of I don't know' when asked what you're doing after college is certainly familiar. ( “What do you have in mind after you graduate?'
'I don't really know,' I heard myself say. I felt a deep shock, hearing myself say
that, because the minute I said it, I knew it was true.”)
Not much has changed since the 50s/60s: “I didn't know shorthand either.
This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand would be something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter.
The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.”
It all seems to be about who has the most additional skills they can contribute to a job. And with every Tom, Dick and Harry constantly bettering themselves, it becomes a bit of a challenge. I lived abroad so I could improve my German. Additional language: check.
I got relevant experience in several different mediums of writing: check.
I have a range of interests and, let's face it, a rather amazing personality.
But it doesn't seem to be enough.
I was recently talking to my friend in the U.S, and she said something that has really stuck with me. "I feel as if my life has slowed down considerably in the last few months, and I'm trying everything I can to speed it back up." And this is something worryingly familiar to a whole generation of 18-25 year olds at the minute. Very few of my friends who have jobs are doing jobs they imagined they'd be doing, or that have any long term prospect of increased prosperity. Those of us unemployed hear of wonderful statistics such as our universities having a 95% after education employment rate and we can't help but laugh at our incredible good fortune to be the minority. A vast number have gone on to further education as a chance to get ahead,, but for those of us with no funds and no chance of affording the fees, even with scholarships, there is a bleak sense of no possibility whatsoever.
It's a strange place to be in, this no-man's land, and I find myself increasing losing my capacity to think. I'm slower at doing the Times crossword, I haven't been reading enough, I feel like the best sentence I can form sometimes is 'Me like cookies!' and there's a sort of silence that descends on me when I don't find any jobs to apply to and when I don't know what to do with myself.
Meanwhile, I had to Sign On a few weeks ago, but so far all I've received is four trips to the centre, a patronising talk about how to make a CV, several accusations of being foreign and zero money whatsoever...so it begins to feel like all I'm doing is spending a few hours questioning my own person and my own abilities just for the fun of it, with no compensation for my time.
We were promised a lot more by the older generations for our early 20s- this is supposed to be the time we truly become ourselves, with the people we are destined to love, and live in the places we are meant to be and that we've always dreamed of. I've prepared a film referencing system. Here we were: fresh faced youth ready for our next big adventure, straight off the graduate train of success and exam completion.
Pretty happy, eh?
After a few months of being minimum wage workers, or unemployed, or emotionally ravaged by the pressing loneliness of suddenly being without your closest friends indefinitely, we somewhat more resemble these poor guys:
 | |
| "You got a little Chow?" |
 |
| "OHMYGAAAWD!" |
you make my dreams come true!
IRONY!
So, I guess my point is: if anybody's got a way to turbo charge these years back into the good times they are meant to be, please go right ahead!
In other news, I'm going to see a comedy show with my mum at the weekend....but we're sitting in rows C +Q...so really it's going to be like going to a comedy show on my own! Which is the emotional equivalent of listening to Saint Saens 'The Swan' while doing a sad Mime Artist routine which involves (real) Ugly Crying silently while an audience breathily salivates over popcorn and smelly nachos.
Good times!
Thursday, 21 February 2013
Maybe it's because I'm an immigrant...
HELLO WEMBLEY!
I don't know who it was that last shouted that, but needless to say it wasn't me. I'm not performing in Wembley (yet) though I am plenty uncontrollably odd and lovably quirky to be a stand up comedian. Right? right? Well, in saying that, I watched that new show on BBC Three 'The Year of Making Love' and this one girl was a stand up comedian...and she got paid...and she was soooooo unfunny it's not even funny- see what I did there?? So if she can do it, then I sure as heck could take this freakshow on the road ;)
So, you're all probably wondering who I am. Some people know me as Cher. What I mean is, although I never use my name on my blog, you all had probably got to know me quite well through my frequent blog writing whilst (good word that WHILLLLSSSSST) I was abroad and now you're all thinking 'Gee Whiz, she sure doesn't write much anymore, what a pity!' and this is of course assuming you are all cast members of the Brady Bunch with that language...
