Losing my phone was a disaster...

This was going to be a picture of Morrab Gardens
but the ones on Google were crap and it's not like I took
any that day...

Sat in Morrab Gardens, with the sun shine beating down on the bench I have perched myself on with a welcoming cup of coffee, I can't help but make an observation: absolutely everyone is on their phone. Two girls sat on the grass tanning their legs, conversing through snap chat instead of talking to each other; the old lady residing in the shade, staring blankly at her Nokia; the skater boy managing to multitask skating, listening to music and being on the phone (probably to his Mum), the two girls take snap chats of this boys "mad skills." This is flirting in the 21st century.


Of course, this hardly comes as a shock. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the world and all it has to offer, is so much beautiful through an Instagram filter, including these stunning tropical gardens that's nestled away like a secret in the centre of Penzance.


I wish I could go on to rant about how this is wrong: "People should put down their phones and open their eyes to the beauty around them. They could be missing out on a chance at love" and everything else mentioned in 'Look Up', that ground breaking, ideology shattering poem that, funnily enough, went viral last year.


Sadly, however, I am jealous. So brutally jealous that I'm tempted to ask the lady next to me if I could borrow her phone to check my Instagram/Twitter followers. Do they miss me? Probably not. Just last week I was sat here, taking sunshine-on-palm-trees pictures without a care in the world. Then one night changed everything.


I blame karma of course. It's definitely, 100%, not my fault.


How do I know this? A few days before I had been reading an article about how a tech entrepreneur and her husband gave up their luxurious Silicon Valley life to travel the world. Never staying more than a month or two in each destination, living out two rucksacks, discarding their mobile phones to replace with surf boards and hiking boots. I wanted to be these people. I vowed that one day, I would get up, quit my job, throw away my phone and live this nomadic life.


As I was vowing these amazing things to myself, my phone buzzed at me "low battery". I went to put on charge, only to discover that my charger had broken. The fifth charger in 18months had broken. How was this possible?! It's like Steve Jobs died thinking "wouldn't this be a hilarious way to make money?" and without getting too explicit, I may have rambled a few ill-wishes on the mans eternal soul and all that. Nothing too major.

Selfies used to be my life... apparently
more so than tidying my room

Karma hit hard. Mainly in the form of £1 drinks and a bag with a broken clasp, but it was karma's fault all the same.


But that wasn't enough. Clearly karma had been paid off by Steve Jobs to really wreck havoc on my life because it can't just be a coincidence that two days later, we moved into a house with no broadband.


Yes, you read that correct. A university student, with a 2000 word essay to write and no phone, moved into a house with no broadband. I believe the word you were looking for was "doomed".


I've spent the past few days checking my Instagram on my sister's IPad, texting on my Mum's phone and using my Dad's phone to go on Facebook and catch up with the world... and those on the other side of the world.


So how does this story end?

It ends with me sat in Costa, watching the world go by while connecting to the WiFi on my laptop. Would I prefer to be sat outside in this glorious sunshine drinking better coffee? Yes, most definitely. But in this quiet corner during peak time I can wish a special happy birthday, listen to some great music and forget all about my lost phone.

Losing my phone was a disaster, but there are much more important things worry about, like plane tickets and a degree to finish.

Phone's come and go, but some things are forever... and I'm much rather throw away a million phones than give up days in the sunshine, walking bare footed across the sand, or just sat in a little coffee shop, passing the time with some cheeky conversations on Facebook with you know who.

Besides, my new phone will come in a week or so...

Peace Out <3

Homesick

"I don't wanna go out!"

"NO! It's stupid!"

I sound like a five year old having a tantrum. I want my Mum and my little single bed with my giant lion teddy in Cornwall and nothing else will do. Today, I am a five year old.

Today I am homesick.

It's coming to the end of a university term and I've finished all the work I was scheduled to complete before the Easter break (that's Spring Break to all you Americans). I'm skint, exhausted and the days are getting longer.

