My Caffeine Addiction.

My boyfriend and I are spending Christmas with my Mum this holiday; my first Christmas with him and my first Christmas taking him home with me. I’m looking forward to it more than you could possibly imagine. However there is one thought at the back of mind that pipes up occasionally.
“Will Mum mind I’m drinking Monster all day?”

Monster being a 500ml can of energy drink with about 250 calories per can. It’s probably where I get most of my calorie intake from. And I admit, I have a slight addiction to it and the addiction to Monster has developed into an addiction to Caffeine. I definitely drink less of it than I used to, but I still drink over the recommended daily allowance I’m sure of it.

Caffeine is messing with my, already messed up, sleeping schedule. For example, on Saturday night I slept from 8pm till midnight, then I was awake for an hour but asleep again by 1am to sleep through till 730am when my alarm went off on Sunday morning. In contrast, last week I fell asleep at 8pm, woke up again at 10pm then cleaned the bathroom with bleach from top to bottom, followed by our bedroom and was still awake at 1am when my boyfriend got home from work.  

This morning I woke up at 1030am, was out of the house by 1 and now at 230pm I’m yawning at my screen. No rhyme or reason to anything anymore.
The withdrawal headaches and the sleeping stresses are enough to make me suggest something I never said I could do; I’m going to give up Monster for 2014. I’ll still have a caffeine intake, because I don’t think it would be safe to take such a staple part of my diet away so quickly, but it will only be from coffee and any painkillers cut with caffeine. I will drink more water, because I will never want to be dehydrated again. I will not buy four-packs of Monster from the shop on the corner.

Adding it up in my head, if I give up Monster I’ll actually save a substantial amount of money. Here’s a week of my life, and the Monster’s I consume.

Monday – One on the way to first class, before second class, one at home.

Tuesday  - One in the morning, two at night.

Wednesday – One on the way to work, one when I come home.

Thursday – One on the way to work, one when I come home.

Friday  - One on the way to class, one after.

Saturday – One on the way to work, one after.

Sunday – One on the way to work, one after.

So… at an average of £1.19 a can, I spend £17.85 on Monster a week. I could quite happily have an extra £20 to spend on something else; the winter boots I really need, next semester’s books, birthday presents…

Therefore I, Lex, proclaim that from January 1^st 2014 I will give up Monster. Unless shit really goes down, because in that case I’m a weakling little bitch and need to fall back on my crutches. Sorry.  

Collectables

They say that the word ‘now’ is a bomb that’s thrown through your window, whose wick you can watch fizz away into nothing. When I think about time, I think about how things come back into fashion; like leotards and high-waisted shorts, skinny jeans and Converse.

Time is a dressmaker whose speciality is alterations.

Time is who I was and who I am and all the things I know now.

Time is the new and the old and the difference in between.

The only thing that stops time is a photo. A moment caught on camera, captured for the world to see; what we were wearing, what we were doing, who we were friends with…

*

Manhattan, NYC. 2001.

 Jason’s grandmother had sadly passed away recently and she’d left him her house in Dallas. He was more interested in the vintage camera he’d found in the attic than anything else in the house. The moment he saw it, he knew he had to have it. There would have been so much history wrapped up in it, he just wanted to be a part of it. It was a camera that, he had decided, was probably from the early sixties. It had a dent in the side, but it was still worth the best part of $500, and that was today. Jason couldn’t imagine how much it would have cost in the sixties; let alone how much it must have meant to someone.

It was still early in the morning but the sun was already bright in the Manhattan sky. People in suits rushed up and down town to get where they had to be and no one noticed that the sky was unusually clear for early September.

Smartly dressed in his grey pinstripe suit, Jason left his apartment on 87^th and Lexington just like he did every morning. When every morning was the same, he could cruise through on autopilot. This morning was slightly different as he had to pop into Duane Reade on the corner to pick up some photos he’d had developed. His grandmother’s camera had at least fifty undeveloped pictures on it.

As he walked to the bus stop, packet of photos in hand, he thought about his family and mused about his life just as you do when you’re walking somewhere you know so well. His wife left for work the same as he did every morning, but she went the opposite way; she worked on the West Side.

His family life was hectic, but that faded from his head as he got to the bus stop.

Settling on the bus, Jason sat in the same seat he did every day. Second in from the right; it was the idyllic spot to watch his favourite city go by and to psyche himself up for the day ahead. He tucked his newspaper under his arm, and flipped open the lip on the packet of photos; he expected family photos, old family pictures of kids playing in the sun or maybe a school graduation.

 It was this fascination with the past that enthralled the man so much into parting with his money for some photos someone else would have just let rot in an attic.

*

Dallas, TX. 1963.

Bonnie and her friends practically ran to the corner of the street, squeezing through the masses of people and hubbub on the street, all trying to get to the same place.
One girl put her hands on Bonnie’s shoulders “This is the most exciting thing to happen all year!” A group of young girls had been given the day off work to see the President and his wife on their visit to Dallas; they lined the sidewalk all wanting the best view.

Outside the Texas Book Depository in Dealey Plaza the streets were a mass of people all moving at once. A whole range; young women just like the secretaries from the office down the street; old men who wanted to say they’d seen President Kennedy in the flesh before they died, little children who looked on in awe and laughed at the hordes of people hunting down their spot on the grass bank. Everyone wanted their glimpse of the Kennedy’s; he was a celebrity and she a fashion icon.

“Do you remember that little pink dress she wore in Vienna?” The youngest of the girls asked Bonnie. Ensuing a moment of clamouring fashion talk, all the girls talking over one another, smoothing down each other’s clothes and plucking at loose threads.

Bonnie swapped the camera in her hands back and forward; it was heavy and her hands were slightly clammy. She didn’t understand why she felt so nervous. Winding the handle that allowed the camera to capture moving images; Bonnie made sure she had enough recording time to see the President’s motorcade.

Having a camera at her age was a complete rarity. Bonnie knew this, she knew she didn’t earn very much herself and she knew people around her were looking, wondering how she had the means to a camera such as this one. Truth be told, it was a gift from her parents for her twenty first birthday this year. They both saved all year so she could have it and it meant so much to her. And now look, here she was. Standing on the edge of history; holding history, watching history. She was going to be a part of history.

“Oh gosh, I can hear them coming!”

