I have recently come across what is now probably one of my favourite blogs. Its called The Model’s Office and is run by a model called Adela Capova, who writes about her cherished experiences as well as tips on being healthy and fit; where to eat and visit etc. Whilst reading this blog DOES admittedly make me tempted to wish to be a model (ha, dream on Adele) just so I can spend my life wearing awesome clothes, traveling to fascinating places and eating in the best restaurants with my boyfriend , it is more the traveling part that I want to talk about.

Within the last year or so I have realised that as far as the big wide world is concerned, I have done very little. I try not to think about it, because if one thinks about these things for too long they can start to feel a bit depressed, and I don’t want to become caught in a negative spiral towards apathy. But it’s true. I have seen so little of the world, and although twenty one years of age makes it seem as though I’m still very young, to me its two decades during which I could have been visiting some of the most amazing places and learning so much about other ways of life.

I have always known that I wouldn’t stay living in the small North West town I’ve grown up in with my parents. I’ve always wanted to dash about a bit, living in various areas of the country, possibly even the world, before deciding on somewhere to settle down in. I don’t believe we can ever truly know about the world or humanity until we have experienced other ways of life elsewhere, even if only briefly. It simply makes me fidget when I think about these things; when I think about all the wonderful (and even the not so wonderful) events that are going on right now, that I could may well get to the end of my life never having viewed them with my naked eye. (Well, minus the contact lense.) The thought of reaching later adult life having done none of these things due to becoming too tied down with a job and a mortgage makes me squirm. I don’t think I could bear it if that happened.

Although I am not wishing to blame anyone for my lack of adventurousness these past few years (it’s mostly my own fault – I bottled out of taking a volunteer trip to Africa to do community work when I was in sixth form, which I now deeply regret as Africa has been on my list of places to visit since I was about 14. What was I thinking??!) my main problem is that my parents do not share my point of view about travel. Of course, they realise there are some fascinating places in the world, and of course, they take holidays in other countries and go sight-seeing and all the rest of it. But they’ve lived in one place their entire lives, and grew up in the same town, and they don’t see why anybody (namely, me) would want to break away from that. In the same way that they believe the University Experience is basically crap (in some ways I agree, but in other ways I don’t. University has allowed me to do many things I would not have got the chance to do, but it would be difficult to explain this), they also believe that “real life is on your doorstep”, as my dad once (terrifyingly) told me. I do understand where he’s coming from. Of course there is a story to be told everywhere, including the place you’re from. But for me, it’s not enough. I don’t think I could be happy simply living near my parents, blindly believing that there is nowhere better to live, simply because they said so. I’d much rather go out and experience it for myself.

I’ve known for a while now that this is the sort of life I’d want to lead, ideally. The worrying thing is that even when I merely moved to Liverpool to get some freedom, which is half hour bus ride away from where they live, they made a huge fuss. If I don’t visit home for longer than a week and a half I start to feel really guilty, because I know the kinds of things they’ll be thinking. And they don’t tend to buy that students get busy. Even though I do, very much so. So imagine what it’d be like if I lived somewhere like London (which I do want to live in at some point), or even another country? I have known ever since I was little that I wanted to visit the states someday, probably because I watched so many Hollywood movies as a kid. But its never gone away, and is highly unlikely to unless I visit as many U.S states as I can muster in the next ten years. Unfortunately this will probably come at the cost of hurting my parents. Not on purpose, and not out of spite. These are things I have to do. The difficult part would be making them understand that. And even when they come to terms with it, they’ll brand me as “the daughter who never visits” or “the daughter that’s all about her career”. The really infuriating thing is that if I managed to grab an internship in London, they’d probably treat it as though it were a bad thing, whereas I’d be bouncing around the room joyously.

I’m glad I’ve had a stable childhood – growing up in one house; always having a home to come back to etc. But this year I really feel will be the time for me to fly that coop. My boyfriend and I are already looking for some summer volunteer trips we can take to developing countries, to do something amazing, or a small last minute break to somewhere exotic (as I whine that I’ve done the whole holiday resort thing countless times – I want to go somewhere unusual. He lovingly takes this into account. My boyfriend is amazing.)

And then there’s those graduate jobs/internships to apply for. Who knows where I’ll be this time next year?

Last Saturday 18th Feb, my cousin and I had our joint 21st birthday party. The picture above is indeed where the party was held, with its glowy coloured lights, sparkly ceilings and probably the coolest sinks in a restroom that I have ever seen. I don’t intend to write in detail about the events of the last couple of days, but it was one of the best weekends I’ve had in a while, and after months of planning by mine and Olivia’s parents, it all seems to be over in merely the blink of an eye. I hate when that happens, but its a common occurrence that I’m sure everyone experiences.

My boyfriend was there, with everyone else I know and love, and it was nice to actually just have the friends there that have actually stuck by me through the years and whose friendships has always been implicitly felt, even though we can’t always hang out together these days due to our lives taking us in various directions since high school. It wasn’t the largest group of friends – just the select few with their respective other halves. But it was all I needed, and wanted. I feel pretty blessed in this life that I’ve learned how to prioritize and differentiate between real friends and sham friends, from a relatively young age.

