Yuletide Cheer

Now that the festive season is upon us, I feel I should spread a little Yuletide cheer for those still scroogin' about this snowy mid-December (you know who you are). I have travelled back to the Shire for a few weeks, where in just 70 hours I have reverted back to awkward-teenagerdom. I pile my washing high for the chore-fairy to sort, I cook nothing, I leave my room in a mess, and I sit by the fire all evening, nice and toasty. In a word, it is wonderful. There is something delicious about being next to a roaring log fire, while sleet pounds against the windows. Christmastime is a season which I enter into with gusto. I love the songs, the cheesy television, the chestnuts, the general food excess, the last-minute shopping (although I am usually finished by November), and of course, the lovely little family 'disagreements'. When I have fed my Grandad too much rum, and there are no more noisette triangles left, merriness quickly dissipates in murderous stares and pointed silences. However, should this event occur this year, I have been squirreling rations away into my room, where I can happily while away a good few hours snaffling orange cremes. Although I won't get to spend Christmas Day with my lovely boyfriend, I can selfishly spend hours on the telephone to him, and having stepfamilies unequivocally means at least two huuuugggeeeee meals. Indeed, this year, December 27th is the day for the great big family barbecue, to commemorate the new 'pond' at my Dad's house. Instead of the traditional sprouts and turkey, we are all going to slowly freeze while my Dad flips burgers. I think this may be a new Christmas diet, losing pounds through hypothermia. We have a trampoline too, which I may edge towards in an attempt to get the blood flowing. Nevertheless, even if the kebabs burn and the salad wilts, and on the big day itself, if I miss the noisette triangles altogether, I will smile all day and sing to the rooftops. Merry Christmas!

Sky Apple Cafe Review

The long and winding stretch of Heaton Road houses a secret. I don’t mean the singular ATM, nor am I referring to the New-Age Church. Nestled in between two of the more generic eateries, the vegetarian Sky Apple Cafe reigns supreme. Painted in a royal blue and striking purple, this cafe/restaurant is the siren-call of the food industry. You would be forgiven for maiming your car as you drive past, transfixed by the giant blue apple covering the window. This cafe is all about the first impressions; what it lacks in size it makes up for in image, style and finesse. And of course, absolutely scrumptious food.

With a bi-monthly menu makeover, the cafe draws in people from near and far without fail. With only eight tables (of varying sizes), if you don’t book you are likely to be disappointed. However, if you are super-organised and get your name down early, you can enjoy yummy veggie food in quirky surroundings. The front of house staff are so friendly they make me want to weep, and are unfailingly beautiful. Never before have I wanted so badly to be ‘one of them’, almost like my (previous) adoration of B*Witched. A jug of water is standard, with lemon and tiny tumblers – there is no alcohol license, but the off-license down the road sell cheap wine, and the cafe owners are happy for you to bring a bottle (for a small corkage charge). Soft drinks come in the form of good ol’ Fentimans, exotic juices and a selection of posh teas, to name but a few. The window-sill is laden down with magazines, books and leaflets, and daily specials are chalked up on the wall (painted to look like a sunny sky = genius).

The food is simply amazing. I could fill this review with adjectives, and not even skim the surface of my appreciation of the resident chef. Such is my love of the menu; I would gladly use my entire student loan to hire them to cook for me every night. What they achieve with mushrooms is beyond me. If the menu wasn’t laminated, my saliva would smudge the ink. They bandy about gems like ‘toasted pine nuts’, ‘blue cheese dressing’ and ‘slow roasted aubergine’ with true gusto.

To make your visit even more exciting, there are different daytime and evening menus. Paying a visit between 12pm and 4.30pm gives you the opportunity to feast on their ‘proper chips’. Sit them next to any of their fresh-made Paninis and you’re onto a winner. Although the evening menu is regularly changing, I would personally recommend any of the starters; just the other day I polished off the delectable ‘Pumpkin and Blue Cheese Smushi’. Reasonably priced too, considering they’re jam-packed full of exciting ingredients (fried sage and saffron, anyone?) For the main course, there’s usually a choice of five dishes, using local and seasonal produce. The attention to detail is fantastic – my green beans were all cut to the same size and bow-tied in a piece of lemongrass!

To finish off your evening (by now you will feel pretty full of wholesome goodness), why not sample one of their delicious puddings? No fancy pants nonsense here, this month you can experience Heaton Mess, apple and lavender brulee tart, or mango truffle cake. All are guaranteed to leave that lovely tingly feeling in your stomach, and I only wish there were beanbags so I could curl up for a nap.

So head down to Heaton, and support your local veggie feast-house. If you can drag yourself out of bed on a Sunday, they do a mean fry-up, guaranteed to set you on the road to recovery. A life-affirming experience, with enough change to get the bus back to town!

Up-To-Date

My lips are blue. Not, as one may imagine, some bizarre twenty-first century make-up choice, but the result of sleeping inside an igloo. You see, I have recently (ish) moved out of my mushroom-growing, mould-spreading, damp little flat into a glorious and beautiful house with my three girlfriends. Despite the obvious perks (no more spores growing on my lungs), it transpires that our house is possibly the coldest in the British North-East. And that is rather cold. Last night, I shivered myself to sleep in pyjamas, socks, six blankets and a duvet, sandwiching my head between two pillows. These precautions, however, were futile, as I jolted awake at some ungodly hour with my lips swollen and purplish-blue. This facial disfiguration, although painful and horrendous at 3am, does not stop me adoring my new abode. I have spread my belongings as far and wide as the hallway, living-room, upstairs cupboard and shed-in-the-yard. I have bought new pans. I even have plants, which are flourishing (well, not dying). In a word, I am loving it. Ok, that is two words, but my joy is such that I feel compelled to break the rules. Because of this, I can handle a restricted facial blood-flow.

