Monthly Musings: September!

Do you ever have one of those months that just feels like a brick in the face? That was how September was for me. Don't get me wrong, it was a great month. My birthday is in September and I got a new job, I finally managed to catch up on Game of Thrones (although I have no idea what I'm meant to do with my life until the next season comes out!) and the weather was uncharacteristically pleasant.   

But boy was it intense! One minute it was the first week of the month and I was happily knocking back Jack Daniels and blowing out birthday candles and now all of a sudden it's October and I've somehow become a sleep-deprived business woman who can barely account for the last three weeks of her life. 

But, whether I can make sense of it or not, September is over and it's time for some monthly musings!

Obsession of the month...

This month I have been obsessively listening to Charlie Puth and Meghan Trainor's new song, 'Marvin Gaye'. On repeat. Sometimes for hours on end. Of the 73 million views the video has had on Youtube, 10,000 or so of them are probably mine. Yes I'm aware that I could just download the song on Itunes, but that would be far too logical. That's simply not how I roll.

Accomplishment of the month...

This month my greatest accomplishment was getting myself a fancy new grown up job, which involves wearing blouses, pretending I know how to use an Ipad, and occasionally popping into London and getting utterly lost on the Tube. I never thought I'd end up in the corporate world (being more into rainbows and smiles than pie charts and firm handshakes) but I guess that's the beauty of my bizarre little life. There is absolutely no knowing where I'll end up next.

Thing I am most ashamed of this month...

As part of my fancy new job I got a fancy new company car. The low point of the month was definitely getting stuck outside Dominos Pizza for 15 minutes because I couldn't work out how to put the car into reverse. #epicfail

Book of the month...

The book I've been slowly but surely working my way through this month (and will no doubt be working my way through for a good few months to come) is Middlemarch by George Eliot. Now don't get me wrong, I love Victorian novels. I don't mind getting entangled in the enormous descriptive passages or trying to keep tabs on the seemingly never-ending cast of characters (yes, Dickens, that one was aimed at you). But so far Middelmarch hasn't really grabbed my attention and the next 636 are looking pretty daunting right now. Wish me luck.

Youtuber of the month...

I've been subscribed to Stepanka for a long time now, but for the last few weeks I've been binge-watching her videos like some kind of weird stalker. Maybe I find comfort in knowing there's someone out there who seems to end up in as many random and bizarre circumstances as I do. But if you enjoy my weird and wonderful annecdotes then you'll probably love her channel.

Things ticked off The 2015 List...

An accurate depiction of how I currently look/feel

This month I continued the theme of accomplishing absolutely nothing on The 2015 List. I'm nothing if not consistent after all.

Next month I will aim to...

Fit in some time to sleep! This month has been so hectic that the bags under my eyes have become a permanent feature, so deeply engrained that there's not enough concealer in the world to help me. Trust me, I've already gone through a whole bottle!

Bethan's Birthday Bowling Bonanza (and other B words)

This week my friend, Bethan, turned 23. The same Bethan I travelled Europe with. The Bethan who got head-butted by a horse in Berlin, forced a drunken Irish man to take off his top and bench-press a keg in a nightclub in Prague, and is always my first choice for karaoke partner. Yes, that's the one.

To celebrate we went bowling. It's difficult to say which of us is the worst at bowling. Bushell seems to score quite highly. but that's only because we keep the rails up and he ricochets the balls off them. Hayleigh is particularly good at aiming her ball at small spaces where there are no pins to knock down. For my part, I repeatedly start off well, all strikes and spares, only to totally lose all control of my arms during the second half of the game, sending the bowling balls off in weird directions and eventually coming last out of everyone.

Actually, as far as the first game goes, I blame my failure purely on the garlic bread I was eating. I was too afraid to set it down when my turn came around in case one of my friends ate it or hid it somewhere weird so I took it along with me.  Unfortunately my brain couldn't grasp the idea that my right hand needed to release what it was holding (the bowling ball) whilst my left hand needed to keep a firm grip on what it was holding (the garlic bread) so I ended up throwing them both.

Naturally, as it was a celebratory occasion, we had some drinks. We each had one free drink as part of our package (along with chicken nuggets, burgers, fries, and all kind of glorious junk food) and, when I went to the bar to get my second I asked the barman, "What would be the difference between a Bells and a Jack Daniels?" (Look at me, being all frugal!)
The barman misunderstood, thinking I meant, what's the difference between these two different kinds of whiskeys. Really? I was wearing a Jack Daniels t-shirt and cowboy boots. This girl knows her whisky!
"No," I said. "I mean, the difference in price."

I did not add, "Anyone with taste-buds would know Bells is a scotch, while Jack Daniels is a Tennessee sour mash, most comparable to a bourbon."
As it turns out they were the same price (when does that ever happen?) so no prizes for guessing which I opted for.

When bowling was over (needless to say I lost both games) we went on an adventure. Or rather, we almost went on an adventure. We drove out to an old abandoned police station, sat in the cars discussing whether or not to go in, and eventually decided it was way too scary and drove away again.

But, creepy-horror-movie-type moment aside, it was a really fun evening. The only thing that could have possibly made it better is karaoke (although I don't know many places that combine bowling and karaoke). So happy birthday Bethan! Here's hoping you don't get too drunk this weekend.

