“Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

The above is from 'Tender is the Night'; a book that anyone rushing out to watch The Great Gatsby in cinemas these following weeks must bring themselves to read and re-read. And read again.

There's comfort in knowing that not all troubles arose afresh in my generation. That the children of the internet, of cable television, of strip malls and of frozen yoghurt did not dream up their own misfortunes. There has been much talk in recent press of us being the narcissistic, over-stimulated and under-worked youth. Tears have been spilt and hair torn over our callous, selfish selves.

It's a comfort to read about great literary characters who spew the same self-centered, misinformed, over-analytical garbage that we do. After all; these characters do not come from nowhere, and the authors who created them must have had some pretty messed up traits of their own to rustle up something so powerful and accurate as the cruelty that can come from the human spirit. Drunkards, womanisers, criminals and general scoundrels.
Evelyn Waugh was persistently in debt, orchestrating various tax-avoidance schemes, and snubbed the offer of a CBE because he felt he deserved a knighthood and no less. Tolstoy surprised his wife on the eve of their wedding by giving her a list of women he had slept with, one of whom had borne him a child. O. Henry was arrested and jailed for several months of charges of embezzlement. Dickens decided that, at the ripe old age of 45, now was the time to fall in love with an 18-year-old actress and turn his current wife and children out of the house, no questions asked.

These flaws humanise. They tarnish the gold leaf with which we adorn our memories of these men (and women; Virginia Woolf was thoughtful enough to write in her diary "I do not like the Jewish laugh. I do not like the Jewish voice" - and yet still went on to marry one.) Maybe it's a particular frame of mind that finds it easier to associate with the lazy, the weak and selfish. It's much more gratifying to bring them down to our level, than to wistfully observe that we, too, could be great if we only got up when our damn alarm clock told us to.

But I diverge. Something I find myself at fault of often doing is daydreaming. A small crime, sure.. but it takes years to realise of how much it robs you. I'm permanently living in the rosy glow of past amusements (or, indeed, the dark shadows of a previous life) or in the idyllic film-script of my future. I don't exist in the present tense.
There is a fantastic quote from the character of Julia in 'Brideshead Revisited' (which I have recently finished, having put it off for far, far too long) which runs something along the lines of time as pressing in on your from behind and arriving much too quickly ahead of you. One feels suffocatingly pressed upon from both sides and there's no room to live. It's only long after that we can truly recognise the beauty of a moment we regarded at the time as being a mere interval. A nothingness, a wait for something else, something better that, when it arrives; we're inevitably already ahead of ourselves and don't even notice it passing us by.

It's a beautiful day in May. I'm surrounded by good friends, good books, good food and freedom to myself. And the only way I can appreciate it is by removing myself from it and reminiscing about that lovely moment 40mins ago.

"The university brings out all abilities. Including incapability." - Anton Chekov

The Leaden-Eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
Vachel Lindsay

It's that time of year again. Jeans and boots are swiftly dropped in favour of pyjama bottoms and hole-infested ski socks. Lunch becomes a daily pilgrimage of duty and desperation; a half-hour laspe in the dreaded time/work continuum. The library becomes a blizzard of strewn pages and open textbooks, a hive of anxious, paranoid, caffiene-addled worker bees who know no difference between day and night. Witty conversation is condensed with lighting speed to worry, self-deprication and hollow retorts of half-hearted moral support from friends who are themselves too far drowned to throw a life ring.
And those faces. Those eyes; straining to focus through days of missed sleep, to see through the barrage of words and sums and diagrams. Like some grotesque version of Google Glass envisioned by Stanley Kubrick in a particularly cruel frame of mind. A face the colour of forgotten marble.

Of course this is all a temporary illness. Merely the height of a fever which, once sweated out, leaves one feeling weak, starved, and yet deliriously happy to be out of the woods and half-alive. In this case: I'm not much good as a bed nurse. I'm standing by the doorframe; sympathetically contemplating the ailing patients progress and offering to bring a glass of water. He must get himself better. Nothing can help him now except to clench his teeth and ride out the storm.

For many of my friends; the storm has hit. They are floundering on the waves of nausea; tossing and turning in a fitful sleep of unfinished essays and forgotten chapters.

And I am waiting. I'm 'slinging beef' (as my friend calls my current waitressing job) and begging tips. I'm polishing cupboards and folding napkins. Living a life so far removed from my university life that I feel like an intruder sitting in the same library. A userper of public justice, a threat to the unspoken mob-culture of pervading misery and masochism. Waiting patiently outside the sickroom for permission to be allowed in.

"It is a damn poor mind that can think of only one way to spell a word" - Andrew Jackson

An aside from posts: I will always crumble inside everytime I spot a spelling mistake I can't take back. You'll have to forgive a fast train of thought and lazy fingers.

