I WANNA BE A JOURNALIST: My personal journey into not giving a shit and doing what I want.

Brace yourself, because this might be a little crazy to comprehend, BUT I have actually made a significant step towards potentially becoming a fully functioning adult, one who’s potential isn’t beyond one day contributing to society. After completing that PR internship and deciding quite definitely that I just wasn’t ready to be an alcoholic/sociable quite yet,  I took some ‘voluntary’ time off to stare into some mirrors and really ask myself what it is that I want to do/be.

Me: Lucinda, what are you? who are you?

Me: I dunno

Me: A detective? You love Criminal Minds, 4/10 you know who the killer is, that’s better odds than in real life, you’ll be a star.

Me: Maybe in another life. I gotta go now and write about how I will always stand by The Simpsons even if the plot lines are getting more desperate.

Me: Wait a minute.

And that’s what led me to apply for a masters in Journalism. Well partly. The other side of that conversation was me reading various articles, moaning and being like ‘eurgh’ I could do that’ and my mum replying with ‘well why don’t you’.

It was like having an epiphany, but first I had to address my mother’s question, why wasn’t I doing what I wanted?  A lot of my friends are into writing, and I have just always accepted that they were better, and more deserving of artistic success than me. Too scared of being outed as someone trying emulate real talent, I chastised myself for ever hoping. And yet I still started an online blog, available to everyone and anyone, which in itself bore testimony to my secret desire. All I had to do was say it out loud.

That was I did, quite literally. I told my family and some of my friends of what I wanted to do, and with each admittance I felt more free, and so much more brave. I felt as though it was already becoming real. Within a week I had looked up courses, researched prices and sent an email to my old Irish Literature lecturer and hoped and prayed that she a) remembered me and b) thought me a good enough student to write a praising recommendation. I admit I was scared she would just ignore me or respond only out of duty, but she was enthusiastic, even going as far as helping with my personal statement.

When I got that interview I made a promise to myself to blow them away, and in a sense I guess I did. As a part of the process we had to pre-prepare a short profile of an ‘Inspirational Person’. Of course I had  no intention of following their guidelines, preferring to use the opportunity to prove myself to be ‘original’ and ‘daring’, because you know, isn’t that what liberal, artsy colleges like Goldsmiths want? So in a fit of what at the time I thought was artistic inspiration (actually just my inner pretension) I wrote this:

My Inspiration? I am my Inspiration.

Pretentious; Stuck-up; Self-absorbed; Narcissistic.

No doubt these are the traits you have branded me with upon reading this title. Certainly they were the ones going through my parents and my friends heads when they asked me who inspires me and I responded; “Honestly? I inspire myself”. 

Here’s the thing, there are plenty of women and men I look up to, and a thousand more I could have easily written an article on, with a whole list of dates and bullet points documenting their outstanding, history – changing achievements. Frida Kahlo, Emily Davison, Emily Bronte, all certified heroines of mine, but I can barely paint a recognisable horse, nor do I have any intention of throwing myself under one, or for that matter, contracting tuberculosis and dying before my time. I admire their strength, their creativity and their legacy, but I struggle to state with any conviction that I truly aspire for my life to reflect theirs. 

It’s just as Caitlin Moran declared in her novel ‘How to be a Woman’: “Show a girl a pioneering hero (-) and you also, more often than not, show a girl a woman who was eventually crushed”. 

So what about potential inspiration amongst the living? Again numerous, and again I would be lying if I said that any one person jumped out at me. Personally, I disagree with the idea that we determine our self-worth by how well we compare to others. I have spent too long at school and on social media gorging on chocolate and tears, praying to be more like the gorgeous, talented girls that flood our screens and imaginations, without realising that actually I am gorgeous and talented already. All I have achieved and am proud of in my life – my education; my blog; the cakes that I bake; the fact that I have never missed a train or shied away from a poo-filled nappy – are only a reality because I decided to make them so. No one took my exams for me, or writes my articles or stories, and certainly no one made apply for a masters. I could have been anything, and yet I was the one who decided to pursue becoming a journalist.

