Wednesday 30 April 2014

Loving My Loves

For the first in my seven month blogging career, I don't think that my face has ever flared the colour of a juicy, yet mortified cherry tomato, embarrassment evident over the whole of my oval-shaped countenance. The reason why? Like any half-asleep fool whose attention lies amongst the matter of getting up at half six in the morning, I chose the most humiliating title to have ever been listed on Blogger as a way of expressing this entry, but my inner grammar queen is bowing her head in shame, hung up at how I could even create such a language-offensive disaster.

Well, let's give Miss Drama Queen a little break before she loses her appetite for her mid-morning snack of carrot sticks and get on with today's business: listing my oh-so-passionate loves in a manner which will hopefully ring home with yourself. Until I get my first boyfriend, delving into a full-on love affair with various interests comes as naturally as craving a chocolate rabbit's head after dinner (I cut it with a butter knife instead of the pointy-as-a-witch's-nose one, if that helps matter), so one can only expect me to describe my nights in front of the TV with a lustful passion for a few years yet.

Gaining independence in almost everything I do as a teenager has all but given me some food for thought as to what makes my heart sing or my over-stuffed stomach plummet to the other side of the planet; with my hormones more highly strung than ever, it needn't take needless humming and harring over what I like because my instincts do all the hard work for me. Although this 'gift' is one of which I feel blessed to be in possession, I can only imagine how frustrated this must make my parents and relatives feel whenever Christmas or a pocket-robbing holiday rolls around every year - needless to say, I'm no longer as easy to encourage as my persuasive eight year old self! But, partially to my amazement, my parents have never let my hopes down nor have presented me with an unsatisfactory gift, though everybody knows that cash is always a crowd-pleaser...

Moving from the current state of my cat-shaped purse, I wish to delight you with a list and description of all the things which bring me bucket loads of pleasure in life. Although several things may strike you as extremely obvious (though this same belief has not been extended to figuring out 3D shapes), once again this Modern Teen will not hold back with promoting her loves and intends to be as honest as possible. As I scratch my head in wonder over how I could break into my brother's yet-to-be-unpacked bedroom, perhaps my passion for honesty should remain off the list!

1. Selfies (The Second Grammar-Offending Word of the Day)
Unlike the hundreds of publicity-seeking celebrities who only wish to promote the 8 megapixel camera on their smartphones, in recent months I have found the art of taking a selfie - otherwise known as a picture which you take of yourself - particularly fascinating and, like developing a taste for fried wings at KFC, oh-so-obsessive.
Since my mum ordered me a new smartphone - the just-released Nokia Lumia 625, if you are truly interested - yesterday afternoon, I've been continuously flying into a panic over how I will sort out the hundreds of pictures which are stored on my current phone before the new model arrives in the post. And, as you correctly guessed, the pictures in question are of nobody except my appearance-obsessed self, who loves nothing more than pouting à la a nude-lipped Angelina Jolie.
Before you start hyper-ventilating over the nature of these photos, let me assure you that they are user-friendly and would certainly receive an U rating from the BBFC themselves, though I'm unsure as to why they would even get involved. These pictures merely showcase the state of my just-washed hair - and cakey layer of mineral foundation, if you're wondering why my spots have 'magically' disappeared - and my desire to relieve a short-lived spell of boredom whenever I'm hanging out in my bedroom. If you must know, the most explicit pictures feature myself smiling like a maniac, which might be due to the excessive amount of lipstick I've put on and have so far failed to reduce (as of yet, I still don't know if a Superdrug store is located in the town centre). All in all, I'm only trying to catch a burst of pre-lunchtime happiness in a semi-clear picture and glow with satisfaction at the state of my hair which, at times, has seen better days.
Now that I'm a year older and wiser, I hope to keep a tighter grip on my obsession with taking selfies once my new smartphone turns up in the post later this week, especially as my brother has made his desire clear to get his hands on my current phone as soon as possible (why LB spends all his money on expensive Chelsea kits will never make sense to me). Some loves last the duration of a lifetime, whilst others strive in the age of social networking and obsessions with one's appearances: perhaps selfies will emerge as the latter, bringing my passion of fresh-faced pictures to an end.

2. Lipstick
If the world ever ran out of lipstick, who knows how I would survive without my most beloved beauty must-have; as a renowned moaner, Planet Earth would possibly cease to exist if I even as much as opened my moan to complain about my lipstick-less life. That alone is an example of how bad my moaning habit is so, like my personally created expression goes, annoy me at your peril.
When I'm not complaining about the lack of lipstick left in a tube, I am as happy as one could be when she has just gotten her hands on the greatest creation which the world has ever seen: her one and only nude lipstick. On a cold and inevitably cloudy November day last year, my love for lipstick was well and truly confirmed when I tried my very first nude lipstick which, after months of searching for a shade which would compliment my Twilight-pale skin, brought an end to my nude-coloured woes and brought a new leash of life to my beauty regime.
Creamy, long-lasting and available in a spectacular range of colours to suit whatever mood, lipstick is my make-up haven and has been so since I purchased my first two at the tender age of eleven. Although these first two 'natural' lipsticks barely stood the time of time and later made their way to my now-deceased Bratz bin, I quickly moved onto more mainstream brands and felt like I'd just walked into the beauty department in Harrods whenever I experimented with different colours, eager to try something more obscure and unique than the one before.
But, as several teenagers realize at one time or another, giving lipsticks the same shade as a collection of Crayola pens can only entertain and excite you for a limited period of time, and that 'playtime' was rapidly drawing to a close, creating a desire to settle on something more stylish and practical than what I'd ever laid eyes upon before. And thus a dream to discover my oh-so-perfect nude lipstick was born, which began several months of searching frenzies and questions on Google as I aspired to discover my destined shade.
But, as I looked yet again in a high street beauty shop, the nude lipstick which I'd been waiting so long for immediately stood out, revitalizing my hopes of finding it once again. And, several months (and almost two lipsticks) on, my love for lipstick and its uplifting benefits couldn't be stronger, nor be a greater confidence boost!
Shades may come and go like seasonal trends, but a passion for one essential beauty item remains a desperate need for a lifetime - and lipstick certainly fits that criteria with flying (and what I hope are chemical-free) colours!

3. Gold
Considering that all Olympians aim to fulfill their dreams of obtaining the highly-prized gold medal at the Games every four years, it comes as no surprise that I, a person who intends to achieve her goals and receive a mighty award for it, have a fascination with gold, though this interest is mainly reserved with the jewelled variety, of course!
As a daily wearer of jewellery, nothing satisfies me more than being clad in an array of eye-catching colours and, of these colours, gold stands out as a particular favourite. Why? If worn with complimenting accessories and indeed flattering clothes (it goes without saying that tracksuits are not allowed), anybody is capable of pulling off gold jewellery whilst feeling and looking like a million dollars with it. And, when I follow this ritual with precise approximation, the final result is as fabulous as one could imagine: after all, doesn't dressing like a Hollywood superstar lift our spirits beyond imagination? That's exactly the way I feel whenever I put on a piece of gold jewellery, most noticeably a pair of gold-coloured earrings.
When I say 'gold-coloured', I am most likely referring to pieces of jewellery which, despite sharing the colour of gold, don't necessarily contain real samples of gold, whose value has rocketed through the roof in recent years. If purchased with good intentions and has a noticeable sense of style, fake gold jewellery - or the variety which is painted with a gold-looking colour - many people will be none the wiser to your penny-watching habits! Indeed, some of my favourite 'gold' pairs of earrings were bought in the accessories section at the local supermarket, but it didn't mean that I completely scraped the barrel; depending on my mood, I sometimes wear an actual gold or silver necklace with it, though I do have a tendency to pay more attention to earrings than necklaces.
By wearing a bit of gold - both the real deal and its wannabe counterparts - I feel confident and revel at the sight of my jewellery which, as I mentioned in my last entry, interests me more than clothes. Since getting my ears pierced at the age of eight, my love for jewellery has blossomed and, as my tastes have developed, so has a passion for gold. If money was no object, I would purchase exact replicas of my faux gold earrings in actual gold, but I'm satisfied enough with what I currently have - it's stylish nonetheless!
If one wants to know a way into my heart, bars of rich dark chocolate, must-read books and the latest gadgets contribute to my opening up and unleashing the person I am behind the GHD-straightened hair. But jewellery? It's another scenario altogether - and I won't even go into full-detail over gold! However, if you like, I wouldn't say no to a pair of gold hoops...

Loving Fashion Whilst Maintaining My Femininity and Morals

On the third anniversary of the Duke and Duchess's Royal Wedding (the one of which my princess-adoring self would've been in seventh heaven if such an invitation was delivered to my home), I feel like expressing, let's say, my feminine side as a tribute to what was one of the proudest days to the British fashion industry and my life-long amazement with jewelled crowns - both the ones which probably lurk in the back of the Queen's wardrobe and cheaply made, yet pocket-robbing variety sold at Claire's.

Considering that I hardly ever make any references towards my style of clothing nor the means in which I express myself in general through the admirable art of dressing, I'm sure that your blog-obsessed self will be chuffed to bits with reading about my shopping tendencies, along with a couple of reasons for which I'm drawn to clothes aimed at a specific gender (my very own, of course). In fact, fashion was literally all I lived for a mere few years ago when my dream of becoming a Vogue-contributing journalist truly came into itself, which sparked a then-unknown determination to achieve my goals and work towards pursuing the career of the Gods: becoming one of the many employees in the media industry. However, combining my former passion for fashion (how my love of using words which rhyme is almost on the verge of becoming full-on OCD) whilst keeping my dream of writing journalist-style all but became too much to handle as I got older which, over time and a revolutionary wake-up call as I surveyed the price for a Prada handbag, lost its initially fun image and was left in my short-lived, yet memorable past. 

