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.

19.03.13- Black Dogs, Early Christmases & Sibling Love

I haven't posted anything on here for nine days.
NINE DAYS.
That's practically like the whole lifetime of some sort of fly.
I can't be bothered to update every little detail as I'd get bored and so would you. To be honest I'm surprised this even gets so many views; is my life that interesting or is yours that crap? I appreciate it anyway. Keep the kind comments coming, they make me feel like Jesus, thanks.
Unless you're all just pitying me, like when you tell the fat kid in PE "Oh but just because running isn't for you, you're good at other things. No other 10-year-old has been in the Guinness Book of World Records for eating 46 French Fancies in 10 minutes. Now you're really good at that."
Just know it was filled with 4 nights of wine, a jazz night in Uplands, a surprise birthday party, a drink with someone I haven't seen since my birthday and of course a poetry night at Mozart's. And a lot of unsubtle ogling of my lecturer. My appreciation of his face has reached a ridiculous level and I can't actually hold his eye without breaking eye contact and blushing like a bottle of Heinz. I've also embarrassingly noted that I start shaking after I've spoken to him.

I swear my essay wasn't handed in like this

I think all those hours writing about sex and bodily fluid in Dylan Thomas' poetry have finally had quite an effect. I'm going to end up like a little terrier that humps everybody's leg.

Hugh Grant: great during times
of high hormonal instances

Right, let's fast-forward, essay handed in, considering PhD, looked at TEFL courses, applied for Masters funding, will probably re-evaluate life plans another 400 times anyway, blah blah...and here we are today. I've been in a terrible mood these past couple of days. I'm used to bad moods occasionally; as a woman, you deal with that shit with hot baths and chocolate and Bridget Jones' Diary. But then there's what I call the "black dog" mood, which goes a step further. It is just that: like a black dog that follows you around and you don't know why the hell it's there but once it smacks you down with its paw it's hard to get back up. So you stay in bed.

Fuck off, Rover

And when the night comes, your thoughts don't leave you alone and you find yourself tracing the patterns in the ceiling and listening to the seagulls at 4am.
But tonight I feel much better, which is good. It means I'm getting better at pulling myself out of it before I get stuck, which I absolutely can't let happen when I'm so close to my final ever exam and the end of my degree. I nearly dropped out of Uni in the second year because I saw no point in anything and I will not get to that point again. So I did the things that I know make me feel good and put my Uni reading on the back burner for today.
9am lecture was never going to happen. It was pissing down again and there's not a single Shakespeare lecture this term that has honestly felt in any way useful. And I happen to really dislike rain.
Yay, lie-in.
It was nearly 12pm and I was lying in bed wondering what the hell to do for 7 hours (when I'd be meeting my sister to introduce her to the sweaty world of the gym) when I had a phonecall.
"Play area today?" My little brother.
How the hell could I say no? He has the cutest little voice ever. It's about 2 octaves too high, and everything he says sounds so bloody innocent. For example as we got out of the car so I could take him to the play area he said to me, "It's such a lovely day." I love how children are so innocent and they notice all the little things and are fascinated by them. I think the more you can think like a child sometimes, the more you can really live in the moment and appreciate life.

My ginger ray of sunshine

I was learning life lessons from a 4-year-old.
He was such an angel the whole time and spending that quality time with him and seeing his little face light up cheered me up more than anything ever could. I bought him lunch and won him a toy and he got more and more excited and stood on the chair next to me, turned to me quite seriously and said: "Natalie, I love you for taking me to the play area." And gave me a big kiss.
And that was my day made.
He also gave me a card to take home. Yes, it says "Merry Christmas from Callum" on it, but it's the thought that counts and I've put it on my desk. I keep smiling every time I see it. As I was dropping him home, we were discussing bedtimes. He told me he was a good boy and went to bed at seven.
I told him I was a naughty girl and sometimes didn't get to bed until the morning because I've been out.
He was horrified. As I said goodbye, he said, "Bye bye Nat, love you. I'm telling Mammy you go boozing."
Cheers, bro.
Then home to get my stuff together and head to the gym. I thought this would be a repeat of circuit training with my sister when she started gasping on the sidelines after 5 minutes asking when we get to go for a fag break.
But she really surprised me. She even showed me up on the rowing machines; she has the upper-body strength of Action Man whereas I couldn't arm-wrestle an earthworm.
And they don't even have arms.

