magentaoctopus

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

It’s March and the crisp blue skies peeping through your window promise the end of winter, and the end of the world. The WHO has let the dog out and announced that Covid-19 is a pandemic, and when you finally realise what that actually means, it’s a bummer. No, it’s not a mixture of an academic and a panda, though the idea makes you chuckle, and your friends’ eyes roll when you tell them. 

(fig.1 Covid-19 comes dressed as a panda dressed as an academic)

It’s your first day of home office and intense social distancing and things have already gone pear-shaped. You awoke at 5am convinced you were coming down with IT. A raging hotness and a dry mouth. This was IT and also it, more commonly known as, the palpable end. It certainly could have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you were curled around a hot water bottle in a matching fleece pyjama set (not seasonally appropriate), or that you were intensely dehydrated because you panic ate an entire family pack of ready salted crisps before going to sleep. No no, this was surely the end. 

It surprised you, how could this happen? You had followed all the advice, cleared your throat into the crook of your elbow, squirrelled enough loo paper to last a year under a life’s supply of rigatoni (they were out of the shells) and washed your hands so often and so violently that your fingers had fallen off, a messy unfortunate side-effect of hysteric wellness. Clutching your soft fingerless mitts together you had managed to fall in and out of agitated sleep and had awoken feeling, surprisingly, alive. 

Perhaps. Perhaps this was not IT. 

(fig. 2 you clutching at straws with your fingerless palms) 

Now, three hours into home office, your lack of fingers is proving tricksome to do any work at all. That, and an insatiable desire to watch all re-runs of Time Team with the ultimate dilf monster, Tony Robinson. You feel pretty coy when he makes a joke about the Black Death, wow o wow Tony from 2009 is sooo on topic. 

Luckily it’s 11:30am which means it’s first lunch. The kitchen is right next door to your room, and unlike the office kitchen, your own kitchen has all of your favorite food inside. Like all of it, like all of the food that you bought for yourself. What! This home office stuff is such a game-changer.  Elevenses happened at 11, duh. Second lunch happens at 2pm and teatime at 3:30pm. Work will probably finish around 4pm, though at 9pm you’ll remember that you have an international conference call tomorrow and will spend the next two hours painfully coaxing a powerpoint presentation out of three words of notes. You’ll do this while listening to Tony jabber on about salt deposits and spear heads, until its too much and you’ll howl fuck you Tony really fucking loudly at your flatmate when they ask you what you want for dinner.  And they’ll think that you are going insane because you have IT, and then you’ll think that you have IT because you are insane, and then... then ... then 

You set an alarm for 6:30pm. Turn off Tony Robinson’s melodious tones. Disinfect your palms. And all the handles in the flat. 

This going to be fun. Absolutely fine. 

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

It is your first day at film school in Berlin, probably the edgiest european metropolis, and you are feeling tip top. You can’t quite decide whether the double shot cold brew that you’re currently drinking is making you feel on the edge, or has indeed just added another edge to your effortlessly cool hexagonal prowess. Either way, you are pumped for what some might describe as the first day of the rest of your life. Despite graduating more than a year ago, the existence of the dream J-O-B is proving v. elusive and you have realised that you are surprisingly still interested in interesting things. You kind-of think an MA is the way forward, but you haven’t quite got over the strugs of referencing your 12000-word dissertation, so instead you’ve discovered something called the short course. And one way or another, but mostly because your extremely cool flatmate Elodie suggested it and then promptly sublet your room for the summer, you are in Berlin to learn how to make documentaries.  You don’t really know anything about le camera, but inspired by Louis Theroux and David Attenborough you quite fancy the idea of making a show called something like “Lou’s Thoroughly Weird Weekdays” or “Lou Planet”. 

Despite not speaking a word of German you navigate the S-bahn like the Super-Trouper that you are, and firmly decide that your new favourite catchphrase to use both inappropriately and frequently is:  

AUSSTIEG LINKS

(EXIT LEFT)

 In your ears, the ABBA Gold Anniversary album is thundering on. True, it’s not techno, but to be honest “Chiquitita” has some beats that could only be described as tropical. 

Having arrived in school and whilst having a nice chat with one of your new classmates, your teacher decides to drop the entirely expected, but also entirely unexpected ice-breaker bombshell that you’re going to have to introduce yourself to the class and name your favourite film. 

Initially you think this is fine. You’ve got this. You can do this. You know what your name is, and you’ve watched films before. This is your chance to show to everyone that you are symbiotically effortlessly cool and a natural genius. But then as you try to think of an appropriate film, a film that really says I am a serious wannabe documentary filmmaker, a film that shouts maturity and intellectual nobility, your mind goes blank. 

Very blank. 

Very, very blank. 

In fact, the only film that you can clearly think of is The Lion King. 

Fuck. 

Come on, you think to yourself. You can’t say that your favourite film is The Lion King. You’ve got to come up with another film. Any film. Literally. Any. Other. Film. 

You’re mind is just so empty. You can’t think of anything else. There’s literally nothing but Simba in your brain. 

FUCCCK. 

You suddenly realise that the class has started introducing themselves, it’s ok, you’re seated roughly in the middle, but the countdown is on to come up with another film. There are a lot of extremely moving, human-rights-themed documentaries being mentioned. Someone’s definitely just talked the famine in Yemen and a short report film made by the Guardian. You read the fucking Guardian every day why can you think of nothing else but Hakuna Matata? 

Your turn is definitely nearing. COME ON. 

“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion...” 

Not fucking funny. 

You are in Berlin. You are in a city which produced award winning films like “Run Lola Run” and “Goodbye Lenin”, fostered Werner Herzog, and inspired thousands of literary greats including Margaret Atwood. You are at film school. You are in a room filled with really seriously cool and passionate people from all over the world and who’ve worked for MSF and on peace boats and for film festivals. And the only film that you can think of is The Lion King?!

Panic. Major Panic. 

As it comes to your turn, you give your brain one last push and in a similar way to a rogue golfball knocking out a koi carp, something else plops into your brain and with no time to think you just go with it. 

“Yeah so, I mean, I guess, my favourite film is... Good.. Will.. Hunting..” 

You’ve not seen this film. You have absolutely no idea who’s in it or what it’s about. For all you know it could be about a nice guy called Will who goes Hunting, or it could be about the consumerist vilification of Good Will during the holiday season. It’s frankly a huge mystery as to how precisely that film appeared in your brain, but as you look around the room everyone seems to be positively nodding and agreeing with your choice. Phew.

#NailedIt 

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

Having quit your job after Christmas, hashtag new you, hashtag new year, hashtag millennial strugs, hashtag blessèd, you have just received your final payslip and you are fucking chuffed. Not chaffed, as a woman on the bus, her face full of concern, hurriedly offers you some ointment from an unmarked jar. You politely decline, for all you know, it could well be mayonnaise, and go back to loudly yomping down the phone to your mate about being hashtag paid, hashtag baller, hashtag blessèd. 

In town you stare at the ATM screen, and woop loudly. The number’s a seasonally Spring banknote green, thank fuck for that. It feels almost as though you’ve won the lottery, almost as though you’ve forgotten the last six months of monthly pay.  You give yourself an internal high five and begin to feel as though you might be in a really bizarre Bob-the-Builder-esque musical that’s been written by the Wests.

“Kanye party?”

“YES YOU CAN!”

Too right Little Mix, I do want to Shout Out to my EX, my ex-job. 