Despite chucking away my collection of fashion glossies several months ago - which, after gazing at Scarlett Johansson's impossibly perfect curves (ah, the magic of Photoshop strike yet again), made their way to the local dump several weeks before The Big Move took place last month - it doesn't mean that my love for decent clothing and a thrilling-as-Thriller bargain has been completely left behind like a priceless credit card at a supermarket till. Although my days of ending my sentences with a longing sigh whenever I discussed the dream-like beauty of a Dolce & Gabbana shows (whose clothes I may never afford, if my earlier purchase of a new smartphone has anything to do with my credit rating) have reached an end, I nonetheless keep an eye out for fabulous accessories and anything which would be an added bonus to my wardrobe, drifting in and out of online shopping websites if the feeling should ever take me. 

So, you and I have probably had enough of going on about my deceased relationship with high-end fashion which, despite flirting like one would with a teenage crush, never resulted in anything more than despairing at the balance of my pocket money. In many ways, I'm grateful for what my interest in fashion offered me in terms of getting some valuable writing practice and an opportunity to look beyond the realms of everyday life for a while, though I doubt that many would deem a November issue of ELLE to be as riveting as my favourite fantasy/frowning-girl-gets-the-sulking-guy-of-her-dreams film, Twilight.

Whilst designer labels - such as the long established Chanel, Dior and Prada to mention a few - are a wonderful luxury for those who can bear to part with thousand of pounds from their bank accounts and maintain a stylish image which is typically irresistible to recreate, I realized that being in possession of a Louis Vuitton suitcase wasn't necessarily the best thing to have occurred since the creation of bread, like my parents would sometimes say. What excited me the most about fashion as a New Look-clad pre-teen was that all of it seemed like one beautiful fantasy, if the outfits - and indeed the stick-thin, yet highly paid models - were a suggestion of my theory.

But, like all miniature princesses, there comes a time when one must put away her tiara and face the facts about reality: is promoting a good reputation for an industry which often puts one at unease with their appearance and social status what I truly intend to do as a means of making a living, one of which may not be necessarily well paid? Becoming a teenager further provoked me to follow this line of thought because matters such as insecurity with one's looks and disappointment at being unable to splash out on a once-in-a-lifetime designer dress brought the true meaning of fashion home to me, bringing on what I proudly call an 'epiphany' which proved for once and for all that nobody should be excluded from participating in the extravaganza otherwise known as fashion.

By saying 'nobody', I'm referring to those who would usually be the unfortunate recipient of a glare so deadly that even the Grim Reaper himself couldn't conjure if they dared to step foot in a shop or boutique aimed at people who give no further thought to having more money than common sense. And these 'nobodies' are the people to whom I can most relate, of whose social status I accept as my own, and live life one day at home - and isn't that the case for most of us in this country?

As shops aimed at ordinary, penny-watching people like myself have grown in popularity and taken the fashion world by storm, more and more of the general public have received a sort of pass to engaging in clothes-related affairs without being ripped off, nor missing out on the most coveted trends. Sure, we might not necessarily brag about the Marni or whoever-inspired dress we picked up at one of the so-called 'lower-end' stores because, on a whole, it will take some time until the bargain-hunting stigma is fully diminished like Buffy Summers slaying a sharp-toothed vampire, but the days of wishing to walk into Harrods and buy the outfit of our dreams are no longer as painful as they used to be as we are now able to pick up a similar, yet cheaper replica in an ordinary shop. So, there are no obstacles standing in your way of achieving maximum stylishness, whilst keeping an eye on your pennies couldn't be easier!

Of course, I recognize that, during times of hardship and struggles within life itself, going on a manic shopping spree might not automatically spring to mind as one of the world's most important matters but, as a girl who is eager to preserve her femininity and use it as an expression of power and intelligence, clothes never fail to give a purpose to everything I do. In certain ways, I regard clothes as a confidence boost which hardly ever runs out of fuel and I'm at my highest function if a new t-shirt or skirt is waiting to be worn; in my opinion, that is happiness at its best! And, since banishing my old designer-mad woes to one side, I've never found it easier to appreciate clothes in its true form without giving a second thought to its value or brand.

In order to clarify my theory to you, imagine this: if your eyes were blindfolded as you sat down to eat a meal, what would you care about? Apart from smell and touch, you would mainly rely upon taste to confirm whether you liked what was lying on your plate, without being able to see it. If you liked what was placed in your mouth, would its appearance matter in the slightest to you? In other words, don't judge a book by its cover, but I believe that this phrase should be extended by the 'status' of a certain brand or its targeted audience because reputation isn't always accurate, nor should it result in snobbery and higher-than-the-Eiffel-Tower noses.

When I used to read the fashion glossies - a.k.a. high-end fashion magazines with a glossy cover (as if conditioner was a main ingredient) - I always got the impression that the more expensive designer labels received the preferred treatment, whilst the high street brands rarely got a look in and were often assigned to a page or two from time to time. This practice eventually got on my nerves so much that I could no longer put up with this prejudice, which led to my decision to give up these fashion magazines altogether; albeit an occasional desire to read something other than politicians' scandals in The Daily Mail, I don't miss reading these magazines at all. And, by saving the money which I used to solely spend on these pricey magazines, my shopping budget has significantly increased, so I couldn't be happier about making such a moral-respecting choice which hasn't made a single dent in my search for seeking the best-looking clothes available.

Although my days of trend-spotting are all now over, my mission to promote the best morals whilst maintaining my femininity through dressing nicely is on its path towards becoming a success, one of which I aspire to keep in check throughout my life. Who knows, I may one day have the heart to hand over eye-watering amounts of cash in exchange for a designer handbag - after all this time, I still want to get my hands upon a timeless Louis Vuitton tote bag! Perhaps a trip to the foreign flea markets could be a good idea...

Before I put my fashion-themed rant to rest, I almost left you in the dark as to my clothing style, didn't I? Exactly like a bag of rainbow-coloured Skittles, you never quite know what to expect until you catch a glimpse of my fully-dressed form, though in general my style would be classified as feminine, classic and outrageously smart. In recent months, I've found myself falling head over heels for the colour red and lace dresses which, when combined, are in the same stakes as the popular designer labels. Yet, despite having a noticeable penchant for clothes, my passions mainly lie within the accessories section in a shop, so I'm far more likely to dance with feverous delight if a pair of gold (usually the ones which turn my ears a horrible shade of a bluey black) earrings or spacious handbag catches my eye than an attention-grabbing logo t-shirt. And, in order to give you a heads-up in case such a rare-as-undercooked-steak occasion should ever arise, here's one word of warning: just don't mention the colour 'pink' or you may very well make a new steely-eyed enemy!

Regardless of my age, I think that I will always be drawn to the extravagant styles and articles which have taken the world by storm because, as it ought to be known, fashion is an art in itself, being a vital source of inspiration and, if you take immense pleasure in seeing six feet-tall models stumbling over in seven inch or so high heels on the catwalk, entertainment. If anything else, the fashion industry has provided hundreds of thousands of jobs for people and is counted as one of the largest industries in the United Kingdom alone, so I cannot prevent myself from praising those who have given artistic and hard-working people a chance to excel within their abilities. However, certain stigmas - such as a noticeable lack of coloured models on the catwalks, workers in third world countries being paid peanuts for hours of exhausting work and indeed a snobbery against so-called 'lower-end' shops - will continue to exist for a period of time until, as a nation, we move on and embrace the world as it is, giving no second thought to the bargain hunters looking for a cheap, yet great outfit.

When I began to drift away from my fashion-themed dreams several years ago, it occurred to me that all the good people - a large majority of the population - are worthy of living in a world where equality should be a way of life, no longer an idyllic fantasy which stood no chance of becoming a reality. There are so many aspects in this life where we are treated wrongfully for countless reasons and I live in hope that, during my lifetime, these inequalities will cease to exist and the people of Earth are able to reside in harmony, the thought of which brings tears of joy to my eyes. But, by pointing out that anybody is entitled to shopping wherever they like and can join the huge fashion phenomenon, I like to believe that we are embarking on the first, yet extremely vital steps towards equality in all walks of life. At least it's a start.

Sunday 27 April 2014

Dangers of Experimenting Highlighted

For years, the overused stereotype of teenagers loving nothing more than to go on a wild rampage by drinking their parents' entire wine collection, lighting a cigarette in their poorly ventilated bedrooms and losing all sight of their morales has all but become a similar face to ourselves as a society, many of whom are quicker than the speed of light (or a fibre optic broadband) when it comes to criticizing young people in general. The reason for this continues to baffle me like the unsolved mystery of the Loch Ness Monster's 'existence' and is more of a relevant matter to myself because I am indeed an adolescent, whom society expects to land myself into trouble - as if it isn't possible for anybody of any age to put a wrong foot in front of another from time to time - and display the most extreme lack of intelligence which the world has ever seen.

Yes, it is fair to say that I'm taking my descriptions - and noticeable exaggerations, if you failed to comprehend my sharp-as-a-Swiss-Army-knife sarcasm - much further than my docile self usually would, but stumbling out of bed whilst my head was still stuck in a dream has given me plenty of food for thought this sunny Sunday morning. According to my teen health guide, the time that we spend to catching some precious beauty sleep (or otherwise referred to as a means of working a chocolate-induced sugar rush out of my system) in bed is an opportunity for our minds to process decisions and be able to reflect on our inner thoughts which, despite sounding as bizarre as Lady Gaga's vocals on her dramatic track Aura, makes plenty of sense.

Ever wondered why your parents' stress over how important it is to sleep before making a potentially life-changing decision? Not only do we seemingly get eight hours or so of pure relaxation before a new day awaits us, our minds have done everything possible to smooth things out by the time that a particular choice - which requires plenty of contemplation in order to avoid making a regrettable mistake - needs to be made, so our brains amazingly figure out the hardest part without our having to lift a finger.

