Why I Write

I write because I am not skilled at drawing.

For me, writing is my form of painting: the paintbrush, now a pen, dips into swirling colours of deep provocative thoughts, waxy metaphors, honey-sweetened syllables and an array of vivid, vibrant, exotic words that I otherwise could not justify on my tongue. I love art; love the way finite movements compose the most detailed, descriptive drawings of real life, or fantasy. Writing for me is the drawing I could never do: each word is strung up on a sentence washing line, wrangled by the wind and compressed by the sun, until each one melds together like that of graphite on paper. I write because my drawings are too bad to truly express what I am and that around me.

I write because I love to explore.

Well, I actual dislike exploring. Maybe not dislike so much, but have an intense fear that something may go wrong. And yet, my backpack continues to fill with the new artefacts I excavate while I traverse the land and sky and heaven and sea on a wispy cloud of words. I love to collect concoctions of phrases and explosive potions of expressions: fumbling and thumbing through syllables that stain like paint powder on the page: a colour run of ideas that dazzle under their newness. I write because these newborn words make me excited, make me feel something big.

I write to understand.

Sometimes I feel like my brain is too small, and other times too big, and only echoes one thought around and around and around and around. It’s a colour explosion but this time the fireworks ricochet through my body, tugging at any flesh that stands and coats it all with inescapable, putrid tar, claustrophobic and uncomfortable: I want to escape myself because I am stuck with myself. The words that fly across violin strings onto paper give an articulation to the squiggles that coil and knot around my brain like too many silken strings for one marionette. I write because I am blinded by hot bursts of feelings that span from foreign compositions to plain English, capitalised and furious. I write because my emotional energy is too much, too plain, too strong to merely wrap up in newspaper and read some other time in some other life.

I write because I love to feel and explore and because I am bad at drawing.

Kaleidoscope Jar (My Favourite Things) POEM

Someone, a long time ago, gifted me a jar,

whose glass could not be pierced or shattered,

and a rim that could expand indefinitely

to fit all of my most treasured things in:

The sweetened scent of vanilla from its cocoon

that curls from a candle in a closed room;

the barely audible crackles from its wick

reminiscent of early evenings in winter

The soft, safe smudge just above a cat’s paw pad

and nestled behind little pink toes, like beans;

that delicious velvet space uncoiling in the sun

- whose golden wrath dusts along exposed collarbones

Those minute moments in old film photography,

where hazy colours pop black patches fragmentally,

And everyone captured extends their carefree grins

knowing these memories will not be rose-tinted

Deep brown pinstripes that embalm griddled Greek cheese

- singing alongside charring vegetables -

Like Mediterranean ventures in the summers’ peak

Where any corner turned would present a postcard scene

That warm sensation, like pouring brewed tea into you blood;

inescapable jitters that come with this caffeine rush

when your eyes lay upon the harmonious freckles

that patter upon the cheeks of the person that you love

Someone, a long time ago, gifted me a jar,

which cradles all of my most treasured things

And when, sometimes, the sky is washed with grey

I open the jar to allow a kaleidoscope to escape.

110 Above 2018 review - Go over to Last Creative UK!

At the beginning of August, I went back to my favourite festival, 110 Above. And I wrote about it for the music blog, Last Creative UK. And you should check it out, right here: https://www.lastcreative.co.uk/blog/110abovereview

Here is a little snippet of what I wrote, including my thoughts on my favourite band (can you guess?)

110 Above: a three day weekend that transforms an unassuming farm nestled down a dirt road in Leicester, into a vibrant, fun festival, filled to the brim with incredible music. And, though I had doubts it could get any better than last year, I was happily mistaken, as not only this year’s line up, but the atmosphere – and weather – topped the event as the best one yet!

***

If there is ever a conversation about music and I am involved, Marsicans are the band that will inevitably come up: I became – marginally – obsessed after seeing them at 110 Above last year, with their feel-good bops, M&M’s style of dress and the fun they exude on stage. And, I was more than excited when they were one of the first acts to be announced to be playing this year once again (it is actually their third consecutive time playing the festival). So, twenty minutes early (embarrassingly, for my friend Emily, who waited with me through sound check, just so we could get to the front) we flocked to the main stage, ready to be greeted by the self-described ‘indie meets dirty pop’ tunes.