Witty. 

You decide that as a recently free bird, no longer contracted by long hours, and still in your pursuit of the dream J-O-B, you must invest some of your dollah dollah in some new threads. Yes, frankly no one is going to employ you or indeed love you, you briefly remember the grotesqueness of V-day, yuck, if you don’t present yourself like the badass that you are. Hashtag degree, hashtag london lyfe, hashtag blessèd. 

You make your way to the nearest shop in your eye line, the effeminately named Zara. This is potentially your first mistake. Alone inside  you are perplexed by the amount of clothes that are really quite bizarre. There’s a lot of gold denim, and tops with more than the standard tri-orifice structure. There’s also a lot of beading, and fluff. Lots of fur, lots of fur everywhere. 

You gather a large of clump of clothes that you think might do, and a weird gold and glittery, matte black antler headband that’s obviously from Christmas, but you ignore this and buy into the cool hashtag Spring, hashtag nature, hashtag woodland display.

Once in the fitting rooms, you realise you are alone. This is normally not an issue. You know how to buy clothes. Well, you know how to buy black jeans and socks.  But this, the concept of an outfit, clothes that are bought together to go together is new territory.

 Nice clothes. What are nice clothes...? 

You briefly consider FaceTiming Elodie or one of your friends, but you know that both will definitely laugh at you for not being able to buy clothes on your own. And you’re quite sure that Elodie won’t even answer. Grim. 

You take a big deep breath and assess the situation.

Suddenly in an event that you will later recount as a religious experience you become aware of a mother and daughter in the next cubicle.

Bingo. 

There’s a weird feeling of safety that’s associated with mothers and daughters in fitting rooms. You feel like they are definitely on Team Advice. You don’t know them, but you manage to convince your anxious self that this mother is a surrogate mother sent to you by the gods of fashion.  

In a half-hysterical rush you decide to put all of the clothes, all at once. You’re not really sure why, but on it all goes, turtle neck at the bottom, festive t-shirt over the top and a weird fringed jacket on the top of that. Some spangly gold jeans clasp your legs whilst a skirty mcskirt face number falls on top. It’s quite warm, your cheeks are feeling pretty rosy from the cubicle lights and the layers obviously. 

You briefly consider whether this is weird, asking someone else’s mother for fashion advice. But you have more important issues to worry about, for instance, you can’t knock on cubicle curtains. You decide to go for a sensible shake of the drapes. 

“Hello, hey, hi, how are you?” 

Mother and daughter cower away from the spectacle that you are. 

“Good. Well I was wondering whether I could get your opinion on this outfit?” 

Pause.

                                                         *****

As security deposits you outside, you consider the events of the day. Outfit shopping should definitely be left up to the professionals, but at least you got that antler headband for free. They seemed delighted to give it to you. Anyway you remind yourself, you never know, it might be just the thing, just the je ne sais quois to getting the dream J-O-B. Hashtag Live, hashtag laugh, hashtag love, hashtag blessèd. 

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

it is 3:39pm on Sunday, and you are walking down the street in a way that, you believe, exudes adult sophistication. It is still light, just, and you have decided like the adult that you are, to make the most of your day off by rejecting public transport to go for a walk. Mainly because you don’t have any money, but also because you think you should see more of your neighbourhood, just in case anyone ever asks you anything geographical. 

E.g.

“What’s the capital of Iceland?” 

“Oh I don’t know, but what I do know is that past The Bell, but before the Common, is a shop that sells bird feeders in the shape of vending machines. Cool huh?” 

Seeing such an ornithological sight sets you off on a huge existential crisis based largely around the conundrum of what life would be like in a parallel universe where birds ruled the roost. Would they provide houses in the shape of nests for humans? Would there be human feeders where all the food is in cages and would you have to balance on an incredibly thin, wobbly bit of metal whilst using your face to prize a jacket potato from between the bars? And what about baths? Would you have to bathe in a plinth in a bird’s garden? How the fuck would that work? Would there be restrictions on clothing? And what would happen if you wanted rose oil in your bath, but Orcabella wanted vanilla scented body lotion? **Mental Retching**

As you get pulled deeper into this thought chasm, you are unaware of the impending doom that approaches. Suddenly, your toe catches the lip of an uneven piece of pavement, and you fly, practically bird-like, but more Eddie-The-Eagle than eagle, for several milliseconds, before coming to land with a resounding crash. 

You are surprised by how much this hurts. You definitely remember falling over lots when you were a kid, but you don’t remember this pain and you haven’t fallen over (sober) for ages.  You concede to yourself that perhaps you are no longer made of rubber and magic and remind yourself that your mum isn’t here to kiss it better, that instead you’re lying spread-eagled, but not in a sophisticated adulty way, on the pavement somewhere in L-Town. 

You get up and assess the damage. There’s no blood.

Phew. 

A man at the other end of the road looks visibly pleased that you’re ok, but mainly that he doesn’t have to ask whether you’re ok, or attend to you in any kind of emergency way. You kind of feel like crying, so you hobble to your local Tesco Metro, which is luckily just around the corner, and have a little cry in Aisle 6 while debating which packet of biscuits will cure your shock. If anyone asks, you can attest your tears unequivocally to the horror of the new packaging of the Roses’ Chocolates. More plastic than chocolate, some might say. 

You get home and collapse on the kitchen floor for a second assessment of your injuries. You’ve got a real corker of a bruise growing on your knee, and whilst you don’t really know anything about first aid, you decide that you should put something on it. Something about RICE dislodges in your memory. But you can’t put dry rice on your knee because that definitely doesn’t sound right and would be weird, and messy. You know it fixes damp iphones, but can it also do bruised knees? You skip the RICE and head to the freezer where you find some frozen milk. Who’s is it? You have no idea, Elodie definitely doesn’t drink dairy, let alone freeze it. You could use some of her frozen, ready-to-ingest, red pepper smoothie (**Mental retching**) but you decide against it. Anyway milk definitely is used for something medicinal. There’s definitely something about putting owwwies in milk. Although, now you think, maybe that’s something to do with teeth. 

You have another look at your knee and decide you must snapchat it to all of your friends, not necessarily to gain sympathy, but also mainly to gain sympathy. Then you remember that in order to escape THE POST-TRUTH you have deleted both Snapchat and Insta. As part of the move to become an adult you decided that three second videos of parties, pastries, pets, and pints weren’t your thing. 

Fuck the internet. Fuck mobiles. This is a job for ye olde landline. 

You find it, hidden away in a corner of the kitchen.  Dusty and forgotten. Your attempt to escape modernity doesn’t quite work because you have to use your mobile to get the numbers for your friends in order to ring them via the landline. But wow, it’s the thought that counts. 

And off you go, you spend the rest of your evening ringing literally everyone. You even leave a couple of voice messages describing in semi-precise detail the size of your bruise. You’re not one for hyperbole, but in this case you’re pretty sure that this bruise could definitely win some sort of award.

Most of your friends tell you to fuck off and the ones who receive voicemails block you from their social media and delete your number. Which is fine although a little bit rude, but at least you’ve warned them, your adulthood is definitely still pending.  

