Thinking out loud: I could do with a lesson in Nigerian culture...

My parents are from a minor tribe called Benin, in Edo State, Nigeria, I was raised in Lagos and only have two memories of being whisked away to the land of my mother and father. Aged six, I was taken to Benin City with the whole family for my paternal grandfather's burial. I was struck with malaria and spent most of this experience in bed, in the hotel. I was allowed to go to the party afterwards but I spent the entire time sleeping. Aged 12, my dad became a Special Adviser to the governor of Edo State and so off we went again, to Benin City for the swearing-in. Alas, being the moody pre-teen that I was, I had absolutely no interest in being there. It was a long trip, I was cranky, I was probably missing a party back in Lagos, I was definitely missing out on something better than that! So I stayed indoors, went out only for the event and back in I went. TV stayed on, seeing as the internet was more of a luxury back then, I stayed glued to the TV, and when I could tear away from it I was dodging bombs on my game boy. Not once did I become overwhelmed with curiousity about this place that my parents and their parents were born, and lived for some time. 

Interior at Bogobiri. Lagos, Nigeria

I think about it now, when I get asked questions such as, "Oh! Wow! You're Nigerian? You speak such good English, when did you learn to speak it?" And then with so much offence taken (seriously though, I will never not be offended by this), I retort, "well, a strong case can be been made for around 1991/1992 when I started talking." But then the possible follow-up question to that could be "do you speak any Nigerian languages then?" And then with shoulders down, head bowed slightly and a lower voice I reply, "no." There it ends. It's worse when my friends ask me about Lagos, Edo and Nigeria, genuinely interested in learning more about where their friend is from and I can't give them more than tales of holidays spent away, getting into trouble at school, playing tennis on weekends, etc. The older I get, the more I am bothered by this. There was once a time when eyes would dramatically roll at "iye", my grandmother, as she nags about my brother and I being so unable to speak our language - or our other 'mother tongue', Yoruba. She would get so upset when she says “Wo ye hie?” And we reply, “O yo se”, then she tries to carry on the conversation and we respond with blank stares and stammers. I can almost see her heart breaking a bit whenever this happens. What’s really sad about it is that now she just speaks English to us, she has accepted defeat.

Queen Mother Pendant Mask: Iyoba, 16th century
Nigeria; Edo peoples, court of Benin

Back in Primary school, Yoruba and Igbo, two of the three major tribes in Nigeria (Hausa being the third), were compulsory subjects. We had to choose one of the two as part of our syllabus. Being neither Igbo nor Yoruba, but being a child of Lagos, my parents advised my teacher to add me to the Yoruba class. Back then, I loved being in the Yoruba class because we got to dress up in traditional outfits at Christmas, and for some talent shows, and sing and act in Yoruba. It was so much fun. However, I was a crammer. I never actually learned anything, I just crammed the words, not knowing what they meant – I could’ve been rapping the lyrics to a Tupac song, in Yoruba for all I knew. I still know some of these songs and still have as little an idea now about the meaning behind them, as I did then. I had no desire to learn Yoruba, it was confusing, there were too many meanings linked to one word, it was stressful and I wanted nothing to do with it. Each time, I just about scraped the pass mark and I still can’t tell you how I managed to do that. The multiple choice part of the tests and exams were probably my saving grace as I just shaded at random. There was a lot of “Hmmm! I haven’t picked C in a while...”

Yoruba attire at a traditional concert in the early 90s, Lagos, Nigeria. (I will not address the pose or the 'stoner' looks these two are sporting). 

I think the reason it bothers me so much now, is that I refused to see just how rich these cultures are. There is so much life, vibrancy and history to learn and it is an exciting prospect. I have fallen in love with Nigerian art and it just amazes me how ignorant I was. My dad would always try to teach me about the richness of Bini art but my mind was always focused on something else. When my non-Nigerian friends ask me about my culture, I am as lost as they are. I make some stuff up and try desperately to remember what it was my dad had said, that one time, about that one painting in our living room. Or when in a job interview, the employer ended up schooling me on Nigeria and her history. That was a low point. I wouldn’t change anything about the way I was brought up, Lagos is a very modern place, it's embraced a primarily contemporary and some might say, Westernised way of living. I would however, have been a little more keen to visit my parents’ villages, visit my granddad when he was alive, speak to my grandmother in her language and confidently tell people about my heritage.

I’m reading more about the history of Nigeria, of Yorubaland, of the Igbos and the people of Bini. I am learning so much about it now that I am in awe of the beauty that I ignored, the tales that I shunned and the languages that I avoided,  so rich in animation, life and character. I didn’t lose my mother tongue, I didn’t lose my passion for my motherland, I just never had it. I’m changing that now though, because I look at my friends from Brazil, Spain, Germany and even Wales, they know about their culture, they are fluent in their languages and they are proud of where they come from. Despite Nigeria’s reputation, the current situation that she is facing, there is still beauty and affluence in history and culture to share. 

I will not let a Lego Man determine my happiness!

