tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44619062789210378772024-03-04T20:01:28.458-08:00The Travelling Pen... Writings for the Lost & LustfulM E L O D Y M I L L E R
@melodys-penMelody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-54008751298499416692016-08-09T12:43:00.002-07:002016-08-09T15:40:07.742-07:00Tour Di Italia 4. The Last Leg<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Amalfi Coast & Capri </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kelly makes a boo boo with the suncream. We’re being good
with the creams, wearing 30 most days since being closer to 30 than I’d like to
admit, I have a new found obsession with getting wrinkled or leathery from
years of summer holidays and cheeky sunbeds. But despite good intentions, Kelly
is bright red - as in full-on beetroot,
roasted tomato </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">red</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I don’t understand!” she exclaims, skin sizzling - “I’ve
been putting cream on!” She fishes out the bottle to show me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Kel, that’s not suncream, that's </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">aftersun</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After a hot and gorgeous night wandering along the bay of
Naples, we pick up our friend Arjun from the station and head to the Amalfi
coast. Naples had taken me by surprise, rough round the edges and sweet on the
inside, the city was a ball of energy. The people were so different here, the
Neapolitans wild and loud and wearing the most incredibly terrible fashion as
if in rebellion to the rest of their country. But they </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">owned</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> it; the brash colours and odd combinations of trainers and
leather skirts, of long t-shirts and hard-earnt hair dos. It was so fun to
watch the city come to life as the sun went down on Vesuvius, the bay a hub of
life and great food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We leave the city and head for the mountains, and having
tackled five cities in seven days we sack-off the public transport and take a cab the
whole way to Ravello. Despite its world famous coastlines, Amalfi is not easy
to reach. There are no direct trains, and a lot of buses and changes. It’s
worth it though, and this minor inaccessibility makes it feels authentic, with
no well-tread tourist path in the green mountains.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVRGT37XrgsS36gxv4zdffM7yMePsr1gcLYKniFHFC8jkoyeLh7JEYvUe9vxvAt6IQs5jKCpA7hSkum3LJUSeaaulsLPWqR6_OotU1b8cUZ0Kn2O27pHw9C7-HOTL342q2tjhkbaPnv_O/s1600/ravello.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVRGT37XrgsS36gxv4zdffM7yMePsr1gcLYKniFHFC8jkoyeLh7JEYvUe9vxvAt6IQs5jKCpA7hSkum3LJUSeaaulsLPWqR6_OotU1b8cUZ0Kn2O27pHw9C7-HOTL342q2tjhkbaPnv_O/s320/ravello.PNG" width="297" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Winding up and up and up impossibly high and narrow
Cliffside roads, I find my stomach going; all three of us are car sick, our
driver Maurizio laughing in amusement at our English stomachs. When we finally
reach the heavens I have a slight worry that I’m not going to be able to look
out any windows for the next few days but It doesn’t take long to adjust, and
when I do, Ravello has me reeling. It’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t look
real, that can’t be caught on camera. We are on the top of a mountain looking
down into the bay of Minori, over vineyards and lemon orchards. The sky blends
into the sea, and colours I have never seen in an ocean or sky rise with the
sun over the mountain each morning. It’s unforgettable.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVRGT37XrgsS36gxv4zdffM7yMePsr1gcLYKniFHFC8jkoyeLh7JEYvUe9vxvAt6IQs5jKCpA7hSkum3LJUSeaaulsLPWqR6_OotU1b8cUZ0Kn2O27pHw9C7-HOTL342q2tjhkbaPnv_O/s1600/ravello.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The only problem about being on top of a mountain is getting
back down. We miss the bus on more than one occasion down to Amalfi, and when
you do catch it, be prepared for the ride of your life. Buses reverse on
mountain edges, the fly round corners that have 200 metre drops, and they don’t
have air con. From amafi the best adventures are by boat. There are so many
towns that are within easy reach ad we speedboat the whole way to Postitano
without so much as a provisional licence - my over-enthusiasm sending Kelly two-feet into the air when I hit a wave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We get all dressed-up
and ready to party in the evening, then accidentally get so drunk on gin, we
miss the last bus down so are stuck on the top of the mountain for the night.
We teach the local Italians lads the ‘Head up’ game on our iPhones instead, and
secure with this new friendship a lift down and an invite to the coolest party
on the coast - Atrani’s secret party where they have taped fireworks to the side
of the houses in the caves and set them off in time to the best music I’ve
heard all week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Hungover and happy, there is a slight misunderstanding the
next morning and we find ourselves chased out of Ravello by the crazy Italian
hosts, wanting blood for having had Arjun in the house instead of just the two
of us. If it was a supplement or money she wanted, an email to Airbnb would
have sufficed, but instead we nearly end up with a black eye and run for our lives
with our oversized luggage, hiding in the local bakery as we pray for a taxi to
rescue us. Arm yourself with language; the more you can communicate when
travelling, the more you are safe from misunderstandings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">An easy one-hour ferry sees us escape to Capri, where we are
greeted by a much more agreeable host who helps us with our luggage rather than
throwing it at us, and makes us fresh bruschetta on arrival from the tomatoes grown in
his garden. Genny is a fashion designer who has rented out the annex of his
super mansion on Air BnB, and I stare open-mouthed finding a Mac computer and a
Nespresso machine in my room along with a Tempur mattress. Now that’s more like
it!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0m97kQ0ZSfAZKKFoNgmqy9UzNCEw6_RFEu6UCjbTDbyTZUco4ueF9IzGBuEAwAGRlcADX9sRXoQ_go65peWxXV-hyBBchgL4EVWgGGvIShKBq54YxQBflXwrGXxEUc7kjpEWW-IVs1pP/s1600/13876626_10153674807325969_7196273251676311277_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0m97kQ0ZSfAZKKFoNgmqy9UzNCEw6_RFEu6UCjbTDbyTZUco4ueF9IzGBuEAwAGRlcADX9sRXoQ_go65peWxXV-hyBBchgL4EVWgGGvIShKBq54YxQBflXwrGXxEUc7kjpEWW-IVs1pP/s320/13876626_10153674807325969_7196273251676311277_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">With all great discoveries whilst travelling, it’s usually
by accident - this was our best Air BnB find, and having picked this place
because it has a hot tub, we spend the first evening in it drinking prosecco by
the bottle, watching the sunset and the stars come out with startling
brightness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Genny and his wife think we’re funny because we don’t want
to leave their land, in fact we don’t move out of their garden for 24 hours and
when we do we simply walk the little path down the cliff and find ourselves at
the famous </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">blue grotto</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> cave entrance -
another reason this location is perfect. We jump in a boat with a beautiful smiling
Italian called Raffaelle who sings Neapolitan songs to us from Dean Martin and
the Rat Pack. I am in love immediately. The entrance of the cave is a bit tricky,
with a tiny mouth that forces you to catch a wave to gain entry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Lie down please,” Raffaelle tells us, “heads </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">inside</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> the boat.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We duck, sat in the little wooden boat, waves splashing, he
pulls us through the rock and suddenly all is still. The water in the cave is
completely and utterly </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">luminous</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, as
if there are stadium lights at the bottom of the sea bed. The echo in the cave
means Raffeale is having great fun, singing soprano and splashing the oars to
catch the light. It’s truly mesmerising, an experience that photos cannot do
justice to, although myself and Kelly give it a good go with the selfie-stick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What to do with your last day when your flight isn’t until
10pm and you are on one of the most beautiful islands in Europe - </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">cocktails</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">. Unfortunately, we go a bit
over-board and get so drunk we miss the boat, despite being in a bar on the
harbour. We miss the next boat too having the wrong tickets and with the sun setting
we start to panic, Raffaele rescuing us once more and getting us to the right
place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I cry on the boat back to Naples. I’m pretty drunk, but I
mean my tears. Kelly and Arjun console me before passing out cold at the back
of the boat on the floor with their luggage. I wonder how we’re going to get on
the plane. Holiday romances are perfect for their imperfection; they exist only
for a moment. There is a deadline before you begin and so you kiss with
urgency, share stories with ease, you are another version of yourself in a
place that isn’t home. I enjoy salty kisses and swimming and driving around the
mountains, boating in the caves, being bought ice-cream and lunch and wine. I
try and change my flight to stay one more day, and we hug and kiss as if I am
boarding the Titanic when we say goodbye, chasing the gangplank as I leave the
magical island. The sweetest, kindest Italian I have ever met. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is the real secret with Capri - you need a resident to </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">really</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> see it. There are two completely
different prices for everything - boat tickets, drinks, bar entrance. If you are
a resident the boat is 6 euro to Naples. If you are a tourist it is 13. Now there’s
nothing you can do about that (as we discovered having got Raffaele to buy us
resident tickets and then being denied entry to the boat, missing it and nearly
our flight). But with the night life you need a buddy - club entrance to the
main hotspots was 20 euro including a drink on the arm of Raffe, without him it
was 60 euro. Parking is impossible for tourists; but Raffaele is handing friendly policemen
20 euro notes and parking in taxi bays no problemo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Capri at night is a sight to behold, feeling as if we had
stumbled upon something between an extravagant wedding/Royal Ascot/Dubai/meets
lottery-winners and oil merchants. I have never seen so much money or plastic surgery
in one place. There are tight faces and oiled hair, incredible couture outfits
fit for a ball, boob jobs that make your eyes pop and enough Valentino shoes to
start a shop right there in the square. It’s a super show and a great one to
watch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But there is a Ying to the Yang; </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Anacapri</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> is the older and more naturally beautiful part of the
island, away from the money and the noise and we are heartbroken to leave. This
adventure has reminded us of the utter necessity of travel, to see things
outside of our comfortable circles, and on my return I am jarred at my lack of enthusiasm
for nights out and pubs that had kept me happily entertained before. I’ve got
the itch…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Next stop Norway!!</span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-42070145492876457062016-07-25T12:57:00.000-07:002016-07-25T12:57:12.545-07:00Tour Di Italia 3. Pisa & Rome
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is how it started in </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taken</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">,” Kelly says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“As in Liam Neeson?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She nods and we stare at the glasses of champagne we’ve been
given, looking for signs of drugs at the bottom of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re in a dingy back room of a nail parlour somewhere in
Rome with no windows, champagne in hand and people coming in and out given us
sparrow-like started looks. They’ve clearly mistaken us for someone else,
fussing over us with drinks and appetisers, the beauticians asking to take
pictures of us and insisting we add her on Instagram, while the other one
disappears and returns wearing full make up and sticky lipgloss. I’m a bit
worried about all the whispering and the never ending bubbly, but it’s free and
more importantly there’s wifi, so I play along until I finish the bottle, leaving
Kelly to her fate and her pedicure as I escape to wander the Roman roads in the
evening warmth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">**</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWrdhsdcI3BPS6OzeCzkMqb4GhtEIYZtmjjPdAYsvDKPkAwXpq8bsE2aZqFEWK2J-u_gwSHMs-S3BAZnS2IbruAXaT1KCfYWshx65JlKLVxXGVh2402nRhJEouFAoyExsvJ7PXx8kmSYc/s1600/13697060_10153654563450969_1728227747826213395_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWrdhsdcI3BPS6OzeCzkMqb4GhtEIYZtmjjPdAYsvDKPkAwXpq8bsE2aZqFEWK2J-u_gwSHMs-S3BAZnS2IbruAXaT1KCfYWshx65JlKLVxXGVh2402nRhJEouFAoyExsvJ7PXx8kmSYc/s320/13697060_10153654563450969_1728227747826213395_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whoever the mad Roman women thought we were, we survive to
tell the tale without being kidnapped, having travelled from Florence through
Pisa to the Capital, stopping to take the obligatory Pisa poses in the gorgeous
sun and lounging the shade of the tower, befriending a guy travelling from
Miami as we sunbathe and eat ice creams on the grass. He is the chosen one
today for two important reasons; A. he has a GoPro and B. he can help us with
our bags. Pisa is a wonderful illustration of the unaffected Italian attitude. With
the first brick laid in the 12</span><sup><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> century, they stopped and started construction
for 200 years unable to correct the famous tilt until it was officially completed,
the foundations in soft sand & soil meaning it only officially stopped
moving in 2008. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisa is an easy one hour and 8 Euro journey from Florence,
spending the day in the pretty town before taking the evening train onto Rome.
The sunset train is a must see; comfortable, cool and an unforgettable sight from
the window, watching the sky turn the ocean into a fiery orange horizon, the
light disappearing as we arrive in a city I have waited so long to see, Roma!
Mi Roma! </span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">**</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXws2-IftXWZE2l80rApn2qIc2g7pog6HIamU2l2osf0gyhpbKf-gSrlSZkXrnEkSn7fLE7NEJBMhrCZ1bPCWszByUNPRc0L4ZvYlepfeYNTuULckOu5r2TaY22VfkPShZKD-Tq_V8c_L/s1600/13767247_10153656777610969_2908275868779153955_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXws2-IftXWZE2l80rApn2qIc2g7pog6HIamU2l2osf0gyhpbKf-gSrlSZkXrnEkSn7fLE7NEJBMhrCZ1bPCWszByUNPRc0L4ZvYlepfeYNTuULckOu5r2TaY22VfkPShZKD-Tq_V8c_L/s400/13767247_10153656777610969_2908275868779153955_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How do you describe Rome? It’s like living two lives, the
old and the new so intricately intertwined you’re on the flipside of a coin. This
other life is so clearly visible it feels you are almost intruding on the
Roman’s; every corner you turn there are jaw dropping ruins and remains, cars
and vespers winding around the screaming roads that have popped up around the
columns and marble, the Italians living in perfect synchronicity alongside
their ancestors. What is so enticing about this city is how life has built
itself </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">around</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> its past, new buildings
using the groves and spaces between ancient columns, reclaiming it the way a
jungle reclaims a once inhabited land. Life pushes forward no matter what the
fall, and here the scars of time are beautiful and exposed. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been drinking the fountain water, which I thought was a
perfectly good money saving idea as I’ve seen the locals do it, but the dogs
drink from it too so maybe it wasn’t so smart, especially as I find I can’t eat
anything from Florence all the way to Rome and it takes a few days for my
appetite for buffalo mozzarella and beef tomatoes to return.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We haven’t got the coffee thing quite right either, and this
is upsetting me. Italy is the coffee Mecca, but I’m used to London craft
coffee, double shot super strong and smooth; here I ask for latte and get a
large cup of hot milk.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We try a new tactic. “Un latte </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Calibri;">e</span></u></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> un espresso,” I say, while Kelly orders one macchiato and
one Americano. The barman looks at our table us but it’s just us two, and
stares wide eyed as I pour the espresso into the latte, Kelly shotting the
macchiato after the Americano. We’re buzzing off our faces as we leave, and
everything looks bright and loud on the walk back to the apartment. Nope, we
haven’t got the coffee thing quite right yet.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt 180pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">**</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_d8ZPlgzD2chEINbKBgj1V0yHoodWM5lPfAnBq_50YZvRUWzgdyf__-eAsuEv77ZQYMs-pEFSSXA4V6Q2CuzZcTayQ8Z8O9O4WQCtD5LAariAFvICi5ZI0O6DQKrvE88CjjYwftBFBJsE/s1600/13698072_10153661350795969_8205830331124914394_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_d8ZPlgzD2chEINbKBgj1V0yHoodWM5lPfAnBq_50YZvRUWzgdyf__-eAsuEv77ZQYMs-pEFSSXA4V6Q2CuzZcTayQ8Z8O9O4WQCtD5LAariAFvICi5ZI0O6DQKrvE88CjjYwftBFBJsE/s320/13698072_10153661350795969_8205830331124914394_o.jpg" width="262" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_d8ZPlgzD2chEINbKBgj1V0yHoodWM5lPfAnBq_50YZvRUWzgdyf__-eAsuEv77ZQYMs-pEFSSXA4V6Q2CuzZcTayQ8Z8O9O4WQCtD5LAariAFvICi5ZI0O6DQKrvE88CjjYwftBFBJsE/s1600/13698072_10153661350795969_8205830331124914394_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Travstevere.</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> This
is the area you want to stay in Rome. This is where the Italians are -the streets
are warm and inviting, music playing, al fresco tables, Italian menus and little
churches covered in green ivy. We buy 5 euro local pizzas which melts in your
mouth and sit outside in the piazza where the locals have set up an outdoor
cinema. The cab drivers are slightly mental, this fiery Roman temperament present
in the blood of the locals sending us spinning as he gives us a guided tour with
one hand on the wheel, stopping in the middle of duel carriage way to point out
monuments and having a full on road-rage moment with the car behind as I try
and retrieve my change on arrival. “Scuzi, I need 5 euro from that,” I say to
the handful of cash in his hand, but he is busy debating with the gentleman in
the car behind whether to have a full on fist-fight so my pleas fall on deaf
ears.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt 180pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">**</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt 180pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHfNXonoDgLEx1coUKWEnqP1hMadwWJJsRhNIVx5Ue4pqjwy-MHO0_pusEZjzuHlPDG279SRPNZHAqWCg2j9UTBkNMhK3mWzwYe47USX_UopXaEbPROCv2b3bX3ikd2FuXvhKD211MoOr/s1600/13737437_10153656420835969_5132989924740037523_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHfNXonoDgLEx1coUKWEnqP1hMadwWJJsRhNIVx5Ue4pqjwy-MHO0_pusEZjzuHlPDG279SRPNZHAqWCg2j9UTBkNMhK3mWzwYe47USX_UopXaEbPROCv2b3bX3ikd2FuXvhKD211MoOr/s320/13737437_10153656420835969_5132989924740037523_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We explore Roman Rome in the sun, finishing boldly by
climbing the 521 steps to the very top of St Peters Basillica, but going round
and round the endless steps I make a new discovery about myself- I am terrified
of heights. Very inconvenient. Actually it’s not me that’s afraid of heights,
it’s my knees, they are suddenly made of jelly and have the odd desire to
crouch down low and hold on to my flip flops, trying to regain a centre of
gravity. Kelly is patient but firm, and moves me away from the baffled security
guard who I am trying to convince to let me go back down the opposite way.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4 cities in 6 days, walking on average 5 miles a day, we are
a pair of nutters. By the time we reach the Vatican on day 7 I’ve hit a slight
wall, and of all the places in all the cities, this is </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">not</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> the place to hit a wall. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Churches have always been a place of comfort to me having brought
up a catholic; the smell of incense reminds me of childhood, Sunday’s and the
promise of sweets for good behaviour. But I can’t get a sense of the Vatican,
the power & austerity are lost in the herding and charging of tourists
along crowded hot corridors. I want to be left in peace to explore, to sit in
the Sistine chapel, but under of the roof of the world famous art a guard
shouts over a microphone ‘SILENCE’ and the moment is lost.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Art and beauty are meant for sharing, but you can’t force
the experience. Sometime we can’t put parameters around it, a price, a trampled
path. I leave exhausted, and the waiter serving me my recovery diet coke thinks
the solution is to hide one of our shoes in an attempt to make us laugh. It
works.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We collapse a nap for an hour, watching episodes of Ab Fab,
the Patsy and Eddie of the hopeless, hapless travelling world asleep with the
air con to soothe our aching selves. After a shower and another coffee, we go
out and dance with the Romans until the early hours of the morning, and in a
haze of hangover and heat, make out way to Naples the next afternoon…</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-49021727094966652672016-07-20T17:17:00.001-07:002016-07-20T17:22:37.158-07:00Tour Di Italia 2. Florence<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Tour Di Italia</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">2. Florence.</span></i></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Dude! We’re on the wrong platform!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We run, two girls and all forty-seven kilos of luggage in
hand, to platform </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">three</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">, not platform
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">five</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">. Our numbers are as good as our
Italian apparently. We make it with 3 minutes to spare, sitting in the wrong
seats in the wrong carriage and not noticing until an Italian family turf us out
and we find our place EIGHT carriages up.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Europeans need to give the brits a lesson on how to do
trains. It’s luxury compared to the cattle train commuter lines - I have a
leather seat with plug sockets, table, leg room and a TV in the isle showing the
journey on a moving map as we go from Venice through Bologna into Florence. We
make friends with four middle age Aussies on some kind of mid-life crisis European
tour and they ask us immediately about Brexit. I feel like I’m apologising a
lot for Brexit out here; everyone we come across; Italians, Americans, Australians,
ask us the same question with curiosity – “is that what everyone </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">really</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> feels like in the UK?” Travelling
around these beautiful cities it seems more absurd than ever to have cut ourselves
afloat on our island, where the is so much here we need to be a part of.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Florence is hot and orange; a citrus city of sunshine that
is 32 degrees when we arrive. The Duomo is every bit as breath-taking as I had
hoped, but getting in however, was a challenge we weren’t quite prepped for. A
strict dress code of no bare shoulders and no short skirts meant mine and Kelly’s
attire would need a </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">little</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> altering,
and in our quest for sunkissed skin, we didn’t exactly have much material to
work with. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She artfully tucks the shoulder of my dress together and
under my arm, adjusting the folds of the dress so there’s less cleavage, and instructs
me not to move. I look like an overheated penguin, arms glued to my side
walking stiffly in the que. We’re getting closer and closer, heat blazing, Japanese
tourists poking me with selfie sticks and over-sized cameras, but finally we
get to the front of the line, Kel adjusting my hair over any offending flesh on
show. I’m as prim and proper as I’m ever going to be standing in front of the security
guard, he casts his eye over me… and I’m through! Yes! I resist the urge to
fist pump the air as I’m still holding my clothes together with my underarms,
but wait, an arm has cut across Kelly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “No shorts” he tells
her pointing to her knees.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth2kxsLYZ-HFM4F1lmd0L78ecrdbbg4ysnqthaAgKCm-Hpdi4iT50R95N4zHy5_-1cAB8U8NRVIPGNQM3fl-yl-9rTT6g9kRvv40SQYbqhHbDamCqVkjq2i2Sou-LgoywFpsduFM1nb6C/s1600/13769485_10153651894590969_6456595336438769503_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth2kxsLYZ-HFM4F1lmd0L78ecrdbbg4ysnqthaAgKCm-Hpdi4iT50R95N4zHy5_-1cAB8U8NRVIPGNQM3fl-yl-9rTT6g9kRvv40SQYbqhHbDamCqVkjq2i2Sou-LgoywFpsduFM1nb6C/s320/13769485_10153651894590969_6456595336438769503_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’m not wearing shorts?” She protests, which is probably the
problem. Kelly’s off-the shoulder canary yellow dress has been artfully pulled </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">up</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> to become an on-the-shoulder number,
but as a consequence has become </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">slightly</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
shorter that originally intended.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No,” he says, wagging his finger and casting her aside. Meanwhile
I’m being swept with the crowd up the steps…</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Dude, go on without me!” She calls, “Go see the Duomo!!” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No, I’m not going without you!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’ll wait for you dude!” She shouts, “go see the Duomo
dude, go go go!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I wave as best I can with my arms still glued to my side and
continue up the marble stairs. I’m nearly there, the grand oak door is in front
of me, I’m about to go through - when a large arm blocks me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">second</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> security
guard points to my knees- indicating for me to pull my dress down to make it
longer. Slight issue here since if I attempt that, I’m going to have to unpin
my arms, and then all sorts of skin will be back on show to the Italian public.
