Friday 31 October 2014

It All Began a Year Ago...

...When I logged onto Blogger on a chilly, very dark October night, slowly dying from boredom as cheap horror films dominated the TV. Halloween - and its spookiness - was hanging heavily in the air but, unlike the year before, it didn't thrill me; by then, my love of plastic bats, black clothing and gothically plum lipstick had ended its decade-long phase.

Desperate to escape the constant re-runs of Treehouse of Horror, an idea popped into my head, presenting itself like a bright and chirpy pitch on Dragons Den minus the cash-rich human dragons. A few years before, I used to run a blog which was solely dedicated to my old cats, the wannabe supermodel Tom and mother hen Jerry. As an imaginative eleven year old, I would spend my free time by writing about their adventures (which rarely travelled beyond the garden) and amusing habits (a cat eating a banana, anyone?). Then, once I was absorbed into the world of high-end fashion, I forgot about it, hence a halt to my blogging activities.

Why blogging entered my thoughts at that particular moment still baffles me as much as the weirdness surrounding Twin Peaks; some things, even those completely unrelated to red curtains and creepy dancing, never make sense. Anyway, desperation got the better of me: blogging was obviously more appealing than paying attention to hungry trick-or-treaters or glancing out the rain-streaked window.

Within minutes, an account - this one in the name of LikeATeen, in reference to Madonna's virginal 80s' hit which I couldn't stop singing along to - was created, before I got down to business. Though I did not realise it at the time, that business was destined to form part of a landmark moment that, a year on, would find itself being spoken about and fondly remembered. And, to recycle a heavily over-used cliche, the rest was history. Need I say more?

Today marks 365 days since I launched Life as a Modern Teen, a year of which has moved at such rapid speed that one foot is still standing in Halloween 2013. I've had my fair share of ups and downs within this time, yet I've gotten through it and become a stronger person because of it. Does it not strike you as amazing that we possess the ability to progress over such a period of time? I'm a year older (albeit unfortunately not even an inch taller!), bursting with more wisdom that I've borrowed and gained from my travels, yet one thing has remained the same: running this blog.

Since LAAMT came into existence, I've faced up to plenty of changes which, as documented in previous entries, have not necessarily guaranteed a simple transition. Of course, life is about change and age grants us the maturity to deal with it effectively, yet certain things did surprise me - as if I could have contained my shock!

For example, I counted down the days to The Big Move at the end of March, which left me no internet connection for three days. As you would have expected, writing about the events surrounding the move was my number one priority as soon as I had access to the internet - I never felt happier when I managed to blog once again!

Several weeks after I settled into a normal routine, I had to acknowledge the fact that, after being educated at home for seven years, it was time to return to school. Making that decision wasn't easy at all because, deep down, I didn't want to give up home-schooling, but there was little choice because of my approaching GCSEs.

At the beginning of June, I found myself attending the local village secondary school, walking into a new, very strange environment for the first time. And well... You know the rest. Recent entries describe how I really feel about the situation, some issues of which are currently on-going. Yet writing about it is my form of therapy: I calm down, look at the problems with a different perspective, and am able to release the stress that would otherwise eat me up if I bottled it up.

In all honesty, I treat this blog like a diary because it is one of those places where I can let my hair down, have a good time and be myself. Whilst stuck in a restrictive environment such as school, I feel so out of place that, by the time that I get home, I undergo a massive personality transformation. Words are my shields and keep me safe from harm whenever I open my mouth - or, whilst online, I type on a keyboard!

Therefore, all that I want to say is that I hope to still be reminiscing over the good times on this day next year, and the anniversaries keep on coming. Blogging is a passion, which I must constantly feed - there shall definitely be more of it!

Thursday 30 October 2014

Shopping, Shopping, Shopping

On the off-chance that you were curious as to my recent whereabouts, I have not actually disappeared off the face of earth (though, during seriously difficult times of struggle with my oh-so-irritating brother, I wish so), but have in fact been spending most of my time in either a car, high speed train or traipsing through a shopping centre that is more packed than a bag of crisps.

For me, shopping is the head of the Royal Family because I worship its highness and regard it as a special treat, which grants me the opportunity to indulge in bags of clothes - the height of luxury. Not only do I appreciate each shopping trip - whether with my family or friends - but I anticipate it with heartfelt excitement, my personality reverting in that of a young child counting down the days to Christmas. If I've been saving my pocket money for a while, I'm like a bottle of champagne about to pop: I need to release the energy which is bubbling beneath the airtight cap, swimming in a sea of fizzy giddiness.

However, the most important matter of all is discovering that special place which you can rely on to ease those itch-like cravings to open your purse, grab some notes and hear the tills sing as you get your hands on a new, perfect purchase. If not, how can you achieve the maximum pleasure from an activity which millions of women - and men - adore?

Ever since I moved to the village-in-the-middle-of-nowhere over half a year ago, my experiences with shopping centres have been very few and far between - because, unlike where I used to live, I have absolutely no idea where they are located. Or which are the best ones catering to my shopping (especially of the addictive kind) needs.

In fact, the very first shopping centre that I'd visited in more than a year was only checked out several weeks ago, shortly after the new school year began: I sacrificed one of my two weekend lie-ins in order to explore a supposedly new (translated: refurbished) shopping centre based in the nearest city, in the hope of being bedazzled by the just-opened H&M store, the first of its kind to be launched in my county. Compared to the one that I used to go to in my former country - which, according to Wikipedia, is one of the largest in Europe, let alone England - this one was quite disappointing and lacked a special sparkle that used to define shopping as my favourite activity.

Let me rephrase that: the ultimate activity. The sort of hobby for which you would rid all other plans in your diary, getting starry-eyed over the thought of having a six-inch sub at Subway with your healthy eating fanatic mum's permission. Everything else that you do - watching Simpsons marathons in your most embarrassing pyjamas on a Sunday afternoon, kicking a ball about in the park or even being let loose in the sweets' aisle at the supermarket - could be easily defined as boring if compared to the fun, care-free and downright rewarding activity like shopping.

Shopping is our Queen, whereas online purchases are its ladies-in-waiting. Once you get a taste for it, there is no turning back.

Therefore, finding the special place where most or all of your favourite shops are located is a job more important than, for example, completing MyMaths homework (which, even with dodgy scores, doesn't share a spot in the same superior league as shopping). Until yesterday afternoon, I was still drifting from place to place, never really settling on one idea to try out a certain centre or city. Yet luck had prepared several plans for me in the form of meeting up with some old friends of mine yesterday, where we decided to go to a massive shopping centre in a city roughly around forty miles away.

After spending so much time throwing myself into the task of searching, I believe that I've found it - my equivalent of a secret garden, loaded with fast-food chains, rails loaded with cut-price clothing and luxuriously large department stores - at long last.

Minutes after I entered the centre, my head was firmly stuck in a daze: like a baby gazing into the scene lying before it for the first time, I was looking at everything at all angles. Lights shining like a sparklers bore onto me; glass windows created so elegantly established an up-market feeling; and rows upon rows of shops invited me with their enthusiastic greetings, giving sneak peeks into what existed inside their private spaces.

Although walking into such a lively and buzzing place was initially such an alien feeling, it took hardly any space of time until I eased into the atmosphere, and felt as comfortable as one does in their home. As many girls may experience, shopping is such a natural action and, once you embrace the environment in which you are doing it, going from one shop to another can be as easy as walking into your living room: your reflexes don't think twice about it.

And once you establish your territory - needless to say, H&M was my go-to-place - nothing stands in your way of getting down to business. In other words, only fellow shoppers pose potential barriers as you leap from one side of a shop to the other, looking at the clothes surrounding you like a crowd. My heart beat like a speeding car when presented with tables and rails of clothes which, as soon as they were lying in front of me, screamed 'me, me, me!' , begging to be adopted and worn to death by a potential owner. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take long until I gave into weakness - ah, the perils of temptation! - and found myself carrying plenty of clothes and accessories in my hands, dangerously close to running out of hands to hold onto my prized jewels.

As much as I enjoy buying online - easy is perhaps the most over-used word to describe it, but it truly hits the nail on the head - there is a certain magic about walking into a shop and purchasing stuff there-and-then, before taking it home to you. Shops don't drive you around the bend if you are waiting on a delivery to arrive, a problem which affects all shoppers - myself being no exception - at one point or another. Besides, I get a greater kick out of it if I do it every now and then because I perceive it as a treat, not a run-of-the-mill trip like the one you usually take to the supermarket every week. Yesterday was definitely the highlight of the week and will remain a memory to cherish, especially as I shared it with some friends whom I hadn't seen in a while - including one who I last saw at the age of eight!

Now that I've discovered the Chosen One, shopping will take the form of an attractively wrapped present which, once opened, unveils plenty of goodies that maximize my pleasure - and re-establish shopping as the thing to do.

Otherwise, what kind of fashion-obsessed girl would I be? Don't even go there!

Tuesday 28 October 2014

Why I Worship H&M

Throughout life, we have been given the pleasure of either witnessing or finding out about the greatest love stories which, like a Disney tale, we completely take to heart. Will we either forget about the love that Romeo and Juliet shared together before their untimely deaths, or even the news stations which sizzled like electricity at the peak of Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart's romantic relationship several years ago?

