26.07.13- Crayola, Home Comforts and Malia, the Human Zoo

So, I've just got back from a week in sunny Crete. When I say sunny, I mean sunnier than Little Miss Sunshine on 200mg of Diazepam. Despite this, I went away tanned (thank you St Tropez) and have returned home with skin the shade of Ready Brek, hair bleached more ginger than Ron Weasley's pubic hair and thanks to a bout of food poisoning abroad, a figure about as 'bootylicious' as a B&Q garden rake.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly

Was it something I said?
I thought he liked me.

Greece was interesting. I have never been to Greece before but had so much passion for Classics at A Level that I was desperate to visit the land of Zeus and Achilles and feta cheese.
This is what I learned:

1) Greece is hot.
2) Crete smells of arse and drains. A lot of tourists like to throw their, er, soiled toilet paper anywhere but the bin. This is like a dog marking its territory.
3) Raki makes me dribble profusely. Do not drink raki if one wants to impress on a date, unless said date has a fetish for salivating, arm-waving women or hungry bull mastiffs.
4) Don't eat chicken if it tastes of fart. You will be poisoned.
5) You don't even have to shag Greek waiters for free stuff. They give you free bread and olives on the house and your virginal-like dignity therefore remains intact (though to be honest, you shouldn't really be sleeping with people for the sake of free bread).
6) The Greeks have serious road rage. 4 quad bikes, a bus, a car and a cat are acceptable on roads. Pedestrians aren't. They don't care if there's no pavement, fly or something, they'll shout at you anyway.

Just another day at the 18-30 club office

7) Greek people also like to frequently call each other 'wanker'. Do not try this in British society; it is too polite and neither the bus driver nor your great-aunt Betty will appreciate it.
8) Club reps are just alcoholics with name badges.

9) It costs 50 cents to take a piss in Knossos. If you don't have 50 cents then peeing on the floor comes at a great risk as mooning is illegal.
10) Malia is simply the human version of Bristol Zoo.

After doing 3 nights out in classy Malia (my most successful pulling outfit was in fact not a nice dress but a pair of shorts about the size of a handkerchief and a 118-118 bloke vest and moustache), I can only describe it as fascinating. There were a lot of topless men gyrating and flashing their sunburned chests in the same manner as a baboon flashing its bottom during mating rituals. The females on the other hand could often be found hanging from poles and revealing their nipples or displaying their thongs. They often became more excitable and responsive during times when Nelly or Rihanna were played, and thus responded with a call such as "woooooooo" before flocking to the watering hole (bar) to drink something cool and hydrating (vodka, Malibu, beer, WKD, Jack Daniel's, etc).

Typical night in a Malia nightclub

Most of these would then leave their territory to settle down somewhere secluded (empty hotel room) to mate (shag like goats).
Whilst in Malia we went to a paint party. It involved partying, which meant dancing in a field and also meant getting sprayed for hours with paint. I'm not sure what else I expected from a paint party.

Paint party. If you like paint and you like parties.

Despite the heat of Crete (oh, poetry), I found myself freezing on several occasions. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a complete and utter freezer. After joking to my grandparents that I'd probably be cold, I did on the first day find myself shivering hard in the midday July sun on a Greek beach at a restaurant and had to have a waiter cover me with a tablecloth to keep warm. This has done nothing to alleviate my fear that I may in fact be an 80-year-old in a 22-year-old body. Lunch at the restaurant looked like Nana's Day Out and an awful lot of time was spent wrapped in a towel on the sunbed to keep warm. The poolside looked more like a morgue.

