52 whittled down to one..

How many people are lucky enough to actually get a job which is remotely similar to the degree they studied in University?

I AM!

I have been graduated from University for about 5 months and I've been working as an order processor for a window company. I was so worried I would become a lifer and end up selling window frames forever. I have already started dreaming about processing the orders!!

But on Wednesday I had an interview for an amazing apprenticeship position with the council to be a Media Assistant for a fixed term of two years. I will be using everything I learned in University like writing press releases, writing articles, making promotional films, etc. I can't wait to use this as the starting point of my whole career.

I really had a feeling on the Monday before the interview, that this week was going to be a bad one. Then I slipped on some ice on my way to work that morning and felt like it was an omen for the upcoming interview. Especially since a man and his Alsatian came rushing over to see if I was okay. When the man slipped too and nearly landed on top of me his Alsatian started sniffing around me like he was ready to cock his leg against my spread-eagled form. Luckily that fall and the nearly getting weed on was the only bit of bad luck God decided to throw my way this week. He took pity on this clumsy oaf and decided to let me get the job I so desperately wanted.

Hopefully, this new job will mean that I can be more interesting and will be able to write things worth reading!

Fingers crossed I won't be boring anymore=]

Debenhams Free Christmas... Or Not!

I cannot believe that since I last posted on here I have graduated from University (with a 2:1 wooop), I left Swansea to move back in with my Dad in Caerphilly, and am now working full time in a job which does not involve working on a Sunday!!! I am now cherishing my weekends because for five full years the only time I could work was an evening or a weekend shift.

So, you would logically think that I would steer clear of the dreaded Debenhams, especially at this time of year. I would literally pull my hair out working in the retail industry during the weeks up to Christmas, and now I am free from the horrors of scarily serious shoppers and brainless bargain hunters it would make sense for me to do all of my Christmas shopping online.

I am ashamed to say that the lure of the Debenhams 30% "Gift Extravaganza" was too much for this shopper. Add to that the 10% extra off that the evil company was offering if I used my store card, and I had no hope of avoiding the place! Save three presents, come Christmas Day all of my friends and family will be the proud owners of a gift from Debenhams. And come the 28th December, I will be the horrified owner of an extortionate bill from the company that I just can't seem to leave, even after I have quit!

Help me with my dissertation please=]

If you complete this survey you will forever have my thanks. Which I know doesn't sound like much, considering you can't buy anything with it, but it really would mean a lot. Especially since my dissertation is due in next week!!!

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/W8RQ6RJ

Thank You

Oh Bama, Oh Sama.

Obama is not to be confused with Osama. But that is just what has been happening all over my Facebook home page today.

 As everyone must be aware by now, (even if you are a deaf and blind mute I'm sure someone will have sorted out some Braille to keep you in the loop) Osama bin Laden was killed by American forces yesterday. I'm pretty sure that when one Facebook friend wrote: "obama dead! lets get the americans to deal with a few other troublesome people, cheryl cole, katie price and tracy emin would be a good start....", the mistake in the name was just a slip of his finger, across three keys and down one, on his keyboard. Because if not, this status is surely a pointed statement professing that Obama is as pointless to humanity as Katie Price.

 I won't deny that I am possibly the least politically informed person in the country, but even I realise that the current American President has achieved more in the grand scheme of things, than parachuting into an Australian jungle for two weeks of eating bugs or coming out of a manufactured girl band and befriending a number of big shot music moguls in order to gain solo success. 

A lot of speculation has been going around about the reliability of the claims of Osama bin Laden's death, with a lot of people claiming it is merely a way to gain votes in the upcoming elections. Even if that's the truth, leave Obama alone. It's obviously not enough that Donald Trump is accusing him of playing too much basketball ( he's just jealous he can't dunk) and that a bunch of narrow minded idiot's doubt his American citizenship. Oh Barrack, I believe you.

Am I still that tragic teenager??

As you know from the previous post, I've been enjoying Caerphilly life again. My Dad told me that he will be redecorating my old bedroom soon, by painting over the bright orange walls, which I strangely insisted on at the age of 12, with a more neutral tone. So to prepare for this uncharacteristic bout of DIY, he asked me to clear out my wardrobes and drawers. As I have explained before, I have a habit of hoarding. It seems that this horrendous habit of mine goes back further than I thought. I found boxes and boxes of old diaries, and even old school books, including a scrap book of art work from when I was four. Incidentally, even in 1993 I had a creative streak.

