Too cool for school

If only much-loved, popular authors of teenage fiction, like Jacqueline Wilson, would write inspiring prose, as opposed to stereotypical, sexist junk. ‘Girls in Love’, ‘Girls in Tears’… why not ‘Girls in School?’ or ‘Girls at Number 10, Downing Street.’

When I was in my early teens, I remember reading through every single one of Wilson’s published works, very much with the belief that they mirrored the real world, and its real expectations of girls and therefore women. It was only as I got older and could look back at those books with an analytical eye that I could see them for what they were and still are.

Just this week, the press have reported a worrying story about girls in schools today, who are apparently “keeping quiet in the classroom to avoid being labelled ‘swotty’” (The Independent). This is following a statement by the Association of Teachers and Lecturers, whose members are warning that girls are under so much pressure to fit a certain mould that they are not allowing themselves to reach their full potential in their school years.

It got me thinking this morning, as I tuned into the news on the radio in the car, about how I felt at school, and even though I felt ‘singled-out’ for being smart or clever in the eyes of my peers, it was never in a negative way. In fact, it was quite the opposite. My primary school was a lovely place (I even met my now husband-to-be there, so it couldn’t have been that bad!) and the people in my class were a great bunch. I was always a keen-bean at school, and hopefully not in an annoying way, but I couldn’t help but want to answer questions, and ask lots too. I wanted to learn, as much as I could, all in one day, and my teachers made me feel like I could – they were approachable, as were my peers. We learned from each other. Of course there was the odd game of kiss-chase in the playground, and girls vs boys in a very competitive game of rounders on a Friday afternoon, but the priority was definitely not what it is being claimed to be today: to be deemed “attractive.”

I wore trousers to primary school, and was one of the very few girls who did, (most others wore the grey skirt or check pinafore dress), but I wanted to wear the trousers because I could run around a lot more and quite frankly, wouldn’t get cold legs! It’s pretty obvious from my ability to be part of a minority trouser-wearing group, that my aim was not to be seen as “attractive” – I was far more interested in getting quicker at sprinting, and beating people on Sports’ Day!

It makes me sad – if what is being said in the media is true – that the younger generation of girls today are worrying so much about their appearance and their “attractiveness” that they feel unable to be as inquisitive in class as maybe they would organically, that they feel unable to show genuine interest in learning of different subjects because other people in the class might think they’re “swotty”. Guess what – I was always a swot and I look back now and have no regrets whatsoever. I loved school, loved learning, loved books, and most of all, loved being able to be me. It wasn’t uncool to be smart when I was at school, nor was it uncool not to be. People were a lot more forgiving then, and it wasn’t that long ago. I was still at primary school in 2004, running around the school field with my own personal training plan to be the fastest runner I could be, and doing my best to smash my SATs!

That should be every child’s, and every grown-up’s priority. To be the best you can be, the smartest, funniest, fastest, whatever it is you want to be, be the best at it. Don’t let people pressure you to limit yourself; don’t be silenced by a desire to be “attractive.” Being subservient is never attractive. Be assertive. Be you.

Rubbish at lie-ins

It’s just gone 7am on a Saturday morning and I’m lying wide awake with my brain whirring into overdrive – all I can think about is the wedding and how much there is to do, and my second thought is how am I going to manage with work?

I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed – at least I think that’s what I’m feeling. I have a long to-do list for the wedding, which includes actually sending invitations out to guests. But that’s a whole other story that I won’t go into, though I’m almost certain there will be another blog post once it comes to seating arrangements.

There are flowers to sort, a menu to finalise, outfits to buy, cars to hire, and the list feels endless. Oh and that’s all on top of the day job. I’m not your typical bride, in that most brides have a family rallying around them to support with organising and choosing and booking; however over-involved you might feel they are, surely the main thing is that they’re there for you and they care enough to be? 

It feels like I’m planning this wedding and the only support I have is from my fiancé, which I’m very grateful for, but I’ll always look back and feel sad that I didn’t have a family who could support me at this time. Having no support from family is really difficult, and sort of embarrassing, (this is the first time I’ve written about it),but I’m doing my very best not to let it ruin the “planning” stages, which I’ve heard are supposed to be good fun. 

