That Inevitable Election Blog Post

With the big day fast approaching, it's hard to ignore that this time round, there's something very,very wrong with first time voters. They're not voting.

After the burn of the Liberal Democrats in 2010 (need I say more) we, who are stereotyped as inactive and uninterested in politics, have been left scorned and somewhat unable to trust a political party again.

For the more political bunch out there, the problem isn't whether or not to vote, it's who to vote for. Who is worthy of our vote? Which party will actually benefit our needs now and in the future?

Before this election, it's fair to say I had a lot of opinions, but very little knowledge on politics. Now I know what I'm asking for for the next five years.

I want to be able to leave university and still be able to afford to live so a higher minimum wage (or to actually be paid minimum wage) would be much appreciated.

I want to get onto the property ladder as soon as possible without being turned down for a mortgage because I decided to get a higher education.

I want the country to realise how much it could potentially continue to destroy the beauty that we live in. Stop fracking, stop covering up for the damage we do to the environment and step up to a cleaner way of living.

I don't want my country to be so in debt that my taxes take away my hard earned wages.

Finally, I want the area I live in to be protected from heavy development in all the wrong places and for localisation to actually work and for us locals to get what we need from our council.

It's not about tuition fees anymore, I think we, as a collective, have accepted that no matter who promises reductions and scrapping them all together is in some kind of fairy land. Even if they were scrapped, it would probably be implemented in a few years from now by which point I would have finished university and still be in debt.

My demands maybe selfish, but no more so than the person asking for more benefits to feed their two dozen children and no more irrelevant than the lawyer asking to scrap to the mansion tax.

I am still one vote.

We are over six million votes.

We may live in an ageing population but who in their right mind could ignore the needs of six million people who are begging for just one party to make our decision that little bit easier?

Who are we going to vote for?

Who are you going to use your human right on?

By voting, we have the power to sway the entire election in a different way. Our way. Just look at the Liberal Democrats this time round.

We've heard every government claim that we're the future of this country. The future leaders, the future company owners, the future builders of this country and without appealing to us, then who is left to vote for?

Shall I vote so my grandparents get a higher pension? So the shop I work in pays less tax? So one day if I ever become rich, at least I can own more than one mansion?

By voting, we are also voting for democracy. We are voting for the continuation of our right to have our say.

Our vote can be tactical, or it can be honest but it's never been more important to prove that we do deserve to be paid attention to.

So if you've registered, then congratulations, your university has probably given you a free night out.

If you still don't know who to vote for on Thursday this check out this link: ISideWith

It's a free quiz to help you understand which party aligns with the things you want for the next five years.

Peace Out.

Magic Numbers

What's your Magic Number?

Definition: The number of people one has engaged in sexual intercourse with. Usually a secret number and nearly always lied about to seem cooler/less of a slut.

This blog post starts where so many others have been started before; a coffee shop. I'm here for a last minute catch up with badgalryry before I head back to uni and there's an important topic on the agenda.

"What is an okay magic number for a girl our age?" 

The answer should really be open ended. Women died so we could vote and celebrities became sluts to make it okay for the rest of us, but we all still hesitate before answering. 

Girls, if your number is genuinely 5 or below, congratulations, this post is not at all directed at you. 

Girls, if you've never had a one night stand then believe me, this post is not at all directed at you.

Childhood sweethearts? Dated since 16? Married by 20 and kids by 25? Together forever? I'm not even sure how to address you.

This post is for my girls out there who love did well to avoid. My girls who were the centre of every party and have the magic numbers to show it.

We have no regrets, no shameful nights we wish had never happened... until that fateful day we do meet someone to love, and they ask THE question: "So how many people have you slept with?"

Shit.

It's true that we should never be ashamed of our past. It all happened before we'd ever met said person standing in front of us with a quizzical look on their face as we hesitate and stumble over words trying to find an appropriate number. If we'd known that said quizzical person was going to be an angel sent from God who had only slept with 10 people or less... then believe me we would have adjusted ourselves accordingly.

No one wants to appear slutty. Even though we believe that women are just as modern and forward thinking as men; just because we believe we have the right to decide how many people we sleep with without being labelled as a slut or a whore, does not mean that said angel from God will think the same way.

