As I sit here, in a local coffee shop, I am simply perplexed by the apperance of the school girls in here. Now, I am certainly not one of these holier-than-thou women who complains about todays youth as if my childhood has been completely forgotten. But I just cannot believe how vain these girls are. Yes, their skirts are shorter, and they wear their ties really short and stubby but I am looking at one girl right now who has her shirt unbuttoned down to her bra. She looks about 13/14. Each of them has the same hairstyle; extreme side parting and long. Each of them are coyly taking it in turns to look at themselves in the window and adjust strands of hair to appear disheveled. Really? I only left school three years ago. When did these girls decide they want to appear as sexualised vagabonds?
We're in the statistically whitest/most middle-classed place in England. The only thing from keeping these girls from already having their second child on the way by their seventh sexual partner is their sheer ignorance and naivity from growing up in a place like this. Put them in an inner city school and the outcome would be very different. The class war continues...
Monday, 4 October 2010
Monday, 6 September 2010
Check
Okay, so I said I hate summer. Maybe I was a bit rash. Well, I wasn't because summer rather ironically pales in comparison to its sisters autumn and winter but there are is one thing about summer that is inescapble. Some songs, you can only listen to in the summer.
Two Can Play That Game by Bobby Brown *cringe and shy away* is, to be fair, a good example. Picture this- you're sitting on a train cutting through the grey washed outskirts of London, droplets dispersing as they hit the windows, then slide down on to the cold, hard tracks. You're listening to music through your headphones, you can feel them waiting to be used, sitting in your ear and you ponder what to put on. It's not Bobby Brown, is it?
Summer '10 song: The Cave- Mumford and Sons.
Two Can Play That Game by Bobby Brown *cringe and shy away* is, to be fair, a good example. Picture this- you're sitting on a train cutting through the grey washed outskirts of London, droplets dispersing as they hit the windows, then slide down on to the cold, hard tracks. You're listening to music through your headphones, you can feel them waiting to be used, sitting in your ear and you ponder what to put on. It's not Bobby Brown, is it?
Summer '10 song: The Cave- Mumford and Sons.
Woah there...
They were some pretty self-indulgent and (let's be honest) down-right depressing posts. But fear not, I've snapped out of it now.
Do you know what has really got me depressed? Apart from my life stalling? The fact that it's summer. That's right- I hate summer! "But summer is sunee and people are happee." Give a shit? Summer is nothing more than a brief spell of girls wearing no tights and trying their hand at wearing colour. Boys look the same all year round. Why boys insist on wearing no coat and instead opt for flip flops in winter, I'll never know.
Summer is the time of year when you go outside on a sun filled day and find yourself seeking shade under a tree or in an air conditioned shop because you have those annoying navy blue spots tap dancing across your retinas when you foolishly let your eyes wander anywhere but the floor. Summer is going out in a strapless dress and cursing yourself for not accounting for the inevitable breeze because, well, it's summer! Shame on you and your Cosmo-copied Kurt Geigers!
Autumn is the tingly feeling on your cheeks when you feel a cool brezze gently tickling your face into a smile. Autumn is wearing misty cashmere, not worrying that you look like a low hanging cloud because rain soaked morning strolls are the stuff life is made of. The satisfying draw of breath that chills the inside of your nose and catches ever so slightly in your throat is something I look forward to everytime I'm enduring a sweat fest on the Tube, willing the man standing next to me to retract his arm from leaning across me to clench the yellow pole as if it will save his life. It won't Mr. Sweaty, please take the bus next time.
Roll on Autumn and getting caught in that kind of rain where it's not wet enough to put up your umbrella but wet enough for you to seek shelter in a coffee shop and wish you actually liked coffee.
Do you know what has really got me depressed? Apart from my life stalling? The fact that it's summer. That's right- I hate summer! "But summer is sunee and people are happee." Give a shit? Summer is nothing more than a brief spell of girls wearing no tights and trying their hand at wearing colour. Boys look the same all year round. Why boys insist on wearing no coat and instead opt for flip flops in winter, I'll never know.
Summer is the time of year when you go outside on a sun filled day and find yourself seeking shade under a tree or in an air conditioned shop because you have those annoying navy blue spots tap dancing across your retinas when you foolishly let your eyes wander anywhere but the floor. Summer is going out in a strapless dress and cursing yourself for not accounting for the inevitable breeze because, well, it's summer! Shame on you and your Cosmo-copied Kurt Geigers!
