The Homeless.

This year’s Christmas period has seen three wonderful men set up home outside Fulham Broadway Station. They have boxes, sleeping bags and more food than Dawn French probably consumes in a year. People have been generous with their donations this year I presume. They gorge on mince pies, sandwiches and Starbucks coffees! Its scenes like this that make me feel as if the kindness of Londoners is underrated at times. I mean, we’ve got organisations such as CRISIS at Christmas where hundreds of ‘cold hearted’ city dwellers volunteer to help the homeless, that’s a show of true dedication to helping improve the lives of others I feel!! I think next year, people need to reflect upon these small acts of kindness which happen daily in the capital and be happy, a la Love Actually!

Despite everything positive from this image, I fell into the patronising age old comparison between ‘us’ and ‘them’…  “gosh, it must be so cold for them during the winter months” or “they must be absolutely starving”… no, you don’t say. But anyway, as I continued on this somewhat annual tradition of comparison, I realised that students (i.e. me and the majority of you) are not that different to these people living in cardboard boxes. I am always hungry because I can’t afford to buy lots of food and pretty much eat eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner and my house might as well be made from cardboard because it is so chilly! Don’t get me wrong however, I’m not proposing that we shouldn’t sympathise with the homeless, in fact we should be more inclined to do so, but we have to think about our own situation as students too. The rise in tuition fees is potentially creating a generation of ‘educated homeless’ people. Most can barely afford university as it is, so why make it more difficult for us? It’s like taking a cardboard box away from a person living on the streets, but the government somehow sees it as progressionary. Interesting. Just because you don’t see students huddled up in doorways, doesn’t mean we don’t have a struggle on our hands.

I do sometimes wonder what Robin Hood is doing right now? Wish he’d make a trip to parliament and teach them a few lessons…

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The Career.

On looking at the picture, I’m sure you’ll have gathered that it’s not what you think. I’m not going to sit here and spout to you about how petrified I am about being in third year and not having a job, because quite simply, I’m not that scared. I mean don’t get me wrong, the prospect of leaving university with no real plan does  indeed worry me a little… but it also fills with so much excitement! How boring it must be to know you are headed for a job as soon as you leave three years of “endless fun” only to walk straight into something you will be doing, and will most likely be sick of for the rest of your life! For those of you who have a job lined up after university, this is NOT a criticism. I think it is wonderful if that is what makes you happy but this is just a little reminder to both myself and those of you who have absolutely no idea what you are going to do with your life that it is ABSOLUTELY FINE. In fact, I’d go as far as saying it’s ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS. Yes, that’s exactly what it is: fabulous. You can live the dream… go travelling, experiment with narcotics, take up smoking, have sex in bins, act like you know everything when really you know nothing. Do anything that you will look back on in four years time and cringe. That’s the fun of being an adolescent, something I will be until the age of twenty five by the way, because let’s face it, that dude didn’t write the song “Forever Young” for nothing you know.

So girls; keeping wearing those miniskirts and smoking Marlboro lights and boys, keep being drunken fools and kissing far too many girls of an evening. That’s (apparently) what the early twenties were made for. Learning lessons. We have all the time in the world to be successful writers, bankers, teachers and business men; it’s our last chance to be young! Embrace it. Live it. Look back and love it.

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The Red Lips.

Angelina Jolie and Marylin Monroe are just two of the most gorgeous examples of women that wear red lipstick with ease. There are hundreds more, in fact, I have a theory that red lippy suits every single woman, as long as she knows how to wear it. There is one woman who i’m not sure can pull it off. Me. When I think of myself sporting the red lip look, I would like to say I picture Jessica Rabbit, but in reality, I find myself looking more like Jessie Wallace! It just DOES NOT suit me. I have tried for years to figure out what it is that makes me look so god damn awful when donning something other than pale lips. I have questioned the shape of my face, my auburn hair clashing with the colour and even my sticky out teeth, but i’ve now come to the conclusion that it’s an attitude thing. You have to be able to wear the lipstick, not let it wear you. This is where the problem lies.