I attempt to shimmy a bit, make an effort to make the skirt longer - but alas! I
don’t make the cut! He moves me aside, casting me out with the other rejects. I
try and peer through the door, but only darkness peers back.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We drink a pint of beer outside the Duomo and stare at it
instead.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNey_yIqv8wimojF2GOHkKiPGahbumIgx3PosJ866kRqUU7PusZF4PR2ld9Qn1kUwhpegLXAK51rW76KoqcC0253UqACCY8PCh2mjcm8fp1z8P76h0cg7UMT4DMc4JMROuoCvnBDtq8ndS/s1600/13775915_10153651894585969_7831218022062304740_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNey_yIqv8wimojF2GOHkKiPGahbumIgx3PosJ866kRqUU7PusZF4PR2ld9Qn1kUwhpegLXAK51rW76KoqcC0253UqACCY8PCh2mjcm8fp1z8P76h0cg7UMT4DMc4JMROuoCvnBDtq8ndS/s320/13775915_10153651894585969_7831218022062304740_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Bikes are always the dream way to get around on an adventure
- it is my greatest recommendation when travelling as it is always cheap and European
cities are very cycle friendly. Taking
our time, we wind through the long roads and cobbled paths, stopping for our
picnic and a cold beer on a secret beach we find down by the canal towards the
outskirts of the city.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Two grown women, exploring Italy, confident travellers… until
the bike chain falls off. We stare at it like a rubix cube, my pink glittery
nails turning black with sticky thick bike oil as I try to fit it back on. Its
boiling hot, we have no idea what we’re doing and it’s a long way back to bike
shop.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“We need a man!” Kelly calls, and I look round for a decent
one. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Thankfully we’re in the right country if it’s a man you’re
looking for – within 20 seconds a full-on Georgie Clooney hottie bowls over confidentially,
complete with polo shirt, loafers and silver fox hair. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “Ciao”, he says, flipping
the bike upside down with one hand and flicking the chain on, spinning the peddles
around before we can say tutti fruity.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Thanks,” we swoon and off he strolls, giving us a wink.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The trick with travelling I think, is to be versatile - we
can go from putting the complimentary restaurant rolls in our handbags for lunch
the next day - to drinking prosecco in Florence’s Continental hotel roof bar. It’s
a champagne life on a lemonade budget, so if you want the 5-star hotel, you’re
gonna have to eat packets of ham and free bread rolls for the day. It’s a trade
I’m willing to make as I watch an Italian sunset from a soft cushioned sun
lounger, an Italian waiter in a bow tie serving my drink in a crystal glass. The
Firenze horizon is on fire, a burnt orange lighting up the water, the yellow
and orange buildings along the canal warm and stunning in the evening light.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Walking home we’re feeling very pleased with ourselves and crossing
the Ponte Vecchio for the last time, I suddenly
stop. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Kel, did you pay the bill?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“No, I thought you paid the bill?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Are you joking?!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We stare at each other wide-eyed. The catholic in me squirms.
It was an honest accident. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But it’s a long way back and we’re both wearing heels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Sorry Florence - I’ll get the next round x</span></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqei51yCQ04VMHFGqAhaequxTeGynDz7En6om9iuvD2AjITSOr5ocyloOu6rpTRJSKCCyuyEl3WrqIAJLoGzVEkWKBG1dvFXQKOVwplotcUZ-gaAK-21rPQzqGc1M2fBTw3ouiBcSu16v3/s1600/P7180958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqei51yCQ04VMHFGqAhaequxTeGynDz7En6om9iuvD2AjITSOr5ocyloOu6rpTRJSKCCyuyEl3WrqIAJLoGzVEkWKBG1dvFXQKOVwplotcUZ-gaAK-21rPQzqGc1M2fBTw3ouiBcSu16v3/s640/P7180958.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-62639771506074315682016-07-18T09:10:00.000-07:002016-07-18T09:21:10.173-07:00Grand Tour Di Italia - 1. Venice<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">Grad Tour Di Italia- </span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><i>1. </i></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;"><i>Venice</i></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Its 4am and my phone is ringing. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Mel, wasn’t your flight at 4am? Kelly’s not moving.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And so it begins.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“What you mean she’s not moving, is she alive?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> There is a pause as
Dave gives her a poke.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> “Yeah, I mean she’s
humming and singing, she’s just not moving.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Great, a drunk/hungover Kelly is an element I am not ready
for at these hours of the morning. The flight isn’t at 4am thank god, but
that’s the time we were supposed to be waking up, and my best friend has got a
little too jolly the night before and is now in a pickle. Telling Kelly to stay
in for an evening is like trying to get a cat in a cage when you’re going to
the vet. She is </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">not</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> staying in.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At 4.23am, she’s not out of bed, or finished packing and the
cab is booked for 4.45am. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Dave,” I say to her housemate, having called him back. “Put
me on speaker phone and put the phone next to her ear.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Dave follows the instructions.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“DUDE? What are you </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">doing</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">?
Get up, we’re going in 15mins. Get up NOW.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I hear her jump out of her skin.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I’m awake I’m awake!!”</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kelly sits on the suitcase as we desperately try to zip the
thing up. We’re sitting in the middle of City Airport at 5am and the guy on the
BA desk is staring at us, unamused.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Now this isn’t Ryanair stingy 15k weight, BA give you a
generous 23K, but Kelly’s face is aghast as the scales flash -</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "calibri";">29k.</span></u></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Dude, what have you got in there?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She looks at me blankly.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“It’s a £65 charge for luggage over the weight limit,” says
the unamused BA guy.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Really? It's just that £65 is really expensive and I don’t
have a lot of money...”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He is unmoved by this plea. “Did you know what the weight
allowance was?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Yes.”</span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIgUyzCRa1GHuYmAiBM-cstQgXyknYBOrkOEYdja3guhTiIffnMAje1TGP-VVQNn1dFlx5XsdADFRWghH08wlVxalUBRGMizk1T0_1hFfFHpC9XjS2jG-60HdBTJ2gWUxQnKQZJ4a0POZ/s1600/13718737_10153644562070969_5451524435951762071_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIgUyzCRa1GHuYmAiBM-cstQgXyknYBOrkOEYdja3guhTiIffnMAje1TGP-VVQNn1dFlx5XsdADFRWghH08wlVxalUBRGMizk1T0_1hFfFHpC9XjS2jG-60HdBTJ2gWUxQnKQZJ4a0POZ/s1600/13718737_10153644562070969_5451524435951762071_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIgUyzCRa1GHuYmAiBM-cstQgXyknYBOrkOEYdja3guhTiIffnMAje1TGP-VVQNn1dFlx5XsdADFRWghH08wlVxalUBRGMizk1T0_1hFfFHpC9XjS2jG-60HdBTJ2gWUxQnKQZJ4a0POZ/s320/13718737_10153644562070969_5451524435951762071_n.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But you chose to pack 6 extra kilograms?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kelly pauses – “yes.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There is an awkward silence.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Well I didn’t mean to,” she adds.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Kel, just pay the man,” I whisper in a slightly desperate
tone. Her credit card comes out reluctantly and I wonder if 5am is too early
for me to start drinking.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt 18pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The next adventure comes after landing- after a quick and
comfortable flight we’re queuing for our luggage, round and round and round bags
go, trolleys come and are wheeled away and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">guess</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">
who’s bag does not appear… </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Kelly’s. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She starts to sweat, “The </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Chanel</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">” she says to me, a look of fear in her eyes. “The Chanel
is in there, and I don’t have travel insurance.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I tell her to breathe, and curse that damn handbag. When she
moved to London with nothing but a hope for a fresh start, she clung to that
bag in this crazy city like it held the secrets of the universe. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Dude,” I would tell her, “that’s a deposit and 4 months’
rent! Sell the thing!” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Never,”</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> she would
hiss at me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">‘Delivery Ended.’ the screen above the conveyer belt
flashed. One solitary black bag was still going round, that and a broken push
chair. I came back from the lost and found desk and asked one last question; "are you </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">sure</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> that’s not you bag?"</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">She pauses, and I roll the case over as it comes past us for
the eleventh time. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Ah! That </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">is</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> my
case my case after all!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I resist the urge to punch her in the face.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
**</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTiqe4T0pvHXgQCzN5RbEHPc9yyDw2dMByHqpTVBo1lvt_XfdhtEzbt_1igz1d_lubuhKQTqyKbFgas_gtPAWUHuAJs3SL7qstb8HqlLCXYbLVC1byqnXI5y7-6Ov_X3qtWaxmRCrFsgfz/s1600/13775416_10153647312450969_3973729965759737541_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTiqe4T0pvHXgQCzN5RbEHPc9yyDw2dMByHqpTVBo1lvt_XfdhtEzbt_1igz1d_lubuhKQTqyKbFgas_gtPAWUHuAJs3SL7qstb8HqlLCXYbLVC1byqnXI5y7-6Ov_X3qtWaxmRCrFsgfz/s320/13775416_10153647312450969_3973729965759737541_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">We take a water bus to the island, following a water motorway as boats fly back and forth on glorious turquoise water. From the minute we
step off and start dragging our bags through cobbled streets, I am in love.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Over the next two days I find no signs of the haunted or the
sinking and stinking that I have often heard described. This city is bursting full
of colour and light, a never ending maze of beautiful canals, every bit as
authentic as you could hope.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I have an obsession with maps, a trait that comes in handy
as I quickly notice the streets make no sense at all, tiny winding paths of
crumbling brick and grand rusting doors, finding ourselves at dead ends and
secret courtyards with every turn. Of course it doesn’t help that Kelly drops
my map to the canal within 24 hours and I don’t know where we live without out
it, since it had our apartment circled clearly by our airbnb host.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNcJJImxys5P8szwKAIsz77xpVxMuvaDCaE4O9eDCX8zg5l7liLyWGohwCFDeHm8kx8E36k_2f4NgUaoZz1_9gAHeboFcalAgy_ZOaqrkXipaNVgeQM0Mu6c1RBpShTZgc4m6L7oMgGUN/s1600/13729178_10153647312505969_970383880320388985_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNcJJImxys5P8szwKAIsz77xpVxMuvaDCaE4O9eDCX8zg5l7liLyWGohwCFDeHm8kx8E36k_2f4NgUaoZz1_9gAHeboFcalAgy_ZOaqrkXipaNVgeQM0Mu6c1RBpShTZgc4m6L7oMgGUN/s320/13729178_10153647312505969_970383880320388985_n.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The place looks like a movie set, so true it is to any
picture you have in your head and there is so much detail to drink in, wherever
your home is will never look the same again in comparison. I don’t think much
of the water buses, crammed and irregular- on the way to the station on the
last day I’m convinced it will sink- people and suitcases jammed together like
sardines and I cling onto the side for dear life. But the key to Venice, to
feel you have seen this crazy magical place is to walk and walk and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">walk</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">We make picnics and use the drinking fountains to drink all
day as we wander through each quarter, stopping to sunbathe on canal corners
and eat gelato in sunny open squares. We listen to the orchestra in San Marco’s
square and eat pizza in tiny pizzerias that are so fresh and sweet it could
almost be dessert.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">As a place it feels surreal- how does it </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">work</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">? It’s so beautiful but makes no
sense- in the middle of nowhere, on water, decadent architecture and basilica’s
everywhere you turn. The city, I discover, was founded in 400bc, a place for
refuges that came to the lagoon in the Adriatic Sea, safe from enemies who
couldn’t sail, and eventually attempted to build a city on the water so they
could stay. Unbelievably the original foundations of Venice are made of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">wood</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">- pikes going down in to the deeper
sand and clay, the lack of oxygen meaning the wood doesn’t rot but in fact
turns into a solid structure. I look around at the buildings, built almost on
top of each other they are so close together, a boat pulling up to a
restaurant, delivering the fish from the boat through the window. It seems
impossible that it works but it does.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRcKS34BS2Le9eSMGoc5wKf_6ozBhCWMWxPmHnrcv2Z7gFJQ-hQQZIxTtrY7gIM7ayClLIVJRjGv94iIy9-gXNVDNIPrtXnj_Jm5HzShRx5KwFCWhlxdi_rmtK4mrWj8lQmhjrh7OJ6PT/s1600/13701258_10153647320535969_9109860036744525985_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRcKS34BS2Le9eSMGoc5wKf_6ozBhCWMWxPmHnrcv2Z7gFJQ-hQQZIxTtrY7gIM7ayClLIVJRjGv94iIy9-gXNVDNIPrtXnj_Jm5HzShRx5KwFCWhlxdi_rmtK4mrWj8lQmhjrh7OJ6PT/s320/13701258_10153647320535969_9109860036744525985_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">An added bonus is we have accidentally arrived in Venice on
their biggest holiday weekend of the year, a celebration of the church built
after God spared the city from the plague. We join in with hundreds and
hundreds of boats filling the water with mini floating parties, an astonishing
sight in the evening water, music playing all along the grand canal. Prosecco
in hand we watch a fireworks display that is simply breath taking, exploding
light illuminating the Venetian skyline of basilicas and domes. The whole city
lights up with a show that lasts 45minutes and the whole city cheers as
midnight strikes. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It is </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">magic</span></i><span style="font-family: "calibri";">.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">*Next stop Florence!*</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-81411322905574677882015-10-04T10:53:00.001-07:002015-10-29T07:34:02.067-07:00I'm going Sober for October...<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.gosober.org.uk/profile/melodymiller" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAKJ3o7MsodiXhJTh83bkRZVGB1KK4xIjHgScUHWWOznzkyI9ZA16V1B-pyVmv18sAqHEMZfakZGtC9fhsddq5fNXf9Zp4nD2CLagzVHFCdLTevtk1caiP5oZetxPuo9DD-n9rMoWtW5K/s400/Go+Sober.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Want some reasons?</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">1. Firstly for <a href="https://www.gosober.org.uk/profile/melodymiller" target="_blank">Macmillan </a>and great cause worth donating to. *SHAMELESS PLUG* donate <a href="https://www.gosober.org.uk/profile/melodymiller" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">2. I’m sick to death of hangovers- I’m too old for them, they last too long, and I can’t afford the expensive makeup you need to cover them up because I’ve spent all my money on expensive wine and disgusting kebabs (a pointless combination may I add.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">3. I want to get fit and whichever way I look at it, I can’t build wine into that equation- ‘it’s liquid, its grapes, it’s basically fruit?’ Spin class is no fun on a hangover, and carb fest 2015 has taken place this summer, with a new job in the city that has seen me spend the price of a small car in various bars and restaurants around town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">4. I threw up on the train on Sunday morning into a small, blue sandwich bag after an extortionate night out. I’m 27 years old. This CANNOT happen again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">5. I want to know the difference between an alcoholic and socialite. The line, I imagine, is finer that we like to think. Alcohol is socially acceptable, available, legal; so what makes some people abuse it and others not? </span><span style="font-size: large;">Does it come down to luck, circumstance, genetics, social attitudes? Will power? </span><span style="font-size: large;">Do we define where that line is, or does alcohol? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;">6. I grew up with an alcoholic, it wasn’t much fun. I’ve had 4am phone calls from A&E, I have visited him in hospitals, been to court with him, fixed his finances, let him live with me. I have looked after him, loved him, abandoned him and everything in between. Living with someone with a drink problem feels like living with acid in your stomach- it rots away at you, slowly, but on the outside no one sees the injury.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not to kill the mood or anything. My instinct is to joke, but my instincts also tell me that nearly everyone reading this will relate to this in one way or another. It's why 'Sober for October' is a popular fundraiser- so many of us have complicated relationships with alcohol. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Clichés cut; no over-used Frank Gallagher prototype can articulate the mark left on a family such a figure leaves, because the worst part, the part that creates the suffering, is the fact you love them. To love an addict is to grieve for them simultaneously, because you loose them, over and over again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took a very long time to negotiate a social life for myself as a result. (One that judging from my overactive <a href="https://instagram.com/melody_m101/" target="_blank">Instagram </a>account, has swung in the other direction, making up for lost time...) As an early twenty-something I struggled with anxiety and depression, had never been to a gig, hated nightclubs, crowds and went through bouts of being completely tee- total. I couldn’t even bring myself to go into a pub. I cringed when someone slurred their words at me, hated drunk and loud people, and never felt a part of the scene that everybody else seemed so enjoy with ease. I’d see guys with the blue plastic bags coming out the off-licence and would wonder if we were all just living the same evenings, a world we made so big and fast we need something to slow it all down again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Resolve and forgiveness are things earnt with time, and </span><span style="font-size: large;">as a more self-assured adult, </span><span style="font-size: large;">it's left me curious;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m going to stay sober for 31 days because I want to know what it really feels like to want a drink, badly, and say no. I want to know what that feels like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Please donate to <a href="https://www.gosober.org.uk/profile/melodymiller" target="_blank">Macmillan</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sponsor me <b><a href="https://www.gosober.org.uk/profile/melodymiller" target="_blank">here</a></b>- it's quick and easy xx</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://twitter.com/melodys_pen" target="_blank">@melodys_pen</a></span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-3878791010001332012015-03-06T03:36:00.002-08:002015-04-17T05:19:17.766-07:00Tales of a Neurotic Traveller...<br />
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“I’ve done Asia.” The girl says to me.<br />
“You’ve <i>done </i>it?”<br />
“Yes” She said confidently<br />
.“The whole continent?” I ask. Why do people talk like this when it comes to travelling?<br />
“Last year I done Australia, and this year I done Asia.”<br />
“What do you mean you’ve <i><b>done </b></i>Asia- you screwed it?”<br />
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To Go Travelling. A rite of passage, a destination rather than a verb; ‘Travelling’ -a place where you drink your drinks from buckets rather than glasses, where you take super hot yet spiritual instagram pictures.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Rq4elLyGzDlanzxrA9wmIoHYDJEQncKAYaPgkfkbvOFRqZk6DcmmS458o_z-f7laC7APzoTBXMovBfA06shnCmZ0T0BWL-YblydTjpSSMiMTCaW-jOgNKl90c_pNiWeJB3SIKFHQHfj3/s1600/10685787_10152306547460969_2405941450425715579_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Rq4elLyGzDlanzxrA9wmIoHYDJEQncKAYaPgkfkbvOFRqZk6DcmmS458o_z-f7laC7APzoTBXMovBfA06shnCmZ0T0BWL-YblydTjpSSMiMTCaW-jOgNKl90c_pNiWeJB3SIKFHQHfj3/s1600/10685787_10152306547460969_2405941450425715579_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
What are we looking for out there? Are we changed on our return, or do the lessons fade with the tan?<br />
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Either way, hearing some else’s ‘travelling’ tales is never as interesting as they think it is when they’re recalling long, arduous stories about nights out you weren't on, of beaches you didn't see. The returned traveller sighs in a way that informs you of your inadequacy as an audience as they try and get you to picture the mountain/beach/rave/monkey sanctuary, and as they tell you about the elephants/native children/rainbows that are intrinsic to their new (and temporary) vegan ways, you feel one of the two; boredom or, your own internal compass beginning to twitch.<br />
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I’m not going to tell you ‘I done’ Paris, in fact there were no buckets of booze in sight in Madrid. I didn't ‘do’ Barcelona, I <i>danced it.</i><br />
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After the glory of Paris, Barcelona, looked slightly battered in comparison, but I loved the Gothic walls and happily watched people salsa dance on the streets while roller-blades glided past them, that ecliptic mix of old and new, of Catalan, the Moorish, Gothic and modern, the mash of architecture leaving me dizzy.<br />