And, as predicted, the colourful band delivered: right at the front, I danced and sang to all the words to their newest and most known music, including ‘Swimming’, ‘Friends’, and ‘Too Good’ (my favourite!) as well as the newly released ‘Pop-Ups’ and ‘Throw Ourselves In’. They also introduced their new song, ‘Suburbs’, in keeping with the upbeat riffs and harmonies of their previous songs – keep an eye out for when this comes out! ‘Absence’, an emotionally-engrained song for anyone in a long distance relationship of any kind, ended the energetic and grin-inducing set. And I was radiating for the rest of the day.

Bit of Marsicans fun

F A B

And if you want to read more, go have a boogie on over to Last Creative UK!

The Paddle Boarding Incident

For two weeks in July, I volunteered for the incredible Wildlife Sense, an organisation in Kefalonia set up for the conservation of turtles. And last week I put up a blog post all about my time there. (https://helenaquainton.blogspot.com/2018/08/wildlife-sense-my-time-with-turtles-and.html)

However, there was an afternoon I had there that I somehow forgot to write about, so I wanted to share it in its own post. This is The Paddle Boarding Incident.

The unsuspecting eight-man paddle board

With only three days left until we were all bound to leave our Lixouri camp (#oneteamonedream) the suggestion of paddle boarding at Lepada beach sounded like not only a fun way to fill our afternoon, but also provide some well-cherished memories between the group, before we all came back home. So, with our bikinis and swim shorts layered under our clothing, we trekked off down the road under the mid-afternoon sun.

The eight-man paddleboard, floating on the ridiculously clear teal water, awaited us as we slathered on sun cream and clipped ourselves into life jackets (very fetching, I know). We then had the task of actually getting on the thing, which involved a grand leap – and a hope our swimming bottoms didn’t come down with it!

As someone who has danced for the majority of their life, I thought my balance would be relatively sound. This assumption was completely pulled from underneath me – and this felt very literal – as I was stumbling atop the board like Bambi finding his legs. Once we had the huge oars in our hands, the violent shaking of my legs improved slightly – until people started getting pushed in by other members for fun. Luckily, my demeanour continued to embody that of a baby deer, so I was probably pitied and left on the board.

Soon, we were – in a diagonal sort of way – travelling down the ‘passage’, the stream of the sea that would lead us into a bigger part of the sea, which sits in between Lixouri and Argostoli: you can spot Argostoli’s lighthouse and abandoned hotel from the shoreline of Lixouri, and is about a twenty minute ferry ride between the two areas of Kefalonia.

This is where, on reflection, things started to go downhill: we decided to sit down. It was a unanimous decision to just enjoy our setting and have a chat and paddle, sitting down instead of wavering about on our feet. Even though it was an eight-man board, the six of us were still quite squeezed on, and sitting down did not help the matter. But, it was tranquil, as well as entertaining, to perch virtually atop the water, with the beautiful Kefalonian backdrop encompassing us.

What we were unaware of is that we had drifted. Quite far. So far in fact that when we decided to paddle back, we realised our paddling made no difference: although we weren’t going the wrong way, we weren’t going the right way either and just remained where we were, occasionally spinning in a circle in an attempt to work out which way each of us should paddle. We had hit The Paddle Boarding Incident.

Luckily, I think I was the only one of the group to express an excessive ‘panicker’ gene, so everyone remained relatively calm. (While in my head streams of classics, such as “are we going to get back within the hour we bought?” and “will we actually make it back at all?” and “what happens if I fall in and as I haul myself back on the board, my bikini bottoms fall off?” spiralled around and around.) We were considerably close to Argostoli and were not getting any closer to Lixouri, its beach now just a faint paint stroke.

Our stint on the water was only for an hour, but to try and paddle ourselves back would have taken at least two – unless we had given up, which was more likely, and then who knows how long.

And then our saviour came in a small, loud, bright and embarrassing shape of a speedboat.

“Are they coming to rescue us?”