Stop it, Sparrow. The children might be affected by your face!

“We cannot help but wonder how the move from only positive faces to an increasing number of negative faces impacts on how children play.” While acknowledging that the expressions are realistic facial expressions, he said that pales in comparison to what negativity and conflict could mean to children.

“Instead of focusing on realistic expressions, it may be worthwhile to increase the variability of expressions,” Bartneck said. “A comic style expression is sufficient to convey a full spectrum of emotions and intensities.”

-          Dr. Christoph Bartneck, robot expert. University of Canterbury, NZ.

This study suggests that there is or could be a link between a child’s happiness or behavioural patterns and the facial expression of a yellow piece of plastic inspired by a beloved film character. Yes, robot expert, Dr. Christoph Bartneck made the news today for suggesting that it is indeed possible for the increasingly “upset facial expressions” of a Lego man to influence what negativity and conflict mean to children.

As a 90’s child, I was very much a part of the era of the Terminator action figures, Action Man, Jurassic Park, Die Hard, etc. Lego allowed us to build fighter jets and missiles with their grey pieces. We constantly made faux-gun noises with our mouths – pishaun,pishaun – as we battled our enemies. You talk of an increase in the idea of conflict due to these characters based on massively successful movie franchises? Wouldn’t your argument be a little less irritating if you focused on the movie plots themselves? Because what I understand from your findings is that you feel that there is an increase in the idea of good v evil and a rise in conflict plots due to the fact that even the good guys are not smiling? What you are telling me Christoph – do you mind if I call you Christoph, I feel like we are on first name basis already – is that due to the fact that Lego Jack Sparrow looks slightly grimaced, a child will therefore, be angry or upset, and furthermore, that this would reflect their playing patterns? Oh Christoph, Christoph, Christoph.... Seriously, dude?

I am quite amused that you spent as long as you did on this ‘research’ because this is a pile of hot shit. At what point do you stop looking at human interaction and immediate family influences and focus on plastic as a source of behavioural influence? Why did you think this was a good idea?

I played religiously with the action figures that my parents were nice enough to provide for my brother and me and not once did the look on Action Man or Hulk Hogan’s face influence my mood or behaviour towards life because THEY ARE TOYS. They are toys, Christoph, they are plastic and despite what you think, kids are not that dumb. The look on Harry Potter’s face as a yellow Lego toy bears no correlation to how a child plays. When in your study did a child admit to feeling a bit down because Harry Potter wasn’t smiling? Or to somehow recreating or creating a violent scene based on the toy’s facial expression? I had a terminator action figure, passed down to me by my brother when he moved on to big boy toys. This terminator doll was clad in leather, had an assault rifle in hand and had the side of his face ripped off exposing muscle and metal! He wasn’t smiling. It didn’t cause me to play more negatively, whether alone or with friends. It didn’t cause me to feel any type of way because I knew it was a toy. It was a toy based on a hit movie that I loved. Do you see my point Christoph? Do you see why this has been a wasted effort and a pointless study? Do you see?

This was my favourite toy for a long time... Analyse this!

Never mind, actual human influence on a child, never mind exposure to the wrong types of influencers in a child’s life...  We haven’t even gotten to the bottom of the violent video games debate. No. Never mind social influences, Lego... Lego is the problem. 

Girl bye!

The Trick is to Do It Afraid.

Being 20-something can be quite a deceitful experience. Surely, I can't be the only one who constantly loses herself in the fable of "you've got time..." I have constantly bemoaned to you all about my fear of not being happy in everything I do and taking the right steps to making sure that I am, yet somehow, I get sidetracked - distracted by my current life and the little it is offering me in terms of satisfaction.

And as such, once again, I have become gravely dissatisfied with where I currently am. I am itching, desperate even, to begin to tick the boxes that suggest that I am very much on the right track to becoming Maniaphobe 2.0. I can't continue to be the person who on Sunday night, longs in fact, begins to lust after Friday. How is it that before the work week even commences, I am already desperately seeking the next weekend? It's my fault and no one else's. I know exactly what I want, but I am afraid. Of what you might ask; of myself, of rejection, of Doubting Thomases and of failing. I recently took a few days off work to head home to Nigeria to catch up with family and friends, and in that time I thought extremely hard about my life and where I am now. I am not failing, things are certainly moving at a snail's pace but I am not failing. However, I am getting dangerously comfortable with this even though I know for a fact that I am not satisfied with my current situation.

One of the main reasons I went home was to deliver the welcome speech at, and be a part of Genevieve Magazine's greatly inspiring Morning Dew Readings. Morning Dew is a column that my mum writes in the magazine and has done for 10 years. In it, she discusses her life, the obstacles she battles each day and how continues to get over. So at the Dew Readings, inspiring women of all ages comes together to highlight our favourite article, and share with each other the ways in which it spoke to us, even inspired us.