Autumn has officially embraced the North-East. Piles of leaves litter the floor, there is condensation on my window, I favour woolly tights and scarves, and I am drinking lots of hot milk. Summer is a distant memory; more so than a couple of months, actually, seeing as we didn't actually have a decent summer this year. I spent my time scuttling around the country, slaving away to earn a few pennies, and promptly spending them all on a brand new laptop. This excites me, even though I don't actually know how to use the laptop yet. I also won a lovely place on an Arvon course in Shropshire, which took many hours to get to, but was absolutely fantastic. I also volunteered at Latitude festival with Holly, which was fun (apart from the blisteringly cold and miserable eight-hour shift running from midnight to 8am). None of these, however, can compare to our VERY VERY EXCITING trip to Neeewwwwww Yoooorrrrrkkkkk.

Yes! I traversed the land to stay with Anthony and his family, accompanied once more by Holly. We shamelessly did all the touristy things, spend inordinate amounts of money, ate all the American food (a lot) and learnt the lingo. The nine-hour flight was a small mark on the trip, but a week swimming in Anthony's pool, playing baseball and hanging at the mall (oh yes, I know how these things go) was fantastic. I would definitely recommend America, if you can ignore the Americanness of it.

Shortish post, but this is more of an info-filler than a hoot. I have work to do (Hollyoaks, Sky Apple Cafe, Cluny Craft Market, town shopping)

Green Tea and Sympathy

I have just dropped my biscuit into my tea. Normally, this would only be a minor crisis, alleviated by a scooping action with my finger, but today it is a global disaster. You see, my goldfish died yesterday. At the risk of sounding five-years-old, I really loved him (and yes, he was a him, not an 'it') - I bought him lots of treats, I cleaned him out religiously, I played with him to stop boredom (on both our parts). Now that he has passed onto the goldfishy heaven, there is a gaping hole in my heart, which I am filling with green tea and sympathy. Saying that, I am only drinking green tea because I have no milk to make 'proper' tea - consequently I have a funny taste in my mouth all day, but my body gets 'flushed of toxins and impurities from the inside out'. A fair trade, I would say.

I'm moving house this Tuesday, and the pile of boxes in my room now almost reach the window-sill (which is pretty high) - my bedroom has become an obstacle course, where you are likely to be bludgeoned on any number of the beautiful things littering my floor. I have shopped like no other these past few weeks, draining my overdraft like a heroin addict with his last hit. In retrospect, perhaps I did have no need for the oil and vinegar drizzlers, but they look so pretty and the girl in the shop was lovely. This is how it works for me - be nice, and I will just throw my money at you. Good job I'm not into prostitutes.

Anyhow, heartfelt sympathy from friends has travelled my way, and I am pulling myself together today. Going to bed at half past 4 in the morning hasn't done a great deal for my complexion, or sense of wakefulness, but I'm hoping this green tea will counterbalance that. Failing that, I'm sure I hid half a bottle of wine somewhere...

Pensioners into Poetry

Lack of inspiration drives me crazy. People who think writing poetry is a simple flourish of the wrist can go gallivant in a faraway field, for all the use they are to me. For weeks now, I have been desperately tugging at the creative cords wiring my brain, willing myself to unleash a flow of energy which Wordsworth himself could be proud of. (Note to self: you are not, will not, and could not ever compare)...

So, hunched over my notebook at my semi-job in the art gallery back in Lincolnshire, I bristle at a man who wrinkles his nose when I tell him I study English Literature. He sniffs as if I am leprous, taking a step back, although it could be my ghost-pale skin - I have been trying a write-by-night technique, which attempts to force my brain into submission by depriving myself sleep until I write something bearable. If we actually rewind the past five minutes he has been making conversation, whilst eyeing my electric-blue tights, you will understand why I was not his biggest fan. After casually sauntering over, watching me scribble for a few seconds, and then asking disdainfully 'you're not one of those university types, are you?', I knew our conversation was going to be 'interesting'. When I had said, as sweetly as I could with my teeth bared, that yes, in fact I was one of those 'university types', he then nodded knowledgeably, and announced 'ah, well you'll be doing medicine then'. Medicine. Is that the only degree that people 70+ think is on offer? When I corrected him, AND gave the double whammy of my study location of good ol' Newcastle, he positively flinched and walked into the next exhibition. There I could see him taking peeps at me while he recounted his wife, who seemed to be telling him off.

So, back to the drawing board. I decided that the morning's writing was a waste, as I was clearly going to be attacked on all sides by irritating members of the general public (I was accosted by a child about to urinate on the floor, a pensioner who had forgotten who she was travelling with, somebody who wanted a wall-hanging different to every single one we had in stock, and a lady asking if she could take a cutting of our decorative rope for her washing-line). It was only a few days later, when I sat down (again) at my cluttered desk, with a cup of tea and some blackberries, that I realised I had casually been sketching my accosters into my notebook. And so, I decided to work them into my writing somehow - watch this space. Suffering for your art is one thing, but turning pensioners into poetry is entirely another.

