MAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Sigh.

I am SO SHIT at actually getting around to blogging and am really only doing this to get me into the mood for the MAMMOTH amount of writing I should be doing over the next 36 hours. You see, I'm applying for an M.A. in Creative Writing and the first app- the one to Trinity College Dublin, my holy grail of universities- needs to be done by Tuesday. I've nearly finished the application, except for writing my personal statement, doing drafts 3,4,5,6,7 and 800 of the short stories I'm submitting, making sure I've got all the right documents, paying for the application (45 Euro!) and, oh, I'm waiting on some references (should be here tomorrow though- cross fingers, legs and anything else you've got). If only I'd listened to the mantras on preparation when I was a Scout. Sadly, the only thing I learnt there was how to smuggle the boys into our tent.

BUT; the problem with the M.A. is that it's a bit of a moot point (Or 'moo point'as I've taken to calling it- thank you Joey). Even if I got in to Trinity (and with only 16 places available that's not likely), then I'm not sure I could afford it, let alone sort out moving to Dublin and finding a job, a place to live etc. It would be a great experience, but I haven't exactly been thinking about the practicalities.

The same goes for my 2nd option University College Dublin, and the third NUI Galway, so we shall gloss over those and move onto the UK-based options, Goldsmiths, Birkbeck and University of East Anglia. UAE has a fantastic reputation for Creative Writing but they split their MA into either prose, poetry or playwriting; you can't mix it up and I rather want to, commitment-phobe that I am. Plus, I'd have to live in Norwich. NORWICH. Look, I know I'm a bitch, but I just don't believe in any English city except London. I'm sure other places are perfectly fine, lovely even, but we all know that unless it's London there's just NO POINT. (I am aware this is a terrible, snotty failing of mine, but I'm afraid I can't hear your criticism over the beeping and shrieking of my beloved urban squalor)

Birkbeck would be ideal, as it's an 'evening university' so I could work full time and incur minimal debt but, compared to misty, twilight evenings crossing the Ha'penny bridge, it all seems a little... sensible. Goldmsiths could work too, and although I was impressed by their post-grad opening evening, I've had some doubts which have lingered with me and made me question the whole M.A. enterprise...

The main problem, regardless of which uni I'd end up in, is that I don't think I'm ready. I'm not being negative here, just realistic. I think it's entirely possible that I could end up doing an M.A. and being a writer one day. ONE DAY. At the moment, my writing is still clumsy and I get frustrated that sometimes I just can't make it do what I want. I need the writer's equivalent of training wheels, or armbands (or that little sprung thing you put on the top of your chopsticks). I can't keep my balance, or be thrown into the deep end, or write without making a mess. YET.

So I think it's extremely likely I won't get into Trinity and possible that I won't get into anywhere. But I'll still be doing the applications because it can't hurt, and it will be good practise for when I reapply. I can do writing courses and up my game, read much more and improve my style and even if I don't end up in Dublin to study, there's nothing to stop me moving there eventually. The Trinity app is not an all-important, life-defining behemoth to be terrified of, but just one option and that will make it less agonising to do!

And whatever happens, I've had great help from friends this week. Caz has lent me her netbook, so I don't get a permanent right-hand cramp from all the frenzied crossing out that usually accompanies redrafting. And Corrine and Maev- both writers themselves- have reminded me that everyone who writes finds themselves staring at the screen at 3am sobbing and asking why on earth they put themselves through this horrific torture. Why DO we do it, again...?!

One Goes Mad in Sheffield

Recently I went to Sheffield in what was possibly the world’s first mini-break to the Steel City. It came about due to my desperate urge to run out of London for even just a day and go for a little explore somewhere else. My long-term crush on Sean Bean means I’ve always had a soft spot for Sheffield (That accent! Last time I was up there a guy giving me change said ‘There you go, lass’ and I nearly came in my pants!) and when I heard Othello was on at the Crucible with Dominic West as Iago, well, how could I resist that kind of lure? With tickets booked and hotel sorted I found a spa to spend the morning in and booked an appointment with them online. Perfect.


Sheffield did me the world of good. I wrote and wrote and wrote the whole time I was there and, inspired by my favourite travel writer, Pete McCarthy (If you’ve not read his Ireland travelogue, McCarthy’s Bar, DO! It once made my weep with laughter on a train and I ended up with the whole carriage to myself), here is my own travelogue below. It’s long but cut into bite-sized chunks that are vaguely amusing. Promise!


Wednesday 28th September 2011

4.15am Awake. Scrubbed self, grabbed stuff and now sitting in my front room taut with exhaustion and fear in case I miss hearing my taxi pull up. Don’t let me miss my taxi! I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks!

