Seasons greetings...!!

Because, I'm afraid, by this point saying Merry Christmas is late and Happy New Year is early. Lucky me that I can wrap it all up in one generic statement without being concerned with any chronological mishaps.

In fact- generic messages seems to be the whole feel of these few days between Christmas and 2011. We're all sort of drifting on the flotsam of used wrapping paper and leftover mulled wine, sustaining ourselves with rations of turkey that just keeps going and occasionally glancing at the blank horizon that is post-Christmas filler TV. Don't get me wrong, I had a great Christmas thankyou very much- my Grandad regained his infamous devil pants, my Aunt thought she spotted yoda and I made a snowman called Gerald in the then abundant snow- all in all, a pretty normal, peachy celebration for house globe trotter. Yes, my family and I had crossed the globe twice in the run up- yes, we'd traipsed through county towns and chinese markets on the neverending search for the elusive perfect gift (x10), and yes, my Dad did indeed say at some point, 'I have 36 hours, can I fit in a trip to France?' in all sincerity. But this is my house, and things were actually, to us at least, going pretty smoothly.

But right now, half my wonderful new things, my not quite worn out old things and my collections of sales returns are sort of drifting in the etha of mess that is my room, along, I am sure, with my misplaced sense of duty to my exam revision, which, right on cue, I am beginning to panic about. So what do I decide to do? Update my blog of course!

Because if there's one thing the season to be jolly is also about, and really should be about- a dickensian philosophy in a nutshell- it's about giving. Not of course that I would hubristically suggest my writing this blog is some sort of gift- I know I know, to most it's a chore, but heck, it's the thought that counts right? And at least with this I'm not going to add a nudge and a wink and mumble that I got it half price (what else could enhance the value of your present?). Seriously though, right now, in this stunned haze of post celebration and preparation for the next, everyone here has become pretty impassive. 'Right, thank whatever gods may be that's over- now where could she have left the receipt? Will Tescos be open on boxing day?' As piles of gifts are hurriedly shoved into an assortment of gift bags and plastic bags and eco friendly ones, it appears that we've, well, lost some of the spirit of the season- and by that I don't mean severely moralizing ghosts. Maybe it's nostalgia on my part, a pyschotically would-be cheerful nature or way too many disney films, but I think it would be nice if we could keep up that giving feeling for just a few more days. (and please don't take that materialistically, unless you're my dad, in which case, one word= chocolate)

Really though, we're getting to the end of the year- good things have happened (doctor who and merlin anyone, hello?!), and terrible things too- disasters for the planet and it's people which have cast their fair share of shadows. But in so many hundreds of thousands of years of human history, we have to eventually accept the dark with the light- however painful it may be. And we've made it- we're here, we've got past the christmas chaos, and maybe we're all pretty exhausted, but this is another milestone in our lives and our history, and we've got a choice. We can drift in passivity amongst leftover sprouts, we can sob over items that didn't quite make it from the wish list to reality (a real lightsaber, etc), or we can pull ourselves up, plaster one more universal botox-esque grin on our faces and leave the year with a bang, and sense of giving something to one another in return for just a little more cheer to keep us going. Say whatever you will,but it's fair to say (however cliched it may be) that life is a journey- time is a sequence of events that we think we perceive, and whatever may come at the end, it's worth enjoying each milestone, because it's not about how many grey hairs you think you have, how many kids, how many cars, how many boyfriends, how much money...It's about the time you've spent and the sensations and experiences you've partaken in. Thinking of it that way, I hope- however your year has turned out, you can find a little joie de vivre left inside you for the penultimate day of the newest milestone to wake up and grin, and give just a little more of yourself. You'll be surprised by the rewards.

Oh God O'clock

Imagine- the sky is a nondescript grey, mysterious, as if a veil of fog has been pasted to the atmosphere to further delude the prophets crying out global warming. Even the birds haven't yet woken up to sing, the trees are silent, as if, deep in their core, they too slumber. The sun is hiding somewhere down Australia way, and the frost still permeates the air like a choking icy ghost.

"Time to get up!!"

A grunt, which with my limited dictionary I can translate as,

"What time is it?"

There's a pause. A tug of an ear lobe. Rub of the neck. And then, an uneasy, half closed mouth mumble...

"six...AM."

Silence. You know, like when there's silence right before a typhoon. Or a bushfire. Or a tidal wave. Or the ever more hyped up apocalypse. Apparently, when she's 6000 miles from home, severely jet lagged, almost as cold as Captain Oats when he popped out for a walk and utterly exhausted, it's not acceptable to wake your mother up at Oh God O'Clock. On her birthday.

Note to self. Remember that.

Still, at least this time I wasn't the root of the problem. Actually, it was my brother's zealous obsession with rugby, and the fact that actually, his teams quite good. Add a dash of parental pride, a lack of semi normal regular familial activities and hope for a birthday try, and we find ourselves in the above situation. They won, but the try eluded him, though there was a close shave in which my mother became near hysteric. Honestly, even the slightly disproportionate team chihuahua's eyes weren't quite so wide, or voice quite so high, as she suddenly realised something really good might actually happen on her birthday.

That's sad isn't it? I mean, it's supposed to be a wonderful day- the celebration of one of life's mysteries in which we actively participate, the marking of a loved one's coming into the world- a philosophical sign post indicating logically this is when we may conclude this person came to exist. (though since it's philosophy, please free to include obligatory 'maybe/perhaps/probably/none of the above'.)

And yet, here she was, freezing her toes off on a muddy field in the North, wrapped up in at least three coats to protect her from our glorious weather having woken up at six o'clock, travelled four hours and not even had breakfast in bed- fanatically egging him on in the hope of something more to celebrate.

It's sadder still that my family actually have various codes for these particularly torturous obstacles in our lives in which we are required to wake up at such damned witching hours and travel, groggily, for hours with nothing but directions from a printout and a flask of coffee to fuel us. These include the afore-mentioned 'Oh God O'Clock', and just 'get some sleep', said in certain tones to indicate the meaning, much like numerous eastern dialects. Forget Captain Cook- we are the intrepid explorers of HavenBaulk lane, the code breakers of the school provided directions, the heroes who soldier on with barely a welcome break pork pie to go on- those messy haired, halfway dressed nomads who stumble onto the pitch and wait for the wind to give them an adrenaline rush where caffeine couldn't.

You know the best thing? It's late afternoon, and neither I, nor they, care any longer. The past is the past, to state the long gone obvious. It no longer exists and there's no point lamenting it. A goal was set, it was achieved, we came back together- for an hour or two we seemed like a normal family (ignoring the fact we were discussing the varying difficulty of bartering with chinese stall owners depending on geographic location, and where to best find full cream goat's milk for your father/in-law.) And that's all that counts. We pick which memories we remember, often without even consciously considering the action. We block out the pain of waking up at such forsaken hours much like we decide- in general outside of our sentient knowledge- to breathe or use a hyphen (woops).

So if I look back on my school trip to Rome, I'll remember acrobatic dogs, disturbing cryptic postcards (and by that I mean gems dealing with photos of crypts because the british postal service doesn't have enough to deal with.) I'll remember west country lads picking up irish accents and how to say 'nun' in cantonese. I'll generally be ignorant on reflection of the blister to defeat all blisters, and my english teacher's cheerful chirp of a 'short walk', where his piece of string stretches several miles and ours some desperate metres.