The streets grew quiet as the sound of a car pulled along an adjoining street. The cheers made the tension in Dealey Plaza that much more exciting. The people of Texas collectively held their breath.

“Bonnie, get ready! He’s coming. He’s really coming.” Bonnie’s friend tittered in her ear as she smiled.  Bonnie took a shaky breath in and held her camera up to her face as the President’s motorcade got closer.

 ‘Maybe he’ll be wearing a grey suit’ Bonnie thought to herself, her excited eyes craning to see. ‘He always looks good in grey. And Jackie, maybe pink again? No. White, she’ll be wearing white I bet.’

The President’s motorcade seated the President in the back along with his wife Jackie accompanied by Governor Connelly and his wife in the front. As it slowly entered Dealey Plaza the cheering erupted; the shouting and the sight of handsome President Kennedy made Bonnie smile unawares. Her chest swelled with a rise of patriotism in her heart, there was no positive emotion that she wasn’t feeling; happiness and the excitement of standing at the edge of history.

President Kennedy was smiling and waving and as he pulled past Bonnie was adamant he looked right at her and smiled. She struggled to keep her camera up and steady from all the jostling around her.

Jackie Kennedy, America’s first lady, as beautiful and poised as ever sat next to her husband. She waved delicately out to the crowd and giggled happily at their smiling joyful faces; she held the flowers she’d been given upon arrival in Dallas on her lap, from where Bonnie was stood they looked like red roses. Governor Connelly and his wife were equally as present, smiling just as the Kennedy’s were but something was different.

‘He is the Governor of Texas, but he’s nowhere near as handsome as Mr. President’ Bonnie thought as her eyes followed the car, along with her camera. ‘They’re just not as glamorous.’

 “Mr. President, we love you!” Sandra from the office yelled as the car approached. Bonnie laughed; everyone in the office knew Sandra was a big fan. Sandra’s eyes had glazed over with glee; she wanted to commit this memory to her brain for life. The day she saw President and First Lady Kennedy, in her very own town, down the street from her own little office job.

An unexpected sound ripped across the forecourt of the plaza, making every single head turn, every hair on the back of every neck prickle up.

 “What was that!?” The girls grabbed onto each other, their frantic eyes scanned the crowds around them. Bonnie kept her camera up, confused. She saw people grasping their children close and collapsing flat on the grass as if to avoid gun shots or an explosion.
“Did the motorcade blow a tyre?”

Another bang.

And then one more.

“Oh my Gosh, Kennedy’s been shot. They shot the President!” Someone in the crowd cried as people fled from the streets in hysteria, some already in floods of tears.  Bonnie looked up from the viewfinder on her camera to see the right portion of her beloved President’s head get blown away into nothing, across Jackie’s white suit.

“No…They’ve shot the President!”

Bonnie’s hands fell out of the air, her limbs suddenly jelly. The camera landed harshly on its side.

*

Leaning his shoulder against the side of the bus made Jason’s seat rumbled as he watched Manhattan fly by his window; the tourists, the New-Yorkers, the jay walkers. His unopened pocket of his freshly developed photos sat on the seat next to him. The bus was fairly empty, even as it crawled down town.

As he was about to open the photos and leaf through what he was sure to just be pictures of his grandmother’s youth when he noticed a little boy playing a few seats in front of him. He smiled, the child could have been no older than seven or eight and he sat with his mother reading aloud all the street signs that they passed on their route.

“East seventy second street…”

The vibration on the man’s shoulder was stronger than usual, he knew because he took this bus on this route so often, sometimes twice a day.

“East sixty fifth street…”

He felt it in his legs, and eventually it crept up and grew in his chest too.

“East sixtieth street…”

The rumble kept growing, quietly for now but definitely getting bigger, getting faster.

“East fifty seventh street…” The child went on.

“Mommy...Mommy!” The child tugged on his mother’s coat sleeve.

“Look Mommy, a plane!” he said, his skinny little arm pointed up.

Jason, in his the grey pinstripe suit, looked up again from his blackberry and craned his neck to glance out of the dirty bus window.
The little boy was right, it was a plane.

All the man could think was “My God…’

The man’s eyes were transfixed on the large moving object in the sky above them.
He strained his eyes to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
He raised his phone to the window and he took a picture.

‘...that plane is flying awfully low.”

*

Newtown, CT. 2012.

Show and tell was Izzie’s favourite part of her teaching week. Friday morning, in her elementary school, meant that Miss Izzie Smith got to hear all about her student’s favourite new toy or something they’d done with their families over the past weekend. It was first grade she was teaching, which meant all of her students were only six or seven but seeing their faces light up when they talked about their older brother’s new car or the new family dog made Miss Smith’s week. 

Currently, Oscar James was snivelling at the back of the classroom because it wasn’t his turn to take Chocolate, the class hamster, home with him this weekend. Megan Rowe was doing a wonderful show-and-tell presentation about a camera her Uncle Jason had given her when she and her family went to visit him in New York City, or as Megan referred to it “…the place where the all lights are always on and no one ever tells you to turn them off…”

Her Uncle Jason had become very well known in the last ten years or so because he’d bought a vintage camera online, the camera Meg was telling class 4E about now, and he’d found pictures from 1963 when Kennedy was shot stored in the film. He eventually commissioned the photos into an exhibition at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and gave the camera to Megan, as long as she promised to let her Mommy and Daddy take very good care of it.

“…and Uncle Jason says that if I held it up to my face like this…and look through this tiny whole here…” Miss Smith listened intently to Megan’s story “…that I can see history from all of America…”  She was interested, but also delighted in the progress Megan had made since she’d been in this class. That was the trouble with being an elementary school teacher, especially with younger children, you get so attached when you watch them grow up and then when they move up into the next grade, you end up missing their funny little ways.

Class started at 7.30am, because the younger ones don’t have homeroom, but about 9.35am Miss Smith heard what she thought sounded like popcorn loudly popping come over the classroom intercom.

Megan heard it too and stopped talking momentarily to look up at her teacher.

“It’s okay Megan, you carry on…” Izzie smiled, nodding enthusiastically to the little blonde girl.

Smoothing her grey pencil skirt down, Izzie headed over to the door of her classroom, looking back at her students for a second who were still all watching Megan. Izzie opened the door and stepped out slightly, she noticed Miss House from the classroom opposite doing the same.