“I think they are.”

We were so completely badat paddle boarding that a lifeguard had been dispatched to save us from potentially drifting out into the open sea. (We maintained we were simply going to visit Argostoli.)

So, begrudgingly, we all had to clamber on this tiny, telephone-box-red boat – all six of us – and be towed back to the shore, with the paddleboard flapping behind us.

“Does this happen a lot? You having to come and rescue people?” we asked the lifeguard, taking a gap year he said, so probably about 18 and therefore younger than any of us by at least a year.

“To beginners, yeah.”

Huh. We looked like complete amateurs even to strangers. Who knew?

We stumbled safely to shore, tossed off our life jackets – then respectfully hung them back up in their hut – and agreed that next time, solo paddle boarding may be a better option than the eight-man fiasco, which caused The Paddle Boarding incident.

Wildlife Sense: My Time With Turtles and So Much More

If I could describe the feeling of utter ecstasy and excitement at seeing a baby turtle scramble down our handmade trench to the big blue sea, I could only liken it to what I imagine sending your child off to university feels like. And in my two weeks with Wildlife Sense’ Lixouri camp, I have avalanched from liking turtles to simply adoring them.

Sneaky peak of what's to come: lots of cute bubba turts!

I discovered Wildlife Sense a few years back, while on an early - for holiday standards - walk along a beach in Skala, Kefalonia (because my mum wanted to take pictures of the views). While stumbling over the weightless sand, we noticed people, adorned with clipboards and turquoise t-shirts, counting long snaking lines to the sea. When we ambled over, the group showed us the tracks –turtle tracks!- running intermittently down the beach; their role, as volunteers, was to check the nests and tracks and aid baby turtles that may have been weak or became disorientated during their hatching.
And there I was instantly sold: I signed up too.

Baby turtle tracks

Off to the sea

My cousin Emily (my travelling companion, from such tales as New York and 110 Above) and I landed in Kefalonia on 17th July, mildly agitated by the hour and half delay due to freak fog, tired from the travel, and filled with anticipation: we had made it. Here was to the next two weeks filled with turtles!

We were escorted and ferried by other Wildlife Sense members, Izi (half of our field assistant duo in Lixouri) and Annya, and led to where we would be spending our time for a fortnight, in a rented house containing six other volunteers just like us, and Harry our leader. As soon as our rucksacks touched our bunk beds, Izi had whipped out her laptop and began reeling through our welcome presentation: our delay had meant we had missed this, performed to the whole group - however we did not miss out on our souvlaki (dubbed, by me, as Wildlife Sense’s version of McDonald’s: just around the corner, cheap and our treat each week, as well as containing not only pitta but chips inside the pitta. Incredible). And this is where Izi casually dropped the “now we’ve thrown you two into the deep end a bit” remark. And, at nearly midnight, our ‘deep end’ would be waking up at 5am the next day - which was rapidly approaching - for our first Morning Survey. We were in bed as soon as she closed the door goodnight.

Morning Surveys and Hatchling Rescues were our typical shifts in saving turts; due to the time of year, nesting season was decreasing and the actual hatchlings were hatching in successive abundance. With rucksacks rammed like Mary Poppin’s hold-all, we would travel by bike or by foot to a beach location (containing more than one beach) and patrol the sands for mum or baby turtle tracks and disturbances to the nests too. Everything we saw and found would have to be meticulously scribed and photographed, from the time we entered the beach, to GPS points and sketches of the arches and curls that a mother turtle made in the sand, trying to find the perfect spot for her clutch of eggs. 

Me, on a Morning Survey

On our very first Morning Survey, our leader and Field Assistant Izi saw some particularly ridged tracks from a turtle and when we followed them up the sandy waves like a treasure map trail, we came across our first nest! On our hands and knees, we slowly scooped sand away from the suspected egg chamber then, hitting wet sand, we did the ‘drop test’: if a finger goes through the wet sand easily like a drop, there would be precious eggs underneath. Finding this drop point, Izi carefully excavated until the tops of white shells emerged: it felt like Easter, only these were real eggs and not chocolate (and much more exciting too). I remember I was so enthralled I could not help but squeal a little at the thought that baby turtles were just right there. (I tell you, these turtles really draw you in - I’m obsessed now.)

