Time

The inconsistency of time means some feel it as a doormat slipping from under their feet, whereas I am encased by it, like setting wax; dripping upward, towards my head, in hues of plum and ink.

Clocks ran too fast when I was with you: a planned few hours in the park resulted in a whole day of lying on the tartan picnic blanket, cracker crumbs embedding under our elbows, watching the wisps of cloud swim across the sky. Trudging back to our flat, only when the blue had transitioned into shades of an ice-cream sundae, we would slip off our scuffed canvas shoes into the hallway – our toes replacing the shoe horns we never owned – and we would melt into the sofa-bed: springs compressing under our combined weight.

I remember when you held the test in your hand, my watery urine dripping from the end, your eyes protruding from their sockets to internalise the red plus of congratulations.

How you gifted canary roses on my pillow to commend us.

How you left lilies on the bed to inform that you were leaving, after the bump never emerged.

The faultlessly white petals shrank into decaying greys and greens, curling over in pain. Every week, they place new flowers in my bedside vase: it could be an illusion from the sickly walls, but they always seem to die quicker than any other carnation I have seen.

Our sofa lies upturned in a skip somewhere, I think: springs rusting outside their fuchsia fabric.

Your face still peers past me, through the dust, encrusting onto the framed photo of us at the park: squatting amongst flattened daisies and a rotund beech tree behind. That photo convinced me to kill myself once, gazing at my own ignorant stare towards you. Now, all I see if your face: subtly sagging cheeks, hair peppered with ash, eyes unmoved.

Maybe it is time that has contorted your features; maybe it is the dust layer. You may not have aged at all: just loss submerging me in clay like a prehistoric creature, allowing others only a momentary peek before time forces them forward.

Perhaps, this is time handing back all of it that sped too fast when I was with you.

Perhaps time is never kind to anyone.

About a woman who feels trapped in time, encased in the loss of her lover, while others seem to move on without her. Written for my Creative Writing mock.

The Wonderful World of Concerts

I have always been slightly late when it comes to social event partaking. With only three months until I am assumed an official adult, I yet to venture into the ecstatic world of clubs (as my previous blog piece displays); my first roller coaster was when I was fourteen (it was Ben Ten at Drayton Manor, if you wondered) and I went to my first concert a year ago, in April. And what an experience I had missed out on.

As soon as the tickets were released from their metaphoric, internet pen – beckoning for us to pick them out from the hubbub of calendar dates and personal economic loss – I was ferociously texting my mum, begging if she could possibly purchase them. Lewis Watson, an artist who grew from YouTube, was performing in London’s Bush Hall, and was covertly suggesting the release of new songs for those couple of hundred of pairs of ears only. However, as he was relatively unknown (in the sense that, if I mentioned “Oh, by the way, I’m going to see Lewis Watson tonight!” the response I would get would be in the form of a grunt or a quizzical face) I asked if my mum would attend with me. She replied with pleasantries: “if anyone else wants to take the ticket, that’s ok … Are you sure you want me there? … What about such-and-such?” However, I have never needed to feel any embarrassment from my mum (hello there, my biggest blog supporter!) so she would join me on my first concert adventure.

If you have ever visited Shepherd’s Bush Hall, you will know that, essentially, it looks like nothing from the outside. In fact, it was only when we spied the single-file of young teenage girls, flecked with the occasional parent and boyfriend, did we know that this was the venue. However, once inside, the main room exhibits that of an Edwardian playroom adorned with chandeliers and etched walls. Yet, the best part about Bush Hall is just how close to the artist you will be (in December, I got even closer, but I was yet to know that here). You could actually understand their facial expressions and view the whole band, completely contrasting the shaky camera-phone shots at least three miles away from the stage I had viewed on Facebook.

I thought we were close here...

Well, that night turned me from a concert virgin to an obsessive: I love concerts. The music literally tastes as melodic as it sounds and the vibrations pour into your soul to create an involuntary smile to appear for the whole night. Each swipe of the guitar rode a tsunami towards the audience, lapping at our ears, and the vocals can only be described as fresh. Lewis Watson was phenomenal not only because he was the first concert I went to, but he also captivated me enough to fall back in love with his music and explore concerts more.

Within the space of a month, between November and December, I attended a concert a week: earlier in the year, I had spontaneously booked for my cousin and I to see The Lumineers at The Apollo in London; for my birthday, she returned the favour for my birthday, by taking me to see Tom Odell in Birmingham, which fell a week after The Lumineers. Then, Lewis Watson snuck in the fact that he would be debuting his new album in mini gigs, which I bought and then asked my mum if she would drive us to Bedford to see him. And finally, my friend and I took the train back to where it all started – Bush Hall – to watch Dodie, also originally from and still present on YouTube, under the name doddleoddle. (The best part was that her audience covers young tweens, meaning I was actually tall enough to get a perfect view of her – being 5 foot 3, this is a rare occurrence.)