“Did you hear the…” Izzie’s casual comment to Miss House was cut off by a door slamming at the end of the corridor their class rooms were on.

A man stood at the door way about 100ft away from the women and looked at them for what felt like eternity, before slowly, sadistically raising his right arm until it was parallel to the shiny grey tiles under his feet.

In his arms he cradled what the women knew to be a gun and yet a second passed before they registered.

“Run!” Izzie screamed at Miss House across the corridor and they both slammed themselves back into their classrooms as Adam Lanza, the man with the rifle, ran towards them.

Doors closed but not locked, both women rallied their children who were beginning to panic.

“What’s wrong Miss Smith?”

“Why are you running, we’re not allowed to run?”

*

They say that the word ‘now’ is a bomb that’s thrown in through your window, whose wick you can watch fizz away into nothing.

It turns out that time can stop, if only for a moment.  

Clocks stop ticking, phones stop ringing and dogs stop barking.

These are the moments we remember for the rest of our lives.

Nevermind November.

I'm tired. Very tired.
I'm selfish. My laptop's just died it's final death. No resurrection possible. (My guess, anyway.)
I'm putting off writing my Dissertation by writing this.
I'm putting off my essay about American Conspiracies by writing this.
I'm thinking of doing a Masters, which means oned ay my name might be;
Miss Lex Brookman MA
...Or something like that.

I have a meeting at 9am with my designated dissertation supervisor and I am regretting deciding to book in at 9am. Why so early?
Every monday evening with tuesdays 9am meeting looming, I sigh into bed dreading the next day. I never thought University would be like that.
I assumed thast University would inspire me and make me a better person. Okay, so it probably has, but the magic is fading.

I'm in my third year. My first semester of my third year and God only knows what I'm going to do next year if I don't do a Masters. Am I more employable with a Masters?
Can I take another year of working alongside University to pay the bills?
Can I take another year of working in the same God forsaken pub with the same people?

I have no idea.
But I do know that I don't want to have to worry about it anymore.

I need to find a place to live.
I need to find another job.
I need to talk to someone about the possibility of me getting a 2:1 on this degree.
I need to talk to someone about the possibility of me getting onto a Masters course I may actually enjoy and benefit from.
Most importantly and on top of all of that, I need to make time for my boyfriend who never stops trying to make time for me.

Warm Guns

The wooden drawer in my bedisde table came out with the sound of the trollies scraping along the frame. It was a quick sharp pull that made all the books and loose pennies slide forward with a jolt.
Under the books, I felt around in the darkness and dust until I found what I was looking for. I slid the barrel back as quietly as I could and settled the gun into the V of my right hand, all whilst my eyes were glued to the staircase in the corner of my room.
There was someone downstairs and I felt safer knowing I had my gun.

I wouldn't kill anyone, I knew that. Maybe a few warning shots and then if they started to come at me, or they were armed, I'd get him in the leg or something.
It was the middle of the night, so in my black boxers, old paint splatted t-shirt and my hair in a messy top knot, I padded down the stairs - gun out and up.
I wasn't expecting visitors.

My house is a nice house. I have a lot of books which are stacked up pretty high everywhere but aside from that it's tidy. It does however look strangely eeire with nothing but the street light coming in through the window on the landing.

As my feet crept along the carpet, I realised I had neglected my hoovering chores. Looking around the corner, gun first, I followed my bare feet across the corridor and listened at the door to the lounge. I could feel the breeze on my ankles at the crack of the door jam.
I edged the door open a little.
I felt a breeze across my face as I looked through the gap; the windows in the lounge were open.
Even thought he gun had slept unused for months now, it felt safe and warm in my hand, my palm slightly clammy against the hard grip.

Mentally, I counted down...

5

4

3

2

"Get down, I have a gun!" I shouted out into the darkness, the door swinging open. Silence.
I waited and heard nothing still. With my gun still up I flicked the lightswitch on with my elbow. The room flooded with llight and the blinds knocked against the open window.
My arms fell to my sides. I lef the window open when I was smoking in here this afternoon and must've forgotten to lock it closed again.
I did not have visitors.

The Silencing of my Lamb.

The baby screamed, and I was tired.
Screaming, screaming, screaming.
The highest pitch; the most blood curdling wail.
"I'm coming" I hissed into the darkness, knowing she wouldn't hear me nor understand.
Opening her bedroom door, the screams did not falter.
"Shh, now. Shhhh" My pleading whisper fell away into the darkness as I lifted the writhing screaming bundle to my chest and held her close.

"Shh now. Sleep. Shh my little lamb."

Screaming, screaming, screaming - I rocked her back and forwards, holding her closer and closer. I felt her gasp for breath in between screaming and still I held her closer. Her face so close to my chest. Tight.
Muffling, stifling and then nothing.
There was silence at last. Silence from the screaming.

Karma, Lush Solid Perfume.

Karma is my smell. My boyfriend smells it, or anything vaguely similar and thinks of me.  

With main notes of orange, patchouli, pine, lavendin, lemongrass, elemi and cassie the Lush website 

boasts that wearing this perfume feels like "running through the fields on your way to Woodstock." 

I can't say I know what that feels like, but wearing this perfume does make my day brighter. 

Kind of, hair flowing in the breeze, sunshine warming your skin, happy day - brighter. 

Spicy sunshine in a bottle that's also available in a spray and an atomiser. 

As well as a perfume, a soap, a karma combo shampoo bar, a bubble bath bar... The karma list is endless.

(I also recommend the Karma body bubble bar. Leaves your skin soft and everything smelling wonderful!) 

I'm not sure what either elemi or cassie is but if they contribute to creating this magic stick then the more the merrier. 

A spicy, happy smell that gets the day going but also manages to keep you warm throughout the whole day. 

Like I said, magical sunshine in the bottle... And only £5 for one stick, each stick lasting me around two/three months. 

JK Rowling; The Saviour

God knows what I would have done throughout my childhood without the Harry Potter books to keep me sane, but for other people out there in the world these books were literally life saving reading material. 

Evanna Lynch, aged 11, battled Anorexia for 2+ years until she managed to gather the courage to write to her author-hero JK Rowling. The Irish actress, Evanna, wrote to Rowling to thank her for the magical wizarding world of Harry Potter that she could escape to; the books gave her "hope". 