And Mum, I hope, when she looks back on today, will remember being at home, and knowing that we love her. And yes, that's unbelievably soppy, and no, I'm not sure any of us has the guts to put it into words and show that, shock horror, we have emotions, but the sentiments exists. And if it's possible for someone to perceive a negative sentiment where there is none, then there must also on occasion be a positive sentiment which lies unseen, but exists nonetheless. Maybe some deity or greater force exists, maybe it/he/she doesn't- but there is something in which we can have faith, especially as we get closer to christmas.

If nothing else, if only for a moment, trust in the goodwill of humanity. Because from someone, somewhere, even at Oh God O'clock, it's there.

WARNING: May contain nuts...

My current room mate likes birthdays. I mean, really really really likes them. As in, waking up at 6.30 on hers and questioning the night before if anyone's going to send her a midnight message. It also means sneaking about 6 litres of fizzy drink onto the geography trip bus for a friend turning seventeen, and having an entire draw dedicated to birthday gifts.

She also has a bizarre aversion to nuts (absolutely no euphemism intended for anyone with their mind in the gutter) not that I can blame her, I'm the same. Still- she can go to the extent of taking a bite of a chocolate bar and being able to tell within seconds whether there was peanut oil on the packaging machine. No- I didn't think Marshmallows tasted anything like peanuts either, but heck, there you go- there is no escape from the monkey manna monster- even in icing sugar and gelatin.

It's funny isn't it? How previously held conceptions can so easily be proven wrong- and how some people go through life convinced they will be. (not that I'm ever one of the perpetrators.) Like- travelling four hours to London to visit a gallery for school when your in your teens will ever be even remotely enjoyable. I mean, there's the bus journey (How many bottles can possibly fit on the metaphorical wall?!); cold tandoori chicken sandwich (it tasted awful when it was cooked...); and of course, the galleries themselves ( is that a security guard or a dinosaur?).

I've never been more glad to be proved wrong. Eating chicken and avocado sandwiches, chilling on the grass in trafalgar square before checking out some michelangelo's and notebooks written by Leonardo da Vinci- as well as seeing what Raphael would consider a first draft, and I can only say is jaw dropping- well, it wasn't a walk in the park, but it was surprisingly- at risk of sounding 'nerdy'- fun.

Then there's the guy on the bus who wanted to be a rock star and secretly reads poetry (ok, maybe not too surprising), the musician would-be archaeologist and the girl who loves pink and can make any calculation on demand, in spite of her pretty girl persona. I love it- and I've mentioned it before, but I just want to say it again. People aren't just multi-dimensional, or multi-faceted. They don't have to be suffering from schizophrenia to have multiple personalities- and nor do they need to be a genius to be brilliant. Being human is enough- and yes, sometimes it seems like you just met the dullest person on Earth- and it's possible if they say 'one more thing' one more time you'll call it a day and fall asleep. But then, they might suddenly mention the day they met a sea monster- and poof- just like that you're wide awake. (story courtesy of Martin Hesp if you want to ask)

You've got to dig- you've got to be patients, you've got to go through a full draw of small print, but eventually, out of nowhere, you find marshmallow's containing nuts, and the world is no longer quite so normal. It's just a bit more fun- got a bit of garnish on it's rough, bumbling surface, and it makes you think- lets not say the seas polluted and grey and howling like a dying leviathan. Lets just say it looks like sapphire, and today the sun's pouring gold onto the surface and there's nothing more beautiful.

There is nothing on this planet that is not stunning- it is the only thing most of us will experience and we have to figure that out. Yes- there is pain and cruelty and darkness- but you have to get your head round the fact that something, somewhere, will have catalysed it- and it will have been incredible, and odd, and surprising, and laughable- just for a second. And that's what makes it worth it.

Angels, Cereal and wasting time.

I think perhaps the greatest loss of my relatively short life is my sudden disregard for cereal. Once- recently in fact- cereal was as god to my morning routine- I was infamously unconscious, and frequently still in bedclothes as I stumbled towards my manna- the stuff which somehow made monday mornings bearable. Chocolate flavour, weetabix, fruit studded, honeyed- you name it, I devoured it as I dragged myself out of my dreams- contemplating each spoon before savouring it in private bliss.

Sadly- I've forsaken this. I'm afraid the temptation of my duvet overcame my cat like love of milk in my breakfast- and now its fallen to the bottom of the priority list. This all came together when, after several attempts at trying to wake me- with light, hairdryers and strawberry laces (or so I'm told) my roommate proclaimed my likeness to a brick and gave up. Blearily, half an hour later I rolled out of my bed's embrace, and realised I had five minutes to get ready. Not good. What was worse was realising that it was Thursday, not Wednesday. No- this did not happen straightaway- in fact, it took a double lesson of french grammar stabbing superlatives into my sleep muddled mind for me to catch the glare my teacher was giving me. Because I missed my mandarin lesson. Because I thought it was Wednesday. Ever been glared at by a french professor? Because honestly- that particular breed of educator has honed it to an art. Still- it made me wonder, had I been having my regular installment of some cardboard wrapped wonder, I would have paid attention to the day of the week. That way I would've known when I would be able to get some more. Maybe- this whole missing breakfast thing was even worse than I'd first imagined.

Then I remembered that I rarely knew the day of the week, and promptly forgot. Even if I'd had any further doubts, in the chapel that morning our chaplain proudly announced we had a new angel in school, and everything was alright again. Cue doubletake. I mean- everything was a bit new- but angels? Was that going to be part of the establishment confessed oddity of routine? Within seconds my gaze was drawn, with the dozens around me- as if by a collective magnet, to the back of the chapel where the chaplain was pointing proudly. I felt my heart sink. A somewhat 'abstract' angel- which was less conceptual or philosophical than a traditional angel shape made in white painted squares of balsa wood, hung at a precarious angle from the whitewashed wall. Well- so much for heavenly host- it was more discount at B&Q. I mean, I know Angels/Christianity should be to do with humility, building up wealth in heaven rather than on earth- but this looked like something taken from a scrapyard, lacking even that rough redeeming charm.

As the week went on- my disappointment began to change into something else, and it all started with time wasting.

We had a talk- as promising adolescents, on how to spend time doing the right things to get into ever more competitive universities. We were told not to worry- our social life would not be sacrificed, but our freedom would. Or rather our free periods should be spent under the college's academic watch. Having just read 1984- this thought already gave me an irrational shudder, and when the biology teacher went on to combine the elements of a timetable with molluscs (no I still don't comprehend how) this transformed to full on horror. Organising my time? Knowing the day of the week?! Giving up my free period chocolate??? Horror of horrors- let it not be so. But all this came afterwards, and even now only lingers at the surface of my consciousness- mixed up with merlin, myth, strawberry laces and straps, and chocolate. All things important- but then, underneath it all- the honest stuff. The stuff that you know makes you who and what you are- be it a chemical cocktail, a bias of external opinions, or something some people would call a soul.

There was one thing that the biology teacher said that really stuck with me. 'Let your time be spent, not wasted.' A bit cliched yes- but ponder it a second whilst I go on a relevant tangent. Angels, according to Saint Thomas Aquinas- are semi-contingent. They have a beginning, but no end, they are immortal. For an angel- maybe even for our odd little balsa fellow, time should be spent wisely. It is, one would suppose, the reason for their existence.

On the other hand, returning to the point post haste- can human beings waste time? Please don't point out the obvious, 'if you have an exam/commitment/job/time to wake up you can't spend time chilling/eating/ sleeping- or my personal favorite, 'whatever it is you lot do these days'.

