Home Education: The Official Low-Down

First of all, before I even begin to express my waiting-to-be-unleashed views regarding home education - or, as I may sometimes refer to it, 'home-schooling' (you decide) - I feel a little out of place, as though my usually sharp-as-a-tip-of-a-knife vocabulary has lost a part of itself, which leaves me lying in a slightly dazed state. As ideas flowed like a glass of coffee being swirled by a spoon inside my mind to choose the title of this blog entry, I almost typed down The Official 411 - a so-called popular term used by word-savvy teenagers and dying-to-be-embarrassingly-cool parents alike, as commonly repeated in films set in high schools. Only around a decade or so ago, though.

Unlike quite a large number of teenagers, I hardly feel the irresistible desire to express myself via repeating over-cliched phrases that have taken the world by storm by the like of millions of Facebook or Twitter users; this probably explains why I have yet not created an account of either of the two highly engaging social networking sites, but my eyes have been covered with a luxurious Hermes scarf (if only my Forever 21 jeans pockets were bursting to the brim with designer scarves which could be left carelessly in various places like Miranda Priestly in high fashion favourite The Devil Wears Prada, or Panda as I used to call it at the age of eight) as to how I could find a desperate need to be associated with technology addicted users who really ought to be doing something far more meaningful with their supposed 'extreme' lack of time.

In other words, I may be viewed as different, a teenager who sticks out like a sore thumb (albeit donning a striking similar pair of devil red trousers and buckled coat whilst carrying a heavy bag of Braeburn apples never fails to raise a few overly plucked eyebrows, except in the often critical fashion stakes). And, despite enduring a few occasions where I wish that everybody - from dressed-down women to eye-bogglingly fascinated teenagers of a similar age to my own - could accept myself for who I choose to be, I won't have it any other way. At the end of the day, I'm only home-schooled - from where is the big-as-my-raspberry-doughnut fuss derived?

Ah, don't you believe that you can shake your head vigorously and forcibly deny it - there is, even this is apparent 'accepting' and 'welcoming' era, a head-strong stigma against those who make a decision to be themselves and not bow down to the more common way of living, which also includes home-schooling. The same lessons are learnt - for myself, it ranges from an hour spent on picking up French expressions, absorbing fascinating information associated with the ever-changing Law, reading about stories based in a different era to even posting a few entries onto my blog (a perfect opportunity to showcase my skills in a highly educational manner) - albeit in the comfort of my own home, where the sweet scent of lovingly home-cooked meals fill the air and an up-to-date laptop is only a few steps away from taking me onto an inspirational journey in relation to my studies.

Although I had only began my state education a couple of years before I began to be home-schooled by my hard-working, influential parents, I quickly grew to appreciate receiving an one-to-one education where various subjects would be clearly explained and instantly remembered, and, most importantly of all, I had (and still do) fun whilst gaining precious knowledge which had a higher value that what I could have possibly earnt had I remained in a public school.

Plus, as many parents and children often complain in these modern times, not enough free time was handed out to restless, sometimes bored youngsters who wished for nothing more than a rest and time to live as children. There is a reason why previous generations often remind us that their childhood was unlike the ones that we commonly lead nowadays; care-free fun was somehow balanced between the ideal work ethic, so nothing was either sacrificed nor lost vital attention which would have later led to inner-destruction and hard-hitting problems. Being home-schooled, I strongly believe, has enabled me to explore life like an animal would search inside a jungle; play time was not thrown out the window as soon as I said goodbye to setting foot inside a school as it has only been revitalized further and matured, becoming a more appreciated article which I enjoy gladly and cherish more each day.

And as for oh-too-rare-a-sight common sense, I don't think that it is highly necessary to give my side of the view on that topic; judging by the manner as previously displayed in old posts, I clearly (and hope I don't sound too prim-and-proper; see why I lost myself in an hourly game of The Sims?) have graduated with a flawless grade and vibrantly bright flying colours. Like my dad occasionally huffs (after a certain, unnamed football has received another push-back), 'don't get me started' is the phrase to avoid when a subject like this rises to the surface. Hopefully when I haven't flown into an angered mood, that is.

What many people may not choose to think about is that working in a home-schooling environment is that it strengthens one's relationship with their family, through the great power of working together and lending a helping hand from time to time. Although neither of them were capable of offering me any help when I reached an undestroyable brick wall in relation to unpronounceable French verbs (so many problems, only so many I can solve in French!), my cuddly, beloved honorary elder brothers of the feline kind, Tom and Jerry, I doubt that my relationship with both of them would have blossomed so beautifully if I had arrived home with a lacklustre sigh after an endurable day at school, hardly a moment to spare as a pile of homework was needed to be completed. Nothing could stir the strongest feeling inside my soul to regret having a home education as it would have meant that I would lose so many precious memories I shared with Tom and Jerry - what could be more valuable than treasured moments with the ones you love?

