Never Let Me Go

Despite what they say, this is not a sci-fi flick. The underlying secondary plot is a tad sciencey but it is definitely not a sci-fi flick so do not expect the likes of robots, time machines or dinosaurs. You shall be massively disappointed if you do. Adapted from Kazuo Ishiguro's novel of the same name, it is more so a love triangle, lingering on unrequited love for the most part whilst the the supporting storyline comes into play.

Kathy, Tommy and Ruth (portrayed by Carey Mulligan, Andrew Garfield and Keira Knightley respectively) are three children living a seemingly carefree childhood at Hailsham, a boarding school in 1950s England, until one grim day the harsh reality of their existence is revealed to them - they will reach adulthood to serve their implemented purpose, the role for which they were specifically created, clones constructed precisely for organ donation. Not clear whether the children fully understand their destiny, their innocence and quiet acceptance is what makes it all the more disheartening.

Throughout their time at Hailsham the gentle, observant Kathy and the shy, awkward Tommy appear to share a genuine and rather touching friendship, with a glimmer of potentially blossoming into a tender romance, hopes of which are dashed when Ruth intervenes and seizes Tommy for herself. Their relationship, unfortunately for Kathy, is not short-lived, and continues for the remainder of Hailsham and further into their time at 'The Cottages', a place where they are shifted to along with others of their designer race. Kathy's longing and unspoken love for Tommy is all too real and crushing, and eventually with Ruth continuously flaunting their relationship to her and mercilessly taunting her, Kathy settles upon becoming a 'carer', an option for clones to prolong their fate by nursing others of their kind as they fulfil their duty as organ donors. Kathy sets out to embark upon her new responsibility whilst Ruth and Tommy's relationship ceases, and so all three companions drift apart.

Many years later, for it is now the eighties, the three are subsequently reunited. Kathy is now frail and feeble as a result of her two donations, she believes she has one left to go before she reaches 'completion', a term for a clone's imminent death. Tommy too is fragile after his donations but remains forever upbeat and optimistic. Ruth, wrecked with guilt at 'stealing' Tommy from Kathy due to jealousy and a fear of being left alone, wishes to atone and redeem herself before her death, and so has managed to procure the address of 'Madame' who she believes has the power of providing the ever elusive 'deferral' - it is assumed couples in love can apply for this 'deferral' as a means through which to extend their already limited lives for a short period.

As Ruth 'completes' on her third and final donation, Kathy and Tommy, armed with many pieces of his art, make plans to visit this 'Madame', who used to own 'The Gallery' at Hailsham. They gather his art is the key to assisting 'deferral' in their favour, a solid way of proving that their love is authentic. Upon reaching the address, Kathy and Tommy are greeted by 'Madame' as well as their former headmistress, and further with the cruel truth that there is no such thing as a 'deferral', it has always simply just been a rumour, 'The Gallery' existed as a forum through which to challenge the ethics of cloning - a vehicle for exhibiting the reality that clones too have a soul. Kathy and Tommy leave dejected, the latter dies soon after whilst the former learns that her first donation is impending.

First and foremost, let's discuss what is wrong with the movie. The fact that nobody questions their fate or rebels against the system. They just silently accept their situation and willingly accomplish their expectations. There is no fight, no resistance, just compliance and cooperation. Whilst at Hailsham, the children are fed scary tales of what may happen should they loiter beyond the boundaries. At 'The Cottages', although they must clock in and out via their identity tag bracelets, they are pretty much free to roam around at their leisure so it is not understood why they always return. Why do they choose to abide by the rules when there is a distinct lack of strict regiment? Not once does there appear to be any form of aggressive authority that they should undoubtedly fear so it is unclear as to why they all remain so passive.

Also, Tommy doesn't make for a very convincing object of affection in the love triangle. Too weak-willed and vulnerable, he is not your regular dashing and charming romantic lead. However, perhaps this is what makes him an easy target for somebody controlling and manipulative like Ruth, and what makes him so irresistible for a nurturer like Kathy. I particularly don't care for the idea that Ruth 'stole' Tommy. Kathy and Tommy were never involved to begin with, and even if they were you can't steal a person from another. He was fair game as far as I'm concerned, yes Ruth had her own motives for seducing Tommy but he was pretty ready and willing so it is not entirely rational to condemn her actions alone. Oh and Kathy's hair is just so horrid throughout the movie, especially her fringe, to the point where it is just so distracting that I couldn't seem to focus on anything else, truly mesmerising for the wrong reasons. And a massive ewwww for Keira and her skeletal ways. I really don't need to elaborate any further on that one.

