Making a Resolution: Will it be kept?

Almost on the dot every year, I sit down upon my harder-than-it-looks chair to ponder over which resolutions - ones which obviously don't involve embarking upon a bee-unfriendly diet of honey and curbing an non-existent addiction for teeth-enemy sweets (as I write this, a very smug and satisfied smile curls on my pouting-perfect lips - doesn't it feel so great to be following a beat of my own, particularly one which guarantees security of my health?) - hold the highest chance of being followed over the upcoming 365 days of the new year, purely on the basis that New Year's Resolutions are as much of a well-loved (yet secretly detested, if failure lurks upon your not-so-bright future) tradition as gluing your eyes to a 60-inch television throughout the holidays and risking a terrifying fall from the bumpy roof whilst stapling bill-hiking festive lights for the whole street - and possibly the town - to gaze and phone the police in a manic huff over. 

Considering that the majority of resolutions are associated with signing up to weekly meetings at Weightwatchers and seeing not only the pounds but the pounds lurking inside your bank account fly off (has anyone ever bothered to check out the price for a slimmers-friendly cake at the supermarket?), I, as a pear-devouring teenager, am left with an empty-looking list of resolutions which either don't strike any remembrance within myself halfway through the year or simply aren't worth the inevitable ache which shoots through my stiffer-than-an-upper-lip hand whilst taking the oh-so-precious time to use a pen instead of revealing my thoughts and uploading half-blurry pictures of my dozing kittens onto Whatsapp - in all honesty, what is the point of using a rainbow-coloured piece of purse-splurging paper to jot down your so-called 'wishes' when the need for it never arises? 

Despite what I would define as marvellous in relation to my writing skills (three paragraphs in and I already sound like a garish-appearing, lipstick-smothered pantomime queen), I guess that my intelligence falls below a racked-up high water meter as soon as the thought of producing a list of resolutions pops into my head; as is my temper-maddening tendency to fly into a breathless panic over forgotten French words during the lesson-free holidays, the typically unpleasant idea of hiding in my parents' wardrobe suddenly seems appealing when I'm faced - or choose to face - the difficult task of dealing with resolutions which barely make a dent on my life. The nearest that my tea tree-emitted hands have reached to a potential 'success' is avoiding to fall into the clutches of donning an ugly, baby-inspired onesie (if your lucky stars have certainly kept you in the dark from Britain's scream-inducing trends, please do not google any pictures for an animal-themed onesie, which is basically a romper suits for brainless adults without an ounce of knowledge as to Dior's more refined existence), yet in comparison to deciding to wait another year to take a French exam, steering clear of the most embarrassing outfit of the year, if not the whole century, doesn't necessarily strike one as a massive achievement, does it? 

Nah, it didn't ring any deafening bells to splash out on holding an extravagant party complete with a chart-topping album from this current decade blaring noisily from the music player (apart from Americana-style Lana Del Rey and Lorde's catchy lyrics and even more intriguing vocals, my music tastes have preferred to stay clear of chipmunk-sounding artists and potty-mouthed rappers), but at least I managed to stay true to my wish for an entire year and possibly the rest of my life - unless the world had been taken over by aliens with a particular penchant for panda-hooded onesies (alongside celebrity-promoting selfies and tongue-waggling images conjured by twerking diva, Miley Cyrus, the term 'onesie' has just won a prestigious place on my pet hates list), I think that I'll remain relatively sane as long as my beloved Swiss Milka bars all but cease to exist across the cheap chocolate-relishing world. 

So, in case that a crystal ball has not yet made my point, well, crystal clear, New Year's Resolutions just don't bring out the best within my achievement-loving self because there simply isn't anything which needs to be changed. Perhaps my brother, who has surpassed last year's record by receiving top-notch pinches and numerous playful punches towards the walnuts area from the one and only (moi, of course!), would argue against my statement, though I strongly stand beside my beliefs that I am entitled to air my views whenever necessary and called for - I don't just hand over the TV remote, whilst also giving up my movie-viewing freedom, for a football match without a form of payback, do I? In all honesty, the sole reason for which I remained at a crumbless table for fifteen minutes last New Year's Eve was to purely use up some free time before the clock struck midnight; bearing in mind that I'm a mere teenager whose closest experience to life is entering a melancholy sulk after being unable to come across any clothes during an one-day-only free shipping promotion on the Forever 21 website, creating a list of needless resolutions doesn't confirm an upcoming year of blissful happiness and continuous peace from my Dalek-voiced brother (especially when The Match to beat All Matches has drawn him towards the sofa for the entire duration of a tensely felt afternoon), regardless of the spirit-raising hope it may bring upon my attitude towards establishing several aspirations which may or may not stand a good-looking possibility of being fulfilled. Therefore, two of the last few lessons which I'm guaranteed to learn on the last day of 2013 are to never avoid jotting out a list of unreasonable and fantasy-like resolutions for the sake of it and keep clear of any pens around an hour before the new year arrives in explosive style!

Anyway, resolutions are obviously not the be- and end-all of celebrating a New Year, which offers hope and the opportunity to adapt a new approach towards anything; personally, I aspire to write a new story and progress further than my previous one, and keep my head buried in my studies for possibly the rest of my life! Oh, and taking as many pictures as possible of my ever-growing kittens throughout the whole year is an unignorable order! 

For your sake and potentially the users of social-networking websites, please play it cool if any invites to late-night parties have evoked a fascinating Fanta-slurping animal within your typically placid nature: as usual, a film and pretty lights will play a part in my New Year's celebrations, alongside a whopping headache and remarkable hunger the following morning. 

Happy New Year (in fourteen hours' time) 2014!

A Feast One Too Many?

