Tag Archives: Students

Essentials In Life:

Someone To Love.

Something To Do.

Something To Look Forward To.


Thus read a plaque I saw in a tiny, crooked little gift shop in Boscastle, Cornwall, when on holiday there with my family 2 years ago.

(From where my mother acquired a gargoyle to add to the extensive collection of Green Men distributed around the external walls of our house).


I think I treat the people I love pretty badly, most of the time. Where this doesn’t make them disappear pretty quickly, my efforts to make up for my failures usually only end up making things worse – and making them disappear eventually instead. (I would add here that in my case the Someone to Love would probably have to be loving me back for me to be Happy. Not sure if everyone would agree there, but Heck I guess I’m just needy). Family can’t very easily disappear all too permanently and are more forgiving than other people, so I guess I’m managing about half for the first one.

[‘So if Heaven is where the good people go, Up There, (pointing) and Hell is where the bad people go, Down there (pointing) …where the Hell is Heck?’ asked once my eight-year-old self, of my ‘Hell is a swear-word’ Grandmother – thinking I was being so damn clever. I eventually came to the conclusion that Heck must be where bad animals go when they die].


My job is (very) part time, and I’m so useless at it – despite it being pretty much the most mind-numbingly simplistic job ever – that whenever I ask for more hours I’m generally offered about 4 more per week for 2 weeks in each month. (I’m a nice girl who means well and they don’t really want to upset me, but damn why am I so useless?)

I’m not complaining. Every little helps and all that. But the fact remains that there are 4 days in most weeks during which I have absolutely no obligation to do anything at all. My friends all live somewhere between pretty far away and really far away. I haven’t really made any friends at work, yet; I try, and small talk is mostly better than no talk, but being there still tends to make me feel pretty lonely. Even the old friends that aren’t all that far away are still far enough that visiting regularly takes its toll on my fuel tank and consequently my bank balance. I’m trying to keep some moneys safe so that moar university remains a viable option where my not-too-distant future is concerned. So my masses of free time these days, even when spent doing actual stuff, tend to be mostly spent alone. I need ‘Me-Time’ (and I hate that phrase) but not this much of it. Finding another job that would leave me with less of it is proving difficult, mainly because there don’t seem to be any available that I could really get excited about. I invariably get halfway through an application before realising that I could never find the enthusiasm required to convince an interviewer that I even really wanted the job, never mind showing I could actually be good at it.

Maybe I’m just being pathetic. Maybe I am just pathetic. Because I’m pretty sure I’m as terrified of change and as useless at people right now as I have been all my life. As for alternative mind-numbingly simplistic jobs, I would appear to be living in the actual middle of actual nowhere; there just aren’t any within a 30-mile radius, and I’m probably quite lucky to even have the one I’ve got. (I thank my lucky stars for my manager in York thinking I was ‘a really good kid’, and for my manager here thinking I ‘sounded nice on the phone’). I want to write for a living, because although I may not be all too great at it, I find it a damn sight easier than out-loud real-life verbal communication.

(Have you ever had that thing where someone says something to you and it takes you so long to process what they just said that by the time you’ve come up with a proper response you’ve already awkwardly laughed and mumbled some kind of non-response and looked stupid and the conversation’s moved on/ended? Have you ever been concentrating so hard on making sure you’re smiling and making eye contact as much as is socially normal that you weren’t concentrating hard enough on what the person was saying and so the response you gave to their question just came out sounding really dumb? I guess all these things are excusable if you manage to prove yourself to be witty, charming and socially capable later on. Or perhaps if they’re male and you’re pretty and flirty and trying really hard. I tend to fail repeatedly, get angry at myself for my repeated failure and shut up, so as not to make things even worse. Where pretty is concerned, the best I could ever hope for was ‘cute’. And skinny. Unhappy really really ain’t cute, and skinny is only acceptable when proven accompanied by healthy).


As for the future I suppose I can say I’m working on it. Not knowing what’s next in my life – because nice as the people I work with may have been to me thus far, I really can’t stay there much longer without properly, irrevocably  losing my mind – is probably what’s killing me most. I’m beginning to think that applying for jobs that really don’t appeal to me that much but would require me to move to an unfamiliar city far from home all by myself  might not be the best course of action for me. (For Me, Y’ hear?).

