Rambles, rants and raves

A lot of opinions spilling out of my brain


An open letter to my mobile phone

Dear Blackberry phone,

I spend enough time with you that I should say this to your screen. However, I feel my critique will explode your deteriorating ability to perform well. Frankly I think it’ll push you over the edge. Sometimes it’s hard to deal with the truth and I don’t think you’d be able to cope.

You haven’t been coping for a while actually. As soon as it’s too cold, too windy, too hot, or too wet you sporadically tell me what I should be clicking on, selecting and scrolling through. This is especially annoying when I’m in the middle of a message and you decide it’s best to scroll to the middle of a message from months ago that I no longer care about. At first I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and thought you were just trying to be helpful or make my life a little more exciting. Now I realise you’re just an incompetent jerk.

I was always so nice to you. I thought you were awesome as soon as I brought you home. I didn’t even care that my fingers seemed to be gigantic in comparison to your buttons designed purely for elves and gremlins. I knew I’d be able to adapt to you. You, however, have done nothing to adapt to me. You forget things I’ve told you and decide that you can’t take pictures because there’s no more memory in your little head. Even though I have given you a little more, read lot more – I’m just being nice, brain space which you should be thankful for.

I love how you annoyingly assume everyone’s number that I put in is their work number. Yes, you’re a phone designed for business people but you’re also a mobile. Don’t try to be something you’re not. Don’t pretend that I’m more likely to punch in a work number than a mobile number.

I charge you so often too, I spend so much energy on you that you almost defeat the purpose of being a wireless device. I don’t even use you often enough for it to be justified. The charger is frazzled, it’s not meant to be used that often. Why are you so damn needy?

You came with a lovely little booklet that obviously had some thought put into it. You let your little booklet lie to me though. You weren’t able to help with my every need. You don’t even have the ability to have two alarms unless I do it through your calendar. It would be so much easier if you could just allow me to use two alarms. I think you enjoy making my life a little more difficult sometimes. Even if it’s just by wasting another two minutes of my time. Little things add up: I know your game.

Oh and one more thing: why do you like to incur extra charges on an already more than fair contract. Why do you do that? I treat you well, you should hear the horror stories of what people I know have done to their phones. Dropped down toilets, dropped on floors, smashed, thrown at walls, lost back covers, cracked screens and broken buttons. I haven’t done any of those things, once or twice maybe – no more than that though. It’s not enough to make you open up my browser or call random numbers when you’re feeling crazy. It’s not fair, don’t resort to punishing me with stupid small but significant charges just because you’re bored.

We’ve been together for almost a year and a half and sadly you’re already giving up on life. I didn’t want to change you. I thought you would be different to all the other phones, that you could prove to me that you’re not dispensable things, designed to last the length of a contract and not much longer.

I hope you understand how for something that prides themselves on being leaders and up-to-date and all those buzz words your makers use, you are a little disappointing to say the least. All you need to do, all I’m asking is that you start acting like a phone. You don’t know this, but I once owned one of your great ancestors; the Nokia 9410. A brick but a reliable, solid phone that doubled as a weapon. Why can’t you be more like that?

Lots of love, your ever hopeful friend,



Are you ready for the zombie apocalypse?

It’s September 2012. According to the more negative humans of the population, the world should be ending in approximately three months. I realised that I am not prepared for the zombie apocalypse. I always imagined, when I was young and naive, that I would be fully prepared for such a turn in the world’s events. Now that the potential moment, if it isn’t postponed for the 670th time, is almost upon us I realise how wrong I was.

I have no survival skills.

The closest I got to camping was at a music festival last summer where the most dangerous things around were the porta-loos and the risk of having a drunk person collapse on your tent. Riding a bicycle and going down a pothole hurt my ladybits so much that I had to stop. The knots I tie in my shoelaces barely last a 9 – 5 day and that’s when I spend most of my time at a desk. I can’t light a fire without using one of those ready made coal bags that you light and leave. I can’t change a tyre because my arm muscles are so weak and I wouldn’t know where to put that metal thing to bring the car up to loosen those screw things on the tyre to replace the tyre with another. And that’s just the incompetence I can remember off the top of my head.

It isn’t reassuring.

I can run so that’s something if the zombies are slow like in the original 60s zombie films like Dawn of the Dead but if they’re fast like in I am Legend then, frankly, I’m screwed. I also have no idea how to fight, I only learnt how to make a proper fist due to the boy realising I was a bit like a baby when it came to any talent in the defensive arts. On the other end of the spectrum I know no first aid. I mean I know the whole on your side thing; but, honestly, if someone was in need of first aid and I was the only one there – well, it doesn’t bare thinking about. I mean, I know how to use a phone so I could call someone for help, but in the zombie apocalypse I doubt I’d get the best signal.

