Baby got back

Up until quite recently I was constantly thinking/worrying about my weight. I hate to be a cliché, I really sodding do, but it’s just part of being a girl/woman/human to criticise how you look. Admittedly I have been prone to take this self-criticism to the extreme: the thing is, I imagine that everyone, really everyone, looks at my wobbles and rolls and sneaky double chin that continues to escape from my jaw bone, and thinks “God, how can she even think about eating another chocolate bar? Why does she continue to eat crisps? Why is she even still sat in this room right now - get yourself down to the bloody gym you fat lazy bitch!”. But I do eat another chocolate bar, and I do continue to eat crisps, and I’m not down the bloody gym, I’m sat here writing about it, which is doing nothing for my waistline at all. Unless typing burns off, like, 5000 calories an hour, which I’m pretty sure it doesn’t due to said weight issues. It doesn’t help that my friends are all skinny and stylish and lovely, thus when we’re all out together we spend the whole time looking like Pussycat Dolls featuring Lisa Dingle.

But these thoughts are getting a little tiresome now. In fact, I’m bored to fucking tears with it. I yoyo diet so much I don’t know where I am with it all. It’s not as if I’m grossly unhealthy; I don’t need a crane to take me to Asda, and I’ve never been featured in Love It! Magazine talking about how I like to squash men with big flabby boobs (which was a real article, by the way). I very rarely drink (in fact, if I’m honest, I don’t even like alcohol. The appeal of getting drunk is completely lost on me). I’ve never even held a cigarette; fast food is only consumed when in need of food, fast; and the idea of me ever taking drugs is frankly hilarious. So if I want to eat Chinese and chocolate cake on the odd evening, I will. If I want to do an hour on the exercise bike, I’ll do that too. I’m just living; you don’t have to put much thought into it. If being a size 12/14 means that someone like Ed Westwick will never fall in love with me, then that’s fine. I want someone who loves me based on much more than aesthetics. And he probably snores loads, anyway.

For a years and years, I wholeheartedly believed that if I was really skinny and beautiful and looked the spitting image of Cheryl Cole, my life would be truly wonderful. Then I got a sodding grip. I don’t need double D’s, size 6 denim shorts and a spray tan to have a wonderful life. No one does. It’s an illusion leading to delusion, and it’s not fair. So much time is being wasted with people wishing they were something they’re not. I’m not going to waste such large chunks of my life on this frivolous nonsense anymore. My life is wonderful, for many reasons. Here are just a few:

1) Most importantly, I’m healthy. Corny I know, but when you actually sit and think how lucky you are to be healthy, it’s quite overwhelming. Millions of people my age are governed by blood cell counts and organ donation lists and God knows what else. I’m not one of them. And I’m so grateful.
2) My mum is bloody fantastic. We have such a close bond and I love her to bits. Without her support and encouragement I would just be, like, a blob of nothingness. She’s selfless, thoughtful, generous, strong, funny… she’s just the best.
3) My friends. The ones who are like family, the ones who I have nothing in common with yet get on with like a house on fire, the ones I bicker with but secretly wouldn’t be without. They’re all a part of who I am; they’re the ones I can laugh with until I suffer the first stages of a stroke, the ones who know how freaking weird I can be at times but are still hanging around, the ones who know what I’m thinking without me having to say a word. Wonderful.
4) My Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and little diva, Maddie. (Her brother Alfie is a proper lush head too, but technically he’s mums). I only have to leave the house for an hour but when I return she greets me with so much enthusiasm it’s like she’s witnessing the resurrection of Christ. She is so loving and gives the best cuddles in all the land. Animals are beautiful. Particularly Maddie.
5) Books. For reals, a good book makes me feel like everything is right with the world.* The best kind of books are the ones that have you so engrossed it’s like you can crawl inside their world and exist on every page, and re-reading them is like going home.
6) Live music makes my life wonderful. As do musicals, theatre and stand-up comedy. All of which I go and see on a regular basis and I love it. I’d spend my money on concert tickets over a manicure any day.
7) Travelling; I’m lucky enough to be going to New York for my 21st birthday with some of my favourite people in the world. If that doesn’t make my life wonderful, there is absolutely no hope.

And you see, I’d still have all of those things no matter what the scales say, or what I look like. That’s good enough for me.




*Equally though, a bad book makes me very angrysmashsmash. See ‘best-selling author Katie Price’.

Dissertation: defining my being for the next year

Ahhh dissertation. Diss-er-ta-tion. What a word. And you better get used to it my friends, because it will be ringing in your ears for the next 11 months (you may want to disown me now. Right now).

I’m swiftly approaching my final year of Uni and preparations are already underway for this literary beast that will be spawned from the joyous union of my brain and Sparknotes. My dissertation is already proving to be a right royal pain in the ass, and I haven’t even started writing it yet. There was a whole palaver over pin-pointing a specific question, followed by a drama over who my supervisor was going to be. It transpired that, little Miss Luckybags that I am, is getting the most intimidating tutor of the lot, whom my peers often fondly refer to as the ‘demented pixie’ (she looks a tad like Tinkerbell crossed with Hook). She is overwhelmingly intelligent, lacking in social staples such as tact, by her own admission has never complimented anyone’s work in her life, and possesses the power to break your soul in just a look.