Did my parents think that these scrapbooks of paintings by a

three-year-old and swimming badges from the 90s would

increase my chances of getting into University?

Oh, this painting definitely would have given my
University applications more pizazz!

Back to the diaries I found though; I really did lead a tragically insignificant teenage life. Here's a little excerpt from Tuesday 6th January 2004 (with names changed though because I am still slightly embarrassed about some of the crap I wrote about!):

 Back to normal again! Marley* is even more lush than I remember. I had English first thing and we had our coursework back and I got an A. Miss said we could re-draft them if we were on the brink of something else and I was one mark off an A*. You must think I'm mega swotty but I don't care what people think of me anymore, I'm clever and that is that. After break I had French and then P.E. Theory. I went home for lunch with the girls, as always. Then I had the best lesson of the day, Biology. I love Science and Marley sits behind me too, so I got my chance to talk to him. Swoon! Just after 6 Lilly* came to knock for me with John* and Brian* and they all came in for a bit. I swear John is so perverted. He kept going for my boobs. He always goes on about them and it creeps me out a bit. My diet went well again and I really know I will stick to it this time!

Most of the diary reads the same, basically because absolutely nothing interesting started happening in my life until alcohol was introduced a good year after I had stopped writing these pathetic accounts of my day to day life. Who did I actually think would read back on these entries and be interested in what lessons I had done well in and who I had a crush on? Though, I must admit it has proved a perfect procrastination tool and has given me a really good laugh at that girl who I really can't even remember.

What makes me laugh the most is that throughout all the entries a common theme keeps coming up. My weight. I was a girl obsessed with my weight and looking back, although I was always curvy I would give anything to have that teenage body back. I'm even bigger now and am constantly stopping and starting diets, which, evidently, I have done since I was 14. I even wrote about the Kellogs "Drop a Dress Size in Two Weeks" diet, which I had another go at, at the beginning of this year. I suppose I am still that tragic teenager deep down, I just don't make a habit of writing down all my thoughts anymore. Ummm, except on this blog. Oh Christ, I haven't changed one bit. Please excuse me while I go and over pluck my eyebrows, cry over a boy with a latent homosexuality who I think I love, and squeeze the small mountain range which is threatening to re-erupt on my chin.

You know you're back in the Valleys when....

• An elderly, croaky-voiced, junkie stands in the middle of the train shouting into a mobile, "Are you all fucked already?"
• The same elderly man hangs up the phone and proceeds to have a loud, seemingly hilarious, conversation with the strangers sat next to him. All I can do is try to avoid eye contact as I'm not sure I will be able to laugh along convincingly, and will probably get stabbed.
• Every young woman that you see has a Bermudian tan, even though the sun in Wales is not strong enough to even frazzle my delicate and pasty skin.
• People run past in full-on Adidas tracksuits, apparently under the impression that it is okay to be drinking from a can of Special Brew in broad daylight.
• It is impossible to be anonymous. Everyone knows everyone, and even if they don't know you, they will know your brother, who knows their friend, who is related to your mum by marriage, etc.

This weekend I've ventured back home to Caerphilly, and I have to admit I sat on the train hugging my bag to my chest and avoiding eye contact with everyone. To be completely honest, Swansea is just as bad, if not worse, for druggies and perma-tanned bimbos. It just seems so much worse when I come home.
The reason I came home was for one of my oldest friend's birthday. Her mum made us punch (my tongue is still blue, despite scrubbing and gargling) and we all got a bit tipsy in her house before we got a taxi into Cardiff. To say the rest of the night is a blur of Disaronno and Cranberry juice is an understatement, although I do remember grabbing a Burger King, and then dropping most of my Whopper burger on the floor of the taxi.
Even though last night is now just another faded memory to add to the list, I do remember one thing: I enjoyed being around people who I knew, even if it was through my brother's friend's mother. Even though coming back to the valleys can be a little like walking into an episode of Jersey Shore with different accents, the drama and the tans just made my night even more enjoyable.

A Tidy House is a Tidy Mind.