One of my favourite Morning Dews, is Still Running. My mum talks about how even though life can sometimes prove to be in your way and not on your side, you absolutely must not stop running. Let your passion fuel you, let the cheers of your family and friends from the stands be the wind beneath your wings, but most importantly let your own dedication to reaching your goal motivate you to pick up the pace and keep going.

When asked how, at 45 my mum decided to start Genevieve Magazine, her simple answer was; "the trick is to do it afraid." It took me a minute to truly appreciate what this means. Once you have an idea, a dream or a goal, you will be met with all sorts of reactions - from the people you tell about it but also from yourself. The voices in your head have a way of playing cruel tricks on you, left side telling you all the reasons why this won't work and the right side telling you all the reasons why it will. We spend so much time considering the left side that we cripple ourselves with fear don't we? I'm guilty. I have in so many ways stifled my dreams by paying far too much attention and giving too much weight to the left side before I even begin to listen to the naysayers who for whatever reason strongly believe the idea won't fly.

The trick is to do it afraid. Close your eyes and jump. Your dream won't work if you don't, etc...

I've said it so many times but I feel that mine, as much as yours maybe, is a slow journey in which a lot will happen behind the scenes before they come to light. So though it may seem that very little is happening in terms of getting started on achieving my goals, I assure you, they are. I just need to quit stalling in the middle because I am afraid. I need to remind myself that this is not where I want to be but it is certainly enroute to where I'm going... I'm excited, I'm pumped and I guess writing this has helped with that.

I have to constantly remind myself that no one is responsible for making my dreams a reality but me. No one will be passionate about your ideas if you are not and in fact even then, they will not match your enthusiasm. It is your duty to yourself, to prove that you can indeed do it. And then you must. Whatever ideas you have, whatever your dream job, role or idea is work tirelessly to make it happen, regardless of whatever fears you might have. If you believe enough in it, then you will be able to power through. After all, if your dream doesn't scare you, it isn't big enough, right?

Thinking out loud: PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!!!

This may read like an accusatory letter to you but it is more panic-induced textual diarrhoea...

I had to yell that out to you to fully express the desperation, the intrinsic expedition for public approval – as inspired by an article on the guardian website by Charlie Brooker who has the phrase, "PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!" stuck in my head.

No, really, think about it. Is every dialogue a plea for endorsement? We.Need.Help!

Every time I watch a video on YouTube or go on a website such as the Guardian or Daily Mail (I am not admitting that I visit this website a lot, but sometimes... I do...), it is always a vital part of the scopophilic process to go to the comments to see the audience reaction to whatever post I am reading. It is a spectrum of colourful representations- the angry commenter, the awe-struck fan, the indifferent, the instigator and the ‘X celebrity brought me here!’ It reads like a very bad novel. There is the person who needs to stand out via the randomness of their comment (sometimes, knee-slappingly hilarious, other times it deserves a lowercase ‘lol’ with no expression on your face). What has become increasingly clear after reading today’s article is this:

“The internet is a bit like a soap opera, in that the dialogue often seems phoney. As a human, you know this. You know a lot of that squabbling and babbling just doesn't ring true. No species that angry could have survived the invention of fists. Online, even a whimsical chit-chat about the cutest part of a kitten can rapidly descend into a bitterly entrenched civil war that tears families apart, with brother turning on brother while their mother looks on, weeping. Resolving Palestine looks like a piece of piss by comparison.”

Charlie Brooker, via the guardian.

If keyboard thuggery were played out in real life (why has NO ONE shot this for Worldstar yet??) It would be a lot of awkward silences whilst one’s opponent thinks up, backspaces, and retypes an exclamation mark, capslock ridden response- back and forth it would go, with its polite pauses in the middle. This is not the way it would go in real life and more than half the things said online probably would not dare be uttered to the opposition’s face in reality! Yet sitting behind a computer, keyboard thuggery gives right of way to the thug with the highest vocabulary and wit, well thought out, impeccably (debatable) constructed to destroy the empire of their opponent, to the adoring “likers”, thumbs-uppers, retweeters, 

LOL/LMAO/ROFLMFAO-ers of the webosphere! PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!

We are at war, people! At war with each other but mostly with ourselves. We are torn between who we are (average Joe, average Jane) and who we so desparately want to be, therefore we use these online avenues as an opportunity to replicate that day dream about the best version of you. The reason Instagram is so successful is because it has the ability to transform everyday activities into a dramatic, hipsterific adventure. The movie Catfish scared me because it is true. It is actually an old woman’s desire to be young again, to attract the men she probably once did, so she creates a profile, an avatar, a personality – she has this opportunity to become a different person – she’s screaming “PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE.”

Every aspect of our lives, wields the desire to be validated! Whether you want to admit it or not! We are constantly seeking approval of something or someone – banks, employers, potential life partners, potential one night standers, our pets, our children, our friends, our enemies – there is always something or someone who we ask to kindly AUTHENTICATE OUR EXISTENCE! Whatever conversation you have today will bear a subliminal message (you have the option to choose what voice you want to hear this in; Yoda, I choose you!!) Is it fair to say that pretty much every dialogue is very much like a job interview: from conversations on a first date to casual banter with friends. In both situations, you are seeking approval - one is just more overt and shameless than the other. This is why every research based on surveys is a pile of hooey!

