29.04.13- The Last Essay, Hospital Dismissals and Being Too Chilled For Finals

It's hard to get my head around the fact that in just 9 days I will have put down my pen in the exam room one last time. I guess one of the reasons this is so hard to believe is because for once in my life during an exam period I am not stressed in the slightest; I think I've got a laziness induced by the fact that so long as I get good grades for the next 2 essay submissions I'm pretty much in line for a 1st Class Honours, so the exam doesn't carry as much pressure with it as my previous ones.
That and I'm just turning into a lazy good-for-nothing slut.

How my library visits look

For example, in these 9 days I have 3 books to finish and analyse and I am more inclined to prioritise online dress shopping for summer and graduation ball, as well as eBaying hilarious mugs. My favourite is still my Lionel Richie one. Makes my day every time I open the cupboard.

I may or may not just have the coolest
mug in the universe

Usually during this time of year I become the Loch Ness Monster. By that I mean I am completely elusive and very rarely seen, not that I move to Scotland, turn green and live in a lake. This term however, I appear to be going out a lot more than I should, but the fact that I'm not stressed is just such a welcoming change. Today I will be taking all my books to JC's where I don't have to lob books at people's rowdy heads across the library, drink but can instead drink nice tea and find a comfy chair and read, read, read.
Or so I plan to. Chances are I'll bump into a friend, drink coffee and talk about nights out and dresses and men.
Finishing my poetry portfolio last night leaves me with just the accompanying reflective essay which I shall do later as it doesn't take very long; yet it's been such a big part of my life this term I've ended up getting an empty feeling not unlike being dumped. The end of the last Dylan Thomas essay on Friday was even bleaker; I've researched him so much I feel like I've been married to the man.
I had to go to bed and feel sad and watch films.
On Thursday I had some great news. I received a letter finally dismissing me from my hospital appointments for the keeping my weight just about stable enough over the last year. It's been 3 hard years of struggling, and it's still very challenging to accept the way I look sometimes without being ridiculously critical and self-conscious, but it's great to feel like I'm becoming me again and to feel and see positive changes in my mind and body. It's sad that school bullies can push you to that; I'm lucky in that I don't easily give up. None of them are doing anything with their lives now except popping babies like they're making sandwiches.

What a difference 2 and a half years makes.
I like looking like a woman, not a pre-pubescent boy.

Last week saw a welcome return to Flux, the Uni night out, and a better alternative to Sin Savers at the moment. I used to go to Sin religiously, get rained on from a sweaty ceiling every week, get stuck to the floor and smack perverts in the face. It was all good fun. But now the music is terrible, it is full of horny, irritating little first-years who want to hump everything like Jack Russells on heat the vodka just gets worse the more you drink it rather than better. Flux however says it plays alternative and it DOES play only alternative, not feel the need to slip into dubstep. I will never understand dubstep. I've heard the same level of musical talent coming from my microwave.

"HI I'M STUDYING 1ST YEAR BIOLOGY,
WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"

They played Rusted Root's On My Way, the theme from Matilda and I haven't stopped listening to it since. It reminds me of when I was little and wanted to be Matilda and didn't give a shit about anything except worms in the garden and Crayola and Disney films and nagging my mother for a kitten.
I still do the latter but that's not the point.
Thursday also brought with it a second piece of good news-- the winners of the Royal Berkshire Poetry Prize were announced in London on Wednesday and I was lucky enough to have my poem 'Moonflower' commended. I didn't win anything, I'll just have my poetry featured in the pamphlet they'll be publishing, but it's still nice to achieve something. I also have my poetry feature on Thursday which I am more than a bit nervous for, but at the same time looking forward to. I've just got to make sure I don't do what I did the first time I read at The Howl: that is I mustn't take a bottle of cava into the shower with me and get there barely able to stand, let alone read my own writing. I'd like to learn one of my poems off by heart, as I think being able to recite it like that gives it so much more meaning, but that means eye contact with lots of people.

How previous boyfriends
have died

I don't like lots of eye contact with people I don't know. If I fancy you, great, otherwise it's more terrifying than a romantic gaze with a basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets or a staring competition with Medusa.
The slightly empty feeling of finishing my last essays has accompanied a slightly empty feeling of being the self-titled Crazy Cat Lady. Especially when I have no cats. It's almost wearing me out and boring me; some nights I can feel quite lonely and miss having someone to converse with late at night.
Sometimes I crave stability where there is a cat-shaped gap. Maybe I need to dress someone up as a cat and have them curl at the end of my bed and make reassuring mewing noises.
On that note I'd better go and get ready to go out for a run in the lovely sunshine to set me up for a hard day of study.
And by hard day of study, I mean drinking coffee and Googling kittens.