Really- our days are numbered, fair enough. Our experience throughout this life is limited- every choice we make closes as many doors as it opens. But when we get to those last few seconds, afterlife or not- surely our lives have been worth every second? Surely then we can realise that? Because no passing fad- be that a job or an education (ha! such useless things) can define our perception of the times of our lives. We have lived them- and surely that's the key. That in each of those seconds- be they spent in sleep, study, invention or indulgence- we have spent them. We have breathed the air around us, our hearts have beat to the dance of our emotions- we have seen, not seen- felt, not felt- experienced life and time and the earth around us. In that sense, though time may be used wastefully, it is never wasted- always spent as we progress through our lives, and let every moment- consciously or not, shape who we are.

There's no need to worry about the loss of cereal epiphanies or vengeful french teachers with chinese as a side- no need to panic about which day you've reached. You reached it- you lived it- you spent the time as yourself. Let the angels worry about wasting time. They're far less likely to slip up.

Even at the End of the Road-

You can't find Cafe Java. You can find Sea Gypsies, shark teeth, tsunami escape routes and golden buddhas- but the elusive cafe likes to switch cities, and is, as a result, impossible to find- even if you spend two hours searching for it last thing at night in the back streets of Thailand. But hey! I guess that's life.

On the other hand, at least neither I or my hypothetical ox were killed horribly by a curse from the vengeful half buried buddha we visited- maybe it's because of my brand new protection charm. Maybe it's because the buddha decided to take a vacation. Either way as of yet I have not yet fallen into terminal illness after the inexplicable appearance of a piece of gold leaf (normally put on the buddhas as a sign of worship) on my thumb. I'm sure that's some kind of omen- I'm hoping it's a good one, because as the days before I get my gcse results dwindle away painfully slowly, I'm developing a sort of bipolar disorder.

One minute I'm hiding in my bed till midday feeling sick every time I check the date on my possibly waterproof watch. The next, I'm laughing madly whilst flying down zipwires 50 feet above a jungle canopy. Maybe it's just me- but really, these examiners seem to have devised the perfect slow torture for the hordes of normally indifferent teens- it's like payback for all those years of missing half the lesson because of a lie in- or just savouring a chocolate bar- or once talking to my headmaster having dinner with my parents in Hong Kong. What can I say? Time is immaterial to me- it brings neither snow, strawberries, yorkshire puddings, bubbles or puppies when I want them. Why should I obey it's namby pamby laws?

Ok, scratch that- it's impossible not to, but it doesn't mean I have to pay attention to the fact.

Regardless- time is most certainly at a standstill when you're having a fish spa. This quaint custom involves you putting your feet in a tank full of fish for a period of the afore mentioned T word and having your feet nibbled and groomed by several dozen small fish. Yes, I am incredibly ticklish, yes, I went through with the fish spa, yes, I screamed and laughed like an idiot for the first ten mintues- and no, I'm not entirely sure it's a good thing that these fish are being raised on human flesh. But it's an experience I can scratch off my 'bucket list'. (The list of things you want to do before you die, nicked from the excellent film by the same name.)

If only time stretched the same way whilst I'm lying with a cocktail, 'far from the madding crowd', and the azure ocean stretching out before me whilst lying on a sun lounger on a beach in the sun. Really dislike me yet? (apparently hates a strong word- incidentally, what does that make love?)

I suppose it doesn't matter the situation, circumstance, country or gibbon reserve- time and monsoon rain will carry on regardless. You don't have to pretend to pay any attention to it (I doubt I ever will), but sometimes, maybe- it's best to make the most of it. After all, no one ever knows how much 'time' they have left- but nor do they often realise any 'time' they have is infinite- and therefore, to steal a cliche, full of endless possibility.

There are fish in the sea;

God is a saxophonist who goes by the alias of Morgan Freeman; and in the end, everything comes back to Uncle Howard.

It's funny, the things you learn from people. Whether that involves sailing a sixty five metre long ship, or taking a friend wakeboarding, our fellow human beings can be some of our closest friends- and still remain a mystery.

I mean, I get each one of us is an individual- or at least I try to comprehend 6 billion different chances for a new imagination, opinion, spirit and mind. But really- from a fear of fish and cats to the dangers of cursing someone with a wart up the nose, sometimes, though I find it fascinating, I am presented with the most impossibly bewildering pieces of nonsense even I can not begin to comprehend in my own dotty mind.

It could just be me- I'll accept that, I've heard that daydreaming every few seconds and putting the book you just bought back on the shelf in the second hand bookstore you just bought it from is supposed to be a sign you're losing touch. Also, talking to yourself and craving chocolate- though I know that's far less unusual. (In fact, I consider chocolate cravings positively healthy- I mean, a cocoa bean is a vegetable/fruit/berry- whatever the real category is.)

But I try my best to find out about normal people- I watch them on TV, and read about them in books. (We haven't yet wired up the broadband to my hermit cave, but we're working on it. The satellite man will be the first guest in years, and I've cleared out all the pythons for him.)

Seriously- I have a terrible sense of humour, even I don't understand it. I have a friend who may never get above a C in an exam, and still remains one of the most intelligent, diligent people I've ever met- I know the most decent gentleman in the world, who at late thirty something is still happy to be openly promiscuous with every female he comes across. I look at reality, then flip back to the one Jacqueline Wilson book I ever read- and I don't get it- I mean, am I missing something?

In the immortal words of Sue Sylvester- "Is it me?"

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I expect my ever so slightly skewed perception of everything from my brother to floating blue beach balls belonging to white haired chinese men may be somewhat responsible for the apparent oddity of even the most sensible people I come across.

However, I'm fairly sure it's possible it's them too. I cannot imagine sharing every experience, every spoken word, lesson learned, book read and dream or nightmare dreamt with even one other human being. Biology and genetics aside- can you imagine the multicolor mess of experiences that build each human being?

I mean, I'm sure it's easy enough to consider from time to time- to let it flash across your mind, but if you really think about it, really make yourself try and imagine that many scenes- the acting out of a liftetime, and then multiply it by six billion, the result will make the amount of stars in the sky seem numerable.

On the Star ferry, crossing Victoria harbour, or on the parade of sail in Antwerp, or the sailing festival in Aalborg- one thing repeatedly struck me.

My Mum used to say to me that beaches are graveyards- fantastic, beautiful, halfway points, the cemeteries of the sea. I realised, suddenly, that cities are the beaches for human beings and their oddities.

It sounds bizarre, but give me a moment to explain- beaches are what's left of 'la fruit de la mer'- the 'peoples' and wildlife of the oceans, the objects they've constructed, and given their lives to- to have as shelters, birth places, and opportunities for exhibition.

So a collection of buildings, on occasion so cluttered they seem to be overflowing, inhabited by hundreds of thousands of people, who live there and leave their mark and build their heritage upon the foundations of their homes; a collection of buildings that are often as different in shape and size as a daisy and a rose; a collection of buildings made for shelter, exhibition, safety.... Are the two really that different?

How many stories lie in a building? Even a boring old apartment block will have hundreds- and each one will be the result of an individual personality, an individual set of emotions and experiences, some of which will have been played out inside all four walls.

You can look at a city like Hong Kong, or London, or Paris- and you can consider those six billion epic stories- about anyone, from a janitor to a Duke- each dotted and flavored by preference: Uncle Howards; not leaving New Shoe's on table; an inherited love of the ocean- and maybe you'll start to realize, as I'm trying to, with the proof right before your eyes, that the human race- though faulted, predictable, and often primitive- is just as varied, and brilliant as the universe it inhabits.

