Real Talk

Sitting in a spacious basement kitchen in a stylish Victorian town house. A group of my oldest friends sit around the dining table, drinking fizz and eating home-made, vegetarian food, celebrating the change about to occur in our lives.

We're leaving home, moving away, and starting university. It's a big step, and where as the majority of us will either be within at the most a two hour drive from one another or jetting off to India or Vietnam for a gap year, it's still hard to accept that things will never be the same again. 

So a catch up was in order. Shout out to good friend and fellow blogger Amy Rylett (Click Here to view blog) for organizing an awesome night.

"When did everyone start owning a dildo?!" 

The answer is simple. While other people were falling in love at seventeen and getting regular sex. 

We're women now. We have needs; and not in a patronizing "you'll understand when you're older" kind of way. We actually have needs. 

Hormones aside, dildo's have become a top conversation topic. Do you own one? Is it actually a dildo or just a bullet? When do you find the time to use it? 

When do we find the time to use it? 

During a long shower? After realizing you've drunk too much coffee before bed? Any time at all. 

I've been in a relationship for three months, and in that time I've worked nearly everyday, earning money for university and spending it all on anything but university. I'd forgotten what it was like to sit down with this particular group of amazing people and get down and talk about the dirty.

Is it so wrong that we just don't feel the need to be conservative in private?

We live in the modern world. It either takes a whole night, with a week of organizing, a new dress and several top flirting techniques to establish an orgasm as a single girl. Or a simple purchase at Anne Summers and a hot bath, without the hassle of having to sneak out the next morning. It's a no brainer, and Anne Summers deserves a medal on behalf of all the horny feminists out there. 'Cus we don't have to put out for no man.

Of course, being in a relationship is different. But I'm off to university in two weeks and it's going to get lonely. So queue a trip to my new best friend Anne Summers. A little something for me... And a little something for him when I come back to visit. 

So get off you're high horse and discuss. You'll be seriously surprised by how many REAL women you know.

Peace Out ♥

The 'Defendership'

"He's really a nice guy at heart."

Words all too familiar to woman-kind, often followed by "relationships are hard" and "when it's good, it's really good" but is this really how we should view love?

Do we, or do we not deserve more than an okay relationship?

In today's world, it seems that we are forever falling for the wrong guy; too protective, too distant, too emotionally unavailable. What ever happened to Mr. Right? Did he get abducted in the night? Or should women just learn to accept that we should settle for what's in front of us?

It seems that the more intolerable relationships get, the higher the expectations of the person on the loosing side of this viscous tennis game of dating, and so onto match two.

Until recently, I had never heard of a relationship that was easy or simple or even working. But turns out there just might be light at the end of the tunnel.

Three years ago at an underage party tucked away in a small hamlet in Cornwall, two people met. Three years later and I'm having a conversation with my friend who has just finished telling me about all the reasons his relationship is the best. Breakfast in bed, day trips out on his boat and beautiful evening meals cooked and enjoyed together, totally ignorant of the fact that any so-called normal couple would have had a raging argument over how long the pasta should be left to boil.

I'm not saying all relationships are perfect. But when did it become okay to defend the other half for being a total arsehole, simply because "he's a really nice guy at heart"?

I'm being sexist of course. It works both ways; otherwise it wouldn't be a relationship.

Two years ago at a local town festival, two people met. Two years, countless break-ups and several interventions later is it really worth holding onto a failing relationship, just because of a fear that you've wasted the past two years? Or that you're too scared to be alone?

They say you accept the love you think you deserve, and it's possible that if you've only ever known the kind of love that needs defending or that is hard and painful, then maybe it's hard to believe that there's a better world out there.

Being single is hard and painful.
Dating is hard and painful.
Long term relationships are hard and painful.

Jeez, can we take a time out please?! I'm craving a twenty pack of Marbs and the largest tub of Ben and Jerry's I can find just thinking about it.

Three months ago, a guy approached a girl working on a stall and asked to take her out on a date. He swooped her off her feet, they fell deeply in love and it was easy and simple, despite never having known such simplicity in the past. Three months down the line and love is still easy and simple and who know's what the future brings; university, a touring band about to make the big time, but so far so amazing. Can I get a little optimism over here?!

Sadly, you'll all want to hate me when I say that this is my relationship. No one's perfect, and there will be bumps in the road. But it's fucked up that a so-called love between two people should revolve around covering up the faults the other person has.

It's as if, in a desperate bid to keep hold of a sinking ship, a perfect persona of you're not-so-perfect boyfriend/girlfriend is created in your mind as a coping mechanism during the "rough patches" even if this perfect persona ran out the door after the honeymoon period was over. Maybe that memory of how that person used to be was only ever a cover up to impress you. So stop defending the arsehole.

Stop being is a defendership, and start being in a relationship.
And failing that, tell them to get stuffed. No time has been wasted when you're young and you've learned from your experience.