I’ve always had very high expectations of myself and everything I do, and I can most definitely be my own worst critic, but I’m conscious of that. I don’t want the wedding to be a disaster because we’ve had to plan it by ourselves and fit it around very busy working weeks, and I don’t want my energy at work to dwindle for the same reasons.

I think I’m awake at silly o’clock on a Saturday morning because the day job is getting busier and I’m worried I’ll be letting myself down at an important time of year, just because I’m so preoccupied with all the wedding stuff! And I’m awake because the wedding stuff is driving me crazy with so much to do and no one to help us do it. I’ve also been missing university a lot over the past couple of months, for a lot of reasons, namely the clear-cut, moving on up, through three years of work, that helped me develop and achieve my degree. And I loved the structure. The “if you do well, you get this and go there” structure. I’m missing that I think.

I’ve tried three times already in the duration of this blog post to put my phone down, close my eyes, and go to sleep, but I can just see lists of things to do, whizzing around in my head. So I’m awake and might as well get on with my day, and a little bit of wedding planning…

Happy weekends everybody! 

Politics. NB: not the House of Commons’ kind

Ever found yourself stood dangerously close to a half-naked gym-goer in the changing rooms?

Well, you’re not alone. I found myself in precisely that compromising position only last week.

Gym politics, especially those of the changing room, are one of a kind. I’m training for the London Marathon (because I don’t have enough to do between the day-job, furnishing a house, and planning a wedding), so I’m at the gym a few times a week to get my fitness up. I’m no expert, but I do consider myself a serious gym-goer, in that I actually go to exercise. The definition of exercise, that I live by, involves raising your heart rate, and breaking a sweat. So, I go to the gym as often as I can, and whenever I do, I go with no make-up on, my hair tied up in a ponytail so high on my head that I resemble a pineapple, and I go with full expectation to break a sweat, so I’m always well-equipped with a towel, and a huge bottle of water. Back to the naked gym-goers: they tend not to be serious about exercise, because, let’s be honest, a full face of make-up – and I mean FULL face: foundation, blusher, eye-shadow, mascara, the works – does not constitute the demeanour of someone expecting to work-out hard enough to see even a bead of sweat. Also, how is it possible to work-out with hair-down? And why is it always pristine?

There’s me, minding my own business, dowsing myself in cold water in the changing-rooms, only to find myself on the receiving end of judgemental looks from these half-naked girls, barging into me as they walk past barefoot in nothing but a thong. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for body-confidence, but when did it become acceptable to flash cheeks in public?

I don’t know if the same politics apply in the male changing rooms, nor do I want to know, but the level of cattiness in the women’s changing rooms is unbelievable. And for what? Maybe they didn’t like me because I was fully clothed? Or because I was sweaty-faced with no trace of make-up? I don’t know. But if I’m being judged for my fully-clothed, sweaty-faced, self, then so be it. Sweating should be cool, and totally expected, in the gym. That’s the point of exercise. So ignore gym politics and get your sweat on!

Settled, miles away

I haven’t blogged in over a month, and I’ve missed it. Between my last post and today’s, I have moved home, and found what it is to be settled.

I’m over 70 miles away from work, 80 miles from family, and 100 miles from my favourite city. But I’m settled.

They say that moving home can be the most stressful time of a person’s life, and up until a few weeks ago, I believed it. But now, I really think it depends on the circumstance of the move. When I moved from my parental home to university, I was excited for the new start, but always felt unsettled, as though nowhere was fully home. I hopped to a second house after just a year in the first (that doesn’t include all the to-ing and fro-ing to my parents’ home) and even though I had a whale of a time with my wonderful friends and housemates, it wasn’t ever home-home. Following three years of what felt like nomadic life at university – and after a brief stint back with my parents – I moved to somewhere new, to be near my workplace. Although I was looking forward to kicking-off my career, I still felt unsettled, as though nowhere would suffice for me to settle.

You don’t know how unsettled you have been, until you’re well and truly settled. I certainly hadn’t realised until I moved into my new home two weeks ago, and slept for a full 11 hours, with no interruption. Woken only by the natural light coming through the bedroom window, I realised how settled I felt, despite being surrounded by endless numbers of cardboard boxes; it was as though it had happened overnight. The last four years were no-man’s land – nowhere was home, nowhere was where I belonged. This house, though, is home.