Of course, everybody is different and, according to law, is owed the much-appreciated right to air their own views, but where is the justification in singling one person out purely due to no longer following suit with others and embarking on a path of their own? Whether it is down to the (on-trend) clothes I choose and like to wear or method to pick up a few bite-sized pieces of information, there is no end to an expanding list of being 'obscure' or standing out of the all-too-same crowd for supposedly the wrong reasons.

Although my theory may be deemed as possibly incorrect, everybody has no power against experiencing instinctual fear - and change, for some, could be one of them. Despite their not being placed hot-on-the-spot and given a demand to perform an action which is peculiarly strange to their usual one, some people may feel the urgent need to place their fear onto another person in the form of remarking at their out-of-the-blue behaviour or gasping in shock at their means of living. Perhaps a raise of eyebrows or an unforgiving look does not give the full story - body language, after all, can only inform us of so much - but to the eyes of some, and myself, it can scorch deeply inside one's heart and provoke a pain question which asks whether being different is OK. I abide by the Law (and enjoy learning about it); I treat people the way in way I would expect from another person; and, on the whole, I lead my life as a well-behaved, chirpy-as-a-singing-bird teenager, yet I still receive a hair-raising glance or hint of a smirk in my direction every so often. And, as I frustratingly think, what can I do about it? Getting a proper education in the comfort of a caring home cannot be the sole reason for a peculiar look in the vegetable section at a local supermarket, as I often remind myself.

Yet, as I climb into bed after spending a day airing my opinion on a still-blossoming blog (and licking the plate clean of the devilish brownies I'd baked earlier), no thoughts of being the 'odd-one out' cloud my mind, which wishes to escape to Dreamsville for a couple of hours, whilst I keenly await the lessons I'll attend in the living room the following day. Some may throw their hands up in the air in a fit of nail-biting frustration, whilst others lose their confidence completely and cower in the dim shadows. I, on the other hand, will place a light coating of rose-pink lipstick and walk out of my house, my mind immune to another person's fear and a smile lighting up my (so I wish) flawless complexion. If somebody chooses to dismiss me without so much as uttering a single word, I couldn't care less. Who has ever asked me whether I like them?

That's a mystery yet to be figured out.

Sparklers, Bugs and a dash of Fear - a recipe for trouble?

As I have already portrayed myself in an honest, sweet-as-a-marshmallow manner so far, I've yet to inform you of my hidden fears, which are neatly stashed underneath my teddy bear-strawn bed alongside the 'dreaded' old song-writing book that became a sharp-talking haven for myself at the age of eleven. Yikes, if I had even bothered to muster up a tough-as-dog-eaten-leather-boots persona right at the beginning of setting up the blog (almost a week ago today; the countless downpours of mineral-lacking rain makes time pass by even quicker, if you dare to believe it). I reckon that I would've tripped over my unshaved legs within a short period of time - judging by the amount of times a complain escapes my lips and makes itself known to the world, putting on a steady, cool-without-knowing-or-expressing-it act would never have lasted long, despite my yearning to look and be as iced tea cool as some girls my own age. A teenhood fantasy which specially exists in my extreme lack of bedtime dreams; sleeping with a vibrantly Tango-ed tiger in my arms hardly gives me any head-starters to quality as one of those people, does it? Well, let's move on.

Nobody, regardless how much onyx black eyeliner you apply on your panda-shaded eyelids at the crack of dawn or sophisticated style has earnt you plaudits at the top fashion magazine (yet another teen fantasy that makes my taupe-powered eyes roll dramatically), is immune to the powerful, unquenchable emotion widely known as fear; despite my sincerest efforts to combat my rather pathetic uneasiness surrounding needle-sized bugs, busy-as-a-bee, um, bees and anything which crawls, buzzes (like a vibrating mobile; no, I promise from my torn-off Bratz doll's head that I do not jump in fright at the sounds my smartphone makes) and makes a life-threatening dare to move towards my direction, which typically results in a mini panic attack and ice-shattering squeals of fright that sends trembles across the house and endless cups of teas that my parents happen to be drinking.