Life's too long to settle for second best.
Peace Out ♥

The Ark Of Life

Always remember, amateurs built the ark, professionals built the Titanic. 

I'm not entirely sure what this saying is trying to tell me. Or what it exactly motivates me to do.

I suppose we're all amateurs in 99% of the things it's possible to excel at in life, but that doesn't mean that we'll do it perfect first time. Sadly, we're not all Noah, fulfilling a wish from God.

I do, however, believe it relates to the theory of beginners luck. Because why the fuck not just go for it and hope for the best?

The first (and last) time I ever used a gun was a terrifying, but exhilarating tutorial from the beau one night while walking the dog. I shot straight through the tin can from 25ft. SUCCESS!


We're not all lucky in love first time round either. The cheater, Mr over-protective and just "what the fuck was I thinking". Everyone's been there, crying into the largest tub of Ben & Jerry's the supermarket could offer, watching Bridget Jones and trying to budget a serious retail therapy session.

But, in all forms of cheese and cringe (shout out to the one person who will not let me live this down) it's worth the effort to keep trying.
I feel like my life has become a Noah's ark scale accomplishment; everything has fallen into a perfect harmony despite the fact that I spent most of the time trying to get here either on my arse or stumbling over yet another speed bump.

I'm not suggesting, as humans we should all build an ark that can house exactly two of every animal (I'm not sure there are even enough tigers, gorilla's, panda's or sloth's left in the world for everyone to possess two each) but that in achieving our accomplishments, whether we're Olympian's trying to win gold or a blogger with no followers dreaming of becoming a journalist; we're all in the middle of building our own Noah's ark.

Good luck succeeding guys.
Peace Out ♥

The Week Away From Reality

Cosmo's on the terrace after a full body massage.

Five hours ago I didn't want to go home.
I would have been more than content if a tsunami had hit Fistral Beach and swallowed me to an oceanic grave; safe in the satisfaction that I had experienced every level and form of indulgence in my last week on earth.

I find that the world has an extraordinary way of revealing to it's inhabitants a rare insight into the parallel universe of "What if...?"

A chance to move on? A taster of a possible future? Or just a chance to see what perfection really feels like. I've experienced them all this week; but nothings ever that simple. Cloud nine is more of a holiday or vacation rather than that pokey little apartment (that's as close to Fifth Avenue as can be afforded) that we call home.

Of course, reality is never far behind and just like that stunning week in the Bahama's, the time will always come to go back home. Back to reality.

A romantic evening with the perfect man, an all-inclusive spa weekend with a best friend and my most rewarding pay-day yet. I know what perfection is when I'm living it, and I know what it isn't- and it most certainly isn't next week.

Of course, that Tsunami never did hit Fistral Beach, and as a consequence, I have been swallowed into a limbo of various long, hot and crowded forms of transport back to the real world. A somewhat hilarious metaphor for how far I have to go and progress in life to reach said "perfect" destination.

All I can say is thank god I made it home safely, in one piece, and just in time to catch the last few stunning rays of sunshine of this heatwave.

Overall I have concluded that there is no need to worry, because that perfect little life is only a bus ride away... or two... or three!

Peace Out ♥

"... We stumble upon a rabbit hole..."

Masked Ball is a beautiful excuse to leave your identity behind, don the most beautiful mask you can find and dance around with your hands in the air and your hair flowing free, just like in the movies.

My mask was a beautiful excuse of white and pink and my eyes shined through two diamante circled black holes in the center of the mask. High on the ecstasy of excitement, we powered through the crowds. Aiming for the most mystical tent we could find, we stumble upon a rabbit hole that leads to a wonderland of flame throwers, cocktail mixers and beautiful burlesque fancy dress.

I was intoxicated and over whelmed by my surroundings; terrified of letting go but so thrilled by the freedom that I couldn't help but to fall down my own metaphorical rabbit hole into total, beautiful, all-consuming madness. It was a wild night.

It was a dark Knight. Suited, but mask-less. Staring wonderously, seductively at a girl standing behind me,

swaying from side to side in time with the music, but somewhat more captivated by the angle of his stare. I stare back; amazed that one person could look at another stranger in such a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

At the bar I'm pushed forward into an available gap, one arm reaching over my shoulder to grab the attention
of a rabbit; who takes our order and in a magical minute, our drinks sit in front of us. I can't feel my mouth. Or my hand for that matter. But I somehow manage to quench my thirst from dancing that can really only be described as faulted and clumsy.

His suit jacket looks like tweed but feels soft. His friends all smile and wink while I tumble into madness; staring past them all at the beautiful dancers on stage. The queen of hearts and ace of clubs are a beautiful blur of black and white high above my head. My distractions aren't silly though, and I'm not falling over. I'm being supported by a protective arm round my shoulder and remember that I'm not alone- despite having lost my companion for the night, I have somehow found another.