The bleak, dystopian world the clones experience allows the ethics of cloning to be addressed subtly and indirectly. It must be remembered that the cloning here is for medical purposes - the replacement of organs - not for any other selfish or threatening reason. And by ethics I refer to the more non-religious aspect of it. Considered as providers of spare parts and as second-class citizens, the clones are thought of as a somewhat intermediate of humans and say, robots, illustrated well in the scene where Ruth 'completes' - the surgeons extract the organ they desire and then immediately clear the operating theatre as she dies, without once acknowledging her at all, so cold and heartless that it is almost ironic in the sense that the clones are able to actually muster up more sensitivity and sentiment than their original carbon copies. Just because they are formulated in a laboratory doesn't make them any less human, which is the message 'The Gallery' at Hailsham stands to convey. The clones have emotions, something which sets them apart from robots, and it is these emotions the movie focuses on - from Tommy's rages to his positivity and hope, from Kathy's sympathy to her pain of unrequited love, from Ruth's jealousy and fear of loneliness to her guilt - a rainbow of emotions are presented to show that the clones are human through their ability to feel. What then makes it right to create a life in order to later destroy it for the sake of another?

Although the general mood is dismal and gloomy, the main essence of the movie is to display optimism. This is probably why the clones tend to grin and bear their circumstances. Tommy's attitude demostrates this well, he is able to remain cheerful and idealistic despite his evident deterioration. None of the clones seem to fear their fate, Ruth even welcomes her 'completion' whilst Kathy is remarkably brave despite all that she has seen as a carer and all that she has lost in her life. Passive they may well be but they display an inner strength which maybe derives from becoming detached from their bitter reality and dismissing it as something trivial and matter of fact. As the movies draws to a close, Kathy is grateful and "lucky to have had any time with" her love, and ponders whether the life of a clone is really any different from the ones of those that they save through organ donation, for "we all complete" she concludes. And that is true for death is natural, inevitable, and all in all life's ultimate goal.

Under the scalpel

I have avoided the surgeon's knife for twenty-eight years now, finally succumbing to the lure on the seventeenth of the eleventh month - a date that shall go down in history, a date that shall be duly noted and added to my list of firsts. Such a shame actually because it seemed like the only real record I had going. Maybe I have simply been lucky until this moment, or I was very careful and sensible as a child but either way I was untouched (sounds rather virginal and chaste, no?) and God's original creation, copyright and everything (rather religious territory I know), now I feel all ammended and surgically altered, violated even.

Okay so it is a huge exaggeration on my part, as always. It's not like I have had some major reconstructive surgery or some cosmetic enhancement, the term 'under the surgeon's knife' seems to be very synonymous with plastic surgery these days but I can assure you that in this instance I use it purely in a medical sense, no increase in bust or sculpted thighs here I'm afraid. Besides I am very anti all things plastic surgery, I just can't fathom the whole idea of letting a surgeon play God.* It's pathetic that we live in a world where people can just go shopping for a completely new body, a world where vanity extends beyond common sense, a world where it seems money can buy you everything after all. I am ashamed that fakeness today is celebrated and has become quite the social norm, that individuals are no longer that but just carbon copies and replicas of each other, whatever happened to being unique and different eh?

Anyway, enough of that cosmetic surgery rant, let me get back to the core of this post - tonsillectomy, that's right, I merely had my tonsils removed, you know, those spongy things located at the back of the mouth/throat area. Deemed utterly useless since they seemed to be slacking at their fighting infection duties, it was time to fish them out. Common procedure really. I knew the particulars involved and was absolutely prepared for the painful recovery process. I consider myself fairly brave so wasn't all that apphrehensive or frightened at the thought of the actual surgery, I was more concerned about being butt naked under that oh so attractive hospital gown. Horror scenarios flitted through my mind, I didn't want to do a Janet and accidentally flash myself to all and sundry. And the no make-up law had me worried too. No make-up? In public? You mean to say not even a teeny weeny bit of foundation? You mean to say that my face has got to be completely naked too? What's with all the nudity dammit, it's a hospital for God's sake, not a naturist site. However the most scariest element for a self-confessed junk food addict like myself had to be the not being able to eat prospect. A diet consisting of soft food didn't seem all that appealing to me, surviving two weeks without pizza, chips, crisps, chocolate and the like would be tough as well as torturous.

I treated myself to a comfy 'all over heart print robe' and a pair of cute 'fair isle inspired slipper socks', both from Jane Norman, as I was meant to stay in hospital overnight, not just a simple case of day surgery like I had initially assumed. The dressing gown is beige-ish-brown, decorated with white hearts and glitter in entirety. And it's so trendy that it has a hood so you can be all Little Red Riding Hood meets mean boxer. Whereas the slipper socks - that's right, slipper socks - are just a wonderful and, not to mention, absolute genius creation. This adorable hybrid is a Fair Isle knit of white and beige decorated with hearts, with the addition of a couple of heart pom poms dangling from the top of each sock. Fair Isle knits are huge and mega popular this winter, making these slipper socks very fashionable and stylish. Both purchases helped cheer me up and ease the anticipation of having to spend the night in a hospital ward next to possible nutters and perverts.

