Farewell Facebook

I've done it.  I just deactivated Facebook.  And it almost feels like I've been handed an abundance of free time.  In all honesty, I spent an unhealthy amount of time on it, not doing much at all.  It upsets me that 'face-booking' has even become a verb, and therefore has actually been accepted in society as an activity.  Sitting on your ass at a computer is classed as 'doing something'.  Now that's depressing.

I'm not denying that Facebook is an absolute genius of a website, far beyond anything I could ever create.  But I just feel it's gone too far.  I like to be in touch.  I like to know what's going on.  But knowing that 'Sarah is at Starbucks on Stockport Road with Melissa, Alex and Sam.'  REALLY?  Now that is quite frankly just encouraging real-life stalking.  You wouldn't find it acceptable if someone followed you into Starbucks now would you? And where will it end? Will next week tell us that Sarah is in Starbucks drinking a Caramel Frappuccino on the third table from the window next to the man with the blue hat?  It's ridiculous.  

And the days before Facebook weren't that bad, were they? Maybe I didn't know as many useless details about people that I probably don't even speak to, but in hindsight I would say that ignorance is most definitely bliss.  There are many things that I just don't need to know.  And if I do, then surely someone would pick up the phone, or (God forbid) actually have a face-to-face conversation with me.

That's the other thing that grates me about Facebook.  With a click of a button, people can wander into your life, see how you're doing, what you've been up to, stare at your pictures and then leave.  All without a word. What happened to the good old conversation? People who actually make an effort to text, call or come and see you are the ones I really want to welcome into my life.  Those are the people I would classify as 'friends'.  Not the ones who just 'like' your pictures or write on your wall once a year to say 'happy birthday'. 

So with that I say farewell Facebook.  I realise I'm probably fighting a losing battle standing against the majority but I'm sticking to my guns with this one.  At least for now.  So if you want to know if I've gained twenty pounds, dyed my hair turquoise or got a new boyfriend I guess you'll have to pick up the phone and speak to me.  I'm not asking you to get your pigeon to deliver me a handwritten letter, it's just dialling some numbers.  And if that's too much effort, the sad fact is I guess we were never really friends anyway. 

So... no more invitations to Farmville.  No more 'liking'.  No more friend requests from Abdul in Mongolia.  My life is looking brighter already. 

PDA: Public Displays of Annoyance

Picture the scene:  I'm in the library, surrounded by sheets of my own scribbles.  Time is tight; I have 24 hours and an essay plan.  Nine hours, three Diet Pepsi's and two caramel shortbreads later, I'm still here.  The caffeine and the ever-nearing deadline are the only factors keeping my brain from shutting down.  Enter: a couple holding hands, smiling smugly at each other and sitting down RIGHT in front of me.  It's not long before hand-holding turns into hair-stroking which rapidly turns into full-on affection.

After that, I wasn't sure which was more frustrating: my inability to find the words to finish the essay or the repulsive kissing noises coming from the other side of the table.  As an English student, I feel it is a dreadful sin to throw a book.  But I was seriously considering making an exception.  Flapping my papers around in an agitated manner appeared to have no effect whatsoever as they stared intensely into each other's eyes.  It was honestly the worst form of PDA I'd ever seen.

Eurgh, Public Displays of Affection. Whether you have an opinion about it or not, it is highly likely that you have witnessed the kind of couple I am referring to.  The couple that wear matching t-shirts and insist on walking down the street with their arms wrapped around each other in the most uncomfortable-looking position.  It couldn't be more obvious if they stamped labels on their foreheads saying 'his' and 'hers.'  What further grates me about these types of situations is that showing signs of irritation somehow implies you are a man-hater, feminist or just plain jealous.  This is entirely untrue.  I just find it embarrassing, gross and inconsiderate.  They may be the love of your life but does it mean I have to witness you slobbering all over them? No. So please, for the sake of your unfortunate audience, get a room.

Just the way you are?

From teeth whitening to Heidi Montague's ten surgical operations in 24 hours, it seems the world has gone slightly mad with the idea of 'perfection'.  Don't wear glasses, get laser eye surgery.  Cellulite is unacceptable, pay for liposuction.  Now there is nothing wrong with making an effort.  I am not promoting that we throw away our make-up and refuse to wash our hair.  But surely there comes a point where you face the mirror and accept the fact that this is what you were given.  And however much you love or hate it, changing it can't be right, can it?