Let's face it: we love love, whether we have fallen into its gracious arms or are intrigued by somebody else's personal affairs. However, love doesn't always present itself in the form of kisses, hugs and all the pleasure that takes place in the sauciest of Hollywood films: it can also be extended to our interests with which, as kind-hearted creatures, we are capable of creating a relationship entangled in passion, excitement and, perhaps without needing to declare it, love.

Love doesn't only exist among two people; it can be focused to another object, regardless of whether it will give it back to you. Sometimes, love might only be felt on one side because the other doesn't have access to emotions - for example, do you really expect that 60 inch Smart TV to give you a hug, despite you loving it so?

We can experience love by replenishing our needs which, in my case, relates to my shopping ones. Especially of the H&M kind.

For several years, I have been a devoted fan of Nordic (or, to be more specific, Swedish) clothing which, as always, must be bought from one of the most famous clothing retailers in the world: H&M. Renowned for its pocket-friendly, yet good ethics policies, H&M is my equivalent of the Queen: I bow and curtsy whenever visiting a store or accessing its website because, in my eyes, it is the height of royalty. Piles of regal-looking clothes adorn the modern shops, whilst my head is caught in a whirlpool of giddiness as I gaze at the latest collections online. If H&M is the Head of State, I am its loyal, humble (and shop-obsessed) servant: a role which I take very seriously.

In case you are bewildered as to why I've suddenly lost my mind and morphed into such a style-conscious creature, it is about time to take a trip down memory lane where my fashion journey - towards success, of course - began.

Before I first encountered H&M, I had recently been introduced to fashion, where my knowledge didn't really go further beyond the realms of Chanel and Dior which, unsurprisingly, were my fantasy choice of shops. For hours, I would lose track of time by simply pouring over pictures of breath-taking outfits in the high-end fashion magazines, wondering how creations so beautiful could ever be worn by a twelve year old girl like myself. That side of fashion was a fantasy which stood very little chance of being lived in an ordinary English town where tracksuits (with three or more toothpaste-esque stripes symbolized your upper status), flesh-baring crop tops and scruffy Converse-wannabe trainers were the locals' take on Versace's latest collection. If I wanted to be stylish, I needed a major wake-up call in realism - otherwise I would never awake from dreams of haute couture gowns!

With a purse loaded with a week's worth of pocket money gripped in my hand, I plunged myself into the shallowest end that could be found in the vast pool of fashion: the cheaper-than-cheap shops. Partly due to the lack of selection available in my town and my ambition to keep costs low, I started a love affair with the likes of New Look and Primark - whose names are literally tattooed on some teenagers' heads - which ended quicker than one of Harry Styles' many romances.

Primark lasted a mere half an hour while I visited a store at the age of eleven, initially amazed with the cheap prices but poor quality and little selection of half-decent styles. Although I did buy one top, my satisfaction turned into full-blown horror after it began to fall apart when during its first wash - needless to say, I learnt a lesson that was more valuable than the shop's entire stock!

As for New Look, I clung a little tighter in the hope that my faith would be redeemed at one point - even now, memories of heartfelt elation when I made my first purchase before Christmas are as rich as ever - but my interest slowly slid away, finally realizing that my initial little-girl excitement that used to fill me like a glass of Coca Cola was not going to be resurrected. Besides, New Look shared several qualities with Primark - the least of all being the short life of its clothing, which resulted in most of my purchases being chucked out to a car boot sale within months of buying (and wasting my money on) them.

Losing hard-earned cash on clothes that, from a distance, looked great but displayed a slight cheapness up close is a horrible feeling that dawns upon you after one purchase too many. Though years of pocket money have since recompensated from what I used to spend at those shops, I cannot help but feel annoyed at myself for making several unwise decisions as an eleven or twelve year old. Ah, if only I'd met H&M - my saviour - a bit sooner, and my woes would never have been so great!

Anyway, my first experience with H&M was shortly before one Christmas, back in the days when I would rob my whole family of their opportunity to access the internet whilst acting on one of my 'shopping-comes-first' moments. Having heard the name before - but not knowing a single thing about it - I logged onto its just-launched website, and browsed its ranges. And, without exaggerating too much, I was amazed - stylish, teen-friendly (in the adults' range) surrounded me from every angle, crying to be added to my wardrobe!

Within seconds, I was drawn towards a baby pink top with puffed sleeves (thought definitely not à la Dynasty), the sight of which made me backtrack on a decision to cut out pink clothing. As it was nearing Christmas time, I added the top to my Christmas list - and, until around a year ago, I was still wearing it, albeit in a different style to how I used to wear it as an eleven year old. Not bad for a top that only cost just under £8 - no kidding! Several years on, the top was still as soft as when I ripped open the packaging on Christmas Day, which was the base of a life-changing epiphany for me: spending little doesn't always mean that you get little back.

Think of the German supermarkets Aldi and Lidl which, despite their rock-bottom prices, have established solid reputations for their high quality products that don't break the bank. If they can do it, why should it be impossible in the world of fashion? Of course, H&M do sell some expensive stuff, such as leather handbags or pieces created in a collaboration with a well-known designer (remember Versace? How I would have loved to have gotten my hands on the dresses!), but the majority of their clothing are accessible to the likes of a budget conscious teenager, who still gains plenty from the styles. H&M lives up to those dreams that would dominate my sleeping hours when fashion first took my world by storm: I might not spend too much money on what I buy, but I'm not short-changed.

Besides, most of the stuff that I buy (typically on the internet, as I don't necessarily have the time to visit the just-opened store in the nearest city) are discounted, as were the majority of the order that I placed yesterday which, in less than two months' time, will be resting underneath the Christmas tree. A self-confessed bargainista, my eyes light up like a Jack-A-Lantern if I encounter a sale, which can be smelt from a far distance away - even the internet is no exception! Also, H&M usually offers its online customers a discount code, which knocks several pounds off the total sum of an order, or suddenly discounts a certain range (right now is coats, scarves, gloves and hats) come Monday morning. Talk about a decent way of treating its loyal subjects - a.k.a. me!

Last Christmas, I adored H&M to the extent that I even splashed on a copy of The Sims 2: H&M Fashion Stuff game, which offered my Sims the opportunity to shop in H&M stores and wear their amazing clothes. As you are probably thinking, my only video game must feature H&M in one form or another! Still, it did nicely spice up my game...

Love comes in many forms, yet is equally important whether it lies among people, interests, objects or indeed clothing retailers. I will make no secret of it: I love H&M. And, as I show off the great garments that sit proudly in my wardrobe, I'm proud of it. Well, wouldn't any fashionista say so?

Sunday 26 October 2014

All Hail the Christmas List Contenders

Every Autumn marks a milestone which ignites the annual excitement that spreads like the warming heat from a burning fire, sending elation (along with the unwelcome addition of impatience) into overdrive: writing my Christmas list. 

A joy that has never quite lost its edge as I've gotten older, I gain plenty of pleasure from simply writing several potential gifts - in the form of an Excel document, of course - onto my list, acting on inspiration whenever it takes me. While some traditions have been given up over the years - as if a Youth Dew-wearing teenager can truly get away with visiting Santa Claus, despite the promise of receiving a 'free' gift (courtesy of your parents' wallets) - constructing my list around this time of year never gets boring, and remains a tradition which I happily embrace. 

October is the perfect time of year that I can take a break from doing my chores, work and the like in order to think about what I want: exactly suiting the needs of a self-obsessed teen! At this point, I no longer hide my head in shame if caught browsing Amazon in search of a library load of books which could be found wrapped underneath the Christmas tree several months on - everyone, including myself, are all for a slight dose of self-indulgence come Christmas time! 

Since hitting the two-months-to-go milestone yesterday, Christmas has been playing more and more on my mind as the need to complete my list has strengthened overnight, becoming quite an irritating itch that not the reliable Sudacrem can sooth. Until I've sorted out this must-be-done-soon task, Christmas won't cease to exist in my thoughts because I cannot bear to ignore something which, in my world, is absolutely important. 

Although plenty of people - if not the majority of the population - leave their Christmas shopping until the last minute, this is definitely not how I like to function, especially when it comes to such a busy season - cue a potential strike from some grumpy-faced postmen! Like my consumption of chocolate, purchasing my Christmas presents early is a habit which I can't bring myself to break: nor will my parents allow it! In fact, my mum and dad are now telling me to get a move on with sorting out my list, even though it is in far better condition than my brother's. which literally contains a Playstation and nothing else. 

As these instructions play on my mind like a soap opera storyline, it is about time that I stop procrastinating and commence my mission, in which I aspire to gain plenty of LikeATeen-approved gifts that will put a massive smile on my face come the morning of 25th December. Yet one thing begs the question: what will those presents be? Hmm, maybe I will embark on a journey to determine what I'll be unwrapping in 59 days' time - and what I will certainly not including on my list!

The Disaster Presents

An expert in what you might consider as ghastly disasters, I am the go-to person if you want to find out what you should not give to an ashen-faced teenager at Christmas, unless you get a hit out of becoming their arch-nemesis - I doubt that is a likely possibility!

Everybody, unless you are the Queen, have received a dodgy gift at one point or another and, if we even bother with politeness, we plaster on the sickliest smile after unwrapping a gift that will end up at the charity shop the following day. Whether this is a ritual that all children go through, I really don't know, but isn't it strange that we do experience these embarrassing and oh-so-awkward moments, especially at such a jolly time like Christmas? 