5.00am Taxi arrives. The driver (who looks like that pervert lawyer, The Walrus, from Ally McBeal) launches into a diatribe against all his customers, particularly ‘them Africans’. I’m snoozing and drooling against the back of the passenger seat but he’s unconcerned by my lack of response and I occasionally jolt awake to hear a choice nugget of vitriol. Just when I’m thinking he must have been a cert for attendance at that EDL demo in Eltham he comes out with; “And I said to ‘im, I said, how can I be racist? My wife’s black”.

Pause.

“My wife’s not black”.

5.45am Merciful arrival at St. Pancras. a station that for me is full of happy memories of visiting my grandparents when I was wee and our school history trip to Derby when I was 16. And the architecture! It’s so gorgeous; the first thing that struck me when I returned to London from Hong Kong was seeing all the amazing buildings that look like glorious Victorian gothic gateaux or pure white Georgian wedding cakes.
Speaking of cake- BREAKFAST NEEDED. Pop into AMT for coffee and a pain au choc. One staff member listlessly stocks the sandwich chiller and the other who serves me looks grey with exhaustion and on the verge of tears. Shudder with horror remembering my own stint in an early morning catering job. Thank God those days are gone.
Sip my coffee (Oh, energising blood of life!) and look at the destination boards, buzzing with that feeling you get when you’re at a station or an airport- I’m going somewhere! Anything could happen! This is LIFE! Off to a new life, even just for a day. Is it tragic that I’m feeling this excited about Sheffield?!

6.10am Train pulls out of St Pancras, the city is still dark but as the journey continues, dawn starts to creep up in apricot streaks across the horizon. It’s a hazy morning, the fields are cupping the mist and it’s taking a long time to lift. Everything looks impossibly beautiful and the dawn/rebirth/exhaustion/me-time metaphors could be endlessly scattered across here as the universe seems to be providing me with all the clichés I would need. Instead, I will leave the clichés to my Ipod, whose shuffle seems to have psychically synched with my brain and the morning outside. On comes a mystical Irish reel, Davy Spillane on the flute and thump-thumping feet pulsing in time with the train. Next I get ‘Clair de Lune’ and then “The Day We Caught The Train”. It’s almost as though my Ipod is composing it’s own ‘Exciting Adventure Train Journey’ playlist. Of course I could have made one myself but that takes the joy away when my Ipod surprises me with the perfect track. It’s the little things in life, right?

7.15am As the train gets further north I see and increasing number of fields with sheep and industrial landscapes with power station cooling towers. As a suburbs-dweller these things excite me greatly.

8.56am Pull into Sheffield. It is a BEAUTIFUL day, one of those days where hope is in your soul and the crisp air feels like it’s cleansing you with every breath. The awful estates on the hill above the station which I recall from my previous visit seem to have been modernised. I remember them looking like huge multi-dwelling hobbit houses, carved out of the slate grey hillside with tiny windows and an air of neglect. Now there seems to be some modernisation going on, lots more glass, much more chi-chi looking. Further modernisation is evident once I exit the station (no ticket gates, are people more honest up north?!). There are fountains EVERYWHERE. Shimmering steel walls of water nearly twice my height that wouldn’t shame a medium-sized shopping mall in Hong Kong. And as any of the HK posse will tell you, the Chinese take their mall decorations SERIOUS. All Sheffield needs is a 60ft Hello Kitty and then it might be a contender.

9.00am Like a good girl scout, I have a citymap marked with my first port of call, Spa 1877, a Victorian Turkish bath-style spa on the opposite side of the city centre. After a quick look at the map I decide to navigate using my natural geographic ability. I get lost almost immediately. Navigation decisions such as “I’ll just go that way a bit”, “Anything with a spire must be a cathedral” and “Oooh look! Follow the butterfly” don’t help matters.

9.45am After running across Sheffield rather flustered I find Spa 1877. I am very sweaty on account of my rushing with two heavy bags and being clad in a scarf, coat and jumper, all of which I removed en route due to this bastard hot, beautiful day.
Standing at reception, I gather that customer service in Sheffield is very friendly but not particularly efficient. I stand second in the queue for nearly ten minutes resisting the urge to shout “Me! ME! Stop being helpful and PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!!!!!!!”

10.00am So begins the spa experience. Slut my way round all the facilities, using the aromatherapy steam room (until I figure the oil in here is citrus, probably containing evil orange so leg it out quickly), ice cave, eucalyptus steam room (let’s see if I can shift this freaking viral bronchitis) and freezing cold plunge pool. Pop into the sauna briefly but leave after 5. Dry heat BAD.
Surrounded by people talking Sheffieldian but sadly they are all women. Have yet to hear a Sheffield man speak. No one has called me “lass” either. Most sad.