I wouldn't recommend reading the following unless of course you are extremely interested in the whole tonsil removal recovery process, am afraid it may get rather repetitive and bland - there is probably nothing of a wildly fascinating nature that will be presented here, just a glimpse into my fortnight of suffering, cue lots of whining and whinging. Don't say I didn't warn you! I was contemplating whether to write it as a general summary or in a diary format. The latter seems more suitable as the former requires me to be in a post recovery frame of mind, a stage which seems nowhere near in sight at the minute. Besides a day by day account is probably more manageable and easier to update so here goes:

Day 1: Day of surgery, otherwise known as D-Day. Had to check into my allocated ward at twelve noon which meant no food or drink from six hours prior to this. I had a massive takeaway meal the evening before, including the gorgeous and delicious Tennessee Toffee Pie. Oh how I could murder a piece right now. It was all very The Last Supper like. Spent a good few hours in the waiting room, secretly going all eagle-eye on the dreaded hospital gown that the other patients were parading around in, done in a very Terminator scan mode type manner I'll have you know. It didn't seem as bad as I had pictured in my head, looked pretty secure from the back. Went through the formalities before heading down to the operating theatre, you know, the much anticipated dressing of the infamous hospital gown (I whipped on my sexy heart print robe over it just in case, wasn't going to take any chances), the standard tests, the standard questions and so forth, you get my drift. Oh and my slipper socks got a fair few compliments along the way. Got my general anaesthetic at three, the anaesthetic person (anaesthesiologist I am told - wow, what a mouthful) was very impressed with my veiny hand, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room with a sore throat, some bloke stroking my hair, and a clock that appeared to be somewhere in the region of half five to six-ish. Scary stuff. Almost three hours of my life I will never be able to account for. It's given me a slight insight into the world of those who have had their drinks spiked or have likewise been drugged to the point of unconsciousness. I can only imagine their confusion and frustration as they desperately attempt to deduce the events that occurred during that blackout period, I mean it's not like I woke up undressed, disorientated and covered in bruises in some unknown location. Now that there is proper scary stuff. Where knowledge is power, loss of control can only be the horrifying opposite. Yes, we all know I am prone to digression, anyway back to the recovery room - they continued to monitor my blood pressure, pulse rate and temperature whilst informing me that I would not receive food until the next morning which was a major blow as I was practically starving at this point and under the impression that I would be fed post surgery. I didn't suffer any side-effects from the anaesthesia, only mild shivering, and was soon wheeled back to the ward where I hid behind the privacy of drawn curtains. Nurses kept intruding in order to regularly observe my physical health, iced water was kind on my throat and although I had to demand painkillers, they were an important component in easing the pain. Most of my mouth was still numb but my main focus was to get through to Thursday morning so that I could calm the rumbling stomach noises that were making themselves pretty known, loud and clear. Gossip magazines and much sleep was the key. One more quick thought: I am now officially without tonsils - tonsils R.I.P.

Day 2: The day I can officially eat - yipee! I'm not usually a fan of breakfast but so not the case today. It was either cereal or toast, now I absolutely abhor milk in its natural state so cereal was off limits, leaving me with the only other option on offer - toast. Was slightly nervous about how my throat would react to such a substance but the toast was really soft and I managed to consume it without any trouble at all. After much deliberation over medication, I was finally discharged from the hospital. Didn't know what to make of their advice to eat as normal but was eager to get home, especially as the one measly slice of toast they had given me surprisingly hadn't exactly worked wonders for my hunger. I felt really feeble once I got home, and couldn't bear to do anything that didn't involve lying down. Sweetcorn rice with a splash of plain yoghurt was all I wolfed down today and much to my amazement it wasn't really difficult to swallow. I tried my regular mango juice but found it tricky to gulp down and so had to resort back to water. I don't necessarily care too much for water but at the moment I have no other choice. A codeine-paracetamol combo, and Ibuprofen are my pain relief companions, and resting is my favourite activity.