Charlie's right, the internet is not to blame; we have been running this marathon since before the advent of the “www”...  For as long as we have been able to communicate, we have sought out authentication, we voice our thoughts and opinions in the hopes that at least one person concurs. No man wants to stand alone- not even those who so desperately want to stand out! Loneliness is not appealing; we all want to know that even when we stand out there is someone standing out with us! We want to be accepted! We sell things in the hope that people will buy, we say and write things (like this for example) in the hope that someone would “like”, “retweet” or “share” our opinions.

So, no the internet isn't to blame but it has drawn a magnifying glass to these not-so microscopic battles in honest communication, that have been going on since the dawn of time (seems legit!) The internet has laid emphasis on our desires so much so that it is just easier to blame for the people we have become.

We want to be successful, we want to feel like we’re living for something, we want to be the centre of attention, we yearn to be looked up to, we want to be superheroes! We aspire because we want validation! We want to feel like we’re worth something! Like our opinions matter to someone, somewhere! We do! Our need to have our existence authenticated is our gift as much as it is our curse. It pushes some to be better people, but it also clouds the judgement of others and creates some of the monsters we have in lurking in our society today...  

I’m writing this in the hope that someone agrees. PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!!!

If you don't build your dreams, someone will hire you to help build theirs...

Curtesy of richerthanyourboss.com

I was at dinner two nights ago with two of my very dear friends. Now, when we get together we're always guaranteed to have some insightful, inspiring conversations about love, life and our careers - are we happy? Are we satisfied? What would we be doing now, if we didn't have to do what we were currently doing? *and breathe*

Naturally, having not seen these lovely ladies for quite some time now, we went around the table catching everyone up on our recent accomplishments, if any, and disappointments, if any. When it got round to my turn, I wasn't sure what I had accomplished in the time that we hadn't seen. This always happens. It happens every time I visit the motherland at Christmas, it happens every time I bump into someone from school whom I have had the pleasure of not seeing for a generous amount of time, or just general 'by the way' acquaintances who pop up from time to time: "so what's new? What have you been up to since we last saw, X amount of time ago?" I'm not sure if it's because saying it so often makes it lose it's spark or if there just generally wasn't any spark in my activities to begin with, but when I fill these people in on my accomplishments, I often feel let down by them. They never make me feel that way, in fact I talk such a good game I'm sure they feel like I'm showing off, but in reality, I'm just trying to make myself believe it.

Somewhere in our long catch-up, still talking about our career paths, where we were and really where we wanted to be, we all unanimously agreed that we just didn't want to feel like we were working. In an ideal world, we all wanted to be doing things that we absolutely love, because then, even at it's most challenging, it doesn't feel like a job. We had all these hopes and ideas that we were sharing, getting so excited about, promising to begin working on, but then I thought to myself, it almost always ends here, at the table, in that restaurant, never quite becoming anything. There is this quote I seem to have come across a lot in the last few months, and I think it is a sign about my current situation - of sorts: "if you don't build your dreams, someone will hire you to help build theirs..." For some reason, this scares me, because I think it's currently happening. Even though, that's not necessarily true. Is it possible to simultaneously build your dreams and help build someone else's? Because that's where I think I stand. Naturally, you are more inclined to put more effort into your own interests and not someone else's.

I once wrote a guest blog for a series called 30 Days, 30 Voices, and the title was, What's Your Excuse? and in that post, I talked about my decision to quit my job in Leicester, move to London and work on what makes me happy . I keep going back to that post just to remind myself of what I wanted to achieve when I wrote it, when I made the decision to switch things up. Have I achieved them? No... Am I on the right track... I suppose so. I have had a long and often losing battle with procrastination and laziness for a long time but for some reason I am kicking the habit successfully these days and I do think a small fraction of that is thanks to that quote. A not-so-subtle reminder that faffing about is going to lead me to an unhappy life. Every time I hear or read about someone else's achievements, it's a  reminder that I am not yet where I want to be, they've done it - they're doing it - so why can't I? I battle disappointment constantly, because I feel like I'm not doing enough. But I have promised myself that I will spend more time learning, working and building my own dreams than I will helping to build someone else's... Although the slight awkwardness of that statement is the glaring fact that I kinda, sorta, need this job to learn, to earn and to build so I will not lose sight of what I am building, because it is not a waste of time, it is teaching me so much... The key is not to get so caught up in the routine that you lose sight of the ultimate goal... Getting up, Getting out and Getting yours!

I've been putting my ideas and goals down in a book and, armed with optimism, improved time management skills, and talents that are ever growing  I'm very much on my way to getting to the halfway point. So hopefully I don't bump into anyone for a while, while I build the empire, and then, when I finally get to a point that I can say with confidence, "this is what I'm up to... this is what I've achieved so far and this is where I'm headed..." I bump into them all and inspire someone else to get up and go get theirs!