It’s a weird thing, having your own party. As one of fifteen cousins/grandchildren/nieces & nephews, I’m not used to having so much attention on myself from my particularly large family. Of course the attention was shared between me and my cousin, but on top of my dad’s family I had my mum’s family, my boyfriend’s family…and then outside friends of the family too. It took about an hour an a half waiting at the top of the stairs to greet everyone as they came through the entrance, and only then did I feel the party could really get started. By then it was time for food, so I spent some time making sure everyone knew so they could make their way towards the buffet table and wouldn’t miss out on the hot stuff, or the 150 cupcakes my auntie had baked and painstakingly decorated for the occasion (they were all wearing little glittery hats and looked AWESOME).

By the time I had piled my own plate high as a kite and sat down with my boyfriend’s parents to eat, my cousin came to tell me I had ten minutes before it was time to give a thank you speech. A quick toilet stop, a few stops on the way to talk to some guests, and a couple of speeches later (including a rendition of Thank Heavens For Little Girls by my dad. No, seriously!) it was time for a dance. But at 11pm people started leaving, and they continued to gradually leave cluster by cluster until 1:00am, by which time I felt like I could no longer breath in my corseted dress, hadn’t eaten much at all, and had even missed a couple of songs that I’d requested to be played. Having said all that, amongst the madness of trying to get around to spend a little bit of time with as many people as I could (I don’t think I managed it, but there was about 130-150 guests. Forgive me!) I got to have ample dancing time with Bartosz, my siblings, friends and cousins. (I think Barty was definitely right when he said that a party like that isn’t really for you. It’s for your family.)

On Sunday evening after my dad had brought Rob, Paul and me back to the Fort, and I had gone with Barty to the train station to see him on the train, I felt I was on such a post-party downer. I’d gained some more money and beautiful presents (like having a birthday all over again!) but what I really wanted to do was phone everyone up and thank them for being so sweet to me and tell them how ridiculously over-generous they’d been. To be blunt, we don’t really do anything to deserve all the money that’s given to us at these occasions, other than survive, for eighteen or twenty-one years. I feel so foolish for spending my £500 18th birthday money on mostly clothes and make up (ashamedly). I wish I’d spent it on something productive and enlightening, like an eye-opening trip to somewhere exotic, or driving lessons. The truth is though, back then I don’t think I’d have been mature enough to handle these experiences, which is why I’m determined to not let my twenty-first birthday money go to the same fate.

So after my fun-filled weekend, its been time to hit the uni grindstone again all too quickly. Today was a good day however, as it was Pancake Tuesday! Here are some that Rob and myself made earlier. I hope everybody enjoyed theirs!

Yeah, I totes used a Subways song for my title.

Last weekend, I turned twenty one years old. It was a great day, full of fuss and attention from my family and relatives, and the recieving of some gorgeous, one-of-a-kind gifts and plenty of dollar. In the evening I headed back to our student house in Liverpool where my housemates had taken the special effort to clean the whole house before we proceeded to have a few close friends round for some  pizza, pokemon (drinking games) and of course, alcohol.

Even better, in two weeks’ time there will be another party, this time with the whole shabang – a beautiful and elegant function room with all my relatives, my boyfriend, my housemates and a few of my best friends from school. I have an amazing dress to wear and I’m actually really looking forward to it.

Alas, the road to get to this stage has not been quite so easy. A few months ago, I didn’t really like the idea of turning twenty-one at all. Mature adults are constantly heard saying things like, “These are the best years of your life,” and “It’s all downhill from here!” Why on earth would I want to wish away my youth? There have been many moments in the past where I have irrationally wanted to freeze time for a while at the age of 17…18…19, then 20. It sounds silly, but at each of those ages I have thought, “What if this is the best it’s ever going to get? I don’t wanna grow ooollddd!” and then felt silly for being a drama queen about it. But it’s true – over the years I have always felt uncomfortable with change because I’ve worried too much about the future. I also always disliked turning another year older having not achieved anything particularly spectacular or different to anybody else I knew. Again, its silly, but what can I say? I get impatient with myself when I feel I’m not being productive or creative enough.

Since the dawn of my twenty-first birthday, however, I’m beginning to feel differently about all that and realise just how unfounded my worries were. Because in truth, times have got better; life has got sweeter, and I feel more empowered now to take control of my own future than I have done after any other birthday. And I think I’ve been feeling like this for a while – with applying for graduate jobs and looking at wonderful apartments in London possibly having something to do with it. Being twenty-one no longer symbolises the end of my youth as it would have done once. It now marks the start of what will hopefully be a great adventure for me. Pardon the cheesiness of that statement. Youth is, after all, a perception. Some of the oldest people I know still possess that youthful charm and zest for life which are often associated with the young. I can only hope that I can maintain my own excitement and fascination with certain things until I’m older, and not fall prey to the dull clutches of cynicism, at least not completely.

There is still some fear looming though. Definite  fear. But maybe that’s what makes it so exciting. Maybe we have to feel nervous or unsure or unknowing to really feel excitement. Its often said that looking forward to something is the best part, because you have it all in front of you. You can imagine what it’s going to be like, and nothing else can come along and wreck it. Imagination is a powerful thing. The hard part, it turns out, is making that stuff real.