Yes, I have lost count about the amount of times that I've been reminded (albeit gently; a carnivore temper like mine ought to never be provoked when my blood is boiling dangerously) to not allow tiny creatures create a vicious storm of terror evade my body, but, when the kettle-hot sun is shining on your face and handing you the title of a magnet (unfortunately not a babe one, which I, alongside other fly-detesting girls, would naturally prefer) for the mighty beats of the fly kingdom, all reminders of maintaining a steady, smooth operator manner are flown out of the window. Literally. Or, as my brother prefers to do (possibly for my obvious disgustment and my slightly green-tinged countenance), flush the sacrificed fly down the toilet, its doom lying in wait at the local dumpyard. So, I take it, when the time comes, that I will not be pinned down onto my uncomfortable chair and forced to state my reasons for my life-long dislike of sticky-like-ribs, hot flush-provoking summers? Flies and the bathroom justify my causes, without a single doubt.

Eventually, I gradually take off my prim-and-proper armour and store it into a cabinet in preparation of the impending summer as soon as the leaves on high-and-mighty trees slowly turn to a radiant, golden colour and fall to the ground; hardly any bugs or flies, except for a few here-and-there spiders, have all but disappeared (into a region that most would rather not know), so I like to believe that my seasonal fear has gone into hibernation and will not be seen until the next spring - or, if spring completely takes an extended vacation in a luckier country (whom, when I'm still shivering inside my Hello Kitty jumper in the middle of June, summer, as only pointed out a mere few months ago.

Yet, something always has to make itself known when you least expect it, right? Fear would not be half as spine-tingling if it didn't always sneak upon behind you without making so much as a lowly-heard footstep (I could hardly imagine it could wear a pair of 'Vamp' Jimmy Choos, however amusing the sight would be); once the occasion arises, a stomach-turning dread can awaken from its slumber and climb higher into your mind, until there is no longer any part of yourself which has not be turned stone cold by the anxiety it lays in a trail inside your body. Rather miserable to think about, really, but what other way is there to describe it better? And, although I was holding a mere pair of alarmingly pretty-to-the-eye sparklers, nothing could have prevented my heart from racing wildly and driving erratically on a par with a Formula 1 driver - once it happens, what else can you do except save yourself?

For the past few years, I've hardly paid much attention to the big bonanza which has become familiar to the majority of us as popping-and-exploding Bonfire Night; the nearest experience I get to fireworks is watching the massive display aired worldwide on New Year's Eve, whilst my eyes flutter sleepily and I'm almost pushed off my seat by my brother leaning too closely beside me. A nice memory as I wake up lazily and stumble out of bed the following morning, but standing outside in the cheek-reddening cold willingly and gazing at the sky as explosives light up the night hardly stirs a hidden desire inside myself, let alone makes me want to buy fireworks or even sparklers.

Well, sparklers would be deemed a fail-safe option to comparison to highly-dangerous fireworks, would they? I maintained this way of thinking (alongside a level teaspoon of common sense, which is hardly as common as you would think) whilst deciding on getting two packets of long, celery stick-thin sparklers a few weeks ago, which suddenly placed me in a position to overcome my childhood fear of flames. I hardly know where the so-called fear made itself apparent, though I guess that catching a second-long glimpse of an occupied bed being set alight on the news as a young child didn't offer much reassurance.

As an often bold (well, in terms of eye-catching, though sometimes overly brash eye shadow shades) and wannabe-rebel teen, I felt strongly compelled to bite the bullet and face up to holding a sparkler, years after dropping one in a frantic panic and racing like a lightning bolt upstairs to my bedroom; compared to the even 'scarier' flies, a sparkler seemed like a piece of chocolate-coated cake. Albeit one my stomach angrily growled in hunger to eat.

And to my utter surprise, my eyes flowed the sight of the dazzling sparkler with a child-like amazement and, despite feeling slightly nervous when one was firstly placed in my night-black gloves, I quickly overcame my initial apprehension and began to enjoy swirling my name (I'm still not telling!) into the freezer-cold air. So, who would have believed that a tinge of sadness would tug at my heart when the final sparkler died out, its light steadily fading?

Maybe fear isn't as bad I used to believe after all - sure, there is nothing more terrifying or skin-raising than a terror tugging at your heartstrings, but sometimes it may be in the stars to learn more about yourself or, in my case, realizing that sparklers are not going to hurt me or provoke another act similar to the one I had as a young girl.

But what about flies and bugs? The same feelings still persist - I hardly want to reverse them!

A Dream Made in Heaven - via chocolate!

Just like any other personal blog, I guess that I've been ambushed (by none other than my marvellous self) into a corner and will be given no other choice than to spill the beans regarding my dream-like affection for a brown-coloured (not the one that usually springs to mind, I hasten to add) bean, otherwise known as the beloved cocoa bean which has been cherished by sweet teeth for generations - and undoubtedly, my chocolate-adoring self, too.