Autumn is the tingly feeling on your cheeks when you feel a cool brezze gently tickling your face into a smile. Autumn is wearing misty cashmere, not worrying that you look like a low hanging cloud because rain soaked morning strolls are the stuff life is made of. The satisfying draw of breath that chills the inside of your nose and catches ever so slightly in your throat is something I look forward to everytime I'm enduring a sweat fest on the Tube, willing the man standing next to me to retract his arm from leaning across me to clench the yellow pole as if it will save his life. It won't Mr. Sweaty, please take the bus next time.
Roll on Autumn and getting caught in that kind of rain where it's not wet enough to put up your umbrella but wet enough for you to seek shelter in a coffee shop and wish you actually liked coffee.
Veins shouldn't be airbrushed.
These shoes were made for a summer picnic breakfast with best friends on a bench at the top of Primrose Hill next to a quiet four year old girl called Indigo.
The Inbetweener
This space between living and existing is monotonous and the simple pleasures I once valued are long forgotten. This is an attempt to remind myself that not everything was so mundane.
The light flutter of my eye lids rouses me from a depth of a slumber so deep it feels like the sharp intake of breath after diving into freezing water. My eyes sting from their lack of use and adjust unwillingly whilst my mind fights to wake up. All I see is a haze of light washing into the room hastening consciousness. I feel the bags under my eyes, and recollect that they must be a consequence of waking myself up fifteen times in the middle of the night so as to automatically pull back my cuartain and check the stars are still there. This is something I've done ever since I can remember and this small, insignificant routine now seems the sad echo of a girl whose greatest pleasure was once lying under a blanket with nothing but the stars and a long gone love for company. They are a glinting reminder of the cherished few moments shared with a man who had sand papery hands and a sweet, pleasantly musty smell. Steady, muffled thuds on a carpeted floor intrude upon my lighhtness and this is the moment when there is a feeling around my middle that reminds me that I have things to do, roles to fill, expectations to live up to.
I like the inbetween.
The light flutter of my eye lids rouses me from a depth of a slumber so deep it feels like the sharp intake of breath after diving into freezing water. My eyes sting from their lack of use and adjust unwillingly whilst my mind fights to wake up. All I see is a haze of light washing into the room hastening consciousness. I feel the bags under my eyes, and recollect that they must be a consequence of waking myself up fifteen times in the middle of the night so as to automatically pull back my cuartain and check the stars are still there. This is something I've done ever since I can remember and this small, insignificant routine now seems the sad echo of a girl whose greatest pleasure was once lying under a blanket with nothing but the stars and a long gone love for company. They are a glinting reminder of the cherished few moments shared with a man who had sand papery hands and a sweet, pleasantly musty smell. Steady, muffled thuds on a carpeted floor intrude upon my lighhtness and this is the moment when there is a feeling around my middle that reminds me that I have things to do, roles to fill, expectations to live up to.
I like the inbetween.
It's been a while...
March was my last blog. So what's changed? In a word- everything. In another word- nothing. Confused? So am I. I seem to have aged one hundred years in just a few short weeks.
I graduated, thus I am officially an adult. I became an auntie so now have the responsibility of my new role. And I've been let down by just about everyone. All of this in the space of about six weeks.
I sit hear at my desk in the semi-dark with the patter of raindrops on my window and the dull boom of the television downstairs telling myself that I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. I've just realised that I say that because it is easy.
What I want to do is to sit in a tea shop in Hampstead, cut pictures out of magazines and stick them in my scrap book. I want to roam around a tucked away book shop browsing for hours just to randomly pick a book that I know I'll only half-read. But most of all, I don't want to have to worry about what anybody will think of my lack of city hardened ambition. My brain has cost £20,000 and I don't even want to have to use it.
I want to look but not see. I want to listen but not hear. I want time.
That's what university was for though, right? That's what I told everyone, anyway. Me going to university was three years of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life; the restbite between youth and adulthood. And now I am confronted with adulthood I find myself yearning for everything to stop.
Just stop.
But I can still hear the muffled conversation from the television below me.
I graduated, thus I am officially an adult. I became an auntie so now have the responsibility of my new role. And I've been let down by just about everyone. All of this in the space of about six weeks.
I sit hear at my desk in the semi-dark with the patter of raindrops on my window and the dull boom of the television downstairs telling myself that I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. I've just realised that I say that because it is easy.