My cats do not share my
enthusiasm for the tub

It felt great to burn up some energy for an hour with some intense cardio and sit-ups and a cheeky bit of planking. I found I worked harder, the time went faster and I really enjoyed the whole workout when I had company. I'm not usually social when it comes to exercise, especially running, but at the gym you can go at your own paces and it feels good to have someone there to feel exhausted with. It motivates you to work a lot harder.
Now after a hot bath (the imaginary cats scattered; they don't do baths) and a meal and a cup of tea, I'm feeling the best I've felt for a few days. My anxiety has eased off a bit tonight. I'm thinking of my siblings and smiling. One may be a super-happy, squeaky-voiced, Garfield-worshipping 4-year-old and the other a hair-and-makeup-loving, fake-tanning girly-girl but both of them have made me feel so lucky and I love them both to bits. Yes, my sister and I often want to smack each other stupid with Tefal frying pans. Yes, we have on more than one occasion called each other the sort of things usually only heard on a particularly heated episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. But I am proud of her, and opposites though we may be, we know that no matter how many times we swear to kill the other in a battle worthy of a scene from Gladiator, we will always always have each other's backs.
Sibling love is pretty special.

Natalie and Emilie Holborow. You'd never
have said they were opposites

10.03.13- Mother's Day, Doomful Deadlines and Running On the Moon

This time last week, I completed my charity half-marathon at Llanelli Waterfront. You know those really awkward situations where you try and shuffle somewhere unnoticed and play with your phone, hoping no one has noticed you're a complete loner?
Try it when you're the only one who's turned up dressed as a Pokemon.

Team Rocket were coming, so I had to leg it
for 13.1 miles. 

Getting to Parc y Scarlets stadium for 7am was a killer. I bought my third cup of (overpriced) tea to settle my nerves, but all it did was turn my stomach and fill my bladder and I suddenly became gripped by nightmare visions of being caught on camera with my Pikachu ears peeking over a hedge as I 'discreetly' squat to urinate.
I didn't mind being remembered as "Pikachu Girl" (as most people did later and added me on Facebook--turns out the onesie is quite distinguishable), but being remembered as "The Pokemon With A Really Weak Bladder" wasn't so desirable.
The day itself was bitterly cold. Although I felt a bit sad about being there alone (my mother had booked the wrong weekend off work-- she was all ready to cheer me on the week before, ringing up excitedly on the Saturday night, bless her), my mother's partner and my little brother were there to wave me off at the starting line and my grandparents popped in to wave for the finish. The atmosphere was great too; everyone was so supportive of each other and perhaps my favourite part of the whole race was pissing off a bloke in a Mr Men vest, so it was Pikachu vs Mr Happy for the entire 13.1 miles.

The tiredness just catches you by surprise the whole week after

I managed to sprint the last mile and seize victory in the end ("I WAS BLOODY CHASING YOU ALL THE WAY ROUND!" another bloke said to me later. That's the thing with races; you never know who's simply the same pace or really trying to kick your ass).
It wasn't until the 11-mile marker that I really began to want to lie down in a hot bath and started craving a hot dinner. I think this was my epiphany point of the race. Epiphanies (unrelated to Pokeballs and Pallet Town) included:

• I'm so glad I've looked after my body properly in the last few weeks leading up to this and haven't gone to sleep in a hedge. I love feeling healthy and full of energy.
• I'm thrilled to have raised so much money for a local charity-- I really feel like I've done something I can be proud of.
• I'M RINGING MY MOTHER AND WE ARE GOING FOR A SUNDAY DINNER, GIVE ME TURKEY NOW. I DON'T EVEN CARE IF IT'S HORSE.

That last mile was one of the toughest points of my running so far. I sprinted. I whipped off my Pikachu ears and pushed on my aching legs to overtake as many people as I could, having started the first mile cautiously with all the speed of a pissed snail. My thigh muscles were tightening, my calves were sore, my hands were red and swollen with cold and my head was swimming with dizziness. But as soon as I saw the stadium emerge from the hill that had been hiding it, I felt like Frodo approaching Mordor with the One Ring.