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<a href="http://www.kabul.es/" target="_blank">Kabul Hostel. </a> 22 euros a night for a bed, breakfast <i>and </i>dinner. I can afford better but I don’t want better. I want people.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP63Z9ecHZYyqj8PJ9YA3A4XV_SthyphenhyphenWTnL-0J1GRHZi8sjC81lI95O_R32egiYZ0Jvutz4Rvwj4z51SX0ll0Hpi6R2hUafEcYN8RcAuMsqqHw0c2ahyphenhyphenyKQoAPRxx1_ehqVK5l1hzdhkah/s1600/10405466_827009937318423_6827549381066158381_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP63Z9ecHZYyqj8PJ9YA3A4XV_SthyphenhyphenWTnL-0J1GRHZi8sjC81lI95O_R32egiYZ0Jvutz4Rvwj4z51SX0ll0Hpi6R2hUafEcYN8RcAuMsqqHw0c2ahyphenhyphenyKQoAPRxx1_ehqVK5l1hzdhkah/s1600/10405466_827009937318423_6827549381066158381_n.jpg" height="186" width="200" /></a>I immediately make friends with Emily, or to be more accurate Emily makes friends with me. Emily is Canadian and the kind of beautiful that has you staring half a second too long when she enters a room, with never ending legs and never ending enthusiasm for whatever is thrown her way. She so pretty and loud and wild, you want to poke her to check she real and not off the TV, but Emily is all real apart from her eyelashes, so long she could catch you a fish dinner with them if she went swimming in the ocean.<br />
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“Are you all by yourself?” she asks me.<br />
In London the answer is always this question is always <i>no</i>. No I’m not by myself, no no, I have a <i>gazzilion </i>people on their way so don’t try and mug me/ kill me/ speak to me.<br />
“Yes,” I say.<br />
“Me too! she squeaks and hugs me. I’m hugged by this crazy Canadian and a friendship is forged.<br />
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This is perhaps the most surprising thing I have discovered about travelling alone; you’re never really alone. These cities and hostels and trains are full of people looking for the same thing as you- <i>life</i>, and I spoke to more strangers in these few weeks than the sum total of people I have ever spoken to on the tube. Quiet moments here aren't solitude, rather they are reflection. I am a person who hates the silence of my own company, but somewhere on those streets I gave up the ghost. There on the sand, beer and book in hand I watched the sun soften and then disappear on the water, me and my cold can of San Miguel feeling a happiness so deep it rumbled in my stomach like a hunger. I wanted more.<br />
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More arrived in the form of Kelly Jo Charge, my oldest and most vital part of my university days. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year, but have the type of friendship that immediately resumes its intensity and giddiness on our reunion.<br />
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We drank cocktails on sun loungers and hit the streets as the sun went down, ending up in an Irish Bar which though was not <i>quite </i>the cultured direction we had intended to fall down, was perfectly suitable for a gin and tonic, making friends with a rather sun-burnt trio of graduates. These were the type of graduates that make you feel slightly inadequate as with their high-tech business venture they were about to hit the big time. They graduated 4 months ago. I graduated 4 years ago. I’m still waiting for the big time.<br />
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We awoke the next morning with fuzzy heads in a room with our eight other roommates, Kelly rolling over to staring at the boy in the bunk bed next to ours.<br />
“Stephen?”<br />
“Kelly?”<br />
In all the countries, in all the hostels, in all the rooms, here were two people that knew each other, friends on Facebook no less. The world isn't small, it’s just working in rhythms to have the right people come across each other. This city of souls has its own workings, its own plan that sweeps you up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpoFTyHSM1zOF2An0FayWMzQwlto1RHoUi-Hqz3hzPEb1x25jUNXT3oHmIBR08-2HRrEkGTzNwfHjVd2QON5lnTj5TME1ps7gwB_SFJqFAR75RRKfmXF9vLm5OrkUTGwCsyvoQGFqESs8/s1600/10644808_832596673426416_2250531970808946173_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpoFTyHSM1zOF2An0FayWMzQwlto1RHoUi-Hqz3hzPEb1x25jUNXT3oHmIBR08-2HRrEkGTzNwfHjVd2QON5lnTj5TME1ps7gwB_SFJqFAR75RRKfmXF9vLm5OrkUTGwCsyvoQGFqESs8/s1600/10644808_832596673426416_2250531970808946173_n.jpg" height="169" width="320" /></a>Stephen is the supermodel kind of Irish with piercing blue eyes, milky smooth skin and jet black thick hair, helpfully paired with a delicious sense of style- and that’s before you get to the accent. We <i>love </i>Stephen.<br />
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With the addition of my brother Dom a few days later, our gang was complete. Dom is one of my favourite people in the world and though he’s seven years younger, entering our twenties I like to think the age gap has closed, although it leaves me on the wrong side of 25 and him on the right side.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJBcGhUX0OlQoJPKakKJgEajRhp5uYAWvRKk59W9LXElUhkSGzC02wf0Zg-dOuSOsNBTJNNKuOg9fDJ-T1GsUjADtn73FH1IMsR2ro73HPzmamuVwWxS6Y6qAevM-MbRcE2S7AsjbU8pg/s1600/996146_10152307304655969_7539164883304814957_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJBcGhUX0OlQoJPKakKJgEajRhp5uYAWvRKk59W9LXElUhkSGzC02wf0Zg-dOuSOsNBTJNNKuOg9fDJ-T1GsUjADtn73FH1IMsR2ro73HPzmamuVwWxS6Y6qAevM-MbRcE2S7AsjbU8pg/s1600/996146_10152307304655969_7539164883304814957_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>As the days wandered past us, bonds were forged, our crew of travellers inseparable, recognising certain traits in each other that kindle a friendship that feels easy and long lasting. We rode bikes, talked life, politics and made up an imaginary friend called Rhonda that spoke in a drawling New York accent and travelled the world with her dog on her dead husbands money. (Seriously what the hell was that one about? We talked about Rhonda so much that her voice still rings in my head sometimes. I blame the mango daiquiris...)<br />
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A new destination can reveal something of yourself to you, cultivate qualities suppressed in your everyday routine. Perhaps this is what the young traveller searches for amongst the tourist traps and tours, the drunken nights and sandy days-you’re searching for a better version of yourself, one you hope you can bring home.<br />
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We all like ourselves better here- the falsities and tightly wound stresses of work seem flippant, far away. The Barcelona version of myself is loud, friendly and open-minded- I talk to strangers in the beds next to me, make friends easily, learn new words-<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqNP8AIsfg3YeQztqxPx8Z7F8REMRNp4LA11-HhRJGgP4XiPH87McE_OjtRaCXiLNoWJCr1qJk6IuXBJkHaD3zTbl7onscXlM6wVVZuInZk-21fl6zJRXfhF7ZAMcnQDz8OFXM1mST2k4/s1600/10672385_10152501467373113_4013112751417978072_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqNP8AIsfg3YeQztqxPx8Z7F8REMRNp4LA11-HhRJGgP4XiPH87McE_OjtRaCXiLNoWJCr1qJk6IuXBJkHaD3zTbl7onscXlM6wVVZuInZk-21fl6zJRXfhF7ZAMcnQDz8OFXM1mST2k4/s1600/10672385_10152501467373113_4013112751417978072_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>a <b>‘loosey’ </b><i>[Loo-zee]</i><br />
<i>Noun:</i>- a person who looses items / is careless<br />
Example: ‘you’re such a loosey’<br />
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I dance until 6am in clubs that open out onto the beach, our gang spilling out onto the sand in between songs, eating <i>spam </i>and cheese baguettes from street sellers (they haven’t quite understood the concept of a burger van it seems) the bass line pumping us with adrenaline as we sing (yell) Calvin Harris, Rhianna and other familiar friends into the flashing dark.<br />
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One by one as the departure lounge calls, they leave all saying the same thing to the city:<br />
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“Thanks for reminding me who I am.”<br />
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Returned to the self, this strange city has given something of ourselves back to us but the <i>real </i>trick, is to hold onto that revelation- <i>live </i>that discovery back in the tube stations, back at your office.<br />
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How many of us vow that something has changed, that we won’t fall back into the same hamster wheels as before. Yet after a while, it becomes just pretty pictures in frames, profile pictures change as the next event takes center stage.<br />
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Is holiday the illusion or the revelation?<br />
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I jump on the next train before I find out.. Heading to Madrid I’m about to fall in love and be broken hearted in the space of 5 days…<br />
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To Be Continued...</div>
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<b>@melodys_pen</b></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-54538923783053028832015-02-13T15:58:00.001-08:002015-02-13T16:25:14.163-08:00 The best selection of valentines stuff for people pretending not to be interested in valentines...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">1.Seriously intense baking.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">Is it me or are these cakes so shiny you can almost smell the sugar and butter, capital letters calling out to you? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">I don't know whether to stick my face in them or eat them really quickly and throw it all up again. Know what I mean?</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">2. Because if you’re not into Friends references, I have nothing to say to you.</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFDEPP6ZDwg2ikbyfCF2euX5rvTB-omROVQBT7-_lWx5ZMk6LYGjpfhEOQtJjGxTl9fibe5LHEG6TOkRNmLYXmqjaj-4fJ7YScS2i1iRQ0TC7g97OUQbeHV3aKfFLtwVRy9HlhZY3gIfB/s1600/dbf1d2001e9a023413e2599f03d8943b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFDEPP6ZDwg2ikbyfCF2euX5rvTB-omROVQBT7-_lWx5ZMk6LYGjpfhEOQtJjGxTl9fibe5LHEG6TOkRNmLYXmqjaj-4fJ7YScS2i1iRQ0TC7g97OUQbeHV3aKfFLtwVRy9HlhZY3gIfB/s1600/dbf1d2001e9a023413e2599f03d8943b.jpg" height="400" width="283" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I like to think I'm a Rachel, (we all like to think we’re a Rachel,) but I think it's more likely I'm a Phoebe, little bit crazy, with a chequered past that comes out in stories that make no chronological sense…</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-size: x-large;">3. I swear to god there is a card for everything.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQZapQzyq91X2eLp94nUsAkaUkyjm84StGcFYa2gINrJFtR-jpPmKKieaK-QbjPstM7WLzIzl8aol3KUNTGZkF_Fdr_1FZySx0EC2Nd55saficwY-6mT5NxA5oQzl_G59Z4eKWLg8_HhY/s1600/93985fefcd32c26fd4c4ab4df09d7e50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQZapQzyq91X2eLp94nUsAkaUkyjm84StGcFYa2gINrJFtR-jpPmKKieaK-QbjPstM7WLzIzl8aol3KUNTGZkF_Fdr_1FZySx0EC2Nd55saficwY-6mT5NxA5oQzl_G59Z4eKWLg8_HhY/s1600/93985fefcd32c26fd4c4ab4df09d7e50.jpg" height="400" width="291" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">You know, if they made this card when I was 17 my life would have been a whole lot easier. Actually my entire <i>life </i>would have been a whole easier with cards like these. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s when valentines comes at the really inconvenient time when you've been dating about a week and haven't figured out the goal posts yet, you’re not even saying you’re <i>seeing </i>each other or <i>dating </i>each other, your just you know, <i>hanging out</i>, being cool, and you hope that neither of you notice valentine’s day, that it floats on past, yet secretly expect they do something to acknowledge it.</span><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">4. If Jezza Kyle made cuddle toys.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22O8Fb1UvoJp2BZduljpajEAvxR4sCboQsdS-CvIcF6grAVjlerDVgdt8IeCi25b0Prr3Wpg1w4mLKmtSAeUHisc49uy50gLKrBVIIMgmFtjo_6GTUzboomvIiXh58fbNJk24aklNHr-D/s1600/7c070ddebbc117c317c7174ff4547d24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22O8Fb1UvoJp2BZduljpajEAvxR4sCboQsdS-CvIcF6grAVjlerDVgdt8IeCi25b0Prr3Wpg1w4mLKmtSAeUHisc49uy50gLKrBVIIMgmFtjo_6GTUzboomvIiXh58fbNJk24aklNHr-D/s1600/7c070ddebbc117c317c7174ff4547d24.jpg" height="320" width="315" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. Delete, love, hate, repeat.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQA68oZYqi7pA1s6jGXyGSZKAXN8_OSicXi1ULLg6Wtfg85W_PDgqSPniIVSh2-nADzd9sAnrPvFi8jbjBVJ5AuxK37ObwBpiGvLp6xNz45cey6nxjc4BWrzr5-lgTFpL22uEYFuG4PS5/s1600/6e561980c48dca8a158549d46b307a06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQA68oZYqi7pA1s6jGXyGSZKAXN8_OSicXi1ULLg6Wtfg85W_PDgqSPniIVSh2-nADzd9sAnrPvFi8jbjBVJ5AuxK37ObwBpiGvLp6xNz45cey6nxjc4BWrzr5-lgTFpL22uEYFuG4PS5/s1600/6e561980c48dca8a158549d46b307a06.jpg" height="302" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The addictive circle which you convince yourself is totally normal at the time, when in fact you can't really recall their face very clearly- because your either snogging it or trying to punch it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6. Moon Pig needs to get organised.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD8FmBsTeaGBVdwEYRD3SV5tPNMJWlOatiNMMDzQMgWeywtBsD4kn5_LCLmpJkmGLdVyMvOm5U87pK2CP3eI3dDNMOfxLVxrm6pAmNj1B0epOAXHMYWypOsNe25dBlrJYWt6gGFXxl2uTz/s1600/7ff2b4589f127d7d55a1403769501f7d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD8FmBsTeaGBVdwEYRD3SV5tPNMJWlOatiNMMDzQMgWeywtBsD4kn5_LCLmpJkmGLdVyMvOm5U87pK2CP3eI3dDNMOfxLVxrm6pAmNj1B0epOAXHMYWypOsNe25dBlrJYWt6gGFXxl2uTz/s1600/7ff2b4589f127d7d55a1403769501f7d.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I would <i>so </i>send these out if it was socially acceptable. This is a card that to me says, I certainly don't want to be your girlfriend anymore- but if I could go back that <i>first </i>week when you were showing off and treating me <i>very </i>nicely indeed, I would certainly be tempted. (if I could give you back again afterwards.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>7. History makes Tinder look tame.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVZXJ4ahUUSFr1ObL0XNto69YPtPZdJPb0FxiTF0plUZ3-3IXTkRxmXfzVg4zkbvH47DKaihD7J4031kdAacRWd6Ru_QjyR0GGzo3bKe42QZgP9u3Awcj4nokbT5kz6LwylFQx0UrYy_N/s1600/BZM4YOOIIAAVXWX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVZXJ4ahUUSFr1ObL0XNto69YPtPZdJPb0FxiTF0plUZ3-3IXTkRxmXfzVg4zkbvH47DKaihD7J4031kdAacRWd6Ru_QjyR0GGzo3bKe42QZgP9u3Awcj4nokbT5kz6LwylFQx0UrYy_N/s1600/BZM4YOOIIAAVXWX.jpg" height="284" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or, love me or I'll divorce you and blame you for my lack of functioning sperm and gangrene leg and syphilis</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. The 'uh oh' moments.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpjF4jaJJ3DQwdLj70eKX8fZjC4ZCK9MNyAXWR-wFjQKhFUuaOXzNjc5CID3yeW-y3eLTeWnrRFFNtdvGGV3aH_Y2MMgJ_vTPZjVGv1oMn8pHcpElBFFDJJvWLkSDyUBhqGXIQbGymnr8d/s1600/a22ffd266f6cafd063babf2812431369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpjF4jaJJ3DQwdLj70eKX8fZjC4ZCK9MNyAXWR-wFjQKhFUuaOXzNjc5CID3yeW-y3eLTeWnrRFFNtdvGGV3aH_Y2MMgJ_vTPZjVGv1oMn8pHcpElBFFDJJvWLkSDyUBhqGXIQbGymnr8d/s1600/a22ffd266f6cafd063babf2812431369.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Yep we've all had one of those. I was a waitress, new restaurant, first shift, and the boss came down the stairs, shook my hand introducing himself, and as he smiled I distinctly remember thinking, '<i>oh shit.' </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It lasted about 4 weeks, (as did the job.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>9. The funny card that's not so funny when you open the super sentimental one she got you.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKQ94r5OQ7alh01O6LccUNogKp-b8Q1pZFMwPOoSkotJ3_SrHxRkQ9sm1lL2OwpiET0hYSGW8DQ8FcMX4XZRdq8-aVj6x4XCsCK8U-KRJ4BgkdvxtRP5uB1YJXn02cXEj_JoNLSkt71qY/s1600/ce6d0dd398d8623535d443469173685c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKQ94r5OQ7alh01O6LccUNogKp-b8Q1pZFMwPOoSkotJ3_SrHxRkQ9sm1lL2OwpiET0hYSGW8DQ8FcMX4XZRdq8-aVj6x4XCsCK8U-KRJ4BgkdvxtRP5uB1YJXn02cXEj_JoNLSkt71qY/s1600/ce6d0dd398d8623535d443469173685c.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you receive one of these my first thought is probably don't marry this one. And give him back to his mother. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>10. Things I say in my head but wouldn't put on the front of a card.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha96nXIIpZaMUvgS8RL3wrD-DN6KIYoyKJ60WAZo1fUzVu_7t8HYP4Z92xVC_yoZNAMv7rx6ii44vVEpeFM6D5HKbvfoXwke8ZfH9gKt5BpTbFb0GnoDByoLsT5GT_K0NVKzEYjbtvUo64/s1600/90d0228a4697c1007ca7fa4b7a4c1c6c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha96nXIIpZaMUvgS8RL3wrD-DN6KIYoyKJ60WAZo1fUzVu_7t8HYP4Z92xVC_yoZNAMv7rx6ii44vVEpeFM6D5HKbvfoXwke8ZfH9gKt5BpTbFb0GnoDByoLsT5GT_K0NVKzEYjbtvUo64/s1600/90d0228a4697c1007ca7fa4b7a4c1c6c.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>Happy Valentines Day! <a href="https://twitter.com/melodys_pen" target="_blank">@melodys_pen </a></b></div>
Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-2099170661446158772015-01-28T06:52:00.001-08:002015-04-17T05:26:36.336-07:00Get Rich or Get Real<br />
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<img alt="NEVER SETTLE DONT TRAVEL DOWN A PATH WHICH YOU DO NOT LOVE. PASSION IS KEY, NOT PERSISTENCE. IF YOU LOVE WHAT YOU DO, ALL WILL GO ON WITHOUT REGRETS. SUCCESS IS BUT AN ARBITRARY MEASURE OF HOW HAPPY YOU ARE WITH YOUR DREAMS GOALS AND ASPIRATIONS. FIND A PASSION AND PURSUE IT. IF YOU CAN'T , GET LOST IN THE WORLD OF OPPORTUNITIES. DONT TRY TO FID YOUR BEST , FIND WHAT'S BEST FOR YOU. CASE CLOSED." src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/50/03/6e/50036e4faa882939350b14f7024d34c4.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></div>
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<b>"We are
told to 'do what we love' in life and our careers. Is that a fallacy?"</b> the
Guardian asks in an article I came across this week- a question aimed at those aspiring to Steve
Jobs's <i>'don't settle'</i> motto while at the same time faced with real-life
economic struggles and realities. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It's an ever
present question, a tug of war not just for young
people, but for those unsatisfied and unmotivated in the jobs they find
themselves in, those who know that they’re not doing what they love, but have responsibilities
that outweighs the possibility of change.<br />
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<i>"DWYL
(Do What You Love) is a secret handshake of the privileged... According to this way of
thinking, labour is not something one does for compensation but is an act of
love. If profit doesn't happen to follow, presumably it is because the worker's
passion and determination were insufficient. Its real achievement is making
workers believe their labor serves the self and not the marketplace."<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
What does this leave us with- get rich or get real? I disagree. If you teach people to believe men like Steve Jobs are the exception to the rule, that their success is due to <i>privilege</i>, then you will fail before you start. Or worse- you will never try. No doubt the majority of us have or have had jobs that were taken out of <i>need</i> rather than <i>love</i>, to pay the bills <a href="http://www.thanetgazette.co.uk/Rich-Real/story-20555673-detail/story.html"></a>rather than the passion for the daily tasks- my god I've cleaned toilets and sold dodgy timeshares in the Costa Del Crime along the way- but should we accept that as <i>inevitable</i>? That you don't get the choice, or the chance to change your mind along the way?<br />
<br />
It's because we're measuring this quote in terms of his wealth- not his success. Success is that he found what he liked doing, did it well, built a company and family that he believed in, didn't give up despite obstacles, had something to show for his efforts and beliefs. This is the value- the net worth is the bonus.</div>
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The root of our
attitudes has much to do with our education system, structuring beliefs about
how the world around us works and rewards us. From a young age you have an intrinsic
understanding about which subjects at school have value, and which subjects are
worthless in the 'real' world, the worth based on what career path it is
attributed to, which box it fits into.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>"People
like Apple's Steve Jobs and Facebook's Mark Zuckerberg were held up as examples
(if not gurus) of this "DWYL" trend, alongside people who quit
investment banking jobs to become cheese farmers, plumbers or yoga
entrepreneurs"<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I left my job in
London to study, write novels, learn to surf and live by the sea with my little red kayak. The world didn't
end, my parents didn't disown me. But if my novel is never published, and I
never 'make it,' if I return to London when I'm ready, am I to believe that it was foolish to follow what I love in my educational
choices and career decisions? Do I not get to choose what I do with my working
life, whatever my C.V ends up looking like? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh570o4twYIxKbXASYhJ3XHWyl0whhfV4szukBLBhAEoXZemObQnKu-DYLSCM_oltdKU8KYnqJDGlBkYPkPT5R4JrAK3WvwdIdeKsLV_viro2ZfawTI4LsFmr1xrp55CyIWcxzqHhxX_srL/s1600/IMG_4301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh570o4twYIxKbXASYhJ3XHWyl0whhfV4szukBLBhAEoXZemObQnKu-DYLSCM_oltdKU8KYnqJDGlBkYPkPT5R4JrAK3WvwdIdeKsLV_viro2ZfawTI4LsFmr1xrp55CyIWcxzqHhxX_srL/s1600/IMG_4301.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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The comments on the Guardian article left by the public were insightful- hinting at what has become a natural position
when we come to talk about success and jobs and money:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>"I am advising my children to think
about the lifestyle they want, and work back from there to a job that will
afford that lifestyle and a university education that will allow it. "<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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This, surely, is
the wrong way round, but is a very true picture about ever-present teachings on
how to live a happy and successful life. 'Lifestyle' is the accolade that you
slave for, to enjoy at the weekends and on bank holiday's.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>"In Steve Jobs' Stanford commencement
speech he urged graduates, "don't settle". Keep searching for the
thing that you love doing. It was a great speech, but I know several people who
have used it as an excuse for a continual search. I have a graduate relative
who is fast approaching thirty, and has never been in a job for more than three
months, because they haven't found that thing that they love. It's supposed to
be a finite search. If you haven't found it in a two or three years, then find
something you can force yourself to love."<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Life, I would
argue, <i>is</i> a continual search; what else are you doing? You will never
<i>arrive </i>at who you are and what you want to do one spring afternoon. Your
passions and flavours change and develop as you do, and a rich and fruitful
life involves giving yourself permission to explore those interests. If you
have to force it, it don't fit.<br />
<br />
Who said you have to have one job or one career