Excuse me if I happen to interrupt you during your genuinely happiness-fulfilling feast of generously buttered turkey sandwiches and a plateful of nibbles which, rather frankly, nobody with an appetite as large as The Jolly Green Giant can resist, but I have quite a few things to say regarding the recent festivities and emotionally thrilling feelings surrounding Christmas, which has over the years become more renowned for the continuous servings of creamy iced chocolate logs and flavoursome pâtés being served at the high-class parties of the social season than the extravagantly decorated house adorned with plump-sized Santa lights and ridiculous ornaments which would make domestic queen Martha Stewart squirm uncomfortably in her shoes.

Yes, who could have the widely coveted power of denying the oh-too-honest fact that food plays such a prestigious role in almost everything we do at Christmas? Or, if you wish to search deeper beyond the obvious surface, neatly presented canapés and cakes iced to an inch of their shelf life (so it applies to money-wasting, cheaply-flavoured shop-bought cakes) are present in every season, holiday and event which goes around, though I won't go into shockingly great detail in relation to marzipan-topped Simnel fruit cakes and pink-bowed boxes of indulgent chocolate hearts on Valentine's Day because this current holiday - cracker-popping, TV-snoozing Christmas, if you fancy hearing a different description for the most entertaining and relaxing time of the year - is today's topic of this food-themed entry, so read on if the idea of being engrossed in being stuffed more heavily than a manufactured teddy bear grabs your wild-eyed attention.

Since Christmas Day shook me out of a restful slumber on a pitch black and damper-than-my-just-washed-hair three days ago, a luxurious feast featuring traditional favourites such as a succulent turkey - which was covered extensively in streaky slices of salty bacon during its near six-hour venture in the tightly-packed oven - and roasted vegetables took centre stage and was the beauty of our carnivore-like eyes during an once-a-year meal which has not only been erased from my memories but my heaving stomach, which has still taken on the ugly appearance of being as bloated as a balloon. That's Christmas for the majority of people, is it?

Scooping up every honey-glazed parsnip on the plate and finishing off a roasted onion which nobody else could dare to place inside their squeezed-shut mouths has finally caught up with me, dragging me along a deserted lane where the thought of making room for yet another roast potato brings a powerful wave of nausea upon myself - from today, all desires of tucking into an afternoon slice of my homemade fruit cake have but vanished like my typically disappearing ideas for my next Amazon No.1 bestseller book, which has compelled me to uncover an inner piece of courage to force myself to avoid my recently-created habits (those strongly-flavoured tins of Twiglets and bags upon bags of not-as-healthy-as-I-thought plain Doritos are the devil's snacks, so I've come to realize) like a non-existent plague unless lying around on sofa with an aching stomach is my idea of having a great time. As anybody fluent in the sharp-as-a-needle language of bitterly strong (though not as much as my dad's favourite beer) sarcasm would know, I've clearly expressed my boredom of gorging myself to the verge of spending an hour inside a bathroom without an open window because, after a day or two of letting your guard seek lower than your snobby-nosed taste in late-night car-crash TV, it just is not worth the hassle of sneaking a Lindt truffle heart from the cupboard if the near future only offers cocoa-scented burps and difficulty in squeezing into a slim-fitting pair of jeans, is it?

In all honesty, three days of pure food-related bliss and snatching a chunkier-than-allowed slice of turkey when my mum is placing her gaze upon the litter tray-destructing kittens could have been worse, right? Unlike a lot of people who simply don't know when to bring the Ritz-flavoured party to a halt and complain more passionately than my teenage tendencies as soon as January - and the often disappointing array of nutrient-lacking diets - arrives, sending the Christmas tree back into the stone-cold garage for another eleven months, I've plucked up the courage to ward off any wishes to stick my head into a bag of crisps in place for protein-rich nuts and vitamin-heavy clementines, a fruit which is often thrown away in a sad-looking box towards the end of the twelve days of chocolate-feasting Christmas. Oh, it will certainly take more than a peanut-featuring lunch to set me back on track in relation to my snacking habits, which still vividly remember the secret visits into the dining room in search of the stashed chocolate coins - until the hefty load of milk chocolate Santas and bars of luxuriant dark chocolate vanish into the winter-cool air, I still have a long while to go before I can proudly declare myself as chocolate-free.

All of us, whether we like it or not, have weak faults within our characters and mine affirms the home truth that the sight of well-made chocolate (preferably Swiss, if possible - one thing for sure is that I will never ever pick up a Cadbury's chocolate bar in the whole of my Lindt-loving life) provokes my legs to wobble like strawberry jelly, even more so when bags of coins are hidden inside my stocking on Christmas morning!

Besides, I'm slowly beginning to return to Planet Earth as the head-spinning excitement surrounding Christmas settles down, so the once urgent need to pile myself high with chilli-dipped crisps and warm mince pies is gradually diminishing into a more important desire to focus on anything else except the alluring subject of food. Of course, I enjoy everything which goes into making Christmas absolutely special - meaty turkey legs included - but the whole point of celebrating it once a year is in order to appreciate the joy while it lasts. At this rate, I will be all but giving up any hopes of baking a heavily frosted chocolate cake for my birthday in several weeks' time!

And, if I must say it, talking about turkey and one too many chocolate coins is getting me in the mood to undertake a search within the kitchen!

The Aftermath of Christmas Day: Sleepy Heads and Disappearing Sausage Rolls...

Hey you, how you're doing the day after Christmas came and went within a turkey-flavoured, festive TV re-run blur? Does your head hurt after trawling into your bed, which is still littered with tiny shreds of reindeer-patterned wrapping paper, a lot later than your usual bedtime? Hmm, it's going to take quite a lot of Christmas spirit to prevent you from sinking lower than the bottom of a bowl bulging with creamy bread sauce which you just couldn't bear to say no to - how can a nude-lipped teenage girl, with an increasingly freaky penchant for black-as-night liquid eyeliner (in scream-inducing thick lines, too), place a smile as forced as the one you specially reserve for those ancient relatives who always give you gifts which even the most uncaring, non-jolly person wouldn't envy? Oh well, I guess that there is only so much that I can do to lift your spirits on the day after Christmas - Boxing Day, if I wish to remain loyal towards my Paris-themed calender - but it's still worth a try, right? Here goes!