Of course, the default solution would be to say 'love what you have' which would perhaps be a little easier if you looked like Nicole Scherzinger.  The irony of airbrushed, fully groomed celebrities like Christina Aguilera telling us 'we are beautiful no matter what they say' is almost laughable.  Even Bruno Mars declaring that 'you're amazing just the way you are' doesn't quite ring true when the girl in his music video has probably spent at least five hours in the hair and make-up department.  Taking these messages at face value, it seems society today has their priorities right.  But the rise in popularity of cosmetic surgery and the persistence of the media in pointing the finger at women who are a 'fat' size 12 indicates a different opinion.

Realistically, what are we supposed to think?  Even celebrities such as Vanessa Feltz, Anne Diamond and Michelle McManus who shot to fame in spite of their weight have since released fitness videos showing us that they shifted the pounds, and we can too.  Of course I'm not advocating obesity.  I'm simply saying that there seems to be a decreasing amount of space for individuals in society.  And this is evident in every aspect of our lives.  Fast fashion has never been so popular with people desperate to keep up with what everyone else is wearing.  Music genres seem to be less distinguishable, as the likes of Ne-yo, The Killers and Blink 182 are dumped together with Westlife, Justin Bieber and The Saturdays to fit into this popular 'culture'.  And the only mobile phones that are socially acceptable are the iPhone or the Blackberry.

So where are we headed?  In 50 years time, perhaps we'll just be obedient minions dressed in identical clothing, listening to the same music with no opinions of our own.  OK, so I exaggerate.  But surely you understand my point.  We are supposed to live in a democracy.  What is the point in having freedom of speech if we follow the crowd?  I'm not promoting that we make ourselves mysterious, dye our hair purple and have outrageous opinions.  Just dare to be different. Resist the Botox and the Blackberry.  Be yourself.  And who knows what an impact you could make?  

What's cooking?

The ability to cook is completely underestimated in my opinion. Yes, we can all survive on beans on toast. But who wouldn't want to know how to whip up a good chicken stir fry? Or lamb curry? Or risotto? Cooking for myself this year has forced me to come to terms with the fact that I'm lacking that certain va va voom in the kitchen.

In all honesty, sometimes I simply can't be bothered to slave over the cooker when the microwave can do all the work. Why not take advantage when these 21st century advancements are at your fingertips?  Uncle Ben's rice has been the ultimate saviour.  An epic two minutes and boom: white, fluffy, hot. Just like my Grandma's (though it would kill her to know this).  A bit of Patak's sauce on some defrosted meat, and there you have it.  A curry.  I guess I have a cheek to call this 'cooking.'  Jamie Oliver should probably launch his next healthy eating campaign on students.  Let's see how many meals he can conjure up from beans, tuna and bread.  Now THAT would be a challenge.  Not this getting-school-kids-to-eat-salad malarky.

Truth is, with no time (or more realistically no motivation) and a financial budget, the meals you can cook seem pretty limited.  The clichѐ of beans and toast being the standard student meal has not become a clichѐ for no reason.  I did reach a point where I began to crave beans I ate them that often.  That was slightly worrying.

But when I actually can be bothered things don't seem to work out either.  Grilling sausages turned into a mini-fire.  Turning on the wrong hob meant raw food and burning myself on the handle.  And this is just managing appliances.  It seems I'm currently useless.  If it's true what they say about the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I will become a bitter singleton.

But I refuse to surrender to the take-away.  I may never be the next Gordon Ramsey, but I WILL learn how to put together a proper meal.  Eventually.  After all, how hard can it be?  Watch this space.

Romance isn't dead

White Lillies, a teddy and a handwritten note left on the pillow.  It couldn't have been more perfect if he wanted.  It was my friend and her boyfriend's one month anniversary, and I stood watching him fussing over the positioning of the flowers he'd bought to surprise her.  I was there to help though only really managed to stand staring at him with a pathetic 'awwwwwww.'  He didn't seem impressed. I then heard myself telling him 'you've restored my faith in men!'  The response was an awkward silence, and immediate regret on my part for blurting out something so embarrassing.  But it was true.  My naivety was long gone, along with the idea that men like Richard Gere did exist and would appear at your door with a rose between their teeth.  I'd told myself I was delusional.  But here was a guy so smitten, that he'd actually put some serious thought into what type of flowers she liked, and where they would look best in her room.  It really was like something from a Hollywood blockbuster.  But better.