However, it is not just the main artist who has captivated me: a week before Rag-and-Bone man weaved his way onto every radio station, I had watched him open for Tom Odell (hipster, I know). Ten Tonnes entranced not only myself but my mum as well, and The Bahamas left the room in awe. It is true that you may find your new favourite artist as a support for the one you believed to hold that spot all along.

What I adore about the concerts the most is that I have been lucky enough to attend is how diverse they have all been: the auditorium was full when The Lumineers strummed on their stage, which was so obvious from where we sat right at the back, harmonising with those around us; Tom Odell was barely visible from the stalls (lets just say two burly, middle-aged men were helpfully positioned right in front of me) but his voice carried over each head towards me, as if something somewhere was determined to let me hear his music; Lewis Watson’s intimate gigs allowed everyone to become part of the music he played – in Bedford, if I reached out my hand, I would have touched the keyboard I was so close; Dodie was not only quick-witted and humble during her performance, but also lovely when I also got the chance to say a little hello and pose for a photo with her at the end.

...and then we went to Bedford!

This year, my free dates have yet to deplete due to concerts, but it is only March: bring on the abundance of band tees and lost voices.

I Got Published, Sort Of (Cultivating Love Flowers poem)

At the end of February, our school’s Head of English poked his head through the door during form time at the beginning of the day. However, I was completely oblivious, eves-dropping on the conversation next to me between a group of boys, on the antics of a night out at our local club, Winkers (also voted Britain’s worst, which is an achievement I guess).

Suddenly, an A5 book was slid in front of my table space; the clear wrap around it stated my name and school. Smiling in that kind of dad way, the Head of English congratulated me, then swiftly marched out of the door again.

It was the published book, with my poem in it.

I actually had a published piece.

Last year, I entered Young Writer’s poetry competition, entitled Busta Rhyme, after my slightly eccentric Creative Writing teacher (now inhabiting Australia – hope you are enjoying the sun on your face, Mr. Toft, while all I am receiving is a beating from the wind) joyfully passed around flyers. It asked that students write a slam poem (spoken word, super cool, almost rap, and the literal opposite of myself) about identity. So, after much mulling, I created this: Cultivating Love Flowers. It is about the current, cultural fear of expressing love, as I myself am a hopeless romantic.

Thank you to Young Writers for selecting my poem out of all those who entered to feature in your poem book! And, also well done to everyone else whose poems stand alongside mine in it, including my rhyming-genius friend, Hollie. If anyone else would like to participate in their competitions for the same chance, go here: https://www.youngwriters.co.uk/index

A Clubbing Guide, From Someone Who Has Never Been Clubbing

So you are about to ‘spend a night on the town’ with your pals, and you are wondering, can anyone offer me any advice on how to have the best experience possible? Well, here is that handy checklist, from someone who is the least experienced about clubbing possible:

1.  Spy your girlfriends from across the room and shimmy over, to the beat of the current ‘banger’ filling the air with thick beats and bass. If you are a guy, however, spot the lads and saunter over, probably shuffling into a designated floor space they have assigned for you within the huddle

2.  Every couple of songs, shout “oi, nah, this is a tune!” to your respective groups (who will nod and repeat back this sentence in approval) and join the shrieking chorus surrounding you. This may also entail jumping.

3.  Contort your lips into an upside-down ‘U’, to resemble a guppy fish. Accompany this with a single, fail-safe dance move, almost always involving bopping your knees up and down to a progressively aggressive beat. This will be useful in any situation during your clubbing experience.

4.  Practice dancing one-handed, so you will achieve the perfect Snapchat angles when filming yourself and friends (or strangers you have labelled as buddies for the time being).

5.  You are going to get hot, so keep hydrated: cocktails and shots are an effective time-filler, while you wait for a glass of water. Once you have finished, get back to dancing!

6.  Bathroom selfies. It does not matter how dirty the mirror is, or how many other people are harmonising their wees in the stalls next to you, work it and get the whole squad into a frame. This applies to boys too.

7.  Make sure to inform everyone the next day how ‘absolutely bevved’ you and your squad got last night, as well as what time you got to bed.