Mortal Peril

It's something you face quite often when on Adventure Training Camp. Or at least you'd like to think so, climbing a cliff, scrambling up a waterfall, hiking up a hill which really should be a mountain, or nearly giving yourself a heart attack going uphill on a mountain bike, half a kilometre behind your sixty year old instructor....

It's these kind of things that make you feel tough, hard as nails, confident and mean- a fighting machine. And then you trip on a rock on the way back down and hurt your ankle and realise your probably not Demi Moore. Still, it's hardly our fault if any of us were disillusioned- we were hallucinating from lack of food. I mean, sorry, but who eats American Cheeseburger flavour crisps?? (Bleh!!)

Actually, then again, maybe the hallucination was from sleep loss- what sane person gets up at 6.15 in the morning to clean an industrial size kitchen?? Why? Just why?

I mean, I'm sure we can all agree that myself and my companions were not at all convinced we'd suddenly gained sixty pounds of muscle because of all the 'perceived risk' and numerous loopholes in the health and safety agreements which were kept well hidden under the great metaphorical carpet in need of hoovering. That would be ridiculous- we were all far too experienced and sensible. Honest.

Really- the camp was pretty cool, and drinking from a waterfall, scaling a rock face and sleeping under the stars sans tent or shower felt wild- and gave me an awesome set of bruises which go well with blues and purples, and make their own statement when I'm wearing white.

Sadly though, the fact that the most painful thing anyone did whilst I was there was me falling down the stairs in my socks sort of took away from the whole extreme element. Also, the proximity of the Co-op and the fact we weren't allowed into the park in case we got mugged did tend to take away from the whole Bruce Willis die hard idea.

But heck, laughing at Independence Day and getting glued to chicken run made us all feel better, so it was alright in the end.

I'd done the camp before, so I was expecting the whole sweat, bruises, rain and mozzie bites. I admit I'd forgotten how hard working in the kitchen was, and I swear now never to pursue a career as a chef, but otherwise, camp was as good as I remembered, if lacking the thrill of being able to go into the park across the road without being mobbed or sworn at. But hey- we got chocolate every day, and we got to see Shrek the four millionth and something, so all was right with the world.

As you can probably assume, this camp was just less impressive now I'm a bit older- but I'm glad to have done it again, to know I can still rise to the challenge, and there's one more thing I'm glad of.

I'm glad of the people I met- because that's the best part. Whether their shy or teddy like, Irish or Jewish, sunburnt or chatty- you can find out more about people when they get out of their everyday situation and onto a hill beneath the pouring rain than you can everywhere else. And do you know my general conclusion? Human beings are a pretty nice bunch. Everyones been through difficulty, everyone has random pet hates and love- and everyone I've met is just a little bit mad.

But all of them secretly, truly, want to be nice- to have friends, to be wanted. And so far, they all deserve it. (although I reserve the right to hold back friendship from creepy guys with cameras who look down my top when I shake their hand.)

Tomorrow I embark on an epic journey across the Atlantic ocean for 10 days. I don't know if I'll come back alive of covered in scars and tattoos like a proper sea dog- to be honest I think neither is likely. But I do know I'll have met 47 new people, and I hope I'll have learnt and liked something about each and every one of them. Maybe they'll even forgive me for sleep talking about Johnny Depp.

Eccentricity...

Is just another brand of insanity, I discovered shortly after arriving in English country paradise. And since this is the case, it means my entire family, on my mother's side at least, is completely and utterly mad. But I doubt you're surprised by that.

It's a bit like being in an incredibly funny, completely random tv show- like, 'This is your life'- jumbled up and put on random on some kind of defunct VCR. One second we're talking about my Aunt's collection of Hong Kong Phooey memorabilia(two pairs of socks, one pair of boxers and a lunchbox) , and the next it's whether or not Atlantis exists (a favourite topic of my Mum's Dad). When his cousins come to stay, we discuss the chances of finding life or beneficial minerals on Mars, in juxtaposition with how useful it is to be able to wear the same outfit you wore to Buckingham Palace to collect your MBE at the wedding you have to go to. And to be honest- lets not even get started on Cryptic crosswords, bonsais or french cooking- trust me, it would twist your mind. In a sort of good but mainly confused and completely and utterly eclectically chaotic way. I'm still lost halfway between bikes in Paris and my Granddad's collection of vinyl cd's.

Honestly- I'm not sure if they'll let me publish my autobiography. I suppose the only way I could retain a claim to my clinical sanity would be a single chapter on my Mum's side.

This is roughly what it would say:

MAD- in a good way

It'll be the shortest block of text I've ever written- because frankly if I started on this brilliant, mental lot- the last Harry Potter book would be light reading.

So here's a question- if my 'growth' is one part nature and one part nurture, why aren't I yet as nuts as they are?

I mean, clearly, I'm a very straightforward, sensible person.................right?

Ok, so I wouldn't fit into any one's idea of ordinary (except maybe Roald Dahl?) but then, would a single person on this planet? The way I see it- anyone who's completely normal is probably very very weird indeed.

Anyway, back to the point. Maybe it's because I've had a bit of a random upbringing. I mean, do 4 deserts, three mountain ranges, most of Asia, some of Europe, several rain-forests, several jungles, a small collection of waterfalls, islands various and a glacier count as a regular setting for a child to grow up? Nah- didn't think so. And then of course you've got the people: the poet laureate, a man with the initals BA, another who's just called H (he's a funny guy- his true name's being kept hidden by an upside down version of MI5, and no, that isn't WIS) and, most excitingly of all (for me at least) the guy in charge of Lindt chocolate!!!!

I wouldn't call 'em your average joe, but as I said, I've never met an 'average joe', if I did, it'd be pretty creepy (see above).

But I am so grateful, so, eternally, hugely grateful for every person I've ever met- for every place I've ever been- every random moment, embarrassing situation, witty flooring comment- and every single, breathtaking, awe inspiring place- from pink salt lakes to monsoon rain on an island outside Borneo.

Recently, I moved, and a few people I know are going through...changes, on varying levels- and for them, and myself I suppose, I just want to say this.

There is no such thing as the past, and no such thing as the future- we live on the very edge of reality every second we're alive, every second we exist. But if we could ever revive the past, and look back at what brought us here, it might be mad- and heartbreaking, or laughable and pretty ordinary. But I can absolutely promise you this- there will be a moment, a second, a smile- hundreds of them, and they'll be beautiful.

PLEASE HELP NOW

It's possible that in AGADIR ON THE 21ST JUNE THE WHALING BAN WILL BE LIFTED IF WE DON'T STOP IT. An endangered species- and the US government among others is even CONSIDERING allowing this pointless, brutal murder to be legal once more. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE watch the video, sign the protest and pass it on- we're sentient beings, we don't have a right to just kill things till there are none left- we have responsibility- we're the ones who can be selfish and hateful and cruel. Don't be like that. WATCH THE VIDEO AND SIGN THE PETITION http://www.youtube.com/wdcsuk THEN PASS IT ON, PLEASE BY 21ST JUNE. STOP THIS MINDLESS CRUELTY!!

An epiphany over tea and french

The great thing about revision is that it really makes you appreciate the little things. Like...how soft your duvet is, the way the curtains shut out the light, the pure splendor of birdsong, how tasty your cereal is, what genius created the kettle....And as you stand there, making your third cup of tea at 12.00pm, in your pyjamas, musing on the glory of the little things, you start to contemplate how great it would be for your teachers if a world existed where you could make yourself revise and not get distracted by what's on the music channel right now.

But hey, you win some, you lose some.