Drumming Up Interest

These past few days, I have been co-ordinating children's summer events in and around my hometown. I bridge the gap between the long, boring days of bad-weather summer, and the excitement of twenty pre-pubescents drumming on bongos in one room with no sound-proofing. In my efforts to make sure all children get to the right workshop, all registers are filled, all money is exchanged, all consent forms are provided, and all mums are satisfied...I am shattered. Bone-achingly, mind-numbingly knackered. Now I know a fair few single mums who struggle, but after a day of caring for thirty-two 8-12 year olds, I would have gladly wedged a screaming, teething baby to my hip and sung 'twinkle twinkle' until the small hours.

The thing is, children today seem so dissatisfied with life. I am not animated (apart from in the first hour, when the headache hasn't fully-formed), I do not flash different colours, I do not have an interesting name, and if you push the X button, I will not kung-fu kick my opponent. The caretaker was lovely, and I have no desire to harm him in any way.

Yes, we live in the age of the video-gaming console. Without tarring all children with the same brush, many young people speak solely the language of X-box, PSP and DS, and I am not fluent. Indeed, I am only a beginner, due my enjoyment of taking lead guitar in Rock Band. So, presenting twenty kids with large drums, which do not require a remote control or handset of any form, was bound to be interesting.

The result, I have to say, was fantastic. All of the drummers attacked with gusto, and came up with a pretty impressive sound, which could be heard on the street. I spent the first hour stationed outside the room, expecting tantrums from some of the younger participants. However, I waited in vain...even when the children emerged sweating and faint from their exertions, there was not a whimper of discontent.

Forgive the short post, but my experience this past week has been that if you take a child away from the computer, amazing things really can happen.

What a swine this flu is..

A long time without writing means I have forgotten how to entertain. This is coupled with the delights of being mothered in my native -shire, and the onset of swine flu. Consequently, I am not at my literate best, but I shall try my hardest not to fall asleep.
This has been the month of great adventures! A trip to New York to stay with our token American, Anthony (me and Holly braved the looonnnggggg flights). Needless to say, we had the best time ever, acting like true tourists doing all the sights of the city (Anthony was only slightly nervous at the top of the Empire State Building). I got terrorised in Jekyll and Hydes - an amazing gothic-themed restaurant - and was feet away from Robert Pattinson at one point (unbeknownst to me, alas!)
Upon our return, we had to wait only a few hours for our bags, which had decided to stay in London for a bit, then home to recover from the nasty jetlag which forced me to stay awake long into the night.
Next stop, Latitude Festival in Suffolk, which was lovely apart from the occasional torrential downpour and horrid night shifts. However, the saviour came in the form of ladies in vintage aprons, serving us tea with honey and home made cakes, which were d-i-v-i-n-e. Myself and Holly found further salvation in cheap wine, disco dancing and the Pretenders...a good weekend overall. We even managed to wangle a wee in the backstage toilets, which had MIRRORS and SEATS and REAL FLUSHES. Oh, how the other half live.

Now I'm home for a few weeks, stocking up on food, paracetamol and cash in the form of part-time work in kids clubs and art galleries. I am keeping this post short and sweet, assuming anybody is reading, as I feel the uncontrollable urge to be sick. Not from how rubbish I am at writing, but the effects of swine flu without Tamiflu.

Until next time...(if there is one - I really am not feeling fantastic)

By the Rivers of Babylon

Today, I ventured to a land far, far away with my friend. Tootling along in her Peugeot 106 (Suh), we stocked up on deliciousness in the form of cheese and celery sandwiches. I could leave it there to suggest a healthy picnic, but no! We also purchased a large bag of crisps and FOUR beautiful, delicious, glutinous Belgian chocolate cupcakes with chocolate fondant in the middle, chocolate chunks in the chocolate sponge, chocolate icing and chocolate shavings. We decided against the strawberry and vanilla flavour.

After approximately three minutes on Google, we selected Kielder Forest for our adventure. Not so far away that we never find our way back, but somewhere we can feel wholesome and full of life, whilst scoffing over 100% of our guideline daily saturated fat intake. After a quick rendezvous in M&S, we retrieved Suh and prepared for take-off. Which almost didn't happen. We hadn't even left the car-park, (which was rammed with Saturday shoppers) when some whippersnapper almost ploughed into us in his brand-new, shiny black vehicle. I may be over-exaggerating here, in that he did see us, did not hit us, but DID stall three times attempting to reverse so we could squeeze past. And when he finally crunched the stick into 'R', he really did almost plough into a casually-waiting man in an estate car behind. We tried to stay poker-faced as we cruised past, because the poor lad looked so embarrassed, and really did look about fourteen.

Nevertheless (I wanted to work that word in somewhere), we set off through some dodgy district of Newcastle. The drive up to Kielder is b-e-a-utiful, lots of winding roads, and also some very straight Roman efforts with hills. Also many sheep, sometimes on the road. We stopped off at a little village called Bellingham, which promised an exciting and authentic Farmers Market. Needless to say, the market consisted of one person selling marrows, one selling pies, and another woman trying to flog lots of mismatched junk at extortionate prices. Before continuing, we decided to stock our wallets, as Kielder isn't famed for its ATMs. In a little cobbled alley we found the most prehistoric ATM known to man, so-called because it could only handle one transaction (Holly's), and thus I left empty-handed.