**Disclaimer: The capital of Iceland is obviously Reykjavik and I mostly drink the red top milk.** 

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

It is fifteen minutes to midnight and despite eating dinner at 9pm after a hard day’s slog selling mostly lint rollers and Christmas baubles, you are definitely still hungry. This week you’ve really tried to widen your gastronomic horizons, mainly because your fabulous and “much-more-of-an-adult” housemate Elodie definitely looked mildly appalled that time you attempted to spruce up a reduced packet of Coronation Chicken with some baked beans and a sprinkling of coriander that you found lurking in the bottom of the fridge. Elodie’s shelf in the fridge is a vegetable mecca, or rather a vegan’s mecca. It’s not really a mecca for vegetables, because when you actually think about it fridges are like death row for pulses. And there’s nothing stopping them from being boiled alive. Maybe, you think to yourself, amidst this thought loop, maybe you should become a Earthitarian, someone who only eats things that have been picked straight from the ground, or killed less than ten minutes beforehand, but then you think about the logistics of this and realise that your would starve. Mainly because there’s no fucking grass in London. Tonight in an step towards exploring some new grub, you had gnocchi, you have much love for that silent g and it is an initial step into the world of potato by-products. The thing is, it really hasn’t quenched the gut. 

You look at your clock, twelve minutes till the nearest Tesco Metro closes (much much more accessible than the earth). It takes you approximately eleven minutes to get there. In other words, Game On.

As you yank on some trainers, grab some money, your keys and sprint outta the door, you briefly catch a glimpse of yourself in the hall mirror. You’re dressed in your favourite matching pyjamas from when you were thirteen. Oh fuck it, you think, who cares what I look like? I’m on a mission and there’s ice-cream at the end of it. Anyway this is London and none of your friends live near you, it’ll be absolutely fine. 

Like a well-trained marathon runner, you arrive at Tesco Metro with time to spare. You refuse a basket, which in future hindsight is an error.  You are alone, the shop is clearly closing and the guy on the till glares at you to hurry up. Picking up two tubs of ice-cream, “it was a BOGOF scenario” you’ll remind yourself later when you’re passed out on your bedroom floor in some kind of dairy-induced coma, you pause and consider the chocolate sharing bags and thank the Cadbury Gods, for creating the Dinky Decker. Hurrah for the fact that there’s no “we” in sharing. They put the “I” there for a very singular reason. 

Suddenly you hear a noise, it’s the muffled slam of the freezer door. There’s someone else here. It’s definitely time to go. As you scoot speedily towards the checkout area, she emerges. 

It’s Agapantha, from Primary School. You know, the girl who ate worms and who definitely snogged Barney Spanieldog in year 2. 

You literally drop everything you’re carrying. 

 It  takes you a moment to recognise her, you had heard through ye olde grape vine that she was working in “Fashion”. You can sort of see it, she’s now even taller than she was when she was eight. Although, that’s probably not surprising. And she’s dyed her hair that cool off-blue grey, which awkwardly matches your aged pyjama bottoms. Oh fuck. You’ve completely forgotten that you’re dressed like a psychedelic slushy. 

She doesn’t notice you and instead lunges over all the crap that you’ve dropped on the floor to go and pay. You get a quick peak of the contents of her basket, lots of freezable kale, as it that’s a thing. You think you spy some ice-cream and briefly consider the possibility of you reconnecting with her, until you realise that actually it’s a humongous pot of Edamame Oil, as if that’s a thing. 

Oh well, you think to yourself, there’s no way you’ll ever see her again. It’s just London, being London. A sponge. Squeezing everything in, and occasionally squeezing something weird out. 

**Disclaimer: I’m clearly no good at drawing background shelving paraphernalia. And I don’t know anyone called Barney Spanieldog, but it would be cool if I did. Based on concepts not on things.**

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

You are halfway through your shift at work, you’ve been standing up for four hours and have another four fucking hours to go. Your always optimistic, “happy-to-help” colleague grins at you and says, “Oh, come on grumpy face, that’s four more hours of serving the good people of this neighbourhood.”  You smile and nod and despite knowing that they’re just trying to be nice, you don’t open your mouth to reply as you definitely felt a little bit of sick come up at the end of that sentence. 

Note, this is not the dream J-O-B that you had imagined you would be doing when you first considered moving to London, that one’s definitely covered in gold, sparkles, Nicola Sturgeon’s perm and has a necklace made out of all the other things you love most in the world like the purple and yellow party rings or that really satisfying moment when your tube carriage stops directly opposite the Way Out. Although you’re not really sure how that would fit on a job necklace, but then you remind yourself that this whole thing is just conceptual. Anyway you haven’t found the dream J-O-B yet, but you have high hopes that it’s just around the corner, if not the next one, then for sure it must be around the corner after that. 

No, your current job at a well-known homeware store is the one that’s currently providing you with a dodgy sprung bed and a nice collection of mould in your bathroom - yes! Daphne’s reproduced. Your housemate and current life idol, Elodie has an interview for a job at British Vogue today, you made her a card which you definitely thought was much more hilarious than she did. It was a bit of yarn stuck on some white card, and you wrote: 

Good Luck for your interview, make sure you don’t yarn, because they might think you’re bored. 

Not quite as punchy as you had imagined it was going to be, but still quality. You crack a smile despite realising that you’re going to have to rearrange the candle display again for the sixth time in two hours. Your extremely optimistic colleague, catches you smiling and gives you a big thumbs up which causes you to genuinely vom in your mouth. 

Ten minutes later you return to the shop floor with most of the stockroom cradled in your arms and it is at this point, despite the fact that not only do you look busy but you actually are busy, that every customer believes that now is the perfect moment to ask you a question. After fending off some pretty tricky questions about whether you have any dog-seatbelts, the ratio of raisins to nuts in the muesli, and the meaning of life in light of whale-themed merchandise, you believe that the worst is over.

 Until you spot it, coming towards you like an over-balanced Jenga tower. It’s a SPAM. Not an overly large ham in a tin or an email trying to sell you viagra, no, no, but a S.P.A.M., a Super-Passive-Aggressive-Mother. 

Gone are the days of the mothers who spawned us, we the Y generation. No longer is it mummy-cool to wear a matching Boden/Mini Boden ensemble with your kid. Nor do mother’s wear with pride the GAP basic t-shirt range stained with various yuck remnants. Instead the new cohort are super hot, have super post-pre-baby bods, are dressed in super sporty spandex and have often just been to Baby Yoga, which they call Byoga, which you laugh at because it’s an almost anagram of Bogey and because you’re a bit intimidated. The problem is that you know that there is a high chance, because sod’s law, that you’re going to have sold out of the one thing that they came in to buy. 

“What’s on display is all that we’ve got in,” you nervously squeak, as they tower of you, complete with a Bugaboo buggy that takes up the entire aisle and is a huge fire hazard, but you can’t tell them that, unless you want to be mowed down. 

They reply to you, but direct their response whilst smiling at their drooling/sleeping three week year old baby that’s probably called something festively disastrous like Pumpernickel. 

“ohhh pumpi, cootchy coo, yes the lady doesn’t have any more vanilla scented candles, isn’t that really stupid? Stooopid” 

You’re definitely in earshot, and whilst you know that it’s directed at you, you also don’t know whether you should reply because she’s also definitely talking to her baby. So you don’t say anything and just awkwardly rearrange the candles for the tenth time that day and mentally remind yourself to look around some more corners just in case any dream J-O-Bs are lurking around. 

Disclaimer: I also like the pink and white party rings. Based on concepts not on things. 

[magentaoctopus]

Limbo Laughs

Two months in to living the adult life in L-town, you are invited by a friend of a friend to a house warming party NORTH OF THE RIVER. You don’t really know what that means, but when anyone ever discusses an event on the other, apparently much more exotic, side of the Thames, it is always said with such massive emphasis. 