Our first nest! There are eggs in there!

And night-time Hatchling Rescue was just as thrilling: sleeping bags laid out on the beach, we would sleep right by a nest, together under the clear, white stars. Every hour, one of the pair would wake up and scan the nest, illuminating it up with red-light torches, to check for emerging turts. And, although it was exhausting and sometimes a bit cold (ignoring the part on the packing list about bringing a hoodie was the mistake here) to be able to talk late into the night, sleep on the sand and know you are helping out these little babies only meters away from you was amazing. Although I did not see any bubby turts on Hatchling Rescue, I did have the chance on the Inventories.

An Inventory, with Harry and Emily. Our second to last day and we got 6 baby turtles!

Sleeping next to a nest began on Day 45 (the amount of days after the eggs were laid) but nearing Day 60, worries about the survival rate and hatchling outcome became apparent. Lixouri’s camp leader, Harry (the most enthusiastic and excitable man I’ve ever seen, and all about turtles) decided to check on nest LP1, as there were mounting concerns that none of the babies had popped out yet. With rubber gloves and buckets (ready for survivors), we all watched intently as Harry brushed sand away from the nest’s centre, as Izi had done before on our Morning Survey but more solemnly. And that became apparent when he announced “dead within”, cradling a tiny baby turtle in the fingers, dead. And then another dead. And another. Soon, several rows of tiny, motionless turtles lay next to the nest. In that moment, I thought I could cry. The atmosphere had become stagnant with sadness but was suddenly pierced when Harry exclaimed “alive within!” A scrabbling baby turtle, wiggling his flippers like he was swimming through the sky, was placed in the bucket, where he subsequently tried to escape. He was a strong one, and I felt even more elated as we watched him gallivant (as fast as a baby turtle can) down our trench runway, ready to take off into the water. He swam perfectly; his little black head poking up for air eventually became fainter and fainter until we couldn’t see him any more. I felt like I had seen my child off into his new life.

My first ever baby turtle! (Or tittle as Emily believes they should be called)

In the end, I observed three Inventories, with one releasing forty turtles into the sea, all while an eclipse was mulling in the night sky. As Josh peeled away the top layer of sand, five tiny turtles were sticking their head and front flippers out of the sand like sunflowers, and all lit up by the peeling moon.

Baby turtles coming out of the nest

But it wasn’t just baby turts we aided, as we took the ferry to Argostoli on the first Friday, to perform health checks on the adult turtles in its harbour. Just strolling along the harbour, you could observe the gliding, green shapes of turtles, waiting for entrails to be thrown over the side of the little fishing boats bobbing atop the teal sea. However, we were soon not just admiring them from afar, but right under our fingertips: Harry, in his wetsuit, would spot a turtle and hold onto it (I know it wasn’t a fun piggy-back, but I was slightly jealous that the fantasy of riding on a turtle’s shell could not be mine) until it was safe for it to be lifted out of the water and onto the mats we had laid out on the side of the harbour. (Just a note: turtles can remain out of water for hours, and with multiple volunteers shading them from the sun, they were perfectly safe!) With a scribe’s pen at the ready, the health checks commenced: scanning for a tag, picking pesky hermits from the carapace (top of the shell), take multiple measurements. All the turtles we checked had been tagged before – which meant they all had names (Emily and I had thought of names beforehand, just in case there was an untagged turt. Mine would have been Gloria, and Emily’s Tenniel – I said Gloria and Tenniel sounded like the coolest lesbian couple ever, and this subsequently became our quiz name and alter egos) and some were very dear to the volunteer’s hearts, such as Danielle, the largest turtle I had ever seen.

Danielle, who we spotted later on in Argostoli harbour: could have found her anywhere!