It’s a foolish and never-ending feat going into competition with 7 billion individuals. Friendly rivalry is one thing (eg. a pub quiz) but you can drive yourself insane devoting your time to other people’s achievements rather than appreciating your own. All you can ever aim for is your personal best, so why worry about other people? They got their own thing going on. Compete against yourself, for yourself. 

The only thing that reassures me of my worth whenever my depression knocks on the door, is the list I keep of everything I am proud of. Knowing I can do them proves I can do anything. 

It’s like The Rock says ““Be the person that when your feet touch the floor in the morning, the devil says, “Awe sh”t, they’re up”.

Man I love that guy. He understands the game.

Every person I have mentioned in this article have each played vital roles in shaping me to become the person I am, but I don’t rely on them for anything. “I depend on me” (Destiny’s Child). I rescue and have rescued myself: I am my own hero. 

So I guess you could call me: Pretentious; Stuck-up; Self-absorbed; Narcissistic.

Although I prefer: Independent; self-motivated; courageous; proud.


Thank the LORD I did not actually give this in (I wrote another one on Barbara Windsor, I’ll post her one up soon….still can’t believe they let me in with it). Despite the horrible pretentious theme and style, the obvious name dropping and the (false) impression that I wake early and grind ’til dark, I stand by its message. I was pumped up on a short-lived adrenaline and pride, but it shows a glimpse of the person I could one day be. Someone who considers them self a contender. Who recognises their achievements. Too often than not are women discouraged from displaying pride or confidence in themselves, as it is these qualities that breed leaders. But if I hadn’t drawn upon those natural characteristics I would never have got that interview, and I most certainly would not have been accepted to study on a course that is rated one of the best in the world.

Yes, we are amazing!




To Nude or not to Nude… : A Question of Empowerment.

Everyone who knows me knows how much I love a good nude. I love taking them, sometimes I’m intrigued to receive them, and occasionally I enjoy sending them. If anyone was so lucky as to be able to scroll freely through my camera roll they would be confronted with not only a shocking number of RuPaul memes, but also an abundance of naked pictures. Taking such photos allows me to capture the various components of my personality in relation to my body. It also allows me to appreciate and love my body in spite of society and companies attempting to make me (and other women) conform to their idea of beauty. Those pictures are my middle finger to them. I can be sexy without a thigh gap so eat it. They rarely get sent to anyone, and the majority are for my own pleasure to gaze at whenever I feel sad, or happy. When I do send them I am careful to never send a picture where I don’t look fly as hell (and one that never has my face in) and if done amicably, I find it enhances the flirtation process.

In the ever-progressing age of technology,  it only makes sense that the increasing dominance of electronics in our lives effects the ways in which we socialise and flirt. Since the creation and widespread availability of the internet, everyone has been hooked on it’s unique ability to connect large groups of people. Social platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat play heavily in much of the social interaction we have outside of school and work, thus any raunchy messages and sexy photos risk going through the internet: the hub of which all things are made more accessible, including both expressing yourself and exploitation.

To gain a deeper insight I have asked 5 very different friends to provide their opinion on the matter; I want to know how people of varying experiences perceive nude pictures, and what it means to them and for equality.

Girl 1- 22 yrs old: Firstly I think nudes are super empowering but I think I’m always in fear of boys using them against you. I think the fear of the power shift changing, say if a boy shared them with friends or uploaded them somewhere, makes it harder for me to engage in them.

Call me an over-thinker but I think horror stories from being younger and girls having them shared round school has traumatized me slightly. Plus men turn into arseholes post breakups, even some of the nice ones”. 

Girl 2 – 23 yrs old: I have lots of opinions on this! OK, firstly, my experiences: I sent my ex semi-nudes and underwear pics when he was studying abroad, but looking back now I think I did it because I felt like I had to. He was away and I felt that I had to somehow maintain some element of intimacy with him – specifically I felt that he would ‘lose interest’ if I didn’t. Afterwards I felt a bit anxious in case the pictures ended up in the wrong hands and for this reason I wouldn’t do it again.

