Dads

So I wanted to dedicate this post to my Dad, and really Dad’s in general. This week my Dad’s autoimmune disease has decided to rear its ugly head again, and I was going to write a post on disease and doctors and all those depressing things. Then I realized I didn’t want the internet just to see my Dad as a sick man, I want you all to know how great he is, how much joy he has brought his family, how much joy he still brings, and will hopefully continue bringing for years to come.

When he came home from work when we were little he used to play with us the moment he was through the door, lifting us in the air and tickling us. If Mum told him we had been being naughty, he would try and be stern and it would last only a few minutes, before asking if we wanted to play hide and seek. We would go and hide while Dad got changed out of his work clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt, and he would then start the hunt, always saying the line from Jack and the beanstalk “Here I come…I smell the blood of an Englishman, be he alive or be he dead, I’ll have his bones to grind for my BREAD”. Generally as our hiding places were behind the curtains with our toes poking out, or in bed trying to be as flat as possible, he would then pounce on us on the word bread. I’m honestly surprised there were not more peeing incidents because when you heard those words you would be terrified, trying frantically to control your breathing so your fearful panting didn’t give you away, either that or the nervous giggling!

Another game he used to play with us was called ‘rocky balboa’ – a reference I never got until I was a lot older. Bath-time on Sunday’s used to be Dad’s job. Now mostly this must have been torture for him. He would have all three of us in the bath, and would first wash the baby before the weekly drama that was hair washing. The no tears shampoo was such a lie, and he was never that careful, meaning there was always a crying incident. We would then be wrapped in towels with our ‘hair towels’ over our eyes, and he would carry us (pretty much dripping wet) through the house. We would always ask where we were going and insist “we’re going to your room aren’t we Daddy?!” which he would deny, and we would, without fail, believe every week. He would then sit on the edge of my parents bed with one of us in each arm, and throw himself backwards then sit back up repeatedly, always saying “rocky” on the way down and “balboa” as he sat back up.  And how we laughed.

Another of his jobs was the bedtime story. Mum was good at stories, but she never did the voices, Dad did low voices for the baddies, noble voices for the goodies, and sometimes a high pitched squeal  for a princess in distress, which I know he would have been embarrassed about if anyone else had heard! His job was also to walk the dog. We have had a dog for most of my life – first Blue, then Star and now Sky. All German Shepherds because they’re my Dad’s favorite, despite (or perhaps because) the fact that they are all nutters! Anyway, this meant if you wanted to go for a walk too you could go with Dad. There’s never any pressure to talk with Dad, and if you went to walk the dog with him you were assured some quality time.

Although he wanted daughters and was overjoyed when he got three, I think he also would have been great with sons just from the relationship he has with his nephews. I was always proud that my Dad is obviously seen as the best uncle in the family. I think he will also be a brilliant Granddad  especially when you factor in the fact that he will be able to spoil them in a way he was never allowed to spoil us, and the fact that he will never have to discipline them! I also hope that one of us has twins, Dad always wanted twins, so I hope maybe one of us will give him twin grandchildren!

He’s not just a great dad/potential granddad either, but a good husband. In some ways he is too lazy and takes advantage of my Mum – he doesn’t really do much around the house, he can’t (and doesn’t even try to) cook. But he always remembers to make little gestures so my Mum feels like she is appreciated, and he is the king of surprises, he has taken her on mini-holidays before purposely not for an occasion just so she feels special. My parents met when they were in sixth form (17ish) and so in all their pictures you can see them literally grow up together. I know some people don’t get on with their inlaws, but my Mum’s family is literally my Dad’s family too. When he was in hospital the first time, the nurses believed my Mum’s Mum was my Dad’s Mum because she would visit him to often and treat him exactly as you would expect a woman to treat her son. My Dad is also pretty protective of my mum, if you say anything against her (in anger) he will defend her. You can joke about her bad habits, but if you say one word in anger or nastiness against her, he will get very angry at you.