Yet, it was Jane that made the biggest impression, because she had been previously injured: a thick, flesh-pink welt down to the bone of her skull covered the top of her head, an injury probably caused by a boat strike. After cleaning out the wound, the decision was made by Chanel (the big boss of Wildlife Sense, along with her husband, Nikos) to transport Jane to the vets. So that simply meant that Jane had to go in the boot of a car with Harry tending to her the whole way. I would have loved to see passengers’ expressions in traffic at seeing a man crouching in the boot of a car, over a huge turtle, wrapped in towels.

And, finally, our rota contained chores and jobs to aid the running of the project: bike maintenance (Emily broke a bike’s brake within ten seconds of handling it; I believe she is now a record holder), data entry, beach profiling, light pollution surveys and cooking. I have never cooked for more than five people before, so to cook for ten plus (as leftovers for the next day’s lunch were always welcome) seemed rather daunting. If you have met me for even less than ten minutes – maybe five, depending on my mood – you would know I get very easily stressed out: “I’m stressed” and “ouch!” (because I attracted a lot of injuries while in Kefalonia) were my buzzwords over the two weeks. Would there be enough food? Would people like the meal? Would people hate the meal and not tell me? Would people hate the meal and tell me? “You’re a perfectionist,” Harry said, and it’s true, because I was stressed for the whole duration of the first meal I had to cook. And yet, being in the kitchen and cooking – at least when the gas didn’t turn itself off, just as we were about to put the spaghetti on to boil – were some of my fondest moments while at Wildlife Sense, aside from the turtles, of course. With Harry or Josh’s playlist swirling from a speaker, we would sing and dance and laugh and coo about the turtles we had seen and discuss our lives back home. The communal kitchen at first terrified me, as I did not know what to say or what to do, but by the end, I was in there for a good portion of my free time – probably annoyingly for the people who wanted a break from me! – either talking, reading, or debating what to draw on my scoot (section of a turtle’s carapace) for our group’s joint turtle artwork. And that was all made possible because of the friendly, interesting, downright hilarious volunteers who I had the privilege to work with: Harry, Izi, Josh, Charlotte, El, Laura-Li, Olivia, Rebecca, Sarah and Emily (of course!) thank you for the best time. From praising my admittedly pitiful cycling attempts (I did not realise how many hills there were in Lixouri, and how much thigh chaffing I would gather either), to inspiring conversations and debates while patrolling the beaches at both 10pm and 6am, showing me the joys of henna (I need more!) and generally being such great people. You guys rock. (#teamlixouri #oneteamonedream)

The turtle kids

Dinner time

And a cheesy grin!

And before I knew it, the two weeks were over. As Emily and I arrived into Kefalonia, we saw a girl leaving Wildlife Sense’s Argostoli camp, to fly back home to Toronto, Canada. When she saw us, she asked how long we were staying for. “Ah two weeks? It’s never enough!” At the time, I thought two weeks wasa long time, however now I would happily have done the month if not longer if I could. As we waved Lixouri goodbye while on the ferry back to Argostoli, where our plane awaited for us to fly back to England, I could have imploded with sadness of leaving such an incredible place. Jokingly, earlier in the week, Olivia had said “don’t laugh because it’s over, smile because it happened” (to which we all groaned, including Liv herself, at the sheer cheesiness of it) but in a way – and with a shudder – in this instance I have to agree: my time in Kefalonia for Wildlife Sense was amazing, incredible, definitely life changing and great fun. It has increased my confidence when talking to new people (a struggle of mine), experience time away from home and prove that I can take care of myself (a mantra I believed I could not claim), as well as develop a real passion for conservation work and turtles too. And that is why, as I was on the ferry back to Argostoli, with the wild whiling up my hair and the sun warming my newly-tanned skin (very proud of that), I decided I wanted to volunteer again next year (fingers crossed!).

Last load of turtles off to the sea - and every one of them made it!

Wildlife Sense, thank you so much for this wonderful experience, and I hope to see you (and maybe some of my fellow volunteers) very soon!

Wildlife Sense, we love you and your turts

Powerful Women - poem

I may be just one timid soul

among the plentiful sheep.

But a herd may overrun

a shepherd who chooses to maltreat.

What if we are lead into doubt

about how we should present

our bodies, that we are ashamed of?

And not through our own consent.

Like the forgivable moon

or the thinness of the reeds,

we should be proud of our nature

and ignore those who impede.