If a girl is sending nudes for fun and she trusts the person to whom she’s sending the nudes then that’s her choice. I don’t really agree with nudes, and – sadly – although women like to think that they’re ‘reclaiming’ their bodies by sending them ‘of their own free will’, because of technology they lose the sole ownership of it, and therefore the power. and it usually ends up damaging them in some way, socially or emotionally. The fact that they feel the need to send naked pictures to feel ’empowered’ says a lot about our culture and the way in which it teaches women to use their bodies and their sexuality as currency”. 

Girl 3- 24 yrs old: I think that sending nudes is great as long as both people respect each other enough not to share them with others and also delete them once a relationship is over. I definitely don’t place much significance on them, but I think that a few of my friends do, they often share nudes with each other to check that we think it’s a good picture before sending onto whoever they’re dating, so they obviously place a lot of significance on it. “

Boy 1 – 24 years old: “If you’re comfortable enough with yourself and also your partner, to be able to send images of yourself as is, then it’s a true testament to the trust you have for that person, and I think it’s a wonderful thing in that respect. That also reflects my own feelings, and how I feel if others do it.  I feel men are more secretive when it comes to discussion with other men. I don’t know of many people that will compare selfies/ask others opinions as there is a lot of stigma around petty things such as the size of your manhood. 

At the end of the day if we’re all adults about such things, have our fun, and say if the flame does die out, fail to distribute images, we should be alright. Unfortunately you do get things such as “revenge porn” but I feel that is becoming more and more unacceptable – as it should be – as time goes on. “

Boy- 21 yrs old: “It’s definitely a bit of a worry sending nudes because you are putting yourself in a bit of a vulnerable situation. Snapchat sort of removes that worry, but I don’t think I would send any via a text/Facebook unless I was going out with the person because then you lose control over it. I know I would be really upset if someone showed it to another and I think if I showed someone a picture I had I would feel really guilty I would never do it and so I would expect the same back. I think that control’s very important

I have never been shown a picture of a girl naked by anyone and personally, I couldn’t imagine a friend showing me a picture of someone naked without feeling uncomfortable. When a woman sends me a picture (and we’re not together) it makes me like her a bit more because it’s very noncommittal fun. There’s no worry about expectations or anything, it’s just fun.”

There appears to be a general consensus of fear and doubt amongst the women as a result of the horror stories they have heard at school and on the news. In contrast, the men are generally less worried about how they might be perceived and would willingly engage with someone they trust. We rarely hear of girls who release pictures of their male lovers and this is what has allowed men to be more relaxed (although they are clearly aware of the consequences). Women have always been taught that they cannot be sexual beings in the same way as men  (Madonna/Whore/Madonna/Whore) and this puts them at an immediate disadvantage when it comes to nudes; if the man releases them they will be labeled as a ‘slut’ and she is instigating the revenge and releases one of him, she will also be labeled as a ‘slut’, although a more ‘psycho’ one. Brain Statistic’s 2016 survey of 1,280 young adults, showed that 56% of women aged between 20-26 admitted to sexting compared to 62% of men. This leaves a considerable 8% gap between the sexes, one that fuels the hesitations and reluctance women have compared to the slightly more willing attitude of men.

Despite what older generations might think,’sexting’ is not, however, an altogether new concept, rather it is an adaptation of the love letters people have always sent to the objects of their affections, merely a natural reaction and desire when infatuated. Whereas before those letters and secrets could only be revealed to immediate friends/family, the internet allows for these intimate moments to be potentially shared amongst millions. This is the biggest downside and places fear upon those sending a nude picture. In 2014 hacker Ryan Collins illegally gained access into numerous email accounts, leaking intimate pictures of female celebrities including Jennifer Lawrence and Rihanna. Later that year, in protest against Emma Watson’s gender equality speech at the UN, the anarchic message board 4chan – where the foretold pictures were leaked – threatened that she would be the next to face this humiliation, although it never did come to light. The reaction and expectation of these people, who believed they could undo all the valid and important points on equality that Watson made, prove that there is still a widespread disgust at a woman flaunting her body, as well the belief that intelligence and sexuality are not interchangeable amongst women.