Welcome to Llanelli

Llanelli and the burning hellfires of Mordor aren't that far removed.

Crossing the finish line was one of the best moments of my life. All my months of training, all my setbacks, all my achievements merged and crystallised into that one moment where grinning, I didn't care how sweaty and unattractive I looked crossing the line amidst kids crying, "MAM LOOK IT'S PIKACHU!" "PIKACHU I LIKE YOUR EARS!" Up yours, torn knee ligaments. Up yours, diabetes.

I just did a half marathon.

Slowing down to a stop, still grinning like a pervert in a changing cubicle, I collected my heavy medal and glanced down at my time on my iPod. 1:59. A second under two hours, but that still counts as sub-two hour which apparently isn't bad for a first half-marathon. That first bottle of water felt like drinking the nectar of the gods (I usually refer to this as wine, but for once, wine wasn't what I craved at that moment). 

I couldn't find my grandparents in the crowds and felt a little sad again when people were rejoining in big groups and I had to trudge up four flights of stairs to collect my bag, walking with all the grace of a bulldog with blue balls.

My legs had never been so painful.

In that time I was running, I'd collected another £20 of sponsorships online which was great, and had a lot of 'good luck' texts and words of encouragement which really made me smile. This is just one of the reasons my friends are so special too me; they always support me in everything, no matter what.

Like last Thursday for example. I'd been stressing out all week over the looming deadline for my Dylan Thomas essay; arguably the toughest, yet most intriguing essay I've ever had to write. The thing was, even though it took over everything, I really enjoyed the challenge of exploring it. I chose to do a close analysis of Our Eunuch Dreams that not only challenged Thomas' image as a drunken misogynist, but also challenged any feminist readings. What I wanted was to read Thomas' work as critical of the whole concept of gendered society itself--how illusory and unreal it is-- rather than pick one side: pro-male or pro-female. Dylan Thomas is a merger of opposites.

But it did mean that my thoughts were preoccupied for the whole week by analogies on castration, sexual fantasy, male rape and proper ladies giving in and discussing sex and sanitary towels. Which can make you a bit twitchy after so long, especially when you're half-living in Sainsbury's and a lot of your notes are being scrawled on the back of receipts for Taste the Difference potatoes (very nice potatoes by the way. Go buy them. Vivaldi ones. Not like I'm advertising or anything).

You've got to take the criticism well in writing

On top of this, all I could think was "OH MY GOD HAVE I GOT ANYTHING HALF-DECENT TO READ ON THURSDAY?" 7th March was World Book Day and I had my poetry reading at the Dylan Thomas Centre with Alan Kellermann. But despite all my fears of having candles thrown at my head and being taken aside and told politely to take something up other than poetry, I had an amazing evening and a really encouraging experience. Everybody was supportive. Some of my best friends and my friends from Uni turned up to support me, which I was so grateful for. I had most of my glasses of pinot grigio bought for me (pinot grigio is wonderful, confidence-boosting medicine which I found that amazingly does not give me a hangover) and met some really talented people. My poetry lecturer/personal tutor was there too and gave me words of support, which I was thankful for.

And most interestingly of all, I met my long-lost Aunt Wendy Holborow. Turns out she lives not far from me and happens to be a fantastic poet and does a lot of readings. She told me I looked like my grandmother whom I've never met, and I wish I had met her. I can't really remember what she looks like in photographs so I don't know how far I agree with this yet-- as far as I'm concerned, the only person I vaguely look like is Pebbles Flintstone when I wear my hair all red and pineapple-y, which probably isn't a flattering comparison but is sadly true. Especially when I wear animal print. 

I've yet to find my Bam-Bam.

Point sadly proved

I'm definitely going to read there again. This week it's Mozart's, which no doubt means drinking so much I start crying on my bed about the fact I want to write but am too drunk to pick up a pen and have forgotten how to make porridge. I do not punish myself for this; I have accepted that this is the idiotic norm for me during the second and third Thursday of every month.