Although the recent events of this past week were not playing on my mind before I dozed off last night - finding a school which doesn't hold half of the population is proving more difficult than I even dared to imagine, to say the least - an article which I'd read the night before had not yet ceased to be a distant, yet fiery memory in the back of my mind. Usually, I find reading one of the two newspapers which my family gets - launched over three years ago, i has gathered a following from not only myself, but thousands of both young and older people who want a short, yet concise read - in the evening before my parents' have to herd my South Park-watching brother into bed who, since he morphed into a moody and loud-voiced teenager last year, has become somewhat of a night owl. To you, being glued to the education section in a newspaper typically read by adults is my idea of a pre-bedtime heaven, if such a thing makes sense!

Anyway, I was suddenly stopped in my tracks when an article written by a journalist grabbed my attention which, with hindsight, rather caught me off guard. A mother of two teenage children who were similar in age to my brother and indeed myself, this journalist discussed her beliefs that teenagers ought to delve into the typical rituals which take place before adulthood, such as having too much to drink, smoking cigarettes in your bedroom and whatever may result in a policeman knocking on your door. As soon as I finished reading the final paragraph, I felt as sick as an alcohol-influenced idiot would after downing one too many Martinis, my head swimming with the words which had just been processed by my taken-aback mind. Was I in a delirious state where anything could happen or did I just read the most ridiculous article ever featured in what I would call a respectable newspaper? Shortly afterwards, I brought the subject up with my mum who was also knocked for six; at least my fears of being heralded as the odd one out with a wide open mouth were quickly diminished.

And, for the first time since before I moved out of my old home, I did something which managed to contain, yet not cool down the fire beginning burn inside of me: I wrote an email to the newspaper. As long as a supermodel's legs it may have been (though it certainly wouldn't go amiss if I could have a pair of my own), but there was absolutely no way that I could ignore such a matter which was associated with people of my own generation, whose image was yet again under threat of being tarnished by a once-rebellious adult. As strange it seemed when I first read it, this journalist - and mother - was literally singing praises for getting tipsy at a pub which, unless a copy of the Law book wasn't on hand, is an illegal offence.

That's right: drinking alcohol which, as shops and hopefully pubs will remind you, can only be purchased by those aged eighteen or over, so encouraging youngsters to pick up a bottle of Stella Artois at Tesco will only lead to the law being broken and causing more hassle for the police who have enough on their hands. Reading this advice was sickening to say the least, especially as it was indeed being aimed towards my age group and could push vulnerable others into what the Law would regard as committing a crime - from smoking cigarettes, 'dabbling' in drugs and of course risking long-term damage due to early drink, the possibilities are endless and extremely worrying.

As parents of children who live in a world where trouble is more rife than ever, I could never imagine in a million years' that my mum and dad would give the green light towards my brother and I consuming as many glasses of wine as we wished, nor would I ever have the desire to be granted the opportunity to do so. The reason why? The consumption of alcohol, smoking cigarettes and taking drugs only represent one single thing in my eyes which, despite being short-sighted, are capable of seeing more than most people ever would: danger. If life-endangering damage or death is a small, yet potential possibility, I will go by all means to avoid being sucked in a culture which is costing the National Health Service (NHS) millions of pounds each year for which, as law-abiding taxpayers, we are funding.

It breaks my heart when I hear about devastated families' whose children lost their lives to popping a 'pill' at a party or getting swept into a dangerous drinking game because, if those children - which, even if they are deemed to be teenagers or whatever, are still the relatives and beloved children of their family - had been educated about potential dangers or, better still, forced to stay at home, the scenario could have been entirely different. Sure, many may not be worried by teenagers' indulging in their desire to give cocktails a go because many are believed to 'experiment' at this age, yet I strongly disagree with this practice: once intoxicated with drink or easily persuaded by their peers, are certain teenagers' minds capable of realizing the dangers standing in front of them? In other words, you can never take any chances as an adolescent because not all of us have the ability to sense a threat if under the influence of a substance which we may not necessarily control. If given a glimpse into the future and made aware of the dangers lurking around the corner, do you honestly believe that many of these teenagers would take drugs or drink alcohol?

Therefore, my blood pressure went through the roof when I read this article by a journalist, who stood by her beliefs that drinking was an ordinary part of being a teenager and is a way of having some fun. Considering that she is probably in her 40s or whatever, it must be noted that society has significantly changed and moved on from what we used to accept as 'normal', though I struggle to see how people - who, unlike nowadays, were brought up on stricter grounds - had no problem against it as the attitude appears to remain the same in this day and age. In my opinion, if it involves breaking the Law or puts your life at risk, there should be no questions asked about banning those under the age of eighteen from trying out what is aimed towards adults. As for illegal substances, better conversations which stress over the dangers of taking drugs need to take place, otherwise a life-destroying war will continue to go on for generations to come.

Considering that my entire life depends on achieving high grades when I take my GCSEs, it is easier than usual to lose sight of my sanity and fly into a strop whenever I struggle to relax. But, despite raising the risk of developing premature wrinkles, I would never contemplate pouring a glass of my dad's occasionally bought bottle of red wine in order to ease my anxiety - if anything, alcohol will only lead to unwanted weight gain which my health-aware self would never want! We, as a society who is desperate to lower the levels of crime and indeed health problems, ought to encourage our teenagers to participate in activities which steer their attention away from the temptation of drink, drugs, cigarettes and whatever is associated with the out-dated image of rock 'n' roll. Personally, taking an afternoon stroll in my new village wipes my mind off any troubles which harass me, which renders the 'need' for spending several hours in a pub absolutely useless. Or, if I'm experiencing a devil-like urge to overindulge, baking a batch of decadent cookies does the trick, but anything goes!

Above all, experimenting as a teenager should be limited to the likes of applying hair dye (albeit within the regulations of school), starting a new hobby or maintaining an attitude which will keep you on the straight and narrow for the duration of a lifetime. Whilst a sip of brandy or huff of a cigarette may take away anxiety for a little while, it doesn't destroy the bad feelings which continue to persist and also creates a problem in itself. As several readers criticized this journalist's views in yesterday's edition of i, I relieved that I'm not alone in fighting this battle against teenagers' experimenting which, as it ought to be realized, is a deadly form of self-inflicted abuse.

Having cleared all of which was adding a great weight to my chest, I'm glad to have made you aware of a problem which, although it only affects a small minority of our population, needs to be addressed and obviously by somebody who recognizes the dangers of giving something health-endangering a go. At this rate, I may get a page of my own in my favourite newspaper, though the negative responses would become a thing of a past...

Friday 25 April 2014

Taking a Break From What I Love (and Secretly Hate)

As a teenager who is on the brink of undergoing what will probably be known as the most significant and meaningful change in her life, it is fair to say that I've been increasingly getting used to my new found friend, Change, since this wacky journey into adolescence began when I morphed into a teenager over two years ago. From saying goodbye to my two beloved childhood cats within six months to adopting a pair of rescue kittens, introducing new family pets alone has helped to define my strength and alerted my senses to what I'm capable of doing - such as getting through the day when I all but feel like crying my eyes out - when no other choice is available.

To add to my pile of changes (rather like a basket filled to the brim with dirty laundry), this year has already signified the greatest change which I've always wanted, yet created a massive upheaval as I got my up-in-the-air head around what had quite frankly came out of the blue - regardless of past experiences, life doesn't necessarily suit your circumstances, which has become somewhat of a well-known fact to me!

But despite continuing to struggle gaining a full eight hours of pure bliss in my bed four weeks on from The Big Move, I'm happy nonetheless with my progress towards rebooting an existence which is greatly in favour with my interests and answers all of the prayers which I've made (though a cure for my crossed-tight finger is unlikely to be discovered just yet) over the years. In other words, I'm finding it easier to take my mind off the initial shock of moving to the place of my dreams as each day passes, albeit being forced to scrub my en-suite shower probably plays a bigger role in this practice that you might initially believe.

As for my little brother, whose fascination with the foul-mouthed characters in South Park has exploded into a type of Kenny-induced madness of late, I'm proud to say that he likes his new home as much as I do, which he has been using as a motive of dragging me to the nearby park almost every (hot. hot. hot!) afternoon. Well, LB has to burn off the bar of dark chocolate I handed over to him for lunch at a time or another - and kicking a grubby football in the direction of some steely-eyed dogs seems to be the only way to go about it!

Yet, as I sink into the warm embrace of my bed for another morning round of blogging mania, I question whether I have gotten too comfortable with certain things present in my everyday life. These items or practices in question have usually be associated with inducing bucket loads of pleasure in the past - a thrilling sensation which I automatically crave to experience once the moment has passed - but something niggling at the back of my mind suggests that, although they have a tendency to bring elation to my life, their ability to lift my spirits may be wearing off. By what exactly? The ultimate joy-killer, as I like to call it: routine.

Ah, have you ever wondered why dining out at a fancy restaurant every once in a blue moon provokes a squeal of excitement to slip out of your Chanel Rouged lips, the prospect of doing something as rare as a blue diamond too exciting for words? It needn't take the likes of a Mensa member to translate the meaning of this lobster-related madness because, once contemplated, it makes plenty of sense: we achieve joy by indulging in whatever we appreciate with a heartfelt passion on a rare occasion, enabling us to savour the moment and look forward to doing it again in the future.

For example, I relished each second that I spent piling tiny spoonfuls of a chocolate-flavoured pot of Devon ice cream (in the south-west of England, Devon produces the best milk and cream, which makes their authentically made treats more delightful) in a countryside farm shop because I hadn't had access to doing such a thing since I was a young child, and the fact that I was with my mum and dad made the moment more poignant because I used to associate this small, yet decadent tubs of ice cream with embarking on various trips to cafés with them. The ice cream itself melted on the tip of my tongue - yet another reason why I watch too sultry culinary adverts on TV - and earnt a sigh of satisfaction as I reached the end of the tub, but the reminder of my ice cream-devouring childhood was the sweetest flavour of all.