So, as you are unsurprisingly wondering, why does my heart pound with edge-of-your-seat excitement whenever I take a heavenly-as-an-angel bite from a bar (typically as wide as my celery-shaped arms) of devilishly dark, soothingly creamy chocolate which brings my taste buds to glorious life - in other words, cocoa is a swinging, hot-like-a-Miami-beach nightclub for my tongue!

Every mouthful of decent, often on-special chocolate never lets me down on mood-satisfying pleasure and my heart drops a little with a sprinkle of disappointment when all of the crumbs have been scooped into my mouth (or, if I've flown into a 'I don't care' tantrum, I hastily drop the crumbs onto the carpet, often to the decade-old hoover's peril); as always with the greatest gifts in life, pleasure brought on by sugar rushes are not meant to last forever, is it? Perhaps I ought to take it as a wishful sign of good luck, considering that my sleeping patterns have an unfortunate tendency (poor little me, don't I just love a great moan?) to change as rapidly as a typical, pouring-buckets summer; the hair-raising thought of tossing and turning in my Betty Boop bed and being glued to a Michael Fassbender interview featured in a fashion magazine at two in the morning is more than enough to draw me away from the mouth-watering sight of a bag of caffeine-rich Maltesers.

Perhaps genetics play a vital role in my forever-growing passion for feel-good, energy-rich chocolate; if a single Mars bar is carefully placed inside a cupboard, it hardly takes any time at all until my brother leaps from the leather sofa to the laptop in a frantic search for the latest Chelsea results then to the kitchen where his destiny awaits, in the form of a black-packaged bar. Sure, a sandy blonde haired George of the Jungle may reside in the David Luiz-plastered bedroom next to mine, but no stranger could doubt his fondness for chocolate, as also myself; yet, in certain ways, a lie is unlikely to escape my lips and deny that I've taken my slight addiction (I've just said it! The A word!) to a whole new level.

Come on, ask me about the waist-expanding treats with which I've tempted my family as of late - or rather, I'll do the asking for you. Was a rich-scented batch of date muffins wafted into the warm air just a few days ago, creating a nervous army of goosebumps setting camp upon my pale lily skin? My head - filled up with as many thoughts about Dior dresses alongside chocolate as bottles brimming with cherry Pepsi goodness (well, mentally so, anyway) - shakes with an enormous vigour, whilst memories of devouring a white chocolate brownie - otherwise widely known as a 'Blondie' (minus the tribute to the pop icon) - flood my mind; chocolate-based treats are the sole recipes that I've felt remarkably eager to make recently, particularly as the idea of getting a bite-sized slice of a chocolate-flavour treat at lunchtime is too irresistable.

Let's face it: in comparison, unless a dash of cocoa had been added to the recipe, an ordinary biscuit, albeit a deliciously flavoured one, hardly makes your heart sing with delight unlike a tray of chocolate brownies almost as dark as your unleashed, devilish side. Once you take your very first bite, there can absolutely be no means of going back; as I like to say (or otherwise just created in my thoughts), once turned, always a chocolate lover. Until you give up your most cherished article for six weeks at Lent, like I somehow managed to do earlier this year.

My lucky stars must have suddenly appeared behind the endless ash clouds (or clouds which have been polluted beyond returning to their natural purity; an increasingly problem in my petrol-ridden town) as I fought tooth and nail against my increasing desires to tuck into a creamy, sugary Cadbury's square for six, dragged-out weeks; however, against all odds placed on my imaginary betting website, I survived the hard-to-endure course and beat my previous convictions regarding my one true love, chocolate. The results meant so much more for me than I ever thought humanely possible; my face beamed far brighter than a layer of mineral face colour could highlight my English rose complexion as I was ecstatic that I had surprised not only my lifeless-as-a-shadow taste buds in giving up a much-loved treat, but also myself. Some people climb mountains, others sell million-selling records worldwide; I give up chocolate. I suppose that's the way the world works, really!

Yet, despite my confidence-souring euphoria regarding handing over all Galaxy cookie crumble bars and polka dot-sized chocolate buttons, nail-biting agony had pushed me to a point where I could no longer stand the thought of living another, arduous day without chocolate; the thick shell of a chocolate egg was instantly smashed and, as you correctly guessed, was hungrily devoured, the warmth from the gentle heat kindling the long burnt-to-coal fire inside my body.

But I don't regret saying a tearful farewell to my trustworthy friend, theobroma cacao, for a single heartbeat because it only taught me a valuable lesson about appreciating the things which place a permanent smile on my lips everyday; without giving it up, I doubt that I would have grown to enjoy it as much as I do now as my heart and (flavour-appreciating) tastebuds have lived without it, eventually coming to the conclusion that it does strive on a dash of pleasure every so often. Well, as often as the bars are packed into a cupboard!

