When I grow up, I want to be…

When I grow up, I want to be…

That’s the title every child starts off with when they first begin their education as a tiny 5-year-old and one that follows them throughout their school years. What do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be a builder like daddy! I want to be a nurse like mummy! I want to be a teacher like you! Every child has their own response and those that don’t copy the child next to them. A response is expected.

What is also expected is for that response to change. People are indecisive, children are fickle and what could be your dream job one day could be a bore the next, especially as your interests change, you find out that you’re not actually that good a singer and you realise that if you were an astronaut you would miss your mummy too much.

I’m no different and have been through the usual winded route of twisted career paths. These include but are not limited to:

• An aeroplane- I must have shut out this shameful memory but my parents claim that I once had this peculiar aspiration.
• A baker- I have an adorable photograph of myself in a white baker’s hat and apron for a school assembly.
• A secret agent- If it happens, you’ll be the last to know.
• Lawyer- A terrible work experience thwarted me of this career. Legally Blonde is just a movie.
• Vampire- one word: Twilight
• Journalist- I’m a blogger. That counts, right?
• Writer- Forever and always. I can always write in my free time and be a writer on the sidelines, it doesn’t have to be my main career and I don’t need to get a degree to learn how to write. It’s just something that you do and that evolves naturally; the more you take in reading, the more you give out in writing.

Inspired my media, friends and the latest craze, those are some of the career options I have entertained in my unsettled mind.

It’s just so difficult deciding what you want to spend the rest of your life doing and there is so much pressure to make the right decision, especially now. Unemployment rates are toppling, university fees are rocketing and all you hear from the depressing news is that even if you go to university and dedicate years of your life studying, you will amount to nothing. Universities are extremely competitive, you will never get a place. If you get a place, you’ll drown in debt. If you survive university, you still won’t get a job. If you get a job, your wages will be cut or you’ll become redundant after your first week. All the horror stories about Britain’s unemployed youth are enough to make me feel like giving up, before I’ve even started.

Nevertheless, I think that I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up and it is something that nobody expected; I surprised even myself. I want to be a doctor. Seriously. I cried when I had to get a blood test, but I still want to be a doctor. It is nothing that I have ever considered. When I was younger and we played make-belief hospitals, I was always the patient but I suppose you don’t always know what you want when you’re younger. When you’re younger you want everything and not always the right things.

It makes more sense if I explain that I want to be a psychiatrist and to do that I have to go through medicine and then specialise. I’m a deep thinker and a professional over-analyst so the job suits me perfectly. No blood or guts, just take a step into my office for a lovely chat and tell me how that makes you feel. That’s more like me, not that I mind being a ‘doctor’ either, although I’m sure it would take some adjusting to, but just like with anything else, determination can take you a long way. I’m sure that if you know the theory behind it, you won’t be so squeamish when its time to stick a tube into someone.

Since voicing my intention to enter the field of medicine, my family has embraced it whole heartedly. I never thought it of you, but now that I think about it, I can imagine having a doctor as a daughter. Which daughter is the question, because now both my younger sisters have decided that they might want to be doctors as well. Junior Doctors (BBC3) is now a family favourite and I’m sure that pretty soon I’ll have paper-cuts and twisted ankles to examine.

It may never happen, I may change my mind again but I’m really starting to think that this is it. I even e-mailed Imperial College to ask about their entry requirements! If that doesn’t show commitment ,then what does?

Wouldn’t it be funny if in twenty years time, I look back at this post, shake my head and think, “I can’t believe I wanted to be a doctor,” before telling my class that it’s time to go outside and play? The future is a tricky thing to control or even to guess right and you never know what’s waiting for you. I don’t believe those people that say, they always knew what they were meant for. How about you?

It’s here!

Rejoice! Celebrate! Skip joyfully around the entire house and let everybody know that it’s snowing! School will be out for the next few days, cars will be blanketed in a layer of white wonder and everywhere will become a giant playground for children and adults alike to throw themselves in the snow and throw the snow at each other. That is, unless the spoilsport of a sun decides to shine intensely on our excitement and create a sloppy mush in place of the snow that is at this minute falling delicately, as every person in London leans their face against the glass.

I can’t help but check every few minutes that the snow is still falling and give an occasional squeal when I see that not only is it still falling but it is falling faster and heavier. It too is desperate and in a hurry to settle, accumulate and be played with after such a long period of still admiration. I enjoy playing in the snow but the still admiration is probably my favourite part. After a few minutes playing in the snow, I feel wet, cold and unimpressed, every single year, but I never tire of watching it fall. It looks so perfect, pure and untouched in the early morning and I resent the person, or cat, that disturbs it with its footprints and the cars that turn it into murky, brown slush and the cruel men that sprinkle their deadly salt.

The whole city is transformed and looks more beautiful than it has ever been under the frosting of millions of tiny little snowflakes. It hides the dirt and draws your attention away from the problems, as well as creating a few of its own; transport is treacherous but if everyone just stayed inside and admired the snow without having to venture out, that wouldn’t be the case.