What I want to do is to sit in a tea shop in Hampstead, cut pictures out of magazines and stick them in my scrap book. I want to roam around a tucked away book shop browsing for hours just to randomly pick a book that I know I'll only half-read. But most of all, I don't want to have to worry about what anybody will think of my lack of city hardened ambition. My brain has cost £20,000 and I don't even want to have to use it.
I want to look but not see. I want to listen but not hear. I want time.
That's what university was for though, right? That's what I told everyone, anyway. Me going to university was three years of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life; the restbite between youth and adulthood. And now I am confronted with adulthood I find myself yearning for everything to stop.
Just stop.
But I can still hear the muffled conversation from the television below me.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Music for the Mind
And what a long time it's been since I've been here. A million things have happened since then, my favourtie of which has to be the rediscovery of Don't Go Away. My. God. I forgot just how beautiful this song is. As is Cast No Shadow and I have decided that probably the most perfect place to listen to these songs would be in the long shadow of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro at sunset. Okay, so I've never been to South America, let alone Brazil but that is beside the point. There are songs where your imagination roams and completely transports you to another world and this is what these songs do for me.
I saw Noel do an acoustic gig for TCT at the RAH and I got chills. Literally. The ambience harked back to when I saw Oasis at Wembley Stadium last summer and the crowd sung Don't Look Back in Anger by themselves. I also saw The Who do Quadrophenia that week which I think may have changed my life. I'm always nostalgic for eras played out before my years and whilst I may have been looking at the thinning grey hair of Roger Daltry instead of the permed lions mane of yesteryear, the energy yet simplicity of the whole thing really hit home for me and I thought that what they were saying was totally applicable to me. Even though I'm a random little girl from the Home Counties. Rebellion and all that, right? Tom Meighan came out and played the bell boy and just completed it for me. His presence immediately lifted the whole show and his swagger is, I think, unrivalled. Liam Gallagher was supposed to be there, but instead he was in Disney Land with his fam. Fact.
Well this year I have seen my four favourite bands. Kasabian, The Who, Prodigy and Oasis. Well...sort of. Roll on Glastonbury...
I saw Noel do an acoustic gig for TCT at the RAH and I got chills. Literally. The ambience harked back to when I saw Oasis at Wembley Stadium last summer and the crowd sung Don't Look Back in Anger by themselves. I also saw The Who do Quadrophenia that week which I think may have changed my life. I'm always nostalgic for eras played out before my years and whilst I may have been looking at the thinning grey hair of Roger Daltry instead of the permed lions mane of yesteryear, the energy yet simplicity of the whole thing really hit home for me and I thought that what they were saying was totally applicable to me. Even though I'm a random little girl from the Home Counties. Rebellion and all that, right? Tom Meighan came out and played the bell boy and just completed it for me. His presence immediately lifted the whole show and his swagger is, I think, unrivalled. Liam Gallagher was supposed to be there, but instead he was in Disney Land with his fam. Fact.
Well this year I have seen my four favourite bands. Kasabian, The Who, Prodigy and Oasis. Well...sort of. Roll on Glastonbury...
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Bon Iver
It's very rare that I find an album that I can listen to the whole way through. The nearest I have gotten to finding such an album is Arctic Monkeys' Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not, but even then, I don't like Riot Van or Perhaps Vampires Is A Bit Strong But... Also, Fat of the Land by The Prodigy is a favourite of mine.
But my best friend Carla Bradman may just have changed my life a little bit. She made me an album out of the kindness of her heart. Here are the track listing:
1. Wake Up- The Arcade Fire
2. Skinny Love- Bon Iver
3. You Cheated Me- Martha Wainwright
4. Both Sides Now- The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
5. Bury My Head- Kate Walsh
6. So Here We Are- Bloc Party
7. Call Me Ishmael - Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly.
8. One Way Or Another- Blondie
9. Voodoo Child- Jimi Hendrix
10. Let's dance- David Bowie
11. Suspicious Minds- Elvis Presley
12. Country Girl- Primal Scream
I first listened to the album the whole way through on the Met line going into town to meet the lovely Carla and Wendy. I stopped in my tracks (see what I did there?) when Skinny Love came on. It was the most beautifully haunting, melancholy song I have ever heard and since I have been a good girl all year, Father Christmas gave me Bon Iver's album for Christmas.