Flux: Sin with better music, less sticky floor, randy first-years
and sweaty wall.

17.04.13- Creative Bursts, Phone Interrogations and Re-learning the Pastimes of Buddha

Researching Pokeballs

I was going to continue with the painstaking editing process of my final poetry portfolio due in 2 weeks, but seeing as I've endured the harsh criticism of my lecturer and mercilessly chopped and rethought whole stanzas, then put them back, then rewrote them for hours on end I need to do something that doesn't involve tearing up my poems and deciding that out of the 50+ I've written over the years I'm probably only okay
with about two. It's hard to take criticism when you've spent months reshaping your creative work but it's done me good and allowed me to read the poems with fresh eyes; however I need to wake up and read it again tomorrow afresh rather than intensify my headache tonight. I refuse this time to make myself so
stressed that I become a hermit and make myself ill; it's not productive and it's working much better for me to have a morning workout, work hard at Uni work throughout the day and allow myself to go and socialize to unwind at night. I am happy, relatively stress-free considering I finish my degree in 3 weeks and am not running the risk of "over-revising", which during my 10-12 hour revision stints until 2am during the January's exams made trying to condense my essay notes hell. It's nice rewarding myself after a long day of study, and seeing as I'm at a creative peak with writing and drawing at the moment I've learnt not to let it pass me by. I've spent far too long with a creative block and it feels great to find myself immersed in writing at the moment.

NOT THIS YEAR, BUZZ

Kind of like a metaphorical ejaculation of creativity.
That's disgusting.
Pub evenings like tonight's are also a great incentive to do some work, though I managed to stick to Diet Pepsi; with tomorrow's Howl session it will be an all-too-soon reunion with the wine. As much as I love all these poetry events my liver is probably going to fail and I will be found 3 weeks later in my student bedroom with an empty bottle of shiraz, being slowly eaten by 30-odd felines.
It's a more original way to go than old age I guess. I would almost say 'hipster', but I hate that word.
It's so unoriginal.
I haven't had time to see the little bro much but he has been ringing every day without fail to check I haven't "been boozing again". A typical phone conversation will go like this:

CALLUM: Hewwow.
ME: Hi, Cal.

The only thing worse than a mouthful of whiskey:
a mouthful of double-concentrate squash

CALLUM: Nat's been boozing again?
ME: Not today.
CALLUM: Nat go boozing tomorrow?
ME: Yeah, Nat wants to drink wine tomorrow.
CALLUM: *gasps* Boozing, you naaaaughty girl! I tell Mammy.
ME: *flatly* Oh, please no. Don't.
CALLUM: How many wines?
ME: Five.
CALLUM: ...good girl. Five. Not forty-nine wines.
ME: No, five.
CALLUM: Good, not being sick. ...MAAAAM NAT'S BOOZING AGAIN.
*hangs up*

He doesn't actually tire of this at all and we've had the same conversation every day for weeks. But I'd feel lost without my daily interrogation regarding my alcohol consumption.
He's going to be the guy everyone wants to punch during Freshers' week.
He also turned to my grandfather the other day after he picked Callum up from school and said, "Oh God you're so beautiful." And has insisted this week on carrying a handbag, wearing lipstick and claimed that out of football and rugby, his activity of choice is shopping.
I can't wait to meet his boyfriend when he's 18.
Tomorrow won't be too heavy on the Uni work; I have promised to make cake tomorrow, and cake I will bake (wow, that was a really shit poem). I just like spending money on pretty cake cases and funky icing (I just used the word 'funky', ew) and getting gold stars in the art of procrastination. The cake will be literary-themed.
Unless it burns, in which case I just have to hope everybody's too drunk to notice.
Tonight however will be spent doing my nightly meditation which I've started to get back into. I'm sure this has helped with the surprising stress-free, chilled out state I'm in considering my degree is over in 3 weeks.
Either that or it can't be insulin I'm injecting in the mornings.