And, like all junk food-loving teenagers, I felt an urge to buy another tub and poke my fingers into it on the journey home, but I realized that I would lose sight of its significance if I gave into my instincts which have definitely had wiser moments. Enjoying something, regardless of whether it is destined to spend a lifetime on my hourglass-shaped hips, as a rare treat will forever remain a treasure throughout my life, but a small, yet powerful part of myself feels as though I have overindulged in what used to be my all-time loves of late. This feeling, rooted deep inside my instincts, cannot be buried in the sand and ignored as I continue to contribute to what this so-called part of myself deems as a problem - and, staying true to my title as a Modern (half-crazed) Teen, I set to seek whatever is causing this stomach-churning trouble.

In this day and age, it is often too easy to restrain ourselves from what we love most as the accepted behaviour for the majority of society has significantly changed for the most recent generations, allowing a sense of informality to take centre stage in place of maintaining a certain level of self-restraint. Although I have no interest in delving into the worrying topics of obesity and crime - both current problems in modern day society - being blessed with the brain of a genius wouldn't be necessary to associate the fine, yet noticeable line between holding back from our instincts and giving into our wants which, from keeping a steady eye on the latest diet to clenching your teeth in anger, could be determined as a main cause for the many dilemmas faced in the 21st century and humanity in general.

Sometimes, we can find it extremely difficult to distinguish what we want and what we need, yet we don't often think twice about indulging in our wants instead of fulfilling our wants - doesn't life seem such a breeze whenever all of our wishes have come true? So, I may think that a bar of chocolate is necessary to controlling my so-called 'hunger pangs', but my intelligence needn't be questioned when it comes to recognizing what I really, really want (The Spice Girls were onto a chart-topping single there): if my heart leaps at the thought of having it, then I'll do all I can to get my hands onto it!

Perhaps age will mature me in many ways which I never believed were possible, but placing your entire faith in a probable, though unconfirmed destiny may result in scowling my face into a spine-chilling grimace sometime later. What with so much going on in my life - unpacking a big house and finding a school, to say the least - would it truly hurt me if my passion for richer-than-my-pocket-money-fund chocolate came alive for five minutes? Probably if it was a rare treat, but I would hardly deem my recent cocoa consumption as anything except rare; for almost a week, I've been picking and devouring pieces from my Easter egg and Lindt bunny every single evening.

Although the few seconds where the chocolate melts on my tongue is very sweet and evokes a burst of pleasure, I automatically pile unbearable guilt (probably along with weight, though I have hastily steered clear of the scales for several months) onto myself as soon as I finish, and it follows me around until the cycle starts again the following evening, dispelling the previous night's shame whilst creating another round of red-faced embarrassment. As you are probably wondering, just why do I keep devouring chocolate like there is no tomorrow when it guarantees a 24 hour round of guilt to follow shortly afterwards? In a way which you might understand, breaking a habit could very be the hardest thing which humans do throughout life, and busting my cocoa obsession isn't set to be an easy mission either. But the moment when I know that enough is enough and the cycle must be permanently broken is about to reach boiling point, so perhaps an outburst of chocolate-detesting madness is mandatory towards appreciating it once again. Let's hope the sole remaining Easter bunny doesn't get smashed in my short-lived moment of anger!

As I have now realized, loathing what I used to enjoy with a feverous passion may be the key towards restoring my appreciation for whatever I might be getting too much of, and it doesn't hurt if I take a back seat from various interests for a while. For several days, my imagination had dried up because I couldn't think of a single thing to write about on my blog, but now I'm revelling in my revitalized energy and am bursting with topics to discuss - a break always does the trick, even if it doesn't involve a ten night stay in a five-star hotel! Tonight will bring an end to my chocolate-obsessed demons, along with helping my eggs (the cocoa-flavoured ones, of course) and bunnies last a while longer; sadly, it seems that all the Easter stock has entirely disappeared in the shops!

The weekend is just around the corner, so placing my attention far away from Ofsted reports (more on that in the future) shouldn't require much effort at all! Now is the time to discover the true meaning behind taking a break, but I hope that I won't get too used to having them on a regular basis - otherwise, what would be the point of enjoyment?

Thursday 24 April 2014

Let's Face The Facts About Writer's Block

If you can dig deep into yourself and uncover beliefs over this, I hope that you could try to understand my on-going situation which, as some may have imagined, is the main cause of my knee-deep frustration. One day, my brain is buzzing like a swarm of bees and it merely takes the click of a finger to conjure an idea which is fresher than the out-of-date produce sold at the supermarket, instantly giving me the feel-good vibe which humans naturally crave.

However, there are moments within our lives when, completely out of the blue, we get out what is later known as the wrong side of bed which begins a trail of destruction, lack of inspiration and inevitably a strengthening frustration blamed on your part, causing your confused self to literally go off the rails in a drama queen-style manner.

On this occasion, I placing my hot-as-bhut-jolokia-chilli irritation on my shoulders because of one thing which bloggers like myself are sometimes prone to contracting like an ugly bout of the latest cold (which I miserably fought against a mere week ago): writer's block. Ugh, I lost count over the amount of times that I've screamed like an Oscar-winning actress over writer's block which, in my opinion, deserves to be recognized as a fully-fledged condition because it affects one's self-esteem more prominently than being depressed at the sight of a size 4 model donning the mini skirt which you would never squeeze your sausage-sized thighs into, or so you lead yourself to believe.

In fact, writer's block was the cause for my near-demise from writing several years ago which, at the very worst of it, almost destroyed my passion for writing and could have possibly steered my ambitions and career choices in an entirely different direction. Although non-writers may endure a tough battle to unearth the seemingly hidden truth over what is recognized as writer's block, it is often unimaginable to comprehend the way that a dried-up imagination affects you until it appears out of nowhere which, rather like an animal crossing the road when you're driving at a relatively high speed, provokes an outburst of panic to take over your senses. Up until a few days ago, I was feeling as any girl who had been the lucky recipient of a decadent dark chocolate egg (which I'm not even obliged to share with the human dustbin who I call my brother), a large Lindt bunny and a bag of luxury brand chocolate eggs - on top of the world to say the least - then it seemed like a shining light suddenly dimmed into darkness, leaving me vulnerable as to finding my way out of the tunnel and freeing myself from the fear which tried its hardest to grip me.

Whether I'd gotten lost in the Channel Tunnel and needed some directions from a holidaying tourist, it will probably remain as unlikely as Lana Del Rey turning up on my doorstep in the middle of a countryside village, but this sudden panic which flew out of the shadows and took control of my senses took me by surprise when my guard was at its lowest peak, simply by an ill-advised assumption that keeping my eyes (with a pair of myopia-busting glasses nonetheless) pealed was no longer a necessary practice. I thought that I had banished my inspiration-blocking demons long ago and had left them firmly in the past but, as I have since learnt (ironically, exactly at the time when the new term commences), one can never truly hold too much faith in what we would like to hope for, otherwise disappointment is likely to become a new ally.

For as long as I can remember, flying into a full-on panic has all but been as easy as hacking into my parents' Amazon account and buying the books of my dreams for a reason which I have always struggled to place, creating a premature wrinkle on my forehead as I've questioned myself about it over the years. As I see it, it feels like a natural instinct to allow panic to take over me whenever the need arises for it which, despite regretting my actions and literally banging my head in frustration a while later, continues to happen again and again. Needless to say, I'm tired of giving into so-called instincts which are truly not in my best (or sanest, for that matter) interests, but how am I - a sleep-deprived drama queen who may excel at attending anger management classes at the dreaded time of the month - supposed to see beyond my initial reaction and choose the safest option when I can all but think of anything else? Even wearing my prescription-free glasses wouldn't be of much use when I fall prey to these occasional, but plentiful enough moments of deep frustration because I can never think five minutes or so ahead, unless I reach boiling point in extra speedy time.

And it only took one single moment of writing-related frustration - in case the thought had never crossed your mind, all writers unknowingly carve a destiny of museless inspiration when we come across an opponent which happens to be our very own minds - earlier this week to set me off on a rampage which threatened to consume me like I overindulged on a rabbit-shaped chocolate on Easter Sunday. For the first time in ages, I was stuck in front of a blank, emotionless wall when it came to doing what I cherish the most in my modern teenage life: writing. Unless I've garnered a legion of crazy-eyed stalkers who classify viewing my blog as a part-time occupation, you probably haven't noticed that I have been absent from my blog for four days. Did you honestly know that? Probably not, but these four days have felt like the longest that I've ever endured in my life, for reasons which I will explain within time and when my head has thankfully landed back on Planet Earth.

Without having a single idea floating in the water tank which is my sharp-as-a-pencil mind for several days was almost the end of me because I loathe nothing more than feeling uninspired, especially when I know that there is something painfully raw lurking beneath the surface, rather like that pothole-sized boil which has made de-hairing (for my epilating self has been waging a war against unwanted hairs for all of eternity) extremely difficult. Come on, don't even bother telling me that you have never been faced with a problem which has only been created by the one and only person who knows you inside out - yourself. From mustering the courage to pass a vital exam to forcing yourself out of bed for the pure sake of it, humans have created an unique legend of their own due to being blessed with the ability to not only cause a whopping accident of a problem for themselves, but affect their beliefs and state of mind as their confidence takes a tumble towards rock bottom.

When I feel incapable of using my brain to its highest capability, a spell in the land of Teenage Blues is bound to follow afterwards as I find it fundamentally hard to brush off the feelings of embarrassment and, most important of all, failure, even if nobody has dared to utter a critique about my abilities or I've been on the receiving end of a compliment. Only I can bring myself to believe in what I can do, and these past few days have tested me beyond my expectations because I have been riding on a hectic roller coaster in search of discovering the confidence which exists in everyone. Have I found my individually-sized piece of courage or do I still have a long journey to travel? Perhaps it will take a while until the whole of the package - a.k.a. my confidence and panic-fighting instincts, which wouldn't go amiss - is up and running like our broadband connection, but I have taken my first steps towards ridding my life of the after-effects which sadly follow a short-lived, yet esteem-mocking bout of writer's block by writing here today.