It made me realise how cynical I actually am.  If they replied to a text or bought you a drink, I thought this was promising.  Flowers were old school.  It was the old age where men picked up their date in a tuxedo for dinner at eight.  (Or maybe I've seen too many romantic comedies...) These days, it seems taking the bus to the Pizza Hut buffet is as good as it gets.  Don't be mistaken, it's not about the money.  It's about the thought.  The fact that he actually cared enough to think about where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do.  It was refreshing, and quite frankly made my day, let alone his girlfriend's.

Relationships sometimes seem unmanageable in the 21st Century.  I wouldn't be surprised if there was a correlation between the date the Xbox was invented and when men started to care less.  But it's moments like these, albeit rare, that our hope is renewed and our expectations rise again.

On the Ball

I'm quite accustomed to feigning an interest in football.  Whether it's an attempt to bond with my brother, or to feel a part of the World Cup frenzy, I have tried.  The aesthetically pleasing footballers made it a little more bearable but still couldn't hold my interest for a full 90 minutes.  It just felt that whatever I did, I couldn't convince myself that this was anything more than a game.  An expensive popular game but a game nonetheless.  And I really couldn't be bothered playing along.

The first (and last) football match I ever went to was Manchester United vs. Tottenham.  I hoped the fact that Ronaldo was playing would keep me focused at least until half time.  But it seemed I was far too distracted by the beer-bellied old man behind me, yelling at the top of his lungs at the slightest movement of the ball.  I spent the majority of the match trying to ensure that in his excitement, he didn't drop one (of his many) beers all over me.  I'm sure you can imagine the type.  'COME ON MY SON!' is probably the only statement of his that I can write down, and still echoes in my ears now.  With his commentary, there really was no need to watch the match. I could have known everything that was going on by just closing my eyes, and absorbing his angry shouts.  In any other situation, I feel I would understand, even applaud, so much passion.  But I just can't understand why you need to get so angry over a ball game.  A friend once told me that he no longer watches football because he 'gets too angry'.  Oh please.  To me, this is the equivalent of having a tantrum in a PE lesson when the other team score a goal.  I didn't understand it then, and I still don't get it now.

The other thing that depresses me greatly is the amount of air time football seems to consume.  It's not enough to just watch the match anymore. No, it's necessary to listen to the commentary, watch the discussion at half time and catch up with the replays on Match of the Day.  Obsession much?  And if it's not the actual game, it's the footballers themselves, how much they're worth, who they're dating and what car they are driving.  It's these pretentious details that Heat, Closer, OK, Hello and so many more trashy magazines love to eat up and feed to the gossip-hungry public.  So in some ways, football seems to fuel the celebrity-driven society we live in today.  Hardly a reason to want to support my local team.

Although clearly not an avid fan, I can appreciate the advantages of living in this football-driven society.  It brings people together.  Sure enough, pushes them apart too. The rivalry between Liverpool and Manchester United is perhaps why these two northern cities have never got along.  But there's always going to be some people who want to take a bit of healthy competition too far.  Although, in social situations, football seems to provide the basis of a conversation, the perfect starting off point.  Many times I've been in awkward situations with new people, searching desperately for common ground in order to break the ice.  Football is the one topic that usually evokes a reaction and gets the ball rolling, if you excuse the pun.  Even if, like me, you have absolutely no interest, you can use the knowledge you have to start a little healthy banter.  So yes, I do appreciate the value of football, even if only for shallow, selfish reasons.

Regardless of my opinion however, I cannot ignore the fact that football is a huge part of many people's lives.  And for the unity it brings and support it gathers, particularly during the World Cup, I really do believe it is wonderful.  But I can't pretend to care who wins or loses.  And to me, it will always be just a game. 

Tech-NO-logy

Technology. Impressive yet depressing. I was hesitant to write this blog for fear of sounding like a technophobe or just an old lady, but I've decided I'm willing to take that risk. Prepare yourselves.