Writing back "like a councellor" Rowling encouraged Evanna, through multiple letters to overcome her eating disorder with bravery and then to strive for the role of Luna Lovegood; the role Evanna is now famous for creating. Miss Lynch is noted to have looked up to Luna throughout reading the novels thus amplifying the significance if her finally landing the role. 

"Anorexia is destructive, not creative. The brave thing to do was not to succumb to it..." Lynch recalls from the resonating advice given by Joanna "Jo" Rowling. 

Evanna is now a survivor of Anorexia and has not returned to her disorder, she's pursuing her acting career and also working with the Harry Potter Alliance Charity where she gets to write and talk to young girls about body issues. 

Thank you, JK. 

Three for a girl, four for a boy...

So, I've been thinking about pregnancy a lot lately. Not in like a "Ooh, I'm feeling all maternal" way, but just in a pondering way. More like a "hmmm" than a "ooh" way. Gettit? 

70% of the girls in my college class are pregnant or have already had one child. Okay, that's clearly not an exact percentage because I'm not that mathematically motivated, but I'm pretty sure 70% is an accurate representation of what is going on. Okay, back to my original point; There's a lot of girls who're pregnant. And now a bunch of my adult friends are getting married and getting pregnant.

I don't need that for me now, I don't want that right now, I'm happy where I am but I can't help but ponder it all. 

The girls in my college class can't have planned their pregnancies, surely? They can't have wanted that for themselves at 18/19/20? They're Facebook's give a different idea though, so many announcements of "happy news" and news they have "waited so long to share..." Along with various photos of blurry bean-shaped things in a sea of black that is apparently what the pregnancy-savvy call Ultrasounds. 

I was talking to someone today who's bruised their coccyx doing God knows what, I offered them some painkillers as any friendly person would do. However, the person in question knows that I don't take paracetamol or ibuprofen, I take Cocodomol; just because I'm a wimp and I really don't like pain. She declined my offer, with "No thank you, I can only take paracetamol at the moment." Something clearly code for "I can't put strong pharmaceuticals in my body currently because I'm carrying an unborn foetus..."

Does pregnancy really put a lot of strain on what you can and can't do? 

Are there things apart from the obvious narcotics that you can't ingest? 

Am I wrong to believe that if you're pregnant you're meant to glow and be happy and glossy all the time? Is that not what pregnancy feels like, even if you look like the cautionary whale? 

Maybe I have more to learn than I thought.... 

Lex 

Dangerous Days of Being a Writer

Today I got a glimpse of what it might be like to be a real life writer. I got up when my boyfriend went to his "proper-job" at nine, I showered and I got myself dressed all with the intention of having a productive day.
The morning was productive to be honest. I wrote my Mis En Place for the day - something I've picked up from my chef-boyfriend - it's basically a list of everything I've got to do today. For a chef it might be a list of preparation and various chopping to do whereas my MEP list includes things like going to the bank, checking my hours at work, returning things to various stores etc.
Anyways, with the intention of going into town and doing all of my things I walked into town around 2ish because I intended to go to Starbucks for their 3pm-5pm Happy Hour to sample my new favourite; the triple caramel frappucino. However, the Winchester store is closed for rehab until July. This made me incredibly sad.

Coffee-less, I completed all my errands and I got the bus home.
Monster in hand, due to my lack of coffee, I decided to watch one or two episodes of Grey's to inspire me and calm me at the same time. This is where the productiveness stops. I watched three episodes and promptly fell asleep.
Now, I'm four hours later and still watching Grey's. Now my housemates are home, and I've still done nothing. It's not that I lack motivation - I'm motivated, but I'm motivated to do everything the hard part is deciding what to do first.
My dissertation.
My journal.
My poetry work.
My blog.
My innocent earnings for more twitter followers.

Either way, and for no apparent reason, I have done nothing today and I am feeling far too over emotional to talk about it anymore. Maybe it's days like this when I realize I shouldn't be a writer because I would do nothing and have no money and die.

Whatever.
Lex.

Winchester Tells Everyone...

To my horror, a student at Winchester University has created a Facebook page; "Winchester University Tell Him/Her"
This webpage allows you to send in tips and things you haven't got the guts to say in person, which are then posted anonymously on the Facebook page, for all to see.
Does that ring a bell? Set us on The Upper East Side and we've got our very own Gossip Girl.

This is a bad thing. Obviously. Whether the things posted are true or not, it's a degrading way of dealing with things that we are old enough to know how to cope with by now. I had more faith in my generation, that we wouldn't resort to some kind of Gossip Girl - Burn Book. It would seem I was wrong.

"Calling somebody else fat will not make you any thinner. Calling somebody stupid will not make you any smarter. And you've got to stop calling each other sluts and whores.It just makes it all right for guys to call you that."

 

Does that sound familiar? It should. It's from the world-famous movie Mean Girls. And I hate to side with cliche, but it's true. What's the point in standing up for ourselves constantly if everyone else believes it's okay to publically humiliate us and tear us down all the time?

Although not personally affected by the website, why am I the only person who feels this is a terrible idea?
I expected more of you Winchester.

Lex.

Winchester University SU Awards

Let me start by congratulating my housemate Demi Snape (@DemiSnape) on her award that she recieved yesterday; Fundraiser Of The Year for her work with Cure Leukaemia. Millie is Demi's cousin and is six; she was diagnosed with Leukaemia last year. Demi, being the family-girl that she is, took it upon herself to jump, freefall out of a plane with Go SkyDive. 10,000ft through the air, Demi made all her friends and her family so proud. Overall, Demi has raised just under £600, on JustGiving, towards her cousin's medical treatments as well as the same again for the Cure Leukaemia Charity.
Attending the ceremony with Demi just made us all more proud of our girl, not just for the fact that she smashed every target she set herself but also for the fact that she is being recognised for it. She desereved all the praise for what she's done both for Millie and Cure Leukaemia.
"I have loved being able to give some money to a wonderful cause,. A massive thank you goes out to Go Skydive for being absolutely incredible today and again thank you to you all for showing support for children with Cancer it means so much to me..." said Demi, on her Facebook page, on the day of her dive.