11.00am Lime and ginger body scrub and massage. Words cannot describe this HEAVEN. Feels very self-indulgent but I am important and deserve this me-time. Yes I do! Fuck it, I do!

12.30pm Lunch. Wolf down every scrap of my delish spinach, beetroot, goats cheese and pomegranate seed salad and all the free apple juice, tea and lemon water I can.

12.30pm- 1.30pm Almost continuous peeing.

1.30pm Facial- BLISSFUL, though if you’d said the words ‘facial’ and ‘Sheffield’ to me in my 20s, this is definately not what I would have imagined.

2.30pm Continued use of spa facilities. Sitting in the red-lit eucalyptus soup of the steam room. I have nothing to do today but enjoy these facilities, go for a yummy veggie dinner and go to the theatre. This is UTTER heaven. Another plunge in the 4 degree cold pool, taking my number of plunges up to 11. I am HARDCORE spa-ing now.

3.30pm MEN! Sheffield men! Ruling out the possibility that they are gay, I do the shagabilty equation which is hotness rating plus two points for the sexy accent minus my level of sobriety. These men end up scoring 8 which is perfectly acceptable but what is the etiquette for hitting on someone in a plunge pool? Or should I just grope them in the anonymous mists of the steam room?

4.00pm Decide I better leave the spa before I turn into a prune (and a pervert) but it is with great reluctance that I leave this little patch of heaven. It’s done me the world of good. Once I am showered, hair dried and straightened and make-up done I am looking HOT. Not Angelina Jolie hot, obviously (if the spa was capable of that I’d be moving in!) but as hot as it is possible for me to look which is all we can ask. Good work Spa 1887.

4.30pm Pounding the streets of Sheffield. Head for Division Street, a studenty area full of bars and boutiques. There’s a streetpark with skaters down one end and lots of little alleys leading off to more intriguing bars and shops. Down one of these turnings is Bang Bang Vintage, the shop I am hunting for.

4.35pm LOVE Bang Bang Vintage. For a start, all the gorgeous vintage clothes are about half the price they’d be in London. I end up buying a cool white ruffled blouse and a cameo ring. The girl behind the counter asks if I’ve got my NUS card for a discount. I reply that I haven’t, as though I’ve left it in my other bag or something. Love Bang Bang Vintage even more now and love Spa 1887 too as they seem to have taken 9 years off me.

4.50pm Cross through Sheffield city centre, lots of Victorian buildings and clattering supertrams. Pass ‘Embrace- Sheffield’s premier nightclub’. It looks like a 1980s Sainsbury’s crossed with a multi-storey carpark. Embrace- who are they kidding? Just go ahead and call it ‘Foreplay’.

5.00pm Check into my hotel, which is only the Premier Inn, nothing posh. It gains points for being central but loses them again for being above a pound shop. Also for having the kind of security measures that wouldn’t shame Guantanamo Bay. Room key has to be swiped in order to call the lift, again to get into the corridor leading to your room and again at your door. Make the journey to my room looking warily over my shoulder for crack-addicted zombie muggers.

5.05pm Make use of the free tea and coffee-making facilities because I am BRITISH and this is what we do. The day they put an end to free tea and coffee-making facilities in hotels is the day civilisation collapses.

5.10pm Slump on hotel bed watching Coach Trip and Come Dine With Me. Some things are sacred.

6.00pm Head out to the Blue Moon Cafe, a veggie restaurant allegedly by the cathedral. I seem to be getting eyed-up by lots of men. I do look pretty good, but then I also look very different to everyone else around here, in my red dress with tribal design, raspberry kimono cardigan, leggings and cameo ring. It’s all VERY boho chic (or at least that’s how we’d describe it if this was 2006) which is basically a euphemism for ‘4.15am dive for whatever clean clothes I could find in the half-light’. My make-up is full on smoky-eyed 1950s vamp with scarlet lipgloss as thick as tar and maybe it’s that attracting the attention. Sadly, none of these men look like they’d like to wine me, dine me and call me “Lass”. They look more like they’re eyeing me up for use in some kind of gang initiation.

6.05pm Where in name of arse is the bloody Blue Moon? As per my usual geographical philosophy I didn’t write the address of the cafe down, instead absorbing the essential clue ‘near the cathedral’. This may be annoying right now but will make it so much more rewarding when I do find it.

6.10pm Hate to stereotype but I see some hippie-esque sorts hanging round on the corner of a lane. All headscarves, batik and flaring linen trews that smell of dog and tabacco. Instinct tells me that this is the exact demographic group you’d expect to find outside a veggie restaurant. Head towards them- SUCCESS!