He loves to ski, and still tries to keep up with me and my sisters. He also loves the same books as me, which is very useful as it means I can buy the first of a series, lend it to him, and he will then buy all the others to read! He is tall with green eyes, and thinning hair, which is sad because it used to be a mop. He is skinny, but with a weird kind of beer belly. I think his shape is caused by the mediation he is on because he goes jogging two or three times a week for about an hour and a half to two hours. He also loves Spurs football club and has supported them forever.

Sorry it was such an essay, but once I started writing some things, more things I could say about him just came flooding into my head, and the love I have for him started flowing into my heart. So if you are religious (any religion), please pray for him. If you are not, please have him in your thoughts.

 

 

#17 Fashion

So I know it’s been a long time since I have done a challenge post, but I thought this would be a great way to get me back into blogging regularly, plus an excellent way to procrastinate during revision season!

Lately I have seen a lot of fashion blogs cropping up, which may just be that I am noticing them more as opposed to everyone just sitting down at their computers and starting fashion blogs. Nonetheless, every other day there are pictures of girls (occasionally guys) in fashionable clothes posing, then comments about why the blogger likes it, why it works, where you can get it (or something similar).

I’ve personally never seen the fascination with fashion. Obviously having been a teenage girl it used to be very important which clothes I had hanging in my wardrobe, but never for my own benefit, only ever because I was worried what people at school would think of me. Nobody wants to be the girl who doesn’t fit in. Luckily like most schools in the UK my school had a uniform you had to adhere to, meaning the most choice you had was whether or not to wear socks or a jumper. Wearing either by the way was for some reason social suicide, meaning we all froze in winter, and boiled in summer. And of course in winter you were able (if you so wished) to pick out a ‘fashionable’ coat. Provided it was black or dark blue.

I guess this means I had it light really, as the only time I really had to worry about my clothes was when I was going out to meet my friends – when I was less bothered anyway as, lets face it, they already liked me! Non-uniform days were a mini-trauma, and I would have to go out and buy a new top in new look, but I never tried too hard, and I always blended in nicely, which was my aim.

Having gotten older the whole idea of fashion is now completely null to me. I now dress nicely when I actually want to like when going out, which I suppose is still partly because I want to ‘fit in’, but I don’t worry in the same way about what I am wearing, or who will judge me. If I feel good, then that’s enough for me. This apathy regarding fashion of course means that I don’t have a ‘style’ which seems to be a key word in all these fashion blogs. My style is ‘random’ or ‘found this in a sale and quite liked it’. I’m just not very good at putting things together, seeing what looks good etc., so I generally stick with my default fashion choice of jeans, boots (flats in summer..has anyone seen summer yet?!), a top, a cardigan/jumper/hoodie, and a coat/jacket. Done.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to say I’m ‘above’ fashion, or that the idea of being concerned about your clothes is childish or silly, merely that it is an alien world to me; just as the art world is an strange place for me. Indeed, I think it takes some real skill to know what looks good with what, and on whom, but for me sadly it seems I will never know these things!

 

Update

I’m so tired I can’t even think of a good title Pity and forgive me internet!

Despite my title being dismally boring however, it is accurate, this is an update on my life because I know this is what you wait all week for!

So I started going to CBT (cognitive-behavioral therapy) lecture thingies….most of the information I could have got off the internet if truth be told, and the rest is common sense. I was quite disappointed by this because as a psychology student we have looked at the application of CBT to a number of mental health issues, and it always seemed like a really good treatment on paper. I guess its useful in the way that it has reduced my feeling of loneliness though. I don’t mean this in the literal sense, though I suppose for some people going out and spending a couple of hours in a lecture would decrease their actual loneliness. But what I meant is that it’s reduced my loneliness in helping me realise that I’m not alone in feeling like this. Much as I wouldn’t wish what I feel sometimes on anyone, it is still a relief and comfort to know I’m not alone.