So wish me luck, because I’m going to give it a damn good try. Don’t overestimate me for one minute – this year is not going to be easy. Currently I have 5 days to complete 25 interviews for The Times Graduate Employers Research project, as well as one article to write, academic reading to do, a radio show to present; no doubt some job applications. After that its deadlines, exams, graduation, goodbyes, and whatever scary thing comes after that. Maybe I’ll find an awesome job, maybe I won’t; maybe I’ll move to a great apartment, maybe I won’t; maybe Chasing Infinity will get an awesome gig, maybe they won’t; maybe I’ll get to be near my boyfriend, maybe I won’t. But what I do know is that I have a fair bit of birthday money. At the moment I’m debating how I will turn it into my Big Splurge of 2012 – a trip to Thailand maybe – or perhaps I’ll do something sensible and constructive with it, like FINALLY learn to drive (woohoo). Whatever happens, here’s to my 22nd year.

This weekend I visited Barty in Oxford again, from Thursday to Sunday. It was a nice impromptu idea that we decided on just before my final exam last week, and it was a great feeling knowing that once the exam was over all I had to do was pack a case and have one sleep, not having to think about anything other than having fun with my boyfriend for four whole days.

I like to think that every trip we take to another city or country teaches us something. As I detailed in my last Oxford-related blog post, my eyes were opened to beyond that of undergraduate student life here in Liverpool and I was reminded that no matter how well you think you are doing, there are always going to be others that will outshine you. Sometimes you just have to work a little harder or aim a little higher. Its not a statement that everyone would agree with, and I’m not exactly pushing the cosmopolitan way of life as the only one that will matter. But to me its motivational and I’ve found Oxford a nice place to be inspired by.

I really don’t intend to make this a ranty blog post, but I feel I should mention that a lot of the bad press that the universities of Oxford and Cambridge get nowadays is kind of tiring. Every university has its administrative flaws and faults; that is to be expected. Yes, perhaps Oxford and Cambridge do have rather convoluted application systems, and yes, perhaps they are “elitist”. But they kind of have to be. Part of what has made these universities stand above the rest as far as their respectable reputation is concerned is that they only take the best, in order to produce the best. Every redbrick university has its own criteria for taking in students; only a few will take in everyone, regardless of their effort/capabilities. But as far as I was aware, this is essential so that different universities can cater to, and provide for, various types of students. Every student is different, from their talents and skills, to their work ethic and what they actually hope to get out of their university experience (for instance, do they have a particular career in mind or are they just in uni until they figure their life out? etc). It just wouldn’t make sense to have all universities try to provide for every type of course and discipline and every type of person. Yes, in a perfect world it wouldn’t be so bad. But in reality it is unlikely they would be able to do this well, without something or someone, somewhere, suffering.

People are quick to judge Oxbridge. If they have applied and were rejected, or are one of those people who thinks/have thought about applying but are too worried about rejection, they tend to rub their sore ego with heavy backlash, saying that Oxbridge cater only to the rich, and they shouldn’t be so hard on the thousands of students who apply there every year. They criticize the application process saying it puts “too much pressure” on applicants, and The Guardian is always all too eager to publish news of an Oxford student feeling unhappy with their life there. What people forget is that countless students are unhappy with university life when they realise it is not for them, no matter where they chose to study. And the application process is long and exhausting because it is thorough. It has to be. Places at the university are limited; you can’t knock an institution for wanting to make sure that the students that it accepts are worthy of the opportunity. Some readers may be dismissive of me referring to studying at Oxford an “opportunity” and brandish me as a blind-sighted worshiper. But to me, they are the blind-sighted ones. Isn’t the chance to study at any well-reputed university in itself, an opportunity? People take these things for granted.

One Oxbridge-related story that has recently really got my back up is that of sixth form student, Elly Nowell. Now I hate that I have to further her ill-found publicity by writing about her in this blog post, but unfortunately its necessary. After being successful enough to reach the interview stage at Oxford Uni, Elly rapidly changed her mind, realising that she “had nothing to prove” and that Oxford maybe really wasn’t suited to her after all. Okay, well kudos to the girl for being honest with herself. After all, as I just previously mentioned, not all universities suit everybody. You have to find the one where you think you’ll be happiest. For her, this happened to not be Oxford, and there isn’t really anything wrong with that. However, obviously letting the feeling of power go to her head after making this brave decision, she decided to write a sarcastic, parodied ‘rejection’ letter to the university, done in the style of the rejection letters they send out to students every year.

No, I don’t think that her weak attempt to ridicule an institution that is larger and more influential than she’ll ever be, was in any way ‘harming’ the university. No, I don’t think they’d have even cared that much upon opening it and reading it. So they lost one student, who didn’t even want to really be there anyway. What’s it to them? What irritates me is the seemingly mini social movement that has become attached with this gesture. Columnists are calling it an ‘act of genius’. She herself says that she wanted people to know that Oxford and Cambridge are “just like any other university” and are “nothing special” (its interesting that she states this, because she also says she had “no idea the letter would receive this much publicity”. Okay, so which is it? She either planned to make a statement by sending this letter, or she did it impulsively, without really thinking about its meaning.) She and others also say that it is good that these prestigious institutions are being made fun of, for once, because people are all too focused on worshiping them and the status they bring.