6.11pm Comparing my outfit with the dress of the Blue Moon clientele I realise I am finally amongst my own people. Order broccoli and cauliflower cheese which comes with two salads in a portion so large I may well miss my train tomorrow, never mind the play tonight. The girl behind the counter asks what I want to drink. Consider water as all that massage and steaming is quite dehydrating. Order a large glass of Chardonnay.

6.15pm Ploughing away at my dinner and occasionally scribbling in here. The restaurant is a large, airy Victorian room with a high white and blue ceiling. It looks like a grand station waiting room or an antechamber in the Brighton Pavilion. There are moon windchimes, paintings and stained glass dotted about and four clocks set to the times in Sheffield, Doncaster, Rotherham and Barnsley. I like a place with a theme and a sense of humour. Things get more amusing when I examine the long noticeboard that covers one wall. Posters and leaflets include “Buddhist Barn Dance”, “Save Steve Irwin”, “Being Hip- exercise classes for those recovering from hip injury” (one wonders if they saw that magazine created on The Apprentice, Hip Replacement?) and the poignant “Have you seen my polecat?”. I realise I have wandered into a quirky world where rules of normality seem not to apply. I like it.

6.35pm Halfway through my plate of food, a cold glass of white wine on the table, a view of the cathedral courtyard in the evening sun and an the expectation of a great evening ahead. Perfect little moment.

6.50pm Othello starts in 25 mins so I better get a freaking move on. Start touching up my makeup at the table whilst eating, drinking the wine and writing. Strewn across the table are my powder compact, leopardprint powder puff, wine glass with red lipgloss print, plate of veggies in cheese sauce and notepad and pen. These are pretty much the primary elements of my life. If I ever get a coat of arms, this is what will be on it.

7.05pm Having legged it to the theatre on a very full stomach I’ve managed to get here in time and join the queue to pick up my tickets. Once again, Sheffield’s pleasant but SLOW customer service gets me agitated. The box office assistant seems to be intent on treating the couple in front of me as human beings! WASTE OF MY TIME!

7.14pm Take my seat for Othello, relishing that pre-show buzz of excitement that always runs around a theatre. Realise I’m slap bang in the middle of a school group. The 16 year old boy I’m next to sneaks a sideways peek at me and looks terrified. It’s that lipgloss.

7.15pm THE PLAY; Octagonal set design, thrust stage, heavy oak doors- interesting but you cannot establish something as a door throughout the entire play and then have it open magically as though it is not there later on- this gets a laugh from the audience at what should have been a serious moment.. I’m undecided as to whether Dominic West’s shaved head makes him look like a hottie or a nits-infested simpleton. Or a hot, nits-infested simpleton. His Iago isn’t convincing me he has the capacity for true evil but his looks to Emilia are full of unspoken menace. Clarke Peters’ Othello seems to be American which is jarring when Iago is doing Yorkshire with a hint of West Country. Desdemona is screechy and annoying.

9.00pm Interval. Lucozade and a bag of minstrels is a fiver. Nice to see that even though spas, vintage clothing and theatre tickets are much cheaper up north, interval food still remains ri-COCK-ulously expensive.

9.30pm Second half. I think the Globe has ruined other theatres for me. There are so many sound and light effects in this production I find myself longing for stillness and silence. Just let the words and the actors do the work, stop undercutting dramatic tension by flashing a sodding light!

10.00pm Totally gratuitous shirt-removing scene as Iago whips it off and uses it to bind Cassio’s wounds. I don’t remember Tim MacInnerny doing this at the Globe. The schoolgirls ‘Ooooh’ at this flash of West chest and really, I’m not complaining either.

10.10pm Othello finally strangles Desdemona and shuts her up. Thank God for that.

10.25pm Hmmm. All over. It’d give it a C plus overall; enjoyable but could do better. The schoolgirls give Dominic West a standing ovation but I’m sorry Westie, you have to do better than that to get me on my feet. The evilness of Iago usually gives me a total wide-on but tonight my pants are barely dampened.

10.30pm Had planned on having a drink at the Crucible bar but it’s all open-plan and very 70s. Head into the square outside and but don’t see any bars here either. Remember the cute cafe bar by my hotel but when I get there I find that’s closed too! At 10.30pm! Next door there’s a Wetherspoons open. Briefly consider it but drinking at a near-empty Wetherspoons at 10.30pm on a Wednesday in a town where no one knows you seems to be the first step on a path that leads to working in animal porn to pay off a meth addiction. NO NO NO.

10.35pm Safely back in my room at Guantanamo, having cleared customs, retina scan and body cavity search (I wish!). I reckon I can take advantage of the fact the Wetherspoons opens at 7am and go and have a dirty cheap breakfast tomorrow, then hop on a supertram to the huge Meadowhall Shopping Centre and go to the fish spa, head back for a walk along the River Don, then lunch in the cafe bar before catching my train at ten past 2. Set alarm for 6.30am. Sorted.