Worldwide women have been deprived for centuries the ability to control their sexual freedom. Governments run by men made decisions, without inside knowledge or understanding, that dictated what women were allowed to do regarding pregnancy, abortion, marriage, sex. 100 years ago promiscuous women could be sent to an asylum; Until 1967 they were forced to undergo pregnancy against their will, and until 1991, were unprotected against marital rape. There are countless songs, raps and poems degrading women to mere sex objects that rarely make the news, and yet in 2013 when singer Beyonce released the lyrically explicit song ‘Partition’ there was an uproar against her ability to be perceived as a role model because she sang of the mutual pleasure she and her husband have when they have sex. In a nutshell, critics were baffled that a female singer would write of a song that portrays men and women as sexual equals (oh the horror).

What Beyonce, what Emma Watson, and what any woman who demonstrates ownership over her body and sexuality represents – be that through songs, through nudes, through poems, through doing whatever the hell you want – is a defiance to all of the patriarchal norms and gender roles we had been forced to accept. The patriarchy would have us believe that there are only two types of women; ones that use their brain and ones that use their body. This is not true. There are no rules. There are no correlations between sexuality and goodness, how you dress and how intelligent you are.

To some, empowerment might be wearing a hijab, and to others it might be wearing sequin-studded hot pants. As long as YOU feel powerful and YOU feel confident, they will notice. You will make them notice.


How to Intern AND be in Control.

Anyone whose degree ends in BA (Bachelor of Arts) will understand the struggle of living in a world where your qualification is perceived essentially pointless unless you have a trust fund or an inspiring Instagram page. I have neither and am therefore left to either give into a soul destroying job for the sake of a few bob OR commit to the lifestyle I chose during UCAS and offer up my savings and dignity in the hope that someone, somewhere might eventually grant me a paying job if I agree to begin my working career slaving for free.

Yes, interning. It’s a corrupt system, one made only more so by the easy, unquestionable advertising of the internet whose job is not to filter out the bloodsuckers. Surprisingly most big companies and banks follow the laws laid out to protect vulnerable graduates (we are like flightless, naked baby birds) and offer a wage during this ‘work experience’. However, smaller, newer companies – particularly arty ones who know how willingly an illustrating graduate would chop off both legs to work for them – take advantage of the desperate youth and have them work 5 days a week, 9 hours a day, for nothing. They get labor for free and can build their business and in return we are one step closer to perhaps getting a paid job. Seems fair. Needless to say complaining is futile when there’s a whole host of replacements ready to swoop in at the first sign of self-respect. They weren’t joking about this millennial shit you know.

So from September to December I did a PR internship with a cute, boutique company who specialised in the food and drink industry. Lots of glamour, lots of booze (cause duh PR).Thus far my blog has been a little bitter about interning in general but I have to say I rather loved working there. They are a great company. This left me feeling very conflicted as I resented working for nothing but I relished everything I learnt and achieved. They must have liked me too as I was given a lot of responsibility and trusted with accounts and left to more or less get on with it.Admittedly I wish I had researched interning more but because I was a) bored and b) panicking about  life, I just dived right in. So I’ve made a list (cause we all know how much I love a list) of all the things I think people going into an internship should know, and things I wish I had known beforehand.Nothing screams ‘exploit me’ like a naïve little face willing to work and that pisses me off. We should be nourished, not exploited. If this list helps at least one person get experience without having to spend £1200 of their own money on travel then my work here is complete.