Demi is just one of my friends who are doing spectactular things on a daily basis, whether it's being promoted at work or being hired for the Entertainments, Communications and Welfare Officers through Winchester University's Student Run Elections.
As I sit on the sofa, moan about how I don't have the right flavour of Monster Energy Drink or how the next episode of Grey's Anatomy wont load on my computer I muse on all the things I could be doing, if I tried.
I want to try for things I really do, it's just the fear of failing that holds me back.
This all started last night at the Awards Show, my four friends socialising and networking with everyone, setting up meetings for the week about how to make our University a better place to be when I'm stood rocking back and forward on my Jeffery Campbell Spiked Lita's. I don't know anyone or anything...

Maybe it's time for that to change.
I'm going to try and find a pro-active hat to put on.
If I can find one in the mass of clothes, pizza boxes and Monster Energy/Stella Artois cans that is my bedroom floor.

Maybe I'll have an amazing story of my proactivity to tell you, next time.
Maybe.
Lex. X

Sober Is Sexy

“You don’t need drugs to have fun but you do need Sober Is Sexy to look good...”

Sober Is Sexy is a Los Angeles based clothing line - but it’s not only that. Oh no. Founders Hanna Beth (@HannaBeth) Bori Mischief (@BoriMischief) and Hayley Moriston (@GoAskHayley) believe that Sober Is Sexy is not only a clothing line, but also a motto and a movement. The pressure for teens, American, English or anywhere else in the world , to engage in taking various substances is massive and it’s only growing.

Sober Is Sexy (@SoberIsSexy) has sky rocketed since the launch in October of 2010 and that can only reflect on teenagers believing in themselves to say no their friends and to make their own decisions.

T-Shirts emblazoned with “Heroin Killed The Radio Star...” and “The Only Coke I Do Is Diet...” are being sported by some of the hottest young talent in LA as well as the regular American teenagers. For example Demi Lovato (@DDLovato) , the young Hollywood starlet known best for her roles in Disney’s Camp Rock 1 and 2 as well as her hit TV-show Sonny With A Chance, has been through a number of trials and tribulations in the last few years, involving alcohol and issues with self medication,  which resulted in a three-month long stay at Timberline Knolls.
Timberline Knolls is a leading residential treatment centre in the US (near Chicago) which helps women struggling with eating disorders, alcoholism, drug addiction, mood disorders, trauma and PTSD. Lovato entered the treatment centre only to be released a few incredibly tough months later with a life saving plan and the inspiration to get back on track – since then, she has also been a firm supporter of the Sober Is Sexy brand, being photographed sporting their goods around the US and most importantly drumming the motto that sobriety is attractive in young women into her fans across the globe.

When Twitter explodes with hashtags including; #SoberIsSexy  and #SoberIsTheNewBlack it gives me hope for our generation. We don’t have to be the way people label us. I know, just as anyone who doesn’t drink whilst at University, that it can be difficult in certain situations but I would rather stand up for myself and what I have come to believe in than ruin my night out because of social acceptability.

Sober Is Sexy ship worldwide, so check them out.
http://soberisexy.bigcartel.com/products
(5% of all the sales from the Sober Is Sexy website goes to a new substance addiction and abuse organisation which changes every six months. Currently it’s Friendly House LA (@FriendlyHouseLA.)

My Converse; My Safety Blanket

It is very, very rare that you will see me out and about not wearing my Converse High Tops. Let me just put that out there. Colour of choice; black, obviously (If in doubt, wear black)
My Converse are my comfort blanket, my safety shoes, my go-to footwear. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wear them every day. Every day, bar the occasional night out when I don my bad-girl boots AKA my Jeffery Campbell Lita’s in Black with Silver Studs. (I wanted the ones with gunmetal grey studs, but Selfridges & Co didn’t have them in stock. Still, I guess the silver studs are more dramatic.)

Anyway...yes. Converse. If I could, if I was allowed, I would probably get married in my Converse. I don’t see why not? The dress would probably cover my feet anyway so my Grandmother couldn’t be offended.  I’m sure Chuck Taylor makes all-white Converse? Totally wedding attire.  I think I would willingly wear Converse with any outfit; getting coffee with my friends –  a beanie, jeans and Converse, bar tending at work – black skirt, tights and Converse, on a date – blouse, blazer, jeans, Converse.
Follow Converse on Twitter - they "make rad sneakers and apparel" 

Follow J Campbell on Twitter for more bad-girl boots!

With my Converse on foot, there ain’t nothin’ I can’t do. J

What Fresh Hell Is This? A Brief Look at Dorothy Parker.

Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
and drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful,
Nooses give.
Gas smells awful,
You may as well live.
                                   Dorothy Parker – Resume (Enough Rope, 1926)

I first heard Resume when watching one of my favourite movies; Girl Interrupted (Angelina Jolie, 1999) and only recently have I learned it was a Dorothy Parker poem. Parker attempted four times to kill herself,  by means including slitting her wrists and an overdose, however death waited until all her friends were dead and blessed her with a fatal coronary on June 7, 1967.

Still, before her death in ’67, Parker was one of the most accomplished female writers of her time known for her dependency on alcohol (a result of failed marriages, miscarriages and affairs) as well as her sharp tongue and personal quotes still used today in modern culture.  Surely you have heard the phrase “What fresh hell is this?” or one of my personal favourites “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.”

In my research for this piece, it would seem Dorothy Parker first said “What fresh hell is this?” to a caller who had interrupted her creative flow one day.  I’m sure we’ve all had moments like that. Having liked it so much, Parker took to answering the phone like this always; another trait to add to her character of sardonic wit and quick thinking.

Her horticulture line came to her in seconds. After her career took off at Vanity Fair, where she wrote theatre criticism temporarily as a stand-in for PG Woodhouse; Parker, her close friend Robert Benchley and Robert E. Sherwood began lunching at The Algonquin Hotel on a daily basis. This spawned the birth of the Algonquin Round Table. A group of witty writers would gather, muse on life, and toss ideas to one another, competing in writing exercises. Reminiscent of many creative writing classes, one idea was that they must use a certain word in a short poem. The chosen word; horticulture. Dorothy Parker’s attempt; “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.”

I’ve chosen to look more into Dorothy Parker’s life more than her works because I supposed there must surely be some emotionally crippled, sarcastic, flippant woman of the 20’s behind her works.  Turns out I was right. Unbeknownst to her suicide attempts when I started this piece, it only intrigued me further. Why I didn’t catch on sooner, I’ll never know; with a book entitled Enough Rope (1926) you’d think that would have struck a chord? Although the chosen title of her book does pose questions, keeping her penchant for suicide in mind – is she searching for enough rope? Does she finally have enough rope? Will there ever be enough rope?