Well, I am sorry. I have been cowering under a metaphorical rock, waiting for my 2013 to truly begin. The unending application to an unending stream of jobs, waiting in anticipation for the email which undoubtedly reads the equivalent of 'We kind of like you, but you aren't our usual type, so we're going to go for someone who is our normal type but thanks anyway!' Same old, same old- job hunting rejection emails are the same as my teenaged dating rejections I got- not what we normally like but pretty interesting nonetheless. Cool, thanks. That's not to say that there haven't been some highlights in my last two months.
I got my hair cut. At last. So I no longer resemble Mel Gibson as William Wallace. My mother thought I might be able to sell my hair for wigs and it was pretty long so I concurred. As it got snipped off, the hairdresser passed the clippings to my mother who was holding a Tesco bag and collecting. I felt a lot lighter as I left, swinging my bag of hair. Looked it up online, my hair wasn't long enough or in a pony tail. Gutted.
It looks a bit smarter now anyway, and hopefully won't get so in the way of bags, windows and other people's faces anymore.
My animals here at home have become pretty ambivalent. One minute they are lolling all over me, acting rather coquettish, and the next minute they're giving me looks like these.
The dog gave me this charming death glare as we watched Pointless together. I gave an answer she deemed stupid and she turned round and stared at me like this. Priceless. My cat lowered lids and slanted hips might look like a casual 'Come and Pet me' look but it actually meant 'Just Don't.'
So, as you can see, my first two months as a 22 year old have got off to a flying start.
The most annoying thing in the world has happened. I have become an immigrant without realising it. And oh the trouble it is causing me. At the start of February, I finally faced the facts that I wasn't about to get a job after all so I had to bit the bullet and sign on for Job Seekers. Itself a torturous experience in long waiting time, strange looks when you read a Kindle, and staff members asking each other questions that you know the answer to after reading the Web Page one time. But oh no, it was just getting started. After a 45 minute wait, and half a novel, I was finally called to a woman's desk. She said, 'Have you filled in the forms?' 'Yes, I have' I replied, handing it to her.
'Ah, but you haven't filled in the immigration one.'
'What? I'm clearly from here.'
'Were you out of the country?'
'Yes, but only for five months. And I was always still British then.'
'Ah, but you see, if you leave the U.K for more than two weeks, you count as an immigrant.'
All the time I filled in this form, I was thinking in my head 'What?? What?? Seriously, what??' After filling in questions such as 'Have you previously been in the U.K. What dates from and to?' and responding with 'Yes, from 19/12/1990- 05/08/2013' All of my life except the last five months. I then had to be asked questions in person such as 'Were you born in this country?' and having to say, with thinly veiled misery 'Yes.' I literally had the same accent as the woman.
So then she says, 'Have you got I.D. for signing on?' so I present my British Driving Licence. She says, 'Oh, but you're an immigrant. You need to show a passport instead. Can you go home and get it?'
'I have no car.' I reply through gritted teeth.
'Okay, you'll have to come in another time and get it photocopied. We can't process your claim until that happens.'
After another hour of feeling the shame of being an accidental immigrant and an unemployed person, and having to list my qualifications with a tear glinting in my eye, I finally left the office to race home with my father in the car. Since that, he has referred to me as an immigrant in a variety of mean ways, while the ghosts of my past life in a third world country haunt me. Not. I was born 30 miles down the road from the office. To two British parents.
I went back in with my passport, waited another half an hour, finally got it scanned and she said 'I'll send this on for you.'
Got a call yesterday from the claim processing office. 'We need a passport for you.'
'I sent one the other day.'
'We got your driving licence but not your Passport.'
'Well, I did send it.'
'Okay'
*10 minutes later*
'Did you get the inside of your passport scanned?'
'No, she just scanned the information page.'