And the final question - do I like mine as white as an angel's wing, creamy smooth with a dash of milky goodness or devilishly dark? Having strictly been devoted to milk chocolate from a young age - despite baking the blondies a while ago, I'm still quite reluctant to eat the over-sugary white chocolate on its own - I've gradually walked over to the 'dark' side and have recently been fully converted to darker, richer-flavoured chocolate which fully satisfies my yearning for 'real' chocolate, in a form nearest to its natural one.

Some write books for a living, others can't get enough of chocolate; I love nothing more than writing to my heart's content, alongside melting a couple of squares of oh-so-good chocolate at the end of a cold autumn day. What is yours?

My Secret Passion - or perhaps not so much!

Hi, in case I have not introduced myself properly with a dazzling, celebrity-style grin whilst dramatically rolling my eyes at the white-as-my-pale-skin ceiling, my name is LikeATeen. Obviously, that was not listed on my birth certificate; my parents, only getting used to the thrilling world of Microsoft, would never have given me an username in preparation of the soon-to-be-famous Facebook a few years later.

Anyhow, I also have a petit secret which I must disclose to you, in the manner of handing over a black bag full of sweets where your poor, rotting teeth would never survive another bite of a sticky Drumstick: my heart has fallen far lower than losing a grip on my two inch heels due to my ever-growing passion of The Sims 2 PC game. Yes, a teenage girl can be blessed with the ability to feel such powerful, often unbreakable passion over a mere video game which was released nearly a decade ago. Oops, have I already revealed much more than my heart desires?

If you had given me a question regarding video games a couple of months ago (before my yearly panic about leopard print t-shirts during the summer well and truly sank in like a saturating bar of oh-so-heavenly chocolate), my head would have spun around in shock, as I would attempt to read an extra page of Interview With The Vampire without complete disgust clouding my thoughts. The nearest that I had got to even remotely enjoying - of course, with a satisfied smile curving my lips and taking all attention away from my monthly joy of spots - video games was listening to Lana Del Rey's song of the same name. OK, builder's heaven Minecraft or violent-as-my-hormone-fueled temper Call of Duty were, to my gaming addict brother's disappointment, not featured in the song, but I couldn't help but appreciate such a glorious, albeit un peu gloomy tune. Tearful teenagers - at times, the spot-on description for myself - like that sort of thing, right?

Yet everything was ready for a massive change as my yearning to purchase a Sims game grew stronger and stronger - sure, I didn't mind this at all because I wished to prove and let the world know that girls (even with goth-like purple lipstick that others hardly love the sight of) can play video games, too. And The Sims - a game where you can simply create virtual characters and have complete control of their lives - somehow stood out to me, regardless of the year it was released.

So, one day whilst trawling around a supermarket hardly much larger than my bedroom, my eyes - covered in a thicker-than-my-hair one inch layer of eye shadow - scanned the aisles carefully (probably in the hope of avoiding the frozen apple crumble in the food sections, the sight of which provokes an uncontrollable yelp of disgust from my mouth), eventually landing upon a Sims 2 game, loaded with the Nightlife expansion pack and Celebration! stuff collection. Picking up the DVD in a breathless hurry (who knew that half-stale fruit could encourage you to leave a shop within moments of entering it?), I took a leap of faith, with my brother's perfectly-shaped eyebrows lifting into the polluted air, and chanced my luck, praying that the money I spent on the game wasn't going to be a waste. God knew how much I desperately needed a nude lipstick (which I still haven't discovered).

This year - alongside coping with grief and appreciating short-lived curls sticking in my poker-straight hair, as I have frankly discussed in previous posts - I have learnt a tremendous amount of knowledge, which will hopefully remain stuck in my ever-expanding brain like the tough super-glue that my mum uses. Not only do trainers send me into a frenzy to stick my not-so-kitten heels back onto my feet and all of my childhood hopes of appearing (and winning!) on The X Factor have all but been dashed, like the overcrowded stock of unwanted Lindt bunnies on Boxing Day in shops (for those without wiser tastes), The Sims 2 has won my oh-so-rare seal of approval, alongside an university-themed expansion pack and an increasing amount of cheat-induced alien babies running wild on the Desperate Housewives-like suburbia neighbourhood.