I'm fed up with everything and my whining has reached such a level of unbearable that I'm surprised many of my friends don't hate me by now.

Does this happen to everyone?

Beyond acting like a spoiled child, there is little else to discuss. Being penniless is definitely an outstanding reason behind my yearning for home (and my darling Mother to pay for her daughters undying happiness).

It sounds ridiculous but before you think I'm going to storm my Mother with requests of extravagant outfits and wild nights out; I promise a coffee and croissant will do!

#firstworldproblems

I probably wouldn't turn down a bottle of wine either...

In recent months I've gone from being your average uni student to being as close to an adult as possible for a nineteen year old who still throws tantrums.

I organised my life, got a work experience, helped start a society and started choosing revision sessions over late nights in student bars.

Personal growth at it's best, thank you very much.

Of course, I've never been much of an all work, no play kinda girl (I think this blog demonstrates that in a nutshell) so it comes to a point when I need to be a child... just for five minutes... or ten.

"Hope, are you actually going to come out or not?" My friend eventually asks after what feels like an hour of silence while I sit facing the wall, cross legged with my make up half done.

"Fine..." I grunt.

It is only four more days until home time after all.

Peace Out ♥

Balmain.

Fashion posts aren't usually my thing, but I feel like to say nothing about the marvel that spilled out onto the runway this week in Paris is absolute genius.

At 27 years old, Olivier Rousteing has done more as a designer than many wish to achieve in a lifetime. This new collection does more than "channel 70s and 80s Saint Laurent; it channels power and sex appeal without the need for a grotesque amount of skin on show.

In a time when it is considered acceptable to send men down the runway with their manhood on show - yes, thank you #dickowens for that fine display of fashion, we certainly won't find that on the high street - it's blessing to see the seductive subtlety of translucent lace and pulled in waist lines on some of the worlds most beautiful women. 

The pleated flared trousers in art deco colours were flawlessly elegant and paired beautifully with minimal make up and hair which kept the clothes the main focus of the show. Surely that's the point of a fashion show?

Of course, as a side note, the soundtrack that had me dancing along cannot go unmentioned. Fall out boy, Mary J. Blige, Maroon 5 and even some opera thrown in there. So there, it was mentioned, and I loved it - shout out to iTunes please!

Everyone wants to own their own bit of this collection; and they also want to strut down the street in their new favourite piece of clothing listening to the mix we all wished we owned.

Click here for the full show on Grazia Daily.

Peace Out 

That can't-be-avoided Valentines blog post...

I know what you're thinking; just another generic valentines-bashing blog post... Well you're correct.

[Insert overused argument about the ruined sentiment of valentines day due to mass consumerism here] 

I've never boasted the kind of stomach to handle the influx of cheese on valentines day. The pressure to compare myself to other "lucky" girls around the world is enough to make me explode. The colour red makes my face look flushed and kind of like a tomato and I definitely don't own a complete matching set of underwear. 

The list goes on as to why I am such an inappropriate candidate for Saint Valentines blessings [the man this entire holiday is about. Dear God google him if you're that ignorant of life before capitalism]. So why does the whole event bother me so much? Why do the haters feel the need to lie in bed 'till midday, scoffing their faces with junk food while watching sad films and pathetic chick flicks as if they've just been dumped by the love of their life? 

Surely it's irrational?!

Last night on my way back from a sober night out at 4am, decided to purchase myself an American-sized cheeseburger with enough [full fat] mayo to drown myself. It was the best valentines present I could ever have dreamed of, all for £3. 

But as I sat at home, feeling the calories pouring into my unexpecting digestive system, I realised I was fitting a stereotype, and a rather pathetic one at that.

I was suddenly that single-and-hating-it, lonely woman I pitied so much on valentines day; and I had been every single year. 

"I've lasted 19 years without a Valentines so far, I can last another one..." 