Of course, what I'm really interested in right now is whether or not the rain's ever going to stop- if 'The Secret' will help me get into the TARDIS, and what those luuuuurvely salmon steaks are going to taste like. I am living 'Carpe Diem'. I'm seizing the day. Exams are completely out of my mind. I'm so unstressed I could write a book on how unstressed I am and de-stress the nation, I could end the war in Iraq and stop the oil leak, because everyone would just chill as a result of my awesomely relaxed, non-stressed/panic vibes.

Yeah, I haven't convinced myself that yet either.

Positive thinking is the way forward though- I'm sure of it. It hasn't worked yet, but I remain optimistic I'll wake up tomorrow and the world will be a better place. I'll just keep telling myself that.

In the meantime, I'm wondering if paracetamol is going to help me sleep, get rid of my headache, and stop me incessantly clicking my pen long enough to let me write this in a way that makes some sort of sense.

It's funny how wound up you can get. I mean really, I've only got three subjects to revise for, and, if I say so myself, I'm relatively strong in all three. I shouldn't be stressing this much. But I am, so I've decided to retreat into philosophy. Actually, that's not true. I've decided to retreat, on a frighteningly more frequent basis, into fantasy.

It's also curious how we have to dream. Honestly, I'm not sure you could be genuinely human if you didn't dream. How could we not? Ambitious, eccentric, erratic beings that we are, with a superiority complex to match those of the angry deities we create for ourselves- from getting a new washing machine to riding a dragon, people have got to dream. We've got to create something better, wilder, brighter, stranger- something that encapsulates our secret hopes, our burning passions and honest loves. Human beings have got so much to offer, even if we only ever achieve it in dream.

I mean, take me. In my daydreams I climb Mount Everest, eat strawberries and cream for breakfast every day, sail the 'seven seas', have a chat with Shakespeare and bring along a few of my fave authors, and at some point write a book. Every one a pinnacle of achievement in which I don't lift a finger. Now there's true triumph for you.

I can go to the stars, and meet alien races, see nebulae up close and visit planets teeming with life to discover. I can find fay at the bottom of the garden, appease spirits and learn magic, find dragons and dig up treasure. I can do everything in the world I create in the moment I close my eyes, or 'momentarily' give up on the French past perfect and just wonder, What if?

The world we live in is a beautiful place. Enormous, glorious, spectacular. An entirely eclectic collection of the bright and beautiful, the great and small, and whether or not you believe in some kind of higher power- you've got to admit that next to life it's our greatest gift. But that doesn't mean that we can't take it, mash it together, and see something more in the golden light of the sun, pooling like spun silk on the surface of a sapphire sea...

It doesn't mean we can't somehow find a way to hope for the best, against all odds, and see a place, or a person, or a world, where there is greener grass to be found. And it's our imperfection, our madly fantastical mix of thoughts and feelings and loves and hates that let us see it. We hope and dream of a better world, because we know it's the price we paid to get this one and love it just as much.

Maybe in that better world I wouldn't have to revise, or stress, or pack or be a hormone loaded teenager.

But let's be honest, that's not going to happen, and if I lived in that world, I might not get chocolate shreddies, and that really wouldn't do.

Betelgeus

You know, the really great thing about the end of the world is that I won't need my crutches any more. I hate crutches-I hate them almost as much as I hate dentists, raw onions, limps and high school musical. And what's fantastic is that in the case of an apocalypse resulting from a star going supernova, I probably won't need to keep those crutches. It's true, there's a silver lining to everything- including the end of creation.
What's really fantastic about Betelgeus is the general ignorance of the situation- I mean every few months people panic about some kind of apocalyptic happening, from zombies to atoms, but this- according to my physics teacher- very real threat, is being utterly ignored. Because we're scared? Or just because people honestly don't care to know or attempt to comprehend?Maybe it's 'cos it's more fun saying the worlds going to end and then having a good laugh the next day at everyone who ran around saying goodbye to each other and flipping off the maths teacher. It's not so funny when everyone just dies. Sort of grim, actually.
The most incredible thing, of course, is that we don't know when it'll happen. I mean, even saying, hypothetically, that we did know whether or not the radiation Betelgeus' supernova emits would kill every living thing on the earth, we still wouldn't know when it would happen, because it's unlikely we'd be alive to see it. Bit of an anti climax really, if I'm absolutely honest. We all die, and then what? We get to see the big bang from heaven?? 'Yeah, thanks, it'd have been nice if I could've seen my death coming you know, just a thought....'
So, there's a possibility of an apocalypse, but none of us know when it's going to happen or if it's going to happen and we're doing something completely against our natures- no ones taking sides.I mean, I can hardly talk. My biggest problem at the moment is getting out of my biology detention cos I turned up late....on crutches... Yeah, apparently the attitude of being absurdly obnoxious is an art practiced my biology teacher in a Jesuit Catholic boarding school. Sounds about right.
I mean, it's a lot like my first GCSE exam. I know it's next week, and I'm faaairly certain that it's on Friday, and if I was to take a guess I'd say it could be in the morning. But I've got no idea what subject it's in. I know I should be panicking. I know I should be stressing and revising and going mad and putting all my excess teenage hormones into developing a bookish strand of OCD.
But I just can't take the threat seriously without knowing it fully. And there's such a thin line, between not taking something as a threat because you don't know it, and being overly paranoid because of a fear of the unknown. Which ones better? I'd say the first, considering the latter would turn us all into paranoid insomniacs theorising about doomsday in front of Glee series 2 whilst eating tacos and wondering why summers so cold this year. But maybe neither is better.
I mean, I'm not saying I'm a paranoid insomniac who dreams of the apocalypse and like musical tv shows and mexican junk food. But I am saying that it's probably not good that I don't know what my first exam is.
I suppose there's levels. Levels of fear, levels of knowledge, levels of priority... I figure I'm just scared to know what my first exam is, so I let myself drift in an ignorant bliss. (Well, I say drift. Hobble. On my stupid crutches....) But on the other hand, something like Betelgeus- or the fact that my pet hamster was actually killed by my brother's cat, but my Mum told me it ran away- maybe we should remain ignorant of that kind of thing.

We all know this (rubbish) about Adam and Eve and Prometheus and all those 'fools' who stole knowledge from the Gods, and I'm not saying we don't need to or shouldn't pursue knowledge. That's human nature. Curiosity killed the cat but the human being thrives off it. It's what gives us meaning in our lives- this pursuit of new sensations and ideas and ways to do things.

However, maybe it's possible that sometimes, just sometimes, we need to not know. We need to close our eyes and block our ears and just forget. It's probably not 'right' and it's probably not big or bold or self sacrificing. But it's human, too.

The best thing about the apocalypse is that even if it comes tomorrow, tomorrow will just be like any other day, with something eventful in the middle.