I have trouble keeping my flat tidy. I have always been the same. When I lived at home with my parents, my Mum would beg me to tidy my room, and instead I would shove all the carpet-covering clutter under my bed or into my wardrobe. Then when I moved into my house at University, I was lucky enough to live with people who had the same kind of mindset as me; why tidy, when you could be living instead?

Now that I live with my boyfriend in our little one-bedroom flat, I struggle more than ever to keep my junk at bay. Unfortunately we both seem to be hoarders and struggle to throw anything away. With Jack it is newspapers for some reason that he cannot bear to part with. He has copies of the Guardian dating back months  which are gathering dust in the corner of the living room.

Enough newspapers to wrap all of the fish and chips in Swansea.

But I cannot shout at him about it, because I am as bad, if not worse. My hoarding habits have made our bedroom such a shameful place that I have to shut the door on it, even if I am in the flat alone. I think that my obsession with keeping clothes which I haven't worn for years stems from my belief that one day I will be slim. This belief physically stops me from throwing any item of clothing away. What if I start losing weight? Then I will definitely need my six-year-old netball kit. I can use it as workout clothing. That saves me from buying new workout gear in my new, smaller size. All this hypothetical weight loss and working out means that I have to keep all my old clothes because as I'm losing weight they are bound to fit me again at one point, which will save me loads of money from not buying new clothes as I steadily drop down through the dress sizes.

The clothes were fed up of their cramped conditions
and were simply walking out in protest.

Of course, even if I was to lose weight, I am such a compulsive shopper that I will not end up saving any money from my cunning collection of clothes. I will simply buy even more clothes to add to my stockpile. Do I need help? I think I need a serious clear out but I don't want to simply chuck my clothes away, and I have a feeling they are a bit too worn to go to a charity shop. Any other suggestions???

Virtually Wigging Out

Urban Dictionary Definition: To wig out is to throw a huge fit.
My language: To wig out is to try on lots of wigs.

I have a new favourite thing. The genius people at InStyle.com have provided me with the opportunity to try on wigs in the comfort of my own home. They are wigs of the virtual persuasion so it's hard to put them on just right, and the only half decent front facing photo I had of myself is with my hair down but no matter!!! I have still just discovered my new favourite past time; trying on celebrities hair and laughing hysterically at the outcome.

I started off, in all seriousness, attempting to find out if I would suit a fringe. My friend had told me ever so delicately when I had asked if I should have one cut in, "No, your forehead is too big." And the only thing I found out was that this application was going to provide me with a healthy dose of nature's best medicine. And I don't mean Cod Liver Oil.

"Wow! You have an uncanny resemblance to Reese Witherspoon."

Next I tried to go dark:

Amy Winehouse: before she turned to drugs.

This hairstyle belonged to Snooki from Jersey Shore!! I suppose if you squint and use your imagination you can see a likeness. Maybe fiddle with your monitor's brightness a little so that my skin takes on a nice tangerine hue if the imagination thing doesn't work.

After trying out a few crazy hairstyles:

Nicki Minaj reveals her less ostentatious taste in clothes. 

Lady Gaga gained a few pounds after quitting all
the elaborate dance routines.

I settled for the hairstyle that I am definitely going to ask my hairdresser to recreate next time I go to get my tresses snipped. It was Samantha's, from Sex and the City 2, 80s coiffure that took my fancy and I'm sure you can see why:

Bonnie Tyler returned to Swansea for some relaxation
 following her flawless face lift. 

Oh Liver, Please Forgive Me.

If my liver could scream, I think I would be wearing my bedside earplugs all day long at the moment. I keep wondering; if I hadn't started drinking alcohol at the age of 16 (OK 15 and a half) would my liver be putting up this fight with the devil's juice at the tender age of 22?

Almost two weeks ago I threw myself a birthday party with every intention of acting responsible, classy and sophisticated. This foolish notion of mine culminated with a pretty accurate depiction of the following picture:

The night started off well enough, with everyone arriving so fashionably late that me and my best friend had already drunk a copious amount of the delicious punch we had prepared earlier in the evening.

I wish I could say I left the rollers in all night!

 I was wrong to think that because it didn't taste very alcoholic I would be capable of following the punch with some sparkling Rosé wine. Needless to say, the moment we finally left the flat to stumble onto the first bar, the fresh air got straight to work helping to make the night a memorable one. Unfortunately for me the only memories I have are of the flashback variety whenever someone mentions my antics or shows me a photograph. 