My Belgian friend had a point. So at 12:30pm I crawled out of my pit of sorrow, (which still smelled like burger) threw on some clothes and headed into town for coffee. 

The Nero Discussion of the day? You guessed it! Valentines day, and our favourite couple out of all out friends. 

As we sat their and gushed over their adorable (but not too cheesey) love for each other, the way they act round each other etc I started to feel a weird feeling bubble up inside me. Was I about to throw up or.... Oh God!! Was I about to cry?! 

Belgian gave me the "get a grip" look I needed and swiftly changed the subject. Because the truth was, we did need to get a grip. We're not 60 year old spinsters in the Victorian times that never found love and were shunned because of it. We're 19 year old students, who, for whatever reason, were each other's valentines this year. 

We live together, we cook together, we drink together; we're basically a couple as it is. So as it happens, there is no one in this country I would have rather spent my valentines day with this year! Thanks Babe, the gnocchi was great! 

So, my fellow pessimists: put down the burger! Grab your best friend and a bottle of wine and fuck the system! 

Happy Valentines Day

Peace Out ❤️

Do relationships have to be a blogspiration?

Inspiration is a funny thing. It literally fuels everything you've ever been passionate about, and is probably the reason you're not passionate about that thing anymore.

Take blogging for example: I LOVE IT... When I have a great idea for a blog and I feel motivated to get it done in just a few hours.

My posts are usually inspired by a coffee date with a friend with a guy problem or a massive night out/festival that I consider worth sharing with the world. My ultimate blogspiration is Vogue's Karley Sciortino or Sex and The City's Carrie Bradshaw (the fact that she's fictional is irrelevant). But even when either of these started posting about love and the ins and outs of a deep and meaningful relationship, I felt the need to throw up.

I know I've done it many times before, blogged about how in love I am with my boyfriend of the time and "maybe cheese isn't so bad after all" but it's hardly the outrageous life I promised with this blog.

So recently I've been quite uninspired. Between having a million and one deadlines for university and keeping my private life on the down low, how many outrageous things can truly happen to one person right?

Writing about relationships has always bothered me because I'm still not sure how comfortable I am with sharing that information. I mean what do you want me to say? "Another normal day in relationshipville, woke up in a relationship and despite a small discussion over whether a chai latte contains coffee or not, I later went to bed still in a relationship."

By the way, depending on the coffee shop in question, some chai's do contain coffee and others don't. The verdict was to agree to disagree seeing as I'm team Nero, while he is team Costa.

The fact of the matter is, is that no matter what way you spin it, my situation remains unclear and my life put on hold somewhat while I finish my degree. Another possible topic for 'my outrageous relationship' could be "I ran away to Brighton today to escape university before it ate my sanity. Walked round the lanes and poured my heart out to my significant other because I'm a massive softy when my mental stability is compromised."

So after agreeing with myself that I wouldn't become a wet blanket cooing over/moaning about my love life, I thought I'd just have to stick to what I know. Talking about sex/sexual problems my friends were having.

A coffee with a friend sums up everything that is right with the world. Sat in Nero with my chai latte (with a shot of espresso in it) I decide to get to work. Another month WILL NOT go by without me posting on my blog.

Let's try this one last time: possible topic #3 for 'my outrageous relationship' is "WiFi shut down so went to Nero with a friend so I can talk to my travelling lover and gossip at the same time. Turns out little red has been living the lifestyle I used to and doing a fucking good job of it too."

My anti-monogamist friend sits people watching, taking snap chat's of my face and filling me in on what she's been up to. Her not quite as significant as he would like other is truly the king of this new breed of needy, suffocating men that will probably pull a Bruce Jenner in the future.

The result of dating this kind of man goes without saying; secret visits from men who know how to treat a woman is something I'm all too familiar with. It's not that you don't have feelings for the person you're with, it's that it's possible that they respect you a little too much, and every girl needs to be disrespected every now and then (in the best possible way).