Day 3: Woke up to intense nausea. The pain has increased too. I actually vomited a couple of times too which aggravated my throat further and even made it bleed. The horrid nausea persisted for the most part of the day, and my appetite marginally decreased - even the thought of food repulsed me. I forced myself to some bread and cream of mushroom soup, took a good few hours to eat it, mainly due to all the queasiness, the warm soup however was very much soothing on the throat. I made some Uncle Ben's Express Egg Fried Rice later, via microwave of course, but struggled to eat more than a couple of spoonfuls, it hurt far too much. A few sips of Oasis Citrus Punch was a huge mistake and wrong judgement on my part, it burnt my throat no end - am thinking no fruit juices especially of the citrus kind, best not to stray too far from water actually. By the evening I was craving pizza, chips and pasta, I settled for chips, attempting to chow down some extra soft homemade variety, and believe me when I say they were really soft, they were like a step away from mashed potato, yet still extremely tough on my throat. Talking is difficult and painful as well, words come out very muffled and I sound retarded which is not funny but must be fantastically hilarious to those who have to listen to me. Have decided to keep speech to a bare minimum in order to avoid becoming a great source of amusement to others. There are comedians for that you know, let them earn their living.

Day 4: More nausea and vomiting. I figured it was a result of all the codeine but was in a pretty much catch-22 situation at this point - yes, being physically sick was probably caused by the painkillers but I couldn't wean myself off them because they helped alleviate all the agony and torment. Had a few mouthfuls of very soft mash with a chunk of butter thrown in, couldn't manage any more because I just felt so bleurgh, tried Uncle Ben's Express Mushroom Rice later but didn't fare any better with it, feels like I am swallowing broken glass. Even water doesn't go down without a fight. Eventually, after an ice lolly to soothe the affected area, I opted for strawberry jelly and ice-cream which was so much easier to slurp down and very pleasant to my tastebuds. I haven't had jelly for yonks, had forgotten how wobbly and slippery it can be, it's a devil to scoop up.

Day 5: Nausea remained but no vomiting - yay! My appetite increased too so I welcomed a plate of mash and spaghetti (the tin kind) which went down rather easily - double yay! Later I had some rice and indulged in some pasta. All very small helpings but still way more food than the last two days combined. Looking good.

Day 6: Level of nausea has toned down a notch. Am trying to resist painkillers but it is a fairly impossible task. Along with the obvious throat pain, there are also episodes of earache - this is to be expected and is nothing out of the ordinary. And sorry if this is too much information but have realised that today is the fifth day I have resisted opening/emptying my bowels, could be due to the medication or the small amount of food passing through my system or just the general lack of physical movement as I have pretty much just been lying around in bed. I have noted mild itching too, another side-effect, nothing worrying though. More strawberry jelly and ice-cream today, my throat simply adores jelly and ice-cream, it's effortless swallowing at its best. Rice yet again, later followed by mash and tinned spaghetti. Still quite a struggle to shove down my healing throat but one must eat.

Day 7: Nausea has diminished quite a bit. The pain is more bearable as well, in fact I haven't relied on painkillers so much today. Light at the end of the tunnel perhaps? Haven't felt majorly hungry either but forced myself to some bread and, cream of caulifower and broccoli soup - the warm soup is so appeasing on my rough throat. I used to be cynical but am now an avid believer of the healing properties of soup - I have been reformed people! Had a slice of toffee gateau later which quite literally slid down my throat as it was so super soft. Speech still hasn't improved much though.

Day 8: Bowel movement - hurrah! Although after much constipation I must add. Sorry if it is all too graphic. It was a trying moment but I remained focused, determined, undeterred and undefeated - how's that for fighting talk eh? The pain has subsided which means I am going easy on the painkillers. I also feel so much more energetic so it seems sleeping for long periods of the day has been abandoned for now. Succumbed to bread and cream of mushroom soup today, seems like I am getting rather accustomed to the almighty soup. And more jelly and ice-cream - looks like I have discovered a new dessert too. Supper was mash and spaghetti which I am becoming quite a fan of as well. I have noticed upon opening my mouth really wide, which I now am able to do, that most of the white bits that had replaced my extracted tonsils (I believe they are scabs) have disappeared - a good sign as it means recovery is almost complete - woo hoo!

Day 9: Have reached the stage where the act of eating requires no great effort or thought. There are still a few white scabs present, and my throat and ear tends to hurt from time to time but the pain is very slight. Stuck to bread and, cream of cauliflower and broccoli soup today, sweetcorn rice in the evening, followed by a piece of sticky toffee cheesecake which had been calling out to me from the fridge all day.

Day 10: My voice still doesn't sound quite the same, and my throat still does not feel quite right but complete recovery is nigh, I just know it. Energy levels have shot back up again, I don't think I slept once during the day, I have also not been heading to bed early like I was in the early stages, think my body is actually tired of sleep. I tried Uncle Ben's Express Mixed Pepper Rice which was a tad spicy on the throat but definitely not lethal. Constipation is still ever present. Had a plate full of pasta in the evening, and even sneaked in a few pieces of chocolate which tasted so heavenly after such a drought.