May 2000; I broke my arm

I understand that children cry wolf for attention, I get that. But my name is not Peter, and when I say my arm is broken, I expect people to believe me – especially the “first aid trained” secretary at Beulah Junior School in Thornton Heath, Croydon.

Now it’s not very often when a child has more medical common sense than a trained adult, but it does happen.  It’s 10am, a sunny May afternoon (I know it was May because it was the week before my seventh birthday) and I was playing in the playground. We were playing IT , as most kids of our age did, as I put both my arms out to reach the wall that was HOME before the boy who was IT got me, the wall suddenly got a lot closer and I ran arms akimbo into it.
Crumpling onto the floor like a cartoon character that’s been flattened by a train, one singular thought pulsed in my brain. I’d never felt such pain before - I knew my arm was broken.

So there’s  me. Seven years old and standing in front of the secretary, telling her I’ve broken my arm and that she needs to call my Mum. Clearly, the bone misshapen in my left forearm wasn’t enough for her. She told me to stop being so melodramatic and to go back to class. Because I was seven, and my Mum had always told me to do as I was told I did, it was English class and we were reading TS Eliot’s Book of Practical Cats.
I sat in class silent as a mouse, which was unusual for me at the time I am told. Unable to hold my arm up anymore I let it lay on the table as if completely severed.

Lunch break came and went at midday, but I didn’t go out to play – I didn’t climb on the frame, I didn’t run with my friends. My arm was bruising now and an underlying tone of purple was erupting beneath my semi-translucent peach skin, tears still fresh on my face. Still I am dismissed by teachers and my mother is not called.

Three o’clock and my little face must have beamed at the clock. School let’s out and I left my class, hauling my book bag along with me, in my good arm obviously. Tess Mather is waiting outside to pick me up and because seven year old me was taller than all my classmates I could see over all their bobbing heads to my Grandmother. Upon reaching my Grandmother, I promptly burst into tears.  My arm hurt and no one believed me.
Now, Tess works for the NHS three days a week, but she always picked me up from school every day.  She knows a broken arm when she sees one so being the responsible Grandmother she is she rushed me to hospital. When I say rushed, I mean we went home; called my mother and then took the bus to the hospital. This was back in 2000, and my Grandmother didn’t have any money or a car so a bus was the only option. Must’ve been hell in rush hour with a miserable seven year old cradling a sore arm. I must ask her about it one day.

I sat, still wide-eyed and innocent in my red pillar-box school jumper, lolling against my Grandmother’s chest waiting for my mother to come to Mayday’s A&E waiting room. My mother wore pearls and expensive perfume by Cacharel and she worked full time in a doctor’s surgery in Central London. With all these medical professionals in the family you’d think someone would believe me, I wasn’t the kind of child to make things like that up. Although I did once mistake growing pains in my shins for blood clots and I thought I was going to die. (I’d just watched a documentary on TV about people who get blood clots in their legs when flying, and they’d died.)

By 8 o’clock that evening, I was home safe back on Hunter Road with a bright orange plaster cast on my arm, and headed back to school the next day. I remember being interested as to what the secretary would say about my personal diagnosis now and how wrong she was.

So, yeah. When I was seven, I broke my arm. No one believed me, and I didn’t even get a day off school for it. 

Summer In NYC; 2010

The summer of 2010 I was halfway through my BTEC national diploma in Performing Arts and my French A Level when I moved transatlantic to stay in New York for a month and a half. I was in heaven.
I’d just come back from performing at a festival in Oostende in Belgium but nothing could have prepared me for the sticky summer city heat that I felt when I got off my plane at JFK – I’ve never known a city so humid. London is never that bad in the summer.

Thinking I’d be spending my summer in a normal city I had only packed jeans, t-shirts and the occasional summer dress. I should have known, NYC is not a normal city. The city that doesn’t sleep; the big apple.

I’m a city girl at heart and living in London for most of my life I’ve noticed – these cities have their personalities. London is the promiscuous Miss that’ll go straight out after work, dance and drink until the walls can’t hold her up, find someone to go home with and then appear back at work the next day in yesterday’s eyeliner and a dress that also looks vaguely similar. Manhattan is the socialite butterfly flitting from Fifth Avenue, to Central Park, to a bar to a house party in the village before rushing back up town as the sun rises to squeeze in breakfast with her family.

As well as the cities, the inhabitants certainly have some interesting character traits about them. John T Cahill for example, wore an expensive suit and handmade shoes. He was so uber friendly I had begun to wonder if I’d walked into a movie. He was a business man, and he asked if I as new to the city (clearly I had a sign on my back reading New York Virgin, or it could be the constant look on my face of amazement). I met him on one of my first days in Manhattan whilst I was walking around the 1.58 mile jogging track which surrounds the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, otherwise just known as the Central Park Reservoir. We only spoke for about ten minutes but before going on his own way, he gave me his card and said if I ever needed a tour of the city, he’d be delighted.  A part of me always thought he thought I was a little older than I was; me stood there, wide-eyed and reasonably innocent, having only just turned seventeen.  When I look back on it now there had to have been something a little unsavory about his character.

Crumbs Bakery on 93^rd street played host to my next meet cute with a New York random. His name now escapes me but he looked vaguely like Jeremy Renner (Hawkeye, Avenger’s Assembled.) He was wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with TEXAS across his chest. Having grown accustomed to the perfect homemade lemonade, the idyllic mix of sweet and sour, that the Crumbs Bakery provided, Crumbs had become a regular pit stop for me in the sweaty heat.
So, killing some time chatting to Texas and his highly intellectual young son Achilles Alexander was fine by me. (I don’t remember Texas’ name, but Achilles Alexander is a name you tend not to forget ) We chatted about Manhattan, the topic of everyone’s conversation no matter if New York virgin like me or New York born and bred like Texas. Then  Achilles had finished his cookies and it was time for them to skateboard home.

I was staying in an apartment on 87^th and Lexington, on the fifth floor of an amazing building with a doorman. Having a doorman was an incredibly new experience for me. Someone to hold the door open for you, tell you about the weather, take in your take aways, hail you a cab, say hi to you every day and this particular doorman always made baby small talk with city dog; Brody. Brody was a small, hairy yet cuddly dog of undefined breed, who inhabited the apartment with me. Part of the deal of my staying there was that I walk Brody morning and night. Admittedly it was more midday and midnight, but either way, the dog got walked.