Of course its not healthy to push students into applying to Oxbridge if they don’t want to/are not ready for it/are not suited to the environment/whatever other reason. But it isn’t healthy to push students into going to university fullstop, and this happens all over the country. Yet people forget this and focus on Oxbridge, and what is more, they blame the institutions themselves for the influence they’ve had on education. What is the university supposed to say when somebody feels intimidated? “Sorry, we’ve spent centuries building up our heritage and our traditions and our serious, careful approach to education and success. But we don’t want the children of the working class to feel bad, so we’ll just throw it all in the trash.” It is also laughable that Elly Nowell had the nerve to criticise the actual building within which her interview was taking place, saying that it was “geared towards private-school students”. How sensitive can one be? Oxford Uni buildings are beautiful and timeless and classic, and reflect the long-standing presence of the university. What are they supposed to do? Knock down the interview building and put up a portakabin in her honour?

Yes, I realise I’m probably coming across as a big fat tory. People may also say I’m biased because my boyfriend attends Oxford. Yes, he does, but if anything, its given me the chance to talk to people within the university (granted, mostly MA students) and experience its surroundings and know that actually, they are just like most other (intelligent) people. I’ve often made jokes with my boyfriend about how once he settles into his life there he’ll find me rather ‘common’, or that they won’t let me within the grounds because I won’t match up to their criteria. But they are merely jokes, influenced by the typical press that Oxbridge receives. Nothing of the sort has actually happened, and if I were to apply for a masters there, I wouldn’t hold it against them for turning me away. Are we to really take everything personally in this life? If someone applies for a job and gets turned away, are they to criticize the employers for being elitist and unfairly judgmental then? What if we have to start at the bottom in a company? Are we all to think, “I can do better than this! I don’t need this!” and quit? It really does start to get quite ridiculous. The problem now is that young generations are starting to think they should get more, for less. They feel like nothing should be above them and they shouldn’t have to aspire to anything, for fear of losing their pride.

In my opinion, Elly Nowell would have made a much bigger and more profound and inspirational statement if she had managed to continue her application process and perhaps get accepted into Oxford. Her council-estate, working class background would have been a demonstration to others in her shoes that yes, success is achievable, no matter where you come from. Instead, she is simply capitalising on her fifteen minutes of fame as that girl that said, “Hey! Angry at society for putting challenges in your way?? Simply do what I did, write a condescending letter and feel good for a week!” What she did doesn’t set a good example. It merely says that if you feel threatened or intimidated by something in life, you can make yourself feel better by making something (or someone) else look bad. What a healthy attitude we are promoting to our class of 2012. I always thought the idea was to rise above it with dignity? To adapt and succeed?

To anyone who’s thinking of applying to the Oxbridge universities sometime in the near future, I beg you not to pay attention to this D-lister of society. It wasn’t a smart move – it was petty and juvenile, and will not change anything in the grand scheme of things.

What did I do with my weekend? I attended a wine-tasting sesh, watched my boyfriend at rowing practice, visited the Ashmolian museum, ate Tai food, played a lot of Foosball and pool with his friends in the St Cross college bar, played Mario Kart in their common room, and hung out with lots of fun and interesting people. Yeah. Oxford’s a really terrible place.

For example, when I discovered Osama Bin Laden had been killed, I was in my room at my parents’ house. I remember because my boyfriend texted me and said, “Osama is dead”, and in my sleepy and rather stupid state I initially thought of Barack Obama (the obvious rhyme) and was all, “Nooooooo!” It was kind of how I reacted when I heard Michael Jackson was dead – I didn’t believe it till I turned on the TV. Anyway, after rapidly recovering from my incredibly blonde moment (and never speaking of it until just now), I listened for a while to the news updates of how Osama Bin Laden had finally been taken care of, so to speak.The following day, the news was filled with joyous Americans gathering in the cities and ecstatically waving banners expressing how they felt that justice had finally been done and how America had triumphed. Here, jokes were made about how Obama had just won himself another election. At the time of it happening, I too thought of it as a happy moment. Bin Laden was a major threat to the world, one that could only be done away with by force, so unpredictable and uncontainable were his actions. It was black and white; plain and simple. However, in one of my seminars last year (an Investigative Journalism module) it was touched on in a class discussion and my tutor Adrian (who, I’ll admit, was quite opinionated and outspoken about these things to begin with) described it as “the shooting down of an unarmed man”. When put that way, I could instantly see the obvious ethical problems with the way the issue had been dealt with, from a human rights point of view if nothing else. Yes, he was a serious international threat and a criminal in the eyes of the law, but should he have been slaughtered in this way? The handling of Osama Bin Laden is an issue that could probably be discussed and debated at length.

The revolution of the people in Egypt I wouldn’t have known much about if it wasn’t for Bartosz, who has actually kept me in the loop about most world (and nationally political) events last year to be honest. I’m the world’s worst aspiring journalist – I rarely keep up to date with current events and when I do, I find it hard to understand a lot of the political talk. Since last year however I have become better – I check the BBC homepage most days and feel generally a lot more tuned in to stuff (surely a step forward for the girl who once momentarily mistook the name Osama for Obama??) For a  short time last February/March, I would go to Barty’s house before uni and sit next to him in the living room whilst he avidly caught up with the latest news on Egypt (we didn’t have television at our place). As irrelevant as it is, the thing that sticks in my mind the most was when the newsreader narrating the live coverage of Tahrir Square reported, “There are hundreds of people making their way through the streets on camels and a…donkey??” It is quite difficult to replicate the attempt to hide the surprise in his voice here in type, but I laughed at it for a good five minutes.