So I’ve decided instead to apply only for the ones that really do appeal, when (if) they come up, and otherwise maybe – if there’s any possibility of anyone lending me the money to do so – prepare myself for Postgraduate study next year in a subject area that I know I could really fall for. I go crazy if I try to follow the dreams and goals that everyone else would approve of, so maybe I’ll give following my own a go. If that doesn’t work out, what I’ll have lost will be more money; I’ll have an even more Heckish debt on my shoulders. What I’ll have gained? More/more impressive letters after my name, more pieces of paper saying I’ve learned some stuff, some work experience in the big city if I’m lucky, some time to figure things out a bit more (and maybe become less scared) if I’m lucky, and perhaps even some of the people skills that I’m told I lack so sorely but cannot ‘go anywhere’ in life without. Or, perhaps the skills with which to go somewhere in life all by myself with bare minimum people skills. Or perhaps the courage to say fuck it all and take myself somewhere completely new and far away and just take my chances.


Anyway, Who Cares? If you’ve read this far I imagine I’ve done a pretty good job of boring you to death. That’s what I don’t understand about blogging; people talking about themselves and their lives and the things they know and care about. Nobody likes to hear other people talk about themselves, do they? Yet everyone likes doing it. I read a post yesterday where someone was essentially complaining about people complaining in their blogs. You have nothing to legitimately complain about unless something really, genuinely tragic has happened to you. Fair point, but… But I think in reality perspective is something of a Holy Grail at times. I try to always apologise for my unnecessary negativity, but I often wonder why I should. This is my blog and surely I can write what I want to write. Often, what I want to write is all of the nastiness away; writing this stuff is like therapy. People don’t like me writing or talking it at them – they’re not my therapist, and they have their own lives to live – but I feel so much better for writing it all somewhere, and naturally I find myself wanting to feel better wherever possible. The answer is simple; if you don’t like what I’m writing, stop reading.

Humanity is stupid.

Sometimes, I really regret not asking for the number of the skydiving instructor I fell 15,000 feet with, when afterwards he said to me; ‘So, Sociology… That’s all about how humanity’s basically fucked, right?’
We could have been ‘happy on the inside’  jumping out of planes for a living together. (And he was cute. And he kissed me on the cheek when I left. And the mind wanders when it only has itself for company).


Here is my favourite among Mum’s Green Man Army;



His name is Steve. He was named after me, because my sister and I decided to name one Green Man after each member of the family. This one definitely had to be Steve, since he kinda resembles Steve Martin, the actor. Right?

(We’re all mental to some extent, here. That’s why for now I call it Home).



I’m A Graduate

As for the job I just got rejected by, I’ll say the same as I do to everyone who rejects me; I can do better anyway.

(And behind their backs I’ll tell everyone they were terrible in bed…

nah, kidding, kidding. *wink*)

But yeah. BA(Hons) and all that. Hopefully some day it’ll get me somewhere; whatever happens, I can hope.


Passive Aggressive Bullsh*t…

This time last year I Paid my landlord £468, as did each of the other 4 girls I lived with, as the deposit to secure our tenancy of the house we’ve been living in.

Now that we’ve moved out, he intends to give each of us £180 of that back; he’s claiming the rest in expenses for what can only be described as general wear and tear. Things like £60 for lightbulbs, £200 for cleaning, (my mum and I went to great lengths to make sure we left the place spotless) and £220 for garden maintenance.

The garden is tiny. Unless he paid the Queen of England herself to mow the lawn, I fail to comprehend how it can possibly have cost him that much to tidy up. We also asked him before we moved out whether he wanted us to sort it, and he told us not to worry about it.

The boiler wasn’t working when we moved in, He broke our first hoover, and it was the workmen he hired to fix the place up, again before we’d even moved in, who smoked and are thus responsible for the burn on the carpet in the attic and the cigarette butts on the roof.

Despite promising he would, he never showed up to check everything over or discuss anything with us on the day, or in the few days before, we all moved out. We learned of his plans to screw us out of most of our money via an email that he has so far only sent to one of us. (He didn’t pick up the phone when I tried to call him earlier).

Did I ever mention – oh, yeah I did. About how my shelves fell off my bedroom wall that time and I could have been seriously hurt because of his ineptitude at DIY… but that’s not even the point, here. I hate how everyone treats students like they’re not real people. I hate how he apparently thinks he can just talk crap to us and rip us off because we’re a group of girls. I hate how he’s trying to use us to solve his (suspected) debt problem. I hate how next year’s tenants are also a group of girls and he’s pretty much gonna try on the same thing with them next year.