“What’s with this “NORTH OF THE RIVER” stuff?” You ask Elodie, your far-superior-in-every-way housemate. “Sounds worryingly like someone’s trying to take the piss of GOT, haha.” 

You obviously laugh awkwardly at your own joke whilst she simply rolls her eyes and sniffs loudly in disdain.  She is however, completely gobsmacked when you tell her about the P-A-R-T-Y. 

“You? What? YOU. You’re going to SW3. Fuck.” 

Again, you don’t really understand why this seems such a massive deal, so you say yes to the party even though you absolutely don’t know anyone else going, reminding yourself of the depressing fact that you haven’t been to a party in over a month. All your real friends, as in the one’s you saw pretty much every day at uni, are 100% not in Chez Capital and are instead having a super safe time chilling with their parents somewhere just beyond the M25. 

You decide to go to said P-A-R-T-Y straight from work. You’re definitely running late as usual so you decide to forfeit changing time, instead pulling a horrible mossy green, but crucially still clean, jersey over your uniform whilst trying to rid your jeans of a nice rice pudding stain, which you definitely make worse. But no time for that, you don’t even have time to consult Elodie on NOTR culture as you’ve got to take three different tubes and a bus to get there. You finally discover the meaning of NORTH OF THE RIVER - everything, everything is even more fucking expensive. You are definitely never going here again. 

You arrive at the party and realise you have definitely misjudged the lateness of your arrival. You had planned to arrive when everyone was pretty tipsy, when the music was loud enough for you not to have to make serious small talk conversation, but the music is definitely not playing yet and everyone clearly knows each other. There is a lot of dream J-O-B chat and everyone is dressed really fucking classily. In fact, as you look around, the whole flat is super fucking amazing. The walls are painted a pretty off-pink, which someone tells you is “Elephant’s Breath” which you laugh at hysterically for an awkwardly long time because you don’t know that “Elephant’s Breath” is actually a sign of life accomplishment because it’s Farrow & Ball. So you have to turn you face from “gosh that’s hilariously rude - but you’re definitely my kind of person” to “gosh that’s super impressive - who are these people”. You also realise everyone’s drinking super fucking nice wine, from actual GLASS glasses, and you clutch your six pack of weird Heineken rip-off beer, that’s amusingly called “Heinekant” which was very very cheap at the offie. You had thought that this might be an good conversation opener, which of course it isn’t. 

Finding this all a bit ghastly, you thankfully find yourself a nice cosy, people absent corner and send the one friend that you thought was coming approximately one billion “where are you?”s. You survey the room, whilst stressing about that rice pudding stain and clutching your weird beer closer to your chest, and begin to plan your exit strategy.  

Suddenly you see her. Fuck. 

It’s Funkinella, once Funks at school, now Nellz from Newcastle. She looks amazing, like a real adult. She was a colossal arse to you at school but you put up with it because everyone thought she was fabulous and so did you, well sort of. You haven’t seen each other in almost four years, the last time being when she totally accidentally knocked you out with a hockey ball. She now only plays lacrosse, of course, but It’s an event you blame ever so slightly (totally and completely) for the fact that you didn’t get into your first choice university. You definitely hadn’t planned to see her now, especially as she seems to be peaking at life, and you’re still chilling out at around rung three of the great life ladder, dressed not to your best. Goddamit, you were only meant to be reunited when you were a millionaire and had an inflatable swan on wheels.

So as she bounds towards you like a fearsome cross between Boudicca and a gazelle but in a good-and-definitely-no-hard-feelings way, you try and smile a bit, knowing full well that you are 10/10 trapped by this goddam comfy but currently problematic corner. Fuck. 

**Air Kiss** Definitely not ok with this **Air Kiss** 

“Hiiiiiii, oh myyy gawddd it’s been sooo longggg” 

“Hi Funks.” 

“Oh it’s actually Nellz, now. You know, ‘Nellz from Newcastle’ aha aha”

“Ohhhh. Sorry. Cool!” 

Pause. 

“This party’s good, do you live here Funks, I mean Nellz..? 

“Oh I knowww, it’s sooo nice this house. My boyfriend actually lives here. He’s in possession of the dream J-O-B, yes, and I’m basically here all the time.”

“Oh cool, well I’m actually living on the other side of the river, so fucking far away, literally had to take three tubes and a bus, which was fine obviously, but you know, I didn’t really have time to change and I feel a bit awkward, with you know, not knowing any of these people and having brought some funny but also not very funny ---

“Sorrrryyy darling, sooo nice to see youuu but I actualllyy really need the loo. Byeeee” 

**Air kiss** still not ok with this **Air Kiss**

Goddamit. You had mistakenly thought that conversation might last a little bit longer between old school gals,  perhaps you and Funks, you mean Nellz, might have had something more to say to each other. Well, you say to yourself as you exit the corner of doom and flee into the night, back to the safety of your double digit post code, at least you can sleep well knowing that Funkinella’s urinary tract system is in fine working order. 

Disclamer: If I was a millionaire, I’d also buy a toastie maker.  Based on concepts not on things. 

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Limbo Laughs

It’s seven minutes past two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and the whirly burly ball of stress writhing uncomfortably in your stomach confirms to you that this time you have 100% truly fucked things up. This is more serious than that one time at uni when you nicked one of Adriana’s avocados and replaced it with one solitary brussels sprout. A poor replica in hindsight but 10/10 bants for the rest of the year. You snort, it’s been three months since you graduated, and the memories of the good old days still tickle your whistle. Gee. 

Since leaving uni, things haven’t really gone to plan. Well, they haven’t really gone anywhere. You do not have your dream job, you have not met your future S.O, despite some really good trying, all that eye-contact on the tube. You have however moved to London, mainly to try and appease your career-concerned rents, but also because you’ve been twice and the Rainforest Cafe was a good craic. 

“London’s where all the creative jobs are. Things happen there. I’ll be bound to find something.” 

So far, you’ve found nothing apart from a lively selection of mould, which you’ve named Daphne, growing in the corner of the bathroom at your very adult, very sophisticated (you have an actual fabric tablecloth, no spillage is lickage for you) but very cheap abode. 

But today’s the day it’s all meant to change. You have an interview with an advertising company, they actually read your CV, huzzah - except... you’re late, really fucking late. 

It’s now fifteen minutes past two and as you sit on the bus directly in front your bedroom window in a red-light jam, you try and convince yourself that it’s not totally your fault. If it had been tomorrow, like you had convinced yourself that it was, you would have totally aced it. You would not be sitting in yesterday’s clothes, you would have on that freshly washed and roughly ironed shirt that’s currently sitting soggy and soaking in the bottom of your sink. You pulled it out of the washing machine mid-cycle in your panic. To be honest who knew that the human brain couldn’t remember a whole life’s worth of events and meetings? Where was Facebook events when you really needed it? That was the real killer, if only it had popped up as a notification on Facebook, then oh boy, you would definitely have remembered. That’s the thing, that’s how you survived uni, goddamit, Facebook events, those tiny red notifications popping up and organising your life. Frankly if you can’t remember when your best friend’s birthday is, which you can’t, how on earth would you be able to remember the exact time and date of this interview?!?

Let’s be honest though organisation, the big “O” has never been your strong suit. You were late out the womb, and true to form, have been late ever since. 