The thrills of day two to follow... later...

Writing, Meditation and and Fire Extinguishers...

*Sigh*

I'm all in a hotch potch so cannot promise any wise, profound insight today. (Because obviously that is what this blog usually offers, as opposed to a vaguely amusing, occasionally unsettling window into my tattered soul). So the reason I am writing is an attempt to entertain or even inform (HA!) but simply because I MUST. I must write, have to have to have to.

This is the conclusion I am reaching the further into my'Psychology and Spirituality' course I am get. The last two lectures were on meditation and my notebook is scribbled with references to WRITING and how WRITING is basically the same thing. Focusing on one thing entirely that calms me? Writing. That brings order and the ability to notice everything in more detail? Writing. That gives my mind space to be creative? Writing writing writing. It's the same for us all; meditation can be anything- art, running, dance... so if it is so positive why does the thought of a 10 hour meditation retreat chill me to the bone? (not that I'm planning on doing one you understand!)Can you imagine it? I think I'd go crazy, wouldn't you?!!!

It's the same with writing. Why, when I attempt to write and 'be a writer' and say 'I write' do I find it SO FRICKING HARD TO WRITE?!!!! It's not the actual experience of writing, this bit is fun and easy. It's the anticipation, thinking 'Oh, I should sit down and write' and then a shot of prickley fear followed by the thought, "Oh, but don't I have some pants that need ironing?". Basically, I'll do anything to get out of it.

But why? I think one thing is that writing needs a certain degree of arrogance. You need to think that you have something worthwhile to say, that people will want to read. Now don't get me wrong, it's obvious to all of us that I'm a fabulous human being with a rack that could kill and an ass that won't quit... but writing...? Sure I can spin something amusing but the eternal dilemma is CAN I WRITE ANYTHING WORTHWHILE?!!

Which brings me to the second point; I can never think of anything I want to write about. That's actually a lie or a trick of the mind. Funnily enough, when I do meditate, then my mind decides it wants to give me ideas. But when I try to clutch at them and follow through the idea wafts away like smoke and I'm left with a disappointing smell that stinks like FAILURE. Whatever, it must have been a crap idea anyway, because what could I possibly have to say? (See point one)

And to write well, about something serious (which I can't do!) is to put a little part of you out there to be surrounded and stabbed by a sneering critics. So it requires bravery and dedication and belief and all that bollocks. And that brings us to the final point. IF I want to write but don't write I still can have the belief that I COULD be a writer. But if I start to write and can't follow through with it and am crap then I'll DEFINATELY never be a writer.

Did that make sense? Told you I was hotch-potchy. So is it better to have the untested belief that I am a writer but never fulfil it? Or to try and FAIL. And I know, I know, from that Disney/Hollywood perspective it's always better to TRY (Image: Brave girl standing on mountain top with arms aloft and wind whipping through her hair). But in the real world? Maybe sometimes it's better to take the safe option...

THING THAT HAS AMUSED ME THIS WEEK: In the lifts at Covent Garden and Russell Square stations there are fire extinguishers labelled "Suitable for wood and paper fires. Not suitable for metal and electic fires"

Erm, are they expecting forest fires in a lift?!! Presumabley, at various points throughout our National parks there are fire extinguishers labelled 'For electrical fires only"???!

MORONS.

Maybe I LIKE the misery of making tea...

Well, hello world! I’m back in you it would seem. What with my new job(s) and courses and shit. No longer am I sitting on my ass feeling left out of everything. Here’s a sneaky update...

So, I have a job on the catering team at a dinky hospital in London. A friend’s dad basically got me the job and it’s only till the end of April (which I’m quite glad about as it’s KILLING me!). The catering team apparently have a lot of holidays that need covering and I’m the one that’s covering them. I’m serving in the hospital cafeteria (simple!), doing the ward round for the fourth floor (complicated!) and this week, oh joy of joys, I shall be training on the 2nd floor big wards and ICU. Just when I thought ‘I can handle this, I can get the 4th floor ward round DOWN’ they are bloody training me on the most complicated thing! Everyone warned me about 2nd floor when I started, wincing sceptically as they saw me manhandling the massive food trolleys ‘Just make sure they don’t train you on second floor’ they hissed, sucking air in through their teeth ‘Oooh, you don’t want to do second floor’. WAAAAAGH! Basically, if I wasn’t there they’d be getting an agency member of staff in so I am there to get basic training, keep them under budget and hopefully not kill any patients. PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL ANY PATIENTS!!!!