Graduation Day: Stupid Hats, Free Champagne and Floella Benjamin

I am now officially Aimee Wellington BA. I've graduated from one of the best universities in the country and have an excessive amount of photos of me in a stupid hat to prove it. It hasn't been easy. Over the past three years I've dealt with grimy student housing, cried at my dissertation supervisor on at least three occasions, threatened to drop out, threatened to never come home, overcome the torture that is first year Approaches to Criticism, and have faced a world of people who wear Jack Wills and say things like "ciao ciao darlings" on a daily basis. On the flip side I've also befriended some fellow loons, learned some excellent drinking games, had some of the best and most ridiculous memories of my life so far, and survived freshers week three years in a row. But where did the time go?

On Tuesday afternoon my mother, father, brother and I packed into the car to head down to Exeter. Of course Rob got shotgun because he's the golden child. My mother claimed it was because he's significantly taller than me, but I'm not convinced. We stayed in a hotel overnight. Graduation was starting at 9am on Wednesday and my butt had to be in my seat at 8:30am so alarm clocks were set (with heavy hearts) for 5:45am. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad, but a certain someone (I won't name names) snored all night long so loudly that even with my sound-proof earphones in and iphone turned up to full volume, the hideous snorting noises kept me up most of the night.

So Wednesday morning I was back on campus, being pinned into my robes (I will never understand why the robes and the hood come separately when it would save a lot of time and safety-pin related injuries if they were attached) and trying to keep my hat on properly. It felt surreal. Surely it wasn't time to graduate and leave Exeter already? It felt like I'd only just started university and here I was about to finish. But, on the grand scale of things it could have been worse. Because the people graduating from masters courses had hats even more ridiculous than mine.

The ceremony itself was fantastic. That was mostly down to the fact that the chancellor of the university is Floella Benjamin, ex-children's TV star and all round just an entirely amazing and highly flamboyant lady. Plus, the woman is sixty five and clearly has not aged a day since her days singing nursery rhymes on the BBC back in the 70s.

Whereas in a lot of graduation ceremonies, graduands are called up in groups of three of four, shake hands with the chancellor and scurry back off stage, in Exeter we get called up one by one, get embraced by Floella who then looks lovingly into each students' eyes and gives some words of wisdom. Rumour has it she whispers something different to every person, but I can't see how that can possibly be true. Either way, when it was my turn to go up on stage I all but threw myself into Floella's arms. She is simply a legend. And her hugs are amazing.

When the ceremony was over and everyone had managed to walk across the stage and hug Floella without falling, the brass band started up and we got clapped out of the Great Hall, which was unexpected. Then I met up with my parents and Rob. My dad was actually a little teary-eyed and, wonder of wonders, to the surprise of all, my mother shooed Rob out of the way so she could get a picture of me. If I'd known all I needed was a BA to knock him off the golden child pedestal, I wouldn't have bothered with my gap year before uni. 

Photos were followed by an abundance of free champagne and cupcakes at the reception. Every time a glass started to look empty someone would appear to top it up, which my mother highly appreciated.

It was at this point that my brother opened the envelope I'd been presented with in the ceremony.
"This is empty." He said.
It's really annoying, but I missed an exam in January and have to take it in August so I can't get my hands on my actual degree until then. Still, it seems a bit random that they'd just give me the empty envelope.

Then, when we'd consumed more than enough champagne, we took a stroll around campus to take even more photos. At some point my mother got hold of the camera and seemed to genuinely believe she was a professional photographer. 
"Ok, tip your head at an angle slightly."
"Oooh, go and lean up against that wall. No, the other way."
"Go and stand behind that tree and kind of peak around from behind it."
"Now lay across that boulder."
I was, during this whole performance, weighed down by the weight of my robes and trudging around in the heat of the sunshine in a black cloak.

But once several hundred photos had been taken in various places with my head tipped at various angles, we headed to Chaucer's, my absolute favourite restaurant in Exeter where I ate so much cheesy chicken with bacon I thought I was going to explode out of my graduation dress. They had a deal on. Buy two classes of wine and get the rest of the bottle free. So my mother and brother got a bottle of wine...each. It made for an interesting mealtime. It was 2pm.

On the way back to the car Rob suddenly stopped in front of the Body Shop.
"Do they sell £1 candles here?" He asked and wandered inside.
"...It's a cosmetics shop." I told him. "Wilkinsons is just around the corner."
"No, no. The moment has passed."
I still have no idea what that moment actually was.

Then, when it was time for my family to leave, they dropped me off at my student house and told me again how proud they were of me because I'm the first Wellington to get a degree. And from the University of Exeter of all places. My mother was particularly enthusiastic. In fact, she kind of squished my face...in a loving way.

"I've never told you this, but before you were born, I went to a physic. She told me not to have you because you'd bring me misery and regret. But look at you! You haven't!"
...Thanks?

And then they drove off into the sunset, returning fifteen minutes later because I'd left my dress for the graduation ball in the back of the car. They loved me slightly less then.

Since then I've spent the last two days trying to cram three years worth of rubbish into boxes and tomorrow I leave behind student life for good. It's gone so quickly. Too quickly. I'm not ready to leave! That said, I'm bored of living off microwavable rice so maybe it's for the best.

Life After the Dissertation

I've been back in Exeter for an entire week now and I have the dwindling bank balance and bags under my eyes to prove it. There has been an abundance of cocktails, many bad life choices (I have no idea why I insist on taking advice from strangers I meet in the girls' toilets) and many days like today, curled up in my bed of shame, watching 'Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse' on my brother's Netflix account.