The rioting that took place in Athens over the government’s austerity plans in August was actually probably the first world news story that I genuinely followed from near enough the beginning to pretty much the end. My nan was all freaked out because I was traveling there a week later to be with Barty who was in Lesbos for three weeks doing conservation work, and she worried about the condition of the streets (my nan does worry about everything, to be fair). By the following week however the riots had calmed down and we were only staying in the city for three days before moving along to Nafplio. When I first arrived there would be the briefest glimpse of police on scooters passing through the streets every so often, but that was it. On our second evening there we took a route to get to the next nearest subway station and walked past the houses of parliament where all the rioters were camped out in their tents. It was actually a peaceful atmosphere, as it had reached some sort of temporary oasis of calm.

On the day of the Royal Wedding, my mum invited my auntie, my nan and my cousin round to our house to watch it and enjoy some themed food (we actually ate coronation chicken. I love my mum). Up until that point I hadn’t really cared too much about actually watching it, but to witness a) a royal family marriage for myself that was based on love rather than for political reasons and b) my auntie and my nan bitching about Camilla, and coming up with their conspiracy theories about how Princess Diana was “bumped off” (my female relatives can be rather over-imaginative at times) was an opportunity not to be missed. I enjoyed the whole affair more than I thought I would, from Kate’s dress to the priest’s speech about love. It was all quite beautiful. [I just wish that Kate didn't now star in so many women's weekly magazines as some sort of common celebrity. In some ways she's managed to make it an iconic royal family member, but in my humble opinion there should be a line between that and her face being pasted on the front cover of Heat or Closer or OK.]

The summer riots in London, Manchester and Liverpool were a rather unnerving experience. What started out as a peaceful protest for the unfair slaughter of a protester from the previous year, rapidly turned into an excuse for bored, oppressed people to vent their major dissatisfaction with the government. Fires were started, businesses and cars burnt, windows smashed, shops looted and inevitably, people hurt. Of course it didn’t take long for the residents of other cities to jump on the bandwagon. It is unclear what their motives were, as even citizens with well-paid jobs, such as teachers, were found guilty making the most of a bad situation and looting widescreen televisions when opportunity allowed. Overall, it was pretty embarrassing. What made me angry was when the rioting hit Liverpool and parts of our university campus were destroyed. The Smithdown area also became a hotspot for destruction, with plenty of my friends saying they could smell the burning cars from their windows. I was staying in my parents’ place around this time, but my boyfriend, staying at our house in Kensington Fields, said he could hear the police helicopters every night before going to sleep. For a couple of evenings I simply sat alone at home, keeping an eye on the news coverage. My sister, who lives in Manchester, had left her studio early to avoid the start of the city center riots, and said she could see people getting arrested from her window. Were these events the ultimate rebellion against capitalism, and more specifically, our conservative government? Or were they they merely the proof that power is not shared equally for a reason? Again, I could discuss the issue for a while.

2011 was no doubt a packed year, with both incredible and disastrous things happening all at once. And I haven’t even mentioned the crisis of the Eurozone, and the ongoing economic struggle that we are currently fixed in, despite an almost-climax at the end of 2011. 2012 is going to be interesting to say the least. I started university at a time when graduate job vacancies were at an undeniable low point. I hoped the economy would sort itself out by the time I came to graduate (naive thinking, I know). Things did get a little better for a while, but now they are on a downer again. I can only hope that I am one of the lucky ones…

On another (slightly mushier) note, 2011 is when Bartosz and I got together, and today is actually our one year anniversary (coincidentally!) I could give a massive spiel all about how blessed I feel to have him, how he’s given me one of the best years of my life so far and how awesome I think he is, but I think for now I’ll just say that I can only hope 2012 will be as satisfying

P.S. I hope you enjoyed the video. That last image at the end – photoshopped, or real? I’m thinking the latter. It looks too perfect an image of war.

Picture from http://www.lovelyish.com/717171325/fashion-sucks/

Is it just me being an over-picky female with a I-don’t-want-to-look-the-same-as-everybody-else hipster mindset? Or do other people actually feel the same way…that fashion actually sucks.

What is fashion anyway? I read once from a male columnist (I forget his name, but after his rant about the disaster that is Ugg boots made me laugh so much, he was definitely of a high regard in my mind) that there is a distinct difference between fashion, and style. This concept has stuck with me ever since. I always thought it, but never found a way to sum it up until then. Fashion is temporary and ever-changing; the simple regurgitation of ideas to make a person look somewhat presumably like walking art and seemingly just another way in which to control the masses by telling them what to wear and when. Style, on the other hand, is timeless and classic. There are many things that since their invention have never ever been considered ‘out of fashion’…like jeans for instance. In what part of western culture have jeans not been acceptable? (Although I’m sure on some runways they probably are.) But style is when a person is so comfortable in their own choice of clothing that they carry their own trend all by themselves, and look damn good doing it.