It's nice to get frisky again with the pencils

I'd forgotten how great it is for giving you a proper restful sleep that leaves you feeling energized and refreshed in the morning. I'd forgotten how free your mind becomes, how your dreams intensify to the point of an acid-trip (probably; the only trip I've ever done was on a bus or down the stairs) and your thinking becomes clearer. I think this is probably the reason for the peak in my creativity; for the first time in months I've picked up a pencil and been satisfied with what I've drawn.
No it wasn't a penis on the corner of my lecture notes. I'm (almost) over that at my old age.
It's even better if you can light candles, but I'm a dopey arse and will fall asleep and my room will catch fire and I will die, which would be a real shame considering I'm so close to graduating and still have a full tub of Philadelphia in the fridge that's yet to be eaten. Seriously; try it (meditation, not Philadelphia). I've always been into all things spiritual and though not religious, I find a lot of Eastern philosophy fascinating. I look forward to that hour where all my limbs go soft and jelly-ish as though I'm watching Ryan Gosling rip off his shirt and feel all the tension melt away with my clearing head. If you're new to it, there are some great books that simplify it (John C Parkin's F*ck It Therapy and F*ck It: The Ultimate Spiritual Way are honestly the most enlightening, funny and perspective-changing books I've ever read. I'd lend you my copies but I return to them too much. Plus lending my books feels like freely giving away a baby, just with lots of page numbers and no crying). There are also thousands of guided meditations available on Youtube, all of them totally different, so try a few and see if there's one that works with you. I've found one I use every day and I'm really noticing the change mentally.

I can't think of anything better than a levitating cat
at one with the world

Though some days you just can't avoid that sinking feeling that you may actually prefer wasps to humans.
Oh dear, it's nearly midnight. I'm going to go off now and be a (hopefully slightly smaller) version of Buddha. It helps to heal the crushing feeling in my heart that I still have not managed to acquire a single cat.
Ommmmmmm.

13.04.13- Sleeplessness, the Spoken Word and Giving In to Girlishness

Well this week has been considerably poetry-packed. The writer's block has lifted along with my mood and suddenly I'm finding myself struck by inspiration at the least practical of moments. For example, one can find it very awkward when the muse strikes during these times:

• In the shower. The only option to get down that sudden idea is to go forth and run around the house stark-naked, though one has to consider the welfare of fellow housemates. Often it is not worth the risk to their cardiac health.

  

  "Oh bollocks Adam, I've forgotten me pen."
  "Mm tits."

• Driving. Rooting for a notepad and pen on a 40mph road to write verse is apparently more dangerous than texting.
• Cooking. Getting carried away going to look for a notebook and pen and then sitting there writing whilst dinner is unattended during heating may lead to the small emergency of the kitchen being on fire. The drawback of this is that the landlord will probably not give you your bond back. And you and/or your housemates may suffer a condition known as death.
• On a shift. My pockets are filled with poetry lines scribbled on the back of receipts. The problem with this is that these poetry lines are often heavily sexually charged and my fancy-pants handwriting is very distinctive so if I accidentally leave one on the floor/shelf/office desk/checkout, it may be read by someone who thinks it is a written threat of sexual harrassment and I will be fired for being a dangerous pervert of the workplace.
• In a nightclub. In a pub, this is acceptable; you may even look intriguing. However writing a sonnet in Oceana will lead to a glassed head.

I currently have a very long draft I ended up typing into my phone last night at the impractical hour of 2am when the knowledge that I'd have to be awake again at not long after 4am to get ready for work suddenly made me a crazed insomniac. My odd hours and busy week meant that I had to miss my friend's gig last

Note to self: Never wear these on a date. Ever.

night which was sad and I instead listened to the theme tune of Gladiator in my car and suddenly the act of overtaking became somewhat epic. At 1am I was matching the socks in my drawer to bore myself to sleep and tidying my room for the second time. Neither activities worked very well, but I do now have a wonderfully arranged room and found a pair of delightful socks with terriers on them.

I also found a pair of my brother's Thomas the Tank Engine pants aged 3-4 which my mother had put in with my washing when I stayed at her house a little while back. I am aware that I am not in possession of a big 'bootilicious' behind as it were, but aged 3-4 is slightly insulting.

So, despite being so sleep-deprived I printed out all the wrong price changes in work and had to start all over again (luckily, I did this in record time and everything was out on display before the shop opened...no, not like that...) I managed to get through the shift and complete all of my tasks on price control by 10am in the manner of the living dead of Scooby Doo. By the time I finished, I half-expected to see the Mystery Machine pulling up to park and kidnap me.

"Hi, do you have a Nectar card?"