I might have slept fairly well tonight, but the minor injustice of this situation burns. An irrational amount. (Seriously, anyone need a light?…)


I wouldn’t be so cruel as to hope, as my sister suggested, that a piano falls on his head. I do, however, hope he steps on a plug. Twice in one morning.

I hope he develops – if he doesn’t already suffer from it – erectile dysfunction.

I hope his house becomes infested with ants, wasps, bees and mice. And pigeons and squirrels and fleas.




I’m Nervous About Writing This,

But I’m going to do it anyway; some fairly strong feelings have been dredged up from the depths of my memory and I don’t want to just let them sink back down, but there’s no question that I can’t write about them where I almost just did.


I’m currently in the process of filling out an application, for the second time round, to TeachFirst. In a nutshell, this is a scheme which aims to address educational disadvantage in the UK by recruiting high-calibre university graduates and fast-tracking them into teaching jobs in schools ‘facing challenging circumstances’. My immediate reaction to every question in the initial ‘values questionnaire’ part of the application process has been ‘waaaah I can’t do that. I can’t do that either…oh god, or that…’

This may be partly due to how rubbish I feel today, physically and in every other way. I don’t know. I’m sleep-deprived and… And. But I’m also going to make a wild and highly topical accusation as to where some of my lack of self-confidence (which I feel grating on me in every little thing I ever do in my day-to-day life, and have recently been feeling I may be reaching some kind of breaking point with) may have stemmed from.

I had a teacher, for years 5 and 6 of primary school, who hated me for no apparent reason. I highly doubt that she’ll ever read this, but I’m a tiny bit afraid that through some weird twist of fate she might; if she were to stumble across this blog somehow, she’d recognise me. I guess if you’re reading this, Ms. Wicked Witch… Hello.  : )

So. I wonder how it’s possible to hate a 9-year-old. I never misbehaved or got into any kind of trouble at school; I don’t mean to sound big-headed, but I was usually top of the class in just about everything. Sure, I probably cost the school a pretty penny in sticking plasters for my daily grazed knees and elbows, and sure I had far too many nosebleeds and those are gross, but other than that I don’t think I can really have caused anybody any harm back then. I was the kind of kid who had all the good ideas but obligingly let her friends claim them as their own, until she learned to keep quiet and be more selective about who she shared her thoughts with. (Not a lot has changed there, except that ‘obligingly’ has become passive-aggressively).

So, one week into belonging to the Wicked Witch’s class I got the telling-off of a lifetime. (Only one other telling off from my lifetime stands out in my memory so clearly, and I’m not even sure if that one was real or just a dream). It happened to me and my best friend, B, as we were leaving school at the end of the day. You see, at ‘playtime’ that morning, a silly little argument had broken out between us and two other girls from our friendship group, over who was ‘it’ in a game of tag or something daft like that. The other two had gone straight away to complain to Ms. Wicked Witch that B and I were being nasty to them. We and They spent the rest of the day not talking to each other, and probably doing a fair amount of being nasty about one another behind one another’s backs. Anyway, at the end of the day, B and I were going to walk home together. We got almost out of the door when I realised I’d left something behind, so I went back to the classroom to get it and she waited for me in the corridor. As I left the classroom, Ms. Witch and one of the girls from the other camp were talking in the open area outside. Head down, I walked on past, round to the corridor to where B was waiting for me. Before we managed to get out of the building for the second time, it was;


(er – Home, Miss?)


When I say massive rant, I mean I have never really been so shell-shocked in my whole life. One thing I always have been, I suppose, is difficult to shock. But on this occasion, a) we weren’t listening in to anyone’s conversation and anyway, if your conversation is so private why have it in a corridor, and b) the way she yelled at us, anyone would think that instead of just being one half of a silly playground argument, the pair of us had been setting fire to puppies or something. We both went home in tears, and both our mothers stormed straight over to school to find out what the hell this was all about. My mum was told that not only had I been incredibly nasty to those two girls that day, but also that I was the ‘ringleader of a gang of kids who bullied and tormented the younger children on the playground on a daily basis’. Oh, and that one of the friends from the other camp, who I also considered a best friend, ‘would do anything I told her to’ and if I said jump she’d say how high.

