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! 

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.

Cheesus, it's Christmas!

I just thought I'd update the blog to let you all know, I'm back home for Christmas and everything is fine. Last time we talked, I was worrying about getting home with my huge bags. Turns out my biggest concerns should have been staying upright on a bendy bus and not being able to check in because I was there British time rather than regular people- i.e. ridiculously early.

I am so happy to be here safely with all my family and it is equally weird and normal to be back in my old bedroom with my bags unpacked. Bliss!

It's been an eventful few days so far. I stopped over in Manchester for a reunion with my dear pals from Uni. We had a whale of a time, with much chat, eating, messing around in tiny bathrooms and accidentally taking elevators too far and ending up in restaraunts to the tell tale sound of cutlery clinking. It was so lovely to see them all and to know that despite the last 6 months apart, we were able to pick up right where we left off without a change in dynamics at all. I hope that even when we're sixty, things will remain just the same.


Since arriving home, there's been a fair amount of in jokes and drama with my sister. We've gone through many topics: to name a few- double-sliced flatulation, groping overweight Indian men, mail order brides, impersonating Vernon and Tess in our best Bolton accents. While watching the SCD final, we were wondering what Bruce Forsythe had written on his cards...as he appeared to be talking nonsense. And also appeared to be a complete nutter when he was shouting 'Look! Look!' every single time there was a standing ovation...which was every dance in the final...and there were 10 dances...
You know it's been a good reunion when you've found yourself struggling to swallow every beverage you've tried to drink, because something makes you laugh every time you take a sip.

Ooh, now I have Brad Paisley stuck in my head...should never have said the word sip! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jm6dqMsZCrc

Today is Christmas Eve...and you know it's been an eventful and festive Christmas Eve when the highlight of your day has been going with your dad and sister into the next town just to watch him buy rat poison and get a wee spin in the car. Such fun!

So, just thought I'd wish all (hahahahaha...there's so many...) of you readers a very merry Christmas. Keep out of trouble. I know I won't...ooh cheeky! We shall meet again very soon I am sure :)

Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!

(Listen to that Brad Paisley song...such good memories with this one)

More Than Chocolate and Cheese?

Today has been one of those days when strangers just need to talk to me. And, you guessed it, it's on and around trams once more. I could direct you here to my previous blog entry a few months ago entitled 'Freaks on a Tram', but they were pretty alright ones today, not quite as creepy as the hand toucher or the telephone impersonator.

It all started when I was waiting with a bin bag of my clothes (to put in a charity drop off bin, I might add. I'm not really in the habit of walking around with my clothes in bin bags just to let them see the sights.) at a tram stop in Claraplatz. A man of some ethnicity came and sat down at the seat right next to me, that was- in leymen's terms- close enough to assist with back scratching. Gross. There's not many people I appreciate sitting that close to me. He started pretty casually. Here's our dialogue.
Him: Hoi
Me:...
Him: Es ist kalt, ja?
Me:...Ja.
Him: *insert German here* (I didn't understand)
Me:....*awkward smile.*
I proceed to rummage in my bag so I don't have to keep talking. I bring out my rather ratty looking Samsung and start playing scrabble.
Him: Nett Handy (Nice phone) Wie viel kostet das? (How much did it cost?) *makes a gesture insinuating richness*
Me: Es war nicht so viel (It was not so much)
Him: Bist du allein? (Are you alone)
Me:.....
Him: *insert German here*
Me:.....
He then proceeds to walk off and stand at other side of the tram stop. Times like this, wish I walked around with a ventriloquist dummy. No man would try to pick me up then. I mean, seriously?? I was literally wearing my hair in plaits, no make up, and a distinctly unappealing outfit as I've already packed away all my clothes.

The second situation which I found myself in was a bit less scary. I was on a different tram after dropping off my clothes and, anticipating that there would be numerous elderly searching for a seat and not being bothered with standing up once seated, I was preemptively standing for most of the journey. Eventually it had emptied out so I sat down next to a middle to older woman. I was singing along to 'Baby It's Cold Outside' in my head, while my Ipod piped Jessica Simpson/Nick Lachey into my ears when she started talking to me in rapid German. Here's our dialogue:
Her: *rapid German*
Me:.... Ich verstande nicht. Sprechen sie Englisch?
Her: Yes. I was saying you look just like somebody I knew.
Me: Oh really? Thanks!
Her: With the hair like that...and the hair colour, and the way your face is
Me: Thank you?
Her: It is somebody I like very much
Me: Oh, at least it is not someone you hate.