Later, much later, the cataclysm of the interview doesn’t bear repeating, that evening, after bemoaning the days events to Elodie, one of your housemates who horrified by your lack of adult-ing, decides to become your ultimate wingwoman. She’s going to help, she tells you, making some “too-intense-for-the-moment” eye contact. 

Elodie is on another level, you’re a little bit afraid of her, she’s super-organised, super-hot, does everything and has dream job. She practically has a utility belt filled with helpful scheduling tools such as highlighters, sticky labels and pens of all colours. Some say (mostly just you) that she was born with a Filofax for a placenta.

 She suddenly pulls something strange and alien from the aforementioned utility belt and pushes it towards you. 

“It’s called a Calendar. C-A-L-E-N-D-A-R” she tells you, taking you by the hand and leading you into the metaphorical light of daily routines and life schedules.

“You write what you’re doing and where and when in here, and then you won’t get so confused, or be such a total fuck-up.”

The light is blinding, it’s a total mindfuck. Why hasn’t anyone told you about this magic before? On the plus side, Calendar is a total sexy ass, his feathered gold spray tan beams out and for a second you feel a bit overwhelmed, especially when you have the skin tone of a mortuary. Will such a big dog organisational accessory want to be seen with you? Then, a thought occurs to you, maybe this is a step forward. A step towards the dream J-O-B, towards being more like Elodie.

Until she says, “sometimes doing admin just makes me so happy. It’s like pizza, it fills me up and puts a smile on my face.”

No, Elodie. Please never again try and equate pizza to scheduling. 

**Disclaimer: I don’t own blue jeans. Based on concepts not on things.**

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LOU ENCOUNTERS: Eel Pie Island

After a lively summer filled with a fair few killer experiences such as receiving some letters at the end of my name (hello completed Theology degree!), performing at the Edinburgh fringe, crying at the prospect of adult life, and traipsing through a Latvian forest after a minor travelling disaster, this blog series has moved North. although realistically more like East, and I’ve followed. Basically, for those like me who lack geographical talent, we’ve left the sultry southwest and all of its glorious seaside sensibilities, to have a gander in the Big Smoke, L Town, Captain Capital... or as the Romans might say, Londoninium.

I’ve always thought that the River Thames was not that great. It’s fairly spacious I grant you, and its got some seriously exciting (but not so fun if you fall in) currents etc. But it’s no mammoth specimen like the Amazon, or the Nile, or the Danube. And it’s not even the biggest or longest in the UK, that would be the Severn, so the Thames is pretty tiddly really. However on a recent zoom of the capital I noticed that there were a number of small islands upriver. Most of these, more commonly known as Aiths, are teeney and uninhabited but are home to large swathes of endangered wildlife. However after some research I discovered the slightly larger island of Eel Pie, it sits in the Thames just across from Twickenham in West London, and set that as my first destination. From central london this journey takes about an hour and costs around £10 return.

1) Contrasts: I arrived at Twickenham station to find that West London still looked like London. However after walking for 10 minutes I was confronted by this strangely rural and beautiful sight. 

The Thames looked positively enticing. Although that sky does not. 

2) Eel Pie: I had hoped that there might be some actual Eel Pie on offer, a little snack for the visitor. There was not. There was a small footbridge crossing to get on to the island and there were lots of signs that said NO ENTRY, PRIVATE PROPERTY.

100% decided to ignore this... 

Luckily I was clothed respectably and didn’t look too much like a massive tourist, so I managed to walk through the island undisturbed. I decided however not to take any photographs because I already felt v. like I shouldn’t be there. But it was v. cool. Eel Pie Island is home to a small community of artists and the houses reflect this, they’re all very artsy and bohemian. If you’ve ever been to Christiania in Copenhagen, Denmark or Užupis in Vilnius, Lithuania, it’s kind of like that. Except obviously there are no other people on the island apart from residents. If you don’t want to risk detection, there are a couple of days a year when the island opens up and allows the public to come and look at the artwork created by the inhabitants. 

3) Twickenham Riverside: I returned to the banks of Twickenham town pretty sharpish and walking through a rather lovely street, I discovered a number of classically excellent waterside shops. 

Clearly the start of something new for the Aero. Also is there such thing as a Night Spa?? 

This sweet shop had constructed a mammoth strawberry lace, from what appeared to be a swimming pool “woggle” or “noodle”. Definition dependent on where you were brought up/learnt to swim. 

Do people wear shoes on their knees? If so, where can I get a pair?

Witty. Would a rug company call itself, “Incompletely Floored”? 

Funereally brilliant. 

4) Ornamental Gardens: There was a lovely, ornamental and slightly shabby chic garden that surrounded an enormous, almost grotesquely large house, that I accidentally entered and then spent at least half an hour wandering through looking for an exit. 

Do people actually live here? 

5) Ornaments in Ornamental Gardens: On my wander through, I landed in front of this spectacular fountain thing. All the ornamental ladies were on fleek, let us be honest. 

But there was one that was throwing a particularly spectacular “must-reach-snacks-in-fridge-without-leaving-sofa” lunge. 

 6) Autumn: I then discovered this super pretty tree that was all autumnal and fab. But then I saw that someone had attached some floss to that tree and it quickly turned to super pretty gross. 

7) Bacon Sandwiches and Public loos: One of my favourite types of building are public park loos which often double up as cafes. They have that standard post-war, “I’m-not-meant-to-last-more-than-50-yrs-but-hey-here-I-am” ambience to their flat roofs. Anyway I had a bacon sarnie and a tunnocks teacake. All classic decisions and was feeling v satisfied with my life choices. until Christopher, a self-professed alcoholic and homeless man, came and sat next to me. I offered him half my ‘which, which he was amazed to find was warm, and that was sad. I gave him the rest of it, he asked me to marry him, but wanted to make sure that I was a) a woman, and b) that I had all the right womanly bits. I clarified that I did. 

8) Ferries to Ham Land: After refusing his marital advances, I left Christopher with the sandwhch, and discovered that you can take a small ferry across the river to a place called Ham land. Unfortunately I had spent all my change on cooked ham sandwiches but it definitely warrants a return visit. 

 That was it really. More blogs to follow, more adventures to be had. The main plan is thus adventuring via le Thames on my days off, discovering more about our capital’s waterside locales. 

xoxo

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LOU ENCOUNTERS: Plymouth

Delighted by the sheer joy encountered on our trip to Teignmouth and Shaldon the day before, I had high hopes for Plymouth. The city has definitely been on my short list of places to visit, mainly because Exeter YikYak gives it such an appalling rep, but also because it provides a little shake-up to the ol’ routine. It’s a city. It has more than three streets. Hold that idiomatic phone because this was clearly going to be a winner. 

It also luckily fulfils the under £10 rule for a train ride that takes a little under an hour - ideal. I decided to travel down with some friends, who I would, hopefully travel back with, as long I as I wasn’t purloined by the various idiosyncrasies of this southerly spectacle. 

1. Travel Advice

Due to it’s city status and large geographical area, I decided to do some prior research into the best and worst places to visit. Ultimately Trip Advisor probably would have been a safe bet, but who frankly needs that when you’ve got social media in the form of Tinder (hello.. **makes poor Adele joke**) and YikYak? Not me, clearly. 

My Exeter post on the anonymous social media, surprisingly came up with the good stuff. There was very little negativity. A couple of people posited the very simple of question of “why?” but I ignored them. There was a lot of chat about the Aquarium, but I’m just not sure how I feel about the irony of looking at fish in tanks in buildings next to the sea. #sorrynotsorry. It’s also dollah dollah and I ain’t got that.