Day 11: I am stuck in a limbo of some sort, my recovery seems to have plateaued. I am only a step away from being a-okay but have failed to reach this stage over the last few days. I can distinctly feel the last of the scabs in my throat, am urging for them to drop off. Although it appears like my throat can handle stronger material, I am still taking it easy with good ol' bread, and cream of cauliflower and broccoli soup. I know I should pluck up the courage to switch to grittier, more textured food but am being a bit of a wimp. Had chips in the evening and a stick of Twirl - mmmm.

Day 12: I shall no longer bore you with this insipid, day by day drivel. I have felt like a baby on puréed food for the last couple of weeks but can now resort back to normal food which means hello delights of the junk variety. Have embarked upon my one woman eating mission with sandwiches, crisps, chocolate and a selection of pick 'n' mix sweets. Appetite has most definitely increased and cravings are ever stimulated. That tiny scab is still refusing to budge but is not hindering me in any way. Yes, my throat hurts from time to time but here I refer to my actual throat not where the tonsils used to reside. My voice is fine but sounds a tad odd to me, don't know if it's just because I haven't spoken properly for so long and am out of practice or because it has to adjust to all the extra space back there. Constipation is also easing up. As you can see, the recovery process hasn't been anywhere near as awful as I had been made to believe by many (read: liars) out there - days 3-6 were by far the worst, it was uphill after that, with day 8 distinctly being the beginning of the end. I have a couple of more days left before I return to that dreaded thing called work - the docs deem you unfit for a standard two week period not only as it is assumed to be the general healing duration but also so that you can confine yourself indoors and avoid any infection from germ-ridden people. Oh yeah, I haven't lost the copious amount of weight that the majority seem to do post surgery, I feel so duped, it's not fair - I demand a weight loss. Not a huge amount, a couple of pounds would be nice thanks, you know, as a bonus for the ordeal I have faced. The last couple of weeks have turned me into such a hermit (that's hermit, not Kermit the green frog puppet), time to be a social recluse no more, watch out world, here I come, after I order myself a gigantic pizza with some cheesy garlic bread that is. Ooooh, and some cheese and onion potato skins. And maybe some banoffee pie too, we'll see.

* Cosmetic surgery = surgeon playing God whereas medical surgery = surgeon playing hero. Got that? Okay. Good.

Vampires: bloody damn lucky or what?

Ties in aptly with Halloween actually. Plus the 'Twilight' flicks have made vampires mega popular and trendy again, you know, as opposed to being all creepy and bizarre.

I do sometimes wish I were a vampire, not because I'm keen on the taste of blood, I'd rather stick with Cherryade to be honest, and definitely not because I have an affinity for abruptly appearing in dimly lit alleyways in order to frighten unsuspecting strangers, although that could quite possibly be fairly entertaining, well, it easily beats bowling. No, I sometimes wish I were a vampire for the anti-ageing qualities they possess - the lucky sods. The supernatural powers would be a bonus really, and very much welcomed I'll have you know, I'm not about to turn away such gifts - after all, I'm no ungrateful little so and so, besides it's all part of the package right?

To be honest, I am pretty much halfway there without any support - I am not exactly enthusiastic about sunlight, or any light for that matter (very harsh on my constant migraines), my curtains are always drawn shut, and I have ceiling spotlights in my bedroom, a couple of which no longer emit any actual light - how's that eh? I generally exhibit many of the traits discussed here which is quite scary really. Plus I look fairly young for my earth years - I am meant to be twenty-eight but I easily fit into the eighteen to twenty-two age bracket.

As much as it pains me to admit, I am not actually a vampire or any kind of preternatural creature, even though my fantasies would strongly prefer me to be. However, I am kind of hoping that some immortal being out there will by chance read this and initiate me into their special club. Hey, I so totally have the whole silent, brooding, mysterious act perfected - not at all vying for a vampire-related invitation here! Anyway, let us step away from all this vampire nonsense for a moment, much of this pondering gave birth when I was washing my hair earlier - not a novelty, rare or momentous occassion by the way - and although, I have had them for years now, I am no longer in denial. I am talking about white hair here people, hair devoid of any colour. I figured I was genetically dispositioned to them earlier than most people, I probably got my first white strand in my late teens - can you believe that?! Now I have roughly ten which although is less than one percent of my total hair count is still ten too many, not to mention that we're now in double figures. Oh and for those who are wondering, I just yank them right out - I don't buy into that old wives' tale about two more growing back for each one that you pull, it's pants, whoever came up with that obviously had no idea about Science and melanin and all that jazz.

Anyway so there's nothing like white hair to make you feel old. It's not even like the first sign of ageing, it's like the definite sign of ageing. And although the man above decided to bless me with a youthful demeanor, he threw a spanner in the works by bestowing premature greying upon me - a very cruel trick indeed, in fact he is probably chuckling this very minute as I write this sentence. So now I can't even use the said youthful demeanor to my advantage because the greying hairs counteract it in every possible way. Not fair. Many people strongly believe you are as old as you feel, my mantra has always been 'you are as old as you look' which going by the poxy white discoveries on my head would make me like mid to late thirties. Hmmph.