I remember being stressed out and fed up with previous moves, but even with the close proximity to the festive season, this move, housed nothing but sheer excitement. The only wrapping I did Christmas just-passed, involved brown tape and cardboard boxes. I couldn’t wait to have somewhere to call home, and I could not have predicted the impact the new house would have on my well-being, either. If someone had told me I would sleep for 11 hours, uninterrupted, on the first night in the house, I would have asked what they’re planning to sedate me with. But it really did happen. And still does. I dismantle the pretty array of cushions from my bed, climb into the crisp sheets, bury my nose in a good book, and when my eyelids are heavy, my head hits the pillow and I simply knock-out. Zzzzzz… I’m happier, healthier, a better sleeper, and a better eater, and I’m probably better company as a result – but I’ll leave that for others to confirm. I also haven’t mentioned that I’ve moved in with my favourite person in the world (which helps).

Speaking of burying my nose in a good book, I’ve been reading every day, just before bed, and I feel better for it. I’ve found that the safer and more content I feel in my surroundings, the more enjoyment I get from reading. Some people would probably expect the opposite – that of using reading as escapism, I suppose. But for me, I enjoy both the escapism of reading, and the return to the environment I’m in. One of the most helpful things I have read in my quest to mindfulness, recently, has been this:

“Happiness is not a state of mind, but a way of life.”

It helped me find my ‘settled’, so I remind myself of it almost every day, and thought sharing it might be a good start to blogging again.

I’m in love with a Muslim

Now you might have read the title of this blog, and thought, “So”? Well done to all of you.

If you read the title of this blog and thought, “Why”? You should take a long, hard look in the mirror, and ask yourself the same question.

 

I’m in love with a Muslim man.

And he’s the kindest, sweetest, most loving human being I have ever encountered in my life. I may be biased, because he’s my other half, but with everything going on around us in the world, with stories written daily of how our society is riddled with hatred for the Muslim community, I wanted to write to demonstrate how much easier it is to love, than to hate, if only people would allow themselves to.

 

Ignorance

Bigotry

Racism

Hatred

 

Awful words, horrible terms, frighteningly apparent.

The wrong people, with the most airtime, have their voices heard. They warp the minds of those easily swayed, and infiltrate dangerous ideology into a society they mistakenly stand to represent.

I’m making a stand, and I’m standing to represent those of us who love with the deepest depths of our hearts; those of us who reject hatred and ignorance; those of us who know, work with, travel alongside, live with, have spoken to, have dined with, are married to, have children with, somebody who is Muslim.

Guess what? There’s good and bad in every community. Thieves, murderers, the list goes on – they’re bad eggs, and they’re not bad because of where they are from, or what they believe, or the language that they speak. They’re bad because of the person they are, lacking a conscience. There are terrorists in every group of society, in every corner of the earth, in every country. And terrorists are extremists, with extraordinary views, warped ideologies, and a drive to cause destruction. They are not representatives of the societal groups they believe themselves to stand for: ISIS is not a Muslim group, much like the KKK is not a Christian one. No religion preaches death; rather, every religion strives for peace.

I wish the media would report stories of how people love, rather than hate.

I wish our news channels would show photos of generosity, rather than of atrocities.

I hope more people are able to share their stories of love.

I’m in love with a Muslim man, always have been, always will be.

And I’m proud of it.

An open letter to Europe, an appeal to humanity

To those of you reading this out of fear, disgust, worry, or lament, you’re not alone. It’s not just the people of Europe feeling lost, overwhelmed by deep sorrow, but the entirety of humanity.

The attacks on the evening of Friday 13th November, 2015, that took place in Paris, painfully known as the city of love, have shaken the souls of us all. The hurt felt by every pair of eyes reading this, has even stretched beyond the realm of the planet, with astronauts from various space stations sending messages of condolence to those affected.

I feel heart-broken for every single life lost; I feel lost in the grief of so many people who are pining for loved ones, family and friends; I feel scared for the future of so many young children growing up across the world; but most of all, I feel indescribably angry at the perpetrators and the possibility of such an evil existence. I’ve never known such relentless violence, such determination to cause maximum pain. It’s inhumane, unnatural, psychologically disturbed, and a notion of absolute Evil with a capital E.