Despite giving in to my hard-to-fight temptation by splashing out a decapitated head from my silky smooth Lindt milk chocolate bear (not a pleasant detail in all honesty, but still a luxurious treat nonetheless) and a creamy truffle which tasted like a slice of warm, utterly perfect heaven and of course stuffing myself to the verge of chucking up in a darkened corner (preferably not in my own room, though the kittens' newspaper-covered litter tray would've been absolutely fine) with a spectacular range of honey-roasted parsnips and juicy onions, I still mustered up the admirable courage to drag my zombie-like form out of bed before eight this morning and tuck into a sweet-as-pie apple without nausea threatening to ruin my daily 5-a-day fun - quite an astounding feat on Boxing Day, huh?

Although the majority of those who wake up with a sore headache or astonishingly bloated stomach the following morning have probably drunk one too many glasses of supermarket-brand Bucks Fizz or became untamable whilst going wild on an once-a-year-only ramage across the crumb-littered kitchen, I was still expecting to experience the eventual perils of awakening before dawn to allow the festivities - those which traditionally involve opening my stocking inside my own bed - to officially commence and put an abrupt stop to my younger brother searching around the present-piled living room with only a torch to guide his way around the Christmas tree.

Whether it was excitement building more rapidly than a block of cheaply-designed flats round the corner inside of me or an energy-lifting clementine at lunchtime keeping me going, I still have no idea how I got through the entire day without experiencing the uncontrollable desire to place my head onto a pillow and sleep through Love Actually during the star-lit evening or allow my typically snappier-than-a-crocodile's-teeth temper get the better of my sleep-deprived self - compared to last year's fiasco of only gaining a mere four or five hours before dragging bags upon bags of chocolate coins onto my bed at 6am, I did far better than what I had led myself to expect, but don't all of us, whether it is related to an unhealthy cut-back of sleep or resisting the thought of picking up another sausage roll before sitting down for the most luxurious dinner in your entire life, make a sacrifice of some sort for Christmas? However, it must be said, losing out on much-needed rest isn't always intentional, as misfortune had intended for me to learn, and pre-elation of sitting next to your brother on the sofa - who, for once in his life, is not wearing a Samsung-sponsored football kit - and watching a few holiday-themed episodes of The Simpsons on a malfunctioning DVD player is simply part of my Christmas, which makes it even more special and meaningful to me.

Anyway, I don't think that I have grinned and smiled à la a buxom-lipped Angelina Jolie (in certain ways, our bee-stung lips share quite a few resemblances, though I prefer to not say it out loud) as much in my life as I did yesterday morning while opening my presents with my family, all of whom were beyond elated with our generously-given gifts. As I get older, there is always going to be more freedom and independence given in relation to choosing my presents and gaining full control of my wishlist on a Microsoft Excel document, the privilege of which I strongly appreciate and feel immensely proud that, unlike a lot of other people, needn't be fought for, yet my heart would have to be as hard as stone if I didn't feel a pang of yearning to return to my childhood days where a surprise was lurking in almost every box - alongside waving goodbye to dressing already scantily-clad Barbie dolls with yet tighter and shorter clothing, letting go of your parents and family making a decision for yourself is something you like and don't at the same time, which particularly hits home at Christmas.

Of course, I loved every single thing which I received because I already knew what it was and would therefore avoid any disappointment of being given a present which didn't set my heart beating faster than a fast nightclub track, but it isn't quite the same, is it? To my relief, I never have to think twice of setting aside part of my Christmas budget to my parents who, with their expert eyes and equally decent tastes to rival my own, never fail to surprise and please me with a gift which I either wear or use all year round - so, I can still have the freedom to make my own decisions and be the recipient of a present which is kept under wraps until the very last moment! With a nature more inquisitive than a story-seeking journalist, it always astounds me how I never stumble upon a secret surprise before the time comes for it to be revealed; part of me usually wins over my nosiness by reminding me of my yearning to keep the surprise a perfectly concealed secret until the moment comes in its glorious, tightly-wrapped (thanks to my dad's excessive usage of cellotape) glory!

On another subject, there was one part of the day which excited me more than I expected and received a higher total of appreciation due to my ever-flourishing interest in the skill: the mighty Christmas dinner. To my surprise, some people refer to the meal as a 'lunch' which, in my opinion, strikes me as a small snack to get you through the middle of the day before lapping up a hot meal in the late afternoon or early evening - and after complaining of nausea and a bloated stomach at the end of the 'lunch', a dinner is later served in the day, which surely must be the very last thing that anybody stuffed to the verge of bursting must want! Still, traditions are probably very different in my house in comparison to anybody else's, but I wouldn't change any of it within a heartbeat because it is utterly perfect in its present form!

Staying in line with a traditional turkey, which my mum roasts in juicy streaks of salty bacon the evening before (in all honesty, there is hardly any choice: how could we roast any another vegetables and stuffing when the larger-than-most bird takes up every inch of space?), we always pile our plates high with vitamin-rich vegetables such honey-flavoured carrots, tasty sprouts - which, I'm dying to admit, is one of my favourite foods - peas, roast potatoes and parsnips, which develop a delicious flavour when roasted in sweet honey. Oh, and I may get a roasted onion or two from the turkey - otherwise known as Juice Central - or the potatoes, so I probably get more than a week's worth of vegetables in one sitting; any fruit beforehand needn't count!