Because my body doth offend you?

Well, listen awful well:

there’s a reason we’re here today

and it’s not for you to tell

when we’re permitted to show flesh

if it doesn’t correspond with ‘ideal’

I think we can decide ourselves

what will consist of our next meal.

Do you think we’re here to look at?

Arranged to file one after each.

Well, my face is not unsymmetrical

for your cosmetics to breach.

In fact, shove your beauty standards

where the bleaching is still performed.

I’m tired of staying in lipstick lines

of society’s laws that we still conform.

I can decide when my lashes flicker

We are powerful women

Catcalls shouldn’t make us walk quicker

We are powerful women

I am rising from cultural conformity,

to fulfil my hand-tailored destiny.

Climbing social ladders as elevators

We are powerful women

Beauty winks in our very pores

We are powerful women

Obey your own style instead of flaws;

continue to smile at reflections because

We are powerful women.

We are powerful women.

We are. Powerful women.

Inspired by an incredible poem by Maya Angelou, called 'Still I Rise'

The Population of the Tube

Last week I had successfully taken my last exam, and left - not only the exam room, but the school I had been taking my one year English Literature A Level for the past year. Even now I experience the nagging urge to haul out my posters plastered with multicoloured quotes and begin sifting through my cue cards. But no more! (Well, until university…)

One of the most exciting aspects of going to my new school for this A Level was that it was in London; because of where I live, the London Underground was essential, as it was the only way I could get to school. And, boy, have I met some interesting - and some very interesting - people on there.

Although I really enjoyed tube travel, a book sat in both hands, as I too sat on a seat, what I really mean is that I liked Wednesday and Friday commuting: my Thursday lesson began at 9:00am, which resulted in taking a 7:30am travel - or, as we all know it as, the prime, the pinnacle, the repellant peak time. It was the commuting golden hour, or small-girl-who-just-wanted-to-sit-and-read nightmare hour. Even though my station was the second on the route, there would be no seats left when it got to out station, and five stops in, there would so many people that I would be pinned to one of the pane’s of glass or doors, by an mass of suited bodies. The only consolation was that this was a fast train, so I spend ten minutes less standing in the cramped space.

One Thursday, three high school girls, all adorning mini skirts and bags in the crook of their elbows, alighted onto the train and began to apply their makeup, hanging onto the central pole in the middle of the carriage I was in (as, of course, there were no seats). One of the girls commented that they would get to school much faster because it was a ‘fast train’.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s going much faster” retorted one of the girls to Girl No.1

“It doesn’t go any faster - it just misses out stops.”

Although only just visibly funny on screen, in person it seemed hilarious to me, as I tried to hide the rising giggle behind my novel, that this girl thought a ‘fast train’ meant that the train was especially speedy, and not - the more boring answer, if you ask me - that it simply missed out stations.

They promptly got off at the next station, probably staring hard at the small girl covering her smiles in the pages of her book.

However, it is not just this gaggle of girls that have expressed thinkos, but guys too. One of the longest train journeys of my life occurred not just because I was desperately attempting to lodge quotes into my hydrophobic brain before a mock exam that day, but because I was sandwiched between two of the laddiest lads I have ever come across: not a proper pronounced word was uttered between them, muffled under layers of Adidas grey tracksuit sets (both were matching, but completely non-romantically) and opened-legged postures. For a whole five minutes, and maybe even longer, Lad A was trying to make Lad B guess what time he was on a bus last night. The conversation went something like this:

Lad A: Oi, nah, guess what time I was on the bus?

Lad B: Dunno

A: Nah, you gotta guess

B: I dunno

A: Guess!

B: 12?

A: Later

B: 5?

A: No, no, earlier!

B: 2?

A: No

B: 3?

A: Yeah, ok, nearly. What minute?

B: 3:15?

A: Nah, ok what’s half of 60?

B: I dunno… wait what

A: You know, what’s half of 60?

B: Er… oh 30!

A: Yeah so put it together-

B: 4?

A: Nah, bruv

B: 3…

A: 3:30 bruv!