Okay so maybe I am overreacting slightly but ageing scares me. Not death mind you, death I find liberating and natural, sort of like your ultimate goal in life, it's ageing that quite literally scares the pants off me. I really don't want to age, please don't make me - said in exasperation with eyes searching towards the sky whilst hands are joined together in a prayer-like stance. And this is why I need a vampire right about now.

Also, in more ageing news, I now have like a permanent forehead wrinkle or line or whatever it is you prefer to call the damn unsightly thing. The stupid crease even shows up through foundation, there's no disguising it, it's just eager to seep through to the surface and say hello. I figure it's my highly expressive nature at blame here, which means I need to tone down pulling faces and opt for a more wrinkle-free blank look, something I can't even maintain for like half of half a minute. Botox suddenly seems very appealing. Besides a teeny tiny bit never harmed anybody, right?

And with that I'm off to research all things botox and dermal filler-like. Unless of course somebody knows a vampire they can direct my way.

Fringe benefits

The quickest and easiest way to seek change is probably through your hair. It's amazing how you can be completely transformed simply through the act of altering it in some shape or form. Not always for the better though as I regrettably found out yesterday.

So every now and then I am possessed with the idea of tweaking my hair, I never follow these ideas through because I do actually love my hair as it is - I love the length and I love colour. My hair is long and dark, and I am not afraid to say, silky and glossy. It's what I get the most compliments from in life so naturally there is no valid reason to change something that is probably at its crowning best. Now I have a somewhat phobia of hairdressers, I have not, prior to yesterday, visited a hair salon for over a couple of decades. Honest. Hairdressers just have a knack for always getting it wrong, and my hair is my fortune so the possibility that it may be butchered by somebody too enthusiastic with a pair of scissors is a risk too high for me to gamble with. Sorry, I don't mean to incriminate or condescend hairdressers all across the land, I'm sure there are some that are efficiently skilled and talented at their art, but these are few and far between.

My hair, therefore, is maintained by myself, the only person I can really trust with it, and its routine is fairly simple - shampoo, condition and straighten, hair is to be dyed black if it begins to appear rather dull, and if the feathered bits that frame my face start to look too frayed or long then they are to simply be trimmed a little shorter. Nothing too technical for my unqualified self. And it works well as it's a ritual that has been perfected over the years. Anyway, so occasionally I am inundated with thoughts that make me question my hairstyle and attempt to persuade me to
explore hair variety. I have considered having my hair coloured lighter,
sort of like a caramel or honey tone, something like the images just above, it's such a pretty shade but I know it would mean endless hours at the hairdressers, and a hell of a lot of cash, plus my hair grows quite quickly so roots would become visible within a matter of moments, too much effort to conserve and cultivate for somebody impatient and lazy like moi.

I would never play with the length of my hair which kind of restricts me from a lot of the options available. Wavy hair is something I quite like the sound of as well. In fact my hair has a natural wave to it anyway. A few years ago I went all out and purchased a curly hair diffuser, heated rollers and many hair products designed for waves and curls, but much to my disappointment the look that I longed for evaded me. DIY waves are impossible to create. This is all I want dammit, is it too much to ask for:












So for the last week the prospect of a fringe occurred to me. I don't know where exactly from but it just popped into my head, and I couldn't rest until this prospect was executed. A flirty fringe seemed ideal, it's not dramatic enough to radically change my current hairstyle but is prominent enough to jazz it up a little. I browsed the net for fringes that would suit me, fringes that I quite fancied, and I managed to settle upon something quite soft, long and full, maybe even slightly sweeping, like so:

Armed with these images in my head, I ventured into Emma Claire where I tried to explain just exactly what I had in mind, the hairdresser appeared to acknowledge my description but the results that stared back at me from the mirror vastly differed from those that had been infiltrated in my brain. She had quite literally massacred my hair. I kept my head down the entire journey home, and could feel pedestrians staring and laughing at the disastrous excuse for a fringe that sat boldly on my forehead.

I am not even exagerrating, it is absolutely awful, just horrendous, it's of the Lady Gaga mould, not soft and feminine like I had hoped but just hacked at, crooked and pouffy, it reminds me of Monica's Dudley Moore casualty. So what can I do now besides cry, hibernate for all of summer and walk around with a brown paper bag over my head? Absolutely zilch. How exactly do you disguise or conceal something that is so central to your face and hair, something that is painstakingly verging on near enough impossible to grow out? My hair is my shield, what do I have to hide behind now? Looks like hair grips will be my trusty sidekick from here on.

So the moral of the story is that hairdressers are the sum of all evil, satan himself in fact. Now I know why they say 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'.