She proceeds to discover where I am from, if I am living in Switzerland etc, and then hands me a CD rom from her handbag which is entitled More Than Chocolate and Cheese and says, you can learn more about Switzerland on this.
Upon later inspection: it features a 40 minute documentary about Jesus. I have been...Jehovah Witnessed. I wonder if I looked like another Jehovah's Witness...there's a worrying thought.

In other news, I finished my final day of this job here on Wednesday and it feels really weird to be through with it all. It hasn't really sunk in yet that I will never be returning there. I also have paid all my bills at last, with some very generous loaning from family and friends. And I have de registered as a resident so for this last week, if anybody official asks me,  I am meant to be saying 'I'm just a tourist.' Maybe I will wear a tie-dye t-shirt, and a camera strung around my neck and get in the way of trams by trying to take the perfect Munsterplatz shot. That would be fun.

I have had an action packed few days since I last wrote and there have been a couple of highlights. First of all, on Wednesday I procured a free 50fr voucher to spend in Mr Pickwicks. I won it on the radio...such a cool prize. It was a fair contest...after all, we all know I don't work on the radio at all. Ever. Anyway, after some pleasant afternoon shopping to celebrate my freedom with my friend Sarah, we went into the pub to have some delicious, and familiar food. I found myself uttering 'Bliss' in a way that would make my mum proud when I was sitting in front of a fireplace, with a huge Union Jack hung up behind me, feasting on Bangers and Mash and Magners Cider. Heavenly.

I also met up with my friend Oonagh yesterday morning to say goodbye. We had a lovely trip to Starbucks and, like Muslims to Mecca, we flocked into the warmth of H+M once more. If ever I could've married a shop, it would 'ave been H+M, Mr Frodo, it would 'ave been H+M. Well, hello Samwise possession...


Last weekend I got to go to one of the places I've wanted to go to since arriving in Switzerland. I went to Luzern. And it was so beautiful with all the gorgeous lights, and snow, and all the many bridges you could cross. Sitting in the pub was also gorgeous. With a big plate of nachos and a warm, well lit, laughter filled pub and some excellent company. It was a lovely day. It's a shame I didn't get to go on more trips to more cities. But I'm glad Luzern has been checked off my list.

My current problems: how can I accurately tell if my suitcases weigh less than 20kg if I do not have access to any working scales?? I've been lifting bags comparatively like a pretty crap body builder, trying to figure out whether it's heavier than other times in my life when my bag was over weight. And honestly, I think my bags are alright. But then next Wednesday I will get charged with 200 extra francs for having a bag that literally weighs 500kg. Could happen.

Also, is it pretty sad to spend my birthday alone, slipping on slushie ice and trying to cart three massively heavy bags alone on two trams and a bus to the airport?? I'm thinking it's pretty tragic. And difficult. Will I survive it? Time will tell.

An illegal immigrant koala from Brisbane

Hello, and how are you?

Amidst my mass hysteria and extremely busy days of basic unemployment- yesterday I stood in a shop aisle for upwards of three minutes, trying to decide which coffee to buy. On the one hand, I could be a jar of instant, but it is ridiculously expensive here...seriously...and I would most likely poison my veins trying to complete a whole jar in two weeks. On the other hand I could buy a box of sachets. Not the strongest caffeine fix but will definitely get them finished, they are delightfully foamy, and the one I decided on featured a fine ass chocolate companion, amidst the foam of cappucino- I have managed to find a moment to write up my latest blog entry. As I'm sure you all can barely contain your excitement.

I have recently been delighted to discover that country music is finally getting some exposure in the U.K. Only small right now, but there's a definite community arising and there is the first ever country music festival happening in the 02 arena this March. I want more than almost anything to go to what will surely be a milestone of development, but I can woefully ill-afford the weekend pass, even though it isn't over-priced. I'm so fed up of being unemployed, I really am. Ripe time for this old bird to get a job. Tickets go on sale in two days...and I'm yet to come up with a solution as to how I can possibly afford to go...when I literally have less than the cost of a ticket in my bank account :(

Also, apparently Easy Jet are very mean people. They won't let me cancel my flights back to Switzerland after Christmas so I thought I'd change the flights to a different date. Although there is no difference in flight cost, they want to charge me an extra 35 pounds PER FLIGHT to change it...it would literally be as cheap for me to buy new flights. I just want a refund! <:( Wish they didn't have this policy.