I had started taking St. Johns Wort again, and this time it actually helped in raising my mood a bit – I think my last attempt I was probably too down – its only meant for ‘low mood’ not actually depression. I have however stopped taking it again due to [men skip to the next paragraph here] issues with my cycle. I googled it and apparently it shouldn’t cause any changes, but the fact remains that I have been as regular as a clock in terms of timing and *cringe* flow since I was like 13, so I’m blaming the drug.

Welcome back menfolk (and any women who may also have been scared away). My work is also going a lot better, and I am managing to get a lot more done. It still worries me though how much other people are working. If I am now working at a slightly below average pace, other people are going at turbo speed. I’ve actually seen people working in lectures (as in, not related to the lecture we are in, but making notes for other modules); and my friend Alice is literally out of the house from 8 till 4 every day working in the library. Coupled with the sheer volume of work we have to learn, it makes me want to cry!

Does anyone else feel like this? Do other people at your college/university/school seem to become crazed revision machines too as soon as term 3 hits?! Also let me know if you have tried CBT and your experiences with it, I’m interested in seeing if other people share my views, or if maybe I feel this way because I’m a psychology student and maybe had way too optimistic ideas about it!

If I don’t hear from you in the comments, I should be posting again in a few days, I am trying to get back into writing regularly on here again (I know that’s what I always say, but I mean it this time!)

xxx

Deadlines abound

So its that time of the year again, assignment deadlines all seem to come at once and stress everyone out!I submitted my work for one of the assignments last week, and tomorrow is the deadline for our second year project. I have just printed out the hard copy, and sent my electronic copy to the university. Its done. And I’m not happy with it.

It seems like I’m not happy with any of my work at the moment, and that’s because most of it is rubbish. The lack of concentration I’m struggling with at the moment means that when you read my work you can practically see where I went into a daydream, where I gave up and crawled back into bed, and where I stopped to have a little cry.

The work I submit is disjointed and confused. But then, it is the product of my disjointed and confused mind.

I know that there are options for me: I could request an extension, but I don’t think that would have helped. I simply would have taken longer on it, with days between writing it, meaning it would probably be more disjointed than what I just submitted.

At the moment I am just hoping to pass.

The last piece of work I submitted I got 40% on. I have never scored so low in my whole life, and 40% by the way is the minimum pass mark, meaning I am now going to have to work twice as hard in the exam.

Strangely I don’t care that much.

I have this weird double emotion thing going on at the moment. I know what I am supposed to feel. Normal Sarah would be horrified at a 40% mark. She would be really upset, probably have a little cry, and vow to do much better the next time. But current Sarah, despite knowing what she should feel, just doesn’t seem to care.

Does anyone else ever have this? A doubling of emotions where you know that you should feel one emotion, yet you just don’t, so you have to pretend to everyone else?

Anyway, that’s all from me for now, sorry for the rant, I wanted to do a university themed post because I haven’t given you one in a while, but sadly even my posts are suffering at the moment. Any smidge of creativity I had has fled. Now my deadlines are over though I will try and recapture it, and should have a more interesting post for you in a few days. Until then x

I don’t even know

A teacher once told me that having asthma feels like an elephant sitting on your chest so you can’t breathe.

I think I have asthma of the soul.

University and Poetry

My apologies, this is a very random post, but if you can deal with  me jumping from topic to topic, read on dear friend!

So I have been back at university for a week now, and I’m pleased to say that I am no more blue than I was at home, which was a real worry to begin with. I have however started taking St.Johns Wort again because although I am blue I’m not as depressed as I was before, so I’m hoping now it help me rather than hinder. I have also signed up for group lectures on CBT…it means I don’t have to talk to anyone about stuff, but I still get NHS help which I’m hoping will be useful. The sad thing is that when I was depressed, it was so hard to even think of getting help, yet as you start to get better it is easier to seek the help you know you desperately need, which is when you don’t need it so badly.
Anyway, here’s hoping I’m out of the worst of it now.
The only main problem I have remaining is how to tell my friends I am going to be having therapy…even if it is group lectures. I know they will probably be supportive, and because we are all psychology students, they will know what it entails and its less of a big deal than with my other friends from home. But the problem remains that mental health still comes with a stigma.
(Advice welcome)

In other news it is now exam season, so I am mainly just working on writing up all my notes. My concentration still isn’t what it was, but my motivation is back again, so I feel I’m halfway there.