B: Aw, naw way

A: Yeah, mate, I was on the bus at 3:30 in the morning!

The conversation continued something like this, splattered with a plethora of ‘bruv’, ‘innit’ and long, contemplative pauses when maths was mentioned. (And not to offend anyone who speaks with London slang in their accent, but these two were intolerable.) By the time the two ambled off the train, I realised their conversation was the only information that had stuck in my mind, which would be of no use in a Gothic Literature paper later that day.

If I have ever cornered you to discuss life on the London Underground, I will have undoubtedly let loose the rant about those imbeciles who decide they’re ‘too cool’ not to hang onto handrails and subsequently pay the consequence - as well as everyone else around them. (Also featured in ‘How to Hack the Tube’, which you should check out too, combining with this post to create the Ultimate Knowledge for tube travel.) And I specifically mention the casualties that are strewn by these ‘hard’ dudes that fail to realise holding onto a handrail on the train should be a necessity, because I too have been a victim of their stupidity:

One man, scrolling through his phone, did not realise he should hang onto the pole until it was all too late: his hand, in an attempt to slam into the pole, almost slammed into my face as I stood on the other side. A near fatality.

Another man forced me to fall onto a poor seated lady when, once again, the train had to brake and because he was standing in his macho-man stance, he fell onto me, causing a potentially deathly ricochet.

And finally, the amount of times someone has practically cupped my hand on the pole in a bid to save themselves from the train’s sudden halt, after they did not prepare in the first place - I feel that there is a very damning theme here - is uncountable. And unforgettable, but not in any good sense.

But, not all the people on the London Underground are infuriating, as my favourite stranger exhibits:

Last week, quotes and critics were convoluting in my head, when they were interrupted by the anxious voice of a woman asking if this stop, Green Park, would take her to the blue line? I spied her peering nervously at the boards on the platform, a smallish black suitcase in her grip. Smiling, I pointed to the Piccadilly Board - the ‘blue line’ - right at the end of Green Park’s platform and told her I was going the same way as her, and she could come with me. Reciprocating this strange stranger friendliness, the lady and I talked as we trundled: in her impeccable English, she told me she came from Italy and had travelled over to London for a job interview; her friend was in Morocco teaching English in her gap year and how exciting university would be for me next year. When we reached Piccadilly Station, I hopped on my train after advising her to take the next which would whisk her to Heathrow to catch her flight. As the doors frantically warned they would shut in a moment with their insistent beeping, the Italian lady called after me: “good luck in everything!” And, with that remark, my day was made.

The lesson from this experience seemed so simple and plain: if you can, help people if they appear lost on the tube. As the lovely Italian lady said, the tube is big, and it is a world in itself; the idea of getting lost on its systems and routes may seem impossible for an experienced commuter, but inevitable for anyone else. And, you may even make their day, as they could make yours - and break the stereotype that all Londoners are grumpy.

And, finally, the best thing about London is really very simple: people-watching. Why window shop when you can just watch the styles and fashions on actual people, who dangle from the handrails (sensible people too) and cross their legs when they sit on an interconnected seat. Sometimes I put down my book - or peer just over the top of it - to admire the girl with the lilac hair, pixie fringe and black ensemble of lace and leather; the eccentric twirled moustache, of different grey shades, belonging to an older man, adorning a jewel-green suit, psychedelic floral print shirt and matching burgundy socks and rucksack; the lady scoffing folded over marmite toast, it waving dangerously close to the germ-infested poles; the old couple that doze on seats, unaware they could very well have missed their stop but by some telepathy certainly won’t; the paint-stained overalls of builders or artists, depending on their subsequent facial hair; of Parisian-styled women and Italian-looking men. London is a great place to find diversity, a fashion statement, an inspiration - and support you wearing anything you desire too.

I will miss the frequent visits to London, cafes and unnoticed, branching streets; my school with the most knowledgable teacher I have ever had (and best); and, of course, the excitement of the tube.

One Joyous Wolf Pack - Vance Joy Review

On Wednesday 7^th March, Melbourne-born Vance Joy performed at the O2 Brixton Academy, and with his last gig in the UK over three years ago, there was no chance I was going to miss it.