In other news, I have had a lovely week since my last entry. I've been away visiting my special someone ;) in St. Gallen for like three full days. And what a marvellous adventure has been had. First of all, there was loads of snow. How absolutely glorious. It seems to be refusing to snow in  Basel so it was an absolute treat to be able to frolick in the snow. I stood waiting for a bus outside at one point, just letting the snow flakes fall down on me like the happiest little freak in the world, a fresh Cappucino in my system, a smile on my face and a dream in my heart... *barf* sorry, had to add that last part when I sounded so gushy. It was an accident, I promise!

It was a great weekend for many reasons, not many more so than the fact that we made two new friends this weekend. There we were, watching a little bit of CBBC on a Sunday morning when a very wonderful thing happened.

Along came a little show called 'Bear Behaving Badly' and two little guys called Nev- who some of you might recognise from a little show called Smile- and...wait for it....Krazy Keith. I don't know if you're aware, but Krazy Keith is, and I quote "An illegal immigrant koala bear from Brisbane, Australia" I hope that has whet your appetite. If not, I might add he has an inanimate bunny girlfriend who he has NUMEROUS conversations with. Oh yes.... television just got real.

The real love affair in our lives began, and there hasn't been a conversation since which has not contained at least one reference to either Keith, Nev, or Keith's STUNNING quote "Streuth! You're one sausage short of a Barby!" Oh how the laughs were had.

I also fulfilled one of my childhood dreams...and I must add here an apology to feminists everywhere, you might want to look away... I got to pretend to be a housewife. Like a cool one, from the 50s. I tidied his house, made dinner, put on some scenic country music and welcomed him home from work with a smile and a hug.

And then we watched Pointless. The ultimate ending to any dream. Well, Alexander and Richard are an amazing team, after all. I don't mean to boast (well actually, that's technically a lie) but I was totally scoring some pretty low scores on the show...in the very near place to being pointless ;)

In other news, we went to see Cloud Atlas in the cinema as well. A much anticipated viewing and one of the best things about living here. Because poor old U.K isn't getting this film until March for some reason. It's kind of ridiculous really, that the film has been dubbed and translated into every language and shown to pretty much every other country by now, but it can't be shown in English. In the original English speaking country... seems a bit weird. Especially as I watched the film in English...in rural Switzerland.


Mind blowingly excellent, confusing and downright bizarre, it's a film I'm not going to forget for a while. The actors' numerous roles and disguises were just...amazing. The sheer vastness and depth of their transformations are something I never could have imagined possible, and what an amazing project it must have been to be a part of it. A stellar decision on the film maker's part to cast big names for every major and minor role. Beautiful.

The days are racing away with me lately, and I know it probably seems like the longest and most pointless countdown you've ever encountered- as I keep mentioning it in every blog- but it is literally only two weeks now until I am at the airport. A fortnight. Fourteen days. This doesn't seem like too much time left. And I'm running out of days here to say goodbye to people, or have last days of fun or try and get my head around the fact that when I leave, I might have to leave as someone who is alone, or forgotten about. Truthfully, there are only about five people who actually want to say goodbye to me. And I'm struggling to figure out whether I should bother having a 'leaving do' or just say goodbye to these few on their own and use my time with goodbyes to the only few people who might actually think of me occasionally after I leave.Why waste my time if I'm only a passing thought in a busy mind? I'm sure the five people here know who they are, and I'm pretty sure I've already been in discussions with all five about what we're gonna do for my last few days here. I hope I am still in touch with them all and that we can meet up other times in our homelands, or if I come back for visits.

What an amazing period of my life this has been, though. If I think back to the place where this blog started out, it's fascinating to track my progress here, and how completely things started to turn around. I was reading my bucket list that I wrote back in August, if some of you were reading back then, and this is shocking news but:
I fulfilled everything on the list.
Everything.