As I get older and develop a sense of confidence which only age can bring, I hope that my five minute terrors over failing to post a new entry on my blog will become less frequent until they are a thing - one which was never welcome nor wanted at all - of the past. Piling too much pressure on myself has seemed remarkably easy of late due to placing my attention onto passing exams and my education in general which I will hopefully discuss at a later date, but there comes a time when I want nothing more than to snap out of it - and that moment is right now!

In all honesty, I guess that finding out why I was left gasping for breath (and a writing theme) for a few days, but writer's block often happens for no particular reason and can even strike the most confident of all writers. It reminds me of battling a common cold because you are desperate to rid your mind and soul of what I recognize to be a horrid illness, though I doubt that the hospitals will be brandishing a cure any time soon...

So, here I am on the other side of the tunnel - or should I say the end of this entry? The light is rather blinding without my sunglasses on, but it feels wonderful nonetheless and is a pleasant reward for my recent writing hassles (though the sun will never compare to the kittens' bags of Dreamies).

May writer's block - and its needless problems - no longer interfere with my life!

Sunday 20 April 2014

Surviving Lent - Or Was It Too Easy?

As a storm splashes onto the lawn and dampens all hopes of gaining a daily dose of vitamin D outside, I, on the other hand, couldn't care less about the extreme lack of sunshine which has so far failed to make an uplifting appearance on this Easter Sunday. Sure, I may have almost dropped my boiling hot bowl of porridge onto the kittens' heads earlier due to being unable to see anything in the oh-so-dim light (unfortunately one of the perils of being blessed with the eye condition myopia, which I like to believe is most associated with intellectuals and glamourous bookworms), but I'm generally in a soft-as-a-marshmallow mood.

In case you are curious as to why I'm comparing my genial temperament to a squidgy, vanilla-flavoured gelatine sweet, it needn't take the likes of a Nobel Prize-winning genius to figure out the reason behind my curved smile: after six weeks of self-restraining, self-inflicting and self-destructing agony (in other words, you're piling the whole planet and perhaps a few galaxies which is bound to create an advanced form of backache), Lent is finally over. Gone are the days of walking down the confectionary aisle at the supermarket and sighing with deep sadness at being forced against your own will to give up a beloved, hip-expanding (unless celery sticks are included as one of your must-have vices) treat - for the next ten months and a half, the world is literally your oyster! If I'm being told that putting my hand into a bag of wine gums will not leave a permanent mark on my conscience, there is no reason for which a My Sweet 16-inspired celebration shouldn't go ahead; for all that I care, being granted access to the sweet jar is the loveliest news which my treat-obsessed self is likely to ever hear!

But before we finish gobbling down our sticky-as-glue hot cross buns and quickly slip into something less embarrassing than your secretly worn Aristocats pyjamas (there goes my aim to keep this now well-known fact on the quiet), I'm starting to wonder whether I even ought to be celebrating the arrival of Easter - and obviously the end of the frightful six weeks recognized as nerve-destroying Lent - because, whether I wish to embrace the truth or not, I might have not followed my original intentions as I had previously hoped before Ash Wednesday rolled around over a month ago. 

Once again embracing my self-obsessed roots, I couldn't bear the thought of giving up richer-than-an-heiress dark chocolate - if I hadn't caught wind of a recent survey which praised the health benefits of consuming cocoa in its less sweet form (always the one to discover a half-acceptable excuse), perhaps I would have been getting my first taste of chocolate in six weeks today - so I quickly decided to toss all gelatine-based sweets and milk chocolate which, unlike a mere year ago, I rarely consume. Although Lent often revolves around abstaining from the treats which captivate your attention as equally as the intriguing mystery surrounding Twin Peaks, I chose to follow my self-created beliefs that even a delicacy which only passes through my lips once every blue moon still counts as acceptable, which made the process of surviving Lent easier than I could have hoped. Or so it seemed to be as easy as cake for the first few days until a Freddo landed on my lap, or I added it to the trolley whilst my mum did the shopping at the supermarket. 

On the off-chance that you aren't particularly familiar with British confectionary, I will not only amaze you with my outstanding knowledge of Asda's most popular brands but leave you a desire which will lead to the exciting path of what I classify as the world's greatest sweets producer: from cola bottles (without the slightest hint of coke) to strawberry bonbons, my native country sells whatever could be the culprit of rotting your teeth. Luckily, my mum and dad made keeping my teeth in a sparkling condition their MI5-style mission from a young age, due to getting filings from consuming too many sweets - and inevitably failing to maintain a healthy cleaning schedule - so I've never had any problems with my dental care which, after having re-occurring nightmares from the classic 80s horror musical Little Shops of Horrors, is a major relief. 

Anyway, Freddo is a small milk chocolate bar which is produced by the British confectionary brand, Cadbury's, and it is a chocolate which I fondly remember eating as a young child; once upon a time at a primary school in Cornwall, I used to have play dates with a boy called Harry (who, if my memory has any recollections, didn't share a resemblance to the partying prince) after school. His mum would often offer me a Freddo bar whilst sitting in the car on the way home, which is how I have come to associate the chocolate bar within my old friend. Although the sugary, not particularly chocolatey flavour doesn't remind me of Cornish pasties, rainy weather or indeed the higher-than-Mount-Kilimanjaro water bills, each bite of a Freddo brings me back to my childhood, which I occasionally crave to revisit. 

But, as you have probably already worked out, a Freddo is milk chocolate, so within a couple of days after making a pact to steer clear of sweets and of course milk chocolate, I broke my promise after giving into a short-lived moment of temptation. And, unlike how plenty of people would have reacted, I hardly cared about my red-handed act, of which I would have been found guilty if I was ever tried in a criminal (and Lent-themed) court. As my guilt-escaping self embarks on the journey of unleashing another excuse upon yourself, I'm hopeful that the then-upcoming move to a village over one hundred miles away from my previous residence might be deemed as an acceptable reason for which breaking my promise to give up milk chocolate barely made a dent on my conscience, especially because the matter of indulging on a tiny-as-Benny-the-Hissy-Kitty bar of chocolate was of a lower priority in comparison to packing my possessions and preparing for the most stressful day of the year. 

Apart from keeping my copy of The Vampire Diaries Season 2 left out until the last possible minute, I was swept into a wave of madness which was purer than my congested complexion, which therefore highlighted a massive problem in relation to keeping my end of the deal with Lent. I wouldn't be surprised if a majority of people tried their hardest to resist having a takeaway during this six week period because, despite being proclaimed as one of the many unhealthy foods to ever be consumed on this planet, plenty of us always enjoy a meal which doesn't involve lifting a finger nor switching the oven on, but I feel like a water balloon which is struggling to deflate due to having more than my fair share of takeaways in recent weeks. 

From crispy chicken at KFC (and McDonald's, which was the highlight of my ever-busy day yesterday) to soggy chips from the local madman's fish and chips shops, the list of my indulgences continue to rise at an astounding rate. even though I didn't make the slightest mention of deep-fried french fries or battered fish whilst composing my list of banned treats before the beginning of Lent took place last month. And, to add to my issues, I felt compelled to steal one of my little brother's wine gums which, unless you are unfamiliar with the ingredients used to create the fruity and undeniably irresistible treats, contain gelatine and spot-creating sugar! Perhaps it ought to be no massive wonder why my face has a tendency to flare the colour of a can of Italian tomatoes if my sweet-devouring habit plays a role in causing more blemish-related misery; it truly saddens me that a second of pure pleasure quickly transforms into an hour dedicated to absolute agony over the condition of my face and, as you would expect, breaking my promise to fulfill my end of the deal for Lent.

Now that I have aired the truth over my sweet-as-pie binges (a dessert of which has not been served since Lent began, though a school-sized dish of apple crumble lasted almost the whole of this week), the uplifting happiness which was the reason behind my smile has been dented if not a bit by my recent admission. On Easter Sunday last year, getting through six weeks of torture and declining desserts which featured chocolate was literally the one thing which stirred a hint of happiness within me two days after my cat Tom passed away, and as I come to terms with the fact that I failed my mission to stay on the straight and narrow within days of Lent commencing, my experience with guilt becomes more and more profound because I knew that I was capable of making it out to the other side like I did last year.

Yet I realize that putting all of this chocolate-riddled guilt (pardon the pun, that chocolate Lindt Bunny is all but preying on my mind) may not be warranted after all because, despite my failure in resisting a bar as cheaply flavoured as my childhood favourite Freddo, I have surpassed my expectations in things much more important than going cold turkey from the confectionary aisle in the local shop. During this past six week period, I achieved one of my wildest, most heartfelt dreams by moving to a place which truly makes my heart sing with pride and elation, whilst somehow keeping my head screwed on as I prepared for the most stressful move which I will probably ever witness and be a part of. I also mastered the art of letting go of past habits and living for the moment, a feat which I once feared would be impossible to hone as a fine skill, along with adjusting to a startlingly new way of life - even three weeks after moving in, I still can't believe my ears when I hear birds tweeting joyfully in the morning - and being happy.

Suddenly, my bad-natured deeds relating to stuffing myself with one too many marshmallow biscuits (the ones which my deceased cat Tom used to devour happily) no longer seem as important nor terribly horrendous because I have grown as a person - though sadly not in height, as I continue to hope - within the space of six long, yet fulfilling weeks. Today will be a day of reflection as I take a look back to the person I used to be a mere year ago - a girl whose heart had never felt more broken and would weep at the slightest mention of her beloved cat, sparing no thought for Easter at all - and then I will focus my attention on the upcoming Easter Dinner which, like Christmas Lunch, always guarantees an ecstatic round of applause and especially crunchy pork crackling.

Although a bar of dark chocolate (70% cocoa solids, mind you) was relished with delight yesterday evening, I will savour the flavour - and indeed meaning - of my Easter egg later today because it represents a message of hope like I've never known it before. Happy Easter and, in case you are down in the dumps over breaking your Lent-related promises, remember that you are not the only one - I'm sure that there are many others who are trying to keep a straight face today!