No matter. On we travelled, and eventually made it to the Kielder district, after many sign-hunts. Our first stop was a the reservoir and birds of prey centre. This is where we became borderline diabetic through cupcake consumption. We had a wander, bought some jam (Holly), laughed at a man in a cowboy hat and white vest, growled at an annoying man in a Land Rover, and both had a turn on the amazing, shiny tunnel slide. The type which would be searingly hot in peak summer, but which had an ominous puddle lurking at the end due to a recent shower. I discovered this too late. The effect of water on my bum and down one leg did indeed look as if I had wet myself. Holly escaped dry. Winding up the road back to civilization, Holly screeched Suh to a graceful halt. A RED SQUIRREL ran onto the road directly in front of us. As if carefully choreographed, it stopped and watched us, before bounding up to the nearest tree and dancing around. We got very, very excited, and it really was so cute. I hate that word normally, but there is none other which can do it justice. I don't agree with this whole 'slaughter of greys' ideal, but I do think the reds have the edge on tail bushiness, eye brightness and just general sweetness. We both squealed in a high pitched fashion anyway. And onwards once more.

Next stop...Scotland. This was one of the finest moments. We were certain there would be a main base where we could get lots of leaflets and Touristy Info, and so we pursued this one main road. Which wound on and on up the reservoir, until we approached the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign. Again, much excitement. We stopped just past the border, picked some wildflowers and then did a quick swift turn about (with me driving this time).

On our way back, we decided to stop at Kielder castle to pretend we were monarchy and so on. In the distance we could see the castle turret, but no signs. After bumping into a barren car park, with a caravan 'To Let', we unearthed the tiniest, most weather-beaten sign directing us to walk up a ridiculously steep hill. Nevertheless (got it in again!), we got there, and it was pretty rubbish. A bit of a museum and gallery, but the best bit was undoubtedly the Minotaur Maze. After deciding to conquer it on our own, I promptly found possibly all of the dead-ends, but it killed a good few minutes. And on again. Maybe I should mention for future visitors, Kielder Forest Park areas do not work with one main base and then walks to events and areas of interest. There is a main road with smaller huts and so on dotted along.

Next stop on our return was the Osprey Watch post. This was really great, as we got to use some fantastic telescopes and the volunteers were brilliant. I think I confused the men manning the car park by waving manically, but they were staring at me like we were old friends, and I was flustered. We quickly followed this by a visit to the Calvert Trust Open Day, where I wasted £2 on a fruitless tombola, but we also got to stroke some gorgeous owls (one of them only six weeks old). I stalled the car only once getting back on the road too (great result).

Our next stop - and yes, there were many - was to travel across the dam to what we thought was an exciting route through artsy villages. I sped across at 60mph (only to be told later by Holly it was a 20 zone), and we did 3 laps of the car park which was the only attraction to be had. We dubiously crawled down a track with lots of loose gravel, with Holly leaning far out of the window to gulp in the country air, but nothing. Back we travelled, across the dam and onto that bloody main road again. At this point, we started heading back Newcastle-wards. One quick stop in Falstone, the tiniest village EVER, and things went drastically wrong.

I locked the keys in the car. They were even still in the ignition. Luckily, the entire population of the village (seven) came to offer assistance, advice and screwdrivers. Due to a previous break-in, the car had a hole near the lock which could be jostled and, thus, open the vehicle. The audience thought it was highly amusing. I did not dare try to leave while they stood around chatting, certain I would stall or run somebody over. Luckily, I escape with only a minor hiccup (almost careering into the screwdriver-wielding man's vintage car). And we were off.

The journey home was thankfully less eventful, apart from my being tailed by a police car for a few miles (luckily I wasn't under arrest). I even drove through Newcastle city centre with zero hiccups. Possibly the only cock-up was, when sitting at traffic-lights explaining how I loved keeping the clutch at bite-point, Suh gracefully and casually stalled. Such a supportive car. I managed to park on the very edge of a bus stop. A delicious meal was consumed, but the events of the day had us in stitches. I hope it makes everybody else laugh too. Seriously, if you ever need a pick-me-up, get me in the drivers seat and I'll cruise your worries away.

Great British Travel

Tomorrow, I'm venturing to the bright city lights of London. After (almost) twenty years of being a Lincolnshire lass, I am hopping on the 9.15am NXEC to Kings Cross, in aid of my very first Theatre Royal experience. Yes, I am going to see Oliver! with my Mum, who is very nervous after (almost) fifty years of limited train-travel experience. I find this astounding; she has managed her entire life with no more than long-distant memories of train journeys to Cleethorpes as a toddler. I spend more than enough of my life waiting on various platforms, with too much luggage, inappropriate attire and no sustenance. This is because I am poor. Whereas I could stretch to a car which wasn't Flintstones-esque (by which I mean has a floor, and is not powered by running feet), I cannot afford the luxuries of insurance, tax, mot...all of which I'm told are 'vital'. Saying that, despite my Railcard (complete with horrendous photograph), train fares are now becoming r.i.d.i.c.u.l.o.u.s. Ok, so we only booked theatre tickets 36 hours in advance. And yes, admittedly it took us a fair while to agree on travel times. But really, £71 per adult, and £47 for me, is pretty painful. All for a sweat-ridden journey where the trolley lady bludgeons my ankles, I worry that terrorists will blow up the toilet, and I attract all the drunken conversationalists who think I am their daughter/wife/long-lost cousin.