As great as it is to use common sense whilst picking presents for teenagers, I realize that there are times when you - and perhaps young adults themselves - don't know whether a gift will receive a flood of heartfelt 'thank yous' or the stomach-churning eye-roll/'why-the-hell-have-you-given-this-to-me?' look. 

Personally, adults should avoid purchasing CDs for their children unless they have been specifically asked to purchase one because, nine times of ten, it could result in a major fail. For example, would a heavy metal lover raise a grin after opening a copy of Katy Perry's Prism? Unless they have a secret penchant for Dark Horse, I doubt it!

Clothes can sometimes be disastrous if no attention is paid to personal style, size, practicality or even the brand; wearing Primark is more than a few pegs below Juicy Couture! Girls are perhaps known as the fussier ones compared to the more laidback boys, yet the only piece of clothing that my parents can buy for my brother is a Chelsea kit - everything else is off-limits! Still, you can't really go wrong if you pay attention to your teenage daughter's subtle hint about that party-perfect dress from her favourite clothing shop... 

And, for old times' sake, do not make the legendary mistake of buying gifts aimed at kids for teenagers. Just don't. Colouring-in sets, toys (albeit a Kiss-themed Hello Kitty plush is an exception) and cat-themed jigsaw puzzles (even the hugest cat lover like me reserved little passion for the most boring game known to mankind) are among the gifts that teenagers will never forgive you for - it could go down in history! 

My Kind of Gifts

BaByliss 2165BU Pro Crimper 210, 
£19.99 at Amazon

Forever obsessed with the appearance, texture and cleanliness of my hair, it is no wonder that I'm also conscious about the style of it: to date, I currently have one curling wand, a set of rollers and the fabulous Curl Secret that was on the top of my Christmas list last year. 

Having what I've usually regarded as straight 'n' boring hair, I have been on the lookout for various tools that will transform my look - typically in the form of curling. Before I got my first curling wand at the age of eleven, I truly thought that curling would revolutionize my life and banish the boring title to which my hair was attached. 

Although I loved the results that curling offered me, there were several problems that I encountered, such as
  • There was absolutely no way that I could curl my hair in a hurry (e,g. before school) because I would need to devote at least an hour to curling every single strand of hair on my head. As much as I love my hair, spending longer than half-an-hour on styling it struck me as excessive!
  • If used too frequently, my hair would dry out and its texture would be similar to a stack of hay: deprived of any moisture or softness. 
  • Whenever I used the Curl Secret, my hair would get tangled if I dared to place large pieces all at once, which meant that I would have to curl smaller pieces - therefore taking more time! 
Besides, I wanted to give another style a go, so I was instantly drawn to these crimpers whilst browsing on Amazon (where else?) several weeks ago. 

Perfect for straight hair, these crimpers give your hair a unique texture without robbing you of too much time to achieve the desired look. This means that, instead of relying on straighteners each morning, I could crimp my hair before going school! 

Also, OCD won't get the better of me if I didn't crimp every single section of hair, unlike curling it which would look like a mess if I forgot to curl the back or wherever. Crimping looks simple, fast and cool at the same time - easiness without the hassle!

'Spoilt' Jumper
£5.99, H&M


This jumper has a leopard print pattern - my most adored print of all time - and includes the word which defines clothes-obsessed teenagers. Sure, I might not necessarily deserve a reminder of it, but this is clothing at its very finest - at cut-throat prices! 

Me spoilt? Never. If I'm wearing this jumper? Oh yes!

Pop Art Clutch Bag
£9.99, New Look
Multicoloured Pop Art Zip Top Clutch | New Look
A secret lover of pop art, I nearly fell head over heels when I saw this clutch bag because of its quirkiness and very eye-catching appeal. 

I've never had a clutch bag before - having believed that they are too formal to be carried at other times apart from parties and special occasions - but this one could be used at any time: it's definitely the kind of bag I'd introduce to my expanding collection!




Friday 24 October 2014

Bye-Bye, Miss Perfectionist!

As soon as I awoke from the deepest, warmest and loveliest sleep earlier this morning, a glimpse of panic - for a mere, yet seemingly long second - flickered through me, before slipping away. Then I placed my head down on the pillow and exhaled a sigh of relief: panic certainly wasn't destined to affect me today. Instead, I've been inflicted by such an overwhelming stream of emotions - happiness, pride, gladness and many more which I cannot put a name to - that, if it were to arise, panic would be sitting at the very bottom of the pile. After all, why would I need to fly into a storm of worry if it is no longer - or at least temporarily - unneeded? Ah, that's the pleasure of half-term: everything, including the frightfully early starts, go out the window. Literally.

A while after listening to Ed Sheeran in bed - which might have brought upon me a curse that binds me as a loyal, Sing-a-long fan - I finally mustered the strength to drag myself out of bed, resisting the urge to return to my safe haven for another few minutes. Sure, I might tell myself that, if I close my eyes for what seems like a few seconds, it won't have a knock-on effect on what I need to do, yet the result is often more or less against my wishes: how can such a perfectionist bear to be racing around like a Formula 1 car in a frantic panic after having a lie-in on a school day? Ugh, the thought - and possibilities behind it - of being caught off-guard sends shivers down my spine!

Anyway, it's about time that Miss Perfectionist (a.k.a moi, unless you didn't receive the well-written memo) does go back to bed while her fun-seeking and not-so-perfect sister, Miss I-Don't-Give-A-Damn, re-emerges from her bedroom in the style of a bleary-eyed teenager and conjures a spell consisting of fun, pleasure and significantly more magic than the Charmed Ones could muster.

Miss Perfectionist has been working non-stop for nearly the past two months, the effects of which are becoming more noticeable each day; her eyebrows, once heralded as Cara Delevingne's muse, look as overgrown as a forest planted with bushes, perhaps more out-of-control than Hollywood's wildest child. Despite her efforts to steer clear of energy boosting drinks that might make her develop a bullish nature, Miss Perfectionist has struggled to keep alert, run at the speed of light and perform at her highest possible function. Instead of paying attention to her teachers in class, she dreams of going on a break where stress, flagging levels of energy and indeed hairy problems don't exist. And, having lost precious moments to fighting her trademark impatience, her wish has come true: a holiday beckons.

While she is away, the other Miss - whose interests lie in starting (and certainly enjoying) parties - will be taking over, squeezing as much juice from the upcoming week and few days as she can. Although her personality might be different to self-confessed goodie-two-shoes, Miss Fun (the other name would take her the whole of next week to write down) still retains the lovable traits that define her sister - except that they are maxified and given a special touch while the party-seeker has claimed the throne.

The bottom line is that, now that stress can thankfully be pushed to one side, I wish to return to my fun-loving roots and jump into a pool floating in a bed of enjoyment. I want to remember what it feels like to swim in a icy-cool pool, shivering as I dip my toes into sub-zero temperatures and embrace the chill that sneaks up on me. I feel alive when submerged in such an environment or, in fact, anywhere that produces a feeling that cannot be shrugged off the moment that I walk out of the place which produced it.

Emotions run high when I'm visiting new and familiar places; it's a break from the ordinary, escaping routines I would give up in a heartbeat. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of going on a journey, which I'm keen on doing this and next week because time - which, depending on circumstances, I either appreciate or reserved the deepest hatred for - is the source of my excitement. While it is sitting next to me, I shall gain the most out of its presence, using its magic for my personal benefit. Otherwise, I will be soaked like a damp sponge in disappointment if I don't use it once I'm out of time: a heavy feeling that, like a miserably grey cloud, would probably hang over me for ages to come.

Since Miss Perfectionist has given up the fight and slipped into her (perfectly straight) bed, I'm readier than ever to throw myself into a bowl of joy. Whether it is in the form of days-out, taking it easy at home or whittling the hours away in a KitchenAid mixer, I'll get my slice of happiness one way or another - you can be assured this fun-loving girl will not be tricked by time.

She will love every second, minute, hour, day and week of it. I certainly will.

Wednesday 22 October 2014

Why My Body is Tingling with Excitement and Cannot Wait to Be Free - Half-Term Beckons!

Like the nostalgic scent of the sea, my tastebuds are tingling as a sweet, irresistible flavour lands on the tip of my tongue, filling me with as much happiness as a bag of Jelly Babies could provide. Despite not having reached the finish line, I'm so near to approaching it that my body has been lit by a wild flame and cannot shrug off the sense of excitement that hangs heavily in the air. Elation is bubbling to the surface and, at any moment, could burst through the layer that separates it from the outside world, tasting freedom at long last.

I am only less than a day away from my body experiencing these thrilling sensations, yet I can already sense it in not only the air, but all that surrounds me. The workbooks that I begrudge carrying are no longer pages seething with my personal hell, or at least a date with a D-grade Devil; the early starts in the dark don't suddenly seem as black as a punk's wardrobe; and the happiness I placed in a box after sunny summer eased into chilly days is about to be returned to me, being held where it belongs.

Ah, the joys of half-term!

For weeks, fantasies consisting of visiting places that, nine times out of ten, are always affected by heavy, misery-inducing downpours of rain (as ever a non-waterproof mascara's best friend) have dragged me onto a journey to Dreamland. As I gazed out the window on the school bus the other day (and couldn't see much because of condensation caused by the rain; at least one useful thing I've picked up from Physics, I began to feel an ache - call it a craving even crazier than the urge to devour a box of Ferrero Rocciers - to try new things. And, among that list, travelling is one of them.

