Letter to my 15 year old self

I have been musing with the idea of writing a blog post about what I would say to my younger self for a while. It’s a scenario regularly visited by soaps and sitcoms when they run out of ideas but it poses an important notion; if you could change anything in your past what would it be? I was going to include a photo of me at 15 but hell no one needs to be put through that torture.

“In 20 years, you will be more disappointed by what you didn’t do than by what you did”   - Mark Twain

There are a few things I would tell my young self but one that has always plagued me was what would I do if I could change one decision I made in my past. One yes turned into a no, one left turned into a right. Mine would probably be to carry on acting; it is one thing I miss in my life now and I always wonder how far it could have gone. It would have more than likely turned into nothing but regret is a beast that eats away at undiscovered choices.

I would probably also tell my younger self to say no to eating that Chicken in Jaipur – that did not end well.

So my question to you is what choice would you go back and change? What would you tell your 15 year old self?

My 2012 – 12 months, 12 songs

It’s here!

My yearly ritual of posting twelve songs that have either defined or been the soundtrack to moments that have made my year has come around again. I have put some up with links to blog posts that are the reason they are up there so have a click on those underlined.

Thank you all for being such smashing readers, heres to another year of this!

Without further a do, here goes….

 

1. Amy Wadge – Paris

Had this in my head the whole time I was in Paris. Now it reminds me of my brief but brilliant trip to that wonderful city.

2. James Blake – Case of You

A Joni Mitchell cover that out of all of these songs I urge you to listen to as its quite simply beautiful. Reminds me of reading my book on Hampstead Heath in the bitter cold.

3. Florence and the Machine – No light, No light

It still hurts to think about that run!

4. Yungchen Lhamo – Ranzen

Listening to Tibetan music makes sure I never forget where my heart truly lies, back in India.

5. Missy Higgins – Whole of her new album

This was very much the soundtrack to choosing and preparing photographs for my first exhibition.

6. Elbow – First Steps

The official song for the BBC coverage of our Olympics.

7. Karima Francis - Wherever I go

A stunningly warm and emotive voice, saw her live at a music festival this summer. Well worth a listen!

8. Matt Corby – Brother

9. Ruth Notman – Roaming

Reminds me of the stupid amounts of train journeys I have taken this year!

10. Frank Sinatra – The Coffee Song

Possibly the most cheerful song in the world! Never has failed to caffeinate my spirits.

11. Ellie Goulding – Figure 8

A song that has kept me warm on many a long photography walk.

12. Landon Pigg – Falling in love at a Coffee Shop

A song that has been on a constant loop on many occasions. I love it not only because it has coffee in the title but how it reminds me how lucky I am.

 

 

 

Why spell check is my favourite invention of all time

I love to write but I’m partially illiterate on the side.

Teachers, tutors and lectures alike sang from the same hymn sheet when it came to my grammar. That it was down to laziness, stupidity or –the best comment on an essay- “are you doing this to test my sanity?”

The wonders of dyslexia.

I can read over my work a myriad of times and while the errors may seem glaring to others, they seemed hidden to me. The obvious fades into oblivion when grammar is introduced. Even with someone leaning over my shoulder tutting away they would pass by me undetected like Where’s Wally at a knitted jumper convention.

Sometimes it helps cut the frustration of dyslexia if you can just find a way to laugh at your situation. Although who ever decided to call it dyslexia had a horrible sense of humour. I used to spell it Disexica but it sounds more like an erotic planet than a learning disability looking back at it now.

But whilst twenty something years have passed with my own personal enigma of English thwarting a well dressed sentence help is finally at hand. I call my grammatical saviour, my Punctuation Pirate.

I shouldn’t tease, as my pirate’s work has been crucial in the past whether it be essays, job applications or –yes- even blog posts.

After I’ve posted a blog post a few hours pass, then the phone call.

It begins with a sigh, a hushed swear word then the corrections commence. Thick and fast they come; the ‘I’ve told you about this a thousand times’ or the ‘I really don’t understand what this sentence means’ and the unsurprisingly echoes of my school years, ‘are you doing this to test my sanity?’

Dyslexia should not be something to be embarrassed about I struggle with grammar and spelling, always have and maybe always will. So to anyone else out there reading this; be proud of your dyslexia it can be hard and incredibly frustrating but you are never alone. We can’t all have our own pirates fighting our battles but smile at your silly mistakes and remember they are what make us human.

Art on the Streets of Paris #7

So my graffiti week has come to a close. I’ve given you all a glimpse into the beautiful and illegal art form. Now I want to hear or see your favourite pieces of graffiti, from a slogan scribbled on a bathroom door to billboard sized extravaganzas.

For my next few posts I will be going back to my roots, writing.

While my love is of course photography, my other love has always been writing and over the past year it has become a footnote in my life. Writing gave me jobs, gave me a purpose and most of all gave me a freedom incomparable to anything else. I recently surpassed 150 posts and for the next few weeks I’ll be heading back to how I and my blog began.

My Mind Actually in the Clouds

For my more regular readers you will understand the title of this entry. For those who are new to my random ramblings then see the freshly pressed prequel here.

