What Beth learnt today.

… that there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. I mean that in a blanket sense, of course – I’m not saying that if a man with a gun walked into my bedroom right now I’d be dong my best ‘bored teenager’ expression but, let’s face it: if I can be stranded in Paris aged 17 without freaking out, I’m on the right track.

I should explain: I’m writing from England. One ridiculously expensive Eurostar, a seven hour car journey and I’m right where a 90 minute flight would’ve taken me. Bloody volcano. That said, I adored Paris: quirky side streets, beautiful buildings and a few lovely nights with some excellent people have led me to believe that it is in fact my mothership. My beautiful, French-speaking, complicated mothership. My GCSE-level, horrendously flawed French was somehow enough to get by: how I managed to order takeaway snails in a fancy restaurant at 10pm, I will never know. Where there’s a craving, there’s a way.

I’m having a bit of an intellectual day, for a Saturday: I just finished watching the debate from Thursday, and was pleasantly surprised by Nick Clegg. I particularly liked his tie. Not that I can vote this year, with my ridiculous June birthday, but I’ll be stalking the election regardless. However, my day of thinking doesn’t stop there: a few years of of confusion coupled with several magazine articles and topical Googles later, and I’ve determined that I’m a moderate lipstick feminist. I’ve always found it difficult to balance my innate need for independence with my overwhelming urge to buy shoes, and it’s comforting to know I’m not alone. Standing alone in the Gare du Nord, shielding my phone from public view with my ridiculously poofy hair, I was approached by a big scary black man under the assumption that I was a prostitute. A male friend of mine has suggested this to be a compliment: I would disagree. It seems unreasonable to me that a knee-length black skirt, flat shoes and a leather jacket could be interpreted as suggestive, and that a girl such as myself would be treated in such a degrading manner. I bake cupcakes. I inhale literature. I treat Harry Potter with more deference than the Bible. In an almost contradictory manner, I’m fairly religious. I’m pretty handy with an xbox controller. I certainly do not have sex with strangers for money.

I’m coming to the conclusion that my glasses make it easier to be invisible. I’m willing to bet that I would not have been mistaken for a prostitute had I been wearing my specs, which would suggest that they somehow define my personality. With them, I’m a nerdy girl standing in a station. Without them, I’m a harlot. Although I know I look better without the frames, it’s generally a question of confidence: do I feel brave enough to be seen today? It’s difficult finding a balance between feeling pretty and objectified, independent and aggressive, but I think I’m starting to find it. The kid is growing up. And, in my somewhat enlightened state, here are my essential tips for surviving being stranded abroad:

1. Don’t panic. Not to sound like the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but staying calm is more than necessary. Or, in my case, shotgunning a bar of chocolate and suggesting we go to a bar. Not that obesity or casual alcoholism are solutions to anything (much), but you see my point.
2. Phone your Mum. I am aware this won’t apply to everyone, but my parents, like me, are problem solvers. We thrive in chaos. Plus, they have a lot more money in their bank accounts than I do.
3. Ignore stressheads. They’ll just get you worried, which doesn’t help anything, and then you’ll eat so much more chocolate and get fat and then what? You’ll be stuck abroad with clothes that don’t fit. And who wants that?

I’m the girl who loses pens in her hair, sets fire to jacket potatoes and got mistaken for a prostitute in the Gare du Nord. If I can get home, I am in no way worried about anyone else.

… that teen magazines which illustrate four wonderful ways to make somebody love you through the use of make-up are really not my thing, and that it’s time to eschew them with a firm hand. Or, until next time I miss a bus and want to pass the time. Ah, will power. Although it’s a failure when it comes to trashy, glossy literature, it’s doing the job when it comes to dragging me from bed to laptop after an accidental nap. It’s been one of those days where all I want to do is bake, and my mother’s in the kitchen. So, instead, I’m gazing thoughtless at the pint glass filled with daffodils on my desk, an adorable attempt to cheer me up on my Mum’s part in the wake of my exam results. English went well, but I actually paid 11 pounds and spent two weeks revising to do a History re-sit which I ultimately got less marks in than first time round. There’s nothing quite like realising you’ve wasted your time enormously to put you in a fabulous mood. But, never mind – pressure does wonders for my work ethic, it’ll all be fine.