If if hasn't already occurred to you, parking yourself in the most uncomfortable chair in an non-air-conditioned classroom for hours upon hours five times a week robs you of much more than the time you could spend playing Minecraft on your Xbox (e.g. my block-obsessed brother). Unless I go to town at the weekend, I'm constantly trapped in a cycle which is ruled by boredom: nothing is enjoyable. As much as I love being at home and would swap my Maths classroom for my bedroom without a second thought, I'm almost bored to sleep if there is a lack of variety of locations.

From Monday morning to Friday afternoon, my entire life is practically played out in school and home. Anywhere else is otherwise regarded as a precious treat: finding the time (and patience to slip out of my uniform as speedily as Super-Woman) to pop out after school can be quite a struggle, especially when I'm sinking in a swamp loaded with assignments, homework and revision. Therefore, I'm truly not showcasing my wannabe comedienne by declaring that my life revolves around school before it begins and after it ends each week - I put my entire heart and soul into everything that involves my education!

After seven weeks, it is not in the least surprising that I need a break. Or, if I could have my own way, a fortnight stay at a five star Parisian hotel would restore my spirits within no time! If life was slightly more ideal, taking another six weeks off would replenish me perfectly and perhaps save me from another outbreak of the seasonal coughs, colds and sore throats that define school as a germ magnet (which, against my will, my immune system is drawn to).

However, I cannot afford to place my hopes into the summer holidays revisiting me almost a year in advance because it will not happen  regardless of the many times I add it to my Christmas list. From Friday, a week and a few days is all that I'll get - there is no question about how I will make the most out of every second that can be truly claimed as my own. Then I'll have to hold onto the week before Christmas to enjoy another late lie-in in Comfort Heaven (a.k.a. my bed), with thankfully another week tagged on. The ultimate goal right now is crossing the line - behind which offers me a dream that seemed such a distance away at the beginning of term - tomorrow afternoon when the final bell of the day rings throughout campus, signalling the end of the bound-to-be-awkward first term back in the school environment.

Twenty four hours in advance, I can somewhat taste the satisfaction on my lips: it's like imagining the flavour of a juicy burger which, although you might not have one anywhere near your mouth, can nonetheless be tasted. Yet, however amazing and as wild as a jungle it might be, your imagination cannot really live up to the joys of reality: once you get your hands on happiness, your emotions will be flooded like a river. I am counting the hours until the banks burst and elation spills out of my body; no longer shall it be contained in a locked box for I will open it!

And, to be honest, I haven't really given much thought to what I'll do - and perhaps feel - after I leap on the bus and open the door upon getting home. Sleeping, baking coffee cupcakes and, if weather permits, travelling to various towns and cities are the main ones on my must-do list, yet relaxing isn't particularly an activity that has to be listed. You just do it - the end. Although I've become pretty inexperienced at it, learning how to rewind will be my main priority for the next week which, as those life-changing exams become a term nearer, could potentially save me from the very depth of exam stress in months to come.

Without a doubt, I will preserve some time to enjoying my favourite activity: blogging. It really bothers me that school gets in the way of my ultimate entertainment, yet I'll be spoilt with plenty of time to spend my hours away in front of a laptop, hopefully doing something more productive than gazing at the whole of H&M's online catalogue.

Oh well, it's about time that I get on with some work (of the stuffing-your-mouth-with-spicy-Tennessee-style-sausages kind) before being completely swept up by the urge to write. One more day until my dream comes true - freedom here I come!

Saturday 18 October 2014

Quelle Semaine!

Besides from the numerous perils associated with tests, the past few days truly justify this entry's title: what a week it has been! From attending dance classes (and nearly collapsing onto the floor as I staggered out the studio) to unearthing a shocking secret, I have been getting to grips with plenty of stuff recently and, while I'm taking a short break, the fun never stops. Well, how can you achieve joy if it is not relentless, albeit constantly full-on? 

Anyway, not all swinging parties possess enough energy to carry on until the early hours of the morning (or, if you think about it, a dull afternoon), so I'm making the most of some countryside peace while I can. Phew. Even processing all that has happened in my oh-so-frantic mind is producing a person much sweatier than a gym could handle; if anything else is added to the tower-tall pile, my head might explode like a bag of compressed crisps! 

Before I lose myself in opinions regarding parties, peace and strangely enough cheese-flavoured crisps, I will drag myself back to the road which I was originally heading. And that road involves much more than I could ever have expected, such as:
  1. One of my new nine week old kittens, Teddie, who I've been calling my little princess since adopting her a fortnight ago, is a boy.
  2. Until this week, I had absolutely no idea that mock exams will take place in January, the thought of which freak the hell out of me. Even more so than watching The Walking Dead in the dark (worse so sans company).
  3. According to the 'rents (yeah, such a noughties-tastic expression), I need to sort out my Christmas list fast. In other words, I must browse the likes of Amazon and ASOS to discover the Gift of Heavenly Gifts and learn how to construct a list on an Excel document. God help me!
  4. And lastly, Christmas. Need I say more?
For some people, they might not bat an eyelid if faced with what I've placed on my list (which, unlike my Christmas one, perhaps should not be given so much attention), but they are the things that I've managed to think about besides exams, revision and pre-school jitters in the morning this week. Yeah, this week will forever define my life and remain influential as the years pass by - sarcasm alert!

What shocked me to the core above everything else was, upon a trip to the vets' for his (how alien it seems to say it) first vaccination, Teddie was declared a boy after being checked by two vets, who were perhaps as surprised as my mum felt. I didn't have the slightest clue about Teddie's gender until my mum came home a while after I got off the school bus; when finally told, my mouth was literally hanging on the floor!

Even when I look at him, Teddie just looks so... girly. OK, 'girly' might be one of the most stereotypical words, yet I'm not kidding. He looks as cute, fragile and sweet as a female cat, or so I would imagine - had his, ahem, privates not been discovered, he would have been the family's first female kitty, which I had been praying and hoping for years. Of course, I still love him as much as I did before the discovery, yet my mind has somewhat been frozen in time: I haven't quite progressed from the 'Shocked' stage to taking steps towards 'Acceptance', as other matters have distracted me of late. Still, what a massive surprise - no wonder that I'm still reeling from it!

As for mocks, I'm as clueless as Cher Horowitz regarding what the exams will be like: even though they won't be the actual proper thing, piles of pressure will be heaped onto you like a stack of hay, won't it? Oh well, I've just completed several end-of-term tests, so January is firmly rooted in the future for some time yet - one thing at a time, I think!

And Christmas? Apart from a pair of Babyliss Crimpers, I can barely remember anything else that I included on my list. Which either proves how bad my memory is or the lack of presence of toys that used to dominated my dreams, conversations and thoughts as Christmas approached. To avoid any potential postal strikes, my parents prefer to purchase presents early - which, if it wasn't for my lack of ideas, I'm completely for - yet it does bother me so greatly if no ideas spring to mind when I need them most. I hope that I won't be stuck for inspiration until the very last minute; maybe a shopping trip in the city would clear up some fog in my mind (hint, hint)?

All in all, the past few days have been very busy indeed. Luckily, I've found the time to squeeze in a Zumba class, some TV and completing my only homework assignment of the week (sadly, my puppy-eyed look was not such a convincing winner as I previously believed) at 10pm, along with sleeping, writing and blending eye shadows. 

Whatever you think is impossible is possible if you put some effort into making it a reality - whether it is throwing yourself into exhaustive work or leaping out of the sofa! Though, on such a relaxing day like Saturday, I'm prepared to bend the rules slightly...





Survivor!

After wasting a precious week of my life to tests, end-of-term assessments and puzzling questions that brought on a headache that not even a dose of Calpol to cure, like a candle, I'm burnt out. Gone are my fantastic levels of energy that are at their peak once a new week commences; an exhaustion unlike what I've ever experienced has taken hold. My heart throbs with envy at the thought of animals preparing for several months of utter peace - and relentless sleep - as winter approaches, a dream which I wish would come true at this moment in time. I'm tired, drained and more than slightly sleepy: as this morning has revealed to me, ten undisturbed hours of rest is exactly what I need. All the time. Yet what do I do if time does not offer me the privilege of spending my whole life in bed, especially when important work - and hours spent in a half-broken chair - must be completed?

Cry, my head whispers, its longing to unleash its drama queen stronger than ever. Or, if I dared to pay attention to my heart - which, unlike my head, has perhaps not been affected by slight levels of insanity - I should simply accept what I have to do, even if becoming a contestant on I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here! seems much more appealing.

And what I have had to do this week is the cause of my banging headache, drooping eyelids and potentially the biggest spot outbreak from which I've suffered in years. Seriously, I would consider making a claim against school if another spot - the colour of my anger, which reddens like a lit flare - appears on my face because all of this work is not fair. Before you even dare to answer back to me, let me get my view across first: it truly isn't!

Ah, this madness can be solely blamed on the tests that I have been obliged to sit this week at school which, according to my teachers, helps them to determine our abilities and which grades we might achieve when we finally take our GCSEs. Apart from Catering and Media, a test - or controlled assessment, as was the case in English - has been forced down my throat in every subject, including the ones that I hadn't been told about. Well, not even the most superstitious can expect teenagers to analyze their minds and find out what their intentions shall be - so why should school toss yet another exam question our way without letting us revise beforehand?