And I know it was only a mini one, for the months until I turned 22, but I did it. I did it all. I became it all. I made it all happen. And I did it all before I reached my birthday. I can't believe it.

So, even if those wacky Mayans are right...although as the wonderful Brad Paisley has tweeted:  "Using the Mayan calendar to say the world is going to end can't be right.The Mayan Swimsuit Calendar has a Miss January." But even if they are right, I'm pretty okay with what I've conquered in the last few months, and how far I've come, and how much I have matured and grown up in so many different ways...and it's given me a pretty laissez-faire attitude to life the last few weeks, as a few lucky people can attest to, of thinking "Well, if the world is going to end, I may as well do what I want to do, and not be scared of anything anymore" and that's a pretty empowering way to think. I guess that's why lots of people preach 'Live like it's your last day on Earth'. True that. Has anybody else been thinking like this lately? If so, I'd love to know I'm not alone in these wackadoodle thoughts.

Tuesday Wednesday break my heart, Thursday doesn't even start

Hey guys, it's Wednesday here on my blog, and you know what that means...sorry, totally borrowed some terminology from my favourite Youtube Vlogger, Daily Grace. I wish I was a Vlogger. But I don't have a good enough camera. Or enough gumption to make the effort with makeup on a daily basis. Or enough of a strong will to not be scared of the mass amount of trollers who peruse Youtube just looking for trouble. Has anyone else encountered severe nausea when they see a comment with loads of replies? Or when you see a comment has been hidden due to low rating and you just have to click the 'Show the comment' button...and then are promptly shocked and upset by the sheer volume of terrible grammar, spelling and vast illogic of those comments you read.

Anywho, enough of a rant. Today it is only three weeks, 21 days, until both D-day and my B-day. I will be at the airport checking in in three weeks time. What?? In a way, I am so incredibly shocked that the time has gone so quickly and that I already have to leave. But in another way, I feel like the past few weeks have been in stop motion extra slow time in a sort of space time continum and I've been waiting forever for the actual moment of departure to arrive. There's a couple of last minute things I have been stressing about sorting out. But luckily I seem to have gained a handle on most of these and am not really worried about anything. Except for my baggage allowance at the airport. I considered maybe buying just 3 extra kg of weight so I could bring a few more shoes or coats home but it was going to cost me 80 pounds for just three!!! So that's not really an option. I also considered just stuffing my hand luggage full and trying not to wince or fall over when trying to lift it into the overhead locker. But, apparently, they've now started weighing hand luggage in lots of airports and if it gets to be over 10kg then I'm in big trouble. I'm taking home Christmas presents as well, so there's even more extra weight. Then I was advised that maybe I should ship a load of stuff home. But knowing the way things go in this country, it'd cost me an arm and a leg to pay for just one box. So, here it is, the only solution: I have to give a load of stuff away to charity (if I can find a drop off point) or else just throw perfectly good clothes out. First world problems.

Think I finally understand what Hall and Oates are singing about...

Otherwise, things are pretty much sorting themselves out. I'm feeling very good about moving home and possibly have a few prospects lined up. One of which might involve a certain place I've only seen in my dizziest daydreams....a place so cheerful and saddening that I can only express my emotions via the medium of this song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tJoIaXZ0rw...and you can bet I'll have just the same spring in my step as Joseph Gordon-Levitt when going there.

Totally Photo Jacked...

Student Loan Company have sent me, along with every one else currently surfing the graduate wave of misery and worry, a lovely letter with the threat of a cheery fine, if we do not make sure to tell them ASAP about why we haven't gotten a job in the U.K and/or signed on to benefits. As someone currently abroad, I have been expecting this letter- which is a mix of panic and excitement on their part, like some Beliebers accidentally at a One Direction concert-with much apprehension. Thank goodness for mothers! My mum has replied to say, 'I'm sorry that my daughter has not filled in and signed your form straight away, she is returning home in a few weeks so please just wait until then.' I wish they'd just learn that, there's no point whatsoever of me filling it in just to say that I am signing on...or in the glorious and extremely rare chance that I do get a job, there's not a snowball's chance in hell that I'll be earning enough to pay off my loan anyway so I'm only going to be replying to say 'Sorry, I can't pay the loan back'...which they're already aware of...so it all seems a bit arbitrary! Is it just me? This is, however, one of the happiest things about moving home. They'll be able to track me much easier when back in the U.K so their letters will hopefully stop when they see that truly I am not in a very well-off financial situation.