  • First and foremost – and I cannot stress this enough – really think hard about the sector you apply for. I had never thought about going into PR before and thankfully I was lucky. But it will be the biggest waste of time if you’re working for next to nothing and then decide actually, no thanks, this isn’t helpful.
  • So if you do decide it’s a waste of your time, don’t be afraid to quit. You don’t owe them anything. Put yourself first. You’re great.
  • Know your rights. If you’re not being paid you shouldn’t be doing work that actively contributes to the company. Most businesses will lure you in with travel and lunch expenses but that doesn’t count. They must pay you minimum wage. If not then make sure they at least pay you the full travel cost. Some companies will try and cap it but if they do put a cap in their ass (jk don’t).
  • If you’re convinced that the company will do wonders for you CV then stick with it. Sometimes people are rude and sometimes jobs aren’t interesting and it can be tempting to give up, but that’s life all over. Make even the most miserable day work to your advantage. 
  • Keep a log of all your work. I was doing a lot of copy-writing and every time I completed anything I’d email it to my personal email. I now have proof and a portfolio ready to be whipped out and flashed at prospective employers.
  • Try and live with a relative. Not getting paid is expensive and my taste for food only increased with the stress of not being able to afford food. Try and convince your parents that this is not only an investment in your future, but also theirs (good nursing homes aren’t exactly cheap you know…)
  • Never forget that you are also doing them a favour. You are not a slave monkey. Rinse them for all the knowledge they have. Ask 1001 questions. Learn how to scan things.

Internships are crappy and only really available to the well off or those lucky enough to have a Dad near London to provide free board and lots of fancy food (me). I would say fuck the system but as I am currently a system whore it would be hypocritical of me.  I guess the best bit of advice is to actually do internships during summer while at university and beat them at their own game. Good luck.





One of the many nostalgic memories I have of feeling like a total idiot includes an episode in my 3rd year 1950’s British Culture class (think angry young women reading the Angry Young Men) and talking about the realistic probabilities of living in another era and discussing our personal preferences.

As English/Drama students idolising De Beauvoir and Wollstonecraft and moaning incessantly of modern privileges, we surprised our Professor by acknowledging, that as women, this was as good as it’s ever been. Socially, politically, no other time has been as accepting (long way to go of course but hey, we no longer count as ‘property’ in a will).

But what about dating throughout the years? I swallowed my nerves and suggested to my peers that apps such as tinder were not as sexually liberating to women as we have been led to believe. Certainly dating is the one thing it does not promote and it’s understood amongst users to be just a casual thing- which is completely great of course IF by casual you mean two consenting adults getting it on happily. IF. I told my class that I explicitly believe tinder is hindering our generation’s ability to socialise romantically, but above all I believe it is making a sham of equality.

Naturally the whole room went into meltdown, everyone loved tinder, men and women are finally sexually equal, respect choices ETC….

A totally understandable reaction. But what I didn’t expand on at the time was that my statement comes from the conclusion of a Tinder junkie. Me. I am The Junkie. All but one of my sexual encounters have been the result of that damn app, and in a way I owe it my sanity (got me over an ex VERY quickly) but I also feel like they OWE me.


      (me looking like a mermaid and explicitly asking for no ‘fuck boys’ lol)

My mind-set was perfect for Tinder; single and looking for a cool person to hang with for  a few months at a time. I couldn’t commit to anything – something I established early on – and I think most people on Tinder feel the same, so it should be all easy – peasy – lemon – squeezy, get on the dick and eat some pie kinda fun, right?

Kinda. It ALWAYS starts out great. Boys are always very sweet and lovey dovey rainbow angels when they’re trying to get into your pants but once that’s done they either ignore you or explain that they can’t ‘give you what you want’. You don’t have to really do anything, simply asking them how their day was suddenly translates as ‘I wanna backpack Asia with you’. Unfortunately the male perception of women, a fairly archaic one, teaches boys from a young age that women are to be either placed upon a holy, angelic pedestal or to be viewed as ‘rough’ ‘slags’. Basically the Madonna/Whore Complex. This separation of the genders from such an early age has resulted in two sexes that no longer identify with each other, and from my own experience it feels as though boys are unable to view their sexual opponents as their equals because of it. They are given these two options, but with the recent growing feminist movement more widespread, they struggle to find a box to place promiscuous women whilst also defining themselves as ‘modern’ or ‘feminist’.