Personally I think she just needs a big hug. Not from me though, I’m scared of her. Actual, proper, dry-mouth-sweaty-palms scared of her. To be honest she’s probably not best pleased to have been lumbered with a drip like me, so fair’s fair, but I’ve made peace with the fact we’re going to be stuck with each other until the end of April 2011, and so have decided to take on the challenge of thawing her icy heart. Oh no, an 8,000 word literary study, 1,000 word research proposal, and 10 minute presentation in front of the board is not enough for me. I scoff at the students who only have that to worry about. My secondary dissertation mission (and arguably the one I will be showing most commitment to) is turning Lady Macbeth into Mrs Weasley. Or, yano, Snape would be an improvement too. I’ll take what I can get. I just want us all to be friends and get along like we did in middle school, and bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would be happy…

Anyway, my dissertation study area is Feminism in Gothic novels spanning the Romantic and Victorian period. Sounds like the literary equivalent of Disneyland, doesn’t it just. I have a list of over a dozen texts - novels and sage writing - that I need to read over the summer, preferably making any relevant notes as I go along. As well as the dissertation we’re doing four other modules; basically, it boils down to us writing 18,000 words per semester, assuming we stay on target with our dissertation. This is not including the dissertation presentation (which I’m already getting a bit cacked up about; public speaking not my forte), and somewhere in the region of 4782 novels, plays, poems, and critical essays to read. The chances of me becoming a hermit in the next academic year are very, very high. I urge you to remember my face; make an audio recording of my voice, if you must.

I’m easing myself into my mammoth reading list with 'Northanger Abbey' by lovely lovely Jane. I love Jane Austen, to the point where I’ve not entirely ruled out the possibility that I am her much less talented (but adoring) sister Cassandra reincarnated. Next up is ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’ by Ann Radcliffe. It’s the size of a common house brick.

So this is just a polite warning that tweets/blogs depicting differing levels of dissertation despair (check out the alliteration on that - still got it) are likely, as is a nervous breakdown which I’ve pencilled in my diary for around January, slotting in nicely just after Christmas and just before my 21st birthday. As you were.

Exam invigilating: a people watcher's dream

Okay, I realise the title of this blog may make me sound a bit pervy. I'm not. But I've been invigilating GCSE and A-level exams for a year now, and for a large amount of time all you can do is watch people in the throes of exam terror (or apathy, in some cases). You pick things up. The following has been extremely generalised, so forgive me, but students tend to come in 2 categories:

1) The sweet, polite, hard-working kids who desperately want to do well in their exams and are writing, re-writing, and checking their papers up until the final minute, often pulling at their hair and looking to the ceiling when digging deep for an answer (FYI, looking upwards indicates you know the answer, it's just a case of remembering it. Gazing downwards shows you've got no hope, it ain't happening. That's A level Psychology in a nutshell). They will apologetically ask for a pen if theirs runs out, and flash you a relieved smile as you collect their papers. They are endearing, and if I ever became and English teacher I imagine pupils like these would be a complete joy to have in the class.

2) The students who are obviously more than capable but have chosen to spend their lesson time flirting/texting/perfecting the art of drawing a perfectly symmetrical love heart. Usually finishing the exam at least 30 minutes before the end, frequently asking to go to the toilet, often trying to catch the eye of other students, always in need of stationary of some sort. Last summer a boy put his hand up in an exam and said to me "Miss, I can't answer any of these questions because I bunked every lesson". Not only did I not know what to say, but I got a sinking feeling in my stomach and oddly sympathised with this young lad. He was worried, regretful, and was just beginning to realise how stupid he'd been. I could see it in his eyes. He knew telling me that wasn't going to make any difference, he was just desperate for some kind of reassurance. Of course it was too late for him, or me, to do anything about it. He answered one or two questions and then sat for the next hour or so with his head on the desk. I found it really sad.

It's the category two pupils that inspire me to become an English teacher. I know it's an incredibly naive and optimistic view to have, but I feel an almost maternal need to encourage these young people to do well, and feel like I have something to offer them. I care about the English language, am passionate about literature, and if I could instil that same kind of love for English in other people I'd honestly be thrilled. This is going to sound really daft, but I get all tingly handing out the English papers, and mentally plan the revision classes I would've held for my pupils; I genuinely want them all to do the best they possibly can.

When I was at school my close family, friends, and even two of three of my own teachers, told me that I was going to become an English teacher. I'm not sure why, as they never really justified their predictions, but this was something I was quietly resentful of and fiercely denied. As a teen it was my arrogant and false belief that "those who can't, teach", and I had inflated ideas of the kind of career I wanted. But a combination of growing up and working in a school has made me re-evaluate what type of career would suit me. That phrase now makes me quite angry, as I've come to realise that to teach is to inspire; some do it well, some don't, but teaching is not something to be considered as a last resort. If taken seriously it's a huge responsibility.

I'm not saying I'm definitely going to be a teacher; who knows, this time next year I could be lusting after a job as chief taster at Cadbury's, or realise that it is my calling to rescue and care for injured field mice. I have another year left at Uni, anything could happen. For the moment, all I know is that there is a bubbling passion for teaching within me, and I'm quite happy with it being there.

Hello!

I've been threatening to write a blog for a while, but I get really anxious about people reading anything I write so have always wrote things down but kept it to myself. But I can't be like that forever, and now I've finished my second year of Uni and have a long stretch of summer ahead of me, I thought I'd use this free time to start doing those things I always intended to do, but for one reason or another have put off.

It may be a little odd as I'm only 20, but sometimes I worry I'll never get round to do the things I want to do in life. I have an epic (and rather ambitious) Bucket List, and really don't want to be sat in a nursing home 50-odd years from now and thinking "I wish I'd have done that...". My mum says I'm trying to rush through life, but I'm just young and impatient and excitable.

Anyway, to the three people that I will force to read this blog, I hope I don't bore you too much! And if I occasionally seem a bit of a looney toon, please don't have me committed and/or sever all ties...

P.S. The title of this blog "not tomorrow, but soon" comes from one of my favourite poems: 'The Last Time I Saw Paris' by Tom Disch. Worth a read, if you fancy it :)