Everyone on Exeter Yik Yak was surprisingly helpful, although questionably inferior to the top travel advice that I got from Plymouth’s finest Yakkers.

2. Roundabouts

First impressions, there were a lot of really mega roundabouts. I’m not sure why this is interesting, but it’s the first thing that struck me, so I thought I would include. There was one particularly instagram-able roundabout that had a bombed out church in the centre. I’m afraid I didn’t take a picture of that, but what I did take a picture of, was this mammoth, practically monasterial in its proportions, Staples, which stood opposite. Quality artistic decision. 

Phwoar.... 

3. Architecture

Apart from Plymouth Uni, which fulfilled standard university aesthetics - modern, imposingly large, quirkily angular, and multi-million-pound-esque, the general architecture of the city is pretty standard post-WW2 refurb. I actually quite liked it. I was pretty taken with this staircase - it backs on to a carpark off Market Ave. I like the swing of the bannister amongst the chessboard of angular windows. (I’ve messed around with the light to make this more apparent.) 

I also discovered a new favourite ceiling. Around the corner, I wandered into Plymouth’s City Market, which is housed in this amazingly large purpose-built warehouse, that I mistakenly thought had once been a swimming pool. I can confirm it was v. awks when I asked. Anyway it had the most excellent ceiling and clock. 

So much love for this.

4. The Hoe

Embarrassingly enough, I couldn’t find the Hoe for a while. I knew it existed and there were a shit-tonne of signs, but there was something within me, probably a leftover from pre-GCSE Geography, that made me question - who goes uphill to get to the sea? I’ll admit that the view was pretty awesome when I finally got there, but what I didn’t understand was the point of the lighthouse... If it’s Smeaton’s lighthouse - why the hell isn’t it in Smeaton (a town that’s tucked just around the coast)? I’d be a bit peeved if a city came and lynched my lighthouse.

5. Antique Shops

Tinder suggested two different locations for buying everything people no longer want. The first was called, “Little Camden” and I was momentarily afraid I’d been catfished and sent to my imminent death. It was also closed. So that didn’t help. But the shop was in the same carpark as my new fave stair case - so can’t be too mad. 

The second was anything that the Barbican could provide and I’ll tell you now - it definitely came up with the trumps, so much so that I actually bought a souvenir. The shop itself, was mega weird, and housed a bizarre array of stuff, from stainless steel teaspoons to mint-condition Sci-Fi memorabilia... 

6. Jake’s

I’d heard that this place was the best post-night out foodie in the South West. Even better, some might say, than Exeter’s own Mega K. I definitely thus had to make a visitation. Jake’s is different, it’s sandwich city. “Cheese, and lots of it” is the order of the day and night for this 24hr joint, the guy behind the counter tells me, “Bank Holidays are the busiest and the queues extend out the door and around the corner”. 

Sarnie goodness. 

7. Maps 

This was definitely one of my weirder trips, and I got super lost. Luckily two good souls provided me with some maps that were on the whole helpful...

Firstly this one which led me to the stairs, “Little Camden” and the possibility of my imminent death. 

Secondly... 

I actually don’t know what this was trying to be... I think it was directions to the Barbican. Anyway it reminded me a lot of this... 

GCSE Physics for the win. 

Finally I got some actual directions via this extremely superior map that contained actual labels and the possibility of two routes. YASSS. 

(Creds to Georgie) 

Ultimately Plym was great, although definitely one of my more unusual excursions, maybe because there was lots to do and I did very little of it... I’ll be making a return excursion, mainly so I can take a look at those stairs again, but also because I’m rather interested in the breakwater. Apparently you can’t get there unless you have a royal decree... but you never know what might happen (can swim if necessary...) 

As a side-note and a point of advice for anyone considering the solo adventure. Whilst the idea of not having a working phone on you is perhaps freeing and... fun. The reality of not having a working phone on you, or rather having 4% battery during a two-hour period where you’re trying to organise everything is marginally not ideal, especially when you receive a completely unexpected: “Heard you’re in Plymouth? My train arrives at 4:20, I’ll come and meet you” text from a friend. Lol. Classic times. 

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LOU ENCOUNTERS:Teignmouth and Shaldon

I’ll admit that when I promised to blog weekly about solo adventuring in the Southwest I may have lied. Or rather, underestimated the true horror of the dissertation and its time-consuming commitment to making me question everything. Yes folks, what really is a cheese-string? I’ve decided it doesn’t really resemble cheese or string... but then I suppose “churned rubber” isn’t really a marketing marvel... 

Luckily, I managed to dessert the dissi and my one final last week with much joy and have thus far spent a great deal of time becoming reacquainted with my bed and the sultry beer-induced stupor of late-night bevving. It’s been quality, I’ll have you know. I’ve also gone all out, with three weeks of term to go, on the decoration of my student house. Why? I’m not sure, but the realisation has hit - Who needs craft beer, when you can just have craft? Yes, I’ve become a pinterest monster and there’s literally no turning back. There’s homemade bunting and lots of those wonky snowflake things that I’ve stuck to all the windows. Yesterday I  even made some bunting out of rubber ducks. RUBBER DUCKS. Fortunately it lives up to its homemade name and looks charmingly crap if not a little macabre.  Anyway, in order to prevent myself from decopaging the entire kitchen with tissue paper et al., believe me, the risk was real, I decided to get some actual fresh air. Yes friends, i finally left my house and went on a little tripette. 

This one was different. I went with some mates. Yes, actual friends... miracle... Where did we go? Teignmouth. Shaldon. The Sea. I’ll tell you now it was frankly tip top. 

Listicle highlights, here we come.  

1) Travel: It’s a lush £2.85 return on the train and takes about half an hour along a line that has some mega coastal vistas. That was the first winner of the day. We all like a cheap train and some initial sea breeze to warm the nostrils. 

2) Piers: No seaside town would be complete without a quality pier full of very weird amusements. Whilst the 2p machines were ace, it was the slowly disintegrating remnants of rides once lost at the tip of the pier that were particularly delicious. 

That extension of joy. 

Bit creepsville, must admit. 

3) The Ferry: You can get on a very lovely 4 minute but mildly extortionate (£3 return) ferry from Teignmouth, across the estuary to Shaldon. According to the back of the ticket, which is decorated with bunting (can only be a good sign) this ferry route is one of the oldest in the UK, dating back to 1296. It was actually v. nice and the boatman heralded us with weighty tales of passenger gossip. 

4) Coastal Perambulation: All trips to the seaside are incomplete without a bracing walk. Ours was short but fairly vertical through some nice woodland but we were rewarded with a spectacular view of the southwest coastline. Good for the grams. Innit.

5) The Town: Teignmouth itself was cute and fulfilled most of the dreary but necessary characteristics of a classic seaside town. There was as per, a fair few amazing and frankly quite strange shops. Highlights included: the travel agents that was entirely devoted to coach trips #winner, this shop that sold “artistic” and revamped, what appeared to be, children’s toys... 

Funnnnn. 

Finally there was this weird cafe/boutique, with a mystifying name... 

i’ve no idea what “pink says”... sorry Teignmouth. But note the bunting... my craft subconscious was having a field day.

