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.