for the duration anyway? You're going to be at work everyday, 5 days a week for about 40 years. That's<i> a lot</i> of time to work out what your good at, to <i>change your mind </i>about what you like doing. It all depends how you value success- by the measure of your own satisfaction and happiness, or by the milestones pressed upon us- house deposits, titles, car finance, holiday to Vegas. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I'm not
suggesting we all quit our jobs and go take photographs of sunflowers in a
field, but the question being pressed against lost graduates, university
hopefuls and people that are bored or unsatisfied in the their current jobs
leaves a bitter taste; are your passions and talents irrelevant when it comes
to the working world? Is<i> </i>following your dream a luxury that we all
eventually must forfeit? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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@melodys_pen</div>
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Like this? Read
about the Forbes list top Ten Happiest Jobs and Top Ten most miserable jobs <a href="http://www.melodystravellingpen.blogspot.co.uk/#!http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2012/06/to-be-nun-or-director-of-it-career.html" target="_blank">here </a></div>
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<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/jan/20/do-what-you-love-good-or-bad-advice" target="_blank">Here </a>is the original guardian article.</div>
Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-40186915264052611192014-10-08T09:02:00.000-07:002014-10-27T07:30:50.013-07:00I am for hire!<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="color: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I am for hire!</span></b></span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-15906281910733230062014-10-07T06:17:00.001-07:002015-03-06T03:29:22.796-08:00Tales of a Neurotic Traveller 3: The City of Souls<br />
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“I’ve done Asia.” The girl says to me.<br />
“You’ve <i>done </i>it?”<br />
“Yes” She said confidently<br />
.“The whole continent?” I ask. Why do people talk like this when it comes to travelling?<br />
“Last year I done Australia, and this year I done Asia.”<br />
“What do you mean you’ve <i>done </i>Asia- you screwed it?”<br />
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To Go Travelling. A rite of passage, a destination rather than a verb; ‘Travelling’ -a place where you drink your drinks from buckets rather than glasses, where you take super hot yet spiritual instagram pictures.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Rq4elLyGzDlanzxrA9wmIoHYDJEQncKAYaPgkfkbvOFRqZk6DcmmS458o_z-f7laC7APzoTBXMovBfA06shnCmZ0T0BWL-YblydTjpSSMiMTCaW-jOgNKl90c_pNiWeJB3SIKFHQHfj3/s1600/10685787_10152306547460969_2405941450425715579_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Rq4elLyGzDlanzxrA9wmIoHYDJEQncKAYaPgkfkbvOFRqZk6DcmmS458o_z-f7laC7APzoTBXMovBfA06shnCmZ0T0BWL-YblydTjpSSMiMTCaW-jOgNKl90c_pNiWeJB3SIKFHQHfj3/s1600/10685787_10152306547460969_2405941450425715579_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
What are we looking for out there? Are we changed on our return, or do the lessons fade with the tan?<br />
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Either way, hearing some else’s ‘travelling’ tales is never as interesting as they think it is when they’re recalling long, arduous stories about nights out you weren't on, of beaches you didn't see. The returned traveller sighs in a way that informs you of your inadequacy as an audience as they try and get you to picture the mountain/beach/rave/monkey sanctuary, and as they tell you about the elephants/native children/rainbows that are intrinsic to their new (and temporary) vegan ways, you feel one of the two; boredom or, your own internal compass beginning to twitch.<br />
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I’m not going to tell you ‘I done’ Paris, in fact there were no buckets of booze in sight in Madrid. I didn't ‘do’ Barcelona, I <i>danced it.</i><br />
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After the glory of Paris, Barcelona, looked slightly battered in comparison, but I loved the Gothic walls and happily watched people salsa dance on the streets while roller-blades glided past them, that ecliptic mix of old and new, of Catalan, the Moorish, Gothic and modern, the mash of architecture leaving me dizzy.<br />
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<a href="http://www.kabul.es/" target="_blank">Kabul Hostel. </a> 22 euros a night for a bed, breakfast <i>and </i>dinner. I can afford better but I don’t want better. I want people.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP63Z9ecHZYyqj8PJ9YA3A4XV_SthyphenhyphenWTnL-0J1GRHZi8sjC81lI95O_R32egiYZ0Jvutz4Rvwj4z51SX0ll0Hpi6R2hUafEcYN8RcAuMsqqHw0c2ahyphenhyphenyKQoAPRxx1_ehqVK5l1hzdhkah/s1600/10405466_827009937318423_6827549381066158381_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP63Z9ecHZYyqj8PJ9YA3A4XV_SthyphenhyphenWTnL-0J1GRHZi8sjC81lI95O_R32egiYZ0Jvutz4Rvwj4z51SX0ll0Hpi6R2hUafEcYN8RcAuMsqqHw0c2ahyphenhyphenyKQoAPRxx1_ehqVK5l1hzdhkah/s1600/10405466_827009937318423_6827549381066158381_n.jpg" height="186" width="200" /></a>I immediately make friends with Emily, or to be more accurate Emily makes friends with me. Emily is Canadian and the kind of beautiful that has you staring half a second too long when she enters a room, with never ending legs and never ending enthusiasm for whatever is thrown her way. She so pretty and loud and wild, you want to poke her to check she real and not off the TV, but Emily is all real apart from her eyelashes, so long she could catch you a fish dinner with them if she went swimming in the ocean.<br />
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“Are you all by yourself?” she asks me.<br />
In London the answer is always this question is always <i>no</i>. No I’m not by myself, no no, I have a <i>gazzilion </i>people on their way so don’t try and mug me/ kill me/ speak to me.<br />
“Yes,” I say.<br />
“Me too! she squeaks and hugs me. I’m hugged by this crazy Canadian and a friendship is forged.<br />
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This is perhaps the most surprising thing I have discovered about travelling alone; you’re never really alone. These cities and hostels and trains are full of people looking for the same thing as you- <i>life</i>, and I spoke to more strangers in these few weeks than the sum total of people I have ever spoken to on the tube. Quiet moments here aren't solitude, rather they are reflection. I am a person who hates the silence of my own company, but somewhere on those streets I gave up the ghost. There on the sand, beer and book in hand I watched the sun soften and then disappear on the water, me and my cold can of San Miguel feeling a happiness so deep it rumbled in my stomach like a hunger. I wanted more.<br />
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More arrived in the form of Kelly Jo Charge, my oldest and most vital part of my university days. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year, but have the type of friendship that immediately resumes its intensity and giddiness on our reunion.<br />
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We drank cocktails on sun loungers and hit the streets as the sun went down, ending up in an Irish Bar which though was not <i>quite </i>the cultured direction we had intended to fall down, was perfectly suitable for a gin and tonic, making friends with a rather sun-burnt trio of graduates. These were the type of graduates that make you feel slightly inadequate as with their high-tech business venture they were about to hit the big time. They graduated 4 months ago. I graduated 4 years ago. I’m still waiting for the big time.<br />
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We awoke the next morning with fuzzy heads in a room with our eight other roommates, Kelly rolling over to staring at the boy in the bunk bed next to ours.<br />
“Stephen?”<br />
“Kelly?”<br />
In all the countries, in all the hostels, in all the rooms, here were two people that knew each other, friends on Facebook no less. The world isn't small, it’s just working in rhythms to have the right people come across each other. This city of souls has its own workings, its own plan that sweeps you up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpoFTyHSM1zOF2An0FayWMzQwlto1RHoUi-Hqz3hzPEb1x25jUNXT3oHmIBR08-2HRrEkGTzNwfHjVd2QON5lnTj5TME1ps7gwB_SFJqFAR75RRKfmXF9vLm5OrkUTGwCsyvoQGFqESs8/s1600/10644808_832596673426416_2250531970808946173_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLpoFTyHSM1zOF2An0FayWMzQwlto1RHoUi-Hqz3hzPEb1x25jUNXT3oHmIBR08-2HRrEkGTzNwfHjVd2QON5lnTj5TME1ps7gwB_SFJqFAR75RRKfmXF9vLm5OrkUTGwCsyvoQGFqESs8/s1600/10644808_832596673426416_2250531970808946173_n.jpg" height="169" width="320" /></a>Stephen is the supermodel kind of Irish with piercing blue eyes, milky smooth skin and jet black thick hair, helpfully paired with a delicious sense of style- and that’s before you get to the accent. We <i>love </i>Stephen.<br />
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With the addition of my brother Dom a few days later, our gang was complete. Dom is one of my favourite people in the world and though he’s seven years younger, entering our twenties I like to think the age gap has closed, although it leaves me on the wrong side of 25 and him on the right side.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJBcGhUX0OlQoJPKakKJgEajRhp5uYAWvRKk59W9LXElUhkSGzC02wf0Zg-dOuSOsNBTJNNKuOg9fDJ-T1GsUjADtn73FH1IMsR2ro73HPzmamuVwWxS6Y6qAevM-MbRcE2S7AsjbU8pg/s1600/996146_10152307304655969_7539164883304814957_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJBcGhUX0OlQoJPKakKJgEajRhp5uYAWvRKk59W9LXElUhkSGzC02wf0Zg-dOuSOsNBTJNNKuOg9fDJ-T1GsUjADtn73FH1IMsR2ro73HPzmamuVwWxS6Y6qAevM-MbRcE2S7AsjbU8pg/s1600/996146_10152307304655969_7539164883304814957_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>As the days wandered past us, bonds were forged, our crew of travellers inseparable, recognising certain traits in each other that kindle a friendship that feels easy and long lasting. We rode bikes, talked life, politics and made up an imaginary friend called Rhonda that spoke in a drawling New York accent and travelled the world with her dog on her dead husbands money. (Seriously what the hell was that one about? We talked about Rhonda so much that her voice still rings in my head sometimes. I blame the mango daiquiris...)<br />
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A new destination can reveal something of yourself to you, cultivate qualities suppressed in your everyday routine. Perhaps this is what the young traveller searches for amongst the tourist traps and tours, the drunken nights and sandy days-you’re searching for a better version of yourself, one you hope you can bring home.<br />
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We all like ourselves better here- the falsities and tightly wound stresses of work seem flippant, far away. The Barcelona version of myself is loud, friendly and open-minded- I talk to strangers in the beds next to me, make friends easily, learn new words-<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqNP8AIsfg3YeQztqxPx8Z7F8REMRNp4LA11-HhRJGgP4XiPH87McE_OjtRaCXiLNoWJCr1qJk6IuXBJkHaD3zTbl7onscXlM6wVVZuInZk-21fl6zJRXfhF7ZAMcnQDz8OFXM1mST2k4/s1600/10672385_10152501467373113_4013112751417978072_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqNP8AIsfg3YeQztqxPx8Z7F8REMRNp4LA11-HhRJGgP4XiPH87McE_OjtRaCXiLNoWJCr1qJk6IuXBJkHaD3zTbl7onscXlM6wVVZuInZk-21fl6zJRXfhF7ZAMcnQDz8OFXM1mST2k4/s1600/10672385_10152501467373113_4013112751417978072_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>a <b>‘loosey’ </b><i>[Loo-zee]</i><br />
<i>Noun:</i>- a person who looses items / is careless<br />
Example: ‘you’re such a loosey’<br />
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I dance until 6am in clubs that open out onto the beach, our gang spilling out onto the sand in between songs, eating <i>spam </i>and cheese baguettes from street sellers (they haven’t quite understood the concept of a burger van it seems) the bass line pumping us with adrenaline as we sing (yell) Calvin Harris, Rhianna and other familiar friends into the flashing dark.<br />
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One by one as the departure lounge calls, they leave all saying the same thing to the city:<br />
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“Thanks for reminding me who I am.”<br />
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Returned to the self, this strange city has given something of ourselves back to us but the <i>real </i>trick, is to hold onto that revelation- <i>live </i>that discovery back in the tube stations, back at your office.<br />
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How many of us vow that something has changed, that we won’t fall back into the same hamster wheels as before. Yet after a while, it becomes just pretty pictures in frames, profile pictures change as the next event takes center stage.<br />
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Is holiday the illusion or the revelation?<br />
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I jump on the next train before I find out.. Heading to Madrid I’m about to fall in love and be broken hearted in the space of 5 days…<br />
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To Be Continued...</div>
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<b>@melodys_pen</b></div>
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<br />Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-5463160233377276692014-09-29T05:59:00.000-07:002014-10-07T06:56:52.827-07:00Tales of a Neurotic Traveller 2 The Kindness of a Stranger - Paris to Barcelona.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m Clemente.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I look at Clemente. Clemente is very hot, and very French.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m Melody.” We shake hands and smile, sizing each other up the way we people do.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m on a double-decker, high speed super train from Paris to Barcelona and I just hit the passenger seat jackpot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I craved freedom and adventure, but my old demons often hung around my ankles making me doubt myself, reminding me of the fall. Through my early twenties I struggled with depression and anxiety, experiences that leave scars that though are invisible to others, have you treat life more cautiously, having felt the fragility of your own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I recovered, the world seemed a more fearful place than before. I had seen a darkness in my own existence that ran so deep, I felt its echo wherever I went. How could anywhere be safe if my own mind wasn’t? I had lost all confidence in being in my own company, a place I then just filled with noise; the radio as I went to sleep, episodes of Friends playing in empty rooms, unsuitable boyfriends at the table. Fear is a funny thing- it can lead you places where you think you’re protecting yourself, when in fact you’re being boxed into smaller and smaller hiding places. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Out in Paris I give the demons a good, firm kick. “Fuck off.” I say to them under my breath. “I’m getting on the damn train.”</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqcEJa4SellazwDP8Rtg97_1j0HWInJ3xV_N70I_buzOeuBDddadrhJYzjKCshgiRP-gfRvV2YA7hCKV7rhsknlNkzI6kcRzC7HVlWjM3GTaIogHHDCc8kqX7aKbA7-7UdIex4n76NoqE/s1600/10659212_10152297989110969_7457465608505174772_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqcEJa4SellazwDP8Rtg97_1j0HWInJ3xV_N70I_buzOeuBDddadrhJYzjKCshgiRP-gfRvV2YA7hCKV7rhsknlNkzI6kcRzC7HVlWjM3GTaIogHHDCc8kqX7aKbA7-7UdIex4n76NoqE/s1600/10659212_10152297989110969_7457465608505174772_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">My walking, talking, French stranger-on-a-train-cliché buys me red wine and we talk for the entire 6 and half hour journey, covering art, philosophy, education and in hour number 3, his girlfriend (pah!) I forget to be scared, of the tunnels and mountains, of the 200mph, of being by myself when I get to my destination, I only see the beauty (no, not just of the French dude’s face) of the Pyrenees, of green luscious space that turns to a gorgeous burnt orange as we pass into Spain. “I’m back,” I whispered. <i>“I’m back.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The train boasts a comfort similar to that of a first class airplane, with superfluous amounts of legroom, plug sockets, a bar and TV, so we find ourselves watching a movie called<i> The Spanish Apartment,</i> about a French student moving to Barcelona to study, living with a mix of European students all trying to make sense of themselves and their education, spending happy days and drunken nights sitting in a beautiful plaza surrounded by palms trees and fountains. Clemente has seen this film countless times and is his favourite as <i>he</i> is now the French guy moving to Barcelona to study. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our own experience of education, the working world and the unfriendly transition between the two seems to be a universal one. There is the tug of career, status and money, those measurable milestones that translate well to your parents and peers, versus the equal need to rebel against it to find something you <i>actually </i>want, though knowing what that is is a hurdle in itself. Your twenties seem to be driven by an unquenchable thirst for freedom while at the same time a desperation to be allowed onto the rat race, despite loathing the monotony of the daily grind that sees you getting off your face on a Friday by 7pm in an act of escape. What do you <i>want?</i> The most fundamental of questions, but often the most unanswerable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">His family are from a tiny island called Ille de Rey off La Rochelle, where each person has their role and their place on the farmland and in the household. His cousins know who they are, he tells me, because they know their purpose out on the land, everyone has their role in order for the unit to survive. He on the other hand, given the gift of freedom with scholarship education and opportunity to travel is the lost one. “Are we happier when our world is small then?” I ask him, looking out at the waters of Montpellier flying past, hurtling across countries and time borders. Neither of us say anything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the train pulls into Barcelona </span><span style="font-size: large;">Clemente stares at me in the pause before we start gathering up the debris of our 6 hour adventure. </span><span style="font-size: large;">“How strange we had so much to say to eachother.” He helps me with my backpack, laughing as we take our first breathe of Spanish air, the dry smell of dirt and heat letting me know I’m home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I’m going this way," he says, "and you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have no clue where I’m going but want to work it out by myself, I don’t want to rob myself of this moment by following a boy around town. He waves goodbye as he heads for the metro and I wave back, grateful for the kindness of a stranger.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never see him again. We are always searching for meaning in our encounters with each other, but sometimes the fleeting glimpse into a possibility is just as satisfying. We’re not on our own in our fears about what the hell we’re doing in life- the stranger next to you also carries the weight of life’s expectations and hopes. There’s no such thing as a stranger at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This, as it turned out, was a great philosophy to learn, as I was about to share a room in a hostel with 10 people, which as a number is the most amount of people I have ever shared a sleeping space with. I was about to find some friends for life among the beds of Kabul Hostel, but first I had to find the place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“The Beach is this way yes?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The bus driver shakes his head frantically, eyes wide in fear for my sense of geography.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“Nooo No, es por alli.” He points on the exact opposite direction.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAQtI4Jws0jH4IxX6Pnra9tzB2r2IpB1vOD01TYKQi-fdOhIWFLcs0m2jQIKfhnOaZd_G57H9W1JHl0op3BVcpisFRRAPHJRdRjzB2SZatw9fYTbiJph_scgwvIq7LhA9Lyh1t8LVJAmb/s1600/6803_10152298361290969_7446496580539104469_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAQtI4Jws0jH4IxX6Pnra9tzB2r2IpB1vOD01TYKQi-fdOhIWFLcs0m2jQIKfhnOaZd_G57H9W1JHl0op3BVcpisFRRAPHJRdRjzB2SZatw9fYTbiJph_scgwvIq7LhA9Lyh1t8LVJAmb/s1600/6803_10152298361290969_7446496580539104469_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’m the last person on the bus which should have been a clue, and have somehow ended up in the suburban mountains of Barcelona rather than down by the harbour. Me and my backpack which weighs roughly the same weight as me, get off the bus and walk to the opposite side of the road waiting for the number 9. I’m lost, and I don’t care. I’m in Barcelona.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The madness of Las Ramblas is waiting for me and I weave my way through the crowds and street sellers using google maps on my iphone (good help my phone bill) but when I get to the hostel I’m momentarily confused. I know this square- have I been here before? I look around at the fountain and the beautiful palm trees, the cobbled square with people taking a moment from the heat. Then it clicks. It’s the Plaza in the movie I’ve just watched with Clemente, the Plaza where the young and lost came to sit, and here I am. I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in signs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjI6I71l71kMv_Ux2xANSfHPeoXsBE4DBCwnklHJQHVTPZMCCCWaI9cXXyDYBqv-7a4vZYDgxF_CJPOc1xT8znNT3wS8tbtfl8Q_GwfqX_cUSHBNgCIqw0ukmkr1EpqRb8HuPu34kTYlS/s1600/10635908_10152302211785969_551783090108082159_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjI6I71l71kMv_Ux2xANSfHPeoXsBE4DBCwnklHJQHVTPZMCCCWaI9cXXyDYBqv-7a4vZYDgxF_CJPOc1xT8znNT3wS8tbtfl8Q_GwfqX_cUSHBNgCIqw0ukmkr1EpqRb8HuPu34kTYlS/s1600/10635908_10152302211785969_551783090108082159_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To Be Continued.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">@melodys_pen</span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-69480218845291913202014-09-14T14:52:00.001-07:002014-10-07T06:57:21.468-07:00Tales of a Neurotic Traveller 1. Green Men and Signs from God<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s fucking GREEN.” I shout at a Renault Clio opposite the Eiffel Tower. “VERT” I add for good measure (complete with French hand gestures), but the Renault Clio is unfazed, as are the two dozen Vespers that zoom around me as I hold onto my bladder, tiptoeing across the white lines of an apparently meaningless zebra crossing. The French really need to work out what they mean when it comes to green men.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Am I missing something?” I ask my very French friend Juliette. Juliette is a PHD student in Paris. We did our Philosophy MA together in Kent. She’s very French.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Green means that you can go,” she explains, “but the cars coming round the corner can go too.