Tests are yet another part of the school system that I have no true desire to accept, but am somewhat obliged to acknowledge in order to reach the end goal: achieving success in my GCSEs. As I'm now nearing the end of Term One in the first year of GCSE work, more steps have been taken towards escaping my school and getting nearer to the sixth form of my dreams in town. Still, I have every right to complain about my dislikes and anger towards the unjust system whilst walking on the path towards The Dream to Beat All Dreams, don't I?

Along with the conformists, disruptive kids and teachers possessing little or no sense of controlling their classes (if they even bother to show up), tests have joined the highly coveted list of Overwhelming Negatives of School Life. If luck falls on my shoulders, maybe The Sunday Times might publish it in tomorrow's edition which, compared to the Richest Under 30s list, would make a pleasant change, wouldn't it?

Anyway, you would have to have fallen in the deepest sleep ever recorded to not get the gist of my argument: this week would preferably be tossed into a deep-as-a-Subway-sandwich hole and buried in the woods, never to emerge and haunt my life again. The sooner it is over, the happier I will be, a sensation of which will flood my veins with pure, hot relief. Getting further away from the negatives puts my mind at ease, though it significantly helps that the worst - providing enough obstacles to fill an Olympic stadium - is over.

As you might have expected, I become a nervous wreck if an assessment or a test is lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to pounce on me like a vicious animal. I get worried, j'ai les jetons and I panic bigtime - looming tests hang over me like a rainy cloud, making me unable to think of anything else nor temporarily escape my nerves.

However, I've discovered this week that anticipating a test is more nerve-wracking than actually sitting the test itself. Last week, my Maths teacher informed the class that we would be sitting a GCSE paper in seven days' time which, perhaps in his mind, was a means of kick-starting an ambition to revise. Yet it somewhat had an opposite effect on me: I did revise for the test and began to worship my workbook like a bible instead of treating it as a possession of the Devil, but nonetheless alarm bells rang through my head like an irritating ringtone.

Whether or not it is linked to my impatient nature, I might never know, but a panic as feverish as a sudden craving for chocolate chip cookies (preferably with a hazelnut filling and from Lidi, of course) seizes me if a clock begins to tick towards my impending doom. In order to ignore my tendency towards being impatient (whilst pulling off a highly annoying act), you would have to be pretty good at not analyzing anybody's personality - mine, on one hand, are outrageously obvious! In the past, I've always interpreted emotions related to tests as pure panic: from day one, I have never considered it any other way. But could my panic also be derived from impatience? Maybe so.

If possible, I will always choose to get something I seriously dislike - such as a cold in the lead-up to Christmas - over and out of the way as quickly as I can. Why? It will stick to my conscience like a pretty girl attached to Harry Styles' arm. Whenever it relates to somebody as important as a test, you would be hard-pressed to witness my forgetting about it until that moment comes. Although I may have a break from time to time, that test - or, in fact, anything at all - will still be floating around in the back of my mind, unready to be flushed out of my system.

Beneath the half-purple bags below my eyes, I'm still revelling in a buzz that was created by the greatest joy of all yesterday: all of my tests are over. In reference to a poem that I studied last term, The Raven, these tests are nevermore (à la Bart Simpson). Despite being lumbered with Shakespeare homework in my last lesson yesterday, I left school with an ecstatic smile gleaming from my lips, swimming in a sea of joy, elation and pre-weekend excitement. Once the waiting and, as my horrible Maths test proved, the doing are completed, you are free to toss one worry into a bin, uncaring about whether you will come eye-to-eye with the blasted thing ever again.

Plus, my reward - besides from the four packs of cookies that Mum picked up for me during Zumba yesterday evening - is about to handed over to me: half-term. Only four days of compulsory lessons will be attended next week before I'm off to prepare for Halloween, shopping and ten days of very (I say this very dramatically) late starts in the morning.

And afterwards? The prospect of Christmas on the horizon will sooth any blows or more pre-test worries, though I have my questions over whether thinking about crimpers - and what I need to add to my list - will boost my knowledge of Maths!


Tuesday 14 October 2014

Don't Worry, It's Just a Test. Yeah, right!

As my eyes droop like a setting sun, I am a meowing cat who, instead of releasing a contented purr, grumbles at the thought of lifting a finger - or, as I'm supposedly clad in a coat of fluffy tabby fur, a paw.

Two days into what could possibly be one of the busiest weeks of this term, my heart aches to return to bed and never leave it until Saturday morning arrives, the day of the week which, in my mind, is when the week truly commences. Instead of being lumped with countless homework assignments which the teachers forget about almost as quickly as they assign them to their unfortunate victims (a.k.a. me), I've been given an insight into the hell that awaits me: assessments.

Or, if you are not quite familiar with the A word, tests shall awaken a flurry of panic in which you are thrust, caught up between failed attempts to remain calm (as it goes without saying, is oh-so-impossible) and having the most stressful time of your life. Yes, those end-of-term assessments which seemed as far away as an A-Lister's residence last month are now upon me and, unless I fall prey to the pathogens floating around my younger brother's system any time soon, I will have to face up to what life - now somewhat a living hell - has in store for me.

Ah, you could declare that I'm tapping into my drama queen and squeezing more out of this scary piece of news than the most desperate soap star would, yet panics like these are somewhat justified once you reach such a point as my own in your education. The next two years are guaranteed to test me (both in the literal and pushing-me-the-very-limit sense), zap me of energy that not even a can of Red Bull can regain and, once the actual GCSE exams are lurking in the unexplored distance, will make me wish that I could avoid the wilderness until the academic frenzy has calmed.

Despite the first term probably being less significant than the ones shortly before mocks, I still take it as seriously as any other term - and perhaps even more so because, in order to establish a decent foundation, a decent beginning can help wonders. If you are bubbling with more confidence than a witch's cauldron as you wait at the starting line, will it not give you a perfect head-start?

Luckily, I feel pretty confident in most of my subjects, though that confidence mainly stems from my enjoyment of learning and isn't necessarily associated with my abilities. However, even the most confident of all people might not have their coveted feature in plentiful qualities once exams - or simple tests - roll around the corner, as fear drains them of the strength to ward off the gripping panics or anxious thoughts as you toss in bed past your bedtime. English may be my strongest and best-loved subjects, yet my passion doesn't mean that no niggling thoughts have not passed through my mind in the run-up to Thursday's assessment; those fears are still bubbling beneath the surface, posing the risk that they might arise at any moment.

And, when I dissect the source of my fear, the reasons involved are pretty obvious: a lack of experience. Having rarely sat any tests whilst educated at home, tests are among some of the things that I've had to get my head around since returning to school and, as I'm at the beginning of the two least test-friendly years of my life, I really have no choice except to embrace it. Or at least accept it and acknowledge the fact that the Charmed Ones would recite a spell from the Book of Shadows that will magically cancel tomorrow's Maths test. Still, there is nothing wrong with hoping so!

Every teenager will discover the perils of education - and, if you are a professional worrier like me, the misery - that is included in the package attached with school life. Though it feels like years ago since it happened, I have sat several tests at the school before and, if the subject was me-friendly, I actually didn't mind sitting a test. My fear washes away if I lose myself in work that I can complete without too many hiccups, so I stand a decent chance of forgetting about my hatred of tests - if only that fear could never arise before I sit them!

Oh well, some things - especially tests which, once all of them have been sat and completed, will allow me to progress to the next stage - can never be avoided. I'm looking ahead to the future and the test-free prospects that it holds, which provides some relief as I'm torn between jitters and impatience to get the worst over and done with.

There is one thing for sure, though: I won't be offered the privilege of lying in bed until five minutes before the bus turns up tomorrow, however bad that my 'cold' might be...


Saturday 11 October 2014

Top Three on my Radar

Wherever I am and whatever I'm doing, there is always something bound to be on the radar. Like those chocolate stains that somehow remain concealed on your favourite pair of jeans, what shows up on the radar can keep a low profile then, bam!, you would struggle to believe that it had never really been there - or on the sidelines. 

Although life has been occupying more than you could possibly imagine, I haven't switched off my instincts, which are pretty good at picking up on what truly matters. Of course, I might not be paying much attention to it at the time, yet it enters my mind at one point or another; believe me, you would be putting up one all-mighty struggle if you didn't bother to glimpse into your radar. 

Thus, here begins what I hope shall be a fantastic feature on Life as a Modern Teen, in which I will give you a magic key into what is going in the crazy mind of a teenager. Like leapfrog, I'm jumping from one interest to another at superfast speed (certainly much quicker than the broadband in my middle-of-nowhere village) that it is extremely easy to lose track on my wants, needs and tons of other things that teenagers impulsively crave. 

Not only is the world evolving, but so am I. Into what? One day, it could be a world-famous journalist who is constantly asked for her opinions on international news stations; the next, I dream to live out my childhood fantasy as an X Factor contestant. Until I'm at least 25 years old, my brain is supposedly going through these oh-so-important changes, so I can only expect a decade more of indecisiveness - as ever a welcome addition in the drama that is a self-confessed dramatic teenager's life. 