Let the chocolate madness begin!

Friday 18 April 2014

Good Friday = Easter, Bunnies and Chocolate

When Good Friday was celebrated across the world towards the end of March last year, I didn't feel remotely interested in even thinking about it, let alone embrace what is likely to be the most busiest day on the jam-packed motorways of the year. That cloudy Friday morning represented a soul-destroying tragedy which only time has been able to heal over the space of a long, exhausting year: the loss of my beloved cat, Tom. From the moment that I lost Tom, my interests in anything unrelated to him all but died out because there wasn't any spare room in my mind to focus my thoughts upon a lighter, if not less devastating subject, so I hardly paid any attention to Easter Sunday two days later as my mind had travelled elsewhere - even giving up my cherished bars of creamy chocolate for Lent didn't stir any emotions of pride for avoiding the preying clutches of temptation over a tiresome six week period.

However, I cannot possibly feel prouder over the fact that the once pitch black cloud of misery which shrouded me after Tom passed away on Good Friday last year has since shifted into a dazzling light of happiness, mostly thanks to my recent move to a quaint village situated in the delightful heart of the picturesque countryside. As I have long believed since my unforgettable furry pal flew to Kitty Heaven over a year ago - an adorable picture of whom has just become my new screensaver - I'm beyond glad that Good Friday and Easter Sunday change dates every year because I would have definitely hated to have associated the most religious dates in the calender with Tom's death for the rest of eternity. Of course, I may wrack my brains a little more strenuously in order to remember the date when my heavenly chocolate egg can be consumed, but it is a small price to pay because there was no possible way that I could celebrate Easter once again with death preying on my thoughts which, last March, provoked me to break down in a mascara-streaked stream of tears at any possible moment.

Anyway, with my newfound elation, I only wish to share my positive mood with you because it would be staying true to the meaning of Good Friday after all; as a long-held tradition, my family and I always make an effort to consume sticky, yet delightfully fruity hot cross buns on the morning of Good Friday as a sign that Easter is rapidly nearing us. Although I couldn't be bothered to read the instructions on the pack of spiced buns (my inner Miss Know-It-All struck once again) which unfortunately resulted in two slices of half-burnt bread, my on-top-of-the-world mood has nonetheless remained intact as I'm in one of those moods where hardly anything can put a damper on my new-found optimism.

Maybe the nearing prospect of getting my hands upon a decadent dark chocolate egg has lifted me beyond the typical realms of happiness or I'm finally beginning to feel like my new house is my home, but there is something wafting around in the atmosphere which I can't quite put my finger on, yet it feels absolutely wonderful and is probably one of the many reasons why I'm writing this with a massive smile curving on my lips. My 'dangerous' cold which was my main talking point several days ago is taking its first step towards recovery, so not only will yourselves be flooded with heartfelt relief at the news of no longer being obliged to read about my intake of blackcurrant-flavoured Calpol or look at pictures of throat-soothing lozenges, but I cannot wait to get rid of my blocked nose and occasionally dry throat - another cause for celebration, so I think! And, unlike yesterday which constantly provoked me to ask out loud whether a rainstorm was on its way, the sun is dazzling like a jewellery box filled with precious jewels in my bedroom, a pleasant sight of which is always welcome on a day like this.

Surely you must be wondering whether I've rolled out of bed on the wrong side or a tiny, egg-sized bump has been inflicted on my head, which could potentially be the cause of my out-of-the-blue sunny prospect of life? Being a teenager, I've become accustomed to putting my moaning duties before engaging in spirit-lifting activities because giving into my grumpy tendencies sometimes seems easier than trying harder at being happy, but there are occasions - such as today, for example - when I needn't lift a finger as to putting a wider-as-a-plasma-television grin on my face as it couldn't possibly be more natural. Living in such a peaceful area is constantly taking me surprise by its relentless stream of perks, so it is bound to take a while until I adjust to leading a life where I'm unaware as to what may be lurking around the corner. Like being strapped on the edge of your seat on a roller coaster, excitement races through my veins whenever I come across something new, which creates an unignorable itch to embark on a fresh adventure.

Now that I only have to wait two more days until Easter Sunday arrives - along with my chocolate-flavoured goodies which could possibly fill several aisles at the local supermarket - it is becoming increasingly harder to prevent myself from thinking about anything unassociated with the day, which holds a high importance for many people around the world. Instead of picking up yet another factory-made clone like the year before, I chose a luxury dark chocolate egg by British chocolatier Thorntons a few weeks ago, which thankfully brought a time of desperate frustration and pointless searches on Google to an abrupt end. Even my cocoa-loving self was struggling to understand why finding a decent chocolate egg seemed such an important task, which came a huge worry!

My brother, on the other hand, promptly decided against buying an Easter egg for himself as he much preferred to receive several Kinder eggs - the milk/white chocolate egg which contains a small toy that, in my opinion, is destined to be broken within minutes of playing with it - because he is determined to obtain all of these miniature Marvel figurines, which brings our years of devouring sugary, larger-than-ourselves cheap chocolate eggs to a halt. In many ways, I'm rather pleased that I've put my days of relishing bags upon bags of sugar-coated eggs behind me because it only meant extra care for my teeth which, as I celebrate my fifteenth year of stable dental health, are worthy of receiving proper care from myself, whose determination to steer clear of nasty fillings will hopefully never waver. And, as I get older, Easter means so much more than numerous Twirl bars - unlike what I used to live and breathe for as a young, sweet-craving child!

This Easter, my intention is to spend a pleasant day with my family and cherish the precious moments which we have spent together, reviewing the life-changing happenings of the past year and appreciating how far we have come since Easter last landed on our doorstep. More than a year on, my family and I have two new kittens - seven month year olds Bart 'Barticles' and Benny 'Bear' (when he stalks around in a volatile mood, Benny truly growls like an angered bear!) - and have just moved to our new home in the most beautiful county to have ever existed. I'm happy to have achieved so much in both my personal and academic life - running this blog counts as one of my most appreciated educational achievements, in case you didn't know - since I last ripped open my chocolate egg last Easter, but this year I will appreciate the rich flavour of the chocolate like never before because heartfelt elation will be the main ingredient behind it.

Tell me how I will be able to wait another two days until the chocolate bonanza - and an appearance from the Easter Bunny, whose wobbly stomach doesn't particularly advocate healthy eating - begins!

Wednesday 16 April 2014

Living With The Plague (a.k.a. Common Cold)

Unless you happened to spare a thought or two for me as I failed to make an appearance on my blog yesterday, I will be as proud as punch to fill you in on what has recently occurred in my life since I promoted my text speak-loathing beliefs two days ago. Despite my world hardly being turned upside down - or indeed taken on a trip down under, for that matter - I have nonetheless been struggling to grasp the simplest of all things which, as you will discover in a moment, is easily understandable. Or so I like to believe.


  • On Monday afternoon, the life-threatening plague - otherwise referred to as a common cold by doctors, in case your heart plummeted at the possibility of my being dangerously ill - took me by surprise, draining me of any reserved energy to write on my blog or even do the easiest things in life. Not only have I grown accustomed to blowing my nose at fifteen minute or so intervals which, in turn, has irritated the sensitive skin to a painfully raw state, but my throat is drier than the traditionally dry British sense of humour and indulging in my passion of talking until the moment I go to bed has all but been abandoned since I began raiding half of the medicine cabinet. 
  • Although I used to preserve a secret love for the throat-soothing lozenges called Strepsils because of the sweet and, in a sense, hunger-satisfying orange/blackcurrant flavour, I've officially broken off my passion for the medicine as, like many things, it merely reminds me of the reason for which I suck one every few hours. Yes, Little Miss Unwell just doesn't want to face up to the well-known fact that she is under the weather, though this needn't disrupt her from creating a thousand and one excuses for which she deserves an extra large scoop of vanilla ice cream. Seriously, it frightens me what I'm capable of doing whenever throat-cooling ice cream is on the agenda - especially if I get my hands onto the scooper. 
  • Gaining a decent night's sleep has all but been a beloved luxury which has been ripped away from my hands since I developed a runny nose and aching throat two days ago, leaving me prone to lashing out thanks to my easy-to-snap temper and noticeable exhaustion. Right now, I'm tired of hearing about Google Glass supposedly being a 'revolutionary' moment in the technology moment because, unless a £1,000 or so appeared in the bank account overnight, it will be of absolutely no use to me; finding out a comfortable way of getting to sleep without my nose dripping onto the covers would be automatically heralded as a miracle. And a very pocket-friendly one, too.
  • As school holidays traditionally signify that a week or two of boring TV programmes and terrible weather (in my opinion, it's as terrible as the so-called April Showers if a swarm of buzzing flies appear on a brighter-than-jewels Spring day) lie in wait, I have never known boredom like ever before because, not only do I feel incapable of doing anything, I have no idea about what I probably can do, which therefore leads to a five minute sulk dedicated to frustration. In general, life throws plenty of problems which, unless job agencies begin to recruit official problem solvers, only you can sort out, but reaching a solution for the most basic matters in everyday living suddenly becomes ten times harder when a painful ache throbs in your temples and an itch-like desire to scramble into bed is too difficult to ignore. Sadly, falling prey to one of the world's most common - and least dangerous, though my inner sulker would prefer to turn a blind eye towards it - illnesses has created an unanimous struggle relating to my making what are typically deemed as easy-peasy decisions. Choosing which bear to sleep with in the warm comfort of my bed - either a pink Care Bear or elegant meerkat will gain the prestigious title of being my bedroom buddy for a night - hasn't never been more difficult.
So, it is rather fair to say that I am indeed feeling pretty unwell thanks to catching a bout of the annual flu several days ago, and it has significantly reflected on my mood because, after going through tons and tons of toilet rolls as a means of blowing my nose (who knows what the bill for Kleenex tissues would be if I used them instead), I'm both physically and emotionally tired of being unwell. Also, what irritates me above everything else is that my symptoms suddenly appeared out of nowhere, which came as a dreadfully unpleasant surprise after lunchtime on Monday, so my struggle against getting my head around the fact that Miss Pillpopper - since being inspired to increase my uptake of body-strengthening pills last year, I've been taking a daily multivitamin and zinc supplement every morning which, despite letting me down on one unfortunate occasion such like this, has overall protected me from system-affecting illnesses - has lost a bit of her energetic spark continues. 