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well that makes perfect sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>* * * </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I quit my job. All the best adventures start this way, as do all the best stories, because if there’s no fear of an end you’ve just got sky and train tickets and with no job, neither of these things run out until you want them to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Back on the coast of Kent I’ve carefully put together a life that’s beginning to resemble the picture I’ve long had in my head- I live on the beach next to an old fashioned ice- cream parlour, I own a bright red kayak that I take out on sunny days and own enough books to fill my whole apartment including the fireplace. I read and write and drink gin and tonics and nobody notices that I don’t go clubbing. Did I get old somewhere along these shores? I’m not sure if I mind too much, but comfort is not always the best thing for artistic integrity, and in the safety of my little life my pen has gone quiet. It’s not that I’m not moved to be creative, rather I just lose the need for it. My pen has saved my life a fair few times, but without a healthy dose of fear or suffering it seems the passion for the pages has become a hobby rather than a necessity. I miss that need. It’s the very foundation of me. It’s time to go.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlep-QydK5zSvl4zw-01v6B9ERJgNLtMc2qE7P9htdwMFa6154TQZSEzIIpLPhYIKQe3YSvJa59MTHownrAvkmxNcPpDxhoChMDoQP-DtvFfeMI4KA68rgZqBMYf7-J7-NlD_wmCQ1Dwo/s1600/1610783_10152291720365969_7624407108762880720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlep-QydK5zSvl4zw-01v6B9ERJgNLtMc2qE7P9htdwMFa6154TQZSEzIIpLPhYIKQe3YSvJa59MTHownrAvkmxNcPpDxhoChMDoQP-DtvFfeMI4KA68rgZqBMYf7-J7-NlD_wmCQ1Dwo/s1600/1610783_10152291720365969_7624407108762880720_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Things I am afraid of: </u></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Trains</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tunnels</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Lifts</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Being on my own in places</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Panic attacks</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Things I am off to do:</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Trains</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tunnels </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Lifts</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Do it on my own</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Have a friggin panic attack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A good a list as any. As I plan these trains and tickets, various people that I like very much want to join in on different sections, so I end up with a balanced portion of being alone, travelling alone and being periodically saved across different borders by friends and family. Now it’s no trek across the Amazon, it’s no 3 month stint across Asia, (in fact it’s pretty much just France and Spain to be honest) but bravery is measured by the fear you feel before you jump on board - and I’m pooping my pants waiting for the Eurostar.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Paris. Mon Paris. How have I not been here before?? It’s quicker to get here than it is to get back to Essex for crying out loud. Big fat tunnel number one is a breeze due to the fact I booked a first class ticket and am drinking unlimited amounts of wine and something posh with salmon in it, and arrive in Paris with an air of confidence that sees me navigate the way to the hotel via <i>bus</i>. My fellow passengers on the number 38 appease my enthusiasm for the sights as they point out the Notre Dame and the hotel d’Ville as we fly past and I can’t stop myself- I’m gasping in delight and looking like a touristic nutter.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaB7dq_nPFcTEmA_z-0EOt8qdvVDd61iY7U99W-CpEygnWLLqKMMVbumL-jxUOL3vPytLg101r7pJLHPQTcrLkL0NdQqrLrcfdDZy4tIyDJKx8XPhpeazMhX_4zBgRWySVY7cKm1UoZB9U/s1600/10659333_10152294156530969_2397992846678163134_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaB7dq_nPFcTEmA_z-0EOt8qdvVDd61iY7U99W-CpEygnWLLqKMMVbumL-jxUOL3vPytLg101r7pJLHPQTcrLkL0NdQqrLrcfdDZy4tIyDJKx8XPhpeazMhX_4zBgRWySVY7cKm1UoZB9U/s1600/10659333_10152294156530969_2397992846678163134_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">That’s the thing about Paris, the architecture is insane. Quite literally every time you turn there’s another ridiculously ornate monster of a building. You don’t feel you’re in the right century- a distinct lack of modernity in the centre leaves you with layers of fabulous finishes, of statues, gold, wealth, beauty, of sheer extravagance. London competes with itself constantly, to be the tallest, the newest, the shiniest, but Paris doesn’t bother, it’s all here in the stone and you feel you’ve been altered just wandering through it all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My very French friend Juliette was the first friend I made at Kent as a post graduate, super clever and super clumsey, wild blonde hair and long limbs that tumble with every story told in her bright French accent. I quiz her about Paris – When was the French revolution? Did the Musee d’Orsay used to be a station? Why are there so many palaces? We talk about the French murdering the monarchy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“All of our palaces are now museums for the people.” She tells me triumphantly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“All of our museums are free.” I retort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We watch the sun go down on the river Seine drinking warm cans of beer, willow trees dipping their leaves into the water as we bitch about how crazy Americans are with their gun laws and drinking laws, not noticing that the people tutting and huffing next to us are in fact U.S citizens. I decide to give myself a French get out of jail free card- namely, the French don’t give a shit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first leg of <i>Le Grande Adventure</i> includes a few girly days with my mother, eating shameless amounts of croissants and scoffing at the price of a cappuccino (5.50 Euros! What’s it made of? Magic beans?) and she helps me find a location that has been on my goal board for a long time.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3p4TerRpJxQC6qLwHHJ1Y-DCoh37XYCo2JMAppkTC1VikB1pOEnscHyWEddOMieRgwt-wT7ztYfBalKe3vXCV_VPs8xRIl9x-bE-mtFfKhktLHsgkFBFMOz7lgMaNfTs-h2vzARklnOm/s1600/10443432_10152294562495969_1164441831577821464_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3p4TerRpJxQC6qLwHHJ1Y-DCoh37XYCo2JMAppkTC1VikB1pOEnscHyWEddOMieRgwt-wT7ztYfBalKe3vXCV_VPs8xRIl9x-bE-mtFfKhktLHsgkFBFMOz7lgMaNfTs-h2vzARklnOm/s1600/10443432_10152294562495969_1164441831577821464_n.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.shakespeareandcompany.com/" target="_blank">Shakespeare and Co</a> is a bookshop opposite the Notre Dame that has been a home and meeting place for writers and artists for decades, giving shelter and a place to stay for those looking for art and inspiration along the river. It was my plan B as a lost graduate:</span><span style="font-size: large;"> “I’ll just run away to Paris” I reasoned. And here I was. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjLas4RMLldUQqy-gfp-A3ndWFG1XR28Bdgm_7qa7GuBfobxboZbeXf7ZAgaAHF_zt4sPKOKCiKf7-ZkWJqHhuImFme9vTvGEzvUStXtynlwyV4JdW6w1SyYoi0pyiOLkHA4IzihNOIRv/s1600/10649691_10152294563215969_1596628676847367984_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjLas4RMLldUQqy-gfp-A3ndWFG1XR28Bdgm_7qa7GuBfobxboZbeXf7ZAgaAHF_zt4sPKOKCiKf7-ZkWJqHhuImFme9vTvGEzvUStXtynlwyV4JdW6w1SyYoi0pyiOLkHA4IzihNOIRv/s1600/10649691_10152294563215969_1596628676847367984_n.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">It’s all very on-trend and popular, with the obligatory Japanese tourists taking pictures out the front, but it’s the bones of the place that capture me. Wooden beans and layers of books, old typewriters and well-worn desks laid out upstairs for anyone to use, and I think of the cut-out picture of this place on my wall at home. Sometimes something you wait for can disappoint you. But sometimes it’s even more magic than you hoped.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I drop Ma Miller off at the Eurostar the next day I turn to enjoy my European freedom. I’m immediately lost. The bus I took doesn’t go back in the same direction and though I know I want to get back to the river this doesn’t quite help- there aren’t exactly signs for ‘The Thames’ in London and funny enough it’s the same here, so as I have nowhere to be and no time to measure I simply wander south, guessing that eventually I’ll hit the water or some impressive building that I recognise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Um, God?” I ask silently as neither of the above occur over the next hour. “Would you mind sending me a sign that this isn’t actually a huge mistake and that I’m going to be ok on my own please?” My current status of ‘lost and alone in Europe’ almost rattles me when a familiar face appears, and I grin widely with the relief of recognition before I actually recognise who is smiling back at me. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoGMoIR_ACratCD7BJkM0LUJfrCmxsjenUr3YKaEzr7M9gADADRraLDYj4KNXTGgbNk3jsK3hnmdooPBVhBTO6IpYPCTrezeMZQg5tJdSWqQ943NnzHG30U6Bz42EKMqkxRX5WTGVA5Zz/s1600/Jason+Segel-Pictures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoGMoIR_ACratCD7BJkM0LUJfrCmxsjenUr3YKaEzr7M9gADADRraLDYj4KNXTGgbNk3jsK3hnmdooPBVhBTO6IpYPCTrezeMZQg5tJdSWqQ943NnzHG30U6Bz42EKMqkxRX5WTGVA5Zz/s1600/Jason+Segel-Pictures.jpg" height="150" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">It’s Jason Segal, off of how I met your mother, Forgetting Sarah Marshall. He grins, I gawp, and we definitely have a moment there on the streets of Paris but I decide not to stop and tell him that he is a sign from God. I walk on by and find my hotel at the end of the street.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So far freedom tastes good, but I take a certain comfort in my geography- I’m not that far from home yet. <i>Yet</i>. A double -decker monster train awaits that will take me to Barcelona at 300km per hour. I am again pooping my pants. What I don’t know yet, is that there is a very handsome stranger coming to sit in the seat next to me…</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> To be continued….<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://twitter.com/melodys_pen" target="_blank">@melodys_pen</a></span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-50473272061235711052014-08-28T06:49:00.001-07:002014-08-28T07:53:16.373-07:00Ode To The Restaurant<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ode To The
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<span style="font-size: large;">A restaurant is a funny thing,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The greatest show, a circus ring<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A mixed up group of hardworking souls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who work crazy hours to fill your bowls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Wyatt and Jones is serious treat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because their staff don’t take defeat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even when bath water finds a way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When windows smash from outside affray<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And scaffolding poles pop in for brunch,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And chef’s young bones take a serious crunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because a restaurant is a funny thing-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Has a love / hate marmite kinda ring<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Where you spend more time here than at home<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And get used to hearing your own bones groan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But you always come back for one more service<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Coz’ without that buzz you just get nervous<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And we all know that that first drink<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tastes better after a 16 hour stint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This building here was my first home<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Thanet Island as it’s known<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A stranded Essex girl indeed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who had no place and was in need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here I found a different madness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And as I leave- a serious sadness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I love these walls, these old church chairs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The office up a millions stairs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The daily puzzle of vegetable crates<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The KP-cutlery grand debate<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And now I know what ‘wizard’ means<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The only thing left is ORDER COFFEE BEANS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">xx<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt11uLtuSvs_stQXnWhK3BzCAoYU29BqKqEh96-ui5AaFqcmWtyOmJCPOoMTKZ3zxWDY1yeFaormOGILGSY9iaoBfoNh839yvE_9bKAvwYEnbZ-Y8tyWt22lZNdQr_mazVM57bzND5hwY5/s1600/photo+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt11uLtuSvs_stQXnWhK3BzCAoYU29BqKqEh96-ui5AaFqcmWtyOmJCPOoMTKZ3zxWDY1yeFaormOGILGSY9iaoBfoNh839yvE_9bKAvwYEnbZ-Y8tyWt22lZNdQr_mazVM57bzND5hwY5/s1600/photo+(6).JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmXhuoJY-VcCq9XeEQlZ5jjBxG14HyXu4Kzb79j-MClCk9vx3ETkt8cOw25qzHgVXCfy9_diTcl-TvJ9RWRYfKVRQabIWxySNDwKa690AJYUTBwu7sq5CwU6hOx3CO-xXnTg8F9uIjcBSi/s1600/photo1+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmXhuoJY-VcCq9XeEQlZ5jjBxG14HyXu4Kzb79j-MClCk9vx3ETkt8cOw25qzHgVXCfy9_diTcl-TvJ9RWRYfKVRQabIWxySNDwKa690AJYUTBwu7sq5CwU6hOx3CO-xXnTg8F9uIjcBSi/s1600/photo1+(1).jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-70162874734781652582014-02-25T03:27:00.000-08:002014-02-25T03:41:09.664-08:00Mental Health and the Young Person's Pressure Cooker.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-11adb7ec-68c4-4ae3-aa51-19e90334b68d" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e_8jxWsxx4kTnmazt9EIo3eoPkvTAoPz_A9hY2ueRbnI6uvWFPnIZseiNUlbqfx_nk0u2plveXP8ApKPC4B8bxjIBWHtnAlRq2Ll6XDWszyHFFr6zMBwvFQb-RVUn-Buji5-WfAmQpPb/s1600/images+(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e_8jxWsxx4kTnmazt9EIo3eoPkvTAoPz_A9hY2ueRbnI6uvWFPnIZseiNUlbqfx_nk0u2plveXP8ApKPC4B8bxjIBWHtnAlRq2Ll6XDWszyHFFr6zMBwvFQb-RVUn-Buji5-WfAmQpPb/s1600/images+(1).jpeg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e_8jxWsxx4kTnmazt9EIo3eoPkvTAoPz_A9hY2ueRbnI6uvWFPnIZseiNUlbqfx_nk0u2plveXP8ApKPC4B8bxjIBWHtnAlRq2Ll6XDWszyHFFr6zMBwvFQb-RVUn-Buji5-WfAmQpPb/s1600/images+(1).jpeg" /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At twenty-five years old, I, like the majority of my peers, find my i-phone to be a natural extension of my limbs. My whole life is channelled through this one portal, my alarm clock, my banking, Facebook and Twitter, my camera and hundreds of pictures, Amazon, my music collection, news source, calorie counter. An identity has been gathered and constructed and I hold it constantly in the palm of my hand to reaffirm the person I am, the cold sweat of dread when the damn thing goes missing a feeling we are all familiar with. The constant noise that we surround ourselves with becomes necessary and normal; I find myself suspicious of people that don't have Facebook (what are they hiding?) and people that don't have i-phones are just plain inconvenient (what do you mean you don't have i message or whatsapp? I have to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">pay</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to text you?)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngminds </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">charity published the findings of their mental health survey recently, with the pressures of our relentless and 'toxic culture' on young people hitting the headlines. Fear of failure, worrying about job prospects and negative self image were some of the many topics confronted in the poll of 2,000 young people between the age of 11-25. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">YoungMinds</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> campaigns director Lucie Russell, said: "Every day we hear about the unprecedented toxic climate children and young people face in a 24/7 online culture where they can never switch off."</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqvLMfc592tJjuVwh90NXir5EMjJesdyrjyeKqvfYkpcsjYaDm20LvEK5nM6SQz1dUnsNkW6QMC79xeYb4ARSBaR8l8fKSYz8G5ixOYfiwYUQpp3ZQM2_GMO54s_99_ptwwf3L6rt4Rff/s1600/addicted-to-facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqvLMfc592tJjuVwh90NXir5EMjJesdyrjyeKqvfYkpcsjYaDm20LvEK5nM6SQz1dUnsNkW6QMC79xeYb4ARSBaR8l8fKSYz8G5ixOYfiwYUQpp3ZQM2_GMO54s_99_ptwwf3L6rt4Rff/s1600/addicted-to-facebook.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Technology and social media is an intrinsic part of our lives, the identity created on these platforms all adding to the addictive pressure cooker that we find ourselves in. What Youngminds is doing in their Youngminds VS campaign is bringing to our attention the critical picture; more and more young people are suffering from anxiety, depression and other issues than ever before, manipulated by media and influenced by culture, so it becomes important to better equip ourselves when it comes to talking about mental health and our lifestyles.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are enormous pressures faced as a young person beginning to gather their lives into their own hands; pressure to succeed, to get good marks, to 'go travelling' (a vague and unspecific destination that everyone seems to have visited.) There is a need to be accepted, be the right shape, to get a good job relating to your good degree, squeeze the value out of your education, save for a house deposit, to be in a relationship. The path is well-tread before us, the message clear; work out who you are, but make sure who you are looks good, earns good, and can get on the property ladder.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is no surprise then that anxiety and depression is rising in this constant and 'toxic' environment. Stress and anxiety has you believing that you are holding the world up and one wrong move will have everything crashing down, depression knocking any light left out of you. Panic attacks and the fear of them can lock you tight in a never ending cycle of obsessive compulsive behaviour that then makes each minute of a normal day like a full-scale battleground. Facebook and Instagram meanwhile, is telling you that everyone else is having a good time, looking good, loving their graduate jobs, travelling to cool and trendy places, often alienating users when it's ethos is to connect people. Social media despite it's constant presence can often hold a lonely and hollow portrait of a person.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdiSzkwvl0CD_CqcDnByLA7KuVjxGLu9sJB3vLQ9R7WIDw7OogguFwrIlYZGQo94kjD5MC1XEW7NKH598KFX_xvwZ8-KLP7cEKUOSCrJgybCL5R631IbRP1D1jBpdtSaIIbOt6ZJtI-Yv/s1600/tumblr_lwwr6nKA9S1qfet8co1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdiSzkwvl0CD_CqcDnByLA7KuVjxGLu9sJB3vLQ9R7WIDw7OogguFwrIlYZGQo94kjD5MC1XEW7NKH598KFX_xvwZ8-KLP7cEKUOSCrJgybCL5R631IbRP1D1jBpdtSaIIbOt6ZJtI-Yv/s1600/tumblr_lwwr6nKA9S1qfet8co1_500.jpg" height="320" width="251" /></span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is education that liberates a young person from the pressure cooker, giving an individual the tools to craft a life and a living from what they love to do, and a good education should inspire someone to do just that. A school should not be an exam factory, but a fertile land where we breed confidence in young minds; confidence to develop individual strengths and value them, measuring success by something other than the wage packet it returns to you. But that is not how the song sings, and an honest look at how we are teaching young people before we send them out into the world would answer a lot of questions when it comes the state of the mental health of 11-25 year olds.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's not failure to suffer in this way- it's inevitable; it's a difficult task, trying to find out who you are and what you want, at the same time as trying to fit in to what the society and your peers and your family expect you to be.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"The deepest problems of modern life flow from the attempt of the individual to maintain the independence and individuality of his existence against the sovereign powers of society, against the weight of the historical heritage and the external culture and technique of life." </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Georg Simmel, The Metropolis and Mental Life (1903)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We enter into a world already created, and in our attempts to try and craft an identity, find ourselves against a backdrop that already exists. The world is already moving when we enter into it, it has rhythm and timings, society has seats ready for you to sit at, and the discomfort felt is this friction; you're trying to be yourself, but need the world and society to tell you who that is.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you were born on to a blank canvas, that's what you would be, a creature with no language, a creature who didn't know whether you liked Chinese takeaway or not, whether 'How I met your Mother' was funny or not. You know what you like and what you dislike because it is pressed against you constantly. Your language, your mannerisms, your tastes and preferences, your ideas about right and wrong, about what you think you want, what you know- all this comes from somewhere external to you.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So if you take away the i-phone, who, actually, are you?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 19px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Follow me on twitter- <a href="https://twitter.com/melodys_pen" target="_blank"> https://twitter.com/melodys_pen</a></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">London Baby</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEits5KycGaAeWNTb13PHl9cBS9kjCampaQyChEoNnVDxzE7JA3bV32h6jHUjRlfz9IgtcGPWAoXPyvMKVYzNbdHJfFT73YAXxkoFYaJW5K657lEprxJrz978rBnaQoB9rAxX0s31DR9Vfgx/s1600/0125_no1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEits5KycGaAeWNTb13PHl9cBS9kjCampaQyChEoNnVDxzE7JA3bV32h6jHUjRlfz9IgtcGPWAoXPyvMKVYzNbdHJfFT73YAXxkoFYaJW5K657lEprxJrz978rBnaQoB9rAxX0s31DR9Vfgx/s1600/0125_no1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">That unease you feel when you’re becoming ‘at one’ with that
gentleman’s armpit on the 8.05 is not in fact a moment of microcosmic clarity where
life, you realise, is pointless- no, that ripple is the recognition that you’re
being pulled in a current that is not necessarily your own and semi-jogging
through Bank it’s no more than a flutter, it’s no more than an itch at King
Cross or a trapped nerve at Clapham junction but it will pervade and get you in
your sleep until you voice it; <i>if I'm not hurrying somewhere too then my god
I must be useless. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShlSoUcQ2Tq69Lz-TtOErCshVkYLTuFwklOAVPtTZO2HYwgTPATB3X63oe6qMU1u2EeUZ2k79VHLyLrdYuuj46JzxrPS4LxQQss-5zHSchXGnxiosYMeMlQDPRZiE8l1xviS1Prix1brQ/s1600/_63413693_63338446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">Run baby run, because if they jostle and jam, you must pant
and puff to fit in with the chorus, for if you voice such blasphemies as “After
you, I’m not in a rush,” then there must be less value in the footsteps you are
pressing into the pavement. All those shiny shoes have no time to slow for on-coming
shoulders, bumping bones and silent sorry’s. Can you imagine how great their purpose
must be that they have no eyes for those begging for a burger at Fenchurch street, no eyes for the light on the river, for the birds that still sing at St
Pauls. They are not alone because they are in a hurry, but you are if you stop.