1. GCSE Options
What with this hovering on the radar is attached a very long story that will take up the rest of my life simply by telling it. Again.
So, I actually started my GCSEs last year while I was home-schooled, and chose English, Maths, ICT, French, Law, Media and English Lit/Psychology (my inner psycho was seriously undecided about the last two). All very decent subjects - especially as Science was nowhere in sight - and I was getting on well as I studied at home.
Then along came The Big Move earlier this year and my world was turned upside down. What with an imminent return to school, varying examination boards and coursework, I made the hardest ever decision in my life: to go back an academic year. 
This decision then involved picking which GCSEs I wanted to take, along with the compulsory ones at my new school. Suddenly, some of the choices that I'd made a year ago were forgotten about or, if I had purchased books on the subject, were tossed into a cardboard box. no longer relevant in my studies. 
In the end, I chose (including the ones I truly detested):
English Language and English Literature
Maths
Core Science (originally Btec science, but was changed at the start of September - big fat con!)
French 
History (originally Geography, but chose the former in order to save my life from drowning in essays on rivers)
Catering (a.k.a. Cooking, but not exactly catering for all my culinary needs)
Media 
Religious Studies
ICT (not a proper GCSE, but a Cambridge National, whatever that is)
Luckily, I saved several of my original options, such as Media and French, but Law and Psychology were sadly lost causes. My best bet is to study them at a city college at A-Level, but I've since changed my mind about Law because I've lost respect for the justice system. 
On the whole, I'm mainly fine with my revised options, yet feel a bit short-changed as to what was on offer. Catering, for example, was the only subject on one list for which I had a slight preference because I wasn't interested in materials or graphics, but I would gladly swap it for Psychology or Sociology, subjects of which I cannot wait to study in sixth form. 
And ICT? Creating a website on a design programme which very few people have heard of does not address the need to use current systems if you get a job in an office; it is a waste of time.
Sometimes, I guess that you have to accept things as they are, especially if it relates to a matter as important as your GCSEs. 
Yet it hasn't stopped me from begrudging several subjects which, had I been offered more freedom when choosing my options, I would never have opted for. 
If you cannot decide at such an important stage in your life, what is the point of GCSE options? 
Really, I'd like somebody to answer that.

2. Christmas treats

Despite mostly avoiding supermarkets in recent weeks, I haven't been immune from the sweetest thing that comes with the Autumn page: Christmas treats.
You can mark my words that, within the first week of school in September, boxes of mince pies - whose sell-by date miraculously lasts into November, let alone the actual festive season - and fruit cakes will gradually enter shops and supermarkets. Albeit initially a small selection, it grows and grows until you can get your hands on more glorious treats, including the lovely Italian bread Panettone (pictured above).
Since last year, I've fallen in love with the buttery and fruity dough which defines Panettone, along with the marzipan-flavoured yeast bread Stollen, which my amateur baker is desperate to make herself. In my opinion, dried fruits - currants, sultanas, apricots, you name it - come to life at Christmas, when the flavours are enriched with alcohol or sweet doughs. 
My heart nearly skipped a beat the other day when my mum produced a tiny box of Panettone because I last saw it at the beginning of the year, one of the few leftovers to have survived beyond Christmas. Although my slice was of a Gwyneth Paltrow portion size (if she would ever dare eat such a thing), I was instantly transported to Christmas and the happiness that encaged it. 
Part of me believes that Christmas - and its oh-so-lovely treats - will remain on my radar for a long time...
3. Kittens
At a glance, you would assume that I'm wearing a pair of cool, dungeon-grey trousers that are pleasantly keeping my legs warm in a spell of cold weather. Up close, however, you will notice numerous loose threads dotted all over my trousers, especially around my lap. An atrociousity that I dread the thought of occurring, my face reddens with horror at the sight of my half-ruined trousers. 
But I assure you that it wasn't my fault. In fact, two little people - if I should even be calling them that - are to blame for creating what Anna Wintour would define as a crime against fashion (or the treatment of discounted clothes). 
My eight-week old kittens, Teddie and George, love nothing more than climbing up - and certainly down - my legs, wherever I'm completing my homework, eating a meal or sitting down. Although I adore receiving attention from my two favourite kittens (the other ones are old enough to be called cats, so I'm not offending anybody), I really don't want it in the form of digging their claws into my legs. And leaving plenty of marks on my clothes. 
George, in particular, is the lead-ringer of the duo, whose mission is to play within anything within a kitchen-long radius. This week taught me a vital lesson, which I learnt much more from than the likes of Physics: never wear a hoodie. If a drawstring is in his mighty reach, George will try to catch it or even chew it, leaving his dainty teeth marks behind. And the zip? Even his sister Teddie is fascinated with my zip, which George likes to pull down with either his teeth or paw - the very last thing I want whilst shivering to death!
Despite their crazy behaviour, I love both of them so much and miss them (like crazy, haha!) whilst stuck at school, which I experienced this week. Even when I chuck George in his room for a time out, he still wants to spend time with me - and repeat his wrongful actions at the soonest possibility! Really, I can relate to Teddie because, at times, all that she wants is to go to sleep, while her brother is wrecking havoc!
Hmm, it doesn't take much to think about who does the same towards me...


Exams and Half Term = Curse!

If one single word could define me as a person right now, tired would certainly fit the bill. An word that precisely expresses my early-rising tendencies, hard-working attitude and deep-in-the-gut feeling, tired is perhaps the only word that truly describes me at this very moment because it is unlike any other.

A week of full attendance at a school that I make no secret of disliking (though I rarely, if never declare it in writing) is the ultimate brain-drainer, which burns the energy I gradually regain throughout the weekend within an hour of returning to lessons. 

After ages of sticking my head into workbooks that are occasionally marked by my teachers, an end - or a temporary one, at least - is nearly in sight. That end is the week (with the addition of the Friday and weekend before, of course) that I'll have off from full-blown drama towards the end of October, which I've been anticipating literally from the moment that the term commenced in the first week of September. 

Half-term will be my short-term saviour from the classrooms piled with people who, despite now putting a name to the face, remain as alien and unknown as they were when I first encountered them. They might seem to know everything about me - for people talk, though I'm often the last person to find out - but do I even know where to start with their background and who they truly are behind their rolled-up blazers?

On the other hand, at least I will also be granted ten days of lie-ins as late as I want which, if the entire week could be remodelled on a Saturday morning, would last until the early afternoon! My heart reaches its peak of happiness each Saturday because it is the day that I always wait for, getting even giddier than a little girl counting the days down to Christmas (who, upon thinking about it, was probably me). 

Life would certainly be as easy as tucking into cake (preferably of a calorie-free variety) if it could be altered to suit our tastes, but sadly some of our desires might be pushed aside at times - as much as it might pain us. And yes, a wave of desperation hits me at thought of not getting my man-sized slice of cake. Including, dare I say it, the calorific kind. 

However, my mind hasn't just leapt to thoughts of school-free days as yet because, during next week, I'll be facing an enemy for whom I reserve the sincerest feelings of hatred. If you assumed that pieces of paper beholding your idea of hell were restrained until the end of the year, how I begrudge letting you in on a secret: you're wrong! 

From English to the mother of all horrors, Maths, I shall be sitting assessments in various subjects next week, as a means of finding out how I'm getting on with my work, the thought of which sends shivers down my spine. Although these tests are minor and a hundred times less scary than the exams (including several actual GCSEs) that I will sit next summer, I still detest these tests because they are attached with unnecessary stress - how is it fair that I revise stuff that has barely been explored by the teacher, who is mainly responsible for instilling their lessons into our brains?

Leaping from one subject to another is exactly like leapfrog; we never stay in one place for enough time. And, at this point of the year, our brains are still adjusting to the new subjects that we are studying, especially the ones that we chose as GCSE options and were previously not on the curriculum. Therefore, is it any wonder that Maths is my biggest bugbear of all?

In fact, Maths has been winding me up from day one some of it does not make sense: whenever my teacher is describing it, I struggle to translate the words into English or, at a push, French. Not only am I half-bored to death, but two-thirds of my Maths lessons are held in the final period of the day, so my mind is mainly focused on getting home - and as far away from the insane world of equations as possible.

You see. the subjects I automatically toss into the oh-so-boring category - Maths, Physics (which is unfortunately among my tests next week) and, if I've found myself lost in translation, occasionally Biology - neither strike me as entertaining nor will be influential on my future career as a journalist. The teachers might sometimes put their chairs on top of the desk to explain why the colour red looks like red, but I forget all about it as soon as I walk out the classroom, my life not magnificently changed by what I've been 'taught'.

It saddens me that, while I'm so far away from sitting the majority of my GCSEs in Year 11, I'm already starting to feel like a guinea pig, whose only worth is take tests that are hardly meaningful and waste valuable time that could be dedicated to having a proper lesson.

Despite sharing the emotions of a rodent, please be assured that I'm not freaking out about English which, compared to my other tests, is the very least of my worries. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to letting rip whilst writing my rant - the theme of the assessment - next Thursday because the words have been burning inside of me for weeks, the flames getting hotter and hotter as the momentum has increased. And the theme? Discrimination against the home-schooled. As it is a subject that I feel very strongly about, you can merely imagine how I will tore into those who have discriminated against me - and hopefully gain a good grade by not holding back!

And, believe it or not, I'm quite annoyed that I will probably not be sitting a test in French which is my second-favourite subject after English, or my two GCSE options, Catering and Media. Saying that, I doubt that you can be tested on an episode of Sherlock (which I watched and fell in love with in Media) in an actual exam, though I would always prefer to discuss Benedict Cumberbatch's dashing looks than the reasons linked with battered fish evaporating in a cardboard box in Physics. Besides, most of my classmates in top-set French are predicted a C - the minimum pass grade - so it might look a bit embarrassing if they failed a test, though I would happily sit it for fun!