Lately though I've been reading this book 'What Color [sic] is your parachute?' which is the worldwide best seller for job seekers...and it's amazing! I've gotten such new clarity about what I want from life and where I want to be and who I want to be there with, and that's why I've only started looking for jobs that I feel I will really be happy in. Because isn't that the most important thing? It's actually easier, I think, when you've never been rich, and never had the brains to be a doctor or a good lawyer (note the good...) or an astronaut so was never going to have a wealthy career, and you've never really desired to be rich, because I'm finding it pretty okay with myself to just look for happiness rather than money. And most importantly, I want a chance to use my key skills: creativity, sense of humour, planning, and charisma..and I'm just hoping something shows up that let's me use all of these.

I also wrote a list of every lesson I've learnt while living here...and it's an illuminating list, that's for sure, with upwards of 10 life lessons learnt. I'm really proud of myself for learning.

OH BOY!!!

I've been some fun with friends...and, as can be seen in this picture, I'm attracting a high calibre of interesting and unique people.
Two questions: *Does man A have a mini torch around his neck??
*Does man B have a brush in his hands or has his air guitar suddenly materialised as a real life guitar??

Everything here in Basel is so beautiful at this time of year and it is a stunning place to experience my favourite time of the year. The lights are just astounding. And they've really gone all out with the Christmas market. Plus, Starbucks has a festive coffee here that is unavailable in the U.K. Cranberry and White Chocolate Mocha. Haven't tried it yet, because I'm still trying to work out whether I find it gross or yummy. It looks really pretty when someone orders it...but cranberry makes me think of the preventative measures of my parents to stop our dogs ruining the grass when they pee....and one time I had a white chocolate hot chocolate with a TAD too much water and it was...DISGUSTING! So, not really geared up to try it yet. But I will. For you guys.

So, that's really it for this week's entry, I will finish with some dialogue from a favourite movie of mine. Bonus points to any readers who can NAME. THAT. MOVIE.!
"You keep on living the dream, Tim."
"DONE!"

It's the Most Wonderful time of the year....if you're a stinky plant

As the end of November rapidly approaches, like a lion with a deer's hindquarters in his periphereal vision, so do the spectacles of the Christmas season start to appear. There is much of it that is so delightful, and the Baslers have really done a superb job of decoration with some really classy lights spread over all their shop fronts, and the streets so beautifully lit up. Plus, last week giant Christmas trees were deposited throughout the region, ready to be hung with cheer.

Tomorrow the Christmas market is starting up here and it's quite exciting to go to a genuine German market, rather than an imitation one in the U.K. Perhaps the coolest thing in my opinion though is the WunschBuch, or wish book, which is being set up in the town hall, for locals and tourists alike to write down their wishes for the future, their Santa lists, or just their general thoughts. The temptation to dedicate an entire page to me, myself and I, is pretty overwhelming. A word of caution to myself, don't give yourself too much free reign...who knows where your terrifying mind will take you! Such a lovely idea though, everybody should get to write in a wish book!

Of course, the Santa Claus equivalent for Switzerland, Nikki Nacki, is coming to town the 6th December so the children will be all sugared up and ready to go mental even earlier than they would be at home. It's interesting how the celebrations differ.

I found myself yesterday being a bit of a street cynic. There I was, rushing to Starbucks for an hour of my much loved me time, where I indulge in reading something on my Kindle, having a coffee, and usually some sort of pastry and enjoying the free Wifi for checking my emails. It's my Tuesday afternoon tradition. As soon as I got off a tram, a woman clearly addicted to drugs, struggled over to me to beg for money. I wasn't about to give away my last francs to an addict when I myself was basically unemployed and, if not for kind friends, would be homeless. I shook my head no and rushed on. Next, a man tried to get me to do a survey about something. I just couldn't be bothered trying to say 'I don't speak German' so I just ran past him to. Eventually I got into Starbucks and had my blissful time as normal, but my mood soured a bit when I was once more back on the streets. This time an entire family, I think they were Spanish, were singing some music together while the father played the guitar. Now, why do people think that children singing automatically renders a tip?? There was this one child in the family who had the most horrible nasal tone of voice who was murdering the song. If it had just been the father singing I might have tipped them, he had a lovely voice like an acoustic Enrique Iglesias but I just didn't want to tip them because then they would have assumed it was because a child was singing and I didn't want to award a lack of talent. I felt like Simon Cowell. She just didn't have the X Factor. Gimicks don't impress me much, or Shania either.