The next morning I awoke to find myself in my pyjamas, not knowing how I got in them, with my friend next to me instead of my boyfriend. Apparently I had told him to F*** Off quite a few times while I was vomiting and he decided to follow my friendly advice.

The main reason I am going into all this elaborate detail is to make a point. I was really lucky to be surrounded by my friends that night, who I know would never have let me come to any serious harm. But what scares me the most is what could have happened if they were not there to look after me. I was in no position to fight off any sort of attacker, and consequently Devon and Cornwall Police have warned women that alcohol is in fact the most common date rape drug, while the drugs GHB and Rohypnol no longer need to be used, as women are effectively "spiking" themselves by drinking too much.

Of course being attacked seems like the worst scenario to come out of a few too many drinks, but people always seem to forget what they are actually doing to their bodies. Liver disease, breast cancer, heart disease, osteoporosis, pancreatitis and even death, are cited by the BBC as some of the possible effects that can result from young women binge drinking. 

I don't want to lecture anyone about their drinking habits. As you can all read, I've certainly had some adventures involving alcohol. I simply think that it's about time I started to cut down on the units. If I'm [attempting to] count calories to better my health, maybe I should start counting my alcohol units too.

Meanies at Matalan

Matalan are in my bad books. To be fair they were never in my good books, as I don't think I've ever bought anything from there. Nevertheless, I spotted this dress last month in Look and then again this month in Cosmo, but it is still not available on their website!!
When I first saw it in print, I navigated my way into the unfamiliar territory of their website, only to be disappointed. Now Matalan.co.uk attributes about 100 hits a day to me and my urgency to own this dress. Please, Matalan, sort yourselves out and stop hiding this dress from me. Your only losing yourself a potential customer.

A Bit Too Blasé

This morning, I woke up to find that my boyfriend had not come to bed at all and instead played on his PlayStation 3 all night, with complete indifference to the fact that he had to teach English to a pack of uninterested children all day today. This in itself is not an unusual occurrence. He often gets "lost" in his game-play and forgets to come to bed, so often that I joke he loves his PlayStation more than me (which I'm pretty sure is true sometimes). So it wasn't the shock of him playing PlayStation at 6 in the morning which threw me. It was what he said to me, as I rolled my eyes knowing he would be grumpy and agitated from a lack of sleep for the rest of the week.

"I was mugged on the way home last night." As simple as that. Not even a warning of "Now don't worry, but...". He went on to recount the experience, and informed me that as he was walking along the street, two frightening figures bulldozed him into an alleyway and told him to give them his money. Instead of handing it over, he chuckled, said no and tried to explain that he didn't have any cash on him. It was only when the larger of the two, seized his neck that he decided to offer them the two pound coins he had in his wallet. Oddly, they happily accepted this measly settlement and let him go on his way. Even more strangely, this all took place right next to a cash machine. Now either these two muggers were incredibly stupid, or, my boyfriend being so calm, consequently calmed them down and diffused the situation. I'm convinced that if it had been me, I would have been hysterical with fear and would have ended up emptying my bank account for them, with them eventually killing me just to stop my frenzied tears!

As soon as he told me this story, I insisted that we call the police, but he sneered at the suggestion. I suppose it was only £2 but the way I see it, it could have been a lot worse. Perhaps the fact that he plays so many video games, many which revolve around an aim to kill people or steal from people has made him immune to the horrors of reality. Should I reluctantly thank his second love, or should I "accidentally" kick it ten times until it doesn't work anymore, so that he can rejoin the real world?

P.S. Anyone reading this who lives in Swansea, avoid The Kingsway late on Sunday nights. Unless you fancy paying £2 for the privilege of a quick bit of strangulation. Each to their own.

H&M Cater to All

As an add on to my previous post Zipping up I want all the curvalicious women out there to have a look at H&M's new collection, Inclusive. The range is an online exclusive and I predict the whole lot will be selling out rather quickly. H&M already boasts the Big is Beautiful (BiB) range, but Inclusive really embraces its namesake and includes everyone. With sizes from 6-28, H&M offers all shapes and sizes the opportunity to be fashion forward. Here are a few of my favourite pieces......

You can shop the entire collection here.

