Happy(?) new year

If there is one thing I hate, and I'm sure by now you know I hate a multitude of things, it's New Year.

Firstly, the kind of cliches that New Year brings are ridiculous. If you log onto any kind of social media tomorrow, you are guaranteed to be greeted by at least one of these. 'New year, new me'. '2014 is going to be my year!' Sorry but New Years Day is exactly the same as the day before it and all the days after it so please, please spare me your attention-seeking and cringeworthy inspirational quotes. 

You may have guessed, I'm also not one to make a New Year's Resolution. I'm all for a making a positive change in your life, but being forced into it (and almost certainly failing) due to the constant expectations and everyone asking if you have one/if you're sticking to it is another nonsensical norm I wish we didn't have. FYI - no, I do not have a New Year's Resolution, like the other 20 years I've been on this earth. Because if I did want to do something, I would probably just, y'know... do it now. Crazy idea I know guys but please try and stick with me here. 

I'm going to just go ahead and throw this right out there - does anyone really enjoy New Year's Eve? Maybe it's just my friends (sorry girls) but the pressure of everyone having to have big plans and an amazing time on this one specific night always leads to at least one crier, one vommer and too many arguments to keep track of. If you choose to go out, you may be advised to seek some kind of mortgage beforehand. Clubs start to charge entry based on 100 times the amount of a usual night, drinks become the price of liquid gold and a taxi home will cost the price of an average 3 week holiday. Why would anyone put themselves, and their bank accounts, through it?  

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Whatever your plans are I do hope you all have a good (as possible) New Year's. Although I most certainly will have a let-down of a night, mainly because I have no plans and am already full of hate of the whole shebang, I really don't care. I am sure to have a much better time, like the rest of you, on a spontaneous night at a reasonable price. 

The obvious lessons learnt here: 

Save your hard-earned for another night and sleep through the countdown. Why do we even do that? Why is the first moment of a new year so vital? Why do we continue to sing that song that no one knows but pretends to know because it's another nutty tradition? 

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And with that, I can conclude, I am now officially old. 

My crazy carb combos

Firstly, apologies for the lack of blogging recently. Third year at university is not allowing any spare time right now!
However, as it is the season to eat, drink and be merry, I thought I'd let you in on a few of my diet secrets. I haven't had the most normal of eating habits growing up. In the midst of being a vegetarian for around 15 years (don't worry I am fully converted now), my mum took me to a dietician to try and sort me out but nothing would. I ate only oven chips (really) for dinner for years, so maybe this is why carbs are so close to my heart.

Everyone knows at university it is expensive, difficult and time-consuming to maintain a full and balanced diet. So basically, I don't even try.

First up is my favourite dinner and an absolute staple for me. Garlic bread, chips and yes, that is a side of cheese in the corner. (Cheese was a luxury in this dinner - usually it's just the garlicy b and chips). Don't be mistaken in thinking garlic bread is a side dish restricted to lasagne, pasta or chilli. It is a glorious food group in its own right. Totally underrated if you ask me. And potentially the reason I'm single.

Next up is another plate of carby goodness. This time, a pizza to which I have added more cheese (absolutely necessary) accompanied by a side of cheesey mash. You may or may not have detected a cheesey theme running through this piece. I am the biggest cheese lover in the entire world and I will happily take anyone down who tried to knock that title from me. Blue cheese, goats cheese, brie, camembert.. I love them all. I haven't met a cheese I didn't like. I am also known as queen of the mash but I'm afraid I can't give away my secrets here.

Lessons learnt: any food that is yellow or beige in colour is a winner and a no-carb diet for me would result in almost immediate perishing. My advice is to grab a garlic baton and a wheel of cheese and go forth; vegetables are for losers. 

The perils of having a babyface

I've always had a babyface. Obviously when you're an actual baby, this proves no problem. However, now I am approaching the grand old age of 21, this has become somewhat of a burden on my life. When I turned 18, being ID'ed was the most amazing novelty. 'Of COURSE I have my ID', I would say as I whipped out my pink drivers licence, looking round at strangers with a 'don't worry, I got this' look on my face. However, I quickly learnt that being ID'ed was something that would a) never ever stop and b) not be restricted to alcohol.  

 Here is a montage of baby me. Clearly my pre GHD days
 

It all started on my best friend's 19th birthday. We had had a good day out shopping, were grabbing a pizza and decided why not go to the cinema to round off a lovely day. Cute, you may think. No. No it was not. Approaching the cinema, we pick our film of choice. 'The Inbetweeners Movie', a hapless schoolboy comedy. Nothing untoward here. However, after asking for two ADULT tickets to this film, the spotty power-hungry teenager that was serving me asked for my ID. 'My what?' I stutter. 'I need to see your ID please.' 'No, surely not.' 'Yes please'. 'Right.' Reaching in my bag, I again pulled out my pink driving licence, a hue that was rapidly matching my face, showing I was in fact a full three years older than the certification of this film. I had been mistaken for a 14 year old or under. We dodge the, of course, huge queue who are clearly stifling laughter to go and watch a film that I spend the entirety watching, surrounded by people MUCH YOUNGER THAN ME, mortified and wishing the seat would swallow me whole.

Me circa 2009. You will notice no facial aging present from my baby montage.