But, while many of my post-dissertation celebrations have involved tacky, overpriced Exeter night clubs and hidden hip-flasks, my housemates and I have found other forms of entertainment over the last few days. Of course, when you live in Devon it's sometimes necessary to think outside the box. The most exciting thing we could find within an hour's drive was a hedgehog hospital, which, if anything, would surely make for a very depressing day out. So, when we decided to seek out fun on Tuesday it was...varied.

"...our cultural adventure..."

I was forced out of my bed of pain at an unearthly hour to go to Brody's all you can eat breakfast buffet. Usually I'm not a big fan of buffets (or salad bars for that matter), but I loved it! Up until the point where I'd eaten so much that it hurt to breathe. It wasn't quite on par with the breakfast buffet I had in Florida (then again, does anyone really need ice-cream for breakfast?), but it was delicious. There is no such thing as too many pancakes.

After a brief time of resting my head on the table with a glazed stare, too full to move or communicate in any way, we headed across the road to the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. I can't say I learned a great deal, but they had costumes to try on and mosaics to play with so it was a big hit with everyone. I particularly enjoyed the World Cultures exhibition, which was a bit like being on the It's a Small World ride in Disneyland. But without the boat. Or the cool music.

When our cultural adventure was over we decided the logical thing to do next was to splurge on white clothing to take home and tie-dye! Let me just say, I had no idea Primark pants was so large. I now have four pairs of enormous tie-dyed knickers, which really aren't in any way as cool as I'd envisioned.

What a great way to pass an afternoon though! Yes, Jess may have dipped her hand into the bucket of purple dye without her glove on and stained her fingers. Yes, we may have forgotten to take the clothes off the washing line before the rain started and made all the dye run. And yes, to anyone walking past our conversations on why whites are easier to work with than blacks may have sounded like the ravings of a group of racists rather than the innocent discussions of a merry band of crafters with fabric dye. But now I have a new skill, some unique t-shirts and some hideous giant pants. Overall I'd call that a success.

I'm glad I have housemates who enjoy a day of trying on ridiculous hats and flicking dye onto pillowcases. How boring it must be to be normal! 

Rumour has it next week we're going to paint mugs!

Nil Pois and an Excessive Amount of Wandering

My favourite way to spend Eurovision night is sat in front of the tv with my dad, arguing over whether or not half the countries even exist and resorting to pulling out the atlas, which never settles anything because it's so old it still has the USSR in it. I will expose my worrying lack of geographical awareness ("Wait, I thought Belgium was the capital of Holland...") and we will give a running commentary on everything...including the running commentary.

This year was different. My friend, Shaun, was hosting a fundraiser so I spent this Eurovision night in the local golf club, taking part in a drinking game that rendered me useless before half the performances had happened. Drink every time someone winks at the camera, there's someone on stage doing something pointless in the background, Russia gives points to the Ukraine...it was intense.

So I wasn't surprised when I ended up in a taxi on the way to Swansea at half past midnight. I was in no way shocked when I found myself having an in-depth and weirdly emotional conversation in the women's toilets about a girl's choice of lipstick colour. I wasn't even flummoxed when I looked up from my Jack Daniel's to find all my friends had been kicked out of Bambu. But I still can't grasp how I came to end up in the smoking area of Monkey, consoling a random man about his recent breakup. But here are the facts as I know them.

I had, in front of me, a free drink. (Note to my mother, yes I watched the bar tender pour it and no I did not take my eyes off it for a second.) To my left was a good-looking man who, from the outset, appeared to be somewhat of a compulsive liar.
"I work here." He said. It was entirely plausible.
"Oh, at the bar?"
"No, I'm a bouncer."
I tried to remember which shoes I was wearing so I could do a quick calculation of how tall he was. Not very.
"Oh, you don't look big and bald and scary enough to be a bouncer."
He laughed it off. Later I found out he was a promotions worker.

Nonetheless, we had a good time. Then I realised that the club was closing and everyone else was missing. There was, at the back of my mind, a vague memory of a search party going after Jonny and Hayleigh walking past me, telling me they'd been told to leave. Even now, I have no idea what any of that meant, but I knew then that they'd gone to Monkey. Whatever that was.

"You have to take me to Monkey." I told Mr Bouncer.
His friends did not look impressed. One of them had just broken up with his girlfriend and looked like he'd rather chew his own arm off than go to another club. 
"I have no idea where it is and I can't go wandering around Swansea on my own."

So we headed off. Me, Mr Bouncer, Mr Heartbroken and...some other guy. It wasn't until we got to Monkey that he earned himself the nickname Mr Forgot-my-ID. And so, following a barrage of complex conversations and assurances, I ended up in the smoking area with Mr Heartbroken, leaving angry and probably very confusing messages on each of my friends' answering machines. From here things went from unusual to plain weird.

There I was, giving my best drunk love advice to a stranger who clearly wanted to be anywhere else, waiting for some sign of any of my friends or even Mr Bouncer, when a random man sat down on the other side of me. He explained, in great detail, that it was his birthday and he was all alone and in need of a friend. As much as my sensitive heart felt sorry for him, he gave off a bit of a crazy vibe. I looked to Mr Heartbroken to do something, but he seemed too relieved by the fact that I was no longer lecturing him on the downfall of chivalry to shoo away this new guy.

