One of my favourite things about being back at my parents’ house at the moment is that my Dad buys a selection of newspapers on Saturday mornings. This means that there are tonnes of travel supplements for me to gawp at: daydreaming of holidays I can’t afford is one of my favourite pass-times.
In today’s Telegraph travel supplement was a question about how to spend six hours (!!) in Sydney, between flights, and the “expert” answer offered left a lot to be desired, in my opinion. During my time in Canberra, I spent many, many hours in Sydney, and none of the things that this expert suggested would have been on my list at all.
So how do you spend just six hours seeing one of the most vibrant, beautiful and exciting cities in the world?
Michael Gove is sceptical about making history inclusive and interesting. You can tell because of his weird face.
My memories of primary and high school are very limited. Being the kind of kid who actually wanted to learn, never had a single detention and cried the one time she forgot to bring her homework in (recounting this is all kinds of embarrassing), I had a fairly rough time, and for the most part have deliberately blocked out large swathes of memories.
One thing I do remember in a lot of detail, however, is history classes. From year 2 (ages six and seven) onwards, I can remember a lot of detail about the history I learned: the subject captured my imagination from an early age, and has been a passion and obsession every since.
I am not American. I feel like it’s important to clear this point up right away.
As such, I didn’t even notice that it was July 4th yesterday, despite having written out the date several times. I spent the day completely oblivious, and wandered round Coventry (my soon-to-be home) and Warwickshire marvelling at the peacefulness and the sunshine. Then, I got on the train home, and one of the first things I did was turn my laptop on.
It wasn’t until I logged in to tumblr that the fact it was the 4th of July yesterday even crossed my mind. But, yesterday, my tumblr dashboard felt a lot like being slapped around the face by an eagle, all the while having the word “FREEDOM” screamed at you. Continue reading →
“I guess in this society, being male and an asshole makes you worthy of our time”
Advance warning: this is written completely without structure and is more of a rant than a blog post. If you are in any way right wing and do not wish to have your head bitten off by a rabid, angry lefty, please step away now or comment at your freaking peril.
Second advance warning: swearing prolific. I’m fucking cross, y’all.
How do you explain depression to someone who has never suffered it?
It’s a tough thing to explain, because there are so many preconceptions attached and because there is so much stigma – but, inevitably, everyone who has ever suffered any kind of depression has, at some point, had to sit down with someone important in their life and go through the genuinely horrible process of explaining that they suffer from depression, and then what that means.
Last Friday morning, I decided to do something I usually try to avoid at all costs, and got on a bus in to town with the express intention of doing some clothes shopping.
I really, really hate shopping. And, let’s be honest: clothes shopping is the worst kind of shopping. For someone who has spent a good 25% of her life working in the fashion industry (why? I am not quite sure) this is a fairly radical thing to announce. I just find the whole process embarrassing and demeaning, and if I had my way I would buy literally everything I have to online. Asos is, let’s face it, the best invention known to womankind. Continue reading →
It is a pretty well-known fact that I never feel more at home than when I’m sitting in the red plush chairs of a theatre – any theatre – and that if I could find a way to be paid to watch plays or musicals every day of the week, I would gladly take it. I was brought up on musical theatre, and when I went to sixth form, I discovered a passion for straight plays, too.
This is probably a very odd thing to say, but I honestly think that my experiences of musical theatre, growing up, have shaped me more than almost anything else. When I was scared or sad or lonely, I would listen to songs from musicals, and google new musicals, and I would find solace in the lyrics, and in knowing that other people had the same, wonderful, life-changing experiences as I did.
This article was originally published in Forge Press, the independent student newspaper of the University of Sheffield, back when I was Arts Editor last semester. For some reason, it never made it on to the internet, and I am very proud of it, so I am publishing it here and now instead…
Propeller Theatre have a lot to answer for.
It is a common misconception that the arts are an open and liberal. Most people seem to think that the arts are ahead of the game; that this is an industry which is accepting of difference and where you can thrive no matter who you are, so long as you have the talent.
As playwright D.C. Moore suggested at a Crucible Theatre panel event recently, “in the 90s, we thought all those battles were won”, but realistically, we have a long way to go. The arts are still a long, long way from offering equal opportunities, and it is not that the talent is lacking.
In two weeks time, I will have finished my degree, and my time at university will be over. This feels like a significant life moment, but I’m not really sure why: I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the future and what my degree is really worth… and, of all the things I have learned over the past three years, the stuff I was taught in lecture theatres and seminar rooms is the least significant.
I have learned to function as an independent human being. In September 2010, I moved out of my parents’ house, and in to a university-owned flat. The year after that, I moved to the other side of the world, and in to a university residence in Australia. This year, I live in a share-house with mould and friends.
There is currently a very poetic story doing the rounds on the internet, and attracting “aww”s from all across the Western World. According to this story, there is a tribe in Africa where the birth date of a child is counted from the first day a mother thinks of that child. When the mother does this, she hears the music of her soul, and it becomes the child’s song. This child’s song is then sung during conception (how?), and at significant moments throughout the child’s life. The song can be used to help children find their way home in times of danger, and the story implies that everyone who reads it should take on this philosophy, and find the song in their soul that will guide them home when they are lost – metaphorically speaking.