The reason why I've fallen in love with the game? Unlike the endless outbreaks of spots which draw attention away from my bouncy-as-a-tennis-ball mane of hair and the unwanted spam piling up in my virtual mailbox, The Sims enables me to grab life with reins and enforce the events which ought to occur in daily life for virtual beings - a feeling which hardly anybody, regardless of the amount of money or influence they may have, can use to their advantage. Well, at least without great consequences (where have I heard that expression before?).

In comparison to the often violent and gory video games which are constantly picking up countless awards and winning over legions of fans across the world, The Sims may be deemed in the eyes of some as 'boring' or in fact 'lifeless' - so, if this is a display of life for virtual characters who have no place in the world, what can be said about reality for us? Not all new and up-coming games are obliged to follow a similar path which has already been set upon by fellow and previous programs; isn't the whole point of attracting an audience is promoting different situations and scenarios, not necessarily brutal events which would disgust one to the core?

Take it or leave it, there is no denying the fact that I love playing The Sims because of its simplicity and attractive plot, all of which is handed over to the gamer; don't teenagers crave an epic hunger to be given freedom easily over a plate? Well, here is your opportunity, though it is in the form of a video game.

Whether it is creating an union between two loved-up 'Sims' (the obvious choice of word 'for character'), helping one set upon the long, exhausting job ladder or even changing a Sim change their hair colour - how I envy them for not resorting to chemical-ridden, root-destroying dye! - The Sims offers the ideal gaming experience, nonetheless of one's gender or age.

Of course, not every single thing - from the now-out-of-date graphics to the noticeable lack of social interactions - ticks all of the boxes on the list, but nevertheless I'm hardly in a position to complain, especially as the game only set me back less than £10. Yes, wouldn't it be an even more honest display of real life if Sims had no choice than to visit and anxiously wait to see a doctor for three or more hours, as some many (unfortunate) people nowadays are obliged? I guess that there is only so much that can be featured in a game, particularly one that was voted as the best year of a crop load back in the days when I would willingly wear pink dresses with an eager delight. Cringe.

Maybe in the future, I'll muster up the courage and have a go with the third edition in the continuous Sims series, but, as I currently check the prices available on Amazon, it definitely won't be for a good while yet. Besides, why give up the version which I so strongly enjoy when it simply offers no more than easy-going pleasure?

As many video gamers say (and I cannot believe that it is on the verge of being blurted out), Happy Simming!

Woohoo, I'm having kittens - no, not really...

Let's face it, adopting two new pets is as sweet as licking the wrapper of a Cadbury's caramel bar - who, with their faces welling up with eager excitement as though Christmas morning had just arrived, could find the temptation to jump with delight at the thought of bringing furry friends into their loving home?

I, for one, cannot wait until that moment comes in all of its wonderful, joyous glory: for several weeks, my house has been free of a light pat-a-pat padding along the thin-as-Barbie's-waist carpet since the last of my two first cats, Jerry, flew into the fluffy clouds and was reunited with his singing sensation brother, Tom, who had waved his final goodbye back in March.

Slowly, my mind has adjusted to no longer hearing Jerry - a handsome, dark tabby moggy whose purrs, which certainly made up for his lack of meows (or squeaks, as they ought to have been titled), would send the house into a second-long shake whenever a curve of a satisfied smile lit up his oh-so-adorable face - leap off a bed and scramble down the stairs to be let out into the garden, where the sun would be hazily shining upon his gloriously silky-as-Galaxy-chocolate fur coat and he would soak up all of the pre-morning Vitamin D before hopping back indoors, awaiting his breakfast. Well, I'm not entirely convinced that he knew his socks (as if he could wear a pair, anyway; his claws were dangerously sharp, despite his efforts to not get stuck on the carpet) off in relation to Vitamin D, but Jerry was one smart cookie, whose loving and adoring nature cheered my family and I; how will I ever be able to forget the manner in which he would lie against my legs in the late evening, his ecstatic purrs making my feet shake?

Just like everybody else where misfortune has befallen them, losing a pet - or two, in my case, both of which within six, bitterly short months - can bring you down to your knees as heartbreak begins to break you and you have no other option than to face the five stages of grief ahead of you - 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression and 5. Acceptance - with a heaving, heavy heart.

When my model-like, golden tabby-furred 'brother', Tom, took his final journey on a cold March morning earlier this year, I experienced the five stages of grief far more strongly than I did to a certain extent with Jerry - if one is faced with bereavement for one of the first times, I guess that the feelings are pushed to a whole new level, which, in certain ways, can be perceived as utterly terrifying. Try to imagine taking a ride on a jam-packed motorway on a dark Saturday night (obviously, I would be breaking the law - a subject for which I'm ironically studying - because of my age): sweet, peaceful serenity wouldn't have a chance in calming your erratic nerves, would it?