6) Fish and Chips: Ultimately the highlight of the trip, bar the sensational tales from the ferry boatman, was a quality fishy deliciousness. Curry sauce and gravy dominated the condiments, but it was definitely a delightful end to a delightful day. 

So much enjoyment. Yum, Yum, Yum. 

I can promise that there will be more of these to come. Quality southwesterly seaside towns, get in me. 

MOx 

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LOU ENCOUNTERS: PAIGNTON TO BRIXHAM

 As Totnes had been such a success, it was easy to spend the majority of this week planning my next adventure. This time I set my goal on some Devonian coastline and a bit of hike. The South-West coastal trail ticked all the boxes and so I decided on the faintly exotic paradise of Paignton, mainly because I’d heard of it and also because it was within budget (only £4.45 return) and time frame (I’ve decided I don’t really want to spend more than an hour on the train).  I set my end point as Brixham, why? I’m not really sure.. Mainly because I didn’t want to spend all day in Paignton and possibly because B-Town is of historical interest, as one of the largest examples of sea defence in the UK and because it has an exciting name... Brix and Ham. 

So I waved goodbye to the losers in the library and set off for some solo adventuring. I shall continue with the same badass listickle format because I want to. 

1) February: No seaside town looks nice in the winter. Amusement arcades seem suddenly creepy and the sea and sand, that whole beach combo - are simply not enticing.  This time it didn’t rain, but the grey, overcast skies threatened with well-practiced menace. 

That slide though... 

2) Architecture: There were a lot of seaside bungalows, which was nice. Someone had tried to design some modern, aesthetically appealing ones, but had instead created what felt like an eerie baddie’s pad from James Bond; particularly because they were situated next to a random military museum. Paignton, however, won the award for Ugliest Block of Flats with the Best View. 

The View... It’s amazing right?!

3) Paths: The route was pretty good, although quite muddy, until mine eyes were faced with these stairs and I was convinced I was going to die. 

THE GRADIENT

4) Signs: The South-West Coastal Trail is signposted pretty well, with little yellow arrows and acorns all the way, so you know you’re on the right track. I’ve discovered I’m a bit anal with maps. There were quite a few, what looked like short cuts zigzagging off the path, which you could follow; but I didn’t want to die mashed up on the rocks. 

5) The Sea: The water was so blue that I still can’t quite believe it. I’m from the East where the North Sea, even in the height of Summer, is infinitely GREY. Perhaps that’s what’s happened to blue food colouring - its all been added to the Devonian sea. 

There was also this super fun old castle battlement in this cove. I genuinely felt like I was George from the Famous Five. 

6) Brixham: The town was actually quite nice and very aesthetically pleasing, even for February. It also had some fairly sassy shops including one called “Gifted 2″ which of course made me question where was “Gifted 1″?

7) Shops: There were two shops that particularly caught my eye, particularly this narrow little tunnel of goodness called “The Cavern” which sold music and all the DVDs of films I never want to see again. And secondly there was of course, a wide selection of Antique shops, but there was this one in Paignton that had the most appealing offer.

that two-headed duck thing is mine!!!

8) LOLs: When I finally arrived, I decided to have a late lunch/tea and settle for an exciting coffee/deli shop, which was full of LOLs (Little Old Ladies) and they were having the best conversation I think I’ve ever overheard. There was a lot of discussion about drugs, particularly about how a member of the community had ordered over the internet some icing sugar from Colombia to be delivered to her sheltered accommodation... Apparently it turned out not to be Icing Sugar... 

9) Loos: When I stopped for the best ham and cheese toastie, I think I’ve ever eaten, be sure to check out the West Country Deli.. I also encountered the cleanest and most beautiful bog ever. Snaps for whoever has this much time and love for the loo. 

Did I learn anything from this adventure? Well, yes. I’m definitely a sucker for some sea air. It was also absolutely freezing so I’ll probably need to invest in something that isn’t my mum’s forty-year-old barbour. I also really like doing these adventures on my own, because it gives you the space not to think... and also, as much as I like my friends, I don’t need to spend every waking moment with them. Some people might think that’s odd, but I actually think that it’s nice to spend an active day to yourself (not a guru, just a badass procrastinator/explorer).  So I’ll definitely be continuing with this series of get-out-and-go “Lou Encounters”, so keep and eye out for weekly blogs! 

Lou xox

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LOU ENCOUNTERS: TOTNES

Third Year uni life has, in the last couple of months, become increasingly dull. The rave combination of “sleep - eat - dissi - repeat” is no longer a rave and feels like a bit of a rut. Let’s be honest taking time out of uni is normally the excuse you use for spending your entire day in bed - which is nice and all, but not great for the soul. Yesterday I decided to take matters into my own hands and escape the bubble by going on a big badass adventure. 

I texted some mates to see whether they’d be up for a little tripette - but they were all tied to their library desks and a guaranteed four hours of facebook procrastination. 

“Louisa, I can’t just go gallivanting off. I need to at least look like I’m being productive.” 

Fine. Probably should have tried to organise this about a month ago, instead of two hours before possible train departures... 

Luckily although not to blow my own trombone, I do possess a rather independent streak - it’s my most favoured quality and it’s a good ‘un - thus I decided to gallivant solo. I wasn’t going to allow my friends to ruin my somewhat spontaneous plans. 

I perused some maps and landed on my destination - Totnes. It only takes 30 minutes on the train (£5 return) and you get a pretty hot damn coastal vista for most of the journey. It’s also renowned for being a bit alternative so fits in with the solo traveller vibe. A quick Google search told me it was on the River Dart (classy) and had a frightfully exciting Norman motte and bailey Castle - which reignited some top memories from year 6 History and was probably going to provide some great snaps for the album. 

Anyway so I thought I’d give you a “buzzfeed-would-be-proud” but fairly unstructured list of things I learnt about adventuring, myself, and the town of Totnes. 

1) Weather: Your forty-year-old Barbour jacket, which you “borrowed” from your mother will not be able to cope with bad weather in the south south west. In short: IT RAINED. Constantly. Everything was damp - apart from the mood - but it was all quite cathartic. 

2) Views: I decided to climb this green mountain, which some might call a hill, in order to get a better view of the town and the river. It was a voyage of self discovery and genuinely beautiful; I felt I’d entered Never Land as I climbed my way through this verdant leafy tunnel. Anyway on reaching the peak, I was presented with this truly fantastic view. 

One hawt view... I’ll be returning when Fog is no longer a thing... 

3) Charity Shops: Totnes has a wide variety of charity shops that have some pretty ace clothes. I particularly enjoyed, however, the sassiness from this Save The Children sign which greeted me as I turned on to the High Street. 

4) AnTEAques: There were quite a lot of antique shops; but there was this one tea-shop that combined tea and heirlooms in a slightly kamikaze way. It was also sat next to a shop called “Not Made In China” and I wanted to buy everythingggg.

even those fake plants... 

5) Beer: I’m a sucker for a good rare IPA and the Beer Library, which forms part of the Totnes Brewing Co., provided exactly that. It was golden. I spent lots of dollah and shall definitely be making a return pilgrimage. 

6) Food: There were lots of tea-shops and exciting organic food greengrocers/delis that seemed surprisingly normal. There was also a great postcard and stationary shop that also sold handmade chocolates. Bit bizarre but frankly great. I paused at 4pm and had a no-frills-attached cup of tea. 

7) Cheese: In addition to all the perfectly lovely things that made Totnes great, was the big-ass discovery of the Cheesemonger - a shop devoted to cheeses of the local area. 