What I really dislike about exams is the anticipation that grows stronger than the most stubborn weed, which is almost as nerve-wracking as the actual exam itself. Luckily, I partly killed some anticipation yesterday by sitting a History test which, thanks to revising with my dad the night before (who absorbs historical facts like football scores), greatly relieved my nerves. As I swapped Geography for History almost halfway through the term, I hope that my grade won't be too heavily affected, yet I feel much more enthusiastic about the history of medicine rather than the functioning of rivers.

If I truly had the courage to do it, I wouldn't put it pass myself to talk about exams, half-term and curses all day, but a packet of Strepsils would be needed to relieve a sore throat. Although I'm still fighting the remains of an ugly cold, I soldiered on through the sniffles and cravings to sip my way through a bottle of Calpol - and got some important work done.

As much as I enjoy having the occasional day off, my mind wanders to what I'm missing out on, which possibly makes me sound like the most boring person in the world. On the whole, I'm a working person: doing very little or nothing simply isn't for me. But having that option taken away from you? Illness, including minor colds and tickly throats, can create more bother than necessary, but I got through the worst of it.

While part of myself freaks out big-time at the prospect of tests next week, I hope to bear in mind that, in less than a fortnight, half-term will have arrived. Lie-ins, days out and even Halloween (whose spooky-themed sweets I no longer enjoy, but get a kick out of gazing at) are no longer too far away, instead on the nearing horizon.

In the meantime, I shall be battling the curse of termly tests and all that is entailed with them!

Saturday 4 October 2014

The Pleasures of Being an Anti-Conformist

As soon as our brains can understand a great deal more than a dull episode of the Teletubbies, we are taught about behaviour, attitudes and the way that we should be. Naughtiness is discouraged if displayed in the slightest manner; an eagerness to be polite is instilled at the earliest opportunity; and we gradually realize the presence of the so-called 'rules' that bind us throughout society and beyond.

Without rules, what would our childhoods be like - a wild mess in which we race around crazily and Hungry Hippos are constantly within our reach? Stability is the foundation that we rely on during those early years of our lives, yet we can so easily forget about it when we seemingly morph into teenagers - and our first couple of years dedicated to exploring are washed away like I gulp down a glass of Diet Coke. Adolescence is the perfect time in which we are taught vital lessons and develop a sense of who we are beyond the hiked-up school skirts, playful Facebook pictures and layers of make-up as thick as a Subway sandwich.

Among those lessons is why we should take pride in being ourselves - sans putting on an act as extravagant as a Broadway show whilst in the company of our friends, for the sake of 'fitting in'. As you're about to find out, standing up to stereotypes and speaking up for those anti-conformists out there - who, at times, seem to be in such short supply that I wonder whether they are hiding in the town library - is indeed not a horrendous curse that it is often portrayed to be. What justifies referring to the right to express yourself as a big, horrible curse for which we ought to hang our heads in shame? Unless you have a scary fascination with full moons and a fetish for howling at the starlit sky at night, that is.

Having explored the subject in the past, I've earnt the right to be known as a Know-It-All when it comes to conformism, which I witness and fight against on a daily basis when surrounded by conformists, whose short-sighted views are spread to other people like a contagious cold (from which I'm currently suffering - and am cursing the name of whoever infected me). If people are brought up in an environment in which self-confidence is in shorter supply than their 5-a-day, what chance do they have when faced with hard-going conformists, who are incapable of keeping their (unoriginal) opinions to themselves? Some people are weaker than others, whereas a certain group - of which I'm a proud member - is as hard as steel, possessing the strength to ward off any potential attacks from the opposing side.

Life is guaranteed to contain its battles, which we are sometimes given the freedom to either join or avoid, yet conformism is another story; your only options are to either become part of the conformists for the sake of an easier ride, or fight forcibly for the sake of keeping your independence intact.

Although I wouldn't call myself a hard-as-nails fighter, so far I've done a pretty good job at remaining as independent as ever since immersing myself in the greatest environment where conformism strives: school. Attacked for making decisions without the authorisation of fellow pupils, I've faced - and, to an extent, continue to do so - hassle from people whose limited supply of brain cells stands in their way of leaving me alone.

This week actually started off as a living nightmare that clawed at my heart like a cat pierces their sharp-as-knives claws through skin because one pupil - who could not accept me for simply being myself - was fronting a vicious hate campaign against the only person who had ever stood up to her in her entire life. I, a self-declared anti-conformist (a title of which would go down splendidly if I ever created a Twitter profile), was on the receiving end of constant abuse, fear and stomach-knotting dread.

But, at any moment, did it ever cross my mind that conforming would be the simplest route out of those problems? So many pupils at my school who, when separated from their It-crowd, possess the loveliest and most unique personalities feel the need to 'adopt a different persona' - as my so-called 'buddy' declared during my first week or so - in order to lead an easier life in the playground. However, aren't the lines getting blurred if pupils wrongly assume that school is all about popularity, when the real purpose of their attendance is to gain an education? My views might have placed me further apart from my peers who, as I decided to go back a year due to conflicting examination boards, are a year younger than me, yet I don't care. At all, if you wish for extreme empathis.

Had the same things been happening towards another person, perhaps the answer would be poles apart from mine, yet that steely determination was offered the perfect excuse to come out in full force: no way. Despite my maybe-average-or-slightly-petite stature, inside of me is home to a lion whose roar commands respect and prowess is on constant speed-dial, the source of the self-belief that keeps my spirit alive if ever experiencing moments of deep struggle.

On the possibility that somebody threatens to throw my self-belief into jeopardy, they will have to answer to an angered lion's roar which will send shivers of ice-cold fear down their spine, the coolness an eternal reminder of what they shouldn't do: messing with me. My heartbeat quickens as I hope that the person responsible for my troubling times at school has learnt her lesson, or at least will let me be from now on. Let me be the person that I admire, respect and cherish. Let me be a girl who can walk into school without stopping dead in her tracks if caught unaware by a menace as vile as a poisonous snake. And, most important of all, let me be the one who declares the faults in conformism, and does not deserve to be vilified for opening my mouth.

That being said, there is much more to anti-conformism than the backlash you could - or maybe not, if luck has truly given its blessing - get from people who have over-dosed on ignorance. Independence is a gift that is highly treasured at any point in our lives, let alone adolescence, when we are suddenly offered bucket loads of supply. And why should we lose out on independence if dictated as to how we ought to use it by other people, who know nothing different from a game of 'follow the leader'?

Being able to make my decisions (even if I can't necessarily decide and rely on the influence of others at times) is a gift that I cherish more highly than the acceptance of a popular crowd at school, whose attitudes oppose the morals that were set out in my first few years of life, and are utterly priceless. Staying true to myself might cost me a bench on the most-admired crowd's table at lunchtime, yet popularity doesn't last forever; your morals do. And what price can you place upon a life-long supply of independent thinking?

Despite tough times that could have pushed me towards the dark side (with or without the guaranteed of gooey chocolate chip cookies), I've enjoyed being an anti-conformist and feel at home with my identity. There is nothing easier than being myself, especially as I cannot foresee a future career as an Oscar-winning actress (though the money part is a possibility!). I couldn't bring myself to go along with the crowd because it just isn't in my nature to do so. End of.

However, if the crowd included clever and kind-natured people, perhaps I would brush up on my Maths skills and wash off the angry over missing out on an A/W 11 Prada handbag... On the opposite end of the scale, would I bother hiking up my skirt, piling on the foundation and go from determined to ditzy for the crowds at school? Don't even think about it!

Friday 3 October 2014

The Joyful Beginning of a New Beginning

Plenty can happen over the space of twenty four hours, yet it nonetheless amazes me that, compared to my previously easy-going life, all that I've known has been thrown into the air, influenced by such a massive change that there is no going back. And by which, I cannot go back on the decision to introduce two seven week old kittens in my world who are not only getting used to life without their mother, but realizing that their new lives involve my other two cats. Despite this fact, I can assure you that this entry will not be dedicated to one of my most-loved past times, moaning.

However far you may be from where I live in a dead quiet village in the middle of a country renowned for its fat-laden Cornish pasties, frightfully 'posh' accents (only if you're among the headline-grabbing socialite crowd, mind you) and weekends solely about The X Factor, your heart will melt into a warm mess as I tell of the events that have just taken place, and will certainly not be forgotten in a hurry!

For weeks, I'd been visiting my two beautiful kittens - a girl whom we had called Teddie (because her long, silky-soft tabby fur truly resembled the coat of a bear) and a boy with fur as dark as a bar of Bournville chocolate who shares his name with the Royal Baby - every Saturday while they were being cared for by their foster mum, who took them, their two siblings and mother in shortly after being discovered outside a supermarket in the city.

Their tough start in life could let alone be the cause of a rampaging war between book publishers and film studios because it featured all the key elements in a heart-warming story: a struggle, a dose of tear-streaming sadness and bundles upon bundles of cuteness. Even I would definitely picked up the book, though I'm now the one contributing to their on-going story - and happy ending!

Before deciding to welcome more felines into our lives, my family had previously adopted two cats, Bart and Benny, the year before, and only celebrated their first birthday a month ago. Although we love both of them dearly - and, to an extent, revolve our lives around them (I'm pretty sure that the weekly budget on cat food is much higher than the spending limit on my Christmas list!) - there was an urge to offer a home to another cat, after having a somewhat rude awakening whilst adopting our own shortly before last Christmas, who had been rescued by an animal charity.