"Decieving others. This is what the world calls romance" - Oscar Wilde

Something of a problem has been brought to the forefront of my mind this week. Stemming from one too many shatteringly emotive dreams (which my doctor says are likely to be linked to my medication, if that's the reason, then I'd rather not stop taking it. They're too exciting) and from one too many off-hand comments which happy-go-lucky friends throw out in that nonchalant way that ensure you only realise how hurt you were by it days later.

Attitudes of (even the most normal) UK university students which are destructive to the female psyche:
1. Girls who do not have sex or seek out sexual encounters on nights out are shy, wallflowers who simply don't have the guts to admit to themselves that sex would 'free' them.
2. That everyone 'needs' (and wants) regular sex. This was insisted upon me by two of my best male friends just the other night. No, I do not believe in celibacy. Nor do I believe that people who do not engage in regular sex are in some way abnormal or denying themselves a basic human right.
3. That sexual freedom and promiscuity is in some way related to female emancipation.

This last one really gets under my skin. I am grateful that I live in a culture where it is acceptable to have relations outside of marriage. But I am infinitely more grateful for a offshoot of this cultural shift - the fact that most of my friends are guys, which is something I can't imagine having any other way.
I cannot but whince inwardly whenever one of my female friends uses any of the following phrases: "I need a guy", "We need to find hot guys", and - my personal favourite - "Don't worry, we'll find you a boyfriend!"
Good. Whew! You had me, lyk, seriously freaking out there, bbz..

Of course, I admit to my fair share of weakness and apologise to the rest of my sex for ever drunkenly yelling at my male friends that they NEED to be my wingmen.. when the only help I needed that night was getting into my own bed without being sick anywhere I'd regret later. But that's another story.

Moreover, I will not deny myself the heart-wrenching thrill that comes with actual attraction.When that happens; the entire spectrum of emotions avaliable to mankind will be buzzing through me and I will become just another silly girl who can't maintain eye contact without her mouth going dry. But in the meantime, I need to find some witty comebacks when someone thinks it's their business to express their concern as to the state of my sex life... "I find I'm pretty good with my hands - know anyone who can do better? No? Shame.."

"Some people ask the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays." - Henry Youngman

Restaurant customers are one of the most peculiar populations of people.

There are the singletons.
Maybe they're lone tourists; at the sight of these I can't help but feel a wrenching pit of sadness in my stomach. How far away from home are they? What happened to their travelling partners? What does it feel like to pay £40 for lunch without speaking a single word to anyone but your waitress?
It could be the woman taking a working lunch. These gals have fabulous hair and are surgically attached to their Blackberry. Or maybe they've spent years perfecting the 'pretending to text' performance.

There are the families.
They never tip. They're too busy trying to deliver puree into the mouth of their suited, booted, bundle of joy in between sips of Chardonnay. They leave you with a 3 mile radius of napkins, cold chips and bendy straws to clean up afterwards. But, oh boy, are those chubby cheeks a sight for sore eyes.

There are the gaggle of friends. These folks vary with age.
The students who make more noise than sense. The mid-life crisis women who spend 20mins arguing whether it's acceptable to order a side with their meal and subtly bully eachother into smaller portions whilst crying out "Order what YOU want!" to the whole restaurant. The working men whose idea of a night well spent involves asking me for sexual favours in the general spirit of merriment. ("We're paying you - play along, darling")
And the old friends - these are my favourite. They sip their Malbec slowly and think fast. They sit back and spend several weighty hours of a late afternoon sitting at a table of memories, of quips and jokes, of knowing each other too well to discuss trivialities and fuss over ordering. These are the people I want to be friends with when I'm 63.

Don't get me started on the couple. A different species altogether.
The teenage romance - awkward and tender. Who pays? What shall we order? No fuss, just nice to have a posh dinner out.
The young professionals: one of two types. The drunken, laughing couple who don't regard my presence as a burden on their lives; a pleasure and make the evening go quicker. I almost look forward to serving them. And the macho guy with the plastic arm candy. I'm being cruel, of course - but the barbie doll will pipe in with complaints whilst he orders for her. At least one of them will send their steak back. Overhearing their conversations makes me want to drive nails into my eye sockets.
The married couple on date night. It's been a few decades of putting up with someone else's annoying habits, so these guys don't demand a cocktail or steak which requires more than 30secs of explaining. They'll be quiet, polite, a bit sad. Unless they're one of those strange couple who are still blissfully in love - in which case they'll order four rounds of cocktails, he'll move across the table to hold her in his arms and they'll steal kisses when they think no one's looking or because maybe they just don't care anymore.
And the couple whose kids have moved out years ago, who will pay with a voucher, she'll put on make-up for the first time in months, and he will tell me that he'd like to pour the wine himself. They will sit for exactly as long as it takes to eat the food, they will speak little and stare around the restaurant blankly. I imagine them going home and having sex with the same blank, clinical manner of going through the motions. It makes me want to slap them back into living, back into colour and movement and emotion.