‘I can’t give you what you want’ is not always an arrogant declaration but sometimes a pathetic statement from a confused man, one who does not truly believe that you are in love with him, but who cannot admit that a woman’s libido is similar to that of a mans; and so they revert to option B and assume women cannot have sex without falling in love. Of course he could treat you like the whore, but when faced with a strong, confident woman who doesn’t give a shit, these men have adapted to the only other option they’ve been taught is available to them. It’s actually very sad when you think about it.

There is still so much stigma attached to promiscuous women because of these traditions, and Tinder has become its most modern connotation. It is a medium for casual sex in a period where people still cannot keep their chill when their friends/colleagues/family have one night stands/fuck buddies. (‘Darling if you want boys to like you, maybe don’t sleep with them?’)

But it doesn’t matter how good of a person I am, promiscuity (and therefore tinder) does not warrant respect, and therefore I could not command it. Because of their confusion and fear, these men neglect to act like normal human beings i.e. asking ‘how’s your day’ etc…

What’s sad is that apparently a part of my appeal (asides from the obvious) is based on how few people I have slept with. I suppose it makes boys feel special. Tbh though I’m tired of having my innocence fetishized and fearing that I’ll lose what appeal I have as a woman each time I have sex with someone new. Every time it ends between me and a guy what hits me more than the standard self-depreciating slumber, is the horror that I have to start the whole thing again, with my number going up. Just as boys have been taught to label women as either two archetypes, so have girls been taught to either conform to societal perfection or be prepared to be shamed until they do.

So why do I keep going back to Tinder?

Every single time one person makes me feel rejected and generally feeling shit about myself, I head right back in a desperate search for physical validation and reassurance. It’s a soothing quick fix  within a day. Does it solve my crippling emotional issues? Not at all. But I convince myself every time will be different. Besides, I love the idea of it, and how it easy and convenient it is. It’s a great concept.

‘I don’t get it Lucinda, you want to sleep with someone and hang out, why don’t you  just get a boyfriend’


Because I don’t want a damn boyfriend yet, I wanna be able to up and leave for the world whenever I WANT. okAY? okay.


N.B. All the men I met on Tinder were good men, I definitely don’t not like them.



‘1984’- Playhouse Theatre Review

‘1984’- Playhouse Theatre Review

So if you’ve read my last blog you will probably already know that last Sunday I got sad and drunk and broadcasted a series of opinions, all of which reflected either anger or disappointment at various people/orangutans in my life. Trying to piece together a synopsis of said post would be a waste of anyone’s time, but towards the end I mentioned that I was with my flatmate, Katie, and that we were trying to find things we could do to make the week more exciting, and the theatre was a very real possibility. Yes, my drunken self did blast its’ elitist culture, and yes, I stand by it more than ever since they charged me £6.20 for a single vodka and lemonade. HOWEVER, whilst the institute is snobby and stuck up, the play itself was actually pretty darn good.

Side-note: I LOVE the theatre. I always had this fantasy of becoming an internationally acclaimed actress/writer, unstoppable and gorgeous, and having studied drama at A-Level I learned how to appreciate the style and technique of a play, as well as the hard-work it takes to pull off. I also learned that it was probably not the vocation for me (too self-conscious, no rhythm), but that doesn’t stop that tingly feeling I get whenever I gaze at the actors, mesmerized by the skill (and legs) that I’ll never have.

The tickets were not actually that expensive, we found them on LoveTheatre for £11.90 incl. a booking fee, but considering it’s a West End play in London, we weren’t complaining (much). I was initially disappointed to find out that there would be no interval, and therefore no interval ice-cream, however I did mange to sneak in a Toblerone so it balanced out, kinda. Our bad luck continued when we realised £12 only got us a virtually vertical view of half the stage. It felt as though if you leaned too far forward you’d tumble all the way down to the rich seats. It made your head spin for sure, but once the play started our inferior seating, and general inferiority, was momentarily forgotten.