Luckily, all at once, a very odd phone call from Hayleigh confirmed they had somehow made their way down to a gay club I'd never heard of, and Mr Bouncer arrived.
"You have to take me to the gay club." I told him.
"What?"
"My friends are there and I have no idea where it is."
Suddenly the birthday boy piped up and offered to take me.
"No offence," Said Mr Bouncer. "But I don't know who you are and I don't feel comfortable sending her off alone with you." I didn't point out the fact that I'd only met him two hours before.

I very rarely get hit on and, when I do, it throws me a little bit. So try to imagine how awkward it was, heading off to a gay club with a man on either side of me, vying for my attention.
"I just bought a new car."
"I have a convertible."
"I take three holidays a year."
"I'm going to China this summer."
Oh goodness, I just want Hayleigh!

Right in the midst of what was becoming an intense struggle for alpha male status, I spotted my friends on the other side of the street. I'm not entirely sure they'd even noticed I'd been missing for the past few hours. They all seemed very merry.

So I thanked my escorts, who were still quibbling about who could out-do the other, apologised for the drama I'd caused and jumped in a taxi with Hayleigh. The moral of this story is...don't get lost. And if you do, don't try to give love advice to strangers. Always carry a rape alarm. And don't believe a man when he tells you he's a bouncer. If your friends go missing, check the gay bar first and always, always wear a good shade of lipstick.

I guess next year I'll just stay at home with my dad and the old atlas.

There's No Place Like Home

It's been a while since I last wrote a post. I've been slowly sinking in a pool of despair and MLA referencing, but I'm officially half-way through my dissertation and the end is finally in sight. I'd planned out the entire month of April to ensure I had half a hope of retaining what was left of my sanity. The plan was to spend the first two weeks at my desk until I had at least a solid first draft, to go back home to Wales the next week and force everyone to proof read it, and then spend the last week sleeping soundly, minus the looming prospect of antebellum-themed nightmares.

I made it to the 3rd of April before I abandoned that plan entirely and booked a train ticket home.

I decided to be very sneaky about the whole thing and surprise my loving parents by turning up on their doorstep two weeks early. So, last Saturday, after five hours of public transport and a taxi ride, I burst through the front door, ready to spread joy.

"Surprise! Your favourite child is home!"

My father, who had been napping on the sofa, looked like he was caught somewhere between thrilled and terrified. My mother appeared at the top of the stairs a few seconds later and merely said,

"Shh! Your brother's sleeping."

Clearly the favourite child had been there all along and was currently sleeping off his night shift in my bed.

As much as I wanted to collapse on the sofa, enjoying the novelty of warmth and cleanliness (student houses are grim to say the least), it was my cousin's 18th birthday party that night. I had just enough time to stick some rollers in and don some fabulous shoes.

Family gatherings are always eventful, but they are downright dangerous when Dave the Laugh, my older cousin's boyfriend, is there. He lurks around the house, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop in and top up your drink, which sounds great, but, in reality, borders on deadly. On this particular night it led me to declare,

"I'm going to town!"

I do NOT look like the older cousin...

Yes, I was going to crash my little cousin's first night out. And in Station Road of all places. I have plenty of good memories of Station Road. But I was 16 then. And fishbowls were on sale.

Totally unprepared for a night out and two and a half bottles of wine worse off when I thought I'd only gone through one, I had to borrow a handbag. And a phone. And money. But off I went with my cousin and her friends, totally oblivious to the fact that I had somehow become the uncool, old person.

Thankfully, I wasn't the only uncool, old person in Station Road that night. Hayleigh was there with some of our friends. I wish I could describe the level of gleeful screeching that occurred when we spotted each other at the bar. I imagine it's the kind of noise you'd expect to hear if dolphins were reunited after 20 years apart. Dolphins on crack. And perhaps even more shrill than that.

It wasn't long before my cousin had ditched me (I swear, I used to be cool!) and Hayleigh and I ended up in a bizarre after-party in a nearby hotel. It wasn't so much a party as a random collection of people arguing over which drinking game to play while I insisted on slurring through stories about last year's adventures in Europe. All I know is, a Scottish man was wrapped in a blanket and there was an excessive amount of gin.

And, in a nutshell, that's the story of how, on my first night back in Wales, I turned up on my parents' doorstep at 4am and came to spend the entire following day curled up in a ball, cursing Dave the Laugh.


But, before I go back to my cave of despair and dissertation-writing, I'm going to do a little shameless self-promotion. I've set up a Youtube channel (yes, in spite of my technophobia) dedicated to me talking about beauty products, and generally making a fool of myself in front of the camera. So here's my latest video if you want to take a peek.

And, because I have such little faith in my ability to actually use the computer, I'll post the link to the channel...just in case.

Youtube Channel

I Removed my Face for a Good Cause. Next Time I'm Drinking Cocktails...

So far, it's been a pretty average week. On the weekend I went for a glass of wine with Jess and Kirsty and ended up stumbling home at 4am after a night of dancing, hiding our coats in condiments draws to avoid cloakroom charges, and getting into the most bizarre arguments with middle aged women in fancy dress who don't understand that Northern Ireland is a country. For the rest of the week I have been pretty much banging my head against useless textbooks and trying to form a 3,000 word chapter for my dissertation out of the 3 convoluted bullet points I have.

But this week has been somewhat out of the ordinary. For a reason I at first could not understand, dozens of makeupless selfies started to clog up my Facebook newsfeed. Initially I was confused, partly because I didn't recognise any of the faces staring out of the pictures at me (apparently, I'm not the only one who looks like a completely different person without my customary 5 layers of makeup on). But it quickly became clear what was happening. Snap a picture of yourself sans makeup, upload it to Facebook, nominate your friends (or enemies), and donate £3 to Cancer Research UK.