'We need to see if there are any stamps inside that say you can't live in the U.K or make a claim.'
'There aren't any stamps. I promise. I'm from this country!!!'
'We need to know either way....can you come into the office and get it scanned again?'
'I have no car...I literally can't get in.'
'.....I'll try and process your claim without that info but can't make any promises you'll qualify.'
'Seriously? Ok then.'
'Also, why have you sometimes listed your surname on your forms and sometimes the surname Scullion?'
'What?? I have never used the word Scullion in my life. I literally have no words.'
'Ah, they must have mixed up two different applicants.'
Seriously, Job Centre, seriously??
I'm gonna paraphrase Marina and the Diamonds here 'I'm vulnerable, so vulnerable...I am not an immigrant!' http://youtu.be/S_oMD6-6q5Y
In other news, I might become an immigrant just to justify the amount of hassle it apparently takes for me to get £50 a fortnight. Also, I can guarantee you this: if I get a job, it'll be through my own perseverance, not from their unexistant 'support and guidance'.
Also, I'm writing articles for a website now, feel free to check out my work on www.articlereviewwriters.com!
I don't know who it was that last shouted that, but needless to say it wasn't me. I'm not performing in Wembley (yet) though I am plenty uncontrollably odd and lovably quirky to be a stand up comedian. Right? right? Well, in saying that, I watched that new show on BBC Three 'The Year of Making Love' and this one girl was a stand up comedian...and she got paid...and she was soooooo unfunny it's not even funny- see what I did there?? So if she can do it, then I sure as heck could take this freakshow on the road ;)
So, you're all probably wondering who I am. Some people know me as Cher. What I mean is, although I never use my name on my blog, you all had probably got to know me quite well through my frequent blog writing whilst (good word that WHILLLLSSSSST) I was abroad and now you're all thinking 'Gee Whiz, she sure doesn't write much anymore, what a pity!' and this is of course assuming you are all cast members of the Brady Bunch with that language...
Well, I am sorry. I have been cowering under a metaphorical rock, waiting for my 2013 to truly begin. The unending application to an unending stream of jobs, waiting in anticipation for the email which undoubtedly reads the equivalent of 'We kind of like you, but you aren't our usual type, so we're going to go for someone who is our normal type but thanks anyway!' Same old, same old- job hunting rejection emails are the same as my teenaged dating rejections I got- not what we normally like but pretty interesting nonetheless. Cool, thanks. That's not to say that there haven't been some highlights in my last two months.
I got my hair cut. At last. So I no longer resemble Mel Gibson as William Wallace. My mother thought I might be able to sell my hair for wigs and it was pretty long so I concurred. As it got snipped off, the hairdresser passed the clippings to my mother who was holding a Tesco bag and collecting. I felt a lot lighter as I left, swinging my bag of hair. Looked it up online, my hair wasn't long enough or in a pony tail. Gutted. It looks a bit smarter now anyway, and hopefully won't get so in the way of bags, windows and other people's faces anymore.
My animals here at home have become pretty ambivalent. One minute they are lolling all over me, acting rather coquettish, and the next minute they're giving me looks like these. The dog gave me this charming death glare as we watched Pointless together. I gave an answer she deemed stupid and she turned round and stared at me like this. Priceless. My cat lowered lids and slanted hips might look like a casual 'Come and Pet me' look but it actually meant 'Just Don't.'
So, as you can see, my first two months as a 22 year old have got off to a flying start.
The most annoying thing in the world has happened. I have become an immigrant without realising it. And oh the trouble it is causing me. At the start of February, I finally faced the facts that I wasn't about to get a job after all so I had to bit the bullet and sign on for Job Seekers. Itself a torturous experience in long waiting time, strange looks when you read a Kindle, and staff members asking each other questions that you know the answer to after reading the Web Page one time. But oh no, it was just getting started. After a 45 minute wait, and half a novel, I was finally called to a woman's desk. She said, 'Have you filled in the forms?' 'Yes, I have' I replied, handing it to her.