Along with Brody, the apartment was everything I needed and more. Two lounge areas separated by a partitioned wall, a single room, a perfectly adequate sized kitchen and a double master bedroom with an ensuite bathroom which was off limits to me. But not apparently to my cousin who occasionally frequented the apartment (his parents owned it). I thought he was Manhattan’s golden boy attending Hunter College and looking at prospective Universities this summer, but it turns out he actually likes to invite his friends over and sit in the ensuite bathtub with them, smoking weed with his stuck up, Upper East Side friends.
For an example of their uppity behaviour, my cousin Zachary and his friend Ian were paying, parting with actual dollars, to learn how to do a back flip; because it’s something so necessary to know in the Manhattan life style.  A professional back flip teacher was instructing them – for God’s sake. Come on, find an open space and teach yourself if your heart is so set on it.  They have the vast open space that is Central Park on their doorstep and yet they choose to trek all the way to Brooklyn to flip into a pile of foam blocks.

(NB; Smoking weed in a public place is an offence, it is not however in your own property or on The Great Lawn in Central Park. From what I’ve heard, the Great Lawn is similar to Speaker’s Corner – you can pretty much get away with anything.)

Zachary was only a year older than me so when it came time for him to leave the city for a weekend to visit Universities in Washington DC, I tagged along for the ride out of curiosity.  We stayed in a delightful middle of the range hotel called The Georgetown Suites (1111 30^th Street, NW) -  the hotel is located right in the centre of Georgetown which meant the rows of idyllic shops, on M Street, were not far away. I particularly enjoyed the whole store dedicated to Ben and Jerry’s (something I have never seen in the UK.) Staying in DC, however was the only time I’ve ever had anything stolen from me, the night we happened to visit Ben and Jerry’s after dinner at a local restaurant I realised my sunglasses had been stolen. So to all you New York safety sceptics, I felt safer in the heart of NYC than I did in DC.

We had bookings to visit George Washington University as well as American University and The University of Georgetown. I went to the Georgetown viewing but quickly realised, as beautifully architecturally  built historic G-Town was, I could find other things I was more interested in seeing than the inside of a classroom I’m never going to study in. Or should that be, seeing the inside of a classroom I could never afford to study in? $20,000 per year is not something I happened to have sat at home.

In one short afternoon in the sweltering DC summer, way hotter than Manhattan by the way, I walked to the Lincoln Memorial, all the way along the mall, up the pool of reflection to the WWII memorial, down to the obelisk and finally back up to the White House. I must have walked miles that day. I distinctly remember sitting on the lawn in front of the White House and thinking that this would be the closest I was ever going to be to Obama; I’m actually okay with that.

After Zachary was done in DC, we headed back to Manhattan. I was glad for the excursion, but I still felt I was missing out on things happening in the city. Before I went to DC, I’d been in New York for almost two weeks, in that time I’d managed to do most of the touristic sight-seeing that everyone expects you to do. In one afternoon, I did Wall Street, Staten Island, The Statue Of Liberty and I’d wandered around Grand Central a lot too.
My visit was ten years after the 9/11 attacks, and I did feel compelled to visit the memorial site at Ground Zero. A massive void marks the place where the towers once stood now surrounded by rows upon rows of memorials. FDNY- Never Forget. PDNY – Never Forget.  A bronze plaque runs along a building next to the site and it reads “Dedicated to those who fell, and those who carry on.” That saying and my time spent at Ground Zero stayed with me for the rest of my trip even though I was only eight  in 2001 when the news billowed with smoke and sirens and even after ‘d come back from DC to start living in NYC, instead of holidaying.

In one of my remaining weeks in NYC, I visited The East Village taking in the student meets bohemian feel.  I remember particularly enjoying lunch at The Life Cafe, reading The Village Voice. The Life Cafe is where Jonathan Larson chose to set his rock opera version of Puccini’s La Boheme; Rent. I had performed  in my theatre company’s version of Rent the October previous to my trip, so this lunch felt slightly like a pilgrimage to the place where bohemian life was all anyone ever needed.

Rounding off my trip, there was only one more NY tradition to indulge in; Broadway. I managed to convince a friend to come with me to see Burt Bacharach’s “Promises Promises” starring Kristin Chenoweth (Wicked, Pushing Daisies, Glee) and Sean Hayes (Jack in Will & Grace). With dancers with legs like the Rockettes and singers that sent shivers down my spine, it was a thoroughly engaging performance. My friend enjoyed it equally as much, because a few weeks after my arrival back in London, I received an email about how he’d taken his whole family back again.

When I look back on my time in New York now, three years down the line, I remember it all like it was last summer. Looking through the thousands of photos stirs the feelings of a battle between innocence and independence that I was riddled with at the time. I filled my spare time with visits to Barnes & Noble, I spent far too much money on Pinkberry, and I fell in love with the Starbucks’ drink only available in America, and so perfect on a humid day in the city; Passion Tea Lemonade.

If I could take certain people back with me, I would go tomorrow. The city changes just as fast as I do and I know I won’t be able to stay away from the bright lights of Manhattan forever. I miss sitting on the steps of the MET just watching the world go by, finally finding  Strawberry Fields in Central Park right next to The Dakota Building that John Lennon was shot at, finding the cutest little stationary shop in Grand Central, lunch in Union Square reading Teen Vogue and Seventeen magazines. Oh, and who could forget my little moments in Crumb’s Bakery on 93rd street?

One warning to anyone planning a day in Brooklyn, I would get the metro. Walking bridge is an initially a great idea but when you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be off the other side and you’ve been walking across for twenty minutes, you’ll regret that decision. I speak from experience.

A Week Of Firsts (03.03.12)

So this week, I have done a number of things I have never done before. I found a deep dark love for croissants that I had been harbouring. I ran for ten minutes on a treadmill at level eight. I went into a bunch of vintage stores in Winchester.

However, the “first” I’m choosing to talk to you about this week is a little more prominent for me, than discovering my love for 95p each croissants.
I was sat at The County Arms last night, on a table outside, a choice I soon regretted as I was only wearing a skinny vest and tracksuit bottoms. I sat with four of my closest friends, and a slightly older gentleman who had a pile of important looking papers in front of him.