As time passed and my mind started to re-adjust to the daily actions of Teenage Life (the literal meaning of this blog, remember!), I gradually reached the final stage of bereavement, acceptance, as no scientists had made an extraordinary discovering where one could travel back in time: just like picking up the awfully-difficult-to-comprehend French language, I learnt that there was no turning back, however much I strongly detested the events that had taken place. If it was meant to be, then nothing could be done about it. Despite my ever-growing desires to challenge her ways and sometimes unnecessary lessons, my voice was not loud enough to compete against Mother Nature: therefore, writing became more of a solace for myself and the perfect method of venting my frustration and sadness at waving 'au revoir' to my cuddly, singing soprano, Tom.

Yet when Jerry suddenly traveled to his rightful home - the one he was destined to share with his brother/partner-in-crime - I flew into a state of shock, mixed with a drop or two of despairing disbelief, because my mind - once again wrapped in a tight bubble, where I could neither understand nor feel anything - could not believe that I was going through the same ordeal within such a terribly short space of time. Was sadness set to become a familiar face again and again?

And so, reader, a beam has lit up my face as brightly as a Yankee candle - euphoria is set to re-enter home and bring two adorable, playful kittens into my family! In reality, it may have only been a mere, yet tiring month since the final packet of fish-flavoured Felix cat food wafted into the cool air, but October couldn't have dragged its heels for any longer; when 1st November dawned yesterday, a sense of relief flooded my body because I was offered the opportunity to turn over a new, albeit orange-tinted leaf and get prepared for the pending arrival of the kittens, whom my family have called Benny (a cat featured in 60s' classic, Top Cat) and Bart (no guesses there!).

Luckily, my family were granted our wish to meet the New Kits on the Block several weeks ago, as they were supposedly aged around six to seven weeks old. My heart poured with glorious glee as I patted Benny's tiny head with only two of my fingers; and I almost cried with joy as I caught sight of Bart taking a snooze whilst lying on his back!

As each day leads up to the eventual countdown of taking Benny and Bart home, my wild elation rises as rapidly as a loaf of bread whilst waiting for The Call which will confirm the date when everything will take a right turn. If only a pouch of patience could be added to my Christmas list...

Wavy Hair - Is it my destiny?

Oh my gosh, I can't believe that I'm actually having a proper OMG moment, complete with raspy gasps of shock and American-inspired gushing, as I've literally been knocked off my two inch heels in utter surprise.

Come on, let's have a little guess about what has just happened to me. I promise that I won't leave you making drastic assumptions for the whole of lunchtime (and all of those 'tempting' steakbakes sell out at Greggs). Winning the Lottery would totally be the Hollywood-perfect answer, however it couldn't be a million miles away from the hard-hitting truth. I, LikeATeen (I almost typed in my real, acceptable-in-the-eyes-of-many name; good thing that I don't publish everything, eh?), have a proper curl sticking out in my otherwise dead straight hair, somewhat posing in delight over gaining some proper attention other than the spots lightly dotted over my complexion.

Yes, beat that, hair-styling-heaven-to-the-gods, BaByliss Curl Secret - my curl is 100% natural! There may no longer be any desperate need to splash out on a legendary (well, soon-to-be, so it still counts), life-changing gadget if my hair is somehow producing curls of its own; perhaps this is my Christmas miracle, albeit quite early like the numerous Argos adverts blaring from the TV? Gosh, I would love nothing more than to say yes with a mighty, don't-you-stop-me-now smile lighting up my face, but the explanation for my hair's sudden change in behaviour is, to my heart-breaking disappointment, is fairly simple: for almost a week, I've given up using GHD's on my deadly straight-as-eyeliner hair as it is, well, straight enough.

So, if I take to the time to poke my head out of the December issue of ELLE for a moment or two, it makes a LOT of sense when I think about it: why should I take around ten minutes of my precious-as-a-Tiffany's-diamond time to poke a bulky pair of straighteners near my head whilst my hair is perfectly fine? Sorry, sorry if my moaning - I mention this in case you weren't aware of my slightly scathing tone - makes your blood boil as dangerously as a kettle if you spend your evenings staring out at the moonlight sky, making a wish as a white-gold star glitters above your window in the hope of your frizzy hair becoming razor-smooth overnight. Everyone always wants different things, don't they?

Still, I can't deny that it makes such an appreciated change to be beaming with a sprinkling of smug pride because my hair - which, back in the Old Age (a.k.a a mere few years ago), used to be my top topic to complain about - for once in its ever so greasy-as-a-diner life looks the way I've always wanted it. Well, aren't I not entitled to my moment of happiness just as yet another lot of ruddy red spots break out of a contained prison over my face?