Once that was cleared up, my confusion quickly turned to terror. This thing was spreading faster than the plague. Eventually it would find me and, as the day progressed and the number of selfies doubled, then tripled on my newsfeed, I knew it wouldn't be long before a nomination came my way.

It was waiting for me when I woke up the next day. And so was a spot on the end of my nose. Because having to expose your naked face to the world isn't bad enough. But I did it. I won't lie, it was a challenge. I don't have great self esteem. Yes, I'll walk into a room and talk to anyone. Yes, I'll be the last one dancing when they turn the lights on in Arena at the end of the night. And yes, I do insist on wearing ridiculous fancy dress costumes whenever possible. But ask me to take my makeup off or tie my hair into a pony tail and expose my Dumbo ears and I freak out. Welcome to my inner crazy.

But what really surprised me were all the negative comments. Not about my naked face, although there are probably a few of those floating around the place. About the campaign itself. I've read articles about how this trend won't achieve anything, Facebook statuses about how stupid
the idea is, and, of course, numerous male comments stating, "seeing as it's for Breast Cancer, why don't you just get your boobs out?" Original.

But the last I read, the Cancer Research text line was overrun with people making donations and the campaign raised over £1 million pound in 24 hours. I may not enjoy posting a picture of my real face online and I doubt anyone out there enjoys looking at it, but this crazy random idea has done a lot of good. But I would appreciate it if the next campagin was something less scarring. Like, "Nominate 3 friends to go grab a coktail and donate money to Cancer Research." In fact, let's just make that a thing right now.

"What goes with pyjama bottoms?" "Shame!"

Five minutes ago there was a knock on my bedroom door. I crawled to the door on my hands and knees (naturally). It was my housemate, Iona.
"I just read your blog from start to finish and I really like it. I think you should write another post soon."
I was both touched by her compliment and impressed by her procrastination skills.
"Thanks," (still on my knees) "I want to write one, but I've just been so boring lately doing my dissertation. I don't know what I'd write about."
When she left and I crawled back to my pilates (which was my own form of procrastination and the reason I was crawling around the room), I realised that, in fact, my weekend had been far from boring and now is the perfect opportunity to write my next blog post...and procrastinate by doing so.

What started out as dinner with Kirsty and her parents on Friday night ended with me walking home through puddles with no shoes on at 2am with Sophie and Jess. I have a knack for spreading the evening out.

It was Emma, from Wasting Tuition Fees', birthday. I only realised when I was on my way out the door to go to dinner, but I'm not one to pass up an opportunity for a cocktail or seven so, after stuffing my face with the world's best chicken in mushroom sauce, I headed over to Monkey Suit, which is one of my favourite places in Exeter because they know exactly how to make a strawberry daiquiri, a skill which is often overlooked in life.

I told Sophie and Jess I'd meet them there so I was alone when I got to the entrance.
"Are you just coming in for a drink?" Asked the bouncer.
"No...I'm going to a party."
"Whose party?"
"Emma's"
"And how old is Emma?"
I stopped and stared blankly, partly because this interrogation seemed somewhat unnecessary and partly because at that moment, I couldn't even remember how old I was.
"22. No. 21. 22. Wait. No. I'm 22. So she must be...I'm just so confused."
But my confusion was obviously believable because in I went.

By the time Sophie and Jess got there I was three cocktails better off and already had a wristband for queue jump at Timepiece, despite the fact that it was originally going to be a 'just one drink and then home so I can get up for the library tomorrow' affair. Fast-forward to us heading home in the early hours with me carrying my shoes, something that simply does not occur in my life. I once kept my shoes on all night despite the fact that my feet were bleeding and yet here I was splashing through the puddles, high heels in hand, like some kind of shoe-novice.

"I feel no shame."

But, as much fun as we had that night, it was the next day that inspired me to write this post. Having point blank refused to leave my bed all morning, I assumed the others had made it to the library. Imagine my surprise when Sophie popped up on Facebook chat.
"Have you got any self raising flour? I need cookies."
What a genius idea! Cookies were exactly what we needed. And so I made the most productive move of the day thus far and moved from my bed to Sophie's bed.

So Sophie, Jess and I sat on Sophie's bed, each at various levels of exhaustion and all still wearing our pjs and last night's eyeliner. It was a serious issue, trying to decide what treats we needed. We could make cookies, but we had no chocolate chips. We could make cake, but deep down we all wanted cookies. There was ice cream, but no brownies. The odds were seriously stacked up against us.

At last there was no alternative, but to head to Londis in our pjs, hair unkempt, eyes bloodshot, faces unmade. There was a bizarre moment before we left when Sophie couldn't decide which shoes to wear.
"We're in pyjamas. I don't even have a bra on. I don't think it matter which shoes you wear."
"It's just...what goes with pyjama bottoms?"
"...Shame."
We simply needed chocolate chips. And it was worth wandering the streets in my Mickey Mouse pyjama bottoms to stuff my face with cookies...and cookie dough....and ice cream...and Dorritos. Because sometimes, when you simply can't face another day of reading about the antebellum South, the only thing to do is to lie in bed and eat and week's worth of calories.

I feel no shame. It was amazing.