Since then, I approximate that I have spent literally 48 hours listening to this one album. One day, on a bleak January afternoon when I was in the mood for a little bit of wallowing, I listened to For Emma, Forever Ago six times in a row. Usually when I get a new album that I love, I listen to select songs on it over and over, but that's nothing compared to how much I've listen to For Emma, Forever Ago.
The Wolves (Act I and II) seems to speak directly to your soul or whatever you want to call it. It's the song of choice if I need to aimlessly think or more often than not, cry. The song's layers seem to in themselves describe the pain, loss and yearning the heart feels. The delicate lyrics, guitar and voice combine seamlessly to produce one of the songs that is underrated, yet timeless. I can wile away days listening to this song.
But my best friend Carla Bradman may just have changed my life a little bit. She made me an album out of the kindness of her heart. Here are the track listing:
1. Wake Up- The Arcade Fire
2. Skinny Love- Bon Iver
3. You Cheated Me- Martha Wainwright
4. Both Sides Now- The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
5. Bury My Head- Kate Walsh
6. So Here We Are- Bloc Party
7. Call Me Ishmael - Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly.
8. One Way Or Another- Blondie
9. Voodoo Child- Jimi Hendrix
10. Let's dance- David Bowie
11. Suspicious Minds- Elvis Presley
12. Country Girl- Primal Scream
I first listened to the album the whole way through on the Met line going into town to meet the lovely Carla and Wendy. I stopped in my tracks (see what I did there?) when Skinny Love came on. It was the most beautifully haunting, melancholy song I have ever heard and since I have been a good girl all year, Father Christmas gave me Bon Iver's album for Christmas.
Since then, I approximate that I have spent literally 48 hours listening to this one album. One day, on a bleak January afternoon when I was in the mood for a little bit of wallowing, I listened to For Emma, Forever Ago six times in a row. Usually when I get a new album that I love, I listen to select songs on it over and over, but that's nothing compared to how much I've listen to For Emma, Forever Ago.
The Wolves (Act I and II) seems to speak directly to your soul or whatever you want to call it. It's the song of choice if I need to aimlessly think or more often than not, cry. The song's layers seem to in themselves describe the pain, loss and yearning the heart feels. The delicate lyrics, guitar and voice combine seamlessly to produce one of the songs that is underrated, yet timeless. I can wile away days listening to this song.
The Last Jew
I'm reading The Last Jew by Yoram Kaniuk at the moment and it is the most frustrating read of my life. And I'm only on page nineteen.
Boaz has lost his memory and the disjointed, heavy narrative reflects this and evokes the frustration within you that Boaz must be experiencing. Whilst clever, I am trying really hard to give this book a chance. I gave up earlier with 1984. I often find myself having to retrace his steps and go back three pages to understand what I'm reading, again reflecting Boaz's loss of memory.
The narrative harks of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time with its anal detailing and fast pace. But whilst frustrating, this is, I suppose, what makes Yoram Kaniuk a great writer and the fact that he is able to evoke such a strong emotion from me, and believe me it is a strong emotion, only stands at testament to his intelligent structure and narrative flair.
I'll keep updating...if I can stop blogging/procrastinating enough to read another nineteen pages.
Boaz has lost his memory and the disjointed, heavy narrative reflects this and evokes the frustration within you that Boaz must be experiencing. Whilst clever, I am trying really hard to give this book a chance. I gave up earlier with 1984. I often find myself having to retrace his steps and go back three pages to understand what I'm reading, again reflecting Boaz's loss of memory.
The narrative harks of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time with its anal detailing and fast pace. But whilst frustrating, this is, I suppose, what makes Yoram Kaniuk a great writer and the fact that he is able to evoke such a strong emotion from me, and believe me it is a strong emotion, only stands at testament to his intelligent structure and narrative flair.
I'll keep updating...if I can stop blogging/procrastinating enough to read another nineteen pages.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Road to Revolution
It seems that whilst I'm stressing out over my essay/exams, everyone else seems to be on the happy bandwagon, knowing exactly what direction life is taking them in and anxiously waiting for their life to begin. I for one have no clue where I'm going or what I'm going to be doing in six months when this mad roller coster that is university suddenly comes grinding to a halt.