“Any questions?” The older gentleman asked, whose name I later remember to be David Birmingham. We all nervously shook our heads. Tonight was the night we signed our housing contract, meaning that after weeks of trawling through websites and walking round and round Stanmore and Weake, I finally have a place to call my house for next year.

For me, just like all my friends, this was our first time ever signing a legally binding contract. This was a big commitment for me, I mean I can only commit to the gym, or a relationship for about a month before I start getting itchy feet, let alone a house for a whole year.

But, I can do this. I’m growing up – I live at University, I do my own washing, I buy my own Sugapuffs now. I can do this. These were the thoughts rushing through my head as I picked up the pen, focussing my eyes on the dotted line next to my name. Momentarily, before signing on that dreaded dotted line, I looked at my friends.  They looked nervous. My friend Katie, the most organised out of us all, nodded at me encouragingly. She wanted this house so badly – we all did. I looked at the envelope in my lap. £525 of my overdraft sat in front of me, waiting for me to hand it over.

A small moment of doubt in my mind, what else could I spend that money on?  I could afford that Green Day shirt I wanted. A new laptop, a new phone;  all materialistic things, I am aware.
No – I need this house. We need this house.

Back in reality, I focussed again on the line and began signing my name. With each swirl of my cursive handwriting, I thought of another reason why I wanted to spend this money on other things. I’ve actually never spent this amount of money on anything before; the most expensive thing I have ever bought was my laptop and that came out around £400. Still, my sensible side got the better of me as I finished up, and passed the pen to Dan sitting next to me. It was his turn to panic now.

But as I watched Dan go through the same process I had just been through, I exhaled. The tension in between my shoulders eased as I rolled my neck.  This wasn’t so bad; maybe this actually was me growing up. I’m signing contracts. I’m getting my own house. I’ve got a house. 

A Visit From A Royal...

A royal what?
No-no an actual Royal. 

A member of the Royal family. 

Brother of the more well-known Prince Charles (aka The Prince Of Wales), we were visited by Prince Edward, Earl Of Wessex. He was officially opening the new St.Alphege building at The University Of Winchester. A building I'd been having classes in for the past 3 months.
Being almost fifty he looked good for his age, but he still wasn’t the twenty eight year old Prince Harry I would have much preferred a visit from. Still, Harry is probably off gallivanting in Vegas, doing God knows what with God knows who.

Anyway, it was the morning of Tuesday, 29 January  when Prince Edward graced our class with his presence. Half way through a class actually; Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.
Cameras and reporters from The Hampshire Chronicle and The Echo milled around the room, as I sat there: hair sticking up all funny from the rain, yesterdays clothes and barely one cup of coffee inside me, incredibly photogenic.

The brief conversation Prince Edward had with our group now deserts me – it can’t have been that scintillating. I do however; remember noting how...unroyal he looked. No sparkly crown, no jewels, no luxurious red cape trimmed with white feathers...
I was disappointed. The Mayor had more bling than the Prince. He was rocking his ostentatious gold chain. Standard.

Gone as quickly as he arrived, it seemed the mental list of inappropriate things to say, forced manners and nerves were soon redundant. I must admit, when we received our ‘one minute warning’ of our guests approach, it did feel vaguely reminiscent of a film when the President of the USA is in the building.

If Prince Edward really wants to see our University in action, with students in their natural habitats, maybe he should amend his visiting times and check out the local watering hole. Make it midnight, on a Wednesday at the SU.
If Harry is anything to go by, the royals know how to party. 

Best Friends

 When your best friend is sick, you wish you were sick too. Just so you can share their pain, simply because you know you can't take it away. When something happens to you, be it funny or sad, earth shattering or minute, you want to tell them. That's the person you should call your best friend. The one that you can call in the middle of the night, and ask to come and get you from somewhere. The one who'll stay awake for you, even when they're shattered from working a sixteen hour day, just to make sure you get home safely.
The person who cares for your safety almost, if not more than your own mother, that's the one you need to keep safe too.
They'll never be annoying, they can only be hilarious. Their jokes, no matter how horrific, or how many times you've heard them before will always be stupidly funny - even if you're really just laughing at them. That's okay, because that person is your best friend.
You'll put a movie on and talk through it.
You'll get on the phone and sit in silence.
You'll buy a bag of sweets, and they'll like the ones you don't. Or they'll like the ones you do, then you'll have to fight over them. The difference between a friend and a best friend is that a friend will let you have the red ones, the best friend will make you fight for them.

When you find that person, never ever let them go. And never forget to tell them how much they mean to you. Because, be honest, you wouldn't know who you were without them.
I know I wouldn't know how to be if I didn't have my best friend.
You don't need anyone else; your best friend is everyone. And you should know, that if not physically stood in front of you, then they're with you in spirit and heart, because there's nowhere else you'd rather be than with your best friend.

Bondage.

Even reading the word alone makes you shift awkwardly in your seat and clear your throat. It's okay if you're still a little nervous about it.
BDSM is becoming more and more popular since the launch of EL James' "Fifty Shades..." novels, but for some reason some people it's still a taboo subject.
If you feel that way, maybe we wouldn't get on. Maybe you shouldn't even be reading this. Honestly it's okay, go back to your cup of tea, climb back into your vanilla sheets and lay your sweet head down. Leave the exploration to me.

We started off fairly basic, a little light restraining, a spanking session here and there. Then slowly we introduced pink PVC bondage tape, an idea borrowed from a sexually-deviant housemate, and then there was a time we used a tie that my partner had paid £140.00 for from Paul Smith. We by-passed poorly made handcuffs, and progressed swiftly onto our newest venture; cable ties. Yep, plastic, DIY cable ties.
(NB; be careful when using cable ties. You have to leave enough space to get the scissors in between the cable and whichever body part you deem appropriate, otherwise this could be more dangerous than you had in mind when it comes to cutting them off.)

So, yes I will admit to being willing to explore, with someone I love and trust, however - we have rules. Obviously we have rules. He doesn't put it where I don't want it, and I don't mark him. We've all got our own limits and having a relationship like I do, let's me delve into exactly where mine, and his, are.
Trust and the ability to have open conversations about sex are vital to having any kind of sexual relationship; especially when you're pushing limits and playing with fire.

Of course, I don't mean literally playing with fire. Or do I?