It appears to have become an absolute necessity to have the world at your fingertips. Let me start with the Blackberry. Originally designed for the workaholic or hardcore businessman who 'needed' immediate access to his emails (you know the type), the Blackberry seems to now be in demand from even my 14 year old cousin. Why? The main reason seems to be Facebook. It seems we need it on the go 24/7. It couldn't possibly be an option to switch on the laptop when you get home. No, we need to see the uploaded pictures from last night, and we need to see them NOW. We also need to tell the world exactly where we are and what we're doing. I wouldn't mind if it was remotely exciting but to be frank, it seems some people have zero creativity when it comes to the Facebook status. I have on occasion read 'on the bus', 'bored' 'tired' to name just a few. Yes, I'm including myself in this stalker activity, although still holding out on the Blackberry I'm proud to say.

And what is the point in BBM? Are there not enough modes of communication in the world already? Though this one does have a slight twist: the sender can see when the receiver has read their text. Wonderful. So even if you wanted to politely avoid someone, they would know about it. They may as well hold a sharp instrument to your throat and force you to speak to them.

And even with all these modes of communication, life doesn't seem to get any easier. If anything we have become more analytical, starting to ask questions like 'so what does one 'x' at the end of the text mean?' It's exhausting. I miss the days of the phone call, which provided no room for ambiguity. Yes, you could hear from the pitch, tone and manner of speaking exactly what is said and how it was meant. And then you could happily (or unhappily) continue with your day, without giving it a second thought. But no, living in the 21st century means that even if they didn't call, you should check your BBM, Hotmail or Facebook wall.

The world, with myself included, has been sucked into this frenzied over-communication. It makes me question why anyone even bothers getting out of bed when you can just see your friends on Skype. Have you ever wondered how many people you would actually talk to if we just had the phone call? If we had to make the effort to pick up the phone, dial the digits and have something constructive to say without the 'like' application or poking war? I'm sure your 'friends' would decrease considerably.

Yes, I am aware that having a Facebook account makes me a slight hypocrite. But if you can't beat them, join them right? And now Facebook's worth over £25 billion, the chances of me winning are a little unlikely. But I do make a concerted effort to have as many face-to-face conversations as possible in my day, even if it's just distracting people from BBM.

Having said all this, I do have respect for Skype. Being able to see and talk to people from a different continent is quite amazing. But talking to your flatmates on Facebook chat is just plain lazy. I'm not asking you to abandon your Blackberry and deactivate your Facebook (God forbid). No, I'm just saying I would prefer a normal conversation where you can witness facial expressions without the 'smiley' and actually hear someone laugh without them having to write 'haha.' Wouldn't that be refreshing? And if that makes me sound like an old lady, then so be it.

An African Adventure

I've never been the outdoorsy type. Even as a child, I much preferred to be inside reading, making chocolate cornflake cakes or watching CBBC. Getting messy was never on the agenda. Growing up, I tried to venture towards the more active extracurricular activities: hockey, lacrosse, football. Football was a dare, I'll admit. Winning the dare however never really compensated for the number of matches lost. Lacrosse was an instant fail the minute I was winded by an overly-passionate player, dramatically falling to the ground like a wounded soldier. And in all honesty, I just hated wearing that horrendous mouth guard in hockey. I think this adequately paints the picture. I'm a home bird, a strictly indoors type of girl. Ask me any day about my political stance but just please don't ask me to catch a ball.

With this in mind, you will probably wonder why I signed up for seven weeks worth of volunteering in Eastern Africa. Yes, I single-handedly made the decision to travel to distant lands to try and 'make a difference', help some cute kids and catch a bit of sun. I'll admit, I was slightly delusional. Travelling halfway across the world to live without electricity seemed much more exciting than working in a soup kitchen in Manchester. This was what I tried to explain to my Dad when he suggested that 'charity begins at home.' He clearly thought I wasn't fully aware of what I was signing up for, and honestly, he wasn't entirely wrong. Although I went through the motions of looking at expenses, health, security and safety, I had already made my mind up. I was going.

I'm not a forward-thinker, and in true Rachel-fashion, the panic set in on the plane. Who was I kidding? I couldn't do this. I didn't even want to walk to the bus stop, let alone build a water tank. I liked my home comforts. After a couple of minutes, I decided that short of asking the pilot to turn around, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the situation. So I sank back into my seat, found Aladdin on 'Emirates Movies' and treasured my last few hours of familiarity.

It was only when I arrived that I actually began to feel excitement. Surrounded by chaotic, unknown territory I realised that I may as well have landed on Pluto. I could probably compare this to the mixed feelings most people have on a roller coaster; absolutely terrified but excited at the same time.