Although I may heave with exhaustion or sigh heavily as I shovel a bucket load of sprouts into my mouth half an hour after gathering at the table, it doesn't dent my enjoyment of the meal which my family share together and appreciate entirely - in my eyes, it is a meal which is spoken about for months after Christmas has all but disappeared from the household and brings us closer towards one another, which, if you look beyond the John Lewis-purchased presents and over-commercialized portrayals of enjoying the festivities, is the main message of Christmas. Getting together and displaying our love for everybody who means all the world to us is the whole point of celebrating Christmas, which ought to be promoted more heavily - despite coveting a hair curling styler rather strongly this year, I've pushed the presents aside slightly to make more room for promoting my appreciation of everything else which goes into making Christmas what it spectacularly is!

Now, excuse me, as my eyes are beginning to flutter weakly and transport me to a land of disappearing sausage rolls - festive dreams, I find, seem pretty weird - I ought to return to joys of watching my kittens fight near the defrosted piece of gammon. Sales or claw-scratching fights have become a tradition of sale-starting Boxing Day, right?

The Joys of a Very Merry Christmas Eve

Yes, the day for which almost every single person has been counting the oh-so-long days towards for months and awaiting for the clock to strike midnight to officialize the incredible beginning of a 12-day long feast has nearly arrived on our sodden doorsteps! All of the homemade frangipane (an almond-scented sponge topping) mince pies are ready to be taken out of the arctic-frozen freezer at a moment's notice, whilst the stomach-rumbling delicious sausage rolls lie in wait on a cooling rack to be snatched by a pair of monster-like hands (and beautifully filed nails, though the same would obviously not apply to my messier-than-David-Luiz's-hair brother, whose strikingly long nails can be placed on a par with a growling werewolf) and devour with a relished hunger and piles upon piles of presents only need to be brought into the living room, where the immaculately decorated Christmas tree - which glitters with shiny golden tinsel and sparkles like Swarovski jewels when switched on as the final blast of weakening sunshine fades away into a starlit night - welcomes the carefully wrapped gifts and sits beside the meerkat-themed bags (even though I've now hit my teens, a computer-generated picture of a red-suited meerkat never fails to place a smirk upon my nude-tastic lips) until the best loved morning of the year awakens us from an energizing, eagerly excited slumber.

OK, if I wanted to, I would probably carry on describing my traditional Christmas until the early hours of tomorrow morning, so I might as well get on with what my heart has long desired to say - Merry Christmas! No, no, no there isn't any need to log off this site and check out your secret Wish List on Amazon for the final time purely on the basis that I declared a cringe-worthy 'Merry Christmas' to my beloved (near non-existent) readers - at the moment, my excitement has thrown me higher than a dreaded gust of wind tearing away part of my garden's fence across the slippery lawn, which currently looks far muddier than a Glastonbury concert, and I seriously don't know when I'm going to return to stable ground and gale-free Earth! So, I do apologize in advance if this entry does seem a little messier and unclear as a fake crystal ball than usual, but surely almost everybody experiences a cluttered mixture of emotions before the big day arrives?

Christmas, however great it is to wrap up in a cosy new pair of pyjamas and spend time with cherished friends and families who hopefully manage to put their problems behind them and get along together, can sometimes send you in a worry-inducing panic which provokes you to run around like a headless chicken (and by the way, a turkey weighing as much as many people put on in heavily unwanted weight during the festive season is on the table this year comme toujours) because you feel intensely inclined to perform so many actions which, in reflection, are not possible without hiring a house-load of helpers to offer you a moment or two of pure peace - even if the agenda is simply related to whether you ought to shave or use an epilator on your hairy bush otherwise known as a pair of legs on Christmas Eve or days beforehand.

Considering that a women is usually paired with the face-scrunching job of cleaning a cold, slimier-than-a-used-tissue turkey and eventually cooking in it an all-too-small oven for around four hours - unless a wacky Heston Blumenthal happens to take charge of the kitchen, destroying all of your previous notions of a traditional Christmas dinner - us girls have a belittling tendency to complete countless tasks which, if honesty must be admitted, nobody else wants to do yet still highly need to be done. For example, who gets a buzz as energy-lifting as drinking a can of Coca Cola by wrapping up seemingly millions of presents beyond your usual bedtime and working through eye-drooping exhaustion until you reach a point where you can no longer push yourself through the fatigue clouding your hazy mind?

Although I do wish that I could offer some help and do something useful for my mum whilst enduring a restless and exhausting night, there is hardly any chance of my getting through several rolls of teddy bear-patterned wrapping paper until I probably have children of my own; the same also goes for producing nose-sniffing batch upon batch of spicy mince pies and pushing a trolley loaded with plain-flavoured Doritos and basic necessities during a weekly shop at the supermarket on the weekend before Christmas. Despite having many years before the whole of my preciously regarded time is numbered before my half-closed eyes, I still feel the need to compile a list solely dedicated to completing certain tasks in order to remain as organized as I usually would be during the year, albeit an ink pen which actually works isn't always to hand - apart from telling of my daily tales and opinions on my diary and peeling a bag load of juicy carrots, I've ticked everything off my imaginary list, provoking a smile, one which tells of heartfelt relief, to light up my face. Therefore, a major disaster of flying into a huff and attempting to blame all of my problems upon my door-slamming brother has been neatly avoided and I feel free to do whatever my heart wishes to do, making this Christmas even merrier than before!

Though I may get my fair share of responsibilities as I get older and perhaps a little bit wiser (absolutely typical of a Mickey Mouse-viewing, toy tiger-hugging teenager, after all!), there is always plenty of space to be made for moments utterly dedicated to having a great and memorable time - what sort of message would be promoted if Christmas was no longer a season to let your hair down and unleash your inner euphoric spirit as the world has never seen it? Having already made a secret pact to steer clear of losing all sense of sensibility during the festivities (despite the obvious lack of energy-soaring sugar, you would be amazed how much vitality a single can of Diet Coke offers to a party-swarming mood), I cannot deny the fact that my heart soars with elation at the jubilated thought of dressing up to the nines in a new black spotted dress and coating my face in a layer of shimmery make up, a look which I specially reserve for highly important occasions which definitely includes Christmas Day as anyone would expect! One of the greatest aspects of getting older is that I appreciate the strenuous effort put into transforming your ordinary, everyday look into one which would rival a world-famous star on the Hollywood Red Carpet and how it dramatically changes the way I feel, offering a sanguine confidence with which I'm not entirely familiar yet seems absolutely right for my newly found bold mood!