However, all that aside, I confess that I LOVE trains. Not in the trainspotting sense, hanging around platforms in an outfit entirely based on tweed. I love them because I feel so cosmopolitan on them. I have my little powder-blue vintage suitcase, a scarf over the shoulder, and I would wear travelling gloves if I wasn't worried about being ridiculed. Even though everybody is in a state of disrepair on the train, either sweating from the humidity, or slate grey from the movement, there really is an element of competition. Last time I ventured homewards, I was gently jostled by a girl wearing something which I am positive was made exclusively of fish-bones. From across the aisle, a woman glared at me over the top of her over-sized sunglasses (it was cloudy outside). I perspired copiously in my thick tights, but for the sake of fashion (darling), I put up a damn good fight.

So, instead of arranging Tube connections and bus transfers, I will spend a vast portion of this evening putting together my travelling attire. I will choose my ballerina pumps over my trainers, my tights over my jeans, and select my largest handbag where all my tickets and reference numbers can mingle with receipts and chewing gum wrappers. At the station, I will lose my phone, my water bottle will leak and I will undoubtedly leave something on the platform. I will get mugged, get lost, get drunk and disorderly on the return journey. I will fall asleep and end up in Edinburgh. And if none of these happen, and I get home safely at the expected time, with all my vital organs in tact, I will consider my day-trip to London an entire success!

Teesside Culture

Last night, I ventured along to Borders at Teesside as part of their 'Borderlines' event. Thank God I got a lift, as I would probably be wandering the mean streets of Teesside if I had braved the train (never a good thing, I am told). The thing I continue to love about book launches and readings is there really is no way of estimating the number of people who will show up. It was a lovely evening, which could mean that the store would be packed with people using books as fans and slurping Magnums, or that the general public thought 'screw Borders, I'm going to play football in the park'. As it was, we apparently were contending against a live football match - I won't embarrass myself by pretending to know which match, or who was playing, but one of the 'lively' audience members felt the need to shout it out, so I thought I would give it a mention.

After many confused wrong-turns, and a pick-up point in Blaydon, we meandered along to the retail park in record timing. I have to say, a reading in a book-store is rather bizarre. Based at the foot of the stairs, you could listen to the poet as they performed, and also catch the embarrassed grins of the people ascending to the Starbucks in the sky. The slightly sadistic side of me was desperate for somebody to trip, as I inevitably would have in their shoes. However, it was not to be, and the reading passed without a hitch. We had some pretty exciting hip-hop MCs, which were greeted with delight (and shock from the little old lady sat in the front row). If somebody had mentioned previously that there was an open-mic session, there is a chance I would have been more prepared...as it was, I was thrown in at the deep end, and read 'Bitcherel' from the Staying Alvie anthology I bought in my first-year of Uni. Although I am pretty certain I resembled a sweating tomato, I did not trip on cables, headbutt the microphone or even drop my book! It was, in my own definition, a success, and I even got heckled!

Anyway, my point is - support local book-launches! Honestly, they're good fun, and you get to meet some hilarious, eccentric, talented and very very friendly people. Once the first couple of people have braved the mic, a torrent of readers surged the stage (by stage, I mean corner of the floor separated by velvet foot-stools). I even heard a rather erotic ode to the Wicked Witch of the West. However, my favourite poem of the night was actually the one I have completely forgotten! The idea was that each word had to have a certain vowel in it, and the man who read chose the letter 'e'. The poem was really fantastic, and so this morning, live and kicking in my Sunday-leggings, I decided to have a crack at one myself...read below, and have a go yourselves, it's really fun!

***

We creep

Fleeing sleep, we venture deep

The streets are clean when evening steals

The people home.

Silent feet, we peel the dreams, filter

The real

Feel, feel

The heat, sweet metronome, the incessant

Bleat the heart

Beats.

Cheap beer, fire embers rise

Weeping smoke engraving eyes

Ashes scatter, leave the pile neat

Head home, cruising streets

Leap the fence, creep

The key, the key, silver, sleek

Silence reigns.