'Ah, but you haven't filled in the immigration one.'
'What? I'm clearly from here.'
'Were you out of the country?'
'Yes, but only for five months. And I was always still British then.'
'Ah, but you see, if you leave the U.K for more than two weeks, you count as an immigrant.'
All the time I filled in this form, I was thinking in my head 'What?? What?? Seriously, what??' After filling in questions such as 'Have you previously been in the U.K. What dates from and to?' and responding with 'Yes, from 19/12/1990- 05/08/2013' All of my life except the last five months. I then had to be asked questions in person such as 'Were you born in this country?' and having to say, with thinly veiled misery 'Yes.' I literally had the same accent as the woman.
So then she says, 'Have you got I.D. for signing on?' so I present my British Driving Licence. She says, 'Oh, but you're an immigrant. You need to show a passport instead. Can you go home and get it?'
'I have no car.' I reply through gritted teeth.
'Okay, you'll have to come in another time and get it photocopied. We can't process your claim until that happens.'
After another hour of feeling the shame of being an accidental immigrant and an unemployed person, and having to list my qualifications with a tear glinting in my eye, I finally left the office to race home with my father in the car. Since that, he has referred to me as an immigrant in a variety of mean ways, while the ghosts of my past life in a third world country haunt me. Not. I was born 30 miles down the road from the office. To two British parents.
I went back in with my passport, waited another half an hour, finally got it scanned and she said 'I'll send this on for you.'
Got a call yesterday from the claim processing office. 'We need a passport for you.'
'I sent one the other day.'
'We got your driving licence but not your Passport.'
'Well, I did send it.'
'Okay'
*10 minutes later*
'Did you get the inside of your passport scanned?'
'No, she just scanned the information page.'
'We need to see if there are any stamps inside that say you can't live in the U.K or make a claim.'
'There aren't any stamps. I promise. I'm from this country!!!'
'We need to know either way....can you come into the office and get it scanned again?'
'I have no car...I literally can't get in.'
'.....I'll try and process your claim without that info but can't make any promises you'll qualify.'
'Seriously? Ok then.'
'Also, why have you sometimes listed your surname on your forms and sometimes the surname Scullion?'
'What?? I have never used the word Scullion in my life. I literally have no words.'
'Ah, they must have mixed up two different applicants.'
Seriously, Job Centre, seriously??
I'm gonna paraphrase Marina and the Diamonds here 'I'm vulnerable, so vulnerable...I am not an immigrant!' http://youtu.be/S_oMD6-6q5Y
In other news, I might become an immigrant just to justify the amount of hassle it apparently takes for me to get £50 a fortnight. Also, I can guarantee you this: if I get a job, it'll be through my own perseverance, not from their unexistant 'support and guidance'.
Also, I'm writing articles for a website now, feel free to check out my work on www.articlereviewwriters.com!
Tuesday, 15 January 2013
Three Exposés for three weeks
Amongst the many wonderful aspects which there are in being back in the U.K, there are three situations I have directly encountered which I am dying to exposé as being a little bit ridiculous, upsetting or downright insane.
The first thing that I encountered happened during my brief sojourn in Manchester on my initial way home from Switzerland. It occurred in the train station in Manchester, after a delightful day with my three best friends. There I was, feasting on a delicious snack from Burger King (when I say snack, I mean a full meal...) with my pal. After some literal finger licking, we went to get a train and said 'We'd better throw away our rubbish in the bin.' Oh how naive we were. No bins. Nada. Not a single bin or bin like place. We spent a bewildering five minutes racing around saying "Seriously? Where have all the bins gone?" Well...apparently it's a legitimate thing. Apparently it is too much of a security risk to have bins...in case somebody plants a bomb. I'm pretty sure there haven't been any actual cases of bin bombs in Manchester train station so this preventative measure seems a bit premature. What about the serious issue which is littering?? Being generally outstanding citizens, Hannah and I carried our rubbish home with us until there was a bin available. I imagine the vast majority of people would not have this instinct. So what happens to all of their rubbish?? Dear train stations, please give us a bin. Just one would do the trick!