Luckily, I'm now with the kind of man who can see me as both an angel and ... well... you get the picture.

Good sex is crucial to a good relationship; and so is the right amount of space being given (not gunna lie though, nearly 6,000 miles is a bit too much space but no biggy; I'm in love) and boy/man/girl/woman will go elsewhere if you're not doing your job properly.

Anyone will tell you that the key to a good relationship is communication but some things are better left unsaid. If you know you're thoughts are that of a crazy psycho girlfriend/boyfriend, it's probably best that you keep them to yourself.

Or better still, go for coffee with a friend and complain about your lover behind their back until your friend turns around and tells you to shut the fuck up.

So there, I conformed to the demands of writing about relationships and I hated it just as much as I thought I would. I hope it's less painful to read.

Peace Out.

Date Nights

Someone once told me that the only time a girl shaves above the knee is on a first date. Whether this is true for the rest of the female species or not, I find it pretty strange. The first date routine is something that we all know off by heart, and yet it still baffles me.

While I stand there in front of the mirror, applying a special kind of goopy pencil to my freshly butchered eyebrows before deciding they look absolutely no different, I nod and move on to the next step of getting ready... Which is what exactly? 

Start a blog post apparently. 

As I get older, and my dates also get considerably older, I realise that the word 'date' suddenly means more than grabbing an ice cream and holding hands or going to the cinema to sit in silence for a few hours. I actually have to think about things. 

Things like goopy eyebrow pencils and sexy/uncomfortable push up bras. Considering what connotations my decisions will give off: hair up = too formal? Hair down = too chill? Who knows... Shit, I'm going to be late! 

Cue mad panick, burning myself with hair straightners and realising I haven't thought about shoes or a jacket. Oh my god, is it raining? Because my Parker is not the best first date thing to be wearing...

4 hours, 8 rum and pepsi's, six arse grabs and an empty promise to call later, I run up my four flights of stairs and tell myself there's plenty more fish in the sea...

I've been trying to figure out how to end this post for a week now... And I've come to the conclusion it's just not possible...

I could sit here and rant about why we make ourselves pretty for a date, or why we continuously go on these dead end dates. I could even sit here and pour out my heart about how I've just gotten out of a relationship and all that jazz. All of these possibilities have been written up and deleted countless times so here's my actual conlcusion.

We date for many reasons; 

We may be determined to find the love of out lives. We might just be looking for a quick fling or someone to spoil us with food and drinks occasionally. We might even be golddiggers hoping to find Mr Very Large Trust Fund (what a name aye??).

The point is, whatever the reason we date. It's been going on for centuries and no matter how pointless it is smearing paint all over your face for a date that might not even make it to second base. We do it because we can. And that's all that matters. 

Peace Out ❤️

Bristol: Can I get a Hallelujah?

What happens when you take a country bumpkin and throw her with force into a city? 

That's the question I've been asking myself since school.
Living under no illusion that I'd be able to be a rich and successful journalist for Vice, Vogue or really anyone worth working for from the sunny sea side county that is Cornwall; it did cross my mind that city living would be on the cards.

Ignoring a few failed attempts (and several panic attacks) trying to navigate London on my own in the past 19 years, I'd never really spent much time in any of the UK's big, bustling, bodacious cities and since starting university in the high-rise capital that is Hastings* I realised that some city education might be in order.

The Experiment: 5 days, 4 nights out, 3 crash pads, 2 birthdays and a lot of shopping
Location: Bristol, near Somerset

Outcome:

DAY ONE: 8 hours, 5 coffees and a two hour stop off in London (panic attack mostly avoided) I stumble off the coach in the official centre of Bristol.

It's nice. Lovely even.

I find a coffee shop and sit to enjoy the scenery and try and figure the place out. What is Bristol? What is it's identifier, as Olive Penderghast would say?