In another topic jump, I have started reading more poetry lately. It mainly came about because I was finding it hard to concentrate on reading the large chunks of text in books. At first I thought it was a real shame because I love reading fiction, but poetry in many senses is fiction…just shorter and encapsulating things fiction can’t.

The way I see it, prose has to use ‘everyday’ language more, or you get thrown out of the story. Poetry however seems to be specifically for those wonderful words writers all want to use. Poetry can also focus on the tiny little details of life, the things nobody normally notices, but if you were to read a book and it suddenly rambled on for a couple of pages about a skylark (Percy Shelley reference) you’d be thrown.

Anyways, I’m not an expert in poetry, and I only knew that I liked Carol Ann Duffy, Christina Rossetti and Maya Angelo. So I brought a book called ‘one hundred favorite poems’ to set me off (as well as ‘rapture’ by Carol Ann Duffy). I must say, I think it was an excellent choice. I don’t like poems where I have to work to understand what the poet means a lot of the time, I don’t have the patience and I find it frustrating. Luckily the people who compiled this book of poems seemed to mostly share my sentiment and I would now like to share with you some of my new favourite poems which I highly recommend you give a read – most of them aren’t long, I promise!

1. My Busseductress by Roger McGough – this is a really funny one 
2. Jenny kissed me by Leigh Hunt – short and oh-so-sweet!
3. The Lost Love – William Wordsworth – the title really sums this one up
4. Leisure by W.H Davies – most of you will know this one, even if you don’t know you know it
5. Father William – Lewis Carroll – another hilarious one
6. Snake by D.H Lawrence – this one is slightly longer, and sort of.. pensive
7. The nightmare – W.S. Gilbert – sort of funny in a surreal kind of way
8. Mad dogs and Englishman – Noel Coward – another funny one, especially if you are British.
9. Abou Ben Adhem – Leigh Hunt – the title initially put me off too, but its not hard to understand, I promise. This one really makes you think, I won’t say any more for fear of ruining it
10. Sea Fret – Nigel Forde – great summery poem, and again, funny

So there you go, if any of you want to look them up, it will make me feel like my list was worthwhile Also if you have any poetry recommendations (bearing in mind my impatience) please let me know in the comments below – I’m on poem 33/100 (counting down) and I don’t want to be stuck for things to read in 33 poems time!

Sorry for the randomness of this post, and until next time folks x

Hell is the hairdressers

Is it just me who hates the hairdressers? I fear it may be, because whenever I go in there all the other women seem to be having a ball, while I awkwardly stumble about trying not to flick people with my recently washed hair.

As you may have guessed, today I went to the hairdressers, and it was a far from pleasant experience.

First of course, I had to phone them to make an appointment, which is a trauma in itself. I think it must also only be me who fears using phones, though it might also extend to the rest of the internet generation. Anyway, having carefully written down on a piece of paper vital information I might need (AKA how to start the conversation: Hello, I was wondering if you have any appointments free for today or tomorrow?); and having checked I couldn’t just make an appointment online, I called them up. Having hung up after it had rung twice because I got scared, my second attempt was more successful  and I stammered through the exchange, my mouth going dry when they asked me what treatment I wanted. Luckily the woman on the other end of the phone seemed to sense the terror in my silence, and kindly asked ‘just a wash and cut’? Though to be honest, I would have agreed to anything she had said at that point, even if it was ‘a full head shave?’.

Then the actual hairdressers.