Exam Day

I am not a great fan of exams. I know this because in every exam I have ever taken I get panic-fuelled heart lurches and extreme palm-sweats whenever one is fast approaching. No matter how many times I promise to revise, I always end up with the 48-hour cramming session, where I prise my eyelids open in front of the page, eating only cereal and muttering incoherently. This is because I fear preparation. Preparation seems endless; the fools who plan months in advance must therefore work solidly for said months, lest they lose invaluable information two days prior to exam-day. Instead, I rely on my brain to get me through this hysterical period, promising that next time, I will draw spider-diagrams, mock questions, lists and charts with the very best of them. The thing is, I can't help thinking that a good, healthy dose of panic sets you up pretty well...when the power-hungry invigilator says 'go', I am like a rocket. The curve in my finger where my pen sits is crimson, I am furiously scribbling, wrenching my hair back from my face and refusing myself even the merest sip of water until I've written eight pages. It's almost brutal, yet it works. My brain, bullied into submission, delivers at the crunch, and thus far I haven't fared too badly come results-day. However, I shouldn't be complacent - instead of setting myself up for a fall, I have purposefully selected all the final-year modules which select essays over exams. This seems to be the general consensus throughout my course, hence they are all over-subscribed and next-years exams will consist of five people grouped together, sweating copiously and promising themselves that if they pass, they will read a book a day for the next year-and-a-half.
This exam was almost laughable. There was a ripple of tension, mingled with pre-elation at it being the last exam we will ever take. Ever. Hence, amid the visible nerves and furious riffling of notes, people are still laughing and joking. The atmosphere extends into the cavernous exam hall, set in the somewhat unsuitable Premier Inn, Newcastle. People were actually checking in and out during our two-hour stint of scribbling. Tourists looked terrified at three hundred students bursting out of the conference suite, screaming with relief at breathing fresh air (well, more so than the stuffy confines of exam-hall). The sun is shining, which we all take for a good omen, as we all were drenched from the torrential downpour preceding the exam. Now, people who wouldn't even nod at each other in corridors are embracing, drunk on their own freedom, and boasting about Summer plans involving more alcohol than is available in the entire Bigg Market. I feel relief mingled with a hollowness which I feel has less to do with hunger for lunch, and more to do with a fear that I really did not study hard enough. Unfortunately, my bedroom is chock-a-block with distractions. Even if I manage to ignore the Internet, radio and phone, I find something. This time around, I even cleaned the bathroom to avoid my hideous anthology. When I finally sat down to revising, I drifted off into some dream-like torpor, where I woke to find myself curled around my many books, an ink imprint of Ezra Pound plastered against my cheek. And, despite my close proximity, the knowledge did not seep into my brain. A good friend swears by a night's sleep with three or four critical essays tucked underneath his pillow - his other revision consists solely of information gleaned from Wikipedia and Sparknotes...he rarely reads the primary texts yet without fail receives a solid 2:1. I find this distinctly unfair, yet anybody who can slumber atop a hard-backed mouldering library book deserves credit. I personally stack my books by my bed, so when I stagger to the bathroom in the morning (I'm showing off here, I rarely emerge before lunch-time) I can stub not just my toe, but my entire calf. This generally hits the spot, and I enjoy casting the books aside after I skim them and take appropriate notes.
So, when I receive the ominous brown envelope in the post mid-July, I refuse to be disappointed with my mark. It was the final exam, and whatever revision I did or did not achieve, my mark will be a reflection of the day itself. Which probably means I failed, as I only remember counting the number of people excused to go to the toilet. It was 23.

Growing Old 'Gracefully'

This afternoon, I enjoyed the pleasure of riding on a bus. To the student with no other means of transport, maybe you will understand my excitement at public transport. My only other way of mobilising myself is via my vintage pushbike, sprayed multi-colour to disguise the various dents and patches of rust. My flatmate has a car, as I'm told every home in England must have one - but it really is a car in the most loose sense of the word. Unfortunately, when I am being led through the various technical problems of the vehicle taking up our parking-space, I have a nasty habit of humming absently in my head and staring at a point over my flatmate's left shoulder. Hence, all I know is that the handbrake rattles loudly, merely to irritate me. Something under the bonnet gives off a powerful smell of rotten eggs when we drive, meaning that we spend a lot of time on the side of the road with the bonnet propped up, while the insides get a bit of a rest. Other (I'm told 'minor') issues include: the glove compartment initially refused to open, and now, after a bit of screwdriver-damage, fails to shut. The boot also denies us entry. The tyres deflate one after the other, despite much usage of foot-pumps. The car, similar to my bicycle, is an OAP masquerading as a spritely youth, and it's fooling nobody.

So back to the journey. I was venturing to the hospital, where a b.e.a.utiful Doctor-man examined my feet and generally pulled them at many different angles. The bus-ride there was rather unexciting, apart from a point where I realised I had no idea where my stop would be, and so thought it was acceptable to ask a fellow passenger. Whereas in my native-land of Lincolnshire, eye-contact on a bus usually results in a conversation lasting the entire journey, and sometimes further, it seems the North-East rules are marginally different. I selected the one person not speaking to themselves/the conductor/the window/their handbag, and was perfectly polite. But it seems that the bus etiquette means that even if you fear you are in a different county to the one intended, you must suffer in silence and pretend that all is well. The lady in question spoke in an entirely alien language with lots of mumblings (Geordie) and kept talking about a place called Blakelaw, which I KNEW was no where near where I needed to be.

The journey back was far more exciting. Chock full of pre-pubescent school kids, high on the summer heat and Mars Bars, they made me and my friend feel very, very old. We sat awkwardly among them, knowing that we would never be that young again, with yoghurt spilled down the front of their purple jumpers (although, in my friend's case, if he did like yoghurt, it would probably be all over his clothes). The bus stopped at every single stop along one stretch of road, to save their tiny little legs. One girl, the popular loudmouth, even dared to casually mock us in an American accent (my friend is New York-ean) - whereas a few years ago I would have come up with something witty and cutting to fire back, I was only able to smile benignly. This is because, in the process of leaving school-uniform behind, I have become the rusty bicycle.

The final humiliation of the journey was the approaching-of-my-stop. Now I really do get irritated at the very old people who insist on standing up before their bus-stop is even in view, and in the process of making sure they get to the front, dropping all of their bags, showing their pants, falling on the floor and generally making an entire spectacle of themselves. There is, for their protection, a SIGN affixed to the front of the bus, INSTRUCTING them to 'remain seated until the bus stops'. My grandparents are very into 'the rules', and what is and is not allowed - thus, I can only assume that OAP bus-frequenters are rebelling against the obedience system. Nevertheless, I found myself getting excited when I knew I was near home. And while the bus was still accelerating to frighten an innocent cyclist, I was struggling down the bus steps (yes I had sat on the top floor), because I was certain that the bus driver was planning to sail right past my stop. I should mention that I had actually pressed the bell, but I still am not convinced that they really work for the top level. This resulted in the bus driver braking forcefully whilst I was half-way down the steps, clutching two shopping bags - I ended up doing a spectacularly undignified half pirouette, and almost collapsing into the lap of the old lady on the ground floor. Even though I'm told buses are fitted with cameras nowadays for our personal safety, I truly believe the bus-driver wanted to cause me ultimate pain and humiliation, but I still thanked him because I am English and thus explode if I am not formal and polite at all times.