Poolside valley of the dead

My favourite part of my Greek trip was probably the visit to Spinalonga island, Europe's last leper colony, which only closed in the 1950's. I was shocked by this. Knossos and its palace was nice enough but after getting food poisoning at a restaurant and having to fork out 50 cents to take a pee (HELLO? BASIC HUMAN NEED, DO YOU WANT ME TO PEE IN YOUR PALACE OR WHAT), I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. Plus there were far too many people.
I hate people.
Spinalonga on the other hand was a pleasant boat trip, which was a surprise as usually I am vomiting over the side. Once there, the place had such a haunting atmosphere and I found myself genuinely intrigued by the history behind it. The inhabitants there apparently led as normal a life as possible-- earning a living, falling in love, having children-- though were left to die in pain and isolation there, never to return to their homeland. The cemetery itself was heartbreaking; there was not a single headstone in sight, but only a little monument in their memory with a cross upon it and writing in Greek. Suddenly I was struck by a need to read up on survivor accounts and to write something. Spinalonga has stayed with me long after the boat bobbed back into Elounda.

Spinalonga cemetery

This was not the only time I felt I needed to write. I was constantly scribbling stories, or descriptions of people I'd seen, or ideas for novels or plays, or tapping lines of poetry into my phone late at night. I found myself in love with ancient Greek art and felt keen to get back to my paintbrushes.
And getting back to my paintbrushes I have done. After doing the display for Sainsbury's for this year's Gorseinon Carnival, I have since thrown myself into painting murals for people and doodling away in my sketchbook. Yesterday I went out and bought myself a pack of Crayola pens and some crayons because I am five.
Art makes me feel alive. So long as I have my writing and my art, no matter how bad I feel, I know things will be okay so long as I have my notepad, my sketchbook and my friends. I've been feeling more and more distant from everything more often lately and going away made it hit home a bit that I need to slow down and sort myself out a bit. I'm panicking a lot and find it extremely hard to concentrate and wake up at 5am only to go back to bed until the afternoon, utterly exhausted. Sometimes I'm in a room full of people but feel horribly alone and cut off. This always seems to happen yet always seems to pass if I just stick it out. I also definitely need to gain weight again; after getting flu before holidays and sickness whilst away I am over half a stone lighter than at the end of uni. I miss running, but until I build myself back up a bit, I'm not going to be doing any intense training. Health is far more important (which seems almost ironic when running should be considered a healthy activity).

My window display. Because dragons and seagulls
are often seen together.

As much as I loved my holiday and as amazing as the girls' company was (I'm still missing them like crazy; my evenings are far too quiet and we now know some odd things about one another), I have missed my home comforts. My bed at my Nan's is probably the comfiest bed in the whole wide world. I have missed a good cup of tea more than Voldemort misses his nose. No, I haven't missed your typical Swansea bloke (I pulled a coke dealer this week. And no, I didn't accept his offer of a drink, I'm more of a Pepsi than a coke addict), but Malia's offerings weren't much better. I've missed my dog and my little brother even if one has slobbered on me and the other has spent the best part of this evening chasing me with a bogey. I've missed afternoons doing art and mornings tapping poems onto my laptop. I've missed online shopping for crap I will never use. I've missed flushing toilets (toilets matter). I've missed...Swansea?
Oh and the water's stopped working in the house because a water pipe burst in Gowerton so now I'm living in a third-world, first-world country.
That's it, I'm going back to Greece. They love cats and have incurable road rage.
I'll fit in just fine.

Welcome to Swansea.

07/07/13- Deirdre, the Start of Summer and Why Graduation Eve is a bit like Christmas

As I sit here typing this to distract myself from a great life-changing decision (coral pink or hot pink for nails?), I know I won't sleep much tonight now that Graduation Day has finally come around. I'm not even sure what it is about it that's so nerve-wracking. I have come to the conclusion that it may be due to one or more of the following:

• I'm worried that I'll display emotion for all of the wonderful friends I've made on my course and everyone will know that I have a soul.
• I might wake up late and miss it.
• I might fall over on the stage and slide across it like a pissed polar bear.
• Does this cap and gown make me look fat?

  

  All any graduate needs to thank.