The holiday to Malia is eventually booked! Regardless of the gender imbalance (I am entirely outmanned) it should be pretty wild. A week away will do me a world of good and, if last year is anything to go by, I will have a wonderful time with some… interesting people. Two of my best friends, a boy who I’m fairly certain is metamorphosing into a bear and another who appears to be a dental hygiene fetishist. Must admit, I hear fetishism and Macleans is not my first mental port of call. Perhaps that’s for the best!

I’ve been walking around like a zombie all afternoon… a zombie with particularly eccentric garb. You don’t see too many of them in AC/DC t-shirts and purple polka-dot bottoms. I would be far more open to the apocalypse if you did.

… that there’s nothing quite like that extra hour in bed, especially after you’ve stayed up til 2 watching ‘Takeshi’s Castle’ and eating slightly overcooked pizza with a few good friends. What’s even better is waking up at 7, hearing one of them leave for college, and realising you can go back to bed for a bit. I love it when my parents go away.

I’ve been neglecting this already sparse blog horribly due to an unexpected downturn in optimism. Getting rejected from my first choice of university, fighting with some of my friends and not getting a job I wanted because of my age didn’t exactly put me in the finest of moods and, let’s face it: nobody wants to read the self-pitying whines of a lower middle-class teen with very little to complain about. If you did, you’d be reading literature geared at thirteen year old girls, not this blog. However, I seem to have bounced back – particularly excited about the 3D ‘Where’s Wally?’ tournament I’m organising! Yes, you read it right – 3D ‘Where’s Wally?’. Quality.

Over the past few weeks I’ve made a few key realisations:

• I am probably doomed to a life of imperfect baking. My Victoria sponges just will not rise and, Delia wannabe that I am, this is driving me a bit mental.
• Just because I want something really badly, that doesn’t mean I can have it. I know at least half of my readership (since I’m pretty sure there’s only two of you) won’t approve, but I have faith that everything happens for a reason.
• MY HAIR IS REALLY LONG! This isn’t so much a realisation as a very proud moment from a girl who has continually sported a bob since the age of 8.

All very comforting considerations, although the last one is my particular favourite. I’m becoming quite excited by the prospect of living in Glasgow next year, not that I’ve ever been – I’m travelling up on Monday, simply couldn’t wait until the Open Day to have a look around. I’m yet to consider my plan for if I don’t like it there, since I absolutely detested the dismal urban maze that was Manchester, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Fuck it – if all else fails, I’ll get a job, go travelling and re-apply elsewhere next year. Optimism. I’m not going to lie, my Edinburgh rejection was seriously uncool – my Mum suggested to I see if I can get a place there through clearing. In spite of the impossibility of that transpiring, screw them. Not to sound proud (okay, I am so proud), but I would rather go nowhere than to a place that didn’t want me in the first place.

Tonight should be a bit lovely. The girls are coming round for a curry and an artsy chick flick – two of my favourite things put together. My parents have been gone since Monday and I’ve been living on a diet of carbohydates soaked in pesto. It’s been pretty wild. This should be an interesting month; two trips to Scotland, my January exam results (eep!), about a million coursework deadlines, plenty of plans with some quality people and, of course, getting some of my very favourites back from University for the holidays. Everything’s going so quickly at the moment – I had my leaver’s photo taken last Monday, and the yearbook photos are being collected now. I’m pretty sure the leaver’s photo was a last-minute attempt to do away with all the short people, placing everyone in height order on a ridiculously high piece of scaffolding with the midgets on the top… myself included. The photo will literally just be me staring straight ahead in abject fear and horror. Which is kind of how I feel about the future right now.

Except I’m a little more excited.

… that I will always deal with stress in the same calming way: some comfort eat, I comfort bake. My Literature A-level exam is tomorrow morning, and I’ve already baked two chocolate cakes this weekend. In my defence, the first one sank (damn you, Delia!) so the second was really just an attempt at soothing my ego and reminding myself that in a world of athletes, singers and dancers there is one thing I am good at: cake.