Even with an adult perspective on the matter, I’m pretty sure no word of that was true. If I say jump, (and to be fair, I’d be more likely to say ‘don’t you think jumping could be a good idea, maybe?’) most people say no Steph, I’d rather just sit here, and I say ok then, sitting’s cool too, I guess. Anyway, I think mum believed her at first, but then thought about it and changed her mind. Either way, I went to bed in something of a state that night, and didn’t feel much better in the morning. I got to school at the same time as B the next day, and we walked into the building together. Ms. Witch appeared, all feigned sweetness and light, came up to us – “Hi S, Hi B!!!” – pinched my cheeks and attempted to hug us both. Of course we were having none of that.

From then on I was convinced she hated me. She could be bitingly sarcastic, and it always got to me. She gave me one of the smallest parts in the Christmas play even though both my singing and speaking were better than the girl’s (one of the other two from earlier) who got the part (and didn’t end up singing the intended solo, solo). One time she told me to ‘Get a Life’ when I got excessively distressed over my computer having crashed. She wrote on my final school report that I needed to ‘broaden my friendship horizons’ which of course I read as ‘you have no friends’. One time she told me that there was no such thing as centrifugal force, I was making up words and called me a ‘total oddball’ when I went and pointed it out to her in the dictionary and turned out to be right. ( I remembered it from the Year 2 trip to the toy museum. Seriously, Google it. It was a little merry-go-round type thing with chairs that swing outwards when it spins).

I’m not sure if ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ applies when you’re nine, but I suspect not. Or, at least, it depends on how sensitive the nine-year-old is. Either way, in her position I would not have favourites, and I would not have un-favourites. I would definitely never, ever use sarcasm on a child. And even if some scumbag-from-across-the-road’s kid was proving herself ever-so-slightly smarter than my own son, I would not take it as my mission to undermine her fragile self-assurance at every opportunity.

I’m getting a Life. No thanks to you, Ms.

And if I couldn’t act then, I’m learning to do it now in order to come across as someone who believes in herself – a necessary illusion for getting to where I want to be, even though I’m not so sure that I really believe anything, or of where exactly it is that I want to be.

Perhaps I was arrogant and did need bringing down a peg or two. Perhaps I wasn’t quite the amazing singer or the fast runner I thought I was; perhaps I was a little too proud of my top of the class status and my grazed knees.

But… I was Nine. Y’know?


Public Service Announcement:

(Whatever that even means).

I apologize for my absence over the past week; I have been busy metaphorically climbing metaphorical Everest, in the name of the last stage of my (metaphorical?) Higher Education.

I can see the top, but I’m not there yet; I’ll be back to normal blogging habits as of  Wednesday.

Meantime, because I don’t like the thought that visitors to my page have been forced to look at my moody trainwreck face for the past week (and because it’s gloriously sunny here at the moment),

Here is what I consider to be the most, er… all-round entertaining – immature giggle – Summer Song;





Today has been one of those days where everything just seems that little bit   way more difficult than it should be.

This happens often. The difficulty usually tends to take one of three forms;

a) Everything is scary.

ii) Everything is intensely irritating/frustrating.

3) Everything is hopeless/pointless/makes no sense.

Sometimes it’ll be a combination of two, or all three, of the above.

Today has been a shining example of option a).

I got out of bed nice and early, and proceeded to agonize, whilst brushing my teeth, over the various possible orders in which the day’s tasks could be completed and which would be the most sensible. Over breakfast, (why did I brush my teeth before breakfast? stupid) I settled on the following order; Town, Work on dissertation, Run, Dinner, (do this properly today, stupid) Library to return books, (with this part of the plan came panic about how I’d managed to bring the books home without actually checking them out, because that’s how badly my head was in the clouds at the time… stupid)  More work on dissertation, Watch latest episode of Game of Thrones, Bed.

Step 1: Town.