Like 99.9% of people on this planet, I have never enjoyed being ill because it evokes a childlike person hidden in the deepest parts of myself to reach the surface, forcing my typically mature persona to take a back seat until all of my infected germs are destroyed and I return to appreciating fine health for hopefully a long, illness-free time. Within the space of several hours, I transform into a whiny, unhappy monster whose demands for her sore throat 'to be taken away' cannot be fulfilled, which embarrasses me deeply once I reach beyond the initial stages of being unwell. 

Unless my wishes of receiving a new book or a slice of my favourite comfort food (at the moment, a square of dark chocolate seems to do the hard-to-perfect trick) come true, hardly anything lifts me from the despair and anger which places a firm grip upon me, and it is only once I clear my body and mind of the nasty virus preying on the infected areas that I'm able to take my first steps towards freeing myself of a temporary, yet seemingly endless sickness. In other words, placing my nose at risk of bursting several blood vessels by blowing out the yucky-looking germs is mandatory towards my beating a virus which has no right to invade my body, regardless of however much pain I may go through to achieve my goals of kicking out the unwanted visitor. 

As you would expect, the first day of being unwell is typically one filled with struggle, tiredness and inevitably annoyance because you just don't want to be sick, but now that I've gotten past that day (which, despite beginning to go downhill on Monday, was actually yesterday) dealing with my runny nose and sore throat becomes a sort of second nature to me. Yeah, I may sometimes feel like thrusting my hands into the air as my nose drips like a water fountain minutes after being blowed as ferociously as The Big Bad Wolf destructing several houses, but unfortunately that's part of being unwell - and indulging in self-pity does not guarantee an escape from it, though I would be over the moon if that was ever the case. 

Anyway, I doubt that I will bother to go beyond this cold-themed discussion because my thoughts have hardly strayed from my on-going malady, but I hope that if you are feeling as bad as I do (or happen to feel this way in the future), you don't feel quite so alone in your terror of battling an ordinary virus. Unlike yesterday, I've made more of an effort to keep myself occupied by baking a batch of oat crunchies (thanks to the feature of demerara sugar, they have a toffee-like flavour) and, of course, mentioning my ill perils here which, in many ways, has acted as a better medicine in comparison to the countless spoonfuls of Calpol and fruity lozenges I've recently consumed. 

Being victimized by catching a common cold has ignited a new-found desire to break away from tradition and do what I want - whilst abiding by the Law, bien sûr - so today I'm not bothered in the slightest about writing a long-as-Les-Misérables essay. Instead, I've uploaded several pictures of the things which have been most relevant in my life over the past few days, albeit I received one or two confused looks from my father and little brother when I took several snaps of blackcurrant-flavoured (or rather blood-coloured) cough medicine. One like me should always be supervised whilst being influenced by medicine of any sort - especially if I'm taking pictures of it! And little Barticles has discovered the joys of watching TV on the comfy sofa à la Homer Simpson...

As a way of cheering myself up (and increasing my calorie intake, albeit unintentionally), I decided to give these oat crunchies - as featured in Delia Smith's fantastic Cakes book - a go earlier today, and I can proudly tell you that they taste like a buttery, oh-so-sweet dream! In case you were wondering why a piece of the tin has mysteriously disappeared, I couldn't resist waiting until the entire batch had cooled down, so I had to taste one of them. Like always.

Since my throat began to feel like an overcooked roast potato on Monday, these lozenges have been my go-to saviour and have thankfully decreased the swelling in my mouth, whilst giving me a five minute-long burst of blackcurrant sweetness. Nice.

Despite being classified as a health-conscious young adult/stroppy teenager, this fact hasn't prevented me from consuming an E number-riddled, sugary cough syrup which is indeed aimed towards young children. Like the lozenges above, this medicine is blackcurrant-flavoured which, as I have long guessed, contributes to soothing a painful throat, but looks like blood once I pour a drop onto the plastic spoon which comes with the box. Another reason why my mess-prone self should avoid the colour white at all costs. 


Although he may not come with a burst of paracetamol or guarantee to take away my painfully cold foes, little Bart never fails to cheer me up when I cannot imagine gaining the slightest sense of happiness - in this picture, he was having a decent snooze on the sofa in our living room, which set me into a contagious fit (hopefully one without nasty germs) of giggles! Yesterday, Bart landed himself into trouble when he was caught taking a bite from my mum's plant which is on the verge of flowering, but I couldn't bring myself to be angered by his wild antics because he was literally the only thing who raised a smile on my lips. Hail the potato couch Barticles!

Simply by having a classic old rant about my hassles (and sneezing tendencies), I'm already beginning to feel better because giving myself something both fulfilling and fun to do - as you probably know off heart, writing is my joie de vivre - offers me the opportunity to escape the perils of illness, albeit a fairly harmless one. 

Now, when will my plague go away? 




Monday 14 April 2014

My Failure in Learning Text Speak

If the title of this blog is supposed to remind you of a certain aspect, my journalist wannabe self ought to embrace all things relating to modern teenage life because I am an adolescent after all, so staying true to long-respected traditions such as getting the blues, breaking away from the shadow of adults and creating my own (legal) identity should be as easy as sticking my head into a tub of Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream, right? Um, not exactly, if you can even bring yourself to believe my words.

Although I hardly ever let anybody forget the world-famous fact that I am indeed going through 'the hardest time in my life' (ditto yet another overused cliché), there are several things about modern day teenagers which my brain-training self struggles to grasp. For example, I've never quite gotten my head around the reason for which the 'idols' of British boy band One Direction have gained an enormous amount of popularity and a loyal legion of screaming fans across the world - especially as they are often targeted towards girls my own age - but the sight of Harry Styles singing a love ballad doesn't stir the slightest twinge of excitement within me and confirms my once-hidden beliefs that I am immune to any singers who earn more money than a selfless carer or unpaid volunteer at a donation-reliant charity. 

If I had the time (and the remarkable ability to sit at my desk for the rest of the day without getting a paralyzing cramp), I could probably discuss my noticeable differences from what many would deem as an 'average' teenager, but I'm mostly proud about standing out from the crowd because following one's self-made path is often ignored by teens who are more vulnerable to failing prey to peer pressure which, in my opinion, ought to be banished from future generations. Anyway, I'm not seeking to start a hotter-than-a-chilli rant over the perils of copying others blinded by stupidity and an extreme lack of intelligence because there is one particular subject which, like the great (hotel-staying) explorer Bear Grylls, I'm dancing like a drunken fool on an empty dancefloor at the prospect of looking into one well-known aspect of teenage life which many have either grown to love and hate with a fierce passion: text speak. 

Ah, where would we busy-bees have ended up if text speak hadn't been created? Like a ready meal, text speak only promotes the intriguing, yet lazy message of convenience to those whose priorities lie beyond using standard grammar and, as the years have passed by and more people have bought mobile phones, it seems that text speak is unlikely to disappear into the shadows as plenty of language-appreciating people - and myself noless - have hoped for a very long time. 

When I got my first mobile at the age of twelve, I was greatly excited about being able to contact my friends via sending a short, yet sweet-as-sugar text message because, by then, writing a long and often unread email had lost its grip upon me, and texting struck me as a more convenient way of staying touch with the people I knew. But, unlike others who may have immediately been sucked into the popularized trends surrounding text messaging and anything holding the slightest association to the internet, I steered clear of abbreviating my words or certain expressions as I just didn't like the sight of it. In my eyes, saying brb (a.k.a. be right back) instead of writing it properly looked as messy as an unmade bed - and you wouldn't want to witness my nerves spiralling out of control if I fail to make my bed as soon as I get up! And, unless you have never thought about it, text speak signals a level of immaturity which is often my greatest source of irritation; in other words, if you know how to assert your words in the English language, I doubt that making an effort with expressing yourself properly will hardly rob you of your 'precious' time! 

Thankfully, that's enough on my heated opinion because, regardless of whatever spills out of my lips, text speak will inevitably continue to be used by millions of teenagers - and trend-following adults, whose pretence at speaking like youths is heralded as the greatest form of embarrassment - so getting myself into a Homer Simpsons-inspired rage will unfortunately be of no use. However, my study-loving self - who has been starved of all learning sources due to this week's Easter holidays - would enjoy nothing more than to indulge in a new form of learning by getting to grips with commonly used text expressions, so I hopefully will avoid being made to feel embarrassed once I enroll in a nearby secondary school. But, despite my intention to read up on this modern day culture, there is no possible way that I will ever be tempted to use it in my own text messages - besides, my parents would never allow me to throw away all of my life-long efforts to maintain good (and easily understood) communication!

Down below is a small list of various expressions and symbols which form an extremely large part of text speak, some of which may even be unused nowadays. How am I - a self-confessed grammar lover - supposed to realize that, like the themes at each Dolce & Gabbana collection, text expressions vary at various times? And, as always, I can never quite resist keeping my mouth shut when it comes to expressing myself (minus a symbol whose meaning I'm unlikely to ever understand)...

Gerd/Ermahgerd - Oh My God
When I stumbled across this one on a list of popular text expressions for 2014, my eyebrows nearly rose towards the back of my head as I struggled with great difficulty to understand the meaning of this expression. For all I knew, it probably could have been a foreign word (apparently, gerd relates to a gastroesophageal reflux disease), but never in a million years would I have ever guessed it as 'oh my god'!
Anyway, what is the point of this word if the shorter OMG would save a letter whilst writing a speedy text? In certain ways, gerd sounds like an insult for a reason which I can't quite place my finger upon, and I have a gut instinct that this word won't be around in ten or so years' time. Fingers crossed.