'A Way to the Heart is Through the Stomach' - A Recipe

I love pasta. Painfully relatable? Possibly so, but by living with a (lovely, kind and caring) mum who despises every delicious swirl and pinched-bow, except lasagne, I feel slightly deprived by my second favourite carbohydrate (if you read Nostalgia on a Plate, you will be able to work out pretty quickly what number one is). So, one lunchtime when I was alone in the house, I gleefully grabbed the lonesome pasta bag in the cupboard and created this: broccoli pesto pasta. (It’s so simple that I will not have invented it, but I occasionally like to believe in my culinary prowess.)

So, if you would like to impress…me (I doubt any other date would offer to marry you after this dish, but you can always try), here is how to do it[1]:

Ingredients: favourite pasta, broccoli cut into florets, two tablespoons of pesto, smattering of mature cheddar cheese.

Time: about 15 minutes. Under 2 to demolish, if you are me.

1. Boil water in a pan and measure out the ‘75g per person’ portion as it states on the pasta packet.

    Realise that you are growing young woman/man, disregard the scales and hurl out as much pasta as a small rhinoceros could eat – if they could appreciate pasta.

2. Pour the pasta into the boiling water. Get the pasta packet out of the cupboard again, after realising you did not read the time needed to cook it. Review this multiple times, because your brain will act as if it has never encountered numbers before.

3. While the pasta is bubbling energetically away, cut broccoli into florets. Possibly research how much will constitute to one of your five-a-day and then feel accomplished, even needing to gloat, that you have successfully eaten healthily (even if the meal is followed by a huge flapjack slice-what? Me?)

4. Grate a little cheddar cheese, ready to stir into your creation at the end. I use extra mature, because my taste buds are not weak and puny and withered. (Also because I like the taste, but whatever you desire: maybe try a pinch of parmesan if you feel like an Italian goddess, like I usually embody every time I serve myself this.)

5. Five minutes before the pasta is ready to be devoured, scrape the broccoli into the pan. Feel a sense of power as you send each little broccoli soldiers to their deaths by walking the chopping-board plank.

6. When the cooker’s timer screams that YOUR FOOD IS READY YOU BETTER COME HERE RIGHT NOW OR IT WILL ALL BURN AND IT WILL ALL BE YOUR FAULT, drain the pasta and place in a bowl.

7. Scrape two (three, five…) tablespoons of pesto out of a jar and stir into the pasta bowl. Sprinkle (or slam-dunk, if you grated enough for a steroid-driven mouse[2]) the cheese over the top.

8. Devour, consume and internally grin that you are now officially chef.

[1] There are literally millions of other ways to win me over, please do not just continually boil pasta away at the stove, with a pleading desperation bleating in your eyes. Also I know this is directed to no secret lovers, trust me, I am merely being hyperbolic.

[2] I am not entirely sure what the constant animal references are either. Possibly because I usually identify with the ‘I could eat a horse’ category of hungry.

From The First Wedding Dance to Rap on Raw Life – Ed Sheeran’s Divide Album Review

Within the two-second gap between the car’s CD player registering the album and the first track playing, the lingering question within the silence was: would this be as good as ‘X’?

The car was submerged in Eraser’s beats, reminiscent of You Need Me, I Don’t Need You, even beginning with referring to a ‘town’ in its first lines, whether playing in one or leaving the one you grew up in. It symbolised the growth from the previous album, a poignant aspect of Divide that is evident in all of its songs: they are either refined skills first exhibited in previous songs, or completely new styles. As the saying goes, ‘always begin with a bang’, which Eraser does, literally, but also with the topics it swoops it’s melody over: ‘I think money is the root of evil and fame is hell’, while ‘[looking] in the mirror at what I’ve become’ not only exhibits the complexion of having the neon billboard of ‘singer-songwriter’ around your neck, but also the music and celebrity culture itself.

The tracks swiftly flow into Castle on the Hill and Shape of You, which has been at number one on the Official Singles Chart for eight weeks running, if success was ever questioned. (This was also a chance to contort my lungs to try and hit the same range of notes Ed effortlessly switches into, as these were the only songs to be released well in advance of the album.) Divide was destined to be initially popular due to who it was written by, but I believe it will stay popular for much longer than if some such famous face released something just because they had the money to do so; this is all down to the crafting of the songs. The inner linguist washed my mind with the vibrant lyrics Sheeran harmonises, and just how relatable they are. And, what is refreshing is that the songs are not relatable because everyone obviously had been through it (“Is it just me who finds it really awkward when your stomach rumbles in class?” Yes Gabby, because out of seven billion people, of course you are the only one to feel this, congratulations) but the subtle likes and dislikes that are rarely vocalised Ed seems to understand completely: a close friend who sometimes knows your life better than yourself.