Last Friday I went out to Paddys with my Hungarian friend Rita. We wanted to go to the nightclub. We arrived at 9 something and enjoyed a drink or two and talked to some people. Then we decided we would go outside for five minutes to get some air. In the mean time the bouncers had arrived. So we need to go through them to get back in. One of them asks me for ID. Bit unusual but I hand it over. He looks in confusion at it so I say 'It says I'm 21. I'm 21' thinking to myself, I'm legal in every country! Then he says 'Sorry, you have to be over 23 to come in.' What??? What sort of a stupid cut off age is 23?? Furiously we stand outside, watching everybody else get in no problem, majorly annoyed that if we hadn't gone outside, we could have gone straight into the night club no problem. We contemplated whether someone would help us climb up the wall in through the smoking room, without getting caught by the bouncers. We saw some blonde girls standing smoking. We go over and Rita asks 'Can we borrow your ID?' They instead give us an idea. Handing our coats and bags over to the girls inside, we tied our hair back and marched towards the bouncers in our bare arms in one degree temperatures. Looking casual, we saunter around the queue and say 'We just stepped out for a minute, can we just go back in?' They reply 'New policy, you have to re-queue' No mention is made of previously seeing us there, or us being 'underage'. We queue. When we reach the front, we are waved through no questions asked, to the tumultous anthem of 'Celebrate, good times, come on!' Laughing hysterically, we are set to enjoy an evening full of Fake Gyllenhall, coincidental Hungarians, hair touchers, fights and lots and lots of shouting of 'Cheers!' What a good night. This Friday: me and the girls are going out again. 

On the radio, we were all in hysterics over, amongst other things, puppets and stinky plants because, that's right, Basel is the proud owner of the world's biggest and most stinkiest plant. Apparently it smells like rotting flesh. Delightful. Must pay that one a visit!

In other news, I had such a relaxing shower this morning that by its conclusion, I literally felt like that Buddhist monk who meditated for so long that his legs simply dropped off. He is real. Look him up. So is the guy who is responsible for dressing street gods in their day time clothes and night time clothes in their little box. 'Do street gods wear pyjamas?' The title of my autobiography, coming soon to a back alley near you.

I'm just soaking up the last few weeks of my time here, which feel like they are passing by as fast as seconds. I'm majorly gutted to be leaving so many great people here before I've really had a chance to see what Switzerland has to offer for an entire year. Plus it's an absolute nightmare of a headache to try and cancel stupid obligatory health insurance and if I wasn't leaving then I wouldnt have to cancel it...but on flipside, would have to keep paying it. Hmmm...okay, maybe it's not so bad to try and cancel it.

I wish I wasn't stressed out about terminating my employment early, cancelling health insurance, baggage allowances, de-registering as a citizen because if I wasn't, I'd be able to completely let loose and go mental for these last four weeks- four weeks today actually aaaaah what??? Even so, I'm going to let loose. No flipping way am I going to work that last Monday and Tuesday. Nosiree, definitely stopping work the week before. I have to seek assurance from important people in my life that I am allowed to let someone down. I am, right? They fired me! Left me up Shizzstream without a paddle! I can not work those days, yeah? I don't really feel like getting insulted by two children as my last memories. There's places I'm dying to travel to before leaving...

a trip to Lucerne is on the cards, pleeeeeease yes let it happen!
and a trip to Bern hopefully
and a leaving party? I feel like I want to say goodbye to people, but can't be bothered organising an event if nobody is actually going to show up. There's probably only about five people who actually want to say goodbye to me here and they probably know who they are.

I definitely accidentally threw a glass of water at myself today. Perfection. Billy Joel was standing in the corner of the room, as I desperately mopped up the mass of water in soggy socks, gently strumming his guitar and singing 'She's Always a Woman to Me'. And he was right.