Looking through my issue of Marie Claire on the train this afternoon (I like the beauty tips even though they too are constantly borrowed and recycled; the features and the stories and the like) I reached the ‘fashion’ pages and suddenly began turning them as fast as I could so that I didn’t have to get bogged down in any of it. First of all, when I look at any ‘fashion’ magazine, my instinctive thoughts are almost always something along the lines of, “What the hell??! Are they serious, I would not wear that,” and so on and so forth. And although some people will argue that if we had the money to afford designer clothes, we’d all be wearing them (not true – it doesn’t change the fact that that Alexander McQueen handbag I spotted today looks like it was made by a blind hooker), even if I had the money, I would much rather spend it on stuff I actually LIKED and felt a strong affinity with upon seeing it, than stuff I was going to feel like somebody’s badly-dressed puppet in. The truth is, I doubt the average person can even tell whether something is vintage, designer, or off the high street. I know I certainly can’t. People who don’t know me may be thinking, “Well maybe your fashion sense just sucks,” and that would be a more than valid point, no doubt about that. But at least I know that what I wear suits me, and that I feel comfortable setting out of the house in it.

Style is when we choose things that reflect our personality, and that we feel flatters our bodies and creates an image we are trying to achieve. Of course, runway fashion determines what will be in the high street stores at a later date, and its by flicking through glossy magazines that we can get a good idea of what’s out there. But for me, looking at stuff and that desiring it simply because it has a top designer name, is featured in a magazine and has a whopping price tag just seems really dumb. Why do people want to dress how somebody else tells them to? Why would everybody want to look the same? I would honestly much rather wear an old sack than some of the outfits I see in women’s magazines. Don’t get me wrong, I love Marie Claire as a mag and an institution. I just find staring at the fashion pages exhausting. Their demands to “Wear this! Team it up with that!” simply bounce off me, like annoying flies.

If you like something, then it’s always in fashion. Simple as.

The cold got me in the end, of course, but from the 10th December I had Bartosz come stay with me which meant we got to catch up on some long-awaited couple time.We took care of each other throughout a 5 day illness we both caught during which we consumed many vitamin c tablets, hot Malina polish juice, tesco pizzas and tomato soup. I also got to give Barty his birthday present so in the last couple of weeks he’s been teaching me to play chess and we’ve been playing many games of it on my bed. Throw in a couple of days of last minute shopping around the brightly lit, bustling realms of Liverpool One, and a homeward journey to our respective parents’ places, and Christmas was suddenly upon us.

After the stress and busy schedule of this month, I have to say that I had a wonderful Christmas Day and got some awesome presents. So awesome that I just had to list them below

Liz Earle Stuff

After banging on about this skincare brand for the last few months now to my mum, my sister, my boyfriend and anyone who will listen, my wish to grab more of it this Christmas (as it’s quite pricey) came true when I unwrapped the Eyebright Lotion and the Skin Boost Tonic from my parents, and the sheer skin tint foundation from my sister and her boyfriend. After having got my mum and sister also hooked on the products, it became quite a Liz Earl Christmas present opening fest, with my dad sarcastically shouting, “Oh, its Liz Earle!” whenever one of us opened one of them. I have decided I wouldn’t be bad at doing their marketing as a brand manager or something as I practically know all of their products by heart now. My mum reported the woman on the counter told them they “don’t do a body brush” after I put it on my Christmas list. Not true! They do.

Boux Avenue signature scent

Everytime I’ve ordered lingerie from this amazing place, it’s come beautifully packaged in a box with pink laced tissue paper, rose petal confetti and a gorgeously overwhelming scent, which after a while I couldn’t ignore. After emailing customer services to find out what it was (yes, I did) it turned down it was White Chiffon, Boux Avenue’s signature scent, which comes in the form of a handbag spray and bath treats too. I got both forms! I cannot wait to use it. I feel like I’ve finally harnessed one of my favourite smells. (It’s surprising how powerful that can make you feel!)

Moroccan Oil Hair Treatment

Although I already own some, I cant have enough of this stuff. A second present from my sister and her bf. A really nice intense form of conditioning for hair that is easily damaged (which mine is). The tiny bottle lasts simply ages.

Fearne Cotton Travel Compact

One of the presents from my brother and his girlfriend. I do actually really like Fearne Cotton – her sparky personality, her zest for life, her positive attitude…and of course, her unique and elegant style. I look forward to trying out her make up!!!

Topshop Vintage Boots            

Knitted Pastel Nep Jumper (from Topshop)

Navy Block Shift dress (River Island)

This one was from my auntie. Mine is actually navy all over, but for some reason I could only get a picture of this version…

I also got a new coat, a couple of DVDs, a necklace with an ‘A’ scrabble tile hanging from it (!!!), a Mac make-up voucher from my other auntie, some money from my grandparents, and a fabulous dress from Bartosz which I can’t seem to find a decent picture of L but will probably post one at a later date. I have been well and truly spoiled, but I’m so heartily grateful for all of my gifts from my parents, siblings, boyfriend, relatives etc, and really glad I got to spend Christmas with them.

For New Year’s, I’m going with Barty to Leeds where two of his best friends from old home in Nottingham go to uni and are hosting a house party. I’m really excited to meet them for the first time and finally spend New Year’s with Barty (after I was meant to last year, but that is another story!)

If you happen to fancy any of the stuff I got (as a lot of it will probably be in the post-Christmas sales now!) simply click on the images.

On Saturday, I spent a grueling four hours round the shops in Liverpool. I say ‘grueling’ because it actually felt more like four days. It was logically an attempt to get my Christmas shopping underway, but in my heart it was a hunt for an awesome dress that I could wear to some Christmas/New Year events.