A clear example of this is New Man, which left me laughing intermittently because of how much I would despise the guy in Ed’s description, let alone if he were now dating my ex: he ‘wears boat shoes without socks’ (if you do not wear socks and shoes, you might as well have written ‘I love to make people uncomfortable’ around your ankles) and ‘gets his arsehole bleached’ (the point I physically chortled aloud). However, it is followed by Sheeran ‘still looking at your instagram’, in the way that everyone who is avid on social media will admit to, regardless of gender. Further, this surrounds the new buzzword of ex’s ‘downgrading’ – or, if your friends do not reassure you that ‘they don’t deserve you’ and ‘you are so much better than them’, ‘upgrading’ – and how poking fun at this provides a path for moving on: clearly, Ed is more than unhappy about his ex being with another man, but it helps to heal the heartstrings when you can laugh at his obsession with wearing ‘sunglasses indoors, in winter, at night time’.

In fact, I think ‘relatable’ is the word I would use to describe Divide, as it is not only the lyrics, but also the themes, cultures and styles covered: it is as if each song is the coin opposite of the one before it. The almost-forgotten fiddles of Irish melodies are the unmistaken feature in Galway Girl and Nancy Mulligan, conjuring images of beer jumping between cups in a dingy pub, packed with laughing, rosy faces. This is completely contrasted by the mellow vibes of Barcelona and the African hued Bibia Be Ye Ye, both of which could easily feature in a Zumba class. As my mum highlighted, wherever Ed gigs, he will be touching on a topic for anyone. And he will not be short of fans, with the album already at the global number one spot, and all sixteen tracks successively filling Spotify’s United Kingdom Top 50 instantly.

The songs that I feel will now forever be ‘in’ are Happier and Perfect: when bereft with a breakup, Happier will understand the knot of emotions you are unable to unpick. On the other hand, if a ring speckled with jewels does slip upon your finger, a tune that may accompany your first dance is Perfect. Not only does it have the slow, waltzing beat, but also mentions a beautiful ‘dress’ and looking ‘perfect tonight’: if this does not multiply highlight ‘wedding’ in several colours, I do not know what other song does.

Reflective silence will have been experienced in thousands of rooms, cars and minds with Supermarket Flowers, which OK! Magazine reported to have ‘left fans sobbing’: it was not a doting infatuation love song we all expected, but about the passing of Ed’s gran. Its personal tints, such as mentioning ‘the photo album Matthew had made’, not only clasped around the deaths listeners will have encountered, but the sometimes forgotten promises of keeping our loved ones safe, even checking in on them more than once in a while: ‘a heart that’s broken is a heart that’s been loved’ is a delicately poetic and almost religious stance of coming to terms with death, coupled with the stripped back piano and funeral-hymn hums, which truly conveys how beautifully lyrical Ed is. And, once again, many listening will identify with a religion, thus Ed is opening up to an even larger audience. I hope it will also coach those who identify internally to wear this – and other – beliefs externally.

If you purchased the deluxe version of Divide, (which I cannot recommend enough – we did not buy the deluxe on Friday, because we accidently missed it on the shelf; today, I bought it, just because of the last four tracks) your emotional levels will swerve sharply listening to the cultural journey that unfurls next. However, Ed still leaves the listener on a reflective note with Saving Myself: ‘you gave me heartache and in return I gave a song’, while ‘[drowning in] drink and out of date prescription pills’. Almost a pair with Supermarket Flowers for its raw and morbid nature, Saving Myself feels like Ed’s emotional turmoil of losing his gran gave him a kind of courage to save himself: it took a personal journey to see that before he ‘can save someone else, [he must] to save [himself]’. And, in an individualistic culture where we are pressured to constantly put others before ourselves, it does take courage to care for yourself first, if needed.

And then, the CD ended.

I instantly let it replay again.

While eating breakfast yesterday morning, Chris Evans on BBC Radio 2 introduced Ed Sheeran, who performed live (also another recommendation – one of those rare artists who sounds the same, if not better, than their albums). While on the show, Chris mentioned that before becoming a well-known name from The A Team, Ed had been turned down by every music producing company he had approached. Much like The Beatles and J K Rowling’s Harry Potter novel series, it seemed like Ed’s skills were not registering with those listening to his music. This now seems preposterous (and these music producers will be kicking themselves for it too), considering his forty-two venue tour ‘sold out in five minutes’, according to Metro. It is just a shame I am not one of those clutching a lucky ticket.