In the infamous words of Outkast: "you've gotta git up, git out, and git somethin'/don't let the days of your life pass by..."

The case for my "erratic" behaviour.

My report cards were always a colourful tale of the frustration, optimism, annoyance and happiness I caused my teachers. They couldn't quite decide what or who I was so it was an array of, quite frankly, a whole lotta stuff.

If there was one thing I was consistent at in my young life, it was the guarantee of a wide spectrum of adjectives used to describe me, my academic performance and general social ineptitude. Words such as erratic were thrown around so much that my father once considered taking me to a child psychologist (Nigerian parents do not believe in therapy so this was a great concern for me...).

I'm not sure what exactly it was about me that screamed, "unable to concentrate", "not applying" myself, stubborn. but those words haunted me far less than "erratic." I remember the first time it was used. My parents, as usual, ignored all the praise and the good grades and zeroed in on it... There it was, a word used to define my entire being, my existence so bluntly reduced to one adjective- erratic. They looked up at me in amazement. At the time I didn't know what erratic meant, (for a split second I thought it was erotic, which seemed logical to me because i thought my media teacher was an old lesbian anyway...) But no, erratic; unsteady, irregular, unstable. My teacher thought I was unstable. Do you know what it means for a parent to read that the person whom they have entrusted with the care of their child, a thousand miles from home, thinks that that child is, essentially, insane? What a cow!

My parents did what any normal (I think?) parents would, they sat me down and asked me if I was crazy? To which I replied, "I'm not sure... Define crazy." Then we sat in silence. How do you qualify crazy? What is crazy and what is normal? I mean I thought I was fine. Sure I had my quirks about me, but don't we all?

I will be the first to admit that most classes were spent either writing rap lyrics in my "rap book", dreaming up scenarios that were probably unusual, or just generally not being present in mind (and whenever I could get away with it, in body as well). But what part of that was deemed erratic? I mean I suppose my fashion sense was questionable at best and maybe I could have been a little less creepy in my dealings with fellow students in and out of class but I don't think that makes me irregular. She never asked questions that I particularly wanted to answer (she never asked me anyway) so I wasn't irregular there. I think she was just being spiteful.

Someone else described me as erratic recently... And this time, armed with a working knowledge of what the word means, I was completely offended. "What? Why?" I protested. "You're just... weird..." Now what really annoys me about this situation is that I then analyse my life and realise that for a weirdo I'm pretty below average in my day to day dealings. Fair enough, I make for some very awkward encounters like the one with the penis bashing on the tube... But that was just an unfortunate event... I have been cast in many a series of unfortunate events to be honest but weird I am not. Predictably unpredictable or unpredictably predictable is the question I ask.

I asked my teacher when I was leaving school exactly what she meant by erratic. She said, "Sonia. You're an interesting little girl. You would sit there, with a smile on your face, completely zoned out. Other times you would be walking to the shops with your head down at the speed of a dodgy burglar who knows that the police are in sight. You could go hours without saying a word to anyone, you'd just sit where you are and daydream. You never were able to snap back into the groove of the class once you were gone. Even though you ended up performing very well, it was an unpredictable journey leading up to it because I never quite knew when you were with us and when you weren't..."

Well... I could have done with just one example...

I went to my photography teacher, Mr Hopkins, the best teacher I ever had. And I asked him if he felt the same... He said, "It's hard to say, with this class you worked very much independently of me. However, I wouldn't say you were erratic, no. Just a little... quirky."

To be perfectly honest, I can tell you that we were all a bit erratic. I hated school, I hated being cooked up in a class learning about the symbiotic relationships of things, or the meaning of opportunity cost or anyone trying to make me like Emma (the book). I had little interest in very many things and unfortunately I wasn't very good at feigning interest so I can see how that came across. However, I have no explanation for the way I walked or the reasons that I smiled whilst lost in my thoughts...  I can see how that looks... you know... odd.

The one with the mug... (with gifs!)

In life, certain things hold sentimental value to us. Some things do not require an explanation while some others do. 

One of such things for me is my mug. Now, much like Ross' sandwich in that one episode in Season 5 of Friends, this mug is more significant than people care to understand. This mug is important because it represents many things to me: it will always remind me of my debut in the corporate world, for soon after graduation I began work as a PR Coordinator in Leicester. It was given to me as a bold symbol of inclusion, I became a significant member of a team. Although I hated the job it reminds me of one success- my first real job.

As such, I hold this mug very close to my heart. As I started my job in London this mug followed me. It sat at my desk when it wasn’t in use, clean, white and pure. When I got a bit more trusting and comfortable with the new work folk, I let it sit in the cupboard fully aware that everyone would respect it.

Everyone did. Until one day... Someone, did not! 

Let me just point out here, that my mug is not just any old mug. It is my mug; it has my avatar on it, a cartoon version of myself and a darn pretty avatar, she is. And just in case that isn’t enough to convince people that it is my mug, it also has my name, written in bold letters on the other side of it! Right there in a gorgeous font.