So run baby run.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>New look New Space.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>http://melodys-pen.tumblr.com/</b></span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-40852820169752322632012-12-20T09:28:00.001-08:002012-12-20T10:04:22.824-08:00None of us Ever Graduates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"None of us ever graduates"</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This, I’ll admit, feels slightly ominous as I make my way
from the train station up to campus, but am un-deterred reasoning that the ‘us’
the graffiti is referring to, is the ‘us’ that was down in this piss-smelling
subway with a spray can rather that studying for that degree, so really, its
not much of a surprise that none of this ‘us’ has ever graduated.</span></div>
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"Id like to thank google, wikipedia and copy and paste"</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This one is sprayed on the opposite wall next to a fake
Banksy of someone juggling bananas but still, I am refusing to judge my place
of post graduate study on the local graffiti. The artists are quite simply,
misinformed; they've obviously never heard of ‘TURNITIN’- the computer
program the large majority of universities now use as part of their essay
submission process that goes through your essay with a fine electronic tooth-comb highlighting your percentage of possible plagiarism. I would have
thought generally, professors and teachers would be up for this sort of thing,
but one evening later that week down the pub with staff and Phd students from
my department, I discover that perhaps this is not the case.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t mind if my students plagerise.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You don’t?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “No, if they get that piece of paper saying they’ve got a
degree, how much does it matter <i>how</i>
they got it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Err, ALOT, I want to answer categorically, but
interestingly it was a professor I was having this exchange with, and since
everyone was drinking ale in large quantities I paused momentarily, wondering
if it was a trick question. I like this professor, in fact it just so happens
that this is the exact same fellow who pronounced at the beginning of class
that day;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Due
to circumstances that are utterly out of my control, last night I had to get
completely, resolutely and decisively drunk. So, if I get a little shaky,
sweating, or even pass out- don’t worry.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I
did worry. Specifically since I had made the error of sitting in the front row
of the lecture theater if such an instance of shaking or passing out occurred,
it was going to be down to <i>me</i> to do
something about it, and though there is a card in my purse saying I am a
qualified first aider, I’m not all that confident when it comes to hungover
philosophy professors. Also, it’s worth
noting that this particular lecture was an undergraduate module I was sitting
in on, therefore I was the oldest in the room (apart from the hungover
professor), a fact I imagined would count for something in an emergency
situation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully it <i>was</i>
an ironic comment that evening in the pub so I did well to pause, but it led to
the question of how you <i>do</i> interpret
a piece of paper that says you have a degree? In an economically driven culture, where things are measured in terms of
the monetary gain you can squeeze out of things, education, at whatever level, is
consequently measured by the pay check you earn post-school/college/university.
The lower the paycheck and the bigger the debt, the less value that education
had for you. And this is a prevailing path of questioning as university fees
rise; What is that degree <i>worth</i>- we
ask with our calculators in our hands. What desk does a liberal arts degree
belong at? Does a law degree have any value if you don’t actually become a
lawyer?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qYAUIIASd3Bu_EFbWvPOeN9bt7s3Iq_mlqtlD-oUceiwIrZmIJvVySW2X2sAO6OyX9NQPhlAiZUaq6bZRSAVTjY_7hXfcML4o31tfWuaZRImWZFY6KCcKThS5K2rO5lojI1zVhbJ760R/s1600/225391156321913161_6uJBImvo_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qYAUIIASd3Bu_EFbWvPOeN9bt7s3Iq_mlqtlD-oUceiwIrZmIJvVySW2X2sAO6OyX9NQPhlAiZUaq6bZRSAVTjY_7hXfcML4o31tfWuaZRImWZFY6KCcKThS5K2rO5lojI1zVhbJ760R/s320/225391156321913161_6uJBImvo_c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If we are teaching each generation that passes through
our current schooling system that learning is only as useful as the wage you
earn out of it, it paints a pretty grim picture of the culture being shaped
with each passing year group. Is this the aim- young minds trained to pass exam
papers, to only be good at things that can pay their monthly gym membership, car
finance and the mother of all achievements; a house deposit? </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">Is it conceivable that it’s the term ‘education’ that is
being misunderstood? Education I want to argue, is <i>not</i> a piece of paper with numbers and letters on, government
monitored, job center approved- because no one can monitor your <i>true</i> education; the act of opening your
mind past what’s going on in front of your nose and letting other substances in.
Learning should have no agenda<i>,</i> no
feeling of being owed something back for the time spent with a book or an
interesting documentary, a trip to an amazing new place. Education is waking yourself
up for no other reason but that you <i>want
to be awake. </i>Why would you <i>not</i>
want to fulfill your capacity? Your capacity to be a well rounded and fulfilled
individual, a compassionate person capable of understanding the world from more
than just one solitary point of view? But with the tools our culture gives us
to measure success and happiness, we often have no idea how to take on such a
task.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">Is it not odd to ask a 15 year old choosing GCSEs “What
do you want to <i>be</i>?” Most adults have no answer to such a question,
in fact I would go as far as to argue it’s the dumbest question you can ever
ask a person. Don’t we mind that we are teaching young people that they are
only as worthy as the credit rating they have- that Experian are the ones that
can tell you how well your doing in life? In trying to think back to GCSE’s, A
levels or even university applications, is the standard line of questioning
“What do you love doing? What would you love to do more of?” Or is it “what job
will this help you get?” “What job do you want to do?” Since the latter is a
question that the majority of us struggle to have a clear cut, box-fit answer
to, we set ourselves up for anxiety in 6<sup>th</sup> form classrooms, in
university lecture theaters at the desks of that first job we’ve taken ‘while we
work out what we <i>really</i> want to do.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was a girl at my secondary school- fantastic at
sports and simply astounding when it came to drama and acting. Everybody knew,
teachers and pupils alike that this kid was something special but she felt that
as her talents were not counted as traditionally academic, they were not as
valuable because everybody knows that few actually <i>‘make it’</i> as an actor/ sportsman, it’s not an acceptable answer
when the careers officer comes round the classroom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Because this girl was dedicated
and hardworking by nature, she pushed herself very hard and achieved fantastic
grades in other subjects, went on to do an incredibly academic subject at
university, is a very successful individual and as far as I know, perfectly
happy. But it wasn’t without sacrifice, and I have never forgotten that girl
from those school days because I always felt that somewhere along the way, our
culture’s way of measuring achievement, talents and happiness robbed her of
something, told her that what she loved doing was not good enough to go out
into the world with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Connor, my house mate, is interesting example of our
flawed education system. He is young and very bright, but didn't fit into
suitable government targets or desks for long hours as many young boys don’t.
With a system that doesn't cater for learning unless it can be regurgitated in
an exam paper, he very easily slipped through the net at school and now works
at a local supermarket in between having philosophical debates with me and
smoking weed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “If
you could do anything,” I ask him, “<i>anything</i>,
what would you do?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Have
sex.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Right,
well I’m not sure that’s an option here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well
you didn’t specify. That’s a dumb question because obviously if I could do <i>anything</i> I’d have sex and eat food.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I
try a different angle. “What did you like back at school?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Maths,
I was good at maths- was a bit of an accident though.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “You
were accidentally good at maths?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yeah.
I heard there was free food at the maths revision classes on Saturday, three
hours long they were those sessions, but all the chicken wings you could eat. Never
turn down free food.” He says to me seriously before turning back to the play
station. “Got an A for maths I did. Liked DT too; once I tried to pierce my
mate Warren’s ear with a nail we were supposed to be using to build bird boxes.
Wouldn’t go through, got a well thick ear Warren has, had to jam it til it went
POP.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I
picture the school workshop splattered with blood and a student with a large
hole in his ear lobe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why
didn’t he get it done properly in a shop??”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Because
Warren’s a tramp and eight pounds was a lot of money back then.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “What
about English?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Well
Shakespeare is shit, obviously.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I
say nothing, remembering my friend’s interesting take on why he liked the
English language the week before-</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I
like saying the word country.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Any
particular reason, or you just feeling patriotic today?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No,
it’s because you can say the word CUNT really loudly and then add the word tree
on the end and you won’t get into trouble. CUNT-tree. Country. See?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ironically he and his buddy Shakespeare have more in
common that he thinks when it comes to puns, but I don’t push my luck pointing
it out;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Hamlet:
Lady, shall I lye in your lap?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Ophelia:
No my Lord.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Hamlet:
I meane my head upon your lap?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Ophelia:
Ay, my lord.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Hamlet:
Do you thinke I meant country matters?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Ophelia:
I think nothing my Lord.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Hamlet:
That’s a faire thought to lie between maid’s legs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">These examples aren’t to suggest that all our current
schooling system is lacking is copious amounts of free fried food and dirty
word puns, but if education, fails to inspire, chokes individuality and
growth- is more red tape what such a system needs? Does learning have to be
linear? Who said it even has to take place in a classroom??</span></div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-39024412691336384452012-12-03T15:10:00.000-08:002012-12-04T13:38:56.767-08:00A Day in the Life of a Philosopher<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A Day in the Life of a Philosopher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Sorry
I’m late!” I drop my bag and bum into a seat, my cup of tea sploshing
everywhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Uh,
you’re not late Melody.” the lecturer says helpfully.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Oh,
I’m not?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “No.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Did we start early?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “No.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> There
is a pause. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Melody,
look around.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I do
look around, and see, quite suddenly, I don’t recognise any of the faces
staring back at me. I’m in the wrong class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here I am, philosophy MA student- <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4461906278921037877" name="_GoBack"></a>where
I am required to read a lot, have a lot of interesting conversations with some
of the most interesting people I’ve ever had the good fortune to come across,
whilst living in a house 40 seconds from the beach with very interesting
housemates (Interesting in a <i>different</i>
way…) I am a very happy philosopher and writer indeed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I arrived in this new town the way I seemed to arrive in
most places- haphazardly. Not a lot of dollar or organisation or any official
pieces of paper, but a lot of optimism to make up for it. I had one email from
a professor admitting me onto the course and telling me sort out everything
when I got here. “Just ask Jaqui” his email had signed off with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The
night before I am due to leave the vajazzled land of Essex, sleeping next to
two suitcases with all my worldly possessions, a thought crosses my mind. <i>Who the fuck is Jaqui?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the picture that my friend Sophia and I stared
one evening in a Pizza Express of off Regent Street, drinking Pinot Grigio and
swapping war stories. Something about this poster did it. This is the picture that gave us our first real-life,
smack-you-in-the-face, kick-you-up-the-backside, full blown <i>ephiphany </i>and no, I don’t mean three
wise men showed up. I mean we had to quit our city jobs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We both had good jobs. Job that paid good, looked good on
our C.V, jobs that made our Alumni year figures look good, with good tax-paying
people in very good London post codes. But in that epiphany, staring at that
piece of card on a rainy cold Thursday night, staring at that card in a room
full of other harassed-looking people laughing too loud and drinking wine too
fast, we learnt something very important. That your life belongs to no one but <i>you</i>. You don’t owe your CV, or your
parents, or your boss- you owe <i>yourself</i>.
You owe yourself to try and find out what it is that truly makes you tick, what
you’re passionate about, what makes your life worth getting up for, what your
talents and interests are and then <i>to
exercise them</i>, to stretch them out like a rubber band and realise the
potential you are more than capable of fulfilling. Nobody else can do this for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It
is not selfish to be happy, it is your <i>right</i>.
I don’t mean happy as in buy a load of chocolate, gorge on shoes, credit cards or
a trip to Vegas to see a scantily clad lady called Candy- that is a brand of
happiness that will never quench your thirst. I mean <i>happy</i>, being completely true, where there is no room for pretending
or moaning in any aspect of your day. Such a life exists and I refute all those
who try to convince me otherwise. If you are not happy, it is no one’s fault,
but it is <i>your </i>responsibility to do
something about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Do the unthinkable; if you skip down a nettled-infested forest
path rather than that smooth pavement ready-laid and waiting for you, a few
cuts and bruises won’t hurt. In fact, the forest of the unknown is much more
fun….</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This, as you can imagine, is a short version of the
decisions that led my friend Sophia to trek around South-east Asia and me to a philosophy
department in Kent, (mine also involved a monk in orange robes in Oxford circus
if you would believe it,) but I was tired of being well-acquainted with other
people’s arm pitts on the central line, I was uninspired by a city that seem to
regurgitate me rather than let me in. Who says you have to live your life in a
straight line anyway?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So in looking for happiness (and for Jaqui) and in living
the philosophy of doing things that make you happy, this particular forest path
has currently led me to a town where Charles Dickens once lived, a place crawling with famous
writers (which bodes well methinks) has ice cream parlours that don’t bat an
eyelid if you want to eat banana splits everyday of the godamn week, and <u>new housemates</u> in Victorian seaside houses that keep me entertained and kept my pen <i>very</i> busy...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Connor is full of what could
be called straight-up accidental wisdom. Everything is said in a deadpan voice
accompanied by a shrug, and his face is so poker straight it’s extremely
difficult to read whether or not he’s actually joking when he says things like-</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If I had 24 hours left to live I’d just kill everybody that annoyed me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He
tells me that I annoy him, frequently, (something about me talking too much) so I guess I should be grateful that so far, he's free of incurable deadly viruses.
It’s thanks to Connor I must mention, that our house is kept running on a
constant supply of tea bags and sausage rolls, courtesy of the supermarket
giant he work for. All I need to do is lend him my flask he tells me, and milk
will be forever free-flowing too. (“It’s not stealing, it’s all from the staff
room. I’m staff, ergo- not stealing.”)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Things Connor likes; Call of Duty, Malibu(??!) and spaghetti
meatballs. Things Connor doesn’t like; the seaside, crap TV, (“I’m a Celeb is a
pile of wank; they barely get out of anywhere. It’s just a shit two week
holiday.”) and Simba the elderly albino cat which came with the house and the
furniture and is about as old as the house and the furniture. Simba molts white fur, is completely deaf and dribbles; a combination which makes this
particular cat Connor’s least favourite bedroom companion, a fact Simba ignores
every single night when he sleeps on Connors chest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The other residents Connor can’t seem to shift from his
room are myself and Antony. Anthony lives in a room with a double bed he shares
with pizza boxes and cans of ‘Monster’; a more repugnant version of Rebull. A
creative music student at university he tells me, though I have to say, I’m not
sure I’m convinced considering I haven’t seen him leave the house apart from to
go to the conveniently situated off-licence at the top of our road. Since
Connor’s room has a sofa and flat screen T.V this is where we are to be found,
regardless of whether Connor is actually even in the house. I think Connor
likes us warming up his sofa- myself, Simba and Anthony, and I reckon really,
Connor <i>enjoys</i> being the host of such
gatherings, though he pretends to be annoyed that we’re always in his room, the
way he pretended to be annoyed the day I automatically wandered into his room
to watch ‘The Big Bang Theory’ and didn’t notice immediately that the poor boy
was in his boxers trying to get changed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Things Ant likes; take away food, lie-ins, making weird music
on his Mac. The take away food thing is very handy when looking to save money
on your weekly food shop. Ant orders in pizza roughly on average about once a
day, but never finishes a whole one, so between Connor and myself, we have fed
ourselves on second-hand pepperoni pizza for about two weeks. I like cold
pizza, a lot. Therefore I like this unspoken arrangement. There was of course
the incident where I came home and automatically ate the remaining two slices
of pizza only to discover two new facts; 1. The pizza wasn’t Ants; it was Connor’s.
2. Connor doesn’t share food. But you’ll be pleased to hear I have since learnt
from this error of etiquette and am slightly more carefully when it comes to un
identified food.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Things Ant doesn’t like: Getting up early, getting up at
all, getting out of bed. I, on the other hand don’t mind an early start, and
enjoy the odd breakfast on the beach in the old hotel staring at the sea and
the curved bay holding little fishing boats. It never get old; no matter how
many times I look at it, I’ll never get enough of the ocean. Connor however, is
inclined to disagree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m
sick of the sea to be honest,” he tells me. “Everyone’s always like ‘aahh the
sea, the sea is so great.’ The sea is shit mate.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> This
is declared whilst sprawled across my freshly made bed. I had just moved into
the best bedroom of the house, my new room having a four poster double bed and
an en-suite bathroom that the boys had come to check out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Shotgun
having a bath.” Ant says eyeing up my Jacuzzi-shaped tub.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You
can’t shotgun a bath.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes
you can.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Ok,
let me re-phrase, you can’t shotgun <i>my</i>
bath. It’s an en-suite bathroom attached to <i>my</i>
bedroom.” I give them my best serious face. “There are going to be no smelly
boys in my bedroom.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In all fairness, they don’t smell. Well, apart from the
smell of marijuana that seems to emanate from one of the kitchen cupboards
though which cupboard exactly I’m not quite sure. First I thought it was the
dishwasher, but having stuck my head in it as well as the surrounding draws, I've concluded it’s definitely the cupboard with all the drinking glasses, and
though no source is to be found, I've given the whole thing a scrub with bleach
in case the land-lady visits and mistakes me for a pot head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The other interesting fact about this house is the
mystery housemate. Every shared residence always has a mystery housemate; back
in halls as an undergraduate it was a bloke called ‘Dave’ who lived in the bedroom
nearest the kitchen, and though I often saw the door swing open and shut, I
never quite caught a glimpse of this so called ‘Dave’ character. Rumour had it
he was a photographer, a <i>good</i>-<i>looking</i> photographer, but no one was
ever able to confirm such hearsay. In this house, my invisible housemate is
called Oaty. It might be O. T actually, possibly Ottie- but I had been living
here a good few weeks with no sign of the man apparently living in our basement
and was starting to think that the boys had made him up, an enigma on their
Fifa Score board, but low and behold last Friday I heard someone scuttling
about looking for the reset button on the wireless router (it crashes about 35
times a day) and so I jumped at the chance to introduce myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Hi!
Are you O.T (Oatie??) I’m Melody, I haven’t met you yet.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He
shakes my hand whilst at the same time backing away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “So,
what do you do?” I ask him undeterred by his body language.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Business
management.” (He speaks!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Great,
so how long have you lived here?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Uh,
a couple of months.” He’s still backing away despite the fact I haven’t let go
of his hand. I have a firm and convincing handshake. <i>(You will be friends with me godamnit…)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Cool. I've heard you’re a bit of a night owl, that’s probably why I haven’t seen you
or bumped into you, that’s funny isn’t it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Oatie
it seems, does not think this is funny. There is a pause which I decide is not
at all awkward before he adds in a slightly strained tone; “So, do you come
round here often?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I
presume this isn’t a pick up line considering the guy looks pretty desperate to
get back to his basement dwelling but all the same, I feel the need to correct
him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “What?
no, I <i>live</i> here. I’m you’re new
housemate!” I beam, letting go of his hand, which signals his opportunity to escape
and he scuttles back down the stairs into the darkness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m definitely adding him to the list of my new friends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Having settled in to my home as well as my classes I call
my old buddy; the infamous Bulgarian Luka Boy to update him on my new status as
an official big thinker and day dreamer. Luka has a CV even more colourful than
mine aswell as a background that’s far more lucrative so I’m not immediately
alarmed when he calls me back twenty seconds later in whispered and hushed
tones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Why
are you whispering?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m
in the toilet.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Ok.”
I ask the inevitable. “Why are you calling me from a toilet?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I’m
on an internship for a management consultancy firm in London, if I get the job
I’ll be on big bucks yah!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Luka,
it has to be said, seems to always be on an internship. He turns thirty this
month.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “What
do you know about management consultancy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Nothing.
Listen, when are you coming to London?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I
don’t know yet, where are you living?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “In
the Bulgarian Embassy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “What
do you mean?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “I
mean I am living in the Bulgarian Embassy Mel.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “You’re
living <i>in</i> it?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yah!