It’s becoming more and more apparent that far too much of my life revolves around food: I’m watching yet another generic middle-aged member of the middle class serve up a three-course meal that my Mum could do a thousand times better. God, I love ‘Come Dine With Me’. Since I probably won’t have a telly at Uni, I’m adding the Sunday afternoon ‘Come Dine With Me’ marathon to the list of things I will miss, somewhere between the lovely bus driver who looks like Santa and calls me Little Red, and my slightly creepy Amelie poster which I’m pretty sure watches me sleep.

By 11am tomorrow morning, I can officially ignore Emily Bronte, Macbeth and the very pervy short stories of Angela Carter and focus on more important things: going to town, watching the second series of ‘Greek’ and reading my way through the pile of books beside my bed. Chuck Palahniuk has not been getting the attention he deserves.

Time to make some chocolate buttercream. I might make a spare batch in case the exam goes badly. There’s nothing like inhaling calories to cheer you up.

… that selling books is a lot different to buying them, and that your dream job is not necessarily all it will crack up to be. Factor in a mass of Christmas shoppers and a 7 hour shift on the tills of a bookstore, and you have my fabulous fabulous day. Still, that’s always preferable to yesterday when I priced so many notepads that I felt like a human sticker machine. And spent 3 hours with a £12.99 sticker on my back. With my slightly sexy lacy underwear on. Visibly protruding from my jeans. It’s always good to look like a prostitute at work. Errrrrm.

So, tonight, as I sit here with my hair like the ears of a damp cocker spaniel and acoustic music on repeat, writing a blog, the majority of my friends are out drinking and dancing. I am, essentially the life of the party. Last night I even made fudge! It’s good to know I’m not wasting my youth.

Before my slightly more exciting friends went out, a couple of us watched ‘Up’. Seriously, I did not realise a film about a man with a house and A LOT of balloons could be so moving, but I was nearly crying. Perhaps that was the wine. Oh lordy, I have been too drunk too often these past few days. Saturday was quite fabulous, although it’s always disturbing to run into a creepy guy you used to know… even moreso when he looks you up and down as if you’re his for the taking. In his case, the taking would be accompanied by my kicking and screaming, and probably a bloody nose on his part. I find him alarming, but I’m probably the most dangerous of the two of us.

I just went to delete some texts from my phone and realised how very close we are to a new year. In my case, this year will change everything. Provided I don’t fuck up most magnificently, I’ll be leaving home for a new city. Regardless of my potential fuckuppery, I’ll turn 18. Eventually. I’m going to Paris, and hopefully Cyprus, and I intend to be very amused and very cultured and very drunk and very relaxed and (most importantly) very happy as often as possible. The potential that this year has alarms me, in a way, but it also really bloody excites me. I think it might be more than a bit wild. Wilder than today, at least, which can be fairly summarised by:

Pros:

• I can wear my flowery skirt to work
• The boy in the stock room is reeeeally pretty, and plays Biffy Clyro very loudly
• I learnt how to order from other stores on the really quite complicated computer
• I earned about £42. Which is approximately £31.70 more than I have in my bank account.

Cons:

• I just remembered that I only have £10.30 in my bank account
• The queue was ridiculous, all day. I like being busy but that was crazy!
• I have to keep trying to sell people Jamie Oliver cookbooks. I DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM.
• Every time someone buys a Twilight or Richard Dawkins book I want to hit them
• My Dad ate my broccoli (this is a con because I had to eat cauliflower instead, ew)
• I AM SO VERY VERY VERY TIRED.

I think, really, the only way to balance this list is to have a cuppa and sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Or, alternatively, pull a sickie tomorrow and bake to my heart’s content. Hmm. Tricky.

… that Edward Cullen is essentially the Heathcliff of the modern age and that this is quite fabulous if you’re into casual misogynism in literature. Take two heroines who are throughly dependent upon men who are, let’s face it, absolutely awful to them and you’ve pretty much got a plot summary of both ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Twilight’. It’s no wonder the former is being promoted as the favourite book of the… lovely couple in the latter. At this point, I should probably get off my high horse and mention that I went to see ‘New Moon’ on Wednesday and quite enjoyed it! I’m probably just bitter about the books because I’m working on a ‘Wuthering Heights’ essay with a serious wine headache. My Mum just popped her head round my door and offered me tea. I love her.