Also, I can bring myself to think something else apart from opening presents, many of which I added to my wishlist back in the sweating heat of the summer, as I'm really looking forward to watching and inevitably learning how to produce a successful Christmas dinner which is still the talk of the town halfway through the very unfestive year. Within the space of less than a year, I've picked up more tips and absorbed a tremendous amount of information in relation to baking and cooking which has enabled me to understand all of the effort which goes into roasting the mouth-watering and crispier-than-a-Dorito (sorry for the example; it's just my unfortunate luck that my brother has nearly devoured most of my favourite brand of corn crisps) roast potatoes and making the turkey keep its succulent tenderness and taste deliciously moist moist during its long venture into the desert-like oven for several hours. So, alongside finding out how to operate a smartphone back to front and successfully completing a story for the first time in, well, years, my cookery skills have reached higher than I ever believed was possible and has led me to the conclusion that the Christmas Dinner is on a par with the presents. However, I may change my tune as soon as I start using my new and soon-to-be-legendary Curl Secret with twenty-four hours...

As I near the end of this entry, Christmas is unsurprisingly getting nearer and Santa Claus - in whom I abruptly stopped believing years ago as soon as it dawned upon me that if he did exist, a tiny Tiffany's diamond would somehow fit inside his sleigh, though my wish has not (yet) come true - will probably be eating his fifth meal of the day before setting out on a tiring journey across the world, eventually arriving in my town and supposedly eating the mince pies which my dad always keeps asking to eat after dinner. You and I know the answer to that one, right?

Anyway, have a very Merry Christmas and enjoy every single moment of it - from the moment I awake at 6am and carry my bear stocking onto my bed, the magic will begin and feel as fresh as it did a mere year before!

Rain, Mince Pies and a TV Overload: Christmas Traditions

While I politely stretch my legs as inspired by my semi-professional gymnastic-mad kittens (forget the old 'semi-feral' title; judging by Bart's loud purr as he pleasantly enjoys being stroked by my seemingly giant-sized hand, he couldn't be further from the original truth!) and await to go outside into the damp and grey clouded unknown, I'm preparing myself to get my foundation-caked complexion soaked more heavily than a grubby pair of cheap trainers and risk falling over in the mud which is messily adorning the front, horribly soggy lawn. Rain, without a doubt, has officially become one of my largest pet hates - of course, no reference to my two furry pets, both of whom have somehow learnt how to destruct their litter tray and recent edition of The Daily Mail before breakfast is served - and I've got no choice than to face the hard facts that it will probably remain a constant presence as Christmas comes and eventually goes.

Let's face it, at least one of us have endured a misery-inducing wet Christmas if the option of flying over to a sunnier Hawaii hotel or a fitness-revitalizing trip to a ski resort in Switzerland has been hastily slammed shut before our puppy-sad eyes: despite being incapable of remembering what I did in a clear state of mind several minutes ago, I can never fail to recall the countless memories of mud splattering my size seven star-patterned boots or miserable clouds resembling a similar shade to a typical grey tracksuit boring into my eyes, bleeding them dry of any wishes of spending a perfect White Christmas in the comfort of my own warm and cherished home. And what I find the most strangest above everything else is that I either don't remember or had an attention span of a memory-losing goldfish as a little girl, otherwise I wouldn't feel so adamant that all of my Christmases - and Easters, too - have been dedicated to a shower pouring heavily on our soaked-through garden and preventing my brother from kicking a ball as imposing as a pair of breast implants over the fence.

Alongside obvious recollections of devouring bowlfuls of much-appreciated brussel sprouts - am I the only person in the world who just adores the natural flavour of vitamin-rich brussel sprouts in their perfectly tasty form? - and awakening my groggily-spoken brother from a soothing slumber at six in the pitch-black morning to check his heavily loaded stocking, rainfall has simply become a tradition at Christmas, albeit I hasten to add that it is a highly unwanted one. Don't get me wrong, jetting halfway across the world to a warmer and more vibrant country (believe me, all signs of eye-popping colour is drained down the toilet more dramatically than my paling complexion if a storm happens to befall the grim-faced town) does not interest me in the slightest because Christmas strikes myself and many other people as an occasion to return to your roots and stay near to your beloved, but should my blossoming hatred for non-stop downpour and fierce gales more powerful than a chemical-addled nail varnish remover be ignored?

Amongst giving in to my brother's persistent pleading and sneaky stealing of my recently-baked batch of cinnamon-coated snickerdoodles (minus the calorific and energy-packed chocolate bars) and dealing with constant messages of rejection regarding work experience, I put up with a lot of various, crazy things which usually issue a threat of driving me round the bend. Yet being surrounded in an area soggier than a pastry bottom on The Great British Bake-Off all the time is hardly the pick-me-up which I'm looking for as I rip open my thickly-sellotaped presents (thanks Dad!) in a darkened living room on an eerily grey Christmas morning. But perhaps it's just me or my dampness-detesting hormones getting the better of my wiser senses, all of which takes place on a suddenly bright Sunday morning...

Apart from getting knee-deep in dampened fields of grass and running for my life as a pair of muddy football boots sends alarm bells ringing as they near my squeaky clean high heels, there are numerous other traditions at Christmas which hold a particular presence in our families, whether associated with our choices or as decided by the powers beyond our control: the TV guide. Yes, I may not dedicate half my time to lying on the sofa and being transported to a programme set on a planet similar to my own - there is a box piled high with clementines which needn't go to waste, you know - but a life-changing tragedy would have had to occur if the annual purchase of the festive television guide was unable to stir any hand-clapping excitement from my leopard mitten-clad paws.