I love dresses, particularly elegant, ladylike ones which have just a hint of flirtatiousness. I’m quite choosy about them – I only buy ones that I get a certain ‘feeling’ about. Like, you try it on and you just ‘know’. That sort of thing. One thing I kind of hate about dress shopping (well, any kind of clothes shopping, but especially dresses) is that most of the styles in the shops are either too plain, too trashy, too ‘older-woman’ looking, or too similar to everything I see most girls wearing. I like feminine stuff, but I also like clothes to maybe have a bit of an edge. After traipsing in and out of what felt like a hundred clothes shops (not just high street retailers – I tried a couple of the smaller boutiques on Bold Street too) I felt like I had seen the same hundred dresses repeated everywhere. The styles really all were too samey. It’s times like these I really do wish I could just design my own clothes. I sometimes have quite specific pieces in mind, and its then disappointing when nothing out there seems to match up to my expectations.

Recently I have wanted to revamp my wardrobe quite a bit. I still have clothes that reflect the 15 year old side of me that picked up a guitar and worshiped Oasis. That part is still fun. But I’m realising that as a twenty-year old who won’t even be a student anymore in a few months’ time, I need to possess a few more things that will allow me to be taken seriously in the bigger, wider world. Unfortunately I didn’t have much luck, except from finding a Warehouse dress which I found in Debenham’s and had to try on just to see if I could actually pull it off. Surprisingly I could, even though it was strapless, and I got ‘that’ feeling. However due to my terrible habit of falling in love with things before I bother checking the price tag, I was severely dismayed to find that it was unlikely I could sensibly afford it. After debating it with myself for quite some time in the changing room I finally hesitantly replaced the dress and decided if I still wanted it in a few days’ time I would go back to get it. It’s been two days. I still want it…

As for Christmas shopping, it totally failed. Why is it that when you shop with the aim of buying for other people, you end up simply buying for yourself? Or is that just me? I don’t mean it to sound selfish, but all it took was for me to step foot in Boots with the intention of gently browsing around the gift section in the hope that I’d be inspired, and all of a sudden I was reminded of various toiletries I was sure I’d run out of between now and Christmas, and struck with the incentive to buy them now to ‘get them out of the way’. Its been a long, long time since I went shopping on a Saturday, especially this close to Christmas, so I should have known I would become jammed within the traffic of pre-teen girls and bustling women that meandered between the aisles. It took me about an hour (an hour?? Who spends an hour in Boots??) to just get the (relatively small) number of items I “needed”. Elsewhere, the crowds were somewhat similar. A big turn off for me where clothes are concerned is when I see tons of other women all looking at the same stuff. Not that it suddenly becomes unpretty, but part of buying something great is when you feel like its been overlooked in a corner of the shop and not many people will be likely to buy that same item. I guess that’s the annoyingly hipster side of me coming out there, but that is kind of just how I feel.

So after visiting department stores, retail shops and even the lesser-known boutiques, my success rate was pretty low in comparison to the time and exhaustion spent. My whole body ached when I arrived home; why is shopping such hard work? And then I wonder why I end up doing everything online…

Take the student council thing for example. A month or so ago at the first proper meeting with us (the student council) and the SROs I was sat there for the most part wondering what the hell everyone was going on about. I mean, I was following the agenda list which seemed all quite simple, but between Emily Spurrell, the Representation and Democracy co-ordinator, speaking extremely quickly when explaining the policy cycle, and those politically-driven members of the council who actually know what they are doing questioning and debating almost every item on the list…it all just ends up one big muddle. I’m not the type of person who’s exactly down with how to behave in a political debate, knows all the context and/or even feels she has anything constructive to say (this is probably already really obvious). But in last week’s meeting, I was somehow early and had even taken the liberty of printing out all the relevant papers to minimise the probability of me getting lost in the madness of what is what (although that happens anyway). Emily still talks quickly, but I feel like I understand more and more of what she is explaining each time she explains it, so I’m not a total fail. I’m also learning more bit by bit by listening to what my peers say and how they say it. They all seem to know quite a bit more than I do but it’s not all bad.

On a very different note…I am quite excited for Christmas. Not because I’m going be receiving much – I told my mum I can’t really think of anything I want – but because I am very much looking forward to having my boyfriend over (he comes to stay with me in two weeks’ time!) and not having to worry about work or other commitments, at least for a little while. However as always, same as every other year, I am nowhere near started on Christmas shopping and am hoping I will have enough money to do so. Still, I’m excited. I never usually get excited this early, but I’ve kind of had this bug since being in Oxford, in itsChristmassy, bustling high street and the wonderful mistiness of ChristChurch meadow….yeah, I’m doing that thing again.

I love being busy at the moment, but there have thus far of course been times when I just feel like I’m having a total meltdown, when my brain is overloaded with requests, commitments, ideas, deadlines and worries. Today I read this blog post called Startups are hard. So work more, cry less, and quit all the whining. Whilst overall quite a brutal sentiment at first, I can kinda see where this guy (or gal) is coming from. What I’ve realised is that you’ve just got to keep going with everything that’s on your plate , making the best job you can of everything but still taking small segments of time out to just do mindless things so you can refresh and not feel so run-down. A few weeks ago I would have felt tired, worn out and restless after just four or five days of working hard consistently but now I can go for longer stints (I think). Then again, my cosy student life is probably nothing compared to the long-haul hours that are no doubt involved when working to get a new company off the ground. Some of the quotes that are included in this article do sound rather dire, and not a situation I would ever particularly want to be in. But I probably will be at some point (in a different context of course) because I, like most people, would like to make something out of myself.