It’s one of those Sundays where the lethargy and headache are worth the night before. A night in with some of my best friends (although it obviously would’ve been better if John and Edward had still been on X factor. Needless to say, I am not over that yet) was exactly what I needed after quite a bad week. There’s nothing quite like hearing two boys sing Leona Lewis at a pitch only dogs could find tuneful. Beautiful. I’m allocating the blame for my pounding head to one of those aforementioned boys, the devil on the shoulder who kept topping up my wine glass. I woke up this morning with my previously-chipped nail varnish perfectly applied. Evidently drunk Beth is more fastidious about her personal appearance than sober Beth.

Cheesy old music (Elton John, Roxy Music, The Human League…) and the cup of tea that just arrived in my room are all that will get me through this horrible horrible essay. That, and a serious need to know how the fashion show went in ‘Gossip Girl’… megavideo cut me off ten minutes before the end and I’m just desperate to know. I am so cool.

So, to summarise:

• Three glasses of wine: drunk. Four glasses of wine: ridiculous.
• Emily Bronte had absolutely no idea what the craic was.
• Thank God for Katrina and the Waves.

… that any club claiming that ‘pretty girls get in free’ will involve said pretty girls being treated like public property, a concept I am entirely uncomfortable with. Seriously considering investing in a neon stop sign for my arse, although that might make things worse. Two 18th birthdays in one weekend is going to destroy me beyond measure, we’re out tonight for round two and I’m already flagging. Thankfully, tonight, we’re at Bulletproof, a slightly less pervy alternative to where we were last night.

I am officially a bit of a fan of ‘Gossip Girl’. This is what happens when I can’t be bothered to move after watching ‘All Star Family Fortunes’, which by the way was very wild. I am, however, slightly disturbed by how hot Chuck Bass is, in the most creepy of ways. His voice sounds like gargled gravel, but somehow in a good way. It’s probably just because he’s evil – I have the most horrible taste.

I was considering writing about my trip to Auschwitz on Thursday, feels like something I can’t exactly ignore, but it’s all a bit too personal and strange to ramble about in a blog with grass on the top. Actually, it’s pretty much something I can’t think about without verging on a mini-breakdown. Awful.

I got a letter this morning from the lovely and not at all irritating people at UCAS. Guess whose university applications are currently being processed? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Scary scary scary. And, on that lovely note, I’m really quite hungry. Time for soup, I reckon.

… that I will do literally anything to procrastinate. Googling my provisional exam dates, trying to remember another way of saying ‘leap of faith’ (polemic leap, incidentally) and even writing this blog – anything but my damned essay on the effectiveness of myths in religion. An essay which I could probably finish in about half an hour and that is due tomorrow morning – but isn’t looking up past America’s Next Top Model contestants on Wikipedia a much more productive use of my time? Still, I’m staying in tonight, so there’s plenty of time.

A weekend like mine requires a night of lazing. Fabulous as it was, I can’t deal with going out two nights running – I’m simply too old for this shit. Or, rather, too underage? Regardless, it’s safe to say Halloween has left me feeling like the zombie I was dressed as. My duvet has splatters of ‘blood’ on it and, if I didn’t know it was really the result of food colouring and cornflour, I would probably be concerned for my health. And, guess what I’m doing on Friday and Saturday? Yes. Yes, I am going out. Friday, in particular, I am looking forward to – God knows I’ll need cheering up after my trip to Auschwitz on Thursday. We’re going to go to Flares, which is probably the cringiest old man place ever (my balding, football-hooligan father goes there) but apparently plays a serious amount of 70s tunes. In typical girlish fashion, whatever will I wear?! My brown wooly skirt admittedly does look like it’s from that decade, but isn’t quite something I’d go to town in. How thoughtless of my friends, two of them turning 18 in the same week. One is in Paris right now as a birthday treat, if I didn’t adore her I would positively hate her. Paris is definitely on the to-go list – I want to cycle down narrow streets in a long dress with a basket on my bike, a basket filled with baguettes and well-read poetry books and flowers. I am the world’s biggest cliche, obviously. Oh, and I can’t ride a bike either. Downer.