Vance Joy (James Gabriel Keogh) first became – literally – music to our ears in 2013, with his boy-next-door, indie-folk single, Riptide, featuring in his first EP God Loves You When You’re Dancing. I remember frantically tapping the lyrics onto my phone when I first heard Riptide hum through our car radio, in preparation to race through the front door and Google who wrote my instantly new favourite song (as, conveniently, the radio presenter did not announce it – as usual). Ever since, Vance Joy has been one of my most go-to and well-listened artists: his 2014 album Dream Your Life Away has accompanied us on numerous long trips down to Devon and up to Cheshire, harmonising to Joy’s relaxed indie-folk/pop tunes.

So, when a European tour was announced, I had pounced on tickets before they had even been released five minutes…

With vocalised guitar-strums and charming lyrics swirling the March air outside the O2 Brixton, I gallivanted into the theatrical venue, nabbing seats right in the middle of the top Circle, peering down onto the stage. Soon, the nostalgic filler-tunes quit and on the blue-lit stage strolled Joy’s support artist: Lily Moore, accompanied with her keyboard/guitar player. Her opening song Don’t Lie To Me instantly exhibited a beautiful amalgamation of Paloma Faith, Duffy and Amy Winehouse all into one voice. Moore’s only released song on Spotify, Not That Special, highlights the nineteen-year-old, from Brighton, as sassy, soulful and able to use her style for melancholic as well as upbeat tunes. After supporting Vance, Moore will be back on May 1^st performing at the Slaughtered Lamb, and I am sure I will be there in the crowd, swaying along.

After a while, the lights suddenly dimmed and deepened; guitar riffs grew and grew under the heavy cyan spotlights, and then Vance Joy ran onto the stage attended by thunderous cheering from the crowd. He began straight away with Fire and Flood, a catchy, foot-stomping song, concluding his Dream Your Life Away album. Even seated, most of the sea of the Circle swayed and clapped, shouting the chorus lyrics in delight. The beat then mellowed to make way for From Afar, a song fit for reflecting in fantasied rejection from someone your can only love from afar – or wallowing wistfully over past events. This was to be Joy’s debut single entering into 2013, and has been a favourite of mine for many years.

It was then time for new songs, freshly released on February 23^rd this year, from Joy’s new album Nation of Two. The album still encapsulates the indie vibes of Dream Your Life Away, but more intensely: it contains the sort of songs you could sing with friends at parties, throwing your hands up in ecstasy, whether in or out of relationships.

One of the most precious parts of concerts are the secret insights you are let in on about songs: Vance Joy’s Call If You Need Me is segmented in miscellaneous notebooks; an imagined life of a couple, with intimate details like discussions held while one is in the shower (because they take so long, as Vance admitted he does too). This was told while Joy played solo, allowing the power of his usually mellow voice to come through. However, when the band did take their places back on the stage, another great thing about gigs was displayed: covers! We were treated to a mash-up rendition of Lionel Richie’s All Night Long and Sorry by Justin Bieber (who could imagine I would have ever liked that song, until it was played by Vance and his band).

Before we knew it, the band and Joy had waved their thanks and went off stage. This caused an instant, raucous encore to be chanted, which was answered when Joy raced back on and sung his two most popular songs from each respective album: Lay It On Me, which was released prior to Nation of Two midway through 2017, had the whole crowd harmonising; and then Riptide was played. Even with posters affronted with capital-letter warnings about standing in the seated Circle, everyone was up, fictional ukuleles in hand, feet stomping to each strum, people turning to each other and smiling as they recited the words. Vance Joy’s audience, once just people, were now one wolf pack, howling along to the backing singers and celebrating an amazing night they were in the midst of. The atmosphere was that of a festival: dancing like there was no tomorrow and whooping to the top of our lungs. It was one of the best concerts I have ever been to.

A couple of weeks ago, Vance Joy’s Nation of Two tour tickets went on sale, and I bought some instantly, which I gave as a present for Mother’s Day (I hope I can have the spare ticket mum!) It may be in November, but I already cannot wait to be in the wolf pack once more.