The answer to that question was genie pants, and a lot of them. Sat there in jeans and boots, I started to feel shockingly over dressed- like I would have fit in better if I'd stumbled off the coach in my pajama bottoms.

Me and my wifey outside
Timbuk2

In that moment it became overwhelmingly clear why my dance student, genie pant wearing, beautiful hippy friend chose to come here.

A few hours, and several layers of make up, later and I'm on a boat; Thekla, to be precise. If you haven't heard of Will and the People, then you will struggle to understand the amazing choice of venue and atmosphere that was created simply by their indie, Hawaiian shirt wearing presence. They're pretty cute too! Happy Birthday Jess!

[Seriously, check them out: Will and the People, Misunderstood]

The rest of the night blurs into my vodka and energy drink and we wind up at Timbuk2, barefooted and with even more friends.

DAY TWO: Why do I have the words "she is the mask you live in" saved in my notes on my phone?

I think I ate a hot dog last night, which I'm pretty sure goes against my new vegetarian diet, but we live and learn.

Because I clearly missed the memo that stated everyone from the Penzance (Cornwall) area must attend a university near Bristol, I'm lucky enough to find the city incredibly familiar. Everywhere I go, I'm about as much likely to bump into someone I know as I am in Cornwall.

The city is beautifully old and rich and full of the right kind of life. Obviously every time I walk past the college green I imagine I'm one of the characters from Skins (series 1-4 only) but who wouldn't?!

Being here isn't like being in a rat race. Men in suits aren't constantly barging me out the way and women in high heels are looking down at my converse like I'm scum. So far so good...

So far, so much better than London.

Ramshackle night at the O2 Academy does not fail to disappoint. Despite my still very hungover state and the fact that I may cry if another big burly bloke grabs me like an Irish gypsy at a party, it's a great night.

We (who I should probably mention is my "bestie wing man, Mozzy" from my Boardmasters or Sexmasters? blog from earlier this summer) have joined forces with the rest of the crew from Boardmasters Festival and it's safe to say that as a group, we know how to party.

Without offending too many people, my drunken mind is starting to wonder why I didn't come to Bristol Uni.

Of course a proud moment came at 3am when I decided enough was enough and managed to crawl into a taxi back to my sofa for the night (which was actually half of a double bed - thank you wifey!) and wake up well rested and hangover free!

Can I get a Hallelujah?

Pre-Urban Outifitters lunchintons in
Wagamammas 

DAY THREE: Shopping. Because when in a city, us country folk have to take full advantage of the shopping spree potential. I've been saving all summer for this.

First stop: Urban Outfitters.... Wow.

I find it hard to admit this being a girl seriously into fashion, and Vogue, and that whole side to journalism, but I had never been in Urban Outfitters before. It's safe to say that despite the small hate tweet concerning the "EAT LESS" top, I love it. It's like they crawled inside my head and pulled out all the different fashion styles that I love and put them in a shop. And then added the book 'It' by Alexa Chung. Hello Mecca!

Combined with lunchingtons at Wagamamma's and dinner at TGI Friday's (another first for me) today was pretty bloody successful.

"Calling all students and teenagers in the Bristol area!! UWE halls is having a party!"

It's Birthday #2.

DAY FOUR: That was a crazy night. It's safe to say that I am wounded, and sore, and more hungover that I thought possible. Also, thanks to a late night shower, my hair is resembling that of a blonde Whoopi Goldberg in the concluding scene of Sister Act. I need a falafel.

Perched on a bench in a little patch of green outside the falafel stand, it soaks in that tonight is my last night in Bristol. A quiet night in, where I will inevitably fall asleep on the sofa at about 10pm watching films.

DAY FIVE: A falafel burger, an 8 hour coach journey, 5 coffees and a two hour stop off in London (panic attack mostly avoided) and I stumble off the bus back in Hastings.

Bristol freshers has ended, but Brighton's has just begun. Wish me luck!

Peace Out ♥