So this temp, who is covering for my boss’ executive assistant started working with us two weeks ago. In that time, she had been introduced to us all, all nine of us. Not that many names to remember. So we introduce ourselves, help her remember our names, etc.

Last week, having searched and searched for my mug for two whole days, drinking coffee out of a stranger’s mug and fearing the worst had happened to my beloved souvenir, I was alerted to my mug on the desk where the temp resides... 

Could she have mistaken the black, female cartoon character on the mug for any of the Caucasian people who worked there? Could she have assumed that the name on the mug was code for –communal? I pondered... I didn’t know how to go about reclaiming my mug, and really didn’t want to flip out a la Ross because we all know how that went...

So I sat there, zen on the outside... 

but  inside....

I waited for the perfect opportunity to take back what was rightfully mine, what I had literally worked hard (-ish) to earn but no such opportunity arose. With each passing day, my mug was a prisoner to this woman, unwashed (yes, unwashed yet refilled everyday with more coffee, the horror!). I was overwhelmed, muttering curses under my breath and blowing them in her direction.

Finally, there was a breakthrough. On Friday evening, she was the first to leave the office. My mug, sitting there with coffee still in it (which would have been abandoned all weekend and returned to the following Monday...) I swooped in and grabbed it, took it straight to the sink and bleached the living day light out of it. I scrubbed and scrubbed until it was white as snow again. At long last, following a week of torment, my mug was back in my possession and I was able to be calm again.

It is back on my desk until I can trust again...

Moral of the story? THOU SHALT NOT USE THY NEIGHBOUR'S MUG!!!

The people we meet..

This world is an amazing place. It’s the most intriguing place we will ever know.

Have you ever stopped to think about all the people you've met throughout your life? From people we've formed strong bonds with, to strangers whom we engaged in one conversation, one fleeting glance of familiarity, it's a beautiful thing. What’s your earliest memory of meeting someone? I remember quite a few of my earliest meetings, I met a girl called Elizabeth when I was 4. She turned out to be one of my best friends until I was 13 and she moved away. She was my neighbour in Watford- my summer buddy.

I wrote this on that one gorgeous, sunny Sunday past, and staring out of my window, listening to the great acapella sounds of Straight No Chaser's rendition of Africa (by Toto) I thought: "all these people, going about their day, they all have an interesting story... I'll never get to hear them all... I'll stereotype them, squeeze them into categories based on looks, style, whatever... But I don't know them. I never will." 

Back in my second year of uni, I tried to prove to my dad that I could be financially independent and took up the role of a door-to-door salesgirl- because obviously, a job based solely on commission is the best way to prove this! I realised my mistake as soon as I stepped off the bus but I thought I'd keep on truckin' (as Kobe once, so eloquently, said... -_-) so I did. Going from door to door trying to sell people a far less superior option for phone and broadband courtesy of Talk Talk, telling them about the sheer awesomeness of the fibre optics that Virgin was already offering at a better rate - not my exact words. On that first day I had been yelled at, I had been heavily side-eyed by an old lady who probably didn't get many black visitors. I had a dog chase me for a few houses and I had been invited into the home of a man who may well have been Patrick from Scrubs (he was Heather Graham’s neurotic patient who warns us all that “they’re here! Ignite the tractor beam! Chhh!”)! Now this man lived with his lady friend who was missing a huge amount of teeth but gave me a very warm, gummy smile regardless. I smiled back but thought myself quite an asshole showing off my complete set of pearly whites, so opted for an extension of my lips- forcibly pursed, fighting the urge to show my shiny, white teeth! They were extremely friendly but I can almost certainly guarantee you that I have never said the Lord's Prayer with such fervour. Programmed to look at strangers as 'the other', dangerous and to be steered clear of, I was only acting the way I thought would keep me safe from whatever harm these people may wish to cause me. I remember thinking that that would be an interesting way to go... "Died in the hands of the coked up bandit and his toothless lady friend". I obliged, out of sheer curiousity and not enough of a handle on reality, clearly. 

I was only in there for about 15 minutes but in that time, I did find out that these two were planning a camping trip (ironically their house already seemed like a fort set up in flimsy nylon with just a sleeping bag and a portable stove but whatever, they probably just needed a change of scene). They didn't kill me, but had such horrible credit that they couldn't cash in on the amazing Talk Talk bonanza. As I walked out of Tom and Sarah's little love shack (if you will permit me to call it that) I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with guilt., I had no clue who these people were, not them, not their struggles - nothing. So why was I so quick to judge? They seemed perfectly content with their existence, more than I was at the time. I was the one going door to door, bothering people, walking in the hot sun, knowing that no sale equals no pay! They were the ones in their home, obviously smitten with each other, oblivious to the things I noticed and extremely excited for their camping trip... I didn’t have a camping trip to look forward to.