I like to think that I have a reasonable amount of confidence, but I just can’t seem to shake off the fact that my pout is looking more puke than pukka. Back in the day, people would’ve been able to take bigger chances with fashion but now we’re living in the digital age, pictures of your regretful look will be around forever. There are no second chances with the red smile.

I’ve decided i’m going to brave the vixen look. I refuse to let this lack of rouge tinted attitude hold me back . I WILL wear red lipstick… and I WILL look like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge!

Well, a girl can dream can’t she!

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The Chip Buttie.

Is it possible that the west country is even more stuck in the dark ages than I’d first anticipated?

I’ve been at university now for almost three years and have been happily ignorant to the fact that people did not love something as close to my heart as the age old ’chip buttie’.  I now feel even more like an outsider in this tiny town.

On Friday, I took a stroll to the local fish & chip shop and ordered a large (of course) portion of chips to take away. I brought it home and began to prepare for the ultimate sarnie: the chip buttie. I got out some bread, slathered on some butter, wacked some chips in and covered it in tomato ketchup. Normal, right? My housemate looked at me as if I were an alien. “You’re eating chips in bread?!?!” I was so taken aback I dropped the beloved sandwich and questioned what was wrong with something I deemed to be, a typically English snack. Apparently carbs in carbs is weird.

I mean yes, it is a guilty pleasure I guess but in no way am I ever going to stop indulging in this wonderful tradition.

I am hoping that the people of London (at least) know what i’m talking about… Go and grab some chips, cheap white bread and slather on loads of butter… you won’t ever look back. Except for to notice how huge your arse has got after eating twenty of these gloriously naughty suppers!

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The First Gray Hair.

So I was looking in the mirror this morning attempting to control my mane, when I found THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. I was already being melodramatic enough about turning twenty one, being in third year, not having a job lined up after unversity and eating too many biscuits without this new stress!

I must say, this one gray hair tipped me over the funeral planning, will writing edge and have just written a list of ten things to do before I die. Buying hair dye being one of them.

Hold on. Dad turned gray mid twenties. He still looks good. That means I will. No, he is a man. Men look good with gray hair, women look like Cruella De Vil.

It’s fine. Mum’s only started to go gray recently and she’s fifty in January so maybe I’ll be able to hold out until then?

I’m going to have to keep an eye on Kate Moss to see how she deals with it. In the mean time, I’ll look to the inspirational locks of Granny Rock for tips on making gray hair cool.

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The Freckle.

Age nine, probably wearing tight pink cycling shorts and a Spice Girls tee, I strolled alongside mum in Marks & Spencer, looking for some potatoes. I wasn’t distracted at all by the lovely chocolates or the old school version of Percy Pigs, instead I was busy making my skin raw, after bringing a rubber along in an attempt to wipe off all my freckles by the time we arrived back home. As a child, I hated them.

I want to now be able to say that I love them. That I find them empowering and really attractive. But to be perfectly honest, I cover them up everyday with foundation, fake tan, powder and bronzer. If I had a few freckles sprinkled across my nose and cheeks, then fine. But I feel that I am more splattered than sprinkled with them, making my day to day beauty regime also a way in which to disguise these little genetic defects which live upon my face. And arms. And legs. And back. And tummy. And toes.

I do find one thing about freckles inrigueing: freckles are memories. They are the times spent travelling in Mexico, family holidays to Europe, a sunny afternoon in the park after school, a week spent at the beach last term; the list is endless. All these happy memories are mapped out for me on my body, for everyone to see. Although a deep tan is desired, freckles actually last longer on the skin. They’re signs of good times spent in the sun in a more intimate form than quickly fading bikini lines or that post holiday hang over.

I think its time for me to start to embrace The Freckle, just as the leapord has embraced his spots.

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