This is terrifying. I don’t know what else to say. I’m already regretting putting it on here.

I am no Ray Mears. I can not make a seven course meal out of a rat, a beetle, two leaves and a twig. I would not be able to make a house with en suite bathrooms in every room out of an overhanging tree and a few planks of wood. I would not be able to make weapons out of flowers to help defend myself.

If the zombie apocalypse comes, I’ll be pinning all hopes of survival on those around me. What an awful thought. Survival skills are important even if the zombie apocalypse is less likely than Leonardo DiCaprio asking me out on a date.

I do think survival skills should be learnt when we’re young. I wasn’t a part of any of those cool little outdoor groups when I was a kid. But as far as I know, the ones that girls are a part of aren’t as big on the whole survival skill thing as the boys one is. This is apparently changing. I hope so since both genders need to survive for the human race to continue, but I guess they didn’t think of that when they were planning classes.

Survival skills should be taught in all schools. Basic things such as first aid should be compulsory rather than something you can opt in for. I know that if I had learnt that as a kid, I’d be sitting a lot more comfortably now.

Learning survival skills would serve a reminder that the world has a lot more to offer than awful TV and endless internet websites. It would show people learning these survival skills, that the world is a big place, that it isn’t all controlled by humans (thankfully) and that adventure is still out there in more possible ways than you could have first imagined. Survival skills inspire and they give confidence to those that know they can be independent. They can do it on their own without having to Google it beforehand. That alone is more than enough reason, for me, for survival skills to be a worthy thing to be introduced in schools. Surviving the zombie apocalypse as a result of having said survival skills is just an added bonus.

The only thing that will mean that my survival is slightly prolonged to the ‘Average Joe’ is that I am determined and will not go down without a fight. My inability to admit defeat should serve me well if any brain eating zombies do decide to go on a rampage. In the meantime I’ll start preparing myself for such an invasion, I’m just loading the Rocky music now.

This is a good point. May need to look into buying a boat. I’ve always wanted a yacht to sail around the world in, this is just further proof that I do in fact need one. It’s not a frivolity, it’s life or death.


Freshly Pressed!!

Ever had an email that made you cry with happiness? I’ve had three in my life. I can’t remember what the other two were but I remember the tears. For some reason, too much happiness too quickly results in me crying and my face going red. I usually resemble some fairytale creature that has just crawled out of a swamp. My third email that caused happy tears to spill from my eyes I received on Saturday. It was sent to me by the kind people of wordpress.com stating that I was to be Freshly Pressed and that my post will be appearing in the next day or two!


(Sadly there was no picture that I could find or take that sufficiently expressed my happiness or the level of celebration that I have had in my head since I got the email).

I am very happy and very honoured to be have a post be Freshly Pressed. To be honest, knowing that just one person reads a post of mine makes me so happy I could explode. If I was a cartoon character I probably would. So, as my way of saying thank you to wordpress.com, my lovely readers and anyone else that has stumbled into my little corner of the world wide web is by showing you this video.

It’s hilarious. If you haven’t seen it already: no need to thank me, you are most welcome and I hope it makes you laugh as much as it made me. If you’ve seen it already: no need to thank me, you are most welcome for having me remind you such comedy exists. This post is pure joy and I think this video embodies that well. Enjoy.


Females according to the entertainment industry

Women make up approximately 50% of the population. If you’re not a woman, then through the process of elimination, it’s fair for me to assume you’re a man. I appreciate that some people do not consider themselves to belong to a certain gender. However, I’m not talking about those lovely people.

Women are every bit as complex as men. We’re humans, half the time we don’t know how we feel and we change our minds as often as we brush our teeth. In reality then we can all agree that women and men both reach the same levels of complexity because after all: we’re all people. But I’m confused because, according to the majority of the entertainment industry and a lot of women’s magazine (I don’t read enough men’s magazines to make a fair judgement) there are only a limited number of women. All seem to have been made to not seem ‘threatening’ to their female counterparts or ‘intimidating’ to their male ones.

Since my course doesn’t start until September and there’s only so many application forms you can fill before wanting to repeatedly bash your head against the wall until it, or you, breaks; I’ve been watching films. I like films. Films make me happy. The representation of women in films however, doesn’t make me as happy.

Females according to the entertainment industry are pretty one dimensional. Even if they have a ‘hidden’ side to them, it’s easily uncovered by a sexy male lead and a candlelit dinner.