Scorching summer sun

Wow, it has been hot for the past few weeks, and I mean real HOT, not like the eighteen degrees high we usually have to make do with, nope, I'm talking sweltering heat of the mid-twenties to late-twenties, bikini-top and hotpants variety. It's highly strange because for the past two years our summer has quite literally been a week or two of relatively nice weather in April. Never are we actually blessed with such hot spells during June and July which makes me wonder whether there is something wrong with the Earth and its axis or its orbit around the Sun. Let's not forget that this is still Britain so there has obviously been the odd shower here and there, not to mention that I see rain forecast for practically all of next week *frowns*.

Pros

• No more six layers of clothing, and no more scarves and gloves, which consequently means no more having to waddle around stiffly like a penguin. Yippee! Also, no more of that winter red nose that could easily rival Rudolph's and put him right out of employment.

• I can now parade around in my skimpy wardrobe without people batting a disgusted eyelid or offering me their jacket in an attempt to cover me up. I don't believe in winter clothes you see, why waste good money on wool and cashmere when you can buy florals and prints instead? That there is pretty much my motto, along with 'it's better to be overdressed than underdressed'. Ninety-nine percent of my attire consists of dresses and skirts, all in a variety of styles and hues, all just bursting to be released into the world, desperate to be worn, adorned, modelled, to simply fulfil their one true purpose in life, and it is summer who grants my dresses and skirts their eager wish. Hurrah!

• Ditching the winter coat. Sure, this can be filed neatly under the first point but nope, I feel it deserves a whole damn bulletpoint of its own. I hate coats. They are bulky, and make you look massive. Especially if you are lacking in height, like myself. In which case you come across as rather short and dumpy. And why are coats always so shapeless? And so difficult to move around in? And I've noticed that they always look better on the hanger than on a person, and on models of course, and celebrities too but no, I don't believe coats were designed with mere mortals in mind. Drop the coat and drop half a stone - it's true!

• Shiny happy people. No, not the R.E.M track, I mean people being all smiley and upbeat-like, with a skip in their step, and permanent jazz hands. Birds, butterflies, rainbows and blue skies. Maybe there is something to that Seasonal Affective Disorder malarkey after all eh. And there I was thinking it was just an elaborate excuse to be grumpy during winter months.

• Beer gardens. An awesome way to spend lazy summer evenings, with a cold alcoholic beverage in one hand, and a smoke in the other. And the seats are actually dry this time of the year! Hey, it is not alcohol and cigarette specific either so non-drinkers and non-smokers are more than welcome to join in too with their apple and mango J2O, we don't discriminate you know!

• It gets dark much later which makes the day seem miles longer. More time for flirty magic summer fun.
  

Cons

• A melting face. Not that my face is made of chocolate or wax. And no, I'm not referring to that overdone cosmetic surgery look. What I mean is that heat equals makeup that refuses to stay put which in turn means that notorious smudgy, shiny face syndrome. Hmmmph. Oh and I wonder whether plastic surgery would actually begin to melt if exposed to too much direct sunlight?

• Having to shave your legs every single damn waking moment. There's no hiding behind black tights any longer. Damn. Which evidently means having to set the alarm ten minutes earlier to ensure smooth, fuzz-free pins, and I'll have you know that sleep deprived of those ten minutes makes all the difference. Oh and let's not forget those nasty, unsightly, pest-like razor bumps. Grrr.
  

• There is also no more hiding behind the trusty, comfortable winter coat. Lumps and bumps are fully on display now which means a battle between you and the scales. Boo for summer diets and exercise. The irony here, however is that summer also means temptation in the form of calorie-ladden ice-cream, and the fact that it is offically too hot to work out - government warning I swear, Mr Cameron himself said so. Hmmm, so how exactly is one then supposed to embark upon the ritualistic 'beach diet'? Somewhat of a 'Catch-22' situation here methinks.
  

• Sunlight exposes a multitude of sins. I don't mean theft and attempted murder here, I mean that it is harsher on blemishes and flaws. Every pore and pimple becomes magnified in the summer. Damn you sun!
  

• The lethargic state. Just thinking, excessive heat damages the central processing unit of electronics, in the same way I believe it frazzles the human control centre. I don't care if it's not exactly scientific or even true in any shape or form, it is nevertheless my excuse for the general slow-down that is induced by the great summer sun.

• Constant thirst. This is not sexual you filthy-minded people. I am talking about having to constantly down cold drinks which is not all that great for a small bladdered specimen like moi as it involves a rapid increase in loo visits - people must think I am either constipated or suffering from a bout of diarrhea, and troubled bowels are just not sexy.

Yes, in true British fashion, we moan when it's hot and we moan when it's cold!