But ‘hard work’ is a skimpy term that doesn’t begin to cover the actual side effects of what is required to achieve stuff. You lose sleep, your regular pattern may be disrupted at first, you may see certain people less and sometimes your diet can take a plunge too. But it’s all about trying to find a balance. I should know, I apparently “found it” already (although of course, I didn’t really. I’d just like to keep pointing that out).

I’m glad I’m not one of those people working in a startup situation, but the blogger’s end line was actually something worth remembering. It was, “Work hard. Cry less. And realize you’re part of history.” Which I think somewhat resembles the saying, “Nothing worth doing is easy” and provides a nice reassurance for when we’re all pooping our pants about the future and what is going to happen and wondering why we are doing what we’re doing, etc. I know this happens to me quite often, but I usually know that I am being irrational/dramatic/sensitive/all three. Still, maybe I’ll try saying this to myself next time. Hopefully not when I’m crying, though. Let’s please not let it get to that.

More importantly though, I have been thrown back into the crazy wilderness that is applying for graduate jobs. As intimidating as Oxford University was, it sure did give me the kick in the ass I needed, to think about who I want to be when I leave uni; what I want to do, and how I should aim for the best possible career for myself. It all sounds quite easy peasy when you break down the barriers and say “Right. I’m a-gonna do THIS, and nobody and nothin’ is a-gonna stop me.” But there are difficult choices to be made and all kinds of forces pulling us in various directions. It can feel like one big confusing mess at times.

Take me, for example. First and foremost for me, I am in love. I’m not writing that for poetic effect – that is simply the situation as it stands, without any beating about the bush. If anything, it’s science! So yeah, I’m in love, and when we are in love that is more than likely to have an effect on our choices, whether we notice or not; whether its in a life-changing way or a tiny, irrelevant way. And at a time like this, when you’re going to be free from education in a few months and can take the direction of your life completely in your own hands, whilst also engaging in a long-distance relationship with your loved one, even deeper questions tend to be raised about how it will all end up and how you can go about piecing things together.

Having said that, there is also the constant battle in me between writing, and music. Will I have a career in media/writing/film? Or will the band take priority? Up until recently I was always under the impression I could do both, as I believe we should never limit ourselves to what we can do in our lives…but because the two things involve such different paths, I’m not sure how it would work. Working in media can take you to all kinds of different places. Simply being offered a job can take you places – you never know quite where you’re going to end up.

As for the band…things just got all the more confusing and bewildering as of yesterday, when I attended Six String Saturday with Another Media, part of the International Guitar Festival of Great Britain. Also in attendance with me was Rob (also from Chinfin), Froggie from NYM, Edward and Matt, and by the end our heads were buzzing with all the advice and info we’d taken away from the panels that had taken place that afternoon – one all about self-managing and self-promoting whilst in a band; the other about the legalities of music, band agreements and royalty insurance. A few contact cards we’d obtained and a couple of free beers/glasses of wine later, we felt we’d definitely learned a lot of stuff that day. For me and Rob, it made us realise that there is much more to marketing our band than social networking/gigging in local venues/everything we’ve been doing so far. For me personally, it made me wonder that if it can take years of playing crappy gigs for crowds who don’t really appreciate you and also next to no money before you’re going to make an impact on anyone, what’s left at the end when you finally do ‘make it’? What other things might you have given up in the meantime? But at the same time, it’s impossible to deny that the band makes me happy. Playing on stage with some of the best people I’ve ever met is something not to be taken for granted, and has helped shape my uni experience into what it is today.

Moving onto a refreshingly different topic, yesterday was also Barty’s first regatta (Nephthys) with the Wolfson rowing team. I kind of feel bad for my last blog post intending to be about Oxford and instead just turning into me having a whine about how scary life is, blah blah blah. So let’s not let this one go to the same fate! My boyfriend seems to have a great life there, and I’m proud of the way he has thrown himself into it like any successful person. Yes, I’m even going to put a video link. Right here. I genuinely try to keep busy in the same way that he does, as I guess that’s key for any long-distance relationship to work. It sucks that I miss out on stuff, but as long as I can hear his stories on Skype at the end of the day, I can live with it

So there we have it. Late Sunday evening, another week to come. What next? This week I shall be on the hunt for some magazine internships, which means lots of CV-ing and cover letter-ing. Does anybody else get exhausted with all this stuff? I am growing negative already and I’ve only just started…but in truth, that is mostly a coping-mechanism so that I don’t get too upset when I get ignored/rejected (they’re also the same thing, sadly). I’m really enjoying being so busy, but I can already feel my habits changing. For example, I was always in ‘Living Off Mum’ eating category, but without regular weekend visits that is going to change, and I can already see symptoms of the dreaded ‘I’m Too Busy To Eat’ category (like when I skipped dinner on Thursday night because I was bogged down in Shakespeare essay madness).  If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you can click here, but really…I’m sensing I will regret writing this because I will only end up eating (haha, a pun) my own words.

Overall…I plow on. I’m hoping the answers will come. Until then…sleeeeeep!