 

Following my previous blog post regarding my dilapidated student house, you won't be surprised to hear that the hobs when turned on, do not light themselves. No, like cavemen, we have to light it with a match or a gas lighter. Like most things in this property, the gas lighter I had bought decided to give up on me and so a trip to Wilkinson's (learn to love this shop if you're a soon-to-be-student) ensues. I approach the till with the lighter in my hand and only one thought in my head.. 'I wonder at what point this woman will ask me for my ID'. Sure enough, pretty much as soon as she sees me, regardless of the product in my hand. Thank God she did check though, because we all know that the difference between a 17 year old and an 18 year old with a vendetta, going on an arson rampage with a budget gas lighter has saved huge amounts of lives.

 

 

So now, with only a few months till my 21st birthday, graduation around the corner and real life looming, I think to myself when the hell will I look my age? My Mum assures me that looking young is a blessing, but she hasn't had to pull out her ID to buy a DVD in HMV before (yes, really. I think it was a 12 that time). When will the days where I am asked at the door of a bar for my ID, again at the bar ordering a drink, and then singled out and asked again at the table ever stop? And so I leave you with my very recent passport photo. What is legally required to be the most accurate representation of your face there is and let you decide. 12 year old or 21 year old?

Lessons learnt: If you suffer from this problem too, never ever step out of your door without some form of proof of age. You never know when a stranger will think your parents have lost their 3 year old and report you to the authorities.



Welcome to student life

So, my first blog! Honestly I don’t know what took me so long since I was an incredibly keen MSN space updater... (please someone tell me they remember that? Was it just me?) Well, of course I would decide to give this a go at the most crucial, pressured and stressful time of life – in my last year of university. Being in my last year is something I don’t like to admit or dwell on too much as the thought of moving my things out of my student house in Bristol and back home to Aylesbury brings tears to my eyes and fear in my heart.

It wasn’t always like this. I had a shaky start in first year, amid severe homesickness and phone calls to my Mum such as claiming my single bed sheet is ‘way too small, you’ve definitely bought the wrong one’ for my single bed. This was greeted by a lot of laughter from her with the realisation she probably should have made me participate in a few more chores at home (only child syndrome, sorry not sorry) and a sharpish visit from a flatmate who proceeded to do it for me. However, now I have settled down and made home in the comfort of what we lovingly refer to as 46, our student house for second and third year. After claiming I never want to leave, I will now go on to explain why I very much want to leave. I’ve come to realise I am living in the epitome of the student cliché.

46 in all its glory

I should probably admit to you now that, furthering the student cliché, my flatmate and I were incredibly hungover when we attended this house viewing. Weeks of looking at dingy above-a-corner-shop-and-smelling-like-weed properties, we finally found a house in a great location and for a reasonable price. So we did what any rational person would, booked a viewing for first thing on a Thursday morning and proceeded onwards to our favourite Wednesday club night. Fast forward a few hours (and I do really mean only a few hours) and we are zombie-like, propped up in the doorways of rooms and mumbling ‘mm good size’. Potentially with alcohol still in our systems we, looking back rather rashly, headed straight for the estate agents and put down our unreasonably gigantic deposits. Moving in day rolls around and feeling like I’m in an episode of Cribs, I think to myself.. ‘Wow. We’ve done pretty well here guys. It’s clean, it’s fresh, it’s modern. Everyone is going to wish they were us. Where do those horror stories of gross, mouldy, rat-infested student houses even come from?!’ …  I’ll tell you.

1.       We have mould. We have a lot of mould. Our landlord thinks a suitable solution to my angry, concerned for my life emails (don’t you know Brittany Murphy died of mould in her mansion?!) is to send over Nick, who I will return to later, to paint over it every couple of months and to ‘keep the door open’. Which is obviously great advice for the most private room of the house where it is most of the time imperative that the door is shut.



Exhibit A

2.       There are rats in our garden. Over the summer, our ‘garden’ (in the loosest term of the word) turned into an overgrown weed pit where the table and chairs quite literally disappeared underneath the huge jungle of bushes. One day, my flatmates were having lunch. One says to the other ‘oh my god, there’s a RAT!’ The other worriedly replies ‘where?!’ ‘In the garden! Look!’ ‘Oh right I thought you meant here in the room. Ah well.’ Not fine. Also, not the end of the wildlife situation in the household.

3.    Slugs. We have slugs (plural) inside our house. This was the last straw for me, having been sheltered by an incredibly house proud mother whose house is dominated by white carpets, we barely had so much as a fly to visit at home. Cue another angry email to our landlord from me, with photos of the slugs attached so she can absolutely see the severity of the situation. A reply. ‘Put down some repellent, it’s the time of year’. Right. Apparently I didn’t get the well-known memo that it was the season for slugs to invade your house and move in with you. I wasn’t standing for this, so again she sends Nick round to check out this situation. Nick, the mould-painter-overer and general handyman of the house rocks up and into my room without any warning and in his thick Bristolian accent states, ‘landlord said you had a flood’. Confusion is on his face and worry in his eyes. This is a big plumbing deal. ‘No Nick’, I reply, ‘we have SLUGS’. ‘OH!’ He chuckles to himself and walks away and with not even a hint of sarcasm tells me, ‘that’s alright then’.

 Just in case you were unaware of what a slug looked like. Exhibit B

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My best friend and I have a saying that we tell each other, often after a particularly regretful night out, ‘you live and you learn’. This happens to be the inspiration of my blog title and whilst I will you to laugh at my life, I think we should always have an educational message.

So lessons learnt:
1) Never go to your house viewing hungover.
2) Never move into a student house if you can possibly help it.
And 3) always, always move into a new property armed with slug repellent for when that infamous time of year rolls by.