I just wonder how those that live in either a warm or cold climate cope? I suppose what I mean to say is that I am truly grateful for seasons. Seasons are beautiful and provide such variety and contrast, not to mention relief. Is this morphing into some sort of cheesy Thanksgiving speech? Which by the way we should so have in this country, not the speech that is, the holiday. How fab would that be? Not just because it means one more day off work. Honest.

Please note: this post has been delayed by like a week *slaps wrists* I really should know better than to attempt something so time-sensitive. So all that rain I speak/spoke of, yes, that was pretty much all last week.

When I grow up, I want to be...

... a fairy. Or mermaid. Or princess.

And although I am fairly grown up now, maybe not in stature but most definitely in age, I still maintain that I wish to be a fairy, mermaid or princess, even though I know it's highly unlikely, in fact quite literally impossible, and all in all rather fantastical really. Unless of course I start to look towards Disney theme parks as potential employers.

Oh to be a mischievous, diminutive, winged creature, dancing through woodland skies, generously sprinkling glitter-like fairy dust, shrewdly defeating fiery dragons. Now that's an adventure that the regular nine-to-five doesn't offer. Or a mysterious, dainty, fish-tailed nymph, wading through pacific seas, endlessly teasing all fellow marine life, enchanting sailors with her seductive feminine wiles. Or a soft-spoken, dainty, regal lady, gazing longingly out of her window, singing soothingly to feathered beings, patiently waiting to be rescued by her knight in shining armour. Those are roles and responsibilities that I can fathom, job descriptions that suit me to a tee. Well, bar the swimming and singing that is. I could just about swim like a length about seventeen years ago but I very much doubt I can any longer. As for singing, let's just say I ain't no Mariah. Oh and how do mermaids manage to frolic in water for hours on end yet their hair stays immaculate and amazingly dry? Have always wondered.

Besides establishing that a drowning mermaid would altogether make for a very crap mermaid, I am trying to jump ship, get out before the boat sinks and what not, I apologise for the heavy 'at sea' theme, it was not purposely intended, entirely accidental I swear - what I mean to say is that my current occupational abode is in a bit of a financial pickle and so the future there is looking very bleak, and although I am not on their official hitlist, perhaps it is time to look for greener pastures. You know, you'd think that the person accountable for all the financial decisions would be given their marching orders because they have absolutely, totally and completely fucked up, excuse my language. But nope, it's the little people that shall suffer as a result.

And really, right now, right this very minute, I should be updating my CV instead of my online diary, except I have ransacked my whole, entire bedroom and just can't seem to find even half a copy of my old CV, and starting from scratch seems like such a damn chore at the moment. Which leads me question: what do I even want to do? I have never been highly ambitious or motivated, I have never had a career, just jobs, and so two years away from the big three-zero I seem to be in some sort of career-less crisis. Whereas everybody else around my age seems to be professionally settled and steadily climbing up the career ladder, I haven't even had a mere sniff or taste of it, and here I am, still little girl lost.

The whole recruitment process itself is so tough these days. There's the first interview, and the second, and the third, and let's not forget the dreaded panel interview with a whole bunch of intense, scary looking ogres in power suits, all those eyes glued to you, scrutinising your every movement, trying to ambush you into a pile of withering mess. I am not a natural entertainer, do not revel at centre-stage, am not a quick thinker, most certainly do not have the gift of the gab, so interviews are naturally my worst nightmare, along with my straightener breathing its last breath, and heavy rain on a day I am not armed with an umbrella. Interviews destroy any ounce of confidence I possess, confidence which I had very little of to start with. I become a stuttering and mumbling disaster, my heart pounding hard, my voice all high-pitched and squeaky. Boy I hate interviews. And oh, those questions - what can you bring, what are your strengths, why should we hire you, why do you want this job???? How about because I need the money so that I can buy myself pretty things? I am extremely modest and find it really difficult to recommend or sell myself - I am not a product dammit! Besides what can I really say that hasn't been said before? Surely the interviewers must get tired of hearing the same bullshite over and over again? Sometimes I think that I should take a gamble, be a little different, throw in a bit of humour, show some personality but I don't want to risk looking like a right twat. Also, with the current dire economical situation, and jobs being so few and far between, there are like gadzillions of people vying for the same positions, gazdillions of people who are much more qualified and experienced for the role than little ol' me. I just don't stand a chance, might as well spare myself the humiliation and torture. Such defeating talk, I know.

Am thinking it's probably a little late to go into the 'Big Brother' house. I could always become a WAG, just need to hang out at some popular celebrity haunt like Chinawhite and throw some sexy shapes on the dancefloor. Failing that, there's always exotic dancing, I hear it pays well.

And hey, look what I found:

http://www.weekiwachee.com/

- only in the States eh, only in the States could you actually work as a mermaid - good stuff!