So here are the females according to the entertainment industry, in particular rom-coms. If you believe you are completely like any of these women then stop selling yourself short. If any guys reading this believe that some of their female friends are exactly like the women I’m about to describe: don’t be ignorant and stop selling them short. Enjoy the list. Don’t let your brain explode with the frustration.

The teeny tiny woman who eats more than an obese man

This lady is skinnier than a healthy thirteen year old. Yet she is filmed in many of the films’s scenes stuffing her face. She’s usually eating something that would make Beyonce gain weight within a few minutes, even with the Single Ladies dance. You never see her actually finish a meal and you hear her family and friends mention her eating habits several times during the film; heaven forbid she should stop wearing children’s clothes. Anyway squealing ensues, she takes a big bite out of something, eats with her mouth open, and then the scene cuts and we go to the man that she will eventually kiss with her skinny lips as he wraps his arms around her super small, almost non existent, waist.

The best friend that would have a personality if she had her own life

Ah the best friend! She doesn’t have a life, has a hopeless love life and is more interested in the many dramas of the main female than her own life. She talks about sex, is always friggin’ hilarious with her brilliant one liners. She’s not as good as the main female character obviously, heaven forbid that women can be friends and equals. This Best Friend gives pretty good advice and yet, by a viewers calculations, her life is empty – as empty as her head.

The whimsical fairy type girl

Firstly I would like to point out that, in the real world, this girl does not exist. She only goes for obscenely boring and miserable male lead characters and shows them once again the beauty of a life. Like a child, only grown up so it’s not weird to fancy her. She is quirky and weird for weird’s sake. She’s like a fairytale character and decides to do spontaneous things on a whim. She is free, cannot be pinned down and apparently happy (although it’s just an assumption rather than actually implied). She doesn’t seem to have a home, a background or a family. But who cares? She’s only a woman. In real life she would be homeless, in a mental institution or a cartoon.

The workaholic 

This woman is very, very serious. After all, career women are very, very serious. She does not have a boyfriend because who would want someone that cared about her professional progression so much? She always has her hair tied up to make her look very, very serious. She does not smile and she’s a little bit socially awkward. Obviously the most important thing about the workaholic is that she is unsatisfied about her fabulous life. Why? Because she hasn’t found love. Duh! Oh and it is also important to remember that the workaholic does not know how to have fun.

The arty farty and child type

I’ve put these two in the same lovely bold heading because there’s not much to say about these two types of females. A lot of women in rom coms work in an art gallery or paint. When she actually talks about art, which is very little considering how much she loves it, you realise she (nor the person that wrote her script) understands anything about art. And that’s coming from someone who knows very little about art. The child type is the woman who teaches very little, cute but annoying children. The children all love her, mainly because she never gets to teach them. They’re either playing or when the lesson begins she’s interrupted by the main male character. These women are ALWAYS interrupted at work: not like they’re doing anything important anyway.

How my brain feels at seeing women portrayed as one dimensional dolls in films that are targeted at a female audience. What kind of sicko does that?

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Woo! Exercise!

I went for a run today. I put on trainers so ugly I was a little sick in my mouth but I was told by someone working on commission a little while ago that they were “awesome running shoes. Just awesome.” Who then ushered me to the cashpoint and I, bewildered to even be in a sports shop, handed over money I would later need. I wore trousers that made me have to do little poses in the front of the mirror whilst singing Michael Jacksons’ Pretty Young Thing in my head. I tied back my hair, stuck on a baggy top that made me lose my boobs and left the house.

I started with a light jog and realised that it wasn’t going to get me very far. If this run was to be a success I would need to run far enough away from home to not be able to walk back as soon as I lost my breath and felt my stomach coming up into my mouth. So I began to run, the only way I can describe it is as if I was wearing Lady Gaga’s heels. Or as if I was Bambi on the ice: you all know the scene I’m talking about.

I kept running, consistently looking over my shoulder for any laughing crowds or people I knew that could quickly become laughing crowds. I counted my breaths and realised that was making me more tired so I thought of nothing and just focused on getting as far away from my house as possible. I tried to push out the reminder that I would have to run back.

Then I hit a mountain. I mean it’s a hill, a soft sloping hill but for my unfit body it is Everest. I decide to stop and contemplate. I look around me and realise I have been running for about five minutes and am already tired. I can see my house, or at least it’s roof, and I’m not wearing my glasses. I do something that I assume is a stretch which I see sporty people do on TV all the time, and then jog (I don’t want to hurt myself) up Everest. It’s hard and I can feel my heart pounding so hard I think I’ll die. I decide to run, actually run, I trip. I look around to check no one saw. One man is in the vicinity of my shameful little trip but he’s too busy picking up his dog’s poop that he doesn’t notice. Hooray for clean dog owners!