Wut - What 
As soon as I saw this, it took me all my might to avoid screaming with agony at this expression which, unless you haven't already realized, completely breaks all the grammatical rules in our beloved dictionary! Really, would it kill you to spell such as an easily remembered word like what whilst sending a text message or would I be required to wave a £10 note in front of your face? Everything about wut - even typing it sends waves of terror down my spine - is wrong and as nasty as a sickly sweet cup of honey and lemon. If I thought that gerd was the very worst word to have ever been created, I truly have my work cut out with banishing wut from text messaging. Lord help me!

Sup - What's Up?
Unlike the expressions mentioned above, I believe to have already been familiar with this popular greeting, which updates the famed informal expression what's up for the WhatsApp generation, so at least I don't feel like I'm out of my league on this one.
However hard I try to banish the thought from my mind, sup automatically reminds me of the fizzy drink 7Up because I cannot think of another word which shares such a close resemblance, so I seriously doubt that I'd be able to get away with using it minus a reminder of my favourite lemon and lime drink.
And, once again, sup represents more immaturity because it is viewed as a convenient way of asking about somebody's well-being. If you really do care about how your friend or family member is getting on, making a phone call or even seeing them - shock, horror! - surely couldn't be deemed as a waste of time, could it? Only the young may stand a chance of getting away with using sup, though it needs to be said that there are better ways of greeting somebody. Only saying, you know.

LOL - Laugh Out Loud
Okay, I truly know where I stand with LOL because, whether we are young or old, it commonly represents text speak as it is rather easy to drop into an informal message, which can lighten the atmosphere and inject your obviously amused opinion within three letters.
Even the Prime Minister, David Cameron, is alleged to have used LOL in his text messages, though he has since claimed that he believed that the expression translated as lots of love instead. Well, even it appears that the most well-known man in Britain is failing to put his knowledge - as taught at the elite boys' school, Eton College - of the English language whilst communicating with his contacts, so all hopes of maintaining a decent conversation in less than 160 characters have been crushed, don't you believe?
Although I have since begrudged my actions, there was a time when my ten year old self wouldn't have thought twice about injecting lol into a message, particularly as many people were semi-fluent in text speaking, but I quickly progressed beyond that point by forming my own views and, as you would expect, develop a loathing for incorrect grammar.
However, I have no desire to return to my lol-ing ways because, despite what the meaning suggests, I have never laughed out loud whilst reading a text message, so tagging lol seems rather pointless if I'm not staying true to my word.
Just tell me one thing because it really has been preying on my mind recently: has the so-called 'creator' of lol earned any money from his or her expression which has had them laughing all the way to the bank, or are their lives the same as before? Long ago, I faced up to the fact that I will probably never invent a revolutionary item or gadget, but God help me if adding yet another grammar-offending word to the long list of texting expressions were ever my claim to fame.

As you have now read, my hatred towards text speak will continue to burn like a slow, yet heated flame for as long as I live because I don't think that I will ever bring myself to accept it, let alone embrace it with outstretched arms. Along with making a once-in-a-lifetime purchase on a Louis Vuitton bag, all that I want is for proper English grammar to remain intact for the duration of eternity; it would be a massive shame if text speak and informal slang destroyed it one day, though I already fear that the damage has already been done.

And btw - you can work this one yourself - I'm not lol-ing right now!

Sunday 13 April 2014

Sunday Debate: Why Women Are Still Underrepresented

As I put my feet up in front of the TV before switching the channel, my eyes darted towards the screen in wonder of what was currently being aired. Having vaguely heard about The Masters - one of the most prestigious golfing competitions in America, so I've been led to believe - taking place this weekend, I was interested to see a little bit of the popular sport which, if the stunning sight of immaculately cut grass and well-dressed players hadn't reminded you, is mainly geared towards the richer-than-imaginable wealthy people and, as I quickly noticed, men; apart from a female sports presenter standing in the distance, hardly a woman was in sight. 

Perhaps my ever-growing hatred for Sky Sports has reached an inevitable head after years of being forced to watch footballers - male, of course - kick a ball as their overwhelmingly well-paid job, but now this pretence which I tried so hard to turn a blind eye to has all but died because it is no longer as ignorable as it once was: even in this modern day and age, women are still underrepresented in many aspects of life, with an extreme lack of female golfers to say the least. Until now, I don't think that I have ever been swept into such a poisonous wave of misery relating to the underrepresentation of my gender which, despite being 'supposedly' given equal rights to their male counterparts decades ago, still continue to be mistreated and abused in so many ways which I cannot even explain properly - and, as I get older and I near towards the time when I enter womanhood, it concerns me that I could be counted as one of the countless victims of unfair behaviour or prejudice from almost every single part of life. 

In case you assume that I have gone off the bandwagon - despite recently moving to a rather remote village in the glorious countryside, I have not yet laid eyes upon a bandwagon or a rumbling quad bike for that matter - let me clear things for you: in 1928, after decades of campaigning and leading sometimes frightful protests, women were given the right to vote which was hailed as a life-changing and historical event. Indeed, women have never forgotten this moment as the years have passed by because our lives would probably have continued to be determined and controlled by men, the thought of which makes my blood boil so angrily because these women who fought for our generation - some of whom may even be your ancestor, for all I know - should never have been pushed into such a discriminating position in the first place. Oh well, a moaning and spot-covered teenager like myself doesn't have the necessary powers to rewrite history in order to make it a better place for everybody, but perhaps being blessed with such an enviable gift could have prevented women from receiving unjustly levels of prejudice in the 21st century. And, as I will tell you now, you will never doubt for a single moment that inequality was destroyed when The Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act 1928 was drawn up almost ninety years ago. 

From lower wages to offensive harassment, women of all ages haven't been entirely able to escape the discrimination which suffragettes (women who sought the right to vote via organized protest) fought with all their might to enable for future generations which, despite closing the gender gap by a significant level throughout the years, has failed to disappear completely. Unless reading the newspapers isn't listed as one of your must-do hobbies (unlike my Daily Mail-devouring self), more and more articles have been discussing the unfair treatment of women in the work office who, even if they have the same job as a man, are missing out on receiving equal payment - whether you believe in gender inequality continuing to exist in 2014, surely it must strike you as extremely wrong and even offensive to yourself? Although I still have a couple more years of gaining an education at school (a topic of which I'll bring up another time), I nonetheless worry about facing a similar ordeal once I get my hands upon my first job because it seems that nobody - regardless of their age, ability and obviously sex - is immune to being victimized. 

What baffles me the most is the yet-to-be-told reason why women haven't been able to wave a final goodbye to the chauvinism which plagued our country and our lives nearly a century ago, but sometimes I get the impression that whilst we make an honest effort to move on and lead our lives, certain people are unwilling to let go of the power which can determine our places in society. Before you get the wrong idea, there are plenty of men for whom I have the greatest appreciation because many have contributed to our world by expressing their wisdom - whether you are young or old, intelligence can only been deemed as invaluable - but it doesn't change the fact that there continues to exist a legion of people who get their hands onto power, which in turn could create an animosity for plenty of us. Why else would the gender gap still be going strong without offering a sign as to it disappearing for good?

Without going over-the-top with frank and perhaps unneeded detail, life itself throws numerous things at you during its course, inevitably strengthening yourself as a person and teaching you lessons which are only taught to those affected by life-changing events. But if a future filled with sexism rife amongst our society is on the cards, life for a woman therefore becomes a hundred times more difficult because our plates - already piled high with the pressures of living up to the preferable image of supermodel-like perfection, steering clear of esteem-destroying failure and one day keeping up with appearances by running a family - are too much to juggle, which leads to this: something has to give. None of this sexism, ageism (how I'm becoming accustomed to words ending with 'ism' remains a mystery) and unfair treatment gains happiness for anybody, except a hefty lawsuit and bad publicity for the bullies involved, but it appears that the message has not yet gotten through - and if it ever does, when will that moment be?

Thanks to the topic of feminism and sexism being mellowed and more digestible to the majority of the public in recent years, I'm hopeful that together - both men and women united - we will finally banish these sexist demons for good by promoting equality wherever we go, from the workplace to sports to even schools, if the idea hadn't occurred to yourself. I'm not calling for a full-on law against all types of banter because some of it is always enjoyed by both sexes and, as British people are renowned for their brilliant sense of humour (so much for avoiding an obviously biased opinion), the last thing I want is to lose sight of such a celebrated part of our heritage and also ourselves at heart. At the end of the day, I find it deeply saddening when a joke is taken too far or is mentioned in a highly upsetting manner because most of it is uncalled for, which should count as a reminder that everybody should be able to distinguish the difference between informal, yet amical banter to a sexist remark - in other words, don't say what you wouldn't want to hear about yourself!

In ten years' or so time, I would love to see more women represented in what are typically classified as 'masculine' sports on TV - though I wouldn't be putting any bets on many receiving a £300,000 weekly cheque like footballer Wayne Rooney because nobody deserves such money - along with womens' rights being rolled out across the world because, despite the great progress we have made and will continue to do in this country, many nations are thousands of miles away from treating women with the dignity and represent which we are entitled to. I'm a teenage girl who wishes for the best for everybody, and nothing angers me more than these basic, yet invaluable rights are violated - only the evilest criminals are worthy of having their rights stripped away within the click of a finger, not law-abiding and honest women. 

Beneath the inch-thick layer of make-up and a smile which would light up the whole of Hollywood, we women possess a strength which, despite not making a regular appearance, runs through our veins like a thoroughbred galloping in what I hope is an animal-friendly horse race. Regardless of often being dismissed as the 'weaker' gender - just why would the majority of us yearn for veiny biceps? - these unfair words couldn't be further away from the truth which only we know deep inside: our emotional strength is priceless and is the source to our finding happiness. Otherwise, how else would suffragettes have survived years of torment in protest for what too many of us take for granted? I'll let you decide on that one.