Listen, I have to go, I been in this toilet cubicle too long but Mel-“</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes
Luka?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Please
send my regards to your Mother.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I never quite know what to say when he says that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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Perhaps THIS is what we should be teaching the youth...</div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-91645281103344881322012-08-28T15:33:00.001-07:002012-09-29T12:24:48.956-07:00New YouTube Channel- Good Sized Good News...<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The News- whether you get yours from The Sun, the Mail Online,
The Telegraph or O.K magazine, everybody’s getting some- but what <i>is</i> it exactly that you’re getting?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We’re good at questioning where our food comes from; is it
organically farmed? Were people nice to the pigs in my hamburger, did my
tomatoes have a happy life? Should the same line of questioning be applied to
your daily news source?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">‘Truth’ is a flexible concept in the hands of those with a
motive and a profit margin, so learning to challenge what you read rather than
take it in 20p portions is a skill worthy of learning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Ask questions every day. Then ask some more</u>.</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lastest 'Newsbites'</span></div>
<br />
'God Bless America' 12/09/12<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlZpWdylRv0&feature=g-upl">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlZpWdylRv0&feature=g-upl</a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Cheryl Cole and the Paralympics" 31/08/12</div>
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Prince Harry and Vegas 28/09/12</div>
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-13739606687206795382012-08-24T11:10:00.000-07:002012-08-24T12:17:37.499-07:00Stick It Where The Sun Don't Shine..<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bitesize Philosophy Lesson Five:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Everybody has a motive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stick it where <i><b>The Sun</b></i> don’t shine…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So today’s ever-insightful edition of <i><b>The Sun </b></i>has the
nation’s favourite bad-boy prince butt-naked, clutching his bollocks under the
enticing caption of <u>‘Pics of naked Harry you’ve already seen on the internet.’ </u><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Uh, great exclusive there then guys, plus the story is a few
days old. So what <i>is </i>the deal with print VS the internet? And why is everyone
getting their knickers in a twist? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG905dhO9LDu540FUbxYzPWPlVIRNjluXRgn3KX0efrYGSCNwk9seH3FqgXjSfBoaDT-impvjeDeZu0CjpDqL8tAfS251u5iIElY88FVyfrvtdfpDKf08x4-yGiIqwas4obr6et0bLJgsQ/s1600/Prince-Harry-008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG905dhO9LDu540FUbxYzPWPlVIRNjluXRgn3KX0efrYGSCNwk9seH3FqgXjSfBoaDT-impvjeDeZu0CjpDqL8tAfS251u5iIElY88FVyfrvtdfpDKf08x4-yGiIqwas4obr6et0bLJgsQ/s400/Prince-Harry-008.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>The Sun</i> </b>say it’s a matter of public interest to have those
images printed, because it highlights issues to do with Harry's security and his
royal and military image. That, and of course the bigger debate of<i> freedom of press</i>,
a term that’s getting thrown around a lot with the Leveson enquiry, which is
looking into media ethics. (Or rather whether anybody has any.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="font-style: italic;">The Sun</b>’s argument is that though a picture can be freely floating
around the internet quite happily, regulations and laws means the same
image can’t be printed and this, as they put it, is “ludicrous.” (Big word,
well done.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That to me sounds like our Harry is a bit of a scapegoat
here, not the type of goat anyone wants to be especially when you’ve got no
clothes on in a Las Vegas hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On <i><b>The Sun’s</b></i> website there a nice little video speech where
the managing editor opens by stating “<i><b>The Sun</b></i> is a responsible paper.” An interesting
choice of words for a tabloid whose primary concerns are generally whose on
page three, and which footballer’s had a piece of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“We’re not against him letting his hair down once in a
while.” He says of Harry. Wow, that’s kind of you Mr managing editor, and good to know, because
I’m sure Harry would think twice about a vacation if <b><i>The Sun</i></b> in its wealth and
wisdom were unhappy about him getting a tan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“This is about our readers getting involved in the
discussion about the man who is third in line to throne.” Is it? Is it really?
I think there’s alot of things wrong about that sentence, but it does pose the
interesting line of discussion about <u>what is public interest</u>. Yes he’s a member
of the royal family, but does knowing or not knowing what he did this summer
<i>really </i>affect my life as a member of the public? Did we not know he had butt
cheeks or something? What is public interest and what is the public enjoying
gossip and scandal has become a rather blurry line in this celebrity-obsessed culture, and it’s probably a good idea
to remember that this is a boy whose mother <i>died </i>while being chased by a hungry
herd of paparazzi looking for their next juicy story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>The Huffington Post</b></i> reported how “UK readers were treated to
the odd sight of Sun employees posing naked on the front page in place of the
real pictures on Thursday. (Editors were criticized for using a 21-year-old
female intern in the picture.)”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bloody hell, and this bald-headed editor is trying
to convince us that this <i>responsible </i>paper is fighting a battle that’s to do
with press integrity and matters of public interest?? (It also made me realise
that actually, maybe I had it easy in my time as a newspaper intern, my clothes as a rule, stayed on...)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Newspapers love throwing around the term ‘<i>it’s in the
public interest</i>’ -a loose and lucrative expression that acts as a ‘get out of
jail free’ card, or Charlie Sheens ninth life. Wake up- it’s not about <i>your
</i>interest, or what best for <i>you</i>, a good and upstanding member of the public. It’s
not in the public’s interest- it’s in <i>their </i>interest. They’re a <i>business </i>and
they’re in the industry of selling newspapers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe that’s the difference between print and internet; I
can look at Harry’s lovely buttocks for free online, but I’d have to pay 20p
to take them home with me from the newsagents. A nice bit of controversy means
The Sun gets #hashtagged a few more times, blogs are written, comments are
made, hell, here I am talking about the company right now; so the country becomes a
walking talking advert for the nations shoddiest tabloid. (A part of, lets not forget, the disgraced Murdoch media empire.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Always, always be
aware of motive, because in business, everybody has one, and in journalism
there’s a fine line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The internet has changed the world of newspapers and
journalism not only because of its immediacy but because of its lack of
editing. (And I’m not just talking about the Daily Mail Online’s atrocious
typing errors.) Twitter is an un-edited mouthpiece for politicians, celebrities
and world leaders, (even Ghandi’s got a twitter account.) There are millions of
blogs, social networking sites and online news sites; the internet just doesn’t
have a filter in the way a printing office does. The more interesting question
to ask is does this make it <i>more </i>or <i>less</i> valuable as a medium for news and
truth? Uncensored, un-edited, a wealth of opinions and angles, maybe there’s
more opportunity to form your own opinion here rather than in a newspaper; reading a story worded for
a certain market. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are different stigmas and stereotypes attached to
different newspapers- a tabloid reader compared to a reader of The Guardian for
example, but the notable argument is not who but <i>why</i>: because it’s a market.
It’s an industry making money, so different papers are produced in different
styles; certain stories are highlighted compared to others, different political
angles taken, all to reach these different demographics and produce a profit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijd2OK00jZrx73ZMM8dx1elK79a0k6Shj_q0Fhj67Ubj4pyVA3gQUjI2yunpISv3Uf_OBfFKd2RWjMJtcGIdOJfHzp42fC3fY1Xa1GjghQ89Gr_EBn7dS1KzRf7XmYit78jNHcY48sHG4b/s1600/The-Suns-headquarters-in--008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijd2OK00jZrx73ZMM8dx1elK79a0k6Shj_q0Fhj67Ubj4pyVA3gQUjI2yunpISv3Uf_OBfFKd2RWjMJtcGIdOJfHzp42fC3fY1Xa1GjghQ89Gr_EBn7dS1KzRf7XmYit78jNHcY48sHG4b/s320/The-Suns-headquarters-in--008.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not quite sure what it says about us as a nation if <b><i>The
Sun</i></b> really is, as they claim, ‘the nation’s favourite newspaper. Yes its easy
to read, lots of pictures, not too many words, it’s cheap and has the valuable
opinions of topless young ladies in there, but why do we <i>need </i>news to be dumbed down
for us? Put it this way, if someone labelled me as a Sun reader, I’d be
offended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> With the internet,
more and more people can have it straight from the horse’s mouth, not a day
later with a cheesy headline in a bold font. So are we going to grow out of <i><b>The
Sun</b></i>? Maybe they’re just grasping at straws printing Royal rear-ends?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course the best line on the subject came from Good old Boris, who
never fails to deliver:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The real scandal would be if you went all the way to
Las Vegas and you didn't misbehave in some trivial way," he told the BBC.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes Boris. Yes indeed.</span><br />
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-57777734683001594912012-08-20T08:21:00.000-07:002012-08-20T08:21:00.751-07:00Recess- France: Nurses, Nights and Nibbles intermittent<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Recess-</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">France: Nurses, Nights and Nibbles intermittent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I was in rural France, a land large and green where people still take wicker baskets to market and you get your eggs from chickens in the garden not from a shelf in Tesco. Where my family have created a small corner of happiness in a beautiful French farm house with sheep and chickens and the odd cat (although Keith the donkey has sadly moved on.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I quickly decide this suits me well, where the most pressing concern is what book to read next and where no one has heard of graduate options or an overdraft. Such foreign concepts are substituted with good food, conversation and a hammock under the pear trees that I intent to retire to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I do however, manage to sustain an injury which leads to two interesting discoveries; firstly, French health care makes the NHS look like a half-arsed attempt at first aid, and secondly, iodine bloody hurts when poured into an open wound.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The second of these discoveries is played out suspiciously like that scene from ‘Fight Club’ where Brad Pitt pours some corrosive ingredient onto Edward Norton’s arm, teaching him some valuable lesson about the nature of his true self as he writhes about in agony. I have no such epiphany, or Brad Pitt. Instead I have the notorious Nurse Rachett, a burly and solid-looking French women with a large mole on her face, who doesn’t so much as flinch as my whole body trembles as iodine is poured into the hole in my side and I nearly bite my tongue off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now the NHS aren’t exactly famous for being forthcoming with their medical care, but the word I would perhaps use for the French system would be overzealous. They’re at me with a scalpel and local anaesthetic before I can say petit poi, performing a minor surgery in the middle of the doctor’s office; I’m used to my GP using his computer to treat me rather than any of the tools in his office. So I don’t quite have time to decide whether I’m impressed or alarmed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nurse Rachett is then sent forth, trotting on down to the farm house armed with bandages and disinfectant happily holding me me down muttering at me in French.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Every day? You have to change the dressing every day??” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dressing as a verb implies material on top of the skin, layered careful for an aesthetic finish. No such luck. I experience the ‘packing of a wound’ which involves ‘mesh’ being stuffed into the whole in my side soaked in iodine, after it has been irrigated with the stuff (not the word you want to hear considering iodine feels like vinegar on open flesh.) I fob her off a bit and manage to get her to come every other day, which she thinks is quite amusing, but I don’t know how to say ‘don’t laugh at me’ in French, so I then convince my aunt to take over packing duties, ushering the she-devil back down the lane into her Renault Clio.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> *** </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The thing about the noise here is that there is none. I step out in to my Grandma’s garden that first afternoon looking down at her mini sheep grazing in the grass at the bottom and there is this odd moment when I think I might have gone deaf. I can’t hear anything. Nothing. There’s no soft roar of cars on tarmac somewhere, the familiar constant hum of an aeroplane above, sirens screeching or neighbours yakking. The silence is so absolute it’s as if the mute button has been hit and its almost unsettling until the wind glides through the trees and the sheep spot me and ‘baah’ indignantly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If its noise you need then a little car trip in order. In the gorgeous French port of La Rochelle we rent bikes and beach walk about, stopping intermittently for coffee and croissants, discovering that Fort Boyard (who doesn’t remember Melinda Messenger on that British Sunday TV pastime) is just off the coast here. The other thing I learn is that the French eat all the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “I just want a sandwich,” I sigh exasperatedly, and the woman in the restaurant looks at me with an equal sigh, asking why can’t we just have a full three-course meal like everybody else in the city.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> You could always opt for ice-cream, which is a meal in itself around here; insane portions of brightly coloured and vividly rich flavours, none of this one-scoop nonsense, but layer upon layer of creamy icecream that melts as soon as the cone is in your hand, so the whole experience is a kind of insane desperate happiness where you don’t even care anymore that you have dessert all around your face, slowly dripping from your hands up to almost your elbows.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">One scoop would be enough for even the most optimistic child but my grandmother has a secret talent whereby despite her tiny frame, there is no amount of ice-cream in the world that can leave her full.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCcPt6mg64eJZmQWPgl3JTvdJawCDx-IbYzEpBUnDSHqvbgfvZO1m2MEBfyo8nw-siXcjUJwsZYpkzxbABhGMgORB99159N84gm3wyniOMaenIIkUwcIQdaiPq5bJUA7nH18XLKDGMwKc/s1600/DSCF1240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCcPt6mg64eJZmQWPgl3JTvdJawCDx-IbYzEpBUnDSHqvbgfvZO1m2MEBfyo8nw-siXcjUJwsZYpkzxbABhGMgORB99159N84gm3wyniOMaenIIkUwcIQdaiPq5bJUA7nH18XLKDGMwKc/s320/DSCF1240.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">She has rather a sweet tooth, in the supermarket a few days previously I saw her with her hands full coming out of the cake isle and I mistakenly said “Well let’s not go mad shall we?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> “No lets do go mad, because these are important.” she corrects me, putting five packets of biscuits into the trolly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The other thing my grandmother believes in passionately is the piano. Back at her house we play for a solid afternoon together, her ever patient mind excusing my inability to read music (despite all the lessons she paid for me) and it seems so funny to me that this extraordinary women who will swear blind she is useless at everyday tasks, can sit at the piano and play Chopin, Bach and Mozart with the ease and grace of the men themselves.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg26QkNnxBwbVLX4QCiuoU3mHHPSkgT-kMz_QZgk45aVrOT2PYZnr-HcMW1X-MPrWelPvl1ptl-DbJglKRXHW5zbq9_s2yGBJpprvA0iqs40O1gB40ojzxnbCOarnDMDoXaIOy7NUABFe/s1600/DSCF1219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg26QkNnxBwbVLX4QCiuoU3mHHPSkgT-kMz_QZgk45aVrOT2PYZnr-HcMW1X-MPrWelPvl1ptl-DbJglKRXHW5zbq9_s2yGBJpprvA0iqs40O1gB40ojzxnbCOarnDMDoXaIOy7NUABFe/s320/DSCF1219.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">It’s not always merely modestly that blinds us to our own greatness, maybe it’s the human condition that sees us naturally focus on the things we can’t do, the things we don’t have. Either way it never fails to amazes me how she’s almost surprised to remember she speaks French, plays piano, got herself through medical school, loved, lost and travelled round India at the age of sixty-five. Perhaps that’s what grandchildren are for. I am in awe of her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The neighbours, although not on par with my grandmother, are definitely also an interesting bunch. There’s the abandoned ranch next door where you can learn to ride like a cowboy whatever that means, and stories of Jon Jon and the local woman that everyone seems to happily share. (I still haven’t quite worked out whos wife she is.) Some of these people have never left the French borders, and when I come across Jon Batiste’s fishing lake with one solitary mouldy chair on the end of a jetty, I just wander on through, forgetting the French attitude to trespassing. I wonder if I will be shot, but return the next day to see a large chain obstructing the gate instead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s not until you leave the clutches of the city that you can look up and see lights of a different kind; the stars. My god the stars. There aren’t even street lights here so when the night takes hold the sky is impossibly full of streams of lights, the mist of the milky way as clear as if you painted it on yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Watching the end of something never looks quite as beautiful as when you’re looking at a shooting star. I don’t think in my whole life I’ve ever stood still enough to see one, and out on the terrace sitting in a flimsy plastic chair I see my first one, and marvel at something so beautiful and so dead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stars tend to have one of two effects.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Either its along the lines of “Dude they’re so beautiful, anything is possible because the universe is infinite man.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or, </span><span style="font-size: large;">“Bloody hell, im rather insignificant.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">You can either feel very big, or very small staring up in the dark and as I tilt my head back I remember a quote:</span><br />
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Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-40160883151450092982012-07-30T04:37:00.001-07:002012-07-30T05:38:39.051-07:00Everything you really need to know, you learnt when you were four.<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b>Bite-size Philosophy Lesson four:</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b>Everything you really
need to know, you learnt when you were four.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Though children are seldom fair, they have a passion for fairness. In their need of certainty in an uncertain world, they demand all promises be kept.</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> John Mcgahern.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">All you
really need to know about life, the good the bad and ugly, you learnt aged
four: Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Put things back where you
found them. Say sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush. Milk and biscuits are good for you. Take naps. The Ugly duckling grows
into a beautiful swan. Glitter doesn’t taste as good as it looks. Goldfish and
hamsters and the little seeds we grow in the plastic cups- they all die. And so
do we. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As life
bundles you along to more important levels of learning and earning, sometimes you
forget. So lucky me to have the opportunity to be re-learning the things I
actually need to know to get me by, in between being covered in paint and glue
and flour, and quite a lot of small children, (who cover you with not only the
above, but with hugs and kisses. And snot.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Time is not
measured by a clock.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">One of the big questions in life when
you are four years old and in your first year of school is <b><i>‘When is home-time?</i></b>’ When
you’re two foot tall and can’t read a clock, home-time is a point of the day
that isn’t necessarily fixed. Some days home-time arrives earlier than others; this
depending on whether you’re having fun, if you’ve been told off, or if you just
can’t write that damn number five and have decided to eat the pencil instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It takes a lot of reassuring this gang
that no matter what, we always go home at 3pm, that 3pm really is the same time
every day, and no, Miss Miller does not sleep at the school. Since the staff
always seem to be here they find it hard to picture us living anywhere else, to
the point when I bump into my tiny classmates outside the school gates, they
tend to look at me almost blankly, perhaps a vague flutter of recognition at
most, but appear shy and modest at this random stranger that definitely doesn’t
spend 36 hours a week with them.. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The other important thing to note about home-time,
is it’s not a time for jokes, a lesson I learnt after Rosie’s mum was running
late and I made the mistake of teasing my little friend saying; “hope you’ve
got your panama’s Rosie.” This did not go down well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Don’t stick your
nose where it doesn’t belong.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You awright Miss Miller?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hmph”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Miss
Miller?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Go
and play over there for me Bertie for a minute will you?” I clutch my nose. It’s
bleeding. The lesson learnt three seconds previously being don’t lean over
small bouncy children if you are not part of the ‘frog’ game they’re playing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Religion
involves a big guy and lot of chocolate.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So
children, what is Easter all about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“EASTER
BUNNY”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“EGGS”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“CHOCOLATE!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well,
yes, but actually, Easter is about Jesus.” The kids are given a slightly less
gory version of the crucifixion and resurrection, throwing in a few lines at
the end about the child-friendly all-loving god that brought him back to life,
and after having given them piles of chocolate on a particularly fun Easter egg
hunt around the playground, (I enjoy these things a little too much) we then
want them to sit still. For an hour. In church. The ever faithful wet wipes are
whipped out to make them all look presentable and tucking in shirts we lead
them in telling them they ‘need to be good.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “I’ve been this good today.” Nelson tells
me, flinging his arms wide. “And I’ve been this bad.” He adds putting his hands
slightly closer together. Honesty is a rather fluid concept when you’re under
five. He looks over at the priest in his robes as we enter then up at me, eyes
wide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Is, is that God?” He whispers
cautiously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “No Nelson, don’t worry, it’s not
God. Not unless Father Andrew has been promoted.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Do as Dad does.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">One
morning we are drawing along the theme of ‘what we did at the weekend with
dad.’ You get a few T.Vs and a fair few footballs out of this exercise, but
Bertie draws a surprisingly detailed picture of a lawn mover with an orange
line sprawling off into the corner. “That the extenshun’ lead.” He informs me. “It
goes in the sokit.” He points to the brown scribble where the orange lead ends.
He then points to a purple scribble which explains are flowers. “We got them in
the garden, dad didn’t fink they’d come up.” When I try to get him to expand on
this, on what he means by them ‘coming up’ he shrugs and I smile at how he
copies things his dad says until I overhear him calling one of the other kids a
‘silly old mare….’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Magic exists. <i>Everywhere</i>.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dip one on of Raj’s little hands in yellow paint and the other in blue paint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Now,” I say, “rub your hands
together and see what happens.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Any
kind of painting that involves a lack of paint brushes goes down a treat round
here- but learning about colours renders some of them speechless. His face is a
sight I will never ever forget as the paint squishes between his little fingers,
the colour miraculously changing before his eyes. He has made <i>green.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">My
favourite topic has to be butterflies, frogs and seeds. The world looks like a
place where <i>anything</i> is possible when
you’re explaining to small people for the first time that caterpillars turn
into butterflies, tadpoles turn into frogs, and tiny seeds turn into a 6 foot
sunflowers. This without a doubt, is the best type of world to live in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> It also does me a favour that it’s
perfectly acceptable to get a bit over-excited about the story of the Hungry
Caterpillar because when I’m in a room full of four year olds, I actually blend
in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “And who can tell me what this is?”
Mrs R says pointing to a photograph of some frogspawn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Frog-is-born.” Says a little voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Frogspawn do you mean Helen?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Yes she says. Frog-is-born.
Frog-is-born.” When you say it fast enough, yep, the kid’s right. Genius.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Bears eat porridge</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mr
Sand is everything a school keeper should be; hardworking, kind, often seen up
ladders and down stairs, fixing things and generally making the world go round.
An early riser, Mr Sand had made himself a bowl of porridge one morning and
had put it in the microwave (the wonders of Oats So Simple) only to return to
find the microwave empty and the porridge, gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Sorry to interrupt Miss Miller,” He said,
his head peeping round the door, “But has anyone seen my porridge? ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I shake my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hmmm,” he sighs, scratching his head. “Well
kids, somebody’s eaten my porridge.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The children look first at Mr Sand and
then at each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“GOLDILOCKS!” They squeak excitedly and little
Joe, ever the democratic little leader, proceeds to interview everyone in the
school over the course of the morning in light of the mystery of the missing
porridge, determined to finds some evidence of a golden-haired porridge-eating
thief. As it turns out, the culprit is one of the other teachers, which Joe
finds to be a slightly disappointing ending to the tale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Always
ask why</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Little Joe is our ‘why man.’ Every class
has a ‘why man;’ the kid that add the words ‘<i>but whyyyyy’</i> to every sentence you say, to every instruction you
give, and if you happen to come across such a child, see it not as a hindrance,
but an opportunity. I mean, how often do you <i>really</i> ask yourself questions such as ‘why does bread rise?’ ‘Why
is glue sticky?’ ‘Why do carrots make you see in the dark?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>The
smaller the person, the sharper the sight.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The one thing you must learn with kids
is that they may be small, but they sure as hell aren’t dumb. You can’t get
away with stuff even if they do only come up to your knees. One morning I was
running rather late and as I tried to scoot in the side gate I heard a small
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“See mum, I told you we weren’t late!