My head has cleared enough for me to dance, because life is too rigid and awkward to spend nights out bobbing like a parent at their child's Birthday party.

Leaving threw a substantially larger door to the one I came in threw, we enter darkness and a cacophony of music beats from the surrounding tents. Smoke exhales from my mouth and I recognize the dark Knight standing in front of me making idol chitchat to pass the time. He has freckles on his nose and is convinced I'm merely using him for alcohol consumption; but he smiles and the night is beautiful, so I forgive his accusation.

There appears the familiar faces, in glowing UV paint. Dancing as they walk, arms round each other and singing like night crawlers at quiet nights out in pubs. We laugh and hug and join the group of crazy misfits that I love. The knight disappears as the night comes to a close, tents start closing and fancy people stop dancing and change behind secret doors.

I'm in a UFO. It's not the first time I've been here but this time I've soiled my stunning white mask that glows blue due to the alien lights with orange paint. Even my dress looks more purple than pink. The UFO has died it with it's night-club lights and some guys white shirts glow so blue that they themselves light up the dance floor, just through reflection.

We walk under enchanted trees and down narrow paths riddled with uneven steps and fantasy lights. I look up to the sky, trying to decipher if it's stars I can see, or just the imprint of fairy lights in my vision from staring at them too long.

I'm down to one other misfit; the others have retired to beds and cars for the night/morning. We walk into the biggest, squarest tent to dance; and after taking a picture for a happy couple, pushing all the way to the front of the less mystical and more disco-lighted white box just in time for a drum and bass remix of Florence and the Machine. I'm standing on the moon, screaming the lyrics, loosing myself in the music and paying no attention to time... until it hits me.

My intoxication has subsided and been replaced with an overwhelming urge to fall over. It's 5:30am. We stumble back to the car, with the cold, early morning sun rise turning the sky blue, and revealing the damaged done to our enchanting wonderland.

The field is full of little cars, filled with empty cans and bottles of shame from fellow revelers. I'm given a hoody to keep warm and juice to dampen out the dehydration I've inflicted upon myself. The sky is so pretty and blue and my own little blue car in the distance looks like a distant dream as I stroll lonely up the road and back into common society, leaving behind my misfits spread out inside two cars that have been adjusted for sleep.

A warm beverage, hot shower and long sleep is all I need. All is provided. Over all, a magical night; with, or without a magical Knight. 

Back Up

Life is filled with unexpected blunders and typical cliches that set you back in life. Events such as not wearing a coat out only for it to start raining; or your favorite heels snapping on a night out when you're suppose to be looking great in front of your ex; or your laptop crashing the day before an important deadline, inevitably deleting all that hard work.

Whatever the outcome, the same thing always springs to mind "If only I had a back up". Nothing huge, we're not asking for a miracle, but the pack-a-mac in the back of the closet that you always consider putting in your bag and never do; or a pair of pumps squished in your cute clutch that you'd end up wearing for the walk home anyway; or if you'd remembered to back up the work on a memory stick, chances are this would have never happened.

Yes, this is going somewhere.
Two weeks ago I had a deadline for five pieces of coursework. Two and a half weeks ago my laptop said what seemed to be it's final farewell into electronic heaven. I screamed, threw a tantrum, screamed a little more and redid all my coursework in four days (note that I'm a crazily dedicated student) and all I could think the whole time was "If only I had a backup."

I'm going to University in five months along with a million other people in the country and around this time is when people realise that reality wont create an unconditional offer from oxford and that you should probably think about that slightly less acclaimed university that isn't asking you to have a mental breakdown while crazy revising for your exams to get three A*'s.

Going to University takes more than an accepted offer and a sore back from carrying all your belongings to the car. As I found out it takes keeping track of your National Insurance card (something I lost several years ago) and passport (something I forgot existed several years ago). Organisation has never been my strong point; I don't believe it comes to anyone naturally...

So when does that organised nature fall onto your plate? Or is it something that will forever be left to those super-humans who sit next to you in class and baffle you with their crazy enthusiasm and will always make you doubt your own ability to succeed at anything, other than copying notes.

But chin up. No matter how many times you walk out your house and wish you'd taken your umbrella; or spend hours on hold to the National Insurance call center trying to confirm your National Insurance number; or even accepting your dream university without a back up; life will always find a funny way of balancing out the karma.

If you don't believe me?
I got a P60 the day after realising I had lost my National Insurance card with my number on it.
I've accepted Brighton University to do Broadcast Journalism without a back up.
My laptop made a full recovery (miraculously) and is now in almost fully working order.
... And no matter how stressful life gets. Smile, because the sun has finally started shining.

PeaceOut♥

Generation Wasted

I don't know if the writing is big enough to read but this is my home made magazine article for my Media AS magazine Stellar.