The Beacon in Wales: Part 2

I didn't intend to keep you in suspense for so long, but this week has been challenging to say the least. We aren't even a month into 2014 and I've been hit with a kidney infection, the horror of navigating the university mitigation process, some kind of strange stress induced rash on my hands, and, when all was said and done, I was too ill to sit the exam anyway. Now I'll have to come all the way back up to Exeter in August to sit it. As you can imagine, I'm currently writing this through the haze of last night's Scotch. I cried, I drank, I watched Mulan, and now I feel somewhat better.

"Why did I agree to come here?"

Anyway, this is not going to be a 'woe is me' post. This is picking up from where I left off in my last post. The Beacon and I had checked out of our hotel and were heading to my parents' house in Port Talbot. One of the striking things about approaching from Port Talbot from the east is that the first thing you're hit with is the sight of the steelworks. Unless, that is, you are hit with the smell first. For anyone who lives there it's a strangely comforting sight. "Yes! Home at last." For everyone else it must be slightly disturbing. "Why did I agree to come here?"

The Beacon only said that it was strange that people lived right next door to it. And right next door to the motorway. And in houses that seemed to be built practically on top of one another. In Wales our houses are generally small and squashed together. We're only a teeny tiny country after all.

Once the Beacon had been introduced to my parents and shown to the 'spare room' (which is so small that once he put his suitcase in there all the floor space vanished), we sat down in the living room and my parents tried to give off an air of normality. My mother was talking in her telephone voice so the Beacon would have half a chance of deciphering her accent.

That evening we went to the local pub, the Tyn y Twr, or 'tiny tour' if you're the Beacon. It was there that the Beacon first met my brother.
"Bonjour!"
Great, he's drunk.
I had to later assure the Beacon that it wasn't just the accent. In fact, none of us had understood very much of what he'd said. But such is the beauty of New Year I guess.

"we were very cultured"

The next day we were very cultured and went to the Penderyn Distillery for a tour of Wales' only distillery. I would highly recommend it. It was cheap to get in, it was interesting, the staff were lovely (obviously, they were Welsh) and the free samples at the end were in no way stingy. The only downside was the Beacon constantly asking me to translate the Welsh signs into English, despite the fact that there was already an English translation printed below. And I haven't spoken Welsh since I finished school. My brain didn't seem to understand what I was trying to make it do.

We were intending to continue along the cultural side of things the next day, but the mine in The Big Pit was under construction and it was too wet, windy, and cold to venture to St Fagans so we went to see the new Disney film, Frozen, instead. Not particularly Welsh admittedly, but it was so great. Even though we were the oldest people there. And the bad weather had messed with the ventilation systems in the cinema. I'm sure the cold would have been more bearable if we weren't watching a film about snow. As it was, even with my coat and scarf on, I felt like I had somehow become part of the film.

That night my parents threw a party. There was no way they could convincingly disguise the fact that it was in fact an excuse for my entire nosy family to meet the Beacon up close and personal, but he handled it very well. Even when my mother's friend got drunk and told him she loved him...4 times. And when my niece wrapped herself around his leg and refused to let go. It takes a special kind of person to make it through these kinds of family functions with their sanity still in tact. I barely made it myself, having to crawl into bed at 3am while my auntie and the Beacon continued to discuss why the Americans consider the Brits rude and why we, in turn, perceive them as slightly crazy.

The next day was questionably even stranger. We visited my brother's house, where my niece, still at the height of her affections, would not let the Beacon out of her sight and randomly adopted an American accent. Then of course, she donned her Toddlers and Tiaras dress I made her for Christmas and danced to Eden Wood songs for 20 minutes, insisting that we "keep watching" and "act surprised".

That night we went to Cinnamon, which is a fairly new Indian restaurant near where I live. The food is amazing and it would have been nice to take a romantic stroll along the seafront afterwards. As is was, we valued our lives too much. The weather was like something out of The Day After Tomorrow. So we just headed home.

And all too quickly came Sunday 5am and a trip back to Bristol airport. Luckily this time my father drove, but the Beacon refused to let me sleep on his shoulder. He said I should get used to early mornings. I am not willing to even count 5am as morning. It was still dark.

I can't say I miss being woken up at 9am by the Beacon shouting in my face to see how much he can make me jump. Or the annoying way he pronounces aluminium. Or the criticisms on my cooking (my toast was perfectly fine, thank you very much). Or the crowd we seemed to attract every time we left the house ("Oh, is this the American we've heard so much about?"). But I do miss the Beacon. And watching the amusing way my niece followed him all over the house. But, next time I guess, is Germany.

The Beacon in Wales: Part 1.

It's 2014! In the immortal words of Abba, 'happy New Year! May we all have our hopes, our will to try. If we don't we may as well lay down and die.' Uplifting.

"I spent the countdown to 2014 with the Beacon."

Usually I'm not a big fan of New Year, partly because it's the most expensive night out of the year and partly because it is the official marker for when I have to stop stuffing my face with leftover Christmas chocolate. But I spent the countdown to 2014 with the Beacon and a room full of people over the age of 50, which, weird as it may have been, was pretty fantastic.

Yes, the Beacon came to stay with me in my parents' house over New Year, and yes, there was drama before he even managed to step foot in the country. He was meant to fly into Bristol on the 30th, which was also his birthday, but due to delays he missed his connection and ended up stranded in Amsterdam overnight. I'm sure there are worse places for a man to spend his birthday. ("Birthday or not, no prostitutes sweetie.") I'd booked us a hotel in Bristol as his birthday present and, after eventually deciding better of turning up by myself and getting hammered in the room by myself, I spent my evening pouting under a blanket. The only plus side was that my mother felt sorry for me and bought me a pizza.