The three colours of the French flag, the Tricolour of red, white, and blue, are often said to represent liberty, equality, and fraternity. It is undeniably these very ideologies that were under attack on Friday night. A very normal evening on an expectedly busy street in the city of Paris became a battleground – a scene of bloodshed and death. It is being reported across the media worldwide as the worst terrorist attack the city has seen in decades, with a curfew being placed on the city for the first time since 1944. 

I’m appealing to Europe, appealing to the world, appealing to humanity, to not lose hope. It is in times like these that we really see how people pull together: strangers taking people into their homes, people doing their utmost to save lives in the face of fear, social media being used as the fastest and most effective tool for finding loved ones, for spreading messages of love and condolence.

May the world continue to unite in love and peace, rejecting hatred, and murder. Pray for Paris in every language, every voice, every religion. Do not let this evil overcome the innate goodness within humanity. Lend a hand, lend a shoulder, spare a thought, and hold onto hope, for above all else, that’s a power we have that these perpetrators have lost. 

Mindfulness

I haven’t blogged in a while. Mostly because I’ve not felt able to. I’m usually somebody who likes to be busy, and I don’t mind a challenge, but I’ve felt rushed off my feet, in a bad way; I’ve felt like days are running away from me much like water down the drain – wasted.

I’ve been enjoying my job and my new role, I’ve been excited to be in the midst of buying a new home – my first home, I’m looking forward to our wedding planning coming to fruition, but there’s been something there, like a dark cloud, dragging me down. So I started sitting, thinking, privately, quietly. Then I googled it, because I wanted to understand what it was I was doing. It turns out, it’s a thing called Mindfulness. I’ve been trying to get better at it, without even knowing what it was, and today’s the first day I’ve been able to think clearly enough to start writing again.

Mindfulness stems from ancient Buddhist practices, but has recently become less entwined with religious practice, and is more commonly associated with self-help, particularly for stress, anxiety, and depression. If you break up the word itself, it’s about becoming mind-ful[l]. It creates an awareness that’s deeper than self-awareness – it is a purposeful effort to pay attention, to notice, in a particular way, in the present, and importantly, non-judgementally.

How mindful are you?

I’ve realised over the past few weeks, that it’s far easier to rush through each day, week, month, and year, without taking the time to notice how much time has passed, or what happened during those days that you paid no attention to in the present, yet look back on in the past. Without mindfulness, we will have nothing for which to be nostalgic. Some people might say that all this thinking is making me too mindful, but being able to see clearly, think clearly, with an awareness of yourself, and others, is a privileged position to be in. Yes, it can make you think about huge concepts like Time, which can leave even the most intelligent of us perplexed, but it can also enable you to make the most of your time.

Mental wellbeing, don’t get me wrong, isn’t controllable. You hear the phrase “It just set in,” when somebody refers to a down patch in their battle with anxiety or depression. It’s true – they do “just set in,” inexplicably.

Mindfulness shouldn’t be seen as a new gimmick, or a passing fad. It’s an awareness that so many of us don’t have, because we’ve not allowed ourselves the time to think. If you take a few seconds to realise just that, you might lighten the load you’ve not even realised you’re carrying.

Books for Syria

Writing from my warm spot on the sofa, with only a big bag of medicines for company, I’ve been trawling through the internet and have stumbled across a wonderful initiative.

The usual way to cheer myself up, is with a book, so what better website to visit than that of Waterstones? That’s when I came across the ‘Buy Books For Syria’ campaign – a wonderful new initiative that’s the result of a partnership between Waterstones, Oxfam, authors, and UK publishers.

Thursday 1st October sees the launch of ‘Buy Books For Syria’. An amazing array of books, donated by UK publishers, will be sold by Waterstones, with 100% of the full retail price being sent directly to Oxfam’s Syria crisis appeal.

Well-known authors, including: David Nicholls, Victoria Hislop, Philip Pullman, Hilary Mantel, David Walliams, Ali Smith, Salman Rushdie, Robert Harris, Lee Child, Caitlin Moran, Julia Donaldson, and Jacqueline Wilson, are all supporting the campaign, pledging their support through their written work.

The biggest refugee crisis in history is happening right before our eyes, as we continue with our day-to-day lives. 60 million people, worldwide, have been displaced by the effects of war – half of them, children. How about a new book for you, and a helping hand for them?

As a book-lover, avid reader, and English graduate, I’m immensely proud of the book industry for making a stand that’s the first of its kind. With a sky-high target of raising £1 million, all funds raised will go to aid for Syrian refugees, and the displaced across Syria, Lebanon, Turkey, and Jordan, as well as Macedonia and Greece (common European points of entry).