Summer, TV,

And volcanic ash too- it's funny what randomly jumps into your mind when you sit down to write a long overdue blog update. I'm sorry, again, but seriously, there was this volcano in Iceland... Well, you know the story.
So, whilst sitting in my business class seat on my week late flight back from Hong Kong, I thought quite a bit. I also slept and watched Dorian Gray (creepy movie!) It's funny how much can cross your mind without you really thinking anything. And how a day flight can still leave you dog tired with jetlag...
Anyway, when I got back to England, it was cold. I mean, really cold-what's with that?? It IS summer right? Luckily it warmed up pretty quick, and thanks to our schmancy business class seat, me and my bro managed to get off the plane and out of departures in about 45 minutes, which is a record time in a life of airline travel. We saved a heck of a lot of time, and managed to get back in time to catch up on Doctor Who and play games with our family, AND eat roast chicken.In terms of time won and saved it was a win- win situation, and as we lay, digesting our delicious meal, raging over Rummikub and wishing that sleep would come before sunrise, i'm sure my brother and I shared a sense of quiet satisfaction that just this once, everything had gone smoothly.
But then it's funny, how time works. Because originally, we were supposed to be flying back to England on the 17th April- before we got a call saying it was rescheduled to the 4th May (some rubbish about glaciers melting and funny clouds) Cue panic about GCSE's, getting back at all, and the idea of my Mum home schooling us- but secretly me and my brother were glad- not just because we were getting to spend school time in a tropical country swimming in the pool or sailing in the ocean. No it was much....'deeper' than that.It was time with family, a little freedom, a gold and chocolate extra bit of holiday dropped straight into our laps, with an extra coating of volcanic ash. So that when we got another call saying we now had to fly back on 27th April,a week earlier than planned, my Mum and I spontaneously burst into tears- and it didn't feel particularly triumphant. I'm not (much of) a teary person- unless Black Beauty, Bridge to Terabithia, or Hamlet is involved. But it was something like a line Lemony Snicket once wrote- 'it's like arriving at the top of the stairs in the dark, and there's that sickening moment where your foot falls through space, missing a step that isn't there'. Or something like that; it's all a half real expectation that seems all the more of a loss when it's no longer held to be true. All those moments half dreamed up already, time with family and being home, suddenly made to be nothing more than an impossible fantasy.
And then I get back here and it turns out I've missed nearly all of Spring too- the daffodils are withering, and there's no raspberries anywhere! And suddenly it's all less win-win and more lose-lose. I've missed all these televised debates, almost the whole election, and 4 episodes of Doctor Who (caught up on iplayer, didn't bother with Gordon Brown calling someone a bigot though). It also turns out that what I, stupidly, imagined as a small favour for a friend has resulted in me standing up in a mock election for the Green Party next Thursday- whose manifesto I'm barely aware of. (A friend recommended I bring a fake spliff, and that was about where my research ended.) All my time, all these things that have happened, should happen, could happen, will happen have escaped my grasp- like fishing with a handreel and feeding those annoying little fish on the end rather than catching them. There's a niggling sense of their existence- a tug on the line, ripples in the water, but when you reel it in, it's just- empty.
In spite of all this, it's actually sort of comfortable.Sad, yes. A little bit painful, yes. 100% bewildering- without doubt. But when it comes down to it, it's a lot easier to deal with than you'd think- almost enjoyable. I've, often, said that I'm generally unaware of my location in the space-time continuum. But that's a lot more difficult than it sounds, because you are made to be constantly- presented daily with your timetable, calendar, diary, whatever it is. Even the seasons themselves dictate things to do, clothes to wear, food to eat, places to go. Everything is under some kind of influence. Being detached from all of it, and watching yourself slowly sink back in, is pretty fun. It gives you a chance to feel more certain of yourself- because that's the only thing you're certain of, and let you get your own perspective sorted.
So, if any of you (DFJ) are in the pursuit of a sense of liberation, freedom, or true equality, I'd recommend taking a break and getting stuck in a country six thousand miles away- because there's nothing like a bubble of chaos to yank you out of the order of things and let you sit back and watch- if only for a little while.

Courage, planes and stability.

You know what- I really love England. I love the rain, I love the inordinate amount of snow; I love conkers and daffodils, robins and badgers. Rabid foxes are just part o' the life on our little green isle, and Arsenal FC, well, they're not really English are they? I can't say I really accept anything to do with Gordon Brown, or our oh-so-very capable government- but then 'What are men compared to rocks and mountains?' or in the case of the UK, really big hills.
Of course- I'm sure part of this is homesickness, having already been away from my mother land for two whole days. Hong Kong's pretty nice, warm,lovely- even if we are living a cupboard, but I can't help but pine for good old Britain. It's not got anything to do with a melodramatic attempt to escape from my revision. That would be ridiculous.
In my last two weeks in England I had a heck of a lot of fun. Not sure when exactly I managed to rest, but that's the 'hill for you- the city that never sleeps. Or rather, hamlet. Still, rock climbing, shakespeare, sponsored silence (I did it for the whole 8 hours- didn't think I would? O ye of little faith) doing an aerobatic display for a roundabout, performing Faure's requiem in a massed choir in London for the Jesuits (and getting a standing ovation!) etc, well it's just one of the things I love about our little country- even the boff can do anything with the right determination, address and bus driver.
During my flight, I got to thinking about how all planes are essentially the same.Of course, there's a big difference between a Grob tutor, a Hawk and a 747. I've never flown in a Hawk, but I've imagined it often enough ( the red arrows have got nothing on me- In my head) It's something I've noticed though-not their differences, got those pretty quickly. But their similarities- the same freedom, new limits, new frontier. The way you feel as you go into the air, everything you can see... It's incredible, thrilling, out of this world. So peaceful, and at the same time, very nearly out of control.
It's not so different from our life- my family's anyway. For example, three weeks ago, after a rehearsal, violin lesson and charity committee meeting I got a call from my parents, who handed me over to my headmaster so I could give him a message for his wife, and then explained to me they'd just moved into a new house which I'd never seen before and would get my new bed tomorrow.
I relayed this to a fellow actor whilst we were rehearsing, who asked me if the word 'stability' meant anything to my family.
The answer is no, no it doesn't.
My proof? I recounted the story to my Mum this afternoon, who exclaimed, 'Yes we do! We always have the pets at home!' Yup. Except cornflake. The fish. He died.
Anyway the point is, traveling is...well, incredible, thrilling and out of this world. it can be so peaceful, and liberating- and at the same time half the time you're spinning out of control in a whirl of unfamiliar faces and sights,and the other half you're trying figure out what time zone you're in and how that relates to the rest of the world. I wouldn't swap my life for the whole, beautiful planet- but that doesn't mean it doesn't have a price, nor does it mean that every time I step out the door I don't take a deep breath, and just let a slight, cold flicker of doubt flash through my mind. A wish for safety. But it's not bravery if you don't feel fear, and I wouldn't be me if I didn't just throw it all aside and have a go anyway. So far, I haven't looked back.
And that's one of the things I love most about England. The unicorn and the lion. The British have never been afraid to confront the unknown- looking for it in everything we see, and no matter what the stereotype or unfortunate political situation- we're brave. Because you just have to think about it- maybe China's the new world power, and the USA leaves us all in the dust, whatever. England's still at the top, and has been for hundreds of years. We 'carry on', but we do it magnificently. Even in Sheffield.