Despite barely encountering any programmes which I would bother to record on the Sky+ box, I still enjoy reading the TV guide because it has claimed the high exclusive title of a treasure in the household - how else would my blockbuster-mad brother remain so organized as to which films he yearns to watch? And, like many people, Christmas results in a higher viewing of programmes than usual because a wider range of films, genres and popular programmes are aired when they may never receive any precious screen time throughout the year, which somewhat creates a pile-up of unwatched shows on the Sky+ planner and uses up increasingly valued space for other shows that other members of my family wish to record. Except for a festive one-off edition of a documentary following the often hormonal-fuelled lives of teenagers at a secondary school, I have so far recorded no other programmes which run the blood pressure-rising risk of draining the storage below a critical level - what sort of hard-hitting evidence could my sibling conjure against me if I only take a tiny amount of space from the drama-cluttered planner?

And finally, one more Christmas tradition which is always welcome in our spice-adoring home is the one and only mince pies, all of which must be homemade with the most elite jar of nose-clearing mincemeat (you'll see what I mean if you stick your nose inside it). For some reason, I don't quite know the origins of mince pies except for the well-known fact that Christmas simply wouldn't be the same without a hint of golden pastry standing out in an airtight container and the mouth-watering spices and dried fruit packing an immense load of flavour within a single bite.

This year, the traditionally pastry-covered mince pie was given a remarkable makeover when my mum adapted a recipe featured in a festive-themed leaflet which used a frangipane topping (one which contained a powerful combination of ground almonds and strong almond essence, instantly reminding me of the distinctive scent of marzipan) and decorated with flaked almonds, whilst still remaining true to the original pastry bottom and mincemeat filling. The result was even more delicious than the traditional recipe and went down as a massive hit among my family; as soon as the first spice-coated currant hit the tip of my tongue, my instincts knew that Christmas had finally arrived in my home.

Of course, anything else could provoke such powerful feelings of festive fever for yourself by decorating a tree, using your best pen whilst writing cards to family and friends or attending a party - all of it counts. Sure, a few drops of rain may not be a tradition which automatically plasters on a Hollywood-perfect smile on my lips, nor does an overload of television programmes reduce the sickening ache in my stomach after a heavy Christmas meal, but all of it holds a place within the festivities, right? As I like to believe, traditions either already exist or you create your own - just make the best of them!

Presents Mixed with Envy - a Christmas Thing?

Having typically prided upon my generous and gift-offering nature since I first handed out Bratz-themed sweet bags to my friends as a bright-eyed seven year old, Christmas usually signifies that the generosity season has well and truly arrived in silver tinsel-decorated style; without delving into the £5 or less section inside a booze-retailing shop to discover a marvellous gift for a particular somebody once a year, how would Christmas' original message still thrive in today's selfish-riddled culture?

How much I may have set my overwhelmed heart upon a stylishly designed tweed coat from the legendary designer label, the one and only Chanel, since I stumbled across my first high end glossy fashion magazines several years ago, my overly dramatic dreams must be shoved across to a lonely-looking side and instead I ought to focus my attention on finding the perfect present for a person highly deserving of being given a treat. Sure, a thrill of pride may warm my heart a little bit as I come across the most ideal gift - the ones which I'm always willing to search for my nearest and dearest family, all of whom spread heartfelt delight by blowing me away with a spectacular surprise on The Day - but my inner all-about-me persona threatens to take the throne, to which I'm sure that a large majority of teenagers will also admit whilst they are fighting a losing battle against surfing the 'net for a timeless little black dress in their even smaller hourglass waists (unsurprisingly, I was making a reference towards myself, which only exaggerates my point).

Before I leap onto an immensely clichéd bandwagon and lost as much sight as one would during a manic three day-only sale on the notoriously slow H&M website (which still doesn't offer free postage as often as onesie-loving New Look), there is a massive need to declare the fact that I am not selfish. Of course, many of you could be more tempted to roll your thickly eye-liner-penciled eyes towards the peeling ceiling than to jump to my defence in the manner of a like-minded, strongly admirable teenager would (where are they?), but I'm capable of defending myself by stating that my family and I chose to adopt two semi-feral kittens a mere fortnight ago, one of whom still has the painful tendency to hiss like an enraged Hollywood diva and unveil his sharper-than-you-would-believe claws upon our red-raw hands if he happens to feel threatened or sense a teenage-inspired tantrum overwhelming his tabby-and-tortoiseshell body.

Despite being entirely aware of their alarmingly sad background and fully prepared for any problems ahead of us, my family and I decided against looking elsewhere for kittens because we finally allowed ourselves to pour our hearts upon these two timid, yet utterly adorable kittens who deserved the right to belong in a safe and welcoming environment for the rest of their lives. Though the process has seemed to be a drag and extended beyond the two weeks since we brought them home, I wouldn't want to take care of another pair of brothers because I spend almost every waking moment thinking about what they are doing and steadily creating a rock-solid bond. So, in that sense, I wouldn't dare to place the subject of my thoughts upon anything or anybody else except my two squeak-tastic kittens, confirming my false status as a selfie-taking, self-obsessed teenager, but I can understand the allure of taking a heavy load of consideration about presents - particularly for your fastly expanding mind, as you experiment with various things and settle into what makes your heart soar higher than the moon - at this time of year as we are constantly bombarded with stereotype-fuelled presents, all of which sends us into an headache-inducing overdrive where we cannot think straight or fancy stealing another spicy mince pie from your mum's stashed-away collection.