I actually enjoy the work when I’m there, even though it’s quite hard going and I’m having to wake up at 5.30am which as you know, to a snoozy lazybones like me is torture! I’m very slow on my ward rounds as I’ve not got my pace up yet but also because I stop to have a gossip with the patients. And of course I have my favourites. There are two who are exactly like Catherine Tate as Nana; one who was discharged last week whose daughter used to bring her in pie and mash (Kelly Ryan, I’ve seen your future) and another who told me ‘I’ll bring the tray out to the trolley luv, otherwise you’ll be in and out like a fart in a colander. Oooh, I’m a saucy cow, me!” She’s my absolute favourite, I always smuggle her more cake! She’s in for a heart valve op tomorrow and another favourite patient, who’s from Garryowen in Limerick, just like my dad, is in for an op to remove tumours on his lungs. I don’t know how the doctors and nurses, let alone the patients do it. Sometimes I feel like crying into the chicken and leek mornay and I have such minimal involvement with them. But what good does that do? Nothing. There’s no point being an oversensitive wuss and getting upset as though I have any right to when I barely know anyone there. The best thing I can do is be smiley, cheery and smuggle extra cake and biscuits to those who need it (although I would probably get the sack for that so maybe I should keep quiet!)

I do just have to add that I love doing the thrice-daily tea rounds and have been much complemented on my tea-making skills. As my mum says, ‘Ooooh Mel, you make a lovely cup!’ and as we British know, nothing soothes in times of crisis like tea!

So, IN OTHER NEWS: I have a second job! One that will hopefully continue after my first job finishes in April. As of March 6th, I will be training to be a tour guide at my old home, the Globe! As you may know, I have been a little dithery about going back to the Globe, just because it is like going back home and as I don’t expect to live with my mother for another 10 years I don’t think sheltering in the cosiness of the Globe till I’m about 40 would be a good plan, especially for a gal who’s one thing in life is going to new places and doing new things. BUT guiding is flexible (you put in the dates you want to do each month) so it can fit around my current job, plus any interning/volunteering /courses I may need to do for my MA. Yes, the MA plan is back in the loop and if I’ve got to be in the country for the next couple of years to apply for it, why not spend those years in the comforting bosom of la Globule? The only thing is I have to memorise all the stuff for a tour and train and gaaaaaagh! I’m a little terrified!

On top of the jobs, I’m doing two evening classes; Intro to freelance journalism, which I’m halfway through and Social Psychology which starts tomorrow. Ah, how I love to keep my brain going! And I’ve booked my trip to Hong Kong- yay! So that takes me up to mid-May, after that, who knows? I am attempting to do a year plan, as a blog I’m following suggests
http://chrisguillebeau.com/3x5/how-to-conduct-your-own-annual-review/ but I hate spreadsheets and anyway, who has the time?!

Finally, I had thought recently how I might like to get me one of those boyfriend things but instead I’ve developed an obsession with Mitchell off Being Human. Fantasy boyfriends do have the disadvantage of, y’know, not being real, but then they don’t talk back, don’t lie and cheat and they fit very convineintly round a busy schedule.

Maybe after May? Line me up some cute guys...

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up...?

Greetings all,

So I've been away with the fairies for a little while and not posted, mainly because there was nothing to say. It's all been dull, dull, unemployment, dull, dull, occasional rescue by a kind friend who's taken me boozing, dull, dull, etc etc. As I mentioned to one friend, I’ve been as much fun as a yeast infection of late. And no one wants to read a blog by a yeast infection, do they?

BUT things are finally on the move. I'm so impatient, I always want everything to happen RIGHT NOW, but this is not how the Universe works, is it? Bide your time, learn your lessons. Thankfully, my time has now been bided (?!!), and I have a job (temporary and not very exciting but it's work), I am doing courses (freelance journalism on Monday nights, social psychology will start on Tuesdays in a couple of weeks time). There are mega cheap rates for the unemployed so I'm making lemonade out of those lemons!

Anyway, I will elaborate on all the above at some point, (how lucky for you!?!) but that's not the reason for me posting. The reason I'm posting is that my mum found some of my old schoolwork, including an infamous piece I remember writing in my last year at primary school. It was entitled 'When I Grow Up' and illustrated with possible pictures of me, as a grown-up, in the future. You will see I already thought of myself as a fabulous multi-tasker; oh for the confidence we all had at 10! Here's the text, complete with spelling mistakes below:

"When I grow up I would like to be a clothes designer and an author. If I chose a sporting career I will proberbly be a dancer, an ice-skater or a show-jumper. If I choose a more glamorus career I will be a model or a Actress, Also if I become a sports person I wouldn't mind being a Tennis player."