I think that today was a taster of the rest of my life - I could no longer associate with the young girl on the bus which saddens me, because this year I will be 20 and that signals to me a great fall into the depths of old age. Instead, I am condemned to hospital appointments to assess the state of my ankles and embarrassing falls on buses. It could be worse though...I could be subjected to the 'noise those kids call music nowadays'. Now I remember when Steps were king of the pop scene...

Catharsis

At the risk of causing offence, the world would be easier to navigate if everybody was just nice. Normally, I hate the word 'nice' - it covers all manner of sins, and was on the 'banned' list in my primary school English class. However, to be 'nice' would just about sum up how people should behave to one another, I feel. Not overtly generous, or polite, or kind, or compassionate...just plain old nice would do for me.

It seems that every day, people are so worried about offending, or upsetting somebody, or their words being misconstrued, that their whole personality becomes determined by the people they see. For example, I know people I could readily mock all day long, and they would return this two-fold, and that would be fine. We would laugh, and know that no offence is meant, and the conversation is all in the manner of good-fun. With other friends, I am the shoulder-to-cry-on...the sponge that soaks up all their worries and concerns, and spews out endless sympathies and advice. This is also fine, and the self-obsessed side of me likes feeling that I'm doing the good-turn (yes, I went to Brownies). However, with other people, it seems that I can be myself and it's not ok. I can be myself slightly altered and it's still not ok. I can be a whole-new-alien-person and it's STILL not ok. At the risk of my blog turning into one big rant, I am always told to just be yourself, and if people don't like it they know where to go. This seems to be the general rule which has been passed down through my family, through magazines, friends, teachers, doctors etc. etc. etc.

A point which I really believe, as I sit on the brink of final-year university education, is that you should not just accept yourself, but enjoy being who you are. It sounds so cliche, I know, but if you don't like yourself, nobody else is going to leap in and tell you how wonderful you are. Self-love has a lot to be said for it. Of course, egotistical and arrogant attributes of self-love often surface, and those, in my opinion, should be readily thrown out of the proverbial window. However, instead of absorbing criticism which is neither constructive nor given to help or advise you, maybe it is better to fill your ears with a buzzing sound and hum absently, until such 'advice-givers' have left the building. Really, what is the point of sitting down and having somebody voice how truly terrible a person you are? Surely, it is the most aggressive form of therapy, and unless you want to pay somebody to tear you apart, why bother? Just accept that yes, you may not be perfect, but this is fine, it is good, it is actually great, because why would we all want to be perfect? There would be no need for bitching over coffee!

So, to be nice would just be wonderful. Just for a day, or an hour even - if people didn't give significant cold stares, and pointedly leave conversations hanging awkwardly - how refreshing that would be. Of course, in that hour of niceness, I'm sure a huge backlog of hatred would build, exploding with the force of a nuclear attack and rendering everybody a quivering mess of self-loathing. In which instance, it is probably not the best idea. But one to bear in mind, should I need a good old clear-out.

The Wisdom of Teeth

It's twenty-seven minutes past nine at night, and I haven't eaten my tea. Usual routine dictates that by this ungodly hour I am reading with a cup of tea and thinking lovingly of supper (bagel or Ryvita?) Tonight, I have been 'networking' at a book launch, in the stiflingly hot greenhouse that is my University Art Gallery. Although glass panelling is very now, very kitsch, it is also very very hot. Seven minutes into the launch, my hair had plastered to my forehead in a style reminiscent of the good ol' comb-over. Eight minutes in and the entire wine supply (and there was a lot - I uncorked at least ten of the bottles) had gone. Simply vanished. It's a strange world when everybody is drunk and you're not. On the occasions that I decide alcohol is the drink of the devil, and I am strictly a cranberry juice girl, I end up home in bed before TV gets remotely risque. I become paranoid that the whole world is having an amazing time, whilst I am condemned to a pit of despair and loneliness. You can easily tell the designated drivers from the stag party, because the sober one hasn't got a permanent-marker moustache, nor does he blow condoms up and burst them in bouncers' faces. Nor does he pick fights, although he is expected to rescue worse-for-wear friends, when it transpires the person they chose to argue with is a black-belt with nineteen friends. All of whom sport leather jackets.

The book launch turned out to be great though. I was given a free bottle of wine, which most likely cost more than I am usually able to afford. I was also presented with a copy of the book (and I met the poet too, and she was lovely) - really, for a couple of hours baking in the unbearable humidity, I didn't do too badly. Sometimes it's worth having a different perspective to reap the benefits. If I had embraced the free wine with the gusto of everybody else, I would probably have danced, and maybe even sang and heckled, none of which are acceptable behaviours at a book launch. I like to think my preference for orange juice was mature, and decidely un-studentlike, and because I was raring to go, I met some genuinely nice, if a little tipsy, people. And they were all so cool in the most un-teenage style of the world. They were clearly all hopelessly intelligent, dressed artfully with wild hair. I lusted after many strategically positioned felt brooches, and casually expensive charm bracelets. For my part, I wish I had changed my shoes, because I don't think ripped converse with a drying muddy puddle-splatter constitutes chic.