I think I must have gotten up from my chair and checked the snow out of my window at least eight times during the writing of this blog post. It is still snowing. It is settling. It is magical. No wonder so many poets attribute numerous poems to its praise. I would too.

If it’s snowing where you are, enjoy the snow and make the most of it. Make a snowman, pelt a total stranger, stick out your tongue and catch the flakes… Due to global warming, you may never see the snow again.

Saving Water to Save Money

So, for all of you that were previously unaware (i.e no-one) and thought the world to be a wonderfully fair place, water actually costs money. It is part of the Earth but someone must obviously own it for us to have to pay for it at the end of every month. London is an extremely wet and rainy city but that has no effect on the price of water and according to my father who is all doom and despair, our water bill (and usage) has doubled, leaving him astounded as to how that could have possibly happened and pointing his accusing finger at those who bathe too frequently or drink too much.

Being the creative and resourceful person that I am, I have come up with some ingenious plans for the conservation of water, to aid my family in their present austerity. If you are in a similar situation, or you are just extremely environmentally friendly, you might find a few of these useful:

1) If it’s yellow, let it mellow- This one I do not recommend but my mother insisted on its effectiveness. It just sounds like a World War II campaign slogan that little village schoolchildren would recite in class. Don’t flush the toilet or Hitler will hear it!

2) Borrow water-  Contrary to what my sister may say, this initiative is completely my own and is the one I most proud of. It involves going to school/work with empty bottles and returning home with water for domestic use. No need to guess where the water comes from. My mother thought it to be a fabulous idea and was mighty impressed by my resourcefulness; my father, not so much. In his own words, it is a “ridiculous” idea, but I know that the real reason he objects is that it is too risqué for him. Oh, and apparently it’s stealing. Who knew?

3) Use 2-in-1-  When I tried to explain this less risky, more legal, money-saving scheme to my father, he came blank. The man just didn’t get it. Instead of having to use shampoo and then conditioner, you save yourself a wash by using them both in one go. I started off explaining this simple concept and ended up explaining what conditioner was!

4) Boycott the bath- everyone’s heard that a shower uses about three times less water than a bath and I can now testify to that. Put the plug in the tub whilst you have a shower and you’ll be surprised by how little water you use in comparison.

5) Don’t cry. Don’t sweat- Crying and sweating wastes water that your body needs to keep hydrated. The water that you release from your eyes and your pores needs to be replenished by more water that you have to pay for.

6) Use the washing machine less- This does not mean live as slob, and dress yourself in grease and grime. Simply, be reasonable when it comes to judging if a piece of clothing is dirty. Take my lazy, little sister as an example. She can not be bothered to fold and put her clothes away and so will throw them in the laundry basket even if they are cleaner than when she put them on, a few hours earlier.

7) Do not take pictures of running water for blogging purposes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Does any one have any other water saving ideas to contribute?

The hugging procession

Every single morning, it is customary in my class to walk into school and hug every girl lining our lockers’ corridor, starting, of course, with those nearer to you and moving along, skipping she who you may be arguing with.

I am well-known for not taking part. Fortunately, I am always the first to arrive which gives me great reason to avoid the ritual and when I am offered my daily hug, I am teased by my lack of enthusiasm and very minor co-operation. Apparently, I remain stiff and simply lean an inch forward. What can I say? I’m just not the hugging sort- I accept hugs (at times enjoy them) but I do not reciprocate the action. It is not a lack of confidence, just personal preference and laziness on my part.

However, my inability to hug does not make me an unfriendly or cold person, it just means that I express myself in a different way, through different means and with different body parts. So, today as my friend quickly dragged herself along the line of uniformed bodies, stopping and hugging, my turn came and as she opened up her tired arms for an habitual hug, I stuck out my hand and offered it for her shaking. I did the same for the next few people and was pleased to see my friendly handshake trending among a few other class mates.

My new initiative has come at an excellent time, what with all of us awaiting interviews for school admissions. A debate ensued on how to give the best, firm handshake and before I knew it, I was standing in a sea of interlocked hands. Apparently, I shake hands like a fairy; I am not yet sure if I should take offence but if I were to, the time has passed for a witty comeback.

Tomorrow, I will rebel against the hug and shake hands, as I will the next day and the day after that. This will continue until it becomes an established daily action and all around me do the same. It is hard to break such an old tradition but as soon as one person starts, others will follow and slowly, little by little, the shake will be school-wide!

Out with the hug! In with the shake!

There’s a War On and I’m Armed

Have you all been following the news lately? Then you’ve heard about the rising tension between the U.S and Iran over their nuclear weaponry and are wondering why this would be of any interest to a girl like me, living all the way in the U.K…

Well then, my mother and her friend have deduced that the recent happenings are a clear sign that World War Three is about to erupt; America is bound to dive straight in and we won’t be far behind. It will not be another Cold War and we will be in the midst of it, therefore, we must be prepared at all times. According to my mother, her friend has an emergency box and is stocking up; we should do the same. I told her that country leaders do not enter wars without giving a reasonable amount of warning; we will not wake up to find nuclear bombs dropping over our heads. Of course, I hadn’t thought of the chaos and rapidly rising prices that a population rushing into the supermarket would cause. It’s better to be one step ahead, even if it’s the wrong one.