Look, even the teachers aren’t here yet!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “I
fink it needs new batteries.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is Bertie’s favourite sentence.
Bertie is your boy when it comes to anything possibly electronic and has his
own screw driver under the teacher’s desk ready for any toy-related battery
emergency. He seems to sense which toys at the very bottom of boxes need new
batteries and rescues them from the depths, bringing them proudly to us to
proclaim it so. “Yep, I fink I’ll get the screwdriver Miss Miller.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>To
cook is more fun than to eat</u></span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>.</u><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">You can bake <i>anything </i>with enough mixing bowls, an oven on wheels and lots of little hands..</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Pancake day is a great day to be in a
school with 24 little people and a frying pan. They had great fun making the
batter but when it came to whipping out endless pancakes on plastic plates,
they all licked the maple syrup and the sugar, but were apparently uninterested
in the pancake itself. Or the washing up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><br /></u></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>Change
is a big deal.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We begin to introduce them to the idea
of next year- moving up the school where a lot more will be expected of them,
and try to make this sound as fun as possible-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So next year you’re going to be <i>upstairs</i> children.” Upstairs in the
school is a mythical place that few have seen, older children disappearing up
the banisters and since Zander still has trouble climbing stairs I’m not sure
how this is going to go down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You’re going to have a new classroom
and new school books and new teacher. Mrs Shane will be your teacher, won’t
that be nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Amy bursts in to tears and puts her hand
up. “Will we still have the same mummy though??”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><u>The
golden rule.</u><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“ Miss miller?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes Mandy?” I looked over at the face
that had popped up round the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I love you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The face disappears before I can reply,
and instead I smile at the coat pegs reading all the names. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I love you too.” I say looking at the
tiny blazers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-50617052298903011582012-06-18T12:36:00.003-07:002012-06-18T12:44:43.561-07:00To be a nun or a director of I.T? Career advice they DON’T give you.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b><u>Bite Size Philosophy Lesson Three: </u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So Forbes in their infinite wisdom of lists have published
the top ten happiest jobs and the top ten most hated jobs which churned up a few
debate topics… <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Top Ten
Happiest Jobs<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Clergy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Fire
Fighters<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Physical
Therapists<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Authors<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Special
Education Teachers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Teachers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Artists<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Psychologists<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Financial
services sales agents<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Operating
engineers. (Boy toys i.e bulldozer and diggers.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Top Ten Most Hated Jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Director of Information Technology<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Director of Sales and Marketing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Product
Manager<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Senior Web
Developer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Technical
Specialist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Electronics
Technician<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Law Clerk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Technical
Support Analyst<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">CNC
Machinist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Marketing Manager<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the aspect that stands out the most is the difference
in salaries; the majority of the ‘happy jobs’ are obviously paid a lot less than
the ‘hated jobs’ which generally seem to sit in higher pay brackets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So what kind of question does this pose? Especially to us
young people finding our feet in the working world; that you can either have happiness
OR money? You can’t have both??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The number one happiest job is a clergyman which I’m sure
can be taken in many different ways; firstly that although I want to be happy, I
don’t think I want to be a nun to get there. (I’m not sure they’d have me to be
fair..) Forbes’ take on the matter is that “the least
worldly are reported to be the happiest of all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Ah. So believing in God makes you ‘less worldly’
now?</span><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> I suspect
the writer has missed the mark just slightly as people often do when the ‘G’
word is called into play. The point here is not a religious one; whether the
god the clergyman has devoted his career to exists or not, <i>isn’t</i> the pivot whereby his happiness is decided. Looking at that
happy list, you could argue happiness derives from actively participating in
making a difference, supporting a community, being in some kind of close contact
with others and most importantly- a point illustrated most noticeably with the
clergyman- happiness come from doing something you <i>believe in.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s the bones of it- passion is the worthy
drive, you’ve got to believe what you’re doing is worth your time otherwise the
pay check becomes compensation, and compensation is spent on things to make you
feel good, because the job doesn’t quite hit the spot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>You have a class of young strong men and women, and they want to
give their lives to something.
Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don't
need. Generations have been working in
jobs they hate, just so they can buy shit they don't really need.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s worth noting that Forbes and their love of
lists isn’t law- i.e. you could easily have one on those top ten most hated
jobs and feel passionate about it, have total job satisfaction and happiness. You
can indeed have the whole package- I’m sure someone like Richard Branson would
agree. It’s not that you have to choose money <i>or</i> happiness, rather you have to choose <i>how</i> to navigate both into your life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s an age old image that money is the root of
all evil and true wealth doesn’t have the queen’s head on it. Personally, being
a girl who is spiritual but essentially Essex, I disagree. Greed and
selfishness are ugly, but a banknote itself hasn’t the capability to be greedy,
it’s the hand clutching that does. What you decide to do with money and how you
decide to obtain it is the key thing here. And contrary to belief, you <i>do</i> decide how to earn your money. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The formula is simple enough. Follow your passion,
do something you actually <i>like</i> doing,
have an interest in, a flair for, and you’ll want to work hard at it, do it for
long hours, invest time and effort into it. You’re then likely to be good at it
because not only have you worked hard, if it’s a passion of yours then the spark
has come from somewhere, suggesting that underneath all that doubt, you’re probably
naturally quite good at it. If your good at what you do for all of the above
reasons, it’s more likely you’ll be successful and therefore make money if your
eye is on the ball rather that on the clock, praying to that God that makes you
‘less worldly’ to make 5pm come quicker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So why aren’t we all off gallivanting doing the
things we love and being rich?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Painting/writing/talking/gaming/photographing/shopping/computing/
drawing… whatever it is in your life that would be too good to be true if you
got paid to do it- <i>that won’t get you
that house deposit, it won’t let you get finance on a car, won’t get you a week
in Ibiza or store card.</i> It’s hard to go against the grain when the apparent
route to happiness has already been laid down for you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The trick is being brave enough to choose a different pavement.
And don’t worry if you look around and find you’re the only one walking down
it- it doesn’t mean you’re wrong, in fact it probably means you’re onto a
winner. The big gamers in this life, whether you want to go all Steve Jobs, Branson,
George Lucas or J.K Rowling here, they didn’t make money the same way Joe
Bloggs in cubicle B does, they worked <i>with</i>
their strengths and didn’t suppress or ignore them for not fitting into a more socially
appropriate box.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So what do? (Apart from become a clergyman…)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Take time to find out what you really love doing. This may
seem an odd suggestion, but it’s one we don’t tend to spend much time on as it
doesn’t seem justifiable in terms of time and finances out there in the ‘real
world.’ But the fact is you spend an insane proportion
of your time in the pie-chart of life at work, so actually its quite
wise to make an investment in figuring out what makes you tick, and even wiser
to ignore all those who are impatient for your choice. Don’t let anyone hurry
you into a conclusion. And when you think you’ve got there, remember there is
no law that says you have to pick one job, one career and then stick to it
faithfully until your 65. (Which is
lucky, as it’s a law I’ve joyful broken a fair few times already.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> An education’s value
when trying to weigh up consequent graduate employment rates or salaries might
not be much to look at, but to take that dive, exploring something you have an
interest and passion for- this is not time wasted, this is preparing the way.
The waste is to throw the graduation hat into the air and jump into the first
desk chair that slides your way for fear of missing the slip road onto the rat
race. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">To any pending graduates, any long-lost graduates, old and
greying graduates, non graduates; sprint in the opposite direction of anybody
drilling into your bright mind that you must go get a job any job there aren’t enough
jobs be grateful for a job be responsible and never leave that job…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t mean starve and not pay your bills. I mean don’t compromise.
Because never forget, it’s your life your compromising with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You've got to risk it to get the biscuit as they say and i'm not suggesting i've got a mouthful of custard creams over here, but knowing where the biscuit tin is, that's a good start....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">#Check it out for yourself</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">See the Forbes article here: </span></span><a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/stevedenning/2011/09/12/the-ten-happiest-jobs/" style="background-color: white;">http://www.forbes.com/sites/stevedenning/2011/09/12/the-ten-happiest-jobs/</a></div>
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<br /></div>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-55093103822582443892012-06-12T10:03:00.003-07:002012-06-12T10:26:24.197-07:00Bite Size Philosophy Lesson Two: 'Go Smack Yourself in the Face with a Cliché'<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Change the way you look at things and the things you look at
change</span></i></b><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">This
is what they call a cliché, an overused and wise phrase translating a clever
little idiom into a saying that has been heard in one form or another too many
times for it to mean anything to you anymore. You know what it’s trying to say
so well you probably just skipped over those italics, your brain ticking the ‘
I know what that means’ box so fast, you probably didn’t even read it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">The
trick with a cliché is to be able to deduct its meaning, because as with most
truisms, they are, well, they’re true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">If
I was asked to choose three words to describe this picture, I’d probably go for
tranquil, green, natural. Maybe calming, peaceful and cool; the point being,
it’s a nice picture and most people wouldn’t mind chilling out around some
place like it for an afternoon away from the busy and stressful lives we seem
to lead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
took this picture. And I took this picture in Romford. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Yep,
you heard me right, <i>Romford</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Romford
can be an ugly place if that is what you choose to see, and in all honesty, ugly
is what jumps out at you without doing too much choosing. There’s a lot of
concrete and cars, brightly lit shopping centres, supermarkets and B&Q’s
(where wood comes from, as one of the kids in my class today told me
authoritatively. He was genuinely flabbergasted when I told him that actually,
it came from trees.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;"> New billboards sprout from the ground
like weeds promising ‘delightful/stunning/beautiful one and two bedroom
properties’ in every spare square inch and sometimes I think I can feel the ground
suffocating. Or maybe it’s just me that can’t breathe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;"> To find some space in a land where
space has a profit margin can be tricky.
But I have a place that growing up around here for every concrete mixer
that pours forth, for every first-time-buyer plan shoved down your throat, there
are still a hundred trees worth of B&Q wood growing forgotten and left
alone. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The Chase. On first glance, an unremarkable piece of land
wedged between a YMCA and a learner drivers centre, houses looming either side
up to the forest’s edge. My Dad would take us there as kids on Sunday
afternoons, collecting interesting pieces of wood (I still don’t know what he
means by that) and picking blackberries every September, me and my brothers
dragging plastic buckets through the bushes and producing on average 24 pots of
jams a year which then filled every inch of cupboard space, driving my poor mum
crazy until the following April when it would finally run out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> There’s a stream that
runs right the way through from one end to the other, starting as the River Rom
(where Romford gets it’s name from don’t you know) and trailing off into Harrow
lodge park somewhere, and I have swam in that stream where it widens in the
cover of the trees on a summer afternoon as a child with my friends, unfazed by
rats and broken glass, being supervised by my dad who never did seem to have
that built in danger radar that everybody else’s parent’s did. We, aged eight,
thought this was brilliant. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The water trickles through stones and banks giving life to
nettles, flowers and little shrubs, home to a jungle of birds so loud you can’t
even hear the air traffic, trees growing around that line of beauty covering it
completely from all buildings and generally, people. This for me, is my most
favourite spot, because here on a little wooden bridge, it doesn’t matter which
way you turn, you can’t see a single house or even hear the road, and you could
be <i>anywhere</i> in the world but on the
edge of Zone 6.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A huge black sewage pipe crosses the river bank over towards
the YMCA, and looking at the height of it with adult eyes I shudder at the
memory of me and my brothers walking across it as kids, arms balancing us like
three small tight-rope walkers, fearless of the rocks and shallow water below,
because Dad was standing at the other side, yelling ‘you won’t fall!” Parents
are the Gods of childhood, all-seeing, all-knowing, all loving, and since he
sounded pretty sure we weren’t going to slip and crack our heads open, we believed
him. (I’m sure Mum would have disagreed...)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">On a sunny day, you can guarantee that shopping centres will
be jammed, beer gardens will be overflowing and you’ll be waiting for your food
in The Harrow for at least 45minutes, but this green bit of land with no signposts, it
is always empty. I’ve never seen more than five or six people at a time from
one end to the other, the odd person walking their dog in a hurry, the odd
teenager on their bike up to no good in among the dark trees. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjet_4yF792t45k90aDCVNFtkpfVHtwWBcwfjFWNmX3Ryu9TI2Rdfae7iIL3nIfr0gtbOiUhYHXlzPXnWq_Khz2_RPgube6dzLB2NqFxT4kQWrr9zJcEAm3PjFKiQYRC8NxSw86AtoPByKv/s1600/BeFunky_OldPhoto_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjet_4yF792t45k90aDCVNFtkpfVHtwWBcwfjFWNmX3Ryu9TI2Rdfae7iIL3nIfr0gtbOiUhYHXlzPXnWq_Khz2_RPgube6dzLB2NqFxT4kQWrr9zJcEAm3PjFKiQYRC8NxSw86AtoPByKv/s400/BeFunky_OldPhoto_1.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">It
wasn’t until the second or third time that I wandered through here that I
realised the true joy of what I had discovered- I was in the middle of Romford.
<i>Romford</i>. I was here, right here where
I lived, which was somewhere pretty. My imagination didn’t need to do any work,
I didn’t need to pretend I was in a faraway tranquil place- everything I wanted
to see was right in front of my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">It’s
not about selective hearing or wishful thinking. I can choose whether to see
Romford as an ugly place to live, or a pretty one because I can choose to walk
through The Chase or down Upper Rainham Road. <i>I can choose how I look at things.</i> And that simple sentence,
whether it’s regurgitated to me in a cliché, a bumper sticker, an Americanised
self-help dvd, however it arrives at my feet, this is one of the most important
skills I am ever going to try and learn.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI7cQPRQIk824Pt1Ip5HvYndW24aqK_gVQm4zThVUPF7QRk6WXHwmtrMx0n2Ni8bv6boM4mHd6aNnWhGxv6jCumzd6tHsLXuBxIkFbVVZyqPDOGTmX3Kr4yv359olk7Wl-mZDJaMIPEGi/s1600/BeFunky_DSCF0687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI7cQPRQIk824Pt1Ip5HvYndW24aqK_gVQm4zThVUPF7QRk6WXHwmtrMx0n2Ni8bv6boM4mHd6aNnWhGxv6jCumzd6tHsLXuBxIkFbVVZyqPDOGTmX3Kr4yv359olk7Wl-mZDJaMIPEGi/s640/BeFunky_DSCF0687.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">This
already may look like a small page of cliché ideas; nice-sounding but
un-practical advice that you don’t see being applicable to your unfolding life.
But the truth is every day is compilation of small decisions that physically
shape the day you’re going to have, the life you are going to live, and it’s up
to you what you do with this. It’s up to you whether you keep in your awareness
your attitude, how you treat others and the environment you’ve put yourself in,
or whether you just operate on a default setting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">From when you either growl or
smile at the guy at the ticket gate when your oyster card doesn’t work, when
you decide to either mock or compliment that person you find difficult, when
you decide whether or not to buy the beauty magazine that seems to do the
opposite of making you feel beautiful, whether you walk on the road or through
The Chase, these are the decisions that create your world; the world in front
of your face, so do yourself a favour- choose carefully.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo2_R30bfzNBGLtyDPzgnxPfbuJp5HDNIXUcg9EPi1w9dzsJpNH9ycrdOJ1ZfODC0CWDftGpw3vJRIGo0pRd9AVR-YbAvhIsqoQlt-vPqKJfEoq5KwNnfnBa2jWqlscOHZkAmO7GycjkX/s1600/BeFunky_DSCF0506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo2_R30bfzNBGLtyDPzgnxPfbuJp5HDNIXUcg9EPi1w9dzsJpNH9ycrdOJ1ZfODC0CWDftGpw3vJRIGo0pRd9AVR-YbAvhIsqoQlt-vPqKJfEoq5KwNnfnBa2jWqlscOHZkAmO7GycjkX/s400/BeFunky_DSCF0506.jpg" width="296" /></a><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">You
get to choose how you think about things, the type of people you spend time
with, what you read or don’t read. (No one is forcing you to read The Mail
Online) You get to choose your job, it doesn’t choose you. You don’t owe it
anything- on the contrary, your job owes <i>you </i>a pay check every month for doing
it. But it is you that gets to decide whether to do that same job every day
until your 65, or have 65 different jobs in your lifetime. Neither road is
right or wrong, (whatever anybody tells you) but to dislike the one you’re
walking along and do nothing about it most certainly <i>is</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Life
<i>isn’t </i>a series of events that come to pass with the same amount of fickle
fortune and chance as the weather. You either find something beautiful, or you
find something ugly. They both exist, and choosing one over the other doesn’t
deny the other’s existence, but in choosing you are navigating yourself,
plotting your route towards happiness or misery, towards average or
extraordinary, and that choice never ends. It happens all day every day. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Take
that job on like it’s the career opportunity of a lifetime. Because whatever
your parents or your boss or your bank balance tell you, it’s the only career
worth investing your soul into.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Check out the full set of images and more on Flickr </span></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/76711600@N06/"><b><span style="font-size: large;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/76711600@N06/</span></b></a>
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</div>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-66981300259058362592012-06-10T07:44:00.001-07:002012-06-10T07:44:46.645-07:00<a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/blogs/cosmo-blog-awards-2012/cosmo-blog-awards-2012_nominate"><img alt="fashion" border="0" src="http://www.natmagnewsletters.co.uk/cosmo/blogawards2012/blogawards.jpg" /></a>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4461906278921037877.post-50268455070054086462012-04-16T11:55:00.001-07:002012-04-16T12:03:39.504-07:00Bite Size Philosophy: Lesson One-- How To Be Less Of A Wanker.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>“You know what he’s like, that’s just the way he is.”</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve all heard this phrase, you’ve probably used it yourself a few times, usually in justifying why someone is being a wanker, (mostly when justifying why someone is being a wanker in fact.) It’s a ‘get out of jail free’ card for actions and words, as if behaviour is a trait engraved onto the core of a person, as if that person just arrived as a whole and complete character with nothing to be done.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">‘We are what we repeatedly do,’ Aristotle said. If you’re being rude, if you’re being ignorant, that’s not intrinsically who you are, but the sum of what you’ve been doing. A reality often forgotten is that we can choose to be the sum of a different set of actions. The best and worst of you is always and utterly in your hands.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You are not a finished product. You will never be a finished product. The day is not going to arrive when you say- ‘yes, that’s who I am, I’m that guy, I get it now.’ The fact is you’re never going to get it. You need to stop, trying, to ‘get it.’</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The trick is to see that actually you are on a never ending conveyor belt in a factory where you are choosing what machinery works on you, shapes you, moulds you. You’re a work in progress and your job, the most important job you’ll ever have, is to be aware of <i>what </i>is doing the work on <i>you</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Media, magazines, TV, advertising, internet; it is all a part of our everyday routine, a relentless pounding where we know what we like because we are told what to like, you know who you are in relation to whose name is on your pants, is it Calvin Klein or George at Asda? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Western culture produces a never ending stream of dribble that is undeniably addictive as it taps into the lazy bone in us all- we say ‘hey, we work hard all day, we deserve the easy option of convenience food, convenience comedy, zoning out to episodes of ‘Two and Half Men’ after reading newspapers with no words on the come down after a Friday night.’</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> It is the fact it is easy that should make you suspicious, and highlights how unbelievably important it is to not just be a vessel- instead take something in and then form your own opinion. Question everything you come into contact with and never stop. If you want to be in control of your life, be in control of the filter you are seeing your world through, because reality is all relative. Media is an offering, an interpretation- not truth.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Be aware when you’re only one in the shop wondering why you’re about to spend £50 on a t-shirt that is worth about a fiver. Feel self conscious in Starbucks, buying hot water and coffee beans for £2.40 instead of the 17p water and beans are worth. Be grateful for these thoughts- it means you’re awake. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The answer isn’t simply to stop drinking Starbucks, but begins with pulling into your awareness what’s going on in front of your face, what campaign or ideal is doing its work on you, the choices you’re making as a result and how you feel about that.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is an incredibly difficult thing to do, mainly because seeing that cup of hot water and beans is not encouraged as this kind of thinking wouldn’t exactly help the economy to grow. It’s in wealth and power’s best interest to teach that the collective wants a better car, a bigger house, a chai latte to go and a nice life of pretty things – as it always far more comfortable to be a part of the collective than to be alone. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Being arrogant or rude, I’d argue that this is someone who’s merely got sucked into the picture, someone who buys into the poster. You can make your life as big or small as you want, but if someone says about <i>you </i>‘that’s just the way he/she is’, you’ve got stuck, and you need to wake up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The fool is the one that lets others think for him, who lets adverts do the shopping for him, layering up in this seasons must-haves before asking himself whether he even likes trousers tight enough to make his bollocks shrink.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, next time someone is being a wanker, all you need to do is tell them that they’ve got stuck on their conveyer belt somewhere and they better get some new machinery or you’re going to have to punch them on the nose to wake them up. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Sylfaen, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ta Da.</span></span><br />
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</div>Melody Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06035478560028915489noreply@blogger.com0