Isn't it funny how, when we were little, none of us ever said "I want to work in middle-management in a large corporation" or, indeed "I want to be a mid-weight front-end developer". I suppose some of us grow out of childish dreams, some of us give up on them and some of us make compromises as other things become more important. But I think our 10 year old selves, and the hopes we had, have a kind of truth to them. We knew what we wanted and were confident it would happen. That is before we got scared we couldn't do it, or wouldn't earn enough money doing it, or that everyone would laugh at us because we were too crap.

This little glimpse of my past is especially important to me now that I've finally decided to try and make writing my career. Writing is really all I've ever wanted to do but I’ve always been far too scared to go for it or to define myself as ‘a writer’ in case someone spits in my face and says “No you’re fucking not you LOSER!”. Then I would have to run away crying and live out the rest of my life hiding in London’s sewerage system.

Obviously it’s not right for all of us to follow the dreams we scribbled down as snotty school kids. Then the world would have far too many astronauts or cowgirls or dinosaurs. But I think little 10 year old Mel was right. I knew what I wanted back then and even if it takes me till I’m 60 to get there I'm going to try and stick with it.

The writing that is. I don’t think I’m likely to become a model anytime soon.

Calling International Rescue...

All week. ALL WEEK I have been trying to write this blog but have had nothing to write. I’ve gone into a bit of a St. Mary (or ‘hibernation’ as my old flatmate Clare used to call it) and it’s been all I could do to pick up the phone and send a text. Oh, quel dommage, woe is me! Etc etc. Of course, now I absolutely have to do my Underbelly blog or risk disembowelment I suddenly find inspiration to write this one instead. This is not positive

Truth is I’m suffering from the most serious and dreaded of my mental ailments; lack of fabulousness. I can cope with most things, but feeling non-fabulous stuffs me every time. Ugh. I have been home all week in order to save my money (am off to Cornwall on the 14th to see Ra, Mark and little Tek so need to save money for this which will, mercifully, be fabulous) and being home all week, in Welling, is recognised as the foremost cause of the fabulousness draining out of you. Welling is like the dementor for fabulousness. In addition, the fact it’s snowing has kept me confined to base, or at least out of central London. In Hong Kong, when there’s a typhoon 8, you can still get across the water on the MTR (though you do have to wait at least 15 minutes) but in the London ‘burbs you can’t get a few miles up the road as the buses are jammed in traffic and the trains point blank refuse to run when there’s ‘the wrong kind of snow on the line’. Terrorists take note; bombs do not slow our transport system, believe me; I remember getting home with hardly any hassle on 7/7. You’d do better off to hide our gritter vans.

So I am whinging, I know. Whinging is no fun and I am the first to kick ass when people whinge. I bellow that the opportunities are there and you’ve just got to get OUT THERE etc. Oh, but Welling dents your belief. I’m having dreams about the Hong Kong skyline, any skyline actually. The tall buildings stretching into the horizon seem to be my brain’s go-to symbol when representing all that is fabulous. And I miss it. I miss those tall buildings, those lights and all the people scurrying in between them. All that action and activity and opportunity. Though reasonably large and impressive, the new Tescos in Welling just doesn’t make the heart soar in the same way.

A small mention for my Pa here. Although my mother and I are the spitting image of each other, we are completely different in personality. She wants me settle down and knock out sprogs soon with, Oh God, anyone. I literally think she’s on the verge of selling me to the first man who walks up to the door. After my dad and I did the shopping this week we popped into The Furze Wren for a bevvie and actually had a conversation. My father is a taciturn man, not given to chatting but I think we had the longest, most in depth conversation we ever had. I always knew he was more adventurous than my mum but I never realised how alike we are. And he’s on my side! And he’s confident everything will work out fine for me, not that I will ruin my life by foolishly refusing to settle down and breed. What with the wanderlust and moodiness I’m very proud to say I’m my father’s daughter alright. It’s nice to have one parent onside.

And now onto friends; I apologise as I’m not particularly useful right now. I keep leaving my phone around the house, or letting it run out of juice or not waking up till 5pm so I sleepily read texts sent in the morning before forgetting all about them when I awake later. And I’m not texting generally with my usual ferocity as I can’t afford to come out and hate to say that I can’t and anyway, if I could I doubt I’d be any fun. I need to get my shit together but the days seem to be sliding by so quickly and easily and well, I can do it tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow, no rush, it’s not like there’s anything exciting waiting...

Gaaagh, but there is! I remember there is. I used to have a LIFE. With a JOB and BURLESQUE and TRAVEL and FUN! But getting back to normal levels of cheeriness seems insurmountable right now; it’s just so much easier to watch endless ‘Come Dine With Me’ in my dressing gown. ALL DAY.