On Wednesday night I was introduced to the poetry open mic night at The Brunswick. I really appreciated the chance and it was great to go to a poetry evening with such a different atmosphere. The crowd was fantastic; really supportive of one another-- as it is in Mozart's-- but there was something more homely about it, something that had much more of the local feel of a proper Swansea pub. Being a Swansea girl through-and-through perhaps it was this that appealed to me. I've got to know a lot of familiar faces at the poetry events now and I love going to see them all and chat over copious amounts of wine. 

The hangover Thursday morning though was another thing. When I say "YEAH BUT I'M LIKE, IMMUNE TO PINOT GRIGIO" I'm not. I'm a twat.

People were so complimentary of others' work too, and that encouragement is so important when it comes to performing poetry. I'd never have thought I'd be able to stand up and read anything I've written, but my confidence has grown massively through the supportive network there is in the Swansea poetry scene and I am ever-thankful to The Howl for helping me to really develop and grow in confidence. I have only missed one Howl session at Mozart's since I started going last October because that second and third Thursday of the month has become so important to me and I have got so much out of it. The people there have become like a little literary family (albeit with a drink problem). It's great to see more and more people getting up there and reading and I know that it's not just myself that has found it such a massive boost in overcoming that obstacle of public speaking. 

Just don't ever ask me to ring for a takeaway.

"HI THIS IS DOMINO'S, CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER PLEASE?"

I've also been asked to do a poetry feature at the Uplands Tavern which I am flattered by and will be a new challenge again, but one I thoroughly look forward to. If any of you idiots who actually read all of this blog (seriously, what do you get out of it? I'm a rambling git with a cat fetish and a screwloose) would like to come and support me/pelt me with tomatoes please do. Might as well appear to have friends/enemies when even my cats won't show their faces due to the fact they don't yet exist.

There is always a time and place for
Ryan Gosling. Always.

Now sufficiently power-napped and caffeinated, I am going to join two friends for a girly night with DVDs; something I haven't done for a long time. I'm missing spending as much time with a lot of my friends but my shift changes and the sheer volume of work for my finals is destroying my social life the way Justin Bieber destroys my sex drive. Two poetry nights last week were only justified by locking myself in the library and analysing the shit out of Othello. In 3 weeks I'll have finished my degree and will be able to annoy my bezzies as much as I bloody well want to and feed them cake and all the rest of it. Most of my friends are male, so I've become used to going to the pub and pretending I have a penis, which is wonderful and I do love them to bits but it will be nice for the first time in a long long time to do the whole "girly" thing and watch films with Ryan Gosling in or watch 'Magic Mike' (this film by the way can be enjoyed just as much on mute) and have totally different conversations. I'm going to take my Pikachu onesie.

It makes life more exciting.

07.04.13- Easter Break, Poetic Pilgrimages & The Mysterious Disappearance of Spring

Oh, I'm not keeping up with this very well am I? And the next few weeks don't look promising; hardcore study sessions start from tomorrow. The library is about to become my second home again all too soon-- I can taste the crappy vending machine coffee and feel the presence of sleepless zombie students already. I was going to "FINISH THAT POETRY PORTFOLIO IF IT KILLS ME" today, but alas my little brother decided he wanted to follow me around with a mouthful of French Fancies and repeating "Nat's got a big bum" over and over again, which makes it hard to focus and leaves me feeling less than poetic. Instead I had a good gym workout and had one of my mum's amazing chicken dinners, which overall was a much more appealing way to spend my Sunday than research and painstakingly analysing Othello.
My brother did however try to contribute to my Shakespeare revision; he flipped to the section on Titus Andronicus in my Norton Anthology of Shakespeare and summarised the plotline for me: "One Sunday there was a bear and he goed home."
I think he may be slightly off there but he did try and that's all that matters.

"Othello" according to my brother

Last week I was treated to the most thoughtful surprise I have ever received. My mum and stepdad drove me to Laugharne on Friday, parked outside the cemetery and walked me to the grave of my very own poetic hero Dylan Thomas. I am renowned for being absolutely shit at reactions, but apparently my face lit up, which is a rare and impressive feat for anybody trying to surprise me. My mother and Chris should be very proud of themselves just for that.