I had a chat with my friend over lunch about how quick we all are in judging others. We don't mean to do it... sometimes. It's so automatic we are so far into the sizing up of our fellow humans before we realise we're doing it. There's a drummer who goes around W1 with his pots, buckets and pans, drumming up a storm. He is one of the most talented drummers I have ever heard. His name is Joe and I had the opportunity to chat with him in between 'sets' one evening. Joe is from the Caribbean, he's a young guy who is so absolutely content with his life. He gets to travel around, entertaining people, attracting a generous crowd, he's been featured on many Youtube pages. I asked him something along the lines of if he was happy doing this, and he smiled at me and said yes. His mum doesn't know what he's doing out here, he laughs as he tells me, "but she knows I'm happy." Am I even that happy? I struggle to get up each morning, long for the weekend and only manage to get through work days. Joe probably springs out of bed in the morning (or afternoon, whenever he arises) and just sets up shop at a different venue each evening and he drums and drums and drums.

This is Joe! You can find him drumming and being his lovely happy self somewhere on Oxford Street 

He is an amazing drummer who uses plastic buckets, pans and pots to create amazing sounds. 

It's easy to assume that Joe is worse off than we are or that Tom and Sarah lead a miserable life? How much is our happiness based on quantity? Materialism  And societal ideals?  Happiness is relative... 

Since the start of the year, I have challenged myself to do at least one thing that brings me joy each week... I'm doing well so far and I have discovered so much in the process. You should try it, it doesn't have to be an elaborate plan, you will find that happiness could come in the form of the little things we sometimes overlook... Playing my ukulele, Zuke, brings me so much joy so I started going to an Ukulele Hootenanny at the Queen of Hoxton on Monday nights. It really does make my Mondays better.  

Ukulele Hootenanny

What I have taken away from every memorable encounter I have had is that regardless of your situation, happiness is lurking, waiting for you to find it. These people are going on about their lives, doing things that make them happy despite whatever other difficulties life may throw their way. It's so easy to be consumed by our problems and forget that there is still the potential to be happy - to find happiness. 

Thoughts and prayers are with the victims of the Boston attack. 

How old would you be, if you didn't know how old you are?

A few days ago, I was procrastinating at work by reading a snippet of Richard Bransons new book; Screw Business as Usual. One of the questions he asked, a quote he cites as his favourite, is; "how old would you be, if you didn't know how old you are?" It's a packed question. I know it's quite simply based on how old you feel/act right now, right? But isn't that an ever-changing thing? When we were younger, we wanted to be older, as we get older, we yearn for our youth. If you're anything like me, you went straight to the happiest moments of your lives, you maybe even compared ad contrasted, weighed the pros and cons, to answer this question.

It's really quite a difficult question to answer. A mind over matter situation I think. So I closed my eyes, took stock of my mind and body and thought about it. Far removed from societal conventions of age and maturity - two things that we have established do not necessarily go hand in hand - I'd be "in my twenties". It's vague, it's open-ended but to me it makes sense. I've written about being 23, trying to figure out who you are, what you want, where you want to be, and who you want to be there with. Not quite as mature as you can be but certainly - or hopefully- more knowledgeable than you were in your teens. With more experience under your belt, you are able to tackle life in a way that you probably wouldn't have been able to in your teens. I'd be in my twenties because I still have many mistakes to make, and I look forward to making and learning from them. I'm enjoying my twenties... I'm enjoying the freedom, not so much the financial responsibility, but I'm discovering so much about myself, life, culture. The possibilities are endless in your 20s and you realise it, so (hopefully) you take advantage of that.
...

I've written and rewritten this post a few times already, each time citing 21 as the desired age. Obviously the fear of the latter part of one's twenties is rife in my life at the moment, so I'd say specifically, this end of my twenties- just on a loop. I'm enjoying it... Mainly...

The Break-up OST

James Blunt? Limp Bizkit? Mumford & Sons? Adele...? Oh God, please, not Adele! 

My boss really loves Abba. So all we listened to at work today... was Abba. After 6 hours, the vivid daydreams of grabbing the evil box from whence came the sounds of "honey I'm still free... take your chance on me..", and throwing it into a sea of vicious fire, manifested in the crazy eye twitch I was trying to suppress. One of my colleagues then said, "I don’t care much for Abba." Who does?  “Abba was the soundtrack to my break up...” *silence* and then just fits of uncontrollable laughter! Huh?? “It wasn’t by choice! They were just always... there; Abba themed parties, Mama Mia had just come out, there was no escaping it on the radio- everywhere! So I went with it... And, boom! Break-up Soundtrack." 

Really?

It got me thinking, did any of my breakups come with an appropriate backing track? Does anyone knowingly create a breakup playlist? In fact doesn't the opposite happen? Don't we try to avoid listening to songs that remind us of once upon a time...? Which might, for some, mean boycotting music altogether? Breaking up with music is the worst thing ever... Why would you do that? Seek help!