I decide to do that thing I remember from school where you walk, jog and then run in equal distances throughout. I decide to do that, but not in equal measure. I run first because I know that soon I won’t want to because my body will give up on me and I’m not mentally strong enough to will myself to keep running. For the next fifteen minutes I run, jog, walk, run, jog, jog, walk, walk, walk, run, jog, walk, run, walk, jog, run, walk, walk. Sadly I’m still not that far from home but I can feel my legs screaming at me to stop. My head is doing that incessant mini thumping that it does when it’s too hot or too tired. I’m officially both.

I decide that if I go home I must run all the way. That’s my punishment for being a wimp. I run back with my head down. Mainly because I don’t have the strength to lift it but also because I feel a little bit of shame that my first run in two years is such a fail. Call me naive, but I was hoping to give that lovely Bolt character a run for his money with my amazing ability to retain the talent of running in which I once briefly possessed.

I got home. I looked at the time and was so tempted to fall to my knees, put my arms to the heavens and yell in desperation. My sister was sleeping so I didn’t but I came close. I’d been kind of running for about twenty minutes. I’ll say twenty five to compensate for our inaccurate microwave clock which is what I used to time my exercising endeavours.

I go to the sofa and try to forget all about it.

I might have to imagine I am one of these lovely ladies chasing Jack Sparrow to ensure a faster, more effective running style. Worth a try.

That’s when I wake up! You see, I was planning on going for a run, I really was. But then I dreamt about it. It was an exhausting, slightly traumatic, dream. So I put the run off. It’s only fair, I exercised in my mind. It’s like the preparation for the real thing: the dress rehearsal. I will run tomorrow. Definitely. Woo! Exercise!

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I deserve a dog

I have wanted a dog for as long as I remember. As a child my parents decided to deprive me of such an important thing in my childhood. There was an always an excuse: “We live in a flat/We don’t have time for a dog/ They’re too expensive/ We have a garden now but we have long schedules/ Oh look at that, we got a cat instead.”

They compensated for the lack of a canine companion in our family by allowing us to have other animals instead: goldfish, hamsters, budgies, cockatiels, canaries, terrapins, gerbils, rabbits and cats. Oh and I have a younger sister, that counts too.

I love every single animal I have had the pleasure of having in my home. My first goldfish was the best goldfish in the world. I was six and he was very fat. He once got stuck in a shell and we had to hammer the shell open to get him out and he survived. He was like superman. In my memory he was born at more or less the same time I was which makes him a God of Fish. Every single pet I have had as bought me countless memories, lots of headaches, lots of laughs, lots of work and lots of love.

I now have two cats, two cockatiels, one rabbit and my sister owns two hamsters which are often the cause of me sneaking into her room. They’re all happy, crazy animals; although Jack, our male cockatiel is just plain mean. If it wasn’t for Hope, his girlfriend and our female cockatiel, convincing him otherwise he would have escaped his cage and killed me in my sleep: Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds style.

Anyway I’m moving off topic. I deserve a dog. I’m 21, I’m a graduate and I’m going to start an intensive six month course in September. I mean, sure, that would sound like I wouldn’t have time to look after said dog but I would. I would treat that dog like friggin royalty. I look at other people walking their dogs and wonder how far I could get if I was to just steal the dog away. I mean, no one holds onto leashes that tightly. If I carried scissors in my bag I would have probably stolen one by now. Maybe two.

I deserve a dog because I am a good daughter. I deserve a dog because I will love him unconditionally. I deserve a dog because I would be the best damn dog owner ever. I deserve a dog because I would not dress him in human clothes thus humiliating him and taking away from him any of the doggy reputation he once had. I deserve a dog because I would take him for walks at least twice a day; he would motivate me to exercise and I would motivate him to well, well I would go for walks with him like he wants.

I love my current pets. In fact Matilda, one of our cats, is currently sleeping beside me with her paw on my leg: in case I run away. She loves me that much. Animals and children seem to be attracted to me, like polar ends of a magnet. Case in point would be in Central Park in New York City: the boy and I were wandering through and somehow I ended up crouching on the ground with two squirrels in touching distance and feeding birds out of my hand. I was kind of like Snow White but more sweaty and a lot less talented with the whole singing thing.

Anyway, I deserve a dog because I am awesome. Thinking about it, I know it may not be feasible right now. Although I will never admit this to either of my parents. Yet I still can’t help but daydream whenever I’m walking somewhere, becoming more common now that my car is sick, of finding a dog during my walk and taking him home to nurse him, love him and finally have a canine companion.

Any of the dogs in this little gallery will suffice. All photos were found on my wanderings of the world wide web.