1984 is probably the perfect play for 3 English graduates to see, in fact I’m even not sure you’re allowed to apply for the course unless you’ve read the book. It’s a classic, and most people are at the very least familiar with the plot, predominately due to the success of the 1984 film (lol) with a young-ish John Hurt. A dystopian future ran by a totalitarian government bent on controlling all aspects of its public’s lives, not only imprisoning people, both economically and socially, but also imprisoning them within their own mind, eliminating free thought or discussion. It is a very real and scary question as to whether or not humans are truly free, and this novel challenged and exposed tactics of propaganda and its dangers of  controlling the perceptions of its ignorant targets (ignorance is strength, after all). This is the background and foreground of the plot, a reflection of Big Brother’s omniscience and unyielding power. Its focus is on the character of Winston Smith, a subject beginning to question his government as he searches and attempts to salvage truths, (2 + 2 IS 4, god-dammit), a mission which projects insanity amidst the brainwashed masses. It is this representation of the unraveling of Winston’s mind that is the play’s greatest success (I think anyway, I dunno).

The fluidity of the characters and repetitious scenes highlight this eradication of the individual that is the pivotal to Big Brother maintaining its grip, and is important in showcasing Winston as the outsider. The combination of flashing lights and blackouts demonstrated the protagonist’s realisation and understanding of the truth, sometimes misinterpreted as madness. He is not mad, of course, merely coming to grips with a newfound freedom of thought in a world where there is literally a thought police.

Specifically, the best scene had to be the torture scene. I’m not a psycho, but holy moly, it delivers what it promises. Blood, spit, a blaring white light and several people in what looked like toxic waste suits. Every body was squirming. I looked over at my friend during a particularly gruesome bit, and she was just staring into her lap. I don’t think it is possible to ever make a torture scene seem ‘lighthearted’, so they really went for it. The actors were entirely professional and their synchronicity and discipline made it all the more creepy. It certainly had the desired effect, and even though it made people uncomfortable, that’s the reality, and it hammered home the possessive evil that such corporations rely on.

There were some dodge bits though, the beginning started off with a group of historians talking about a book. It wasn’t really explained well and I only knew that they were historians because my friend told me she had read a review beforehand. It’s not a major part of the play so I can quite happily pretend it didn’t happen. Maybe it was too deep for me, but if I’m honest I think the play could have done without it.

Anyway, to sum it all up. Pretty good play, go see it if you can.

Here is a quote;

“Being in a minority, even in a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.”.  1984 (the book), George Orwell.

Orwell always knew what was up.



Dealing with the Olympics when you don’t have a TV/Don’t like sports.

If you have read my previous posts on this blog, you would have already deducted that no part of my personality whatsoever revolves around strenuous/repetitive activity (burritos forever, stomach crunches never!). Unless I can make up my own rules or I can be in the sea, I have no desire to partake in anything that involves running or wearing a uniform. 

This can become a slight issue, however, every 4 years when the biggest and most ancient sporting event in the world rears its over-sized, patriotic head, and dominates every media forum (including this blog) for the whole of August. I am then forced to endure a temporary social ostracisation as everyday conversations swings between medals, speedos and the chemistry between Rebecca Adlington and Mark Foster (no idea who the latter is, I guess he’s a sports guy). The only alternative being, of course, that I actually watch the games. Thankfully, I have a perfectly acceptable excuse as I don’t have a TV (true), which makes me feel reminiscent of the days in secondary school when I had a note from my mother that stated I couldn’t do the 1000 metres as I had bad hayfever. Of course there was probably a way round it, but I had a note and no teacher would dare question a mother’s authority. I was excused and got to sit in the playground watching everyone else run and pant whilst I daydreamed about Legolas. 