I felt I had so much to give. But even more to learn. The idea of 'cultural exchange' was something that was introduced in training, and one of the most valuable pieces of advice I've ever been told. The last thing I wanted to be was patronising, but I could see myself entering this world and wanting to change it in true Western fashion. But changing it wasn't the answer. The difference in wealth and prosperity didn't make me right and Ugandans wrong. It wasn't even a question of right and wrong, it was just different. We taught Ugandans how to improve their sanitation, make their cooking devices more fuel-efficient and purify their water. But we experienced an alien culture, a new language and another perspective on life. It would be hard to say who gained more.

With the physical challenges such as brick-laying, I quite simply had to 'man up.' There was this one mountain (or rather large hill) that never failed to leave me breathless, despite climbing it at least once a day. I'm not going to lie; there was a strong correlation between times of homesickness and the physically challenging incidents. Probably similar to those days at Uni when you can only be bothered to make toast, and wish your mum was around to whip you up a roast dinner.

On the whole though, stove building, brick-laying and painting the water tank proved to be good fun and great team bonding exercises. Without becoming sycophantic, it has to be said that if I weren't with such a group of wonderful people the experience would definitely not have been the same. Waking up every morning for seven weeks to look at the same five faces staring back at you could've proved the source of many problems, but I was incredibly fortunate. We were a diverse group of people with different interests, ideologies and perspectives but somehow it worked. Frankly I can't imagine the experience without them.

At the same time it wasn't easy. Especially when your greasy hair, hairy legs and overall grungy appearance had to face a bunch of boisterous albeit enthusiastic children. One of the comments of the villagers when we were leaving made me smile: 'we used to think it was just Africans who were dirty, but we have seen you and now we know that is not true.' Wow. It was nice to know we had made an impact, even if it wasn't in the way we hoped.

I surprised myself with the fact that I rarely got upset. Being someone who gets a lump in her throat during X factor auditions, I figured I'd need a lot of Kleenex in Uganda. But I began to look from a different perspective. Ugandans may have to walk a mile to access clean water every day, but the United Kingdom has one of the highest levels of obesity in Europe. Who's to say what's right and what's wrong? Ugandan life appeared hard to us because we were so westernised. We weren't accustomed to having cold bucket showers, sleeping on the floor or getting rained on in the middle of the night when there was a hole in the roof. But this was how the villagers had lived their entire lives. It seemed that living in the East enabled me to see the West with an entirely new outlook.

However I was upset by how widespread AIDS was. Twelve per cent of people in Africa have AIDS. It seemed that every Ugandan I met knew someone who had been affected by this disease. I met one man who was taking care of four children, in addition to his own, due to the fact that their relatives had died from AIDS. I was asked on more than one occasion 'how do we prevent AIDS?' The fact that this disease was so rife, and they didn't have adequate medical expertise was tragic. At the time, it was something that left me feeling frustratingly powerless, lacking any expertise in the medical field. It was around this point that I realised how big the problems were, and how finding solutions was no easy task.

Recalling these encounters makes me realise that this experience was real, as ridiculous as this must sound. Uganda was so far removed from anything I had ever been subjected to before that it almost seems like a dream, something I'm now detached from because life here is so different. Our ability to adapt as human beings amazes me. The expression 'a fish out of water' couldn't be more appropriate to describe how we were removed from everything we'd ever known to be placed in an alien environment with new expectations. You couldn't eat with your left hand. Going outside after 7pm was considered unwise. Skirts worn above the knee were inappropriate. Saying it was different was an understatement. Think Avatar!

The main lesson I learned is that you can't change the world. But it doesn't mean you can't try. Realistically, spending seven weeks in a country is not going to move mountains. However, I do believe there are some Ugandans in the village that will never forget us. And if they do, there's a 10,000 litre water tank there to remind them. And I won't forget them. A few people had a huge impact on me personally. Stephen, a preacher who, even if a little too religious for my liking, wanted more for himself and his family. Even though his house was better than most in the village, he knew that he could do better. And I really believe he isn't going to stop until he is content with his achievements. Mabala Wilson, the headmaster of Masaaka Primary School, where we taught lessons on sanitation. An absolute character with a permanent smile, an odd dress sense and a habit of using the phrase 'is it?' a little too much. Florence: our adopted mother and the woman we shared our living space with. Heavily pregnant with her fourth child yet still able to carry out all the daily duties expected of a wife and mother in Africa. This is no easy task when cooking beans on toast would probably take an entire hour on a sigouri (stove).