Although it wasn’t heading to India a bit of travel is always good for the soul.

(p.s. those are clouds not hills as a lot of my readers have been saying!)

No Words…

Staring at a blank page, not because you don’t know what to write, but because you simply don’t know where to begin.

A Road Less Travelled

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”

– Jack Kerouac

My brother in arms

Today my brother left for his second tour of Afghanistan. I took the photograph of his uniform shortly before he left on his first tour. Neatly ironed, freshly cleaned.

While I’m not one for postering my personal life on my blog (although I do hugely admire those who have the courage to do so) I will say this; my brother is a true hero. Although I’ll never tell him!

I’m not going to witter on about the politics or the ethics of it all just that, I’ll miss my brother. Thats all.

100th post and still going

On July 6th 2010 this blog was born. Born out of my desire to carry on writing following my graduation which meant I couldn’t write for student papers anymore. It began as a creative outlet, when my creativity felt stifled by other parts of my life. It has become so much more than that though. Now the blog has recently surpassed the ripe old age of 100 (and now has photographic sibling) I thought I would celebrate by looking back and thanking you, the reader.

Since 2010 a lot in my life has shifted and transformed irrevocably yet this blog has stood sentinel, unchanged. Some of those events have been documented on here like working as a journalist in India or moving to London. I’ve written about crazy things (my secret love of braces, being questioned by the visa police and even wearing fancy dress to beat writers block) and more somber subjects (the Japanese earthquake, religious unity and Tibet). I’ve been awarded Freshly Pressed twice and the Versatile Award, not that I’m bragging (much). The best thing, however, is reading comments and getting stopped in the street (truthfully this has happened twice now!) by people who like my blog and say that it made them laugh. If you want to understand my reasoning for blogging read my 10,000th hit post, as you can tell I like hitting milestones!

It’s only survived past the 2nd post because of you, the readers. I don’t want to go on like Kate Winslet at an awards ceremony but thank you readers and commenters, you’ve kept me sane and motivated.

I would urge anyone to start a blog, you’d be surprised where it takes you. You can be as thick as custard but as long as you have something to talk about, it will work. Just make sure it has heart, I’ve read some blogs that are just written for the sake of writing and it’s painfully obvious. Words written without heart read hollow.

So thanks for reading and here’s to the next 100.

Be warned this is not going to be big on dignity

Ice-skating, as described by The National History Museum, London, is ” London’s most spectacular winter attraction”. In my own words its hell, hell on ice.

My friends have been badgering me for many months to go ice-skating, “it’ll be amazing”, “we are going to have so much fun”, they’d threaten. The last time I had ice skated was at the ripe old age of seven and while most of the memories of that day have been wiped, recorded over or forgotten, I had one over-riding memory of that day: pure unadulterated fear. You can probably guess where this is going…

Eventually, however, I was worn down and bowed to their peer pressure. The day was booked, the calendar marked and that fear began to reoccur. It lingered in my final thoughts at night, like flashbacks from a film of a small boy screaming clinging to the barriers for dear life. I shook it off, reminding myself that I was young, foolish and unbalanced (literally) back then, yet it still remained. You may feel at this point that I’m over exaggerating for dramatic effect, but let me assure you I am really not. The fear was real and not unfounded.

The day rolled round and we made our way to our doom. Doom easily accessed by public transport. Seeing small children and doddery old ladies slink elegantly around the rink gave me a glimmer of hope that perhaps I was being bonkers in fearing this. We soon made our way into the queue and I traded my shoes in for bladed bowling shoes, shuddering at the thought of the plethora of other people who have shifted and sweated within them. Once the clasps were secured and my previous shoes disappeared around the corner there was no turning back.

Standing up for the first time on them felt odd but not bad and the feeling of ‘perhaps I can do this’ began to rise, before being cruelly smashed when I boarded the ice. We waited ‘patiently’, shuffling our way towards the unopened doors like bulls preparing for the Pamplona, while what can only be described as a freezer on wheels went around refreezing the rink and making it slippery once more. I took one more moment to pre-warn my friends that I had a bad feeling about this and then we were on….

If anyone has seen the film Bambi, when the title character finds himself on the ice and his limbs shift irrespective of the other, balance becoming lost in a frozen moment, will know exactly how I was on the ice. While I floundered and fell my friends found the balance fast and were off zooming annoyingly gracefully into the distance.

The small children were allowed to use Pingo shaped stabilisers (see photo). I envied them immensely as they sailed around with their penguin protectors. I’m not proud to admit that I sheepishly asked the stewards if they had larger versions (carefully omitting the word ‘adult’, as clearly nothing about my panicked state was adult like).

I spend the majority of the time with an iron grip around my friends’ hands or linking arm in arm with my two male friends, which more than once resulted in a fellow skater “aww”ing at us.

The hour seemed eternal, time frozen like the rink. Again I’m not proud to say that I called time on my skating sorrows early and consoled myself with a stiff coffee (sadly there was nothing stronger within reach).

So while the whole sorrowful event wasn’t big on dignity, it was big on humour for you the reader and for anyone who was ‘lucky’ enough to witness it. Oh the horror of it all.