Elephant Trees

Elephant Trees are the most fantastic sort of thing. They're a bit like a baobab tree, huge, with full, bulging trunks and branches that curl around their crown in thick, fantastical wooden tendrils. Their leaves are thick and lush, a sort of wide oval, and dark green on one side, lime on the back. The seeds are pods, as large as the leaves, and the same sort of shape- although these bulge out, and if you tap them they sound hollow. They're hard and light brown. These seeds, on a healthy elephant tree, grow in abundance, rows of them dotting the uppermost branches, some 35 metres up. On a day in summer, perhaps set, perhaps not, all of these seed pods open, like a flower blooming, and from them tumble thousands of light balls of white fluff- like the heads of dandelion clocks the size of your fist, and they're caught in the wind and tumble away in a delicate, fantastical cloud.
Elephant trees are amazing things, they really are.
The only problem with them is that they don't actually exsist- I think.
Which is why me having a memory of watching one's seedpods open and tumble down a street in India whilst my Dad was getting cash from a bank is somewhat..disturbing. It's always been a particularly precious memory of mine- the glaring sun, shining like liquid silver on the backs of the half-broken cars limping down the street, the awe inspiring breadth and height of the tree, learning it's name from an indian man with clever eyes and a nice smile, and watching with baited breath as the seedpods cracked open simultaneously, and those dandelion clocks tumbled in a light wave through the wind, transforming that grotty, back end part of the city into something remarkable. It was such a special memory that around last Christmas, when my family and I were talking about various countries we've visited (both varied and numerous) that I felt the need to recount it in detail- finally unburdening myself of this beautiful memory that had been nagging at the back of my mind. As I finished I looked at their faces, smiling at the past, waiting for them to add their own view on the experience. Their perplexed expressions were not exactly what I was expecting.
I mean sure, if I'd told them pigs could fly, or the sky was green, or I really WAS sane, then maybe...well, probably, but a harmless, pretty little memory? I mean yeesh, I thought, I CAN remember some things guys... So when they explained that it had never happened- at least not when they were there, I suppose my own portrayal of perplexity mirrored theirs.
I suppose that's the thing about memories- they're slippery, glimmering, ephemeral things- like those gauze ribbons you get wrapped around fancy presents (yes, I'm thinking of a certain wonderful Australian aunt)- I mean really, think about your memories, really THINK about them- it's a collection of echoes into the now and the future, shadows, half-remembered songs, words, faces...You sort of know times, but even they are uncertain. The biggest resource for humanity to know where they've come from and what they've been- a collection of multicoloured scraps swimming in the etha of your thoughts, 'electrical impulses and chemicals', and apparently nothing more than something which can be easily explained. Yeah, right.
And of course they shouldn't be- because, in so many ways, memories are the building blocks of the soul, scaffolding, mortar, cement- of emotion and experience and lessons learnt, that make us react logically or irrationally, favour and ignore, develop and grow. They're as much a part of our 'heart' as everything in the now.
And of course- the most precious thing of all is the memories we're given: stories and scraps and words and sounds that grow in precious corners of our mind, for us to pass on to those we love and for them to do so too in turn- it's all very well being politically correct, and 'behaving in public', trying not to exclude other 'ethnic groups' (we're not allowed to call them races are we now?) But the treasures of our culture, the ballads and rhymes and poems and songs, surely they at least are worth preserving? It's one of the many things that make us human- the way we are nourished by a collective set of stories, wild and bright, as old as anyone can remember.
So maybe my Elephant Tree was a memory of a dream, or a daydream, or just a figment of my imagination grown in my subconscious to epic proportions, but that's not going to stop me from passing it on- from reminding everyone around me, those I love and those crazy enough to listen to me, that the world, our lives, each one of us is not only unique- we are a work of art 200 000 years in the making and still growing, still living, making magic and lives and memories, memories, memories- together a tapestry of life and triumph and loss and love, beautiful and surreal and as alive as we are.
At whatever stage of our lives- birth, childhood, adulthood, death and whatever comes after, we're part of something more already- we just need to remember from time to time.

Catharsis

One definition of that funny sounding (and looking word) is: 'A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit.'
Now today, I've been hurtling along on what some people would call, 'an emotional rollercoaster', (which really makes no sense whatsoever, I paid no fee, didn't sit next to an obsese American, and was not once concerned that the metal railings seemed a little too unstable) Still, I suppose it's as good a description as any.
Today I woke up at 6.05 am, I listened to my ipod, with some great new music, and wondered if I preferred Vampire Weekend or Death Cab for Cutie. It took about 45 minutes for me to realise I'd set my alarm early so I'd get time to pack. It took another 15 minutes for me to realise I was supposed to be up early for breakfast anyway, for 7.30am, which lead to me whirling round my room, knocking over several precarious stacks of books, and sprinting down the stairs. It really was quite a whimsical awakening.
When I got downstairs, I realised another thing I'd missed in my half sleeping state. Everyone else was wearing white shirts. Which meant they were in our school's 'best dress'. And as I sat down with my 'healthy' breakfast, and saw a certain picture hanging on the wall, I remembered why they were. Why I should be.
Today was Tony Ho's memorial mass.
It's funny. White's not even a colour:it can be transparent or opaque, good, clinical or detached. And sometimes it just hits you in the face. Bright, blank, clean. Thus began the rollercoaster.
I didn't know Tony particularly well. It took me a moment when I first heard of his murder to even conjure up a fuzzy mental image of his face. I could only remember, in a flashback sort of way that Hollywood would be proud of, a moment in his last term, and my last before starting boarding. It was summer, and he held the door open for me. Generally, people didn't hold the door open for me. I'm normally the one holding the door.On an impulse I told him how my family and I were going to move to Hong Kong, and I'd start boarding. The delighted surprise on his face, followed immediately by an offer to teach my brother and I Chinese, help us settle in with boarding and maybe take us round Hong Kong brightened my day. Just a moment. Just a few words, a smile, and sunlight. But it was special to me.
It also reminded me that in my life I've had an inordinate amount of luck. I feel almost guilty about it, and filled with growing trepidation. In my whole life, I've only known 3 people who have died after I've met them. I have lived 9 and a half thousand miles away, I currently live in two countries 6000 miles apart. I've had at least 4 houses and have family spread across the 93000 square miles of this country. I've known so many people. Yet I've never had to confront death like that. The last time was when I was 10, with my babysitter. I still feel hollow when I think about it.
But that's not what I'm writing about.
The roller-coaster involved frustration with certain inept scottish house mistresses, anger at a lot of things, sadness, empathy, pity, recognition, nostalgia (in great soggy buckets), and then my Catharsis.
But just before I mention that, I'll pinpoint the moment in the mass when I started to cry. I'm in the choir, and we wanted to sing to remember Tony. Before anyone sang however, before anyone even spoke, someone played some music on the piano and we all stood up.
And we watched as two of Tony's close friends, old pupils, came up and put a school rugby jacket at the foot of the altar, next to his picture. That was when my tears started. I really had to fight to suppress the sobs a few minutes later when our DT teacher did the first reading, and started crying as she read it. It was one of the most agonizing, touching, beautifully painful moments of my life. And I loved the fact that we could sing for him. In that mass, everything became very real to me, and at the same time, for a moment, we could all mourn in our own private space. Just for a time, we could give in, and be sorry, and sad. And that, I think, was very right indeed.
Perhaps most remarkable of all was that all of over 400 children from 11 to 19 kept completely silent, sang with all their hearts, and for once made no fuss. Just goes to show, even the 'youth of today' can appreciate some things.
After followed yet more stress, frustration, confusion and me living life as I usually do, in a hectically chaotic state of disarray. (also, my comforting fish and chips were cruelly stolen and replaced with salad and a banana. I was not impressed). Yet now my roller-coaster was somewhat more subdued, there was a fuzzy sheet of glass between me and the me that was on the outside, grinning and yelping in mock outrage and rushing back and forth. And then, finally, at around 4.40pm came my Catharsis.
Sometimes, I love Shakespeare. Considering without us and the scene he wanted to rehearse, there would be no rehearsal, my director came to the chapel and all but dragged me and the 3 other 'lovers' to the theatre.
Thus followed enthusiastic, passionate, hilarious and exhilarating rehearsals,in which I laughed throughout. It was brilliant, and my little bubble of private sorrow melted away. I don't think it was too quick, considering I've felt it for about 2 weeks, but it was nice to feel free again, less inhibited. Plus, seriously, those rehearsals were hilarious.
Really though, when we're gone, what do people remember us by? I don't mean how many Michael Jackson-esque concerts will you receive, or if they'll plant a forest in your memory. Really, what will your friends and family remember you by? Your grades? Your achievements? The latest color you dyed your hair? Or a little fragment of memory. Sunshine. A drawing. A rugby jacket, and a shared loss. Songs and tears. Sometimes, it's the ordinary things that make the most exceptional memories. And to be absolutely honest, it's the best way really.