And finally, to conclude my catch-up, yesterday was of course Mother's Day. Another silly, commercial waste of time (hi I'm Grumpy Cat, pleased to meet you. Not). My mum is special to me, an inspiration and my absolute rock every day of the year, not just one. And I want to make sure she knows it because without her, I'd never have dealt with some of the times when it's felt like everything is up against me and utterly helpless. I always like to surprise my mum with things any time of the year. If she's having a bad day, I'll come over with flowers. If she's got a long shift, I'll cook a meal. It's sad that the only time some people will make their mother a cup of tea is on one Sunday of the year in March just because they feel they have to and then make a big song and dance about it for the rest of the week.

YOU POPPED A TEABAG IN A MUG AND ADDED WATER AND MILK, NOT KILLED A FUCKING DRAGON AND SAVED HER FROM A BURNING TOWER.

"Move over, boys. Mum needs a cup of tea."

The same goes for my Nan. I bought her Anna Karenina on DVD which she'd wanted for ages. I am lucky to have such a close relationship with my grandparents; I lived with them for my first year of Uni and in many ways they feel like my second set of parents. They are two of the nicest, least judgmental people you could ever wish to meet. 

Plus they're only in their sixties and have iPods and my Nan is addicted to eBay. Which is cooler than knitting.

Hi I'm a pie and I'm going to ruin
your diet *pie-laugh*

But I got in the spirit of things anyway and cooked a leek and potato pie from scratch (obviously this one culinary achievement now means I am a Michelin-star chef and have to change my name to Nigella and open a restaurant immediately). By the way, thanks Sainsbury's for a great recipe card. I baked it lovingly at my Nan's for hours then put it in my car carefully to take to Mum's house.

It fell upside down.

"HI YOU MADE US CREAMY"

After screaming at a pile of chicken and pastry for a few minutes, I managed to carry it into the house and salvage it. Which is good. Because if it had been ruined, I would definitely have howled and microwaved my dog and served him with noodles and shaved all my hair off and go to live in the tumble dryer for eternity, mentally broken.

I then made fresh strawberry and cream all-butter pastry tarts which were my own creation but turned out surprisingly pretty (Nigella? Hmm. I need to move up I think. Gordon Ramsay? I could do Gordon. Though I don't really look like a Gordon). I also bought her a bizarre present. Most mothers ask for flowers or chocolate or wine or jewellery or a DVD. What did my mother want?

"A red toaster."

"What?"

"Nat, I really want a red toaster."

I bought her a red toaster. I hope she's going to have fun all week with it, experimenting with varying degrees of toasting.

Love you, Mam.

24.02.13- Cat Lady Days, Swans Celebrations & Guns Don't Kill People, Shiraz Does

Today was a 5-0 win for the Swans. If you're from Swansea, this is something to feel very proud of, even if football gets your pulse racing in about the same way that pouring yourself a bowl of Alpen does. I'm not a massive football fan (boys, get off the floor and stop crying, you're only being paid £349027587587457523573 a week after all), but it's hard not to feel part of the atmosphere and proud of our Pretty Shitty City's Wembley victory.

Nathan Dyer: he shoots, he scores.
And he doesn't look like this.

Though I still think I prefer watching the sort of swans that swim in the lake of Singleton Park and eat small children.
Other than that, I've had a significantly 'cat lady' sort of day. As in I did things that old ladies do (ie, go food shopping at Sainsbury's and spend over an hour comparing the size of peppers and making agonizing decisions between whether to buy Wiltshire or Yorkshire ham at the counter; wash and hang up my clothes to dry; clean the kitchen; go for a cup of tea with a good friend). The only non-cat-lady thing I did was go to the gym. And I said hello to the dog this morning.

You have to get it right when faced with the life-changing
choice over Anchor or Kerrygold

I have done shockingly little work for my seminar tomorrow. Dylan Thomas isn't half demanding every week. But I want to go to the lecture because my lecturer fascinates me. Ahem.
On Thursday I did a poetry reading at The Howl at Mozart's, which is always one of my favourite ways to spend a Thursday. As usual, I planned on a glass or two to relax me beforehand.
As usual I downed so much wine I can't remember getting home and was nearly sick in my wastepaper bin and apparently ate dry porridge oats. I'm not entirely sure what this was supposed to achieve, or how this was in any way appetizing, but I guess it's healthier than waking up with a face full of kebab and cheese.