Despite the fact that the sun has been shining all weekend and it is warmer outside than Satan's arsecrack, preparing for graduation has been not unlike preparing for Christmas. There's the shopping. I nearly killed three people yesterday in Outfit. I could not for the life of me find a smart black skirt in my size. Go to H&M= size 8 is too small. Go to Next and New Look= size 6 hangs off like Fat Bastard's excess skin in Goldmember. Why can't there be a universal agreed measurement so that I wouldn't have to go in changing rooms and get mad? I could just pick up SIZE NATALIE and know it would fit. 6 hours of shopping later, I decided on a Marks and Spencer white blouse (I don't often go in there, it's cold and I'm not 80) and an Oasis tailored skirt that I'm having to hold up with my

Me snapped on CCTV in Tesco

tightest waist belt because if I'd stepped into one more high street store I'd have snatched up a coathanger, waved it about, pretend to be Captain Hook and start bashing someone in the face with it.

I. HATE. CLOTHES. SHOPPING. Unfortunately I've had ex-boyfriends who've dragged me around Topman and Burton for hours on end whilst I've sat sullenly outside the changing rooms and been pulled into queues. I remember a particular trip to Cardiff where he had to buy my a bag of Milkybar buttons to keep me happy because sometimes I like to think I am 4 years of age.

Today's shoe and jewellery hunt was easier; found the perfect shoes immediately in Miss Selfridge and some sophisticated jewellery in Debenhams instead of rocking up to the ceremony wearing a hilarious necklace with a giant perspex banana on it.

It may be July, but there's no shortage of fat red
bearded blokes

Preparation and gown orders and planning and families coming together? See? It's Christmas springing up in July, only without mince pies or sherry or fat hairy blokes in red coats.

Instead it's Magners in beer gardens, Nobby's Nuts and fat hairy blokes with red skins.

The Natmobile got taken away last week. I wasn't sad, funnily enough. I thought I might have wept when they took it away, but I didn't; I thought it looked hilarious.

On Monday I picked up Deirdre. Deirdre is lovely. Deirdre is a Citroen C3 in a very nice sky-blue colour and doesn't start smoking from under the bonnet like it's going to catch fire and doesn't roar and doesn't have a tape player which has collapsed in on itself. Deirdre does not slowly cook me

I feel like a cruel parent watching
my baby get taken away and wondering
what's for tea. 

during the summer; she has air conditioning. She has 5 doors so no risk of awkwardly crushed people in the passenger seat when a fatty gets into the back of my car. 

I love Deirdre.

I'm going to keep her shiny and clean forever. My brother has already influenced me to buy a ridiculous Mickey Mouse car aerial topper; all I need now is as many stuffed cats as I can possibly fit in the back (please donate any unwanted stuffed feline toys to me, I'll take good care of them), a cat tax disc holder, cat air fresheners and a real Siamese who will cruise on my bonnet and act as an alarm.

I also found out I was specially commended for an international poetry competition today which was a lovely surprise. It's been a very nice week in terms of all things literary. I did another feature at the Tavern on Thursday and it was great to see just how popular the Garage Players poetry nights are getting and just how many people want to stand up and share their work. There was some great talent and as always, a lot of wine, a lot of laughs and fantastic company. There was also a very very fit barman at another bar later on so perving opportunities were top-notch.

Unfortunately, upon coming home I thought that diabetes and cheap wine had finally claimed my eyesight and was about to run screaming into my Nan's room but after a few minutes I realised that I was pissed and the lightbulb was broken.

Phew.

On that note, I really do have to go and paint my nails. Jesus I sound like one of those Bratz dolls that used to slut about on adverts and nearly had as many careers as Barbie, but who were meant to have more "attitude". However, they love shopping; I don't. Plus the painted nails are a rare occurrence. I usually only paint my nails if I have a big important event, I am going on a date or my brother's given me a "makeover". 

Anyone remember these sluts?

I'm even wearing St Tropez for a "healthy glow" as opposed to "anaemic hue". I have NEVER worn St Tropez up until now, so the choice was basically wear none and look like Casper the Friendly Ghost or put on a layer and wake up like Trevor McDonald.

I figured Trevor McDonald always looks quite smart.

So ladies and gentlemen, if the red hair dye is too bright and the tan comes out too dark, you can all cease wondering what Nicki Minaj would look like in a cap and a gown and a Marks and Spencer blouse.

Please God, don't let me wake up like this.