The second thing I wanted to exposé is false advertising in jobs. As most of you will be aware, I have been desperately seeking a job since my return. My average day involves me applying to several jobs. Each time I send off my CV and my sweetly written Covering Letter, I send a little wish up to those bright stars in the sky that maybe this time I might be lucky. I have even been practicing my own dance routine and rendition of Barbara Streisand's version of 'I'm The Greatest Star' which I hope might prove just the ticket should I ever be lucky enough to get an interview.The issue I have is one that I learnt the hard way. I applied to several jobs in marketing which promised a high success rate for enthusiastic, confident, ambitious people. Which I thought, by george, I was. They said they used modern methods of advertising, rather than tv or radio. Of course, all I picked up from this was the word advertising and I thought 'I'd love to do that!' So I went along with high hopes, and for once I was in demand for interviews. I guess that should have been my first clue that something wasn't quite right. I went to three interviews in two days, feeling super grown up in my business wear, finding places in the big city, catching the train, clacking down streets in high heels. Within hours of each interview, I was contacted to say they all wanted me for the second stage. Happy days, I thought.
The second stage was a full day 'in the industry'. This sounded very exciting to me. I went along bright and early on Monday morning to the first one. I was introduced to my 'partner.' who would be supervising me and seeing if I was suitable. We hitched a ride in the car with the other interviewee and his partner. I asked 'What exactly is it we will be doing today?' and my partner replied 'Meeting some clients.' I thought this meant we were going into a company and making a presentation. It didn't. We pulled up in a housing estate and proceeded to wander from door to door pedalling wears....for EIGHT HOURS!!! It was raining. It was cold. I was wearing high heels. Nobody wanted to buy anything. I asked my partner 'Do we get a salary for this or is it entirely based on commission.'He grinned and enthused 'Entirely commission of course!' I was meant to finish at 7pm. We worked until after 8. I missed my train home and even then I was meant to be getting reviewed back at the office. I cried on the train home. No way could I work for commission knowing that if I didn't sell a product- I wouldn't make any money in a week! How could someone survive that?? Especially in the recession.
I knew I had two more 'days in the industry' lined up the next two days. I decided not to be a pessimist so gave the second day a chance. It quickly became apparent when I got paired with a partner again what was going on. I walked with them all to the train station where they had to catch a train to sell...I got on a train back home and said "This isn't for me. I'm not confident enough for this." In my head I added, I didn't get into 10,000 pounds of debt at university so that I would struggle to provide money to feed myself from a day to day basis.
So a word of warning, if a job seems too good to be true...it is.
The third and final thing I want to exposé is the flag protests in Belfast. I love my country. I always have. We are an intelligent, interesting, dynamic, eclectic mix of people in Northern Ireland. Many of us are cultured and talented and proud. Some are beautiful or hilarious or inspiring. But some are just horrific. What started off as a complete piss take has turned into an even bigger one. Our economy, our business, our people are all missing out because of a severely unhinged minority, claiming to be doing the just thing. If they really cared about Ulster, I wonder, would they want to risk ripping it apart by protesting, and injuring police officers (who, by the way, have no correlation with the lesser seen Union Jack) or by, irony of all ironies, BURNING THE UNION JACK!!!! The very flag they are insisting that they are protecting...they're burning it! On the street! Wearing balaclavas.
It really truly sickens me to see our little country being destroyed by a malicious minority. Neither side has clean hands in this debacle. But why are things reverting to the dark days of a few decades ago? Particularly when most of the protestors are younger than me and therefore definitely were not alive during the Troubles.I join the rest of the sane majority of this lovely, beautiful country in hoping and wishing desperately that somehow, anyhow, this whole flag thing is laid to rest. Immediately.
Bring back our true beautiful country.
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