I got new specs today, they’re a bit lovely. My face looks bizarre without its frame of red, but I’m sure it’ll adapt to purpley-black. The main concern is, how will people draw me?! Doodles of me are easily identifiable, with a scrawl of red across the face and a hedge of hair exploding from the scalp. Never mind, I’m quite fond of these glasses. At least they’re strong enough for me to see through, now; my old pair were so knackered I couldn’t get the lenses replaced in case they broke. The inside rims of these are purple. The world is purple.

I can’t be the only person excited for Christmas, albeit with multiple reasons. All will be well if someone eventually employs me! I love family Christmas with the dinner and charades and getting very very drunk and watching my Dad sing along to ‘Mamma Mia!’ It’s wonderful. The other reasons are Christmas carols, wrapping up presents, having all of my friends here for a fantastic two weeks and, of course, New Year following imminently. How exciting!

This essay isn’t going to do itself. Although, in slightly less polite terms, I quite wish it would.

… that I am actually much heavier than I thought. This is clearly a clever ploy thought up by the doctors to encourage us all to lose weight. My response? Comfort eating. The carrot cake from Muffin Break was beautiful, although I always feel like I should get a muffin when I go there. Whatever, I have an 8 mile walk tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll burn it off. Before eating even more. Oh dear.

So, my time at the doctor’s was quite fabulous. Aside from the ordinary discomforts (the old women in waiting room looking at me disapprovingly as if they think I’m pregnant or something, the old people in general, the awkward “so, are you sexually active?” rigamarole…), it truly outdid itself. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they play Green Day in the waiting room. The new album. I was so unamused that I’m surprised my blood pressure wasn’t off the scale when they checked it. I also really enjoyed being offered a chlamydia test, that was a highlight. The doctor was really quite insistent that I get one. That was a fun conversation.

Top tip: never go to the pharmacy to collect a prescription for the pill with a male friend. They will assume you are screwing him. You will want to die. You will comfort eat at the thought. You will gain weight. You will discover that your scales are incorrect and then you will be minorly irritated. And want to bake. Just me? Probably.

The Christmas decorations are up in the Metro Centre! YES! Normally, I would loathe this, it would disgust me to no end – but, this year, it feels different. I’m almost excited already… yesterday, I spent an entire Philosophy lesson with my friends trying to work out which song was the Slade one. And we still got it wrong. Thank God for Youtube. However, as Christmas approaches, it becomes more apparent that I desperately need a job. Urgh!

Nostalgia has me in its grip again. Every October, my school has a sponsored walk… we wander around Winlaton and the Derwent Walk for three hours, generally get drenched, complain a lot and hate it. And tomorrow is my last one. It’s strange how easy it is to be fond of something you know you won’t have for much longer. Time is passing so quickly right now – finished my UCAS form yesterday, felt sick, how scary! I’m only 5″4, I clearly cannot move out and live by myself.

And, just to make this clear… I definitely do not have chlamydia.

… that it’s likely that, now and forever, my face will play host to an array of red spectacles. Since mine are on the last legs, I’m on the hunt for a new pair – and the only pair I liked were, typically, red. Evidently, red glasses have become my ‘thing’. Along with baking. Currently wearing a lovely trampy old green skirt which is covered in cookie dough, the by-product of the batch I just whacked in the oven. It was an “I need to bake something and do it quick” kind of day.

University applications are driving me insane, because nobody will let me finish them – there’s a million channels I have to go through. My tutor is a Maths teacher. Helpful… but at least he means well. I terrified an old man who looked a bit like him whilst returning from the opticians, or what I prefer to think of as the woman with the massive eyes who really frightens me. I was twirling down an alleyway, kicking up leaves and singing along to Skint and Demoralised, when suddenly the song changed. And I entered the street. And, I’m sorry, but it is a crime not to sing along to the Smiths. So I took a leap, screaming about a charming man, and an old man rounded the corner looking quite concerned. I’m going to assume he thought I was being attacked and yelping for help – needless to say, the X factor will not be receiving an application from me. That said, I’m probably better than John and Edward.

Can’t believe John and Edward just made it onto my blog… kill me now. Not as bad as when I quoted ‘Wuthering Heights’ in general conversation today. I don’t even like that book, it’s infiltrating my brain. CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHY.

Oh crap. The cookies will be done.