So I need help. And everyone has already been helping LOADS but, greedily, I need even more. HELP. HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP! Milly needs her fabulousness back. In the wise words of the Bee Gees “‘what you doing on your back? You should be dancing”

I should be dancing. HELP ME!!!!

What I like today: That I finally did my Underbelly blog, Wearing Sharron’s multi-coloured swirly skirt and heels to try to aid fabulousness, drinking the remnants of last week’s ‘Emerald Aisle’ cocktail, deliberately spelling ‘Emerald Aisle’ incorrectly, that I'm meeting Annie at the airport in 8 hours.

What I don’t like today: The dementors that stole my life and fabulousness and the energy to get my fabulousness back.

If I Write It, The Career Will Come...

I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRTIER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITET I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER I AM A WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO THERE!!!!! :op

MWOO HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unfortunately there’s nothing new or interesting to report, I haven’t suddenly been given my dream job by The Guardian or Wanderlust magazine (or indeed Lust magazine). Instead I am just practising saying “I am a writer” as how the hell is anyone supposed to think of me as one if I just say “Oooh, yeah, well, um, I write a bit and y’know, not much and... oooh, look WINE!”. Ridiculous. I’ve got to believe I am a writer if I want other people to believe it too. Although I am taking some convincing.

With that in mind, I have joined Twitter (Ugh! I know! But Suzie at Underbelly advised me to in order to promote my theatre blog so please ‘follow’ me if you’re on there http://twitter.com/#!/noisymilly It is with some horror that I paste that link in). When my next theatre blog is up (should be in the next couple of days) I will then promote it on Twitter. HORROR. But how does one get lots of followers? Advice please. How much further do I have to debase myself to promote me as a writer?!!

In other exciting news, I still have no job. But I have jobseekers’ allowance, The Apprentice, champagne and two Colin Farrell DVDs on order from Play.com so really, how bad can life be? I have been stressing A LOT recently though. The only time I get really stressed is when I question myself and the decisions I make. I find myself asking, ‘Should I settle down to some sort of career?’, ‘Should I be with someone?’, ‘Should I listen to all the people who sneer “Back to reality” at me, as though I’ve spent the last two and a half years in a pool full of cock and thousand dollar notes’? Because some people seem to live their lives as though they are a burden, they believe life isn’t ‘real’ unless it’s dull, repetitive and involves all kinds of heavy responsibility that they may or may not enjoy. When I am uncertain of myself and my own choices I start to think they’re right. That they are ‘grown up’ and ‘responsible’ and that I have somehow failed in some way and that I must ‘get real’ and allow my future to involve the discontent that they exhibit on the faces when I meet them in a bar, or at my bank, or when I’m job hunting.

But nah, bollocks to it. Currently the only ambition I have is to run screaming with laughter through the Irish countryside, pursued by a hot Irish man I will later shag and oh, to have adventures, many many adventures. And to write. And to get Stephen Fry to follow me on Twitter. There have to be some advantages, after all. I just can’t settle (whatever that means) now. Don’t get me wrong, if I met a guy right now who wanted to be my partner in crime and head off on adventures with me I’d snap him right up but I am in no way ready for a place of my own in a fixed destination, marriage and (ugh!) kids.

With that in mind, I must thank my dear friend Lola for supporting me a lot this weekend and making me feel better. She basically talked me down out of my scary panic attack. I am lucky as, though I don’t have any bros or sisters, Lola is one of the family I got to choose. And the best of it is, we are completely different and yet totally supportive of each other. She is very much a settle down gal, she met her lovely Derrick and now they have a lovely home and are getting married next year (YAY!). I on the other hand am a horrible cynic and the thought of anything commitment-y (marriage, mortgage, staying in the same job/place for more than 3 years) panics the shit out of me. But Lola and I support each other. She’s not me and I’m not her but that doesn’t stop me from being so happy that she’s getting married that I’m going to cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE CEREMONY and doesn’t stop her supporting all my wayward and often foolish decisions. So BLESS HER for telling me that I know what’s right for me and to just keep going and not to panic. I shall remember this next time I see sodding Baz at the recruitment consultancy.

So then, the phase I’m going through now is like a chrysalis. Yes, there is little happening, but I can feel things starting to pick up again. I feel ready to get back out there, chat, schmooze, do stuff, get involved. I DESPARATELY need a job, it’s true but I just have to keep trying on that one. Normal Mel service will be resumed soon. In the meantime, I am going to continue drinking champagne, get my haircut tomorrow and hope that the Postie brings my Colin Farrell DVDS soon!

What I like today: Blogging, Twitter (I know!), champagne, The Apprentice (in particular, Stella!), Lola, the increase in Lola's wedding plans.

What I don't like today; That I have no job or indeed career, that I'm starting to like Twitter.