I suppose in school, after my then boyfriend and I parted ways in what was probably my best breakup, I listened to a lot of Frank Sinatra, Kelis (when she was good), and this weird ski mix my mate put together for me with such gems as Smash Mouth’s rendition of the Bare Necessities. 14 year old me, post-breakup, listened to a lot of Blink 182 and Fall Out Boy and Disney songs (I was rehearsing for a play...) But that's just what I was into at the time... So a playlist it was not. 

Another breakup was overshadowed by a lot of other events so I can’t even give it full credit for my song choices around that time. I listened to Eye of the Tiger a lot as I tried to sum up the courage to quit my job... And a lot of gospel music for when I just needed affirmation from a more superior source than my parents (as a maniaphobe I need that regularly) and occasionally, I listened to Rack City... that was probably just  the breakup...

To be perfectly honest, post-breakup, it's probably best to listen to the complete opposite of what your mind is telling you to... Is your brain begging for some Adele? Listen to Vanilla Ice instead.

Perfectly Imprefect...

Dear You,

How are you doing? Not so great? Feeling a bit down? Misunderstood? Out of place?

We're not so different, you and I? Sure, we grew up in different parts of the world. We experienced different kinds of ups and downs, but honestly, we felt about the same- always slightly hollow.

When I was much younger, I had a dog named Rambi (she started off as Rambo, named after a family favourite, but when we realised she was a she  we replaced the o with an i- fitting), she was one of my best friends. In all of her black, furry majesty. She loved everything, and everyone that I did. I talked to her a lot- she understood me. When she died, that deflated feeling returned. I fell in and out of friendships, I fell in and quickly out of like (often mistaken for something more). There was a kind of friendship that I wanted, but couldn't seem to achieve. I felt like people weren't fully me-savvy. Not a lot of people understood us, did they? Even now.... Obviously it's different, but there is a  familiar feeling lurking in the shadows of our subconscious, isn't there?

What's interesting about us, You, is that we've always been afraid, haven't we? We're only truly ourselves around a handful of people and it might be fair to say that within that handful, there are some that we are only 60% of ourselves around, leaving us with probably one person. Why is that? They'd never fully get it, would they? We'd just scare them off.

I see you're getting impatient. "Where is this going?", you're wondering. I just wanted to write to you, to let you know that it's absolutely fine to be who you are. You are not alone. There are so many of us out there. In fact, I think we make up a large part of the population.

In all of our glory- all of our distinguished, special, colourful glory. Don't turn your back on the person you grew up to be- or the child you once were because that never really leaves you, does it?

We're all flawed. Boy! Are we all flawed. Sure, there are parts of our personalities that we can improve on but completely change who you are? Don't you dare! You are You; Beautiful, strong, unyielding, aware that you are an unfamiliar being yet proud to not be like the rest. You are You! Exciting, smart, animated, one of us... Perfectly imperfect.

I just wanted to let you know that you are not alone. You never were, you never will be. And when you find that missing piece to your puzzle, you will know completion like never before. But that does not mean that you are empty now, we make up a large part of you- we, your family- it only means that there is even more harmony to experience, to look forward to.

I'm off now, I just wanted to let you know. I overheard you, down trodden, upset, defeated and I could not bare to let you carry on thinking that you are alone. You are not, you never were, you never will be. So smile, get back up. There are many obstacles to battle in this life, let your identity not be one of them.

Love,
Us...

23... Part 1

We were all so excited, weren't we? The prospect of hitting our 20's, no longer having to answer to our parents, no longer having to carry fake ID's around or go out with an obscene amount of optimism, knowing full well that the chances of us getting into that exclusive night club were next to none. Oh the naivety of being 12, 13, 16, 17... Counting down the months until that next big birthday that meant we were closer to our dream decade... Our 20's- home free! Free from the burdens of school, free from the restrictions of our allowances, in a steady job... Wasn't it all so ideal?

Not for the show itself, but for the portrayal of 20-something girls as hunters- of self-discovery, security, balance and clarity. 

And then it hits... You're in your 20's, you're not quite where 18 year-old you envisioned, you're probably even further away from where 21-year-old had hoped. And then it's like:

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

The Winter of Air via http://kalynroseanne.tumblr.com/

This is me at the moment. A rather underwhelming place to be- too young to not need my mummy and daddy, yet slightly too old to... That uncomfortable moment when you can feel like a foreigner in your own body and then in the next five minutes be the most aware you've probably ever been... A rock, me, the hard place.

23 is an awkward age. What I thought I went through in my teens, I'm currently experiencing: the quest to find myself- thoroughly. I don't think you ever fully discover yourself- which is slightly alarming yet beautiful; the idea that you are an ever changing- ever evolving (or devolving) being, but your 20's provide you with the opportunity to really study your characteristics, your appearance, your circle of friends and your interests and then make a more informed decision about who you are. The catch? It's not that straight-forward. What I'm finding is that I am constantly battling the different shades of me. At 23, this has become blindingly clear, I just wish it was a little more vivid at 21... The journey to discovery seems to have hit me at a slightly later stage than I had hoped. Or maybe I still nurse those naive expectations of where and who I thought I'd be at 23.