8) Music: Pop into Drift, if you’re a fan of vinyl. They had pretty much everything from old classics to new beats. It was fab. It also gave me the questionably great idea of recording comedy on to vinyl. If anyone can help me do this, then let me know. 

9) Silence: Thank Maynard’s Wine Gums for solo discovery. I didn’t have to make conversation. I didn’t have to listen to anyone moan about the rain or discuss where to go and what to do. It could all be done en mi cabeza. I didn’t have to think about anything, I could do just as I wanted. 

10) Weather 2.0: Not sure whether I mentioned that it rained. The visibility was so terrible that i couldn’t even see the castle. Big disappointment for my Year 6 History tingles. I think I’ll also need to invest in some proper adventurer shoes. 

11) The River Dart: The river was pretty nice. It had a great aesthetic that would have been better probs in the sunlight. 

12) Me: The whole trip, was in itself, quite rogue but I did have a truly great time. I didn’t have to think about my dissi or the fools stuck in the library. It was fab. 

Did I discover anything about myself? I’m not sure, but I think the spontaneity of the whole trip cemented my independent spirit - I’m not a huge fan on having to rely completely on other people to do the stuff that I want to do. Maybs it’s given me a bit more confidence to be ok with not having the slightest idea of what I’m going to next year, except that I want to go exploring and I want to walk somewhere. 

After I got home from Totnes, I decided to seize this independent streak and take myself out partying. Perhaps even more rogue... but it did make what was already a great day into the BEST day. It was quite bizarre but I think the top nights are the most random. I ended up, having failed to get into any clubs as the queues were pretty horrend, helping this dude with a sign and getting a free bevvie with his work colleagues. They must have thought I was a proper weirdo, I was a) a gal alone and b) wearing a super fun african print kaftan but had no bag or coat.... because Kaftan pockets... 

Anyway due to having such a thrilling time yesterday - I have made a resolution for the next couple of months: I will take every Friday afternoon off to go on an ADVENTURE and I’ll blog about it weekly. I promise. 

Lou x

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Changing Attitudes

My mother in trying to teach her eight year old daughter how to be independent but also safe on the streets of London, taught me two key lessons. Firstly, that ever-present notion of stranger danger. “Do not accept lifts from strangers especially if they offer you sweets or puppies”. Puppies and sweets were clearly crucial elements of such an encounter that I might, in my naivety, have with an elusive and strange figure. Such things are tempting although even at eight years of age, I distinctly remember thinking how untrustworthy it would be if a strange man or woman came up to me and declared “Small child, would you like to see my puppies?” 

Lesson number two included how to avoid peer pressure, specifically if ever anyone offered me a cigarette. Perhaps she was concerned that aged 8, I would become a chain smoker. Who knows? I feel it was potentially a little premature. We even had to do role play. She pretended to be the over-domineering child. You know the one. With the perfect plait, friends and too shiny a shoe. And I was me, timid and concerned that just through this conversation I was going to suddenly develop an avid and life-controlling addiction. The role-play conversation went something like this:

Mother (pretending to be small domineering child with hair and shoes): Would you like a cigarette? 

Me: No 

Mother as SDC: Oh go on. 

Me: Nope. I don’t bow to peer pressure. (top, top line) 

Mother as SDC: (in one final attempt) I have puppies and sweets. 

To be fair to her, both life lessons have worked exceptionally well. I have never had a cigarette and I am now so scarred by the possibility of sweets or puppies as an offering made by strangers that Halloween and most adult occasions have become serious issues. 

Until recently. 

On a recent trip down memory lane, I, alone in London with absolutely no dollar or phone on me decided that this was an exceptional opportunity to faint on to the irregular paving slabs of the Northcote Road, SW11. Let me tell you reader. If you are to faint do make sure, that both parents are a safe 4 hour car/plane journey from you. That your phone, is completely out of battery. And whatever cash you thought you might have on you, has unfortunately not made the trip out. Complete Disaster. 

Nevertheless, help arrived in the form of some very nice strangers. They did not offer me either sweets or puppies or cigarettes so I decided they were safe bets. Anyway long story cut short, after an extended and fairly awkward discussion over the possibility of me being with child, they drove groggy and green ol’ me home. Faith in humanity, resoundingly restored. 

To the woman in the blue dress and the man in shorts with the soft SA accents. Thank You. 

With much love,

MOx

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The Art of Losing

British society rarely talks about loss, only that to be a bad loser is terrible form and thus to be a good loser is something along the lines of being an incarnate holy grail. What does this mean? What is it to be a “good” loser? I class myself as someone who is not competitive. I have very little inclination to win. In hindsight I can see the positives of sport at school, teaching children how to win and lose with good grace. But let’s be frank, I was utterly crap at sport. Totally shite. We’re talking spectacularly falling over even when stood still. Therefore I lost regularly. Do I consider myself to be a better loser because I lost so many times in PE? Definitely not. Although I consider those experiences to have had some influence on my life. My biggest sporting achievement, which you may laugh at, was winning the three-legged race aged 7 with William Doran on Clapham Common. We were a pretty epic team. We had it down. I still have the sticker, my prize, stuck on to the inside of my desk at home and it is a moment that I think will stay with me, my first experience of winning. Trivial but truly significant. 

I think though, that it is important to consider how loss and losing whilst a negative experience has the ability to positively influence ourselves. My experiences of loss and losing have shaped the person that I am today and will shape the person I am yet to be. Loss often interweaved with feelings of regret is a deeply painful process. It can be especially hard when it causes us to lose a part of our identity. Speaking of fairly trivial matters, I lost touch with one of my best friends as a child, I genuinely still feel a tad queasy with regret when I think about. Loss genuinely hurts and there’s no getting away from it. It’s really really odd. Kinda like butterflies in your tummy, but ones that really hurt.  Whatever happens, be it trivial like losing your house keys or life-changing, such as that foggy and unclear realm of death, nothing can prepare you. It’s a bit like surfing. I suppose. It’ll either knock you down, or you’ll ride it out. And the person you’ll be on the other side, will be a different but certainly better person. 

I’ve decided to stick to the trivial, in terms of life’s big events. And thus as we look to the immediate future with the promise of a conservative government, for the next five years bringing an intense sense of doom and gloom across the country, it is necessary that we consider what this overwhelming loss will do for us. As an individual with very little say and influence, apart from my ability to vote, I feel a little bit like I’m in a coracle (small round boat thing) on the high seas of the Atlantic. Completely out of control. But I’m bizarrely looking forward to how it will affect me as a person. In five years, I’ll be twenty five and I’m expecting pretty amazing things. Beauty perhaps, although to be fair I don’t really know how I could get any more beautiful… 

I certainly don't object to Tory Voters. I feel life’s a tad too short to hold grudges. If loss and losing has taught me anything so far, is don't waste your time on things you can’t change. And to be completely frank, they’ve voted with the best intentions, because they care. Dave Cam might be feeling pretty epic and Eddie less so, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be all ok in the end. Eventually. 

I tend, when having extreme existential crises to consider what it would be like to be a part of nature. Here are some snaps I took when talking to a snail. Some would think snails hold a lesser aesthetic value to, say, a flower. I would disagree. I found this one to be intensely beautiful. 

MOx 

i think this aptly reflects the fury of emotion often associated with loss. 

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“Hullo Mr Snail” - Conversation with the Thou

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Swan on the River Chelmer. Beauteous.