Since the last time I was home, my 2001 Ford KA has gotten mysteriously moldy on the inside, and hopping into it at 6:15am to drive to the airport before the sun was up or I had mustered the strength to apply mascara was a challenge. But I stuck to the usual early morning driving routine. Stick Collin the SAT-NAV on and argue with him the entire way between singing at the top of my voice to keep myself awake. And despite the fact that the weather was practically apocalyptic, I made it.

I decided to take the Beacon into Cardiff so he could see the capital city of Wales. In fact, I generously gave him a scenic tour because I got lost trying to find a car park and we drove around in circles for over an hour. He only found the Millennium Stadium impressive the first 2 times we drove past it. That said, he was very excited when he spotted Glam, having watched the entire second season of MTV's The Valleys. When we finally parked, I was in charge of choosing somewhere to eat lunch so naturally we ended up in that traditional Welsh institution...T.G.I Friday's. The Beacon soon got over his initial objections after knocking back a few house cocktails. In fact he ended up completely hammered, mumbling about how creepy the dolls in the Disney Store were. It wasn't even midday at this point.

We had booked to spend New Year in Bryn Meadows, a posh hotel in Caerphilly with a golf course, a spa, a pool, a bed big enough for the Beacon to escape from my cwtches during the night, and a TV in the bathroom. It was beautiful! And so, after getting out of the torrential rain, and dumping our bags down we did what any star-crossed lovers kept apart by the British Channel would do when finally alone. We napped until it was time to get ready for the New Year party.

After surveying our fellow guests and feeling an initial concern that we would be the only people under the age of 60, we made our way through the free champagne and canapes. The Beacon had no idea what the word canape meant and even if he had he couldn't understand a word any of the waitresses said anyway.
"Would you like a canape?"
"Sorry, what was that?"
"Do you want any canapes?"
"Wait...what?"
"Do you want canapes?"
"I'm sorry..."
"Canapes!" I broke in. "It's tiny food!"

Looking back, the canapes were probably a bad idea considering they were followed up by a 7 course meal. In the end it was almost painful.

1. Salmon with little pieces of bread and salad.

"They were in fact sugar cubes."

2. Mushroom soup - this one sticks in my mind the most because once I'd eaten all of my croutons I took a handful from a bowl in the middle of the table. They were in fact sugar cubes. I made some very interesting faces during that discovery.
3. For some reason neither of us could remember what this was. Maybe we were so full at the end that we started repressing the memories.
4. Haggis with mashed swede and potato. This was my favourite course so it's a good thing I didn't ask the waitress what it was until I had finished it because there is no way I would have knowingly shoveled innards into my mouth.
5. Steak with side plates of vegetables and potatoes. By this point I was starting to feel overwhelmed.
6. Chocolate brownies with clotted cream.
6.5. Casual plate of chocolate covered fruit slices because obviously 7 courses wasn't enough and we needed this little extra in between.
7. The cheese platter. I couldn't even bring myself to look at it. I had been well and truly defeated by the sheer overwhelming amount of food.

As I had a feeling it would be slightly inappropriate to just collapse across the table in a food comma in such a classy establishment, I attempted to dance it off. Second bad idea of the night (well, third if you count the crouton/sugar cube fandango). A good life tip is to never follow up 7 courses of food with any kind of fast movements. Before we even reached 11pm the Beacon and I were sprawled out in the lobby while people 3 times our age who had clearly never heard of the likes of Robin Thicke, were up dancing to the greatest hits of 2013.

Unable to keep up with the pace of our fellow guests, we made friends with the staff. What I mean by that is that the teenage waitresses all but collapsed at the Beacon's feet and practically fell over each other to laugh at his jokes. The Beacon put it down to his 'charming' American accent. Clearly it had nothing to do with the fact that he's 6 foot tall, gorgeous, and was the only man in the room under the age of 40.

"No celebration is complete without a ridiculous hat."

And so I spent the first few minutes of 2014 dancing with the Beacon and pretending to know the words to Auld Lang Syne whilst wearing a ridiculous hat. No celebration is complete without a ridiculous hat. It was a far cry from the way I ushered in 2013, outside Shaun's father's house, banging a saucepan with a wooden spoon while Jordan David ran around the street in nothing but his boxers. Some might say that this New Year was a somewhat classier affair.

But by 12:30am the early morning, seemingly endless drive through Cardiff, devouring of somewhere in the region of 1 million calories, and dancing like loons to the Motown supermix, had left us exhausted. I am not even ashamed that the oldies were still shaking it out on the dance floor while I was in tucked up in my reindeer pjs. In honesty, I am slightly ashamed that, despite our early night, we still managed to sleep through our complimentary breakfast. Slightly ashamed, but in no way surprised.

From Caerphilly we headed to my hometown of Port Talbot, where by this point, the Beacon-related hype had spread so far around town, that I wouldn't have been too surprised if we had been greeted by the mayor. But before the Beacon could do his meet and greets with the ever-growing list of people desperate to catch a glimpse of this mysterious American, he had to meet my crazy family...