I’ll certainly be first through the door at my local Waterstones. I hope to see you there, too.

#BuyBooksForSyria

Back to school

In the spirit of September, and in response to the ‘Back to School’ adverts gracing our TV screens every few minutes, I’ve decided to go back to school. Well, back to university, for postgraduate study.

Why?

I wanted new stationary.

I joke. I get that every September, anyway.

I’m going back, because I loved my degree and I want more learning. More books, more reading, more writing. Although I’ve been thinking (and moaning) about it for quite a few months now – moaning because I’m getting impatient to learn more – it was definitely a spur of the moment decision to actually enrol. So on Friday, I enrolled. Except I was so excited at the prospect of going back to school, that I totally overlooked the start date for the first module (start date being October this year, which is in fact next month!) In a state of panic, I called the student helpline and spoke to a very friendly man who asked me why I wanted to undertake postgraduate study and what my long-term career goal was, and I found myself saying,

I just want to read and learn and see where it goes from there.

His response? “It’s nice to hear a student who knows why they want to come back.” I think he may have possibly misheard me? I’m pretty sure my response merited no more than a “Right…” followed by an awkward silence, but he seemed genuinely pleased.

He was kind enough to fix the blunder I’d made on my student account and deferred my enrolment to this time next year! I’ll be studying part-time, alongside my full-time job, so I’m expecting a few challenges along the way. The university website says that it takes people anywhere between 2 and 10 years to complete the qualification, so I’m aiming for a respectable 3 years. It might be wishful thinking, and once I’ve started studying, I might re-evaluate my prediction. But for now, my application has been accepted, and now all I have to do in the next 12 months is: get married, buy a house, and settle down with my student cap on, to learn lots all over again. I’m officially going to be an MA English student, and I can’t wait!

Crisis

Writer’s block. This has been the slowest-forming blog I’ve ever attempted to write.

The escalating migrant crisis has stunned me.

I’ve been trying to write this for days, but words fail me. Writing, for once, felt futile. Almost, pathetic.

These helpless people are being referred to countless times on the media as ‘refugees’. In fact, they are not yet refugees. They are in limbo. They’re displaced individuals. And we’re leaving them there, with nowhere to call home and certainly nowhere to make them feel safe. There are entire families on the run – for survival. That’s the part that so many people seem to miss; they’re not running for nothing. They’re trying to escape death, seeking life. Any life.

Culling is a word we hear bandied around – a word often used to refer to the selective slaughtering of animals. And we’re all familiar with the noisy protestors, fighting against animal culling, within their rights to do so. That word, ‘culling’, though: to ‘select’, ‘slaughter’, ‘reduce the population of’. Isn’t that what this is? Culling? It’s an awful comparison. But the stories are reported side-by-side on the media, day after day. Reporters lead with the refugee crisis and the rising death toll of innocent people, and follow-up with the badger-cull, currently taking place. I can’t help but dwell on how disturbing that is. And what little fight we are seeing.

Failed western policies, year after year, decade after decade, have undeniably created this situation. The image of the innocent little boy, drowned and washed up on the Turkish shores, that’s appeared countless times on all of our social media feeds, has hit everyone hard. Lots of people have been spurred into action – gathering food and supplies, fundraising hundreds of thousands of pounds in just 24 hours, with high-profile authors pledging to match every £10,000 raised. But many others play the victim blame-game, simultaneously denying any prejudice. “Where will we put them all?” “There are too many Muslims coming into this country.” “They’re just trying to milk our benefits.” “Why do they bother if they know they’ll all be stopped?” They’re just a few of the heinous, ignorant comments I’ve heard made, this week alone. However shocked you may be reading this, we are surrounded by people who genuinely hold these views. More worrying than that, though, is that they cannot see how downright disgusting their racist attitudes are.

It really is sink or swim. While we stand on the shore, warm and dry, with life-jackets in hand, our backs to these vulnerable people, they are sinking, drowning, dying. They are welcome here – we should make that clear. Europe must open its eyes, and open its doors, to serve its moral duty. The European Union does not exist solely for financial gain; it does not operate solely to pump money in different directions. It exists as a result of a war. It was formed in order to protect people, not money.