It would seem that my mother is joking and that was our initial thought but as tears spilled onto the dinner table whilst some of us laughed on and others shook their heads in contempt, it became evident that she had somehow managed to trick herself into believing her own nonsense. Real tears filled her eyes as she blubbered on about how we would so go through it together as a family…she wouldn’t choose to live through a war with anyone else…we don’t need television if we have each other, so on and so worse…

My sister became extremely annoyed, hinging on disbelieving terror, and arguments ensued about the absurdity of the entire idea. I would rather die than live through a way with you if you’re going to be this emotional. Fortunately, I managed to alleviate the situation by summoning my great expert knowledge in the art of fabrications and convinced them all that, for the moment, we were safe because in accordance to ‘the Geneva Law’ wars can only begin on Mondays and every world war and the Falklands War started on this assigned day. I think they bought it. Unless, they’re reading this.

In the unlikely event of war breaking out, my mother will be well within her right to say ‘I told you so’ and it will serve us all right for not taking heed of her previously ludicrous warning. However, despite the many horror stories of war as well as the grim statistics, the prospect does hold a dangerous allure and evoke some feelings of excitement. All the drama, the evacuation, the heroes and even the food rationing that I have read about would all become a part of my ordinary and action-lacked life. As long as the bombs were falling but nobody were dying, war would be an adventure!

Just in case there is a war and because it is my birthday tomorrow I have finally bought myself my own kindle and will not have to suffer through the rough days of no internet. I spent an entire hour yesterday buying the emergency item, unable to decide between a £60 cheaper and faster kindle without a keyboard or a £60 more expensive and slower kindle with 3G and a keyboard. Decisions, decision and the time bombs were ticking…. I chose the latter, no reason just instinct that took an hour to awaken. So, I await my £60 more expensive and slower kindle with 3G and a keyboard which should be arriving soon. It better arrive before Monday…

In no way am I starting to believe my mother but, in the event of war, what emergency item would help you through?

A message to the speed reader

Oh you who prides himself in flipping all the pages, from cover to cover, as quickly as your hands can move, your satisfaction does not compare to he who reads the book!

On my way to becoming a more accomplished reader and keeping to my resolution of reading more classics, I was leisurely reading and enjoying the literary wonders of Jane Eyre, when my impatient mother commented on the speed of my reading. My pace was not slow, she simply wanted me to return her Kindle and no speed would have been fast enough.

She, as are many others, is a speed reader and can go through many books in a week, although she isn’t the most boastful and competitive I know. Others will race each other to complete a book in the least amount of time and compare and criticise those who read at human speed, holding them in contempt and fancying themselves superior. However, how much of it do they actually read? Do they understand, process, ponder and savour the actual words or do they just move along the letters in a mechanical fashion?

I am not a slow reader but sometimes, after a particularly powerful line or paragraph, I like to move back a moment and think, imagine myself in the character’s position, guess what will hapen next and even read over it because I appreciated the words so much. How could you do that if you just skim through it?

So, here’s a message to the speed reader and precisely what I told my mother:

“If you swallow it, you will not taste it.”

What is your opinion on speed reading? Is it something you do yourself?

Sick of being sick

Why is it that you only ever get ill during the holidays? Is it a negative reaction to the decrease in school work? I’ve never heard of anyone being school sick but then, it is only when I am already at home that I fall into a poorly state. I’m not the only one; Facebook statuses agree.

At present, I am suffering from what is in my opinion, the worst malady ever to plague mankind: a blocked nose. It seems like the most insignificant of illnesses when compared to the more visually impressive,;there is no bright red blood flow and the only sign of my condition would be my constant blowing and moans but I truly do hate it.

I can not stand the feeling of restriction, being unable to breathe. Of course there is always the mouth, but I use that for other things! My nose feels heavy and stuffed as I am suffocated from the inside. A more awful feeling could not exist, especially when accompanied by a self-imposed headache. I blow my nose so hard until my nostrils are sore and the skin peeling, until my head is pounding with a headache and I can breathe with no more ease than before.

My will to conquer the cursed thing is strong but my perseverance does me more harm than good. It annoys my family members whose sympathies were short lasted as it became clear that I wouldn’t give up without a fight. My mother calls me a hypochondriac and a communal groan is heard each time my tissue appears. The constant blowing also makes my brain ache and apparently it is possible but not likely that I could be blowing out parts of my brain which I cannot afford to do with exams coming up. I was sceptical at first, but didn’t the ancient Egyptians pull out the deceased person’s brain through their nostrils during mummification?

As this year draws to a close, the holidays fade and my birthday approaches, I sincerely hope that my nose unblocks and that I regain my excellent breathing abilities. Earlier, I joked that I would probably blow my nose into the new year and then I could claim that I had blown my nose for two years. Fortunately, I seem to be making progress and I will readily bet that I am back to my usual state before school starts and will remain so until the next holiday.

I can’t belive I just dedicated an entire blog post to a blocked nose.