I Go All...Glittery and 'Magical' at Cavern

Welcome to my entirely new type of blog post. Yes, it is still essentially me detailing the strange and often embarrassing situations I face on a daily basis, but I promise it is slightly different. From time to time I'm challenging myself to write these "I Go All..."  posts, which will comprise of me doing something which, more often than not, will be in some way ridiculous and involve me making a fool of myself, but the main point of which is that it's something I've never tried before. If I can figure out how then I will even make a whole new page for it on my blog. But don't hold your breath for that because when Kirsty knocked the router off the mantle piece the other day and I was asked what the noise was, I said, "The internet has fallen over." That is some indication of the extent of my technological knowledge. 

A Very Merry Unbirthday: DIY Alice in Wonderland Themed Party

So my Alice in Wonderland themed birthday party was over a month ago now (although it feels like a lot longer than that when I think about all the things that have happened since then), but this is the first moment I've had to sit down, go through all the pictures, and try to make a blog post out of it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words so I'm going to shut up for once and just let you take a look at some of the photographs.

Adventures from my Eurotrip: Venice

So we've come to the last blog post about Europe. By this point we'd had more adventures and less sleep than I'd previous thought humanly possible in three weeks. We'd slept in bunk beds, train beds, fold-down tray tables and even in the Freud Museum. We'd visited eight cities (if you count Hamelin, which I'm not entirely sure anyone does) and now we were heading to Venice.

Adventures from my Eurotrip: A Whistle-Stop Tour of Prague

The police raids, children's activity camps and Pied Piper shows of Germany were behind us and now we were heading into what turned out to be my favourite city - Prague.

My preconceptions about Prague were hazy. I didn't have any expectation in my mind about what it would look like and the only thing I had to go on in terms of the culture was my mother's constant assurances that it was crawling with pick pockets. So, needless to say, I was a bit apprehensive when we got off at the train station in the middle of the night. Apprehension quickly turned into sheer terror.

We got off at the wrong station so, instead of getting out in the centre of the city, we ended up in a dark, semi-delapodated station in the middle of nowhere that apparently also doubled as a crack den. We didn't have any Czech coins to get on the metro and there were no taxis in sight. In fact, the only thing there was in sight was a petrol station. Bethan went in to ask for directions or a taxi number and reappeared a few minutes later with an enormous Czech man.
"This guy has a taxi!" She said.
'Oh great,' I thought. 'We are all going to die.'

By some miracle we made it safely to the hostel that night and when we woke up the next morning we were bright, fresh, and ready for more Euro-adventures.

We kicked off the day with a free walking tour, which is a MUST if you ever visit Prague. For such a small city, it has an immense history! For instance, we would never have known to seek out the church that had a decaying human hand strung up in the corner or have learned that the genius who designed the famous astronomical clock threw himself into its mechanisms to spite the king if we hadn't had a tour guide.

True, a day spent walking around the entire city is absolutely exhausting (my shoes were literally falling apart by the end of it), but we got to see all the main sights of Prague and booked ourselves a space on the trip to Kutna Hora the next morning (another must if you're ever in Prague).

As exhausted as we were after a full day of walking and learning, I insisted that we take the tour guide up on the offer of joining the pub crawl that evening. Hayleigh and Bethan protested that they were not, under any circumstances, drinking that night. We had to get up early the next morning to go to Kutna Hora and they were determined not to be hungover for it.

The truth of the matter is, no one can resist unlimited free absinthe shots and before we knew it, it was a louder, stranger, wilder version of that night in Berlin. Hayleigh disappeared into an underground ice bar for two hours with a stag party, Bethan forced some poor Irish men to take off their tops and bench press a keg, we made best friends with a group of Australians, learned none of their names, and proceeded to drink them well and truly under the table. Now there's patriotism for you.

It was at some point during this haze of a night when I met a guy who was very cute and very, very American. In fact, I seem to recall him saying that America was a beacon of hope for the rest of the world. Suddenly my thrashing of the Aussies at drinking games didn't seem so patriotic by comparison. That said, has anyone ever met an American who isn't patriotic?

After the best night out any of us had ever had (the Czechs know how to organise a pub crawl), we began the task of haggling with taxi drivers on the side of the road. Trying to find a taxi driver who won't rip you off in Prague is difficult to say the least.

The next morning we had to drag ourselves out of bed to go to Kutna Hora too see the Czech bone chapel. The story goes that in the 13th century, an abbot brought back some soil from the Holy Land and sprinkled it on the cemetery surrounding the Chapel of All Saints. Suddenly, everyone wanted to buried in that cemetery and eventually the older bodies were dug up to make space for the new ones. And what did they do with all those bones? They piled them up in the chapel or used them to make morbid decorations that adorn the chapel. Apparently the chapel contains the bones of 40,000 people!

Naturally, while we marvelled at the remains of the dead, Hayleigh got out her compact and started applying lipstick. I don't know who she was hoping to impress in a chapel full of dead people.

As well as the general tour of the city, the tour of the bone chapel and the tour of all the bars in Prague, we did a tour of the castle district. If you're ever in Prague and can't decide whether to opt for the castle tour or a tour of the city, I'd opt for a tour of the city. As much as I enjoyed the castle, tour, it didn't involve as many quirky stories as the general tour of the city.

At one point though, the tour guide asked if anyone could guess what special ingredient had been used to hold the Charles Bridge together.
"Love?" Bethan guessed with a completely straight face.
"...No." The tour guide responded, clearly not expecting such a bizarre answer. "Eggs."

Prague was by far my favourite stop on our Eurotrip. It's absolutely beautiful with crooked little alleyways and spectacular medieval buildings. It has an amazing history with all manner of bizarre stories. Plus, its' super cheap!

Next stop - Krakow.