Hangin' in Laugharne with the ultimate
Swansea LAD

It was a beautiful day. Dylan Thomas had such a simple headstone of a plain white cross and somebody had put a miniature bottle underneath it. But I liked the simplicity. What I found absolutely touching was that despite Dylan and Caitlin Thomas' infamously turbulent relationship (Caitlin had apparently yelled, "Is the bloody man dead yet?" when Dylan died), they were buried together with Dylan's name on one side and Caitlin's on the other. I want to be buried likewise with my cats.
When I have cats.
The boathouse was so small but so pretty and cosy. I also loved his writing shed. I want one. I could just tell everyone to piss off and then I could go to my shed and write mean things about them.
We then went to Tenby, which is one of my favourite places ever because it reminds me of all the wonderful summer holidays I had there when I was little. Just the sound of the seagulls and seeing all the coloured houses and hearing the clop of the horse and carriage is instantly soothing and takes me back to the days where my sister and I dressed in the same Disney outfits and built sandcastles and threw sand in each other's eyes and made each other cry. I miss all that (though we still throw things at each other now and then; unfortunately the objects became heavier as we entered our teenage years. By 70 we'll be onto bricks).

In the days where we looked alike

My brother had a great time there too, but fell backwards off his chair in the chip shop and cried, which was hilarious.
I still have most of my single Easter egg left from last week. I just don't like consuming huge amounts of chocolate. It's a common misconception that diabetics can't touch chocolate; when I first got diagnosed at 8 this was true, but with the more recent Basal-Bolus insulin therapy diabetics can eat pretty much anything they want provided they take enough units of insulin with it. But I've got so used to not eating sweet things in large quantities and eating healthily to support my fitness regime that I'm not even tempted to go all Augustus Gloop and sit about watching shit films (I'm perfectly capable of making a small Milkybar last me 3 days). I'd much rather stick my eggs in an omelette (...is it just me, or does that sound dirty? It's not supposed to anyway) and go for a long run in the Spring sunshine. Which I did. For 11 miles through Clyne and Mumbles, which was beautiful, but by the time I reached Verdi's there were too many people and I hate people so I nearly lost my temper and ran home.

That's my dessert sorted for a week

However, I did give in to my main vice, which is wine. I figured this was okay, because even if I'd stuck to water for the Bank Holiday, Jesus would have wanted me to turn it into wine anyway. So Easter Sunday night was spent "grooving away" for lack of a better term at Mozart's followed by a trip to Whitez, where we were treated to the sight of 3 guys in awful tie-dye shirts dancing like earthworms having epileptic fits across the carpet just for us.
Some men have really nailed it with the art of seduction.
Despite the beautiful sunshine this week, it has been so cold that my Rowntree's Fruit Pastilles actually went hard (this is not a euphemism for my nipples; I keep Fruit Pastilles in my running jacket pocket for a blood sugar boost on long runs). It is April and there I was at 5.45am on Saturday defrosting my car like it was a frozen chicken breast (though if from Tesco, this could be anything from a chicken to a small pony). Why am I still in bed with my hot water bottle? This time last year I remember strolling along Swansea Bay in my shorts. I also can't believe it's been a whole year since I had a relationship lasting more than a week or two. My cats would be disgusted if they could see me then.

Some guys just really know how to score the ladies
with their "sweet moves"

Now a year later I am cold and alone. Which is fine. More bedspace, less headwork.
It would be nice to start wearing t-shirts and taking my notebook to write on the beach though. I may hate swimming but I love being near the sea, which is one of the reasons I was never tempted to leave Swansea to go to University, except to apply to Exeter. I think I will always need to be near the sea. Being in a city like London would make me feel too caged-in. Where would I escape to? I appreciate being just 2 streets away from the bay; whenever I need to clear my head, nothing makes me feel better than an evening stroll along what Dylan Thomas would call the "sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea." That is fun to say.
I sound like Will Ferrell in Elf.
Yesterday I also totalled up the donations from my 5K, 10K and Half Marathon. The grand total was:
£623.32
which I was absolutely thrilled with. I am going to send it to Singleton's Leukaemia Ward tomorrow. For once, I think I can actually say that yeah I'm proud of myself for that. I've helped a good cause and if I've helped somebody or made someone's day better then I've done what I want to do. Making others happy is what brings the smile to my face.
I applied yesterday for an even bigger challenge: a 75-mile, 24-hour walk to raise money for the Ray Gravell Fund. There are only 20 places available for the challenge and hundreds and hundreds of applications but I would love to get onto this. It is the distance from London to Brighton, will take from 12 noon on the Saturday until 12 noon on the following day and will be the hardest challenge of my life so far if I get onto it, but if it's to push myself to my limits to help a local charity then I'm more than up to the challenge.
If however I don't get a place, it's okay. I'll stay home and gorge myself on like, half a Malteser.