As it is the case for various and the most bizarre things in the world - many of which I would rather not name because I simply don't know what they are - our minds are the key to sorting out our interests and dislikes into tidy boxes, forcibly steering clear of making an error which would provoke all hell to break loose. Taking into consideration that a generous number of slouching, bubble gum-chewing teenagers are unable to break their irritating habits of tossing their ketchup-stained clothes onto an even dirtier floor and are constantly nagged by their parents to clean themselves, an eye-popping amount of us are being brought up with the endless mantra of taking care of ourselves, which later leads to us mainly focusing on our emotions, likes and lifestyle, barely leaving any room for much else except relationships, free time and the scrunched piece of Maths homework which your mum somehow discovered in your chocolate Pop Tart box. Therefore, a near-catastrophe takes place almost every year at Christmas when the time comes for you to stand up straight, put on a passion fruit-scented pair of clean clothes and make your own decisions - all of which relates to buying gifts and cards for everybody else except you, which only makes the irresistible idea of flying into a My Sweet 16-influenced huff extremely alluring. And when you really ought to be spending your time on the internet more wisely than usual on the lookout for the most exciting gift to have ever existed in a land full of cheaply designed t-shirts and make-up sets containing more chemicals than a bleach would contain, you just can't - or will not - resist a tiny peek at the neon Beats headphones or latest remarkably fast smartphone which you've been dreaming of for months on end.

Come on, I have short-lived moments - do you honestly think that I have enough time to dedicate a thorough search in the cosmetics department on Amazon when there are two curiosity-seeking kittens awaiting a second bout of attention? - when I log onto a particular website, such a shopping channel of which my mum has been a loyal member, to coo and sigh over a collection of bright-coloured lip glosses from a certain mineral-based beauty brand, usually five minutes before lunchtime is over and the last half-empty bag of salted Doritos have been taken back to its permanent home inside the cupboard. Typically, I barely experience any pangs of yearning for the items which I look at because I otherwise wouldn't be making such a massive deal about it, but I guess that I wouldn't be a modern-day human if my watchful eyes failed to be captivated by the advertisement of a pair of glamorous earrings at a pocket-friendly price - for only a minute until my interest loses its spark and dies in the midst of the blinding sunshine peeking through the window.

Unlike budgeting adults and families whose main priorities lie towards making ends meet and basically surviving through the difficult recession, us teenagers are at an advantage to run wild with our money and have fun with it before the endless worries of paying off student loans and the consistent rise in basic living affects our enjoyment-seeking lives. Although I tend to keep my spending limits to an absolute minimum, it hasn't prevented some soon-regretted purchases of vivid lipsticks unsuited to my pale complexion, half-read boring books and baggy jumpers looking extremely unflattering on my petite frame taking place over the past few years, as I've assumed control of my buying habits and taken choices once decided by my wise parents into my own hands. So, if the troubling problems surrounding youth unemployment have yet to affect the most unfortunate of us for a few years left, why destroy the happiness which we yearn to hold onto during our often difficult 'wilderness' years when we could enjoy it for a while more, even if only a new CD enters the equation?

All in honesty, not only our age group but fellow adults ought to find the perfect balance to dedicating one's life to themselves and reaching out to others when they need it most. Who cares if we give a box containing an eye-catching pair of earrings to a relative or friend when you may experience a pang of envy for having it - we probably have one too many sets of jewellery which ought to be worn more often, anyway. Selfishness doesn't necessarily affect teenagers, but I guess that we are more vulnerable to remaining cooped up in a world entirely of our own as we search for the hidden key lying inside the core of our hearts. Christmas presents should not get in the way of spreading festive cheer to somebody worthy of being a receiver of our generosity, should it? If the moment of spending time on another person seems too much to handle, clearly remember that your moment will soon come, whether it is on your birthday or during the festivities which makes Christmas a season to unleash your inner jolliness.

And as I donate £10 of my hard-earned pocket money towards my younger, anger-inducing brother, I can only smile and await for the moment to arrive when his cash offers me the gift which I've been anticipating for a very long time...

I, The Lipstick Queen!

For almost as long as my mind is capable of looking back upon (particularly when a not-so-secret viewing of an old festive Disney cartoon has stretched my pencil-sharp memory beyond its usual capabilities), lipstick - typically viewed as a class higher above the glimmery tube of lip gloss with a more revoltingly gloopy consistency than a can of thicker-than-wavy-hair condensed chicken soup - has always been one of my top make-up must-haves, its glorious, colourful beauty shining more prominently to my captivated eyes than a tutu-donning Barbie Doll as a young child.

Like many other pink-loving girls, I found make-up to be a startlingly, yet fascinating revelation, with an instant desire to explore its world seemingly planets away from my own. Lipstick, in particular, generated more interest and buzz than a tantrum-inducing Justin Bieber concert at the o2 arena because it reminded me so heavily of my mum, who, unsurprisingly, applies a creamy layer of her favourite buff-shaded lipstick every single day - in fact, my one year old self must have loved the sight of eye-watering expensive lipsticks so much that my chubby fingers was unable to fight the temptation to draw the stick upon my Twilight-pale skin and the delicate cream walls, previously free of any cough-provoking dust and heart-dropping stains, embarking on my very first experience with the cosmetic as I now know it today. I still think about my short-lived adventure every now and then - with moment-long flashbacks occasionally popping through my thoughts usually surrounding Audrey Hepburn's dainty black dresses by none other than Givenchy, powerfully felt jealousy turning my mineral-coated complexion garden lawn-green with envy - because it opened up a life-long relationship with the cosmetics and, indeed, eye-popping magenta lipsticks which neatly adorn my heavier-than-it-looks make-up box, solely dedicated to the miracle products which transform my blemished face into an astonishing look of natural elegance within a flick of foundation-coated kabuki brush. 