The Chronicles of Nostalgia

What a difference an hour can make. Last night I screamed until my throat was raw, and waved my arms until I couldn't feel them anymore, at the Westlife concert in the Cardiff International Arena. That alone probably makes me sound like a twelve year old, when in fact I'm 22 this month, but the utter exhilaration I felt when they were singing all the golden oldies that I used to listen to locked up in my room, was really reminiscent of my tweenage years, when we were so in love with these bands that we thought our hearts would break if we didn't meet them.
So, on a nostalgic high, my friend and I drove back to Swansea with Westlife as the soundtrack to our journey, blaring out of the speakers of her little Fiat with us croaking along to all the words. It was only as we pulled up to my flat that I was reminded that I am not a pre-teen anymore, sheltered from the big bad world by a mollycoddling mother and a group of friends whose idea of hell raising was getting slightly tipsy in our parent's houses. No, I am now an adult, albeit a student at the moment, living in a world where empty cans of lager, the smell of urine, and a couple rubbing cocaine into their gums, all at the front door to my flat, is rife.
Is it too much to ask that when I come home late at night, I do not have to trip over bottles of beer and be overwhelmed by the pungent stench of piss? Or should I just wake up, and recognise that my cloistered yet complacent childhood is far behind me?

Zipping up.

Have you ever walked into a shop, picked up a gorgeous dress in your size and taken it into the changing rooms, perfectly confident that it will fit? And then the next thing you know, you are wiggling around, having a hot flush, trying to do up the zip. When this happens to me, I get all hot and bothered jumping around and worrying that I'm going to end up breaking the zip, that I don't even bother trying the next size up. I just retreat to the safety of home and demolish a bar of chocolate to comfort myself. Illogical, I know, seeing as chocolate is probably the reason I can't do the zip up in the first place!

My big issue with the high street is the difference in sizes from shop to shop. I suppose it doesn't matter so much if you are a petite size 6-10 like most of my friends. But when you are a voluptuous size 16/18 it can make clothes shopping a depressing experience. After years of feeling inadequate when trying on outfits in shops, my mum now avoids clothes shopping like the plague. If she does have to buy a dress for an occasion she automatically heads to her old faithful, Wallis. Shouldn't shopping be an exhilarating adventure for women? How can that be the case if you feel you can only purchase from one shop on the high street?

I have had many similar retail disasters myself, but I refuse to let my size affect the pleasure I get from perusing through all the gorgeous dresses. Even if they won't actually fit me I can still appreciate their beauty, as if they are a piece of art.

What I'm Wearing

To go along with my earlier feelings of nostalgia for an era that I have never known, my outfit has for the day has taken on a pretty, vintage look. I feel like a young woman in the 1940s with this H! by Henry Holland dress on, so to add a bit of edge I'm wearing opaque tights and chocolate brown, heeled, shoe boots.

Vintage and Pretty with a Twist

Good Clean Fun

I want to know how to dance. I don't mean out on a Saturday night with all your girlfriends, shaking your bodacious booty's around your shoes and handbags, with your hands in the air like you just don't care. No, I mean what my grandparents call "proper dancing".
I watched the scene from Michael Cimino's film, Heaven's Gate(1980), where the recent graduates of Harvard University's class of 1870 whirl the women present around the lawn so effortlessly it was as if they were floating on air. I had no idea what dance they were twirling across the grass, but it got me thinking about waltzing and foxtrotting and quick-stepping. Other than competitive dancing, ballroom dances don't seem to have a place in our society any more.
Hundreds of years ago, ballroom dancing was for the wealthy, the elite, the upper crust members of the population, while the poorer communities would frolic to folk music without much structure. Although this dissociation of dance dissolved in the early to mid 1900s, with dance halls all over the country and with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies making ballroom dancing fashionable, it seems that other than ballroom dancing at a competitive level the masses are more interested in "dropping it low and shaking it on the flo'". Our new version of the folk dance with ballroom dancing now a fierce sport where if you aren't good enough, there is no point of doing it.

The New Folk Dance

Don't get me wrong, I love nothing better than getting a bit tipsy and hitting the dance floor to shimmy and shake to all the songs in the charts. I just think that I'd like to experience the wholesome fun that my grandparents seemed to enjoy so much, dancing with a partner in town hall to a band, as a bit of a change to the drunken, sweaty mess that looks back at me from the mirror after a particularly energetic night out.