According to WebMD, your symptoms clearly mean you either
have syphilis, a broken arm or are dead.

I decided to do my usual routine: 2 of my more serious, darker poems followed by a pisstake comedy one; in this case, the anti-Valentine's one that I planned to read the week before on the 14th but missed due to an illness commonly referred to as a cold, but whom many on Facebook seem to think is bovine tuberculosis/the certain onset of death. There is nothing that bores me more intensely than getting updates every 5 minutes on people's symptoms or photographs of themselves with drippy red eyes.
If you're that ill, go to bed.
My first two poems were 'Craig Y Nos' and 'Bones', found on my poetry blog www.goodnightindigo.blogspot.com if you want to read them and allow me to ruin your evening with a cheeky bit of misery and pain and all that.
The third, the comedy pisstake one which I wrote in about 5 minutes and is atrociously written but used to lighten the mood a bit went like this:

An arrow has nuzzled me deep in my chest

in the red space between the white rib and the breast,

and Cupid is crouched in the lilac moon

waving Prince Charming from out of the gloom.

When he came here to find me he didn’t wear white

nor ride a dark steed through the moors of the night,

but pulled up beside me and offered a ride

in his Fiat 500 and I jumped inside.

His manners were shifty, his hair like spaghetti,

a knight from the depths of the mystical Sketty,

his eyes were like flames and bright with desire,

while kids set neighbourhood cars on fire.

Our mouths opened up like the slow blooming rose,

my lips on his and my nose to his nose,

it could have been perfect, true love’s first kiss

if he hadn’t suggested we go and get pissed

and took me to Uplands to drink and watch bands,

nod heads to the music and sit holding hands.

Prince Charming was silent, I let out a sigh

when I noticed his hand creeping up past my thigh,

and we went for a meal where the venue was tense

with roses and cards and the air of pretence,

a man on one knee asked his girl to be wed,

most likely on two later on in the bed.

The fourteenth of February, pressure is on,

right shade of underwear, right choice of song,

right choice of menu, right venue to dine,

remortgage the house to pay for the wine.

But I took up my glass and drained it like Coke,

waited for Charming to finish his pork

and told him the meal was a real delight

but I thought he and I should call it a night.

So I took up my presents, my cards and my jacket,

my blooms from the garage and cigarette packet,

and left my Prince Charming crumpled and hurt,

weeping alone in the depths of dessert.

It’s not that I’m shallow or hate the word love,

despise the word soulmate or powers above,

but Valentine’s love is a rose in its ways,

plastic or thorny and dead in a day.

I told you it was atrocious, but it did get a few laughs and one old bloke said it was "well cool" so if I've made people happy then I'm happy too no matter how much of an idiot I make myself look in public. I just had to write something silly which reflects my hatred of the idea of all the falseness and commercialism of Valentine's Day; if you love someone, surprise them with flowers on a day when they don't expect it, not because Tesco is hammering it into your head that you have to buy these £20 roses on the 14th or you're a shit partner.

A simple "I love you", a heartfelt spontaneous message of love is so much more meaningful when it's genuine and not because you have an obligation to write it in a card. When I love someone, I let them know far more often than one designated day of the year over a plate of overpriced steak.
Urgh, am I getting sentimental? Quick, fetch me a cat before I puke a rainbow.
Anyway, as I was reading this, who was there in the audience? No, not my father. Not my ex. No, not David Hasselhoff.
It was my poetry tutor.
As in the poetry tutor who made me my Masters offer. I have been having anxious visions of seeing "Inbox (1)" on my student email account and a message of regret that my offer has been withdrawn due to crimes against poetry.

This is how my Friday mornings post-Mozart's feel

So naturally I drank some more. And then some more. I didn't even stay late.
Roisin kindly helped me home. Thank you, Roisin.
Friday was spent with a hangover so I avoided everyone and sat in my creative writing seminar convinced that either the Grim Reaper, a Dementor or Darth Vader (same thing) was punching me in the skull and playing football with my queasy stomach. I had a head like a cracking egg in an omelette of pain and an oesophagus of burning hell-flame.
And had work to look forward to.
Remember, kids: guns don't kill people, shiraz does.