Well, let's see how long I can bear to live without my beloved GHDs, shall we? Knowing my unfortunate run of luck in relation to my hair, drop-dead gorgeous curls always have the tendency to disappear - I'll probably be in need of that BaByliss Curl Secret after all, particularly as mine is preparing to unravel...

The Perils of a 'Nice' Halloween

OK, I might be a little over a day late to place my full attention on Halloween, which sent millions of chocolate-eating youngsters into a spook-tastic (I apologize for my creation of an adjective which probably doesn't make much sense; the Oxford Dictionary would undoubtedly be disappointed in me) frenzy last night via knocking on the whole of their neighberhood's doors in the hope of receiving free candy.

Am I the only person who believes that Halloween - made famous for its passionate love of wicked witches, hairier-than-my-legs werewolves and blood-sucking vampires - has lost its bite? Every year, the drill has taken familliar courses of action - all the supermarkets begin to load their aisles to the brim with slime-covered cupcakes, 'scary' treats and another load of plastic cups and cheaper-than-my-earrings costumes, which seemingly fall apart before you so much as touch its fabric - and I dare say that it has made Halloween an over-commericalized 'festive' holiday, no longer as entertaining or terrifying as it once used to be.

Perhaps my endless viewing of so-called 'spine-tingling' films have left me immune to be scared out of my (lightly-spotted) skin; what could possibly be the main purpose of Halloween if it didn't even send a chill down your spine? Ghosts (whose pale complexions with whom I'm on a par, if I've applied too much foundation; always a terrifying sight in the morning), vampires and even werewolves have been portrayed as kinder, more child-friendly creatures in recent decades - in certain ways, a huge relief for parents who have feared that their children would come across the true adaption (and one of the best) of Bram Stoker's Dracula on Sky Movies during a Saturday night (and depriving themselves of some much-appreciated rest) - but has it truly sucked the life out of the original meaning of Halloween?

Nowadays, 'ghosts', with less haunted expressions and even a hint of a sweeter-than-apple pie dimple on their cheeks (courtesy to Cheryl Cole, whose ultraa-bright smiles always haunt me in every fashion magazine I dare to pick up), seem friendlier and certainly not as haunting as the ones featured in classic horror films, such as The Amityville Horror and The Fog (must make a mental note to raid my brother's film collection - now!). Before I confuse you or even myself, I'm not complaining about all ghosts being portrayed as friends with whom you would hang out on a Friday night; Ghostbusters managed to combine both the chilling and more down-to-earth elements without sacrificing on the gut-wrenching horror (perhaps not the adjective to use; the film is rated a PG, afterall) or sending young children into a fright behind the sofa for hours on end. So, why does seem to be a near impossible task to entertain and fright viewers - if film writers had the ability to get ideas like those back in the 80s and the 90s, then nothing ought to get in the way of writers in this era.

In my opinion, one of the most logical reasons for Halloween no longer raising hairs on my back (as if I need to see them) is that perhaps people have reached a point where they cannot or will not attempt to scare others: thinking about it, isn't our generation tougher than a pair of aged leather boots? I think so. If a film - or any other form of entertainment - makes too much of an effort, it may result in cheek-flaring failure - and why risk it? Just like the ever-slowing economy, you have to watch your every step - even if it appears to be too over-rated for an occasion like Halloween.

Age, I guess, has not only made me obviously older (and a heck of a lot prettier!), but also wiser in relation to being scared out of my wits - fear never presents itself as strongly as it does when one is of a younger age and far more innocent (unless the endless searching for Christmas presents inside the house has already turned a child). These days, the sight of a spider with longer legs than my own is more likely to provoke a hair-raising shriek from my painted-in-gloss lips: also, vampires have a higher tendency to receive a breathless gushing from teenage girls due to the popularity of The Twilight Saga. Even I haven't got the guts inside of me to deny a one hundred year old vampire's breath-taking beauty and stunning, out-of-this-world powers. Oh, I can't believe I just wrote that.

So, could Halloween ever regain its spooky rigeur and title as the phenomenon that would force us in flee in a terror on a chilly late October night? Perhaps this phase will only be a short-lived blip, a slight bump on the ride; or, as times continue to change, I'm simply not following the route which almost everybody is trekking. Friendly, sometimes adorable 'monsters' are suited to some people's tastes; I certainly know for sure that the overly sweet flavour isn't welcome to my hard-to-win-over tastebuds.

At least my beloved dark chocolate - just as tempting as a charming allure displayed in a horror story - never lets me down, year by year. Still, what could possibly beat the spook-athon which is best known as Halloween?