From an early age, I've regarded the family pet - who has undoubtedly been of the feline kind - as a sibling because they mimic the behaviour of a human and, at times, behave even better than my goodie-two-shoes self! Expanding our family was a dream come true because, despite already being surrounded by plenty of people (both in the forms of a wannabe Chelsea striker and a bundle of snuggle-your-face-in fur), I craved more company. Well, if it doesn't answer back to you and is unable to leave suspicious messes in your en-suite, of course I wouldn't turn down the opportunity to bring more cats into my life!

This summer marked the beginning of my adopt-a-kitten journey, which originally commenced with a golden tabby kitten, who was known as the first Teddie. After contacting various animal centres, we had picked the ideal kitten for us who was a) tabby (despite loving all fur colours, tabby is the ultimate favourite), b) an absolute cutie and c) apparently in good health. In fact, I visited this kitten while on a day off school (which fortunately coincided with Sports Day - how relieved I was to avoid it!) due to illness, and fell in love within moments of meeting her. At the time, she ticked all the boxes and lived up to my fantasies, yet fate had other ideas; it simply wasn't meant to be.

At around the age of five weeks, this kitten was becoming increasingly weaker, having just been diagnosed with a heart defect. She was neither gaining weight nor recovering from her illness which, as we would soon find out, was a condition that she was sadly born with. On a Saturday morning, her battle - which didn't involve a future bright with victory - ended, thus our search for a kitten recommenced. And, though a bit of my heart was broken, I vowed to remain strong, for which I was rewarded almost as soon as I started to look for that dream member of my family.

In the summer holidays, I came across another female kitten who, despite possessing those distinctive tabby markings, was darker, yet had a much bubblier personality than the previous one. Later known as Teddie, she was healthy, kind-natured and - without a doubt - an absolute cutie. As soon as I caught a glimpse of her, I was certain that this was a love story that wouldn't end in tears: only joy could be the end result.

Our original intention was to adopt one kitten as a birthday for my mum, who literally trademarked the idea. Teddie was the perfect candidate to fit this très important role, and all of us had fallen head over heels (especially myself as the heel-wearing one), yet we were increasingly drawn towards her brother, otherwise known as George. While her two female siblings had been reserved, George had not yet found a home, which may or may not have been down to his seemingly black fur - which I'm absolutely determined to declare is not the case. In fact, Teddie was closer to George than to her fellow siblings and even once played with him during one of our weekend visits; it was obvious that she had such a brilliant bond with him.

As the deadline to bringing her home got nearer and nearer, we made yet another one of our absolutely-important decisions, which now had an impact on little George's fate: we would adopt him. Having always adopted cats in pairs, we couldn't bear the thought of leaving him behind as his sister lived it up with Bart and Benny who, compared to her slight stature, looked as intimidating as an 8ft tall basketball player. And, during that short time we shared with him, we loved George's personality. Fearless, playful and wild, George was the yin to Teddie's shy, reserved and calm yang. How could we dare to tear them apart?

Fast forward several weeks, here I am resting on my bed (as I slowly recover from a cold/sore throat, courtesy of three weeks attendance at a germ-infested school) as Bart sleeps by my feet, constantly aware of the kittens' presence in the kitchen downstairs. Yesterday morning, my mum, dad and I picked up the two babies before bringing them home - and literally turned Bart and Benny's world upside down! The older two sniffed the kittens' basket for a second before racing faster than a cheetah up the stairs, and haven't dared to sneak downstairs since then.

Of course, introducing a new feline into a cat's life is hardly the easiest of all jobs, yet I'm hoping that Bart and particularly Benny - the most protective of the pair - will accept this change within time. If they can cope with moving over hundred miles away shortly after being rehomed, surely letting two precious kittens into their hearts won't be a major struggle?

On the other hand, Teddie and George have adapted better to their new lives than I could have ever expected; George only ever cries if he can no longer ignore his constant hunger pangs! However, it didn't surprise me at all that Teddie's emotions were a mixture of excitement, pining for her mother and exhaustion. Curious when exploring her new surroundings, Teddie would sometimes fall asleep whilst walking around, which was hilarious to see! She did get a bit upset around bedtime, though, and cried for a while, sounds of which were quite saddening. I wanted to make those first moments in her new home as comfortable as possible, yet I couldn't wipe away her symptoms of homesickness - she had to experience those emotions before moving on.

Therefore, I was astonished when I woke up this morning (ten minutes after my Physics class would have begun) and witnessed Teddie whizzing around the kitchen. chasing after a toy mouse - miles away from her emotional self the night before! She has carried on settling in today, and looks much more relaxed; I think that she coped with the change by sleeping it off, which she do so for the entire afternoon yesterday!

Now the main focus is being placed upon Bart and Benny, who have yet to cope to terms with the fact that there are two kittens in the house and they will be accepted as members of the family at one point or another. It doesn't feel like I only brought home Teddie and George a day ago, but I'm hoping that some progress with the older two - whom I love to bits - will be made by the end of the weekend.

In the meantime, I shall cherish each moment of this joyful beginning which, after having started afresh when Bart and Benny were adopted last Christmas, is somewhat a new beginning!

Wednesday 1 October 2014

A wish has been granted - but at what cost?

As I settle down and gradually remember what it feels like to relax on a school night, I'm finding it harder and harder to take my mind off a fact which, as of tomorrow morning, will transform into a definite reality: two new kittens joining the family. After months of searching, waiting and weekly visits to catch up with the chosen ones, tomorrow will mark the historic day that the two kittens, whom have been named Teddie (the first ever female kitty in the family) and George, will be coming home. And, without needing to say more, at last!

From the moment that the idea was mentioned around the beginning of summer, I've been counting down the days, minutes and, as the current figures will hardly send my head into a spin, seconds until that glorious moment arrived, shrouded in the glory of introducing precious members in a loving family. Having been born a cat lover, it shouldn't surprise you that, whereas most teenage girls would damage their vocal cords by screaming at the top of their lungs when receiving a ticket for a One Direction concert, I'd rick losing my voice at the prospect of adopting two kittens - which might explain why, on the eve of the life-changing day, I've suddenly developed a sore throat!

Ah, on the off-chance that you were curious about today's title, there is much more to the truth than my cherished wish being granted by the fairy godmother whom I've never encountered and may or may not be capable of producing a pumpkin-style carriage (which would make the journey to and from school far more enjoyable than somebody sitting on my lap on the crowded bus). By saying that a wish has been granted, I mean that my desire to come along to the grand picking-up tomorrow morning has been listened to and, unlike my previous pleas, not ignored.

Due to tomorrow being a school day, I would have otherwise been obliged to trudge along to another exhausting day of learning - in which your teachers may even be the receptionists, a possibility not yet encountered in my most detested subject, Maths - and would have yelped like a sulking puppy to accompany my parents on the journey to bring the kittens home. Weeks in advance, I'd already begged with my mum to figure out a way that I could see the kittens before even coming home from school, but it was unfortunately not an option that I could explore: I was either going to be involved or left out of the festivities until flying through the door at half three in the afternoon. And, until today, the latter was the most likely prospect.

When I woke up this morning, an uneasy sensation tingled in my throat, which felt like some food that had extended their stay in the oven for a little too long: dry, burnt and deeply, painfully unpleasant. No other words could describe my condition better than a sore throat which, more than twelve hours on, has continued to swell and become more uncomfortable as the hours has passed by. Apart from my lessons, very little has distracted me from these horrible symptoms and I struggled to get through the school day, even reaching a point that I could no longer focus on anything other than the tightness in my chest and ever-weakening exhaustion.

The only exceptions have been, as you probably guessed, the prospect of the kittens coming home tomorrow, the thought of which places an ecstatic grin on my face. Kittens and Strepsils are mainly the only things that I can be bothered to think about right now, and the furry kind is helping get onto the road to recovery - though I wonder whether the worst has yet to come!

Cut a long story short, I've reached a decision which, albeit not so big a chance that my life will be thrown into the air, it is significant for the next 24 hours or so: I'm taking the day off school tomorrow. On the day that my parents are planning to pick up the kittens and introduce them to our other two cats for the first time. A strange coincidence which, in many ways, I had been hoping and praying for.

Now this means that I'll be given the opportunity to come along and sit next to the basket containing the kittens on the way home - wish granted! As much as I'm thrilled to be witnessing such a priceless moment in Teddie and George's lives, I do wish that I felt better or my throat wasn't burning like a fierce candle. However, not every single wish that you dream of coming true is guaranteed to be granted, even if it would make a massive difference to your situation. On the bright side, I'd much rather give up an hour of Maths in favour of spending some quality time with the kittens - who needs A* equations if you witness two beautiful beings playing with one another for the first time?

Anyway, all this pain, reliance on cough medicine and general tendencies to moan (like a wrinkly old woman trapped in a fifteen year old's body) will be forgotten about once I lay eyes (yet again) on Teddie and George, who will have gotten ready for their important moment in the spotlight. No attention will be given to my needs because, from now on, those of kittens - and all of our cats - are the only ones that will matter. Being in the company of wonderful animals like cats takes your mind off anything, including matters as great as living off Calpol during the Fourth Cold of the Summer/Autumn 2014.

Well, at least the beginning of this October will be one to remember, won't it? Colds, spluttering and bundles of fur - just my kind of month!