Returning home was strange. I ate with my hands for a while, found all my clothes too revealing and began to think hot showers were heaven on earth. But it didn't take long before I reverted back to my Western ways. So what changed? I spent my summer broadening my horizons; learning how to use a hoe, killing chickens, making bricks and eating lots of bananas. I believe we helped our village, even if it was just scratching the surface of problems that are over a hundred years old.  Finally I'd like to recommend this to anyone. Do something out of your comfort zone, and who knows where you will find yourself?

Gunchester? I think not.

'You're from Manchester? Oh my God, how are you still alive?' were the words of an obnoxious Londoner around four minutes after meeting me. Putting aside the fact that this guy seriously lacked social skills, I decided enough is enough.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of Manchester's bad reputation. It has been labelled the 'ASBO capital of Europe' for its sky high rates of teenage pregnancy, vandalism and gun crime. Yes, I confess that there are some areas of Manchester where I lock the car doors, accelerate and try not to make eye contact with any pedestrians. But please don't tell me the south has never been subject to crime or vandalism. These are common characteristics of an inner city area in any city.

May I remind you that Manchester is a beautiful, friendly Northern city. It's brought us Oasis, The Smiths, Joy Division, Jason Manford, Ian Brown, Anthony Burgess and Wes Brown to name just a few. I would go so far to state that Manchester is the melting pot of the North. The Gay Village, China Town, the Curry Mile and the diverse music scene give it distinct individuality as a city where anyone is welcome. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

The idea that we are all common is also something that grates my Mancunian pride. Contrary to what many southerners may think, it is possible for someone who eats pasties and doesn't pronounce the invisible 'r' in 'bath' and 'grass' to be from a stable background. Maybe people shouldn't listen to the fuelled prejudices surrounding certain regions, and actually give the person a fair shot before denouncing them as a commoner.

Let me conclude with the fact that Manchester is a multicultural, fast-moving vibrant city and I'm proud to call it my hometown. No amount of ignorant comments will ever change this. I'd like to think that everyone should be proud of where they've come from. After all growing up in a particular region is part of who you are, and helped form the person that you are today. Why not be proud of this?

To google or not to google? That is the question...

Wikipedia. Spark Notes. Google. Saviours for students but an academic's worst nightmare. As an English student, I hold my hands up. Yes, I have occasionally read the summaries instead of the books. It's just so hard to resist when someone offers you a whistle-stop tour through Jane Eyre. Why spend hours wondering what Mr Rochester meant when you can find a neatly bullet-pointed list in under a minute? In all honesty, it just seems more efficient.

However, it seems I'm not the stereotypical English student. Through studying English, I've discovered that there are certain assumptions made about English students in particular. At some point in time it seems the English student was defined, and there have been certain expectations ever since.

Firstly, that we are all budding actors: a fact which is entirely untrue for the majority. My dislike for acting stemmed from aged eight, when I was chosen to play the role of the 'bauble' in the Christmas play. Yes, a bauble. School were clearly desperate after 'Shepherd number five' had been allocated, so felt it necessary to personify a bauble. And from that pivotal moment, my acting career was clearly over before it had even begun.

Next, that we have read everything that has ever been published. From William Wordsworth to Jeremy Clarkson, the entire spectrum. Again, entirely false. Would you ask a paediatrician about the elderly? No. So please don't assume that I have digested the library.

And the third major assumption? That my attire should be that of an 'artsy' student. I was once asked if I owned a beret. Ludicrous. As if studying English would somehow persuade me to want to look like a French wannabe.

I would like to remind those select people who make these assumptions that yes, I am an English student. But I am also nineteen. I like to go out, let my hair down, take off my beret. I don't spend Friday nights pouring over Pride and Prejudice with a cup of cocoa. I don't want to be in the West End. I would just like a degree to enable me to get on in life. Now that is the truth. And that is also why I called on spark notes so I would be able to go out tonight.

In the Mix

More mix-raced children are being born than ever before. In fact we are the fastest growing race in the United Kingdom. As an Irish Indian, I'm proud to be part of this 21st century advancement in society. Being mix-raced has enriched my life more than you could probably envisage. It has been suggested that mix-raced children struggle with a sense of belonging, caught between two different worlds. It has even been said that we may be 'confused' about our identity. I would like to set the record straight.