Restaurants are fishbowls. Maybe the fish are happy when they're eating mulch and swimming around the same familiar 30cm.

"All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow" - Leo Tolstoy

I had the immense pleasure of attending a wedding this weekend. The lead roles? A girl with a heartbreaking past, yet with enough heart left to be one of the most wonderful people I know. Her fiance; a golden retriever character. Or that's as much as I could gather from about 7 hours in his presence.
The setting? It's seen War & Peace, it's listened to Anna Karenina's torturous life story. I's residents have been starved, frozen and hailed as heroes. It has changed it's name three times in the last century. A city that remains one of the greatest love stories of the modern age. Something only Tolstoy could have summed up.

St Petersburg was having a particularly warm February - I only needed two woolen jumpers.

The wedding was pleasantly un-Russian (aka. paid very little tribute to My Big Fat Greek Wedding). Minimal dancing, no one passing out drunk, relatives with only moderately eye-rolling speeches, only a few cheesy gift-boxes. The dress, to my immense relief, was absolutely gorgeous.

The city feels like it's still breathing the glory of it's history. Of course, visiting for exactly 2 days, I had little chance to sample the nightlife and youth scene (how it pains me to use that phrase) but which I am assuredly told is thriving. If Moscow is the daring, glamorous younger sister that goes out and attracts all the attention; St Petersburg is the older sister, the dreamer and the poet.
It's astounding how big the city is, for a relatively small population. The streets were built to plan and encompass a maze of canals and islands. It's often called the Venice of the North; it too is sinking under our feet. A strange and charming fury; the strength of history and the frail, sad beauty of what it's walls have lived through. 

I caught the bouquet that evening. But too late, I think I'm already in love.

"Charity creates a multitude of sins" - Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde's plays drew a rainbow of characters, whose opinions were so dramatic and varied that one could not possibly ascribe such thoughts to the man himself. Or at least I hope not, otherwise he would have led a very bleak existence.

Sadly, we know this to be the truth. Coming from the man who was sent to the workhouse at the age of seven, whose mother was taken into a mental institution when he was nine, and who spent years in prison under a multitude of charges - you'd think he'd be a little more sympathetic towards those in dire need, even through the mouthpeices of his characters.

Last week, a good friend of mine and myself took part in a charity event called Jailbreak. The idea is deceptively simple: 36 hours to get as far away from our uni without spending any of our own money.
The key phrase here is 'our own money'.
I'm sure that, back in the good old days when people were more noble/smart/kind/better, they hitchiked and trudged and struggled through the snowy season to emerge somewhere a little more interesting. What do we do now? We beg, barter and annoy people for money.. and use it to buy plane tickets.

Admittedly, this probably works to get people further (one group got to Sydney this year, pretty mind bending stuff), but those thousands of pounds given to airline companies?
Not once over the course of those hours did we bend the truth, exxagerate and weasel our way out of awkward explanations. We never lied, but that speaks not of our moral victory, but more of those kind donations which came from the rushed, the bored and the occupied. Those that would rather throw a few coins in the listen to our frozen, desperate pitches.

In the end, we'll collect more money than we spent (which, admittedly, got us far further than we could have hoped for), but does the end justify the means?

We returned exhausted, dirty and poor, but elated. Shame to think those folks in Sydney have get right on that plane and come back the next day.

"I hate cameras. They are so much more sure than I am about everything" - John Steinbeck

I thank GCSE English lessons for introducing me to Steinbeck. I'm pretty sure that I was in the minority, a minority who were secretly enthralled by character profiles, entertained a secret love for writing essays and kept quite whilst our peers sniggered at why anyone would ever willingly put themselves through the torture of reading a book. (God forbid; enjoy it.)

When Steinbeck was asked whether he thought he deserved his 1962 Nobel Prize for literature he answered: "Frankly, no."
The choice was supposedly a controversial one. The New York Times spoke of his 'tenth-rate philosophising'. Ouch.

I can't speak for world literature, but I can speak for the wrenching gut feeling I felt when reading East of Eden; which remains one of my favourite books. I can speak for the that heavy, hot weight in the pit on your stomach that won't go away for long after you've turned the page. My fingers shook for rage and agony.
I can't quite remember one of my favourite lines from the book, so shall have to settle for one that is 99.9% as satisfying: "It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves... The skin tastes the air".
Had Cathy Ames appeared in front of me in those moments, I was sure that I'd tear her skin to shreds with my very nails. Few villians before or since triggered such a deep, physiological reaction from me.