Ever since reading Revolutionary Road all that I know is that I am determined to lead an existence as far from that of the Wheeler's as possible. I don't care if that means living off next to nothing and that I am unable to grace Selfridges with my money-laden presence for a while. Before university, it was my dream to have a well paid job and a gorgeous home, preferably somewhere like Notting Hill or Primrose Hill; any hill seemed fine with me. But over these past three years I have changed so much an I've decided that I want to dedicate myself to doing some good, helping someone whilst I am in a position and frame of mind to do so.
It has now, suddenly and with breath taking vigour become apparent that I want to go somewhere, anywhere where somebody needs my help. I don't care if it's India, Argentina or Uganda; if someone needs my help then there I'll be.
When I left school, my English Literature teacher, Rachel Brindly, gave each of her students a card with a bespoke quote in it. For me, it was from Henry VI by William Shakespeare:
The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
At the time, I did not understand it at all. Only now, at 21, am I starting to not only understand it, but I'm beginning to want other people to understand it- understand that after war, poverty and hunger, innocence is completely stripped from a person, and when they have lost their innocence, they are no become human, but someone with a tarnished soul and no hope.
No, I won't have a house on a hill anytime soon, and maybe this passion will burn out when my innate Wheeler rears its perfectly coifed head to call me back to suburbia, but for now I'm going to keep a tight hold onto this innocence that I feel has enabled me to stand bold and resolute in a society whose antipathy for the innocent has resulted in the loss of hope.
So off I go on my own little crusade and for now, at least, this seems enough.
Ever since reading Revolutionary Road all that I know is that I am determined to lead an existence as far from that of the Wheeler's as possible. I don't care if that means living off next to nothing and that I am unable to grace Selfridges with my money-laden presence for a while. Before university, it was my dream to have a well paid job and a gorgeous home, preferably somewhere like Notting Hill or Primrose Hill; any hill seemed fine with me. But over these past three years I have changed so much an I've decided that I want to dedicate myself to doing some good, helping someone whilst I am in a position and frame of mind to do so.
It has now, suddenly and with breath taking vigour become apparent that I want to go somewhere, anywhere where somebody needs my help. I don't care if it's India, Argentina or Uganda; if someone needs my help then there I'll be.
When I left school, my English Literature teacher, Rachel Brindly, gave each of her students a card with a bespoke quote in it. For me, it was from Henry VI by William Shakespeare:
The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
At the time, I did not understand it at all. Only now, at 21, am I starting to not only understand it, but I'm beginning to want other people to understand it- understand that after war, poverty and hunger, innocence is completely stripped from a person, and when they have lost their innocence, they are no become human, but someone with a tarnished soul and no hope.
No, I won't have a house on a hill anytime soon, and maybe this passion will burn out when my innate Wheeler rears its perfectly coifed head to call me back to suburbia, but for now I'm going to keep a tight hold onto this innocence that I feel has enabled me to stand bold and resolute in a society whose antipathy for the innocent has resulted in the loss of hope.
So off I go on my own little crusade and for now, at least, this seems enough.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
New Year, New Start?
Am I the only person who thinks that there is absolutely no difference between 31st December and 1st January to any other two consecutive day? I feign enthusiasm when my friends text or call me wishing me a happy new year but inside I am mentally rolling my eyes. 'But New Years are about new starts! You can be whatever you want to be now! Nothing's holding you back now!' Really?
2010 represents nothing more to me than the year I graduate and step forth into the world in the hope of avoiding a Revolutionary Road style life. I love it when people dress and act in a completely different way because they want to make a 'new start.' Note to self: that's not you! Stop convincing yourself that you can be anything else than you already are.
Take me for example. I spent New Years with the only man in my life that matters: Harry Potter. Best. New. Year. Ever. Harry Potter, pyjamas, popcorn and a blue moon. What more could you want?The first week of January sees the optimistic among us enrolling at the gym whilst wearing clean lines and sharp tailoring. Don't make me laugh. Magazines are reflecting the fact that we don't know what the hell is going to be the trademark outfit of this new decade. Just look at the new spring trends: floral, military, underwear as outerwear, flats, corsetry, the 'new trench'- let's face it; nobody really knows what's going on for 2010.
So now we come to the moral arc where we learn something and feel ever so slightly smug about ourselves; be yourself. Want to wear heels? Do it. Want to go out in North London even though it's all about East? Stay at home because you are obviously too concerned with what everyone else is doing.
Me? I'm going to take each day as it comes and wear my floral tea dress with my All Saints boots not because Vogue or Elle has told me to, but because I look fierce when I do so.
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