I've often been in situations where people refer to me as 'half' whether it be half-Indian or half-Irish, implying that I'm somehow not a whole person. Born from a Catholic mother and Muslim father, the issue of religion has also been raised. 'What are you then?' Children at school weren't exactly tactful in approaching me, and I often found it necessary to 'explain myself.' Many people have found it difficult to understand that I wasn't half, I was double. The integration of two cultures and religions had created more love in one household than you could ever imagine. From an early age, I learnt that there was one God, and although people used different paths to reach Him, we all arrived at the same place. I've been to Ireland and India, kissed the Blarney stone and visited the Taj Mahal. Praying in both church and the mosque, I never felt excluded anywhere. Named Rachel Ayesha, I am able to interchange between two worlds, and adapt to any environment. Far from being half a person, I was almost leading a double life.

Being mix-raced has not only enriched my experiences but it has affected my perception of people and the world. From being very young, I learnt that people cannot be classified by race or cultural background. With regards to marriage, I was not advised to find 'a nice Indian boy' or a 'good Irish Catholic lad.' The words were, if I remember exactly, 'it's hard enough to find someone to love without worrying about race or anything else.' At 19, I have much to learn in that department but at least when I do settle down I won't have to worry about the colour of their skin. This is something I have discovered common amongst even my generation: the idea of finding a 'suitable' partner with the same background and culture. This aggravates me profusely. I believe my parents are soul mates: the Catholic and the Muslim; the Indian and the 'Paddy'; the Tory and the Labour supporter. Explain that. After 25 years together, these theoretical 'problems' have never actually been an issue.

I truly believe in 50 years the majority of the nation will be mix-raced. My wish is for everyone to witness the merge of two worlds, just as I have. This is the key to end discrimination forever and open our eyes to the vast range of cultures that are part of our society. It can create more love and understanding, and with these at our fingertips we can tackle the world.

The Cover and the Book

Now, I've never been the most tolerant of people. I'm judgemental, opinionated and often narrow-minded. It's been said that your first impression of someone forms during the first three seconds of meeting them. I probably don't even give them that. I'm not promoting this aspect of my personality in a positive light. It's really not something I'm proud of. But I feel this summer I changed for the better. I realised that I should cut people some slack. And they may just surprise you. What caused this change? What cured this intolerant, unforgiving attitude? Seven weeks in Uganda this summer with a boy that can only be described as the epitome of everything I hated. He was arrogant, rude, blunt to the point of embarrassment, a complete flirt and at times, selfish and inconsiderate. Yes, on paper this was my worst nightmare. How on earth could I survive seven weeks in Africa with this character? In any other situation, I honestly wouldn't have given him the time of day, let alone a conversation. But the situation demanded teamwork, cooperation and yes, tolerance.

I wouldn't call myself a prude but I'm certainly not a girl that finds sexual innuendos or even toilet humour slightly amusing. These kind of jokes are usually received with a frosty stare or look of disgust, alerting the joke-teller that this is not appreciated, or even acceptable to me. But I realised over time that asking him not to make innuendos or rude jokes was asking him not to be himself, and frankly being a flirt was who he was. It was unreasonable to ask him to change just because I felt uncomfortable. Yes, he could tone it down slightly, but I couldn't ask him to be someone he wasn't. It was only after I realised this, that I actually began to appreciate the person behind the front.

He was definitely unlike anyone I had ever met. His opinions and perspective were so far removed from my own that at times, I couldn't quite believe what he was saying. I learnt to listen rather than judge, understand rather than criticise, accept rather than dismiss. I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that I've changed because I met him. He gave me an insight into attitudes that I would never have even attempted to understand before. One of the best things about this relationship is that I can still be myself but have a friend like him. It makes for some interesting discussions let me tell you. So I guess the moral of the story is not to judge a book by the cover. Give people a chance because you never know what you may find.

Women Drivers: The Theory versus The Truth

Now I am the first one to condemn anyone who pokes fun at women drivers. The feminist in me would never allow somebody to put half the population in a box labelled 'bad drivers'. I would rather stick needles in my eye than betray my fellow women. However, a few encounters have lately forced me to view things a little differently.