I like taking photos. I fear it is partly a selfish thing; I enjoy posting them to social media sites, and enjoy showing off what enormous fun my friends and I have together. Thankfully, I almost never take photos of myself, so this ugly truth masquerades as a selfless act of documentation and friendliness.
I used to adore creating photo-diaries of trips and holidays - 'Oh, remember this?' and 'This is when we found that funny looking tree/crisp/sign!'. I no longer have the patience for that anymore, and as people grow older they lose patience on the other side of the camera too - they don't like the flash in their face, they don't WANT to remember why they drank that 3rd bottle of wine.

The city in which I have lived for the last 3 years is beautiful. All turrets and gateways, bridges and cobblestones. But sadly, even that begins to lose its charm. I suppose that's what sets me apart from the 'real' photographers - I tire from beauty. What a terrible thing to admit.
The last three years have changed me to the point that I am unrecognisable to the person I was. I've fallen apart, nailed myself back together, bullied myself into obedience, lost myself in the process, fallen apart once again and am slowly - ever so painfully slowly - rebuilding myself, brick by brick.

Had I taken photos of those lows, my self-image would have been very different. But no, we choose to capture the good times. I look over albums of even the worst times with a tinge of bitter nostalgia. We think 'maybe it wasn't so bad at all?'. We use the digital images to sugar-coat daily life. Look at us: all parties and fun and games. No one knows what I was doing several hours earlier behind closed doors because THERE ISN'T A PHOTO OF IT. And the truth will be stored in the imperfect catalogue of our memories, distored and pixelated as need be, so we can plaster our bedroom walls with smiles and caricatures of an alternate reality we believe ourselves to have lived.

I often think that, if I were in The Matrix (a situation I regard as statistically likely to occur within my lifetime), I would have chosen the blue pill. Call it cowardly. I challenge anyone to choose differently.

"The saddest thing I can Imagine is to get used to luxury" - Charlie Chaplin

My father and I rarely see eye to eye when it comes to sense of humour. Yet one of the childhood memories to which I am most attached is the image of both of us rolling around on the floor, tears streaming down our faces which ached from insupressible laughter.
And to what do we owe this treasured moment? To the 'Little Tramp'. To the man who could make the world laugh using two forks and a pair of bread rolls.

Chaplin's life story reads as if the phrase 'rags to riches' was created in his honour. (Maybe 'honour' is a poor choice of word; to his misfortune.)
One of the few comedic actors to whom I will refer, tentatively, to as a genius; was forced into a workhouse at the age of seven, and whose mother was admitted to a mental asylum when he was nine. Hardly the stuff of fairy tales, unless you're a fan of the original works of Hans Christian Andersen.

I take a somewhat guilty pleasure from famous quotations. Having amassed books, websites and magazine articles on the subject under my belt; I continue to collect these soundbites of meaning everywhere I find them. I have shoeboxes filled with post-it notes and sheets of phrases and ideas, like a magpie which likes nothing more than to admire her treasures and applaud herself for having such good taste in theft. I applaud myself in having such a good taste in genius.

Dorothy L. Sayers, an early 20th century English author, joked that she always used quotations because it saved her having to do any original thinking.
(There's me disguising another quote in a sentence. I just can't stop.)

Which brings us to the original philosophy which kicked off today's train of thought: what is luxury and how do we stop ourselves getting used to it?

I was lucky enough to be born into a stable family background. The pinnacle of our poverty was perhaps when I had demanded ice cream as a child, only for us to realise - after my demands had been fulfilled - that we hadn't left enough money for the bus ride home. My parents walked for almost three hours to get home that night, me on my father’s shoulders and my mother telling stories so I wouldn't get restless.

Today, I am fortunate enough to attend a university cloaked in more traditions and prestige than it's terrified students can uphold. The terror of being faced with 4 rows of cutlery at the dinner table has been overcome. The complaint about how they're serving salmon AGAIN loses its absurdity. I do not hesitate at the thought of driving myself further into debt by spending a weeks worth of wages on a black tie event. Because, well.. EVERYONE DOES IT.
I'm painfully aware that this does not win many friends, nor does it ease our traumatic pathway into 'The Real World'.

Are we sad? I suppose that depends on what each of us has given up in the pursuit of such luxuries. Whether you still have the capacity to enjoy something you've grown accustomed to, and perhaps even bored of. How different were we before we knew what wealth tasted like?

All I know is; salmon gets very tiresome.