It actually all started out quite well, except the small hiccup when I couldn’t figure out how to shut the door behind me again. I managed to nervously communicate what I wanted done, and then plodded over to the washing basins, being very careful not to bash my head against the sink. Then began the idle chatter. I detest idle chatter, and so while she chattered away about holidays and other stereotypical hairdresser conversations, I considered whether anyone had ever created a mute hairdressers. I think its a great idea personally, their slogan could be ‘We cut your hair in comfortable silence’. She also decided to ask me what hair products I normally use, meaning I had to blurt out the first name which came to my head (L’oreal), despite the fact that I just grab whichever shampoo is cheapest in Tesco at the time of my purchase.

Anyway, once my hair was washed she left me sitting with my head in the sink with conditioner in my hair for a few minutes. While I understand the logic of this, and it is what I do at home, those chairs are not the most comfortable, and I was aware that everyone walking past must have been able to see up my nose. So naturally I was relieved when she returned to wash it out because my neck was starting to really ache. Sadly the ordeal wasn’t quite over, because then she started giving me a weird head massage thing…luckily it only lasted a few minutes, and then I got the joys of having my hair cut.

Now I can practically hear you cry: “what else can possibly go wrong?!” or rather “what other minor things can you possibly complain about?”. Don’t you worry my friends, there’s plenty more.

Now those who know me in ‘real life’ (always makes me laugh that phrase, what is the internet, imaginary?!) know that I am short. I haven’t grown (vertically) since I was 12. I kid you not. This of course led to the poor hairdresser having to bump my hair up a million times once I had sat down, which I fear was embarrassing for both of us.

Anyway, most times when I have my hair cut they don’t wash it very carefully, by which I mean they let it get very tangled. Now this is a major problem for me, as my hair is really curly, meaning many a hair dresser has found him/herself unable to then get a brush through it.

Luckily my hairdresser this time (I don’t go enough to have a regular hairdresser, and I always ask for the graduates because they are cheaper) has curly hair herself, so was careful. And, I hate to admit it, but leaving the conditioner in probably did help. So I was really happy because that is normally the worst part of the whole hair-cutting experience.

Sadly, I was wrong. A few weeks ago I got the top of my ear pierced, and at the weekend I changed the earing to a small hoop. I’m sure you all know where I’m going with this. Comb + hoop = pain. It really was my own fault for not switching it before going really, but then I had to lie and say it was fine, it hadn’t hurt at all, when in reality it was really stinging.  It also meant when I got home I had to steralise a new earing (using my 4 for £1 lighter from poundland) and kind of re-pierce my ear, because the earing was going in the front hole, but not coming out of the back. I have a bad feeling its going to get infected.

Anyway, now in pain, I was kindly offered a drink. This really annoys me, why on earth would I ask for a cuppa when obviously what is going to happen is that hair is going to fall in it?! Anyway, the worst now over, I quietly sat and endured the ‘head forward’, ‘head backwards’ ‘face this way’ commands. I was also momentarily traumatized hen I saw what they did with the swept up hair. I always presumed they would whack out a dustpan and brush and put it all in a bin somewhere, but in a far creepier turn of events, the girl just brushed it all into a downstairs cupboard to join what I presume was the rest of the day’s hair cuttings. I really hope at the end of the day they throw it all away!

Anyway, having nodded and smiled and said the word ‘lovely!’ in a far too enthusiastic voice when shown the back of my head, I was finally free to leave. The receptionist helped me into my jacket, meaning naturally I fumbled for the arm holes while smiling apologetically. She then asked me if I wanted to book another appointment as if she hadn’t noticed how short I had had it cut, which was specifically so that I wouldn’t have to return for a very long time!

Then to complete my day, I got caught in a thunderstorm, hail and all, turning my newly cut hair into a wet matted mass around my head.

Let me know if you too find the hairdressers traumatizing, or if you are one of the women (or men) who seem to be having  a ball in there. Until next time folks x