One more think which I feel inclined to note, as I feel this is becoming less of a blog and more of a diary, is that wisdom teeth truly are the bane of my life. Apparently, my mouth cannot house four new arrivals, and so they will niggle at my gums until the dentist sees fit to remove them. I scoured the pain-relief section of Boots for something which would destroy the pain...a mallet perhaps, or a good stiff injection of Novocaine. Unfortunately, they were fresh out of mind-numbing drugs, and so the chemist recommended Bonjela, with the weariness of somebody who hates hypochondriacs (and I am the worst kind - a splinter can become swine flu in a micro-second). Needless to say, I apparently produce too much saliva, as there is no difference to the pain in my gums, yet my tonsils are pleasantly tingling. The disappointment of failed medicine grips me. Instead, I plan to eat lots of pizza, in the hope that the melted cheese will form some layer of protective coating over my teeth. Failing that, I will whine pathetically at the receptionist tomorrow, begging to see my dentist, any dentist, even the caretaker if he has a chisel handy.

So how to provide this promise of insatiable happiness? I've given myself a bit of an obstacle there, as I will just have to grin and bear the pain. At least I can now sit and drink lots of my (free) wine, and pretend that it's medicinal. I can also order my flatmate to cook for me spontaneously, with ingredients we don't have, just so he can casually purchase a bar of Galaxy when he heads to the supermarket. And best of all, I can spend lots of time in my pyjamas and think about how wise I could have been, if only my teeth would fit in my mouth.

First Time Nerves

What will people think? Will they like it? Will they hate it? These are the thoughts whirring around my brain this morning, lodging like a sour taste in between my spoonfuls of Tesco Value Fruit and Fibre (only the best for me). I am writing my first blog, after leeching encouragement and inspiration from the blog of my University tutor. Hence, I am apprehensive. In her 'about me' section, she lists a mere snippet of her achievements to date, all of which are astounding. Her blogs are captivating, witty and motivational. Whereas she is probably sat right now enhancing her career by writing a poem or five, I am feeding shelled peas to my goldfish, because I read somewhere that it will stop it swimming upside-down. Naturally, I think she has the upper-hand somewhere along the line.

One of my closest friends lives her life completely oblivious to the world's opinion of her, and so exists in a state of constant bliss. Well, this is what I try to convince myself. But then I think, maybe caring a teensy tiny bit what people think is no bad thing? Perhaps it is not entirely healthy to be ruled by it, as I confess I sometimes feel. But everybody loves the tingly feeling coursing through your spinal fluid when somebody compliments you. My goldfish is unlikely to ever thank me for my care (although if it would make some gesture of appreciation every now and again, I wouldn't have to constantly assume it is suicidal). Instead, I channel all my efforts into providing an interesting environment for it to swim, and buying exciting potions which promise a sleek coat (the dog and fish sections should not sit side-by-side). I purchase multicoloured pebbles to give the bowl variety, aquatic plants for that authentic pond experience. I even lovingly spent a good half-hour scrubbing a pesto jar free of its label and herbs, so as to make a little house for the fish to sleep in. My point is, although many of my loved ones believe I am partially insane, nobody can deny that I do my very very best to keep the fish alive and happy and well. I am complimented on its bright orangey colour (we gloss over the missing scales from an accident with a Lego pirate-ship). And I perform my ultimate trip, dipping my fingertip in the water so the fish swims to the top and sucks it. Now, who can say they have that sort of bond with a fish, beyond willing their salmon not to dry out in the oven?

When I first relocated to Newcastle in 2007, I spent a vast portion of the first week holed up in my room, drinking endless cups of tea and eating only cereal with one particular spoon. I was so afraid of those 'first-time nerves' of University, meeting people and starting afresh, that I simply turned my back on the whole idea and lived in my (new and uncomfortable) bed. I spent hours on the phone to my Mum, crying about everything from the colour of the curtains to the lack of oven (we really did not have an oven!) - my poor parents, in return, would suffer the embarrassment of sympathising down the phone whilst in the supermarket queue, the butchers, the dentists waiting room. I was relentless. I was probably nearing unbearable. But, everybody who promised me the homesickness would pass was right. I adapted to Geordie life, somewhat awkwardly in conversation with the tramps who moved into our bin-store. I have even started to end my sentences with 'man' and have been known to say 'howay then', although I still can't fully explain what it means.

So, in the interests of wrapping the first blog up, I should probably try and end on something uplifting and wholesome, which I will look back on and feel proud of. A statement which summarises my whole point. The only problem is, my point got lost somewhere in translation. I think the fact that I really am crushing peas and eating my breakfast cereal has stopped me from concentrating too hard on what I'm saying. I have this problem with essays - sometimes I have a lot to say, but not necessarily on the topic I am given. Suffice it to say that I do care what people think, because it helps me feel like I'm doing a good job so far with my life. And the first-time nerves only hang around until you get out of your seat and do something about them.

So, there it is - my first blog, down on paper. Well, not paper, but it makes me feel more intellectual. Now I have to go and dislodge an overly large chunk of pea from my fish's mouth.