The thing about Shakespeare...

Is that he always seems to need a heck of a lot of words to say something that could be said in what? Two? I mean yeah yeah, literary genius, language devices, that's all very well, but when I'm trying to learn my lines and I'm repeating six or seven thou's and hateth's when I could say what I'm trying to learn in six or seven words (and I'm a verbose sort of person) you do have to wonder what was going through the great man's head. I mean, really!
Ok, so lets be honest, when he wrote the play 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' it's...unlikely the poor bloke was in his right mind, (and using Puck to apologise, cos even if he's having a funny phase, that man could self edit). Don't get me wrong, I love how bonkers it is- kind of like me, but you look at Midsummer and then you look at, say, Hamlet, and you think, yeeeaahh, ok Shakespeare...
Mind you, he was a funny guy. I mean, I don't think I've ever had the fortune to partake in such amusing rehearsals, I spent most of the time on the floor laughing (and the rest of the time on the floor holding onto the legs of my true love, who hates me). Whether he was a farm boy or a secret Royal (I don't buy the whole gang of people idea, I mean c'mon, they'd have to have a Hive mind to synchronise their style to that degree, and I don't think there were ever that many people who were that brilliant in the same place) Shakespeare was brilliant. A bit like any one of you.
Because Shakespeare, if I'm honest, in my opinion was absolutely exceptional, and I'm not saying that any of you are going to sit down one day and write Macbeth, the sequel. At the same time though, no matter how low your self-esteem, how bad your latest grade or what kind of job/lifestyle/family you've got at the moment, I think it's important to realise that each and every one of you is brilliant. (Especially you, since you read my blog, obviously. ha) Because it's true! There's something special about every single person I've ever met, and I've got to tell you, it continues to astound me. Whether they can sneeze like donald duck,(yeah I know, so cool!!) or just know exactly what to say and when to say it.
Because if you think about it, it's not necessarily the fairies or the Athenians or the dukes that stick in your head when you watch A Midsummer Night's Dream, it's not those fantastic costumes or fancy (over worded) speeches, their ceremony or power. I tell you what, when I saw it the first time when I was twelve, all anyone could talk about was the mechanicals. A bunch of ordinary, average, clumsy people putting on a play in a play. The least remarkable characters, the ones who's very creation was a joke- and yet even as they stumble through their lines and overact into a tragedy so prolonged it's funny, they're great.
And maybe that's what was quite so stunning about Shakespeare. Not the sheer brilliance, or the way he painted words into a dance of tongues and an explosion of colour and emotion. Just the way he could recognise and forge something extraordinary into anyone or anything. Or maybe he just brought out what was already there.
It's a bit like my director said- it's all very well to want to enhance the mystery by saying there's some kind of conspiracy behind Shakespeare and his plays, something to make the intellectuals feel better and us ordinary folk less intimidated.
But isn't it magical enough to just think that some bloke, just an ordinary, average bloke five hundred years ago sat down in an inn with an old feather and a pot of ink and made something so beautiful, so brilliant, so outstanding that it's still alive even today, throbbing at the heart of our society?
Thinking like that, I guess I can probably forgive Shakespeare all those words. But just this once.

Gimme a sec..

..I'm feeling sentimental. Hello all! Did ya miss me? 'Course not, miss never ever updates any more can't be too popular around her lovely readers at the moment, but I promise I'm going to make it up to you. Promise. Really. I've written the post and everything, just in case I forgot. However, first off, I really am feeling rather sentimental, and I just wanted to say a token farewell to David Tennant. Yes, I watch Doctor Who but lets be honest, I've done worse. (I'll give you a clue, it starts with T and ends with t and has got a whole lot of guilty pleasure but not all that much plot in the middle) And really, David Tennant is just a fantastic actor, and that last episode was brilliant. Maybe Russel T Davies could have made it a touch more believable, but it was epic, and Tennant flew through it, pulling on my heartstrings, and even convincing a few tears (ok I admit, I was sobbing). It's a new year, a new doctor, new resolutions (ever actually kept to 'em?Yeah thought not, haha) In fact there's quite a lot of new things, but lets just have a moment to say goodbye to last year- 'cos you know what? It was fantastic.

Britain's education system...

You know the real problem with British school's these days? You know- apart from the obvious incapable dealings with the weather, persistent struggle against the addition of any useful subjects, abhorrence of a decent exam board or system and insistence on 'talking about our feelings.' Seriously, apart from all that, you know the real problem with British education today? Stationary. Well, stationary refunds, anyway.

Because, you see, in the past two weeks I've been doing practice examinations for my GCSE's, (which lets be honest, will be almost completely irrelevant by 2011) and I've got a really big problem with the way my school's been running things. I'm not referring to the 'men' in power's pointless struggle against mother nature and their own pride, or the bizarre tenacity with which the school insists on cramming two weeks worth of exams into one with only half their pupils present. No. I'm talking about the fact that before I travelled my 6,000 miles to go to school, I, like a good little school girl, got myself a new pack of pens. 4 of them, black Biro's, as specified by the exam boards our school has chosen (in it's infinite wisdom) to associate itself with.OK, I'll admit that one was, inevitably lost in the etha, most likely whilst my brother and I conversed in Pig Latin whilst going through security in Paris- (we were a little 'slaphappy' what with having just travelled for 13 hours watching my mini TV go technicolor and trying to convince ourselves the strange pieces of meat in our little tin foil packs really were pork, really...). However, the other three, perfectly fine looking, decent, average black Biro's remained in my possession. I even managed to get them to school.

In fact, I hung onto them whilst I unpacked my things (again), the boarders went on our weekend trip to the closest shopping centre (again) and I got soaked and freezing and hyper in a snowball fight (again).

But now, with my 'actual' GCSE biology, French reading and History exam looming, I find I am without a suitable implement, and I really honestly think I deserve recompensing.

Why you ask? Because, that school has destroyed all three of my lovely new black Biro's in less than two full weeks! No, my physics teacher did not finally lose all sense of reason and put them on the ice in front of his car before running them over repeatedly whilst cackling madly in his latest attempt to shut me up. No, because of our mock exams, all three pens are completely out of ink!

I mean, I know I've been criticised for being somewhat verbose, but it was all the school's fault for setting the questions in the first place- I swear! Really, they demanded that I wrote a sum total of 52 A4 pages so far...honest!

And now look! Three more big exams and I don't even have a pen. Can't even recycle it! I mean it's no wonder they've got problems with excess waste, the amount of exams we're having these days...I mean that's a heck of a lot of black Biro's!

Lets face it, climate change is happening, and it has been for a long time, and always has been going to (ice age anyone?), whether or not it's global warming speeding it up for quite such an eclectic multitude of reasons is debatable, but really, instead of looking back on a past we can't change, shouldn't we be looking forward to future that we can prepare for, and a present in which we can act?

I mean seriously, they're the educators, they ought to be providing the stationary in the first place! And whatever happened to the pencil?