Although I've already discussed my frankly-detailed love affair with mineral foundation and the numerous ways that it has revolutionized my make-up routine for hopefully many years to come, one item - or several, if various colours of the cosmetics rainbow count - has relentlessly served me well, offering me the confidence to figure out the brain-straining Sudoku puzzle inside the newspaper each day and staining my ashamedly bubble gum pink Hello Kitty when I take a sip of colder-than-ice milk at each meal. Without it, my wings - which have fallen in love with the spectacular gift otherwise known as freedom - seem to have been clipped and hidden away inside a locked metal box, its key thrown away into the unknown: this is one of the many perils from which I'm bound to suffer if a mighty red pimple dares to rise to the surface on my greatest asset, the buxom-shaped lips. Yes, lipstick is the all-time favourite cosmetic product which I couldn't bear to live without for a single day; just like sneakily melting a few squares of dark chocolate almost every evening, applying a thicker-than-necessary layer of velvety smooth, moisturizing lipstick prepares me for the long day ahead, where difficult French verbs and cowering kittens with a hiss more venomous than a rattlesnake await me. 

And so, as the words are lying on the edge of your tea-coated tongue, why does my heart flutter at the sight of a lipstick counter in an overcrowded beauty shop, my knees daring to fall beneath my two-inch heels? Somehow, part of myself cannot reach the very core of myself and offer a fully-developed answer, despite having almost an hour to go until the clock strikes the signal for cupboard-opening lunchtime: all of these wonderful colours, ranging from frosty pale pinks to scarlet siren reds to deliciously gothic plums, draw me into a fantasy which I can play out, if I'm willing to fork out nearly a month's worth of pocket money for an all-time classic Chanel lipstick. Perhaps my much-envied youth (I seriously don't need any reminders about that one!) is a reason for which I dream of donning the latest trends in the fast-paced beauty industry because hardly any shades - even the widely avoided ones, which would provoke an wild evacuation from the popular MAC counters - give me any fear-inducing goosebumps, which displays a certain amount of courage as to which colours that I would be willing to try. As long as the ingredients are very unlikely to cause an unwanted reaction against my combination/sensitive skin (face it, everybody has sensitive skin to a certain extent - why be afraid of declaring it?) and the price tag doesn't make my eyes water uncontrollably, there are no barriers in front of me which cannot be broken. 

Some people get their thrills from donning the newest collection of Jimmy Choo stilettos; others receive their uncontained bout of excitement by spending a whole day in a Dior changing room; and I, on the other hand, would be sent to heaven and back if I were to try on literally all of the most luxurious lipsticks which the world has to offer, though it must be said that only the widely renowned and critically acclaimed brands are worthy of residing in my make-up box. Sure, I may be young and prone to purchasing short-lived shirts from New Look on a heart-stopping whim, but would I take a leap of faith with a product which could or could not wreck my wild-hearted record of high scores on long-lasting, pleasantly silky lipsticks? Although I typically remain loyal to high street brands, many of whom run countless ad campaigns which hardly anybody would be able to avoid on either TV or a popular magazine, I always keep my savvy-hat on when it comes to searching out the good and, rather unfortunately, the bad brands from which I'm desperate to stay away at all costs. 

A few days ago, I stepped out of my cosy-decorated, warm-as-baked-mince-pies comfort zone by splashing out a few more pounds than usual for 'the lipstick of my dreams', as I so happened to coin it - a perfect nude pink. Typically, my heart leaps at the sight of a dark, goth-inspired lipstick which adds a certain punky edge to my minimalist attire, to my parents' frown - unknown to myself, the colours which I picked out in a five-minute dash had a tendency to drain my face of what little colour I had, taking my Casper-pale complexion into consideration. 

Originally starting off as a joke surrounding the then-popularity of the Twilight films (and my penchant for reading the attention-boring books within the space of a warm summer), I stopped making a forced effort to go out into the sun during the hottest hours of the day, which later led to my skin turning a fairer colour. Despite my eventual realization that a nightmare would have to occur if my marble-shaded skin suddenly looked like the contents of a fake tan bottle, I just couldn't get as much colour as I liked - and instead of resorting to applying nasty chemicals onto my reaction-prone skin, I embraced my lighter tone and glowed in spite of the startlingly fact that I looked more like Buffy Summers' blood-sucking enemy than an olive-toned Californian babe. 

Which, therefore, led to my continuous problems surrounding an impossible discovery of a more muted lipstick suited to my skin colour, which I yearned to be a basic nude with a hint of pink. But what turned out to be the most ideal nude for somebody usually highlighted the stark contrast between the colour and my complexion, banishing all previous hopes of coming across my long-wanted nude. In all honesty, I wanted and needed a nude for various reasons, not purely to keep clear from any ghost-related remarks: I needed it to manage an easy-going look with darker eyeliner, which seriously does not associate you with Hollywood glamour if paired with an equally noticeable lipstick, and I also wanted to make-under my look ever so subtly, as many examples had been given in popular fashion know-how magazines and books. 

After many weeks filled heavily with frustrations and near tosses of boldly-shaded lipsticks - needless to say, the complete opposite of what I'd been searching for - I eventually came across the nude which has dramatically changed my make-up routine within a mere few days of being bought. Produced by applauded beauty giant Maybelline New York, the colour, aptly titled 'Sweet Pink', is the perfect addition to my overwhelming collection of lipsticks, many of which have been purchased in recent months alone: whenever I brush my hair or look in the lightly dusted mirror (I cannot complain about the dust lying on the mirror if it disguises my sore-looking outbreak of spots so brilliantly!), I usually have a double take because it's quite hard to tell whether I am wearing any lipstick or not. So, the quest has finally been completed and my baby-smooth lips look miles better for adopting a softer, more elegant style, which makes a brilliant match when teamed with a pair of smoking hot eyes! 

Saying all of this has only made me realize how much I love wearing and putting on lipstick as part of my daily routine; for all I care, I may as well have skipped my usual Braeburn apple because I just wouldn't feel entirely the same without a glimpse of colour twinkling in the sunshine. From nude pinks to deep berries, almost all lipsticks - except the mud-like brown - gain a thumbs up from me and derives such a vivid passion within myself, which is pretty hard to discover as the clock counts toward the impending Doritos time. 

You definitely won't have to think twice about what I'm wearing tomorrow!