Regrets about lack of effort put into appearance; getting funny looks. Could have put some makeup on, worn clothes that fit, straightened hair… stupid. Regrets about being there so early in the morning; felt distinctly uncomfortable being the only person in every shop. Felt more uncomfortable every time a shop assistant showed up beside me to ask if I was ok there. YesI’mFineThankyou(pleasejustleavemealone). Later; Regrets about being alone when entering Betty’s (posh) tea/cake shop. Confusion over queue position leading to immaculately dressed and made-up middle-aged lady insisting that I go before her.  More Regrets about appearance. Regrets about blurting out the phrase ‘actually I just want a corgi biscuit’. Where are your manners? Prole Scum. Confidence further ruined for rest of day. Regrets about accidentally stepping into path of woman with pushchair. Acting so as to potentially cause harm to innocent small children? How could you? Dumbass. Regrets about not being a little more pleasant to the guy behind the till in the quirky gift shop, in response to his efforts to hold a conversation with me. (Bless his heart). Sullen, shy, stupid idiot.  Regrets about not daring to go into any kind of food place alone. Got home real hungry; no nice food in cupboards. Stupid.

Step 2: Dissertation.

Regrets about not doing more work weeks ago. Months ago. Regrets about the fact that the next 2 weeks are going to be Hell as a result. Regrets about how the quality of the finished work will be less than what I’m capable of. Regrets about topic chosen. Regrets about personal ineptitude as interviewer. Regrets about choice of degree course. Regrets about A Level choices. Regrets about GCSE choices. Regrets about whole path education has taken since age 14. Fears about future. Regrets about not applying for any graduate jobs lately.

Step 3: Run.

Regrets about not buying shorts/jogging bottoms with pockets, thus not being able to run with music/having to run with music in hand. Regrets about filthy bruise which still remains on left knee. Regrets about buying logo’d t-shirt; can’t wear it, nobody else seems to ever wear one, probably look stupid. Regrets about not owning any ‘serious’ running kit like all the others wear. Do I even want to go with them anyway? Could just go by myself later… Could just not go at all. Omg what if Captain Creep is there? Regrets about shortness of shorts. (He wasn’t there. He also probably isn’t a creep really, the nickname is based on a friend’s judgement of him, based on one night out – but that kind of thing, you keep in mind. Is asking someone out for coffee when you’ve met them twice [at training sessions] creepy? Perhaps he was just being friendly. He is the distance captain after all). Anyway… Regrets mostly dissolved after running 4 miles and keeping pace with the other girls. Except for the one about not stretching off properly before and after.

Step 4: Dinner.

Regrets about how this barely happened.

Step 5: Library.

Regrets about not getting more work done due to being accompanied by housemates. Chat: Work ratio hideously off-balance.

Step 6: Dissertation (ii).

Regrets about how this didn’t happen either.

Step 7 can wait, I need my bed now.

As for smiles, well. Remember Sex on Fire ? Well that came up on shuffle whilst I was running. And that song reminds me of where I used to work before I came to uni (and in the Easter and Summer holidays in first and second year). Because sometimes I worked in the potwash, where it would be on the radio at least twice a day when it first came out. And whenever it was, everyone in potwash (most of them awesome people, by the way) would sing along. Particularly loudly to the line HEAD WHILE I’M DRIVIN’.

Because we were immature like that. (Good times, good times).

For illustration’s sake,

Corgi Biscuit;


Tuesday love (from somewhere beyond fringe and frown)



(then are you, so surprised, when you hear, your own Eu-lo-gy?)

Standing above the crowd,
He had a voice that was strong and loud and I
Swallowed his facade cuz I’m so
Eager to identify with
Someone above the ground,
Someone who seemed to feel the same,
Someone prepared to lead the way, and
Someone who would die for me.

Will you, will you now,
Would you die for me?
Don’t you fuckin’ lie.

(some ‘tard used the wrong album cover, but the sound quality’s better on this one)


I fell in love with that song back when I first heard it; I was probably about 14 at the time. While I’m not the angsty teen I was then, the often even angstier adult(?) I am supposedly  now is still in love with the… well, just…


Apologies to anyone who may violently dislike. The pitiful number of views I’ve been getting lately suggests that nobody’s even listening anyway, so I figure it’ll be reet.

As far as smiles are concerned, I’m not proud of this one, and you will probably think the worse of me for it, but the thing that made me smile the most today,



The guy who walked into a door.

*poker face*

I suppose you had to be there, and I suppose Karma will get me for it, too. Well I say bring it, bitch – just don’t involve anybody else when you do, this time (please).  Besides, it’s not like I laughed about it right there and then, I did at least wait til I was out of range before I –


Also bear in mind, here, that I was that pathetic kid who couldn’t even watch my prankster best friend stick an ‘I Smell’ sticker on another friend’s back without slightly wanting to cry.

It’s been a mindnumbing day.


Someone above the ground. 


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