In my household it wasn’t so much of a big deal, my mum liked it well enough but sports wasn’t a religion, and whilst my dad had taken me to a few football games, I was never forced to watch sports and that was fine with me. I enjoyed those sporadic days out, the communal atmosphere, the smell of greasy chips and happily felt at one with the crazed fans and determined team. That all changed when I go my first (and only) boyfriend, who loved football and allowed it to consume the majority of his social life. I spent countless weekends forced to watch football ALL DAY, not just the game itself, but all the commentaries and the same two adverts played over and over. These were the terms and conditions if ever I wanted to see him (and I did because I was a naive fool). There was no compromise and god-forbid if I ever suggested a programme to watch ( I once put on Takeshi’s Castle and he turned it off moments later stating ‘it was shit’). I was told I was ‘boring’ and ‘ready-salted’ because I enjoyed museums and books, all of which contributed to the ball of suppressed anger at being made to feel like shit, and because I never got the chance to take it out on him (which I should have done, he was a dick), my hurt was targeted at football and organised sport in general. When we broke up I felt free and I vowed to never watch a football match again. 

That’s not to say that I don’t respect and appreciate the skill and hard-work that each athlete puts into their sport. I think their technique and discipline is admirable and sometimes I find myself dreaming about my own body’s potential; but unfortunately I find the whole process tedious and dull. The repetitive commentary, the various close up of determined, chiseled faces, and panorama views of an overpriced stadium take up the majority of the time and it puts me on edge, as though I could suffocate with the frustration. The sport itself, however, is considerably more enjoyable, but after numerous rounds and laps, the faces and movements merge into one and after a while the screen becomes a blur and the voices a vacant buzz. 

I want to enjoy it, but I find myself reluctant to partake in its celebrations, reluctant to submit myself to a national pride that seeks to divide and brainwash the world. It does not necessarily showcase the best talent, merely which country can afford the best facilities. Of course the promotion of sports to youngsters is no doubt a valiant cause, and I do promote a healthy lifestyle, no matter what my blog may say, but I still cannot bring myself to enjoy it. Maybe if I saw it live I could get caught up in the moment, but I dread to think what the parking situation would be like. 

On a happier note, I do very much enjoy the diving pictures as I scroll through Instagram. Here are a few of my favorites;

Such skill and such respect. 


The Truest Love is a Harry Potter Love…


Yes I’m still unemployed, BUT, in my ever persistent search to make use and sense of my seemingly never-ending amount of free time, I found the perfect activity that turned my frown upside down in the very literal sense. HARRY POTTER STUDIOS!!! In true student/unemployed style this was my Xmas present from my mum (I am a firm believer that activities and events make great great wonderful gifts. Especially if you’re poor like me and wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise YAY). I got two tickets and decided to take my equally fanatical and die-hard friend (the lovely KTG https://neatandorderly.wordpress.com/ ).

I spent the entire day smiling and nothing could have been a better distraction from the fact that I have woken up to a new job rejection everyday for the last 2 weeks. I may have spent the previous Thursday crying to my parents over FaceTime in Mexico but that Saturday was mine to be happy.

Here are some photos that prove this (sorry for the crappy quality, hands were shaky and hearts were racing)


Here is proof that I can fly AND smile.

hogwart friends

Just two happy gals posing in front of the Hogwarts Express.

wonder minstery

Me wondering whether or not the Ministry of Magic is hiring….

sort me out

Sorting Hat sort out my life lol.

In all seriousness, how anyone can watch or read the series and not fall in love is beyond me. What other cinematic melody can move millions to nostalgic tears? What other film has had their studios turned into a public attraction so popular it’s booked up for the whole summer? Walking around I was transformed back to my early teens when the franchise dominated every aspect of my life and I became known (to some)  as ‘the weird Harry Potter girl’, a title I take/took great pride in. A period of my life where fantasy and fancy took prominence and was accepted, even encouraged, because I was a child. As an adult it’s too easy to become bogged down with the domesticity of modern life and forget about the quirky imagination that we thrived on as children. Personally I will always daydream of Hogwarts and my second life and adventures within its’ grounds. Not to mention, of course, my passionate, tumultuous love affair with Draco Malfoy (standard story; he the untameable, racist lothario and me, the only woman he could ever love). It is this powerful world that dances constantly throughout my mind and comforts me when the real world spits venom in my face (frequent).

Now to read the Cursed Child and cry some more.