"They should just love us for us!"
"But it's hard not to be intimidated by a head strong girl who's seen more free drinks than a skint student at an exhibition opening..."

The conversation continues and as it does, our minds wander to a particular question we've avoided asking ourselves since that historical summer: How many names have our theoretical black books actually accumulated?!

Badgalryry stares at me, I can see she's trying to calculate an estimation in her head. The notebooks are out. We're down to business.

An hour later, we've laughed and cried while walking down the nostalgic road to those hilarious nights. Memories of the morning after, sat gossiping about the night before. There is no one better to discuss this with, than the one person who remembers every single one with you.

We're still left shocked by the result. It's easily said that there are people out there who've racked up double the notches on their bed post compared to us (and no, these people are not porn stars or hookers) but it's fair to say that neither of us are sure about confessing.

The Mr possibly-judgemental-quizzical-angel-from-god that will inevitably fly into all of our lives at some point or another, may need an adjusted version.

So who to kill off the list?
Who do we scribble out of our memories forever and condemn to the junk folder at the back of our minds?

Do any of those fabulously, hilarious nights that have just given us an hour of hilarities and crimson cringes really deserve to be bumped off our lists?

That guy we dated who turned out to be a jackass? But then taught us so much and made us less naive...

The one night stand with a friend that really shouldn't of happened? But now it's become an anecdote used against each other as an 'in-joke'...

The tall, dark stranger that swept you off your feet for about 24hours of passion and then never saw him again? But the memory is one too good to be forgotten...

The one you could have loved if the timing was better? Surely not...

The simple fact of the matter is, none of our "conquests" have ever brought shame. No one was ever "just another notch on the bed post" and we'll never be sorry for one or the other. Not the bar-tender who smiled the moment you walked into the pub or the fancy dressed Mexican with too much tequila.

And definitely not Mr possibly-judgemental-quizzical-angel-from-god that is staring at you while his chin hits the table as you confess your very magical number of fantastic memories. Because that's all they really are: fantastic memories that will dwindle in comparison to the memories (sexy and otherwise) that the love of your life will give you, and he can just praise his lucky stars that you've gotten the experience to truly make him happy in the boudoir.

After all, practise makes perfect.

Peace Out.

When in love... Do as lovers do #1

The sun is shining through the linen curtains when I awake in our little bit of paradise.

He's left me sleep in again, which I hate him doing because my time here is so precious and I don't want to spent it sleeping.

He's on the balcony drinking coffee. I can just about see his shaddow reflected on the drapes. They'll be a cup there for me too, there always is.

"Morning" he murmers as I shuffle out onto the balcony in one of his vests I found discarded on the floor between here and the bed; "last day today..." This was his way of saying that he'll miss me.

"Mmm..." I groan back, squinting as I try to adjust to the blinding tropical sun. 

I stretch myself into awakeness, reaching out and scratching the top of his head in the process. 

He states up at me, smiling out of the side of his mouth and using his head to beckon me over.

I take my usually morning position on his lap, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting my feet on the gap of chair between his legs. 

Sinking in to his loving embrace, I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder; attempting to stop a single tear from crawling down my face.

I couldn't tell you if it would be a tear of pure happiness and bliss, or a tear of devastating sadness that it will all be over soon.

He gently kisses my shoulder and neck before resuming his coffee slurping and I do the same.

We sit for a while, quietly muttering about the events of the day ahead, both shrugging at suggestions for dinner plans.

"Right, I need a shower" I proclaim as I ease myself off him and start moving towards the door. 

"Not looking like that you're not." He's referring to what I'm wearing, grabbing the inside of my leg and pulling me back towards him, only to stand up and kiss me. Passionately, as always, because I don't think there is any other way for us to kiss.

With one hand running through my hair and the other clutching my bare bottom, he guides me back through the French doors and picks me up like a rag doll. I wrap my legs round his waist and throw my head back in giggles, he always liked me in nothing but one of his vests. 

After, we lie on the floor of our tiled apartment, my body flat on top of his as I stroke his hair up from his face as his runs his hands up and down my back. 

"Hey..." I say, only half looking at him, "I love you."

Whispering this, my eyes dart to his to see if he is as equally shocked by what I've just said.

Nothing. His face remains still; his blue/grey eyes staring back at me.

"I love you too."

.... And then we smile. 

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 ❤️