The first encounter, much to my embarrassment, occurred when I was attempting to park my car between a BMW and a Mazda. The space was tight, and my skills admittedly were limited. I managed to somehow wheedle my tiny car into such a position that I couldn't move backwards or forwards without severely damaging either car. After around 15 minutes, I decided to face the facts. I was stuck. I began to panic, and glanced around hoping the drivers who had stopped around me would be sympathetic enough to allow me a little more time (although, for what I had no idea). And then he, who can only be described as a gentleman caught my eye and mouthed, 'shall I park that for you?' I nodded so quickly, I only hope it didn't look too pathetic. Around two minutes later my car was perfectly parked.

Desperately grateful, the damsel in me gathered the only words I could think of in gratitude: 'thank you, you're a lifesaver, thank you so much!' He simply shrugged off my admiration, as if he had only done what any person would have done in that situation (which of course was entirely untrue as we were surrounded by many drivers who either chose to ignore me or become more frustrated at the wheel.) I, however, felt like he had just given me his last rolo.

He was gone as quickly as he appeared, and I watched him zoom away in his black sports car. Now I am the last woman on this earth to wait for a knight to come to my rescue. If I'd have lived in the sixties, I feel sure I would've been involved in bra burning to promote women's rights. But I feel that situation forced me to accept that driving might be just a 'man thing.' Otherwise I'd probably still be sat in that car park.

Maybe there is a reason why there are no successful Formula One women drivers. Maybe there is a reason why there are no women presenters on Top Gear. And there is also a reason why the theory of women being exceptionally bad drivers exists. Yes, I'm afraid it might be true: men are (on the whole) the better drivers. In the world of motoring, women should take the back seat. And I've come to accept this fact...gradually. After all, women do own the world of cooking, cleaning, ironing and oh so much more. So maybe we can afford to give it to the men just this once.

There's health and fitness, and then there's the gym...

'Oh my god, are you OK?' was the question that greeted me upon returning from the gym one afternoon. 'Yes Mum, I'm fine.' After reassuring her I was still alive, and downing another bottle of Buxton, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time why, oh why, I was doing this. It wasn't that I disliked running on a stationary machine, sweating away all traces of last nights make-up or having to face the reality that there were women out there with much more toned abs than me. After all, why wouldn't I enjoy this? No, as much as I have tried to convince myself of my unconditional love for the gym, in all honesty I could think of 102 better things to do with my time.

Ah, the gym. The number one hot spot for arrogant, self-obsessed, yet muscular (if this is any compensation) fitness fanatics. You know the type. The please-ask-me-what-I-bench-press type. As I perspire the water content of my entire body, I can't help but feel a pang of envy as these super humans stroll past. Their perfectly toned physiques, their ability to run whilst appearing unflustered and their determination to make lifting 200kg look easy. Yes, I admit a tiny part of me wants to be a part of their exclusive club. However, the larger part of me believes that this is shallow, pretentious and quite frankly, a waste of time. I find the men, on the whole, are the worst. Leaning by the exercise machine boasting loudly to their equally muscular friend about how much they weigh, I feel a strong urge to throw my bottle of Buxton at their heads. Now, I appreciate a bit of muscle as much as the next woman, but do I care about how much you weigh? Or what you bench press? Or how many sit ups you can do whilst lifting a 100kg weight in your mouth? NO, I never have and I never will, and I can't help thinking there are many women out there that feel the same. Did it ever occur to these alpha males that we might find this a little bit boring? And as much as women like to look at a bit of muscle every now and then, we don't want it constantly beaten into our eardrums. Personally, I'd rather talk about cake with a guy who was morbidly obese.

The women, I find easier to forgive. Perhaps because I can convince myself that women feel under more pressure to be what men want. As pathetic as that is, I can sympathise with them more easily than the ignorant fools with the over sized muscles. Maybe that's just me.

Having said all this, the gym allows for the ordinary ones among us (you and me) to join in order to lose that holiday weight, or shed 100 pounds. And for that reason, I'm entirely appreciative. Let's reduce obesity in the UK. Let's all join a gym and devote some time in our busy lives to look after our own health. But let's do this without obsessing over our abs, cellulite or muscle. After all, it's what's inside that counts, right?

WAGS to Riches

Coleen Rooney currently features at number 8 in the top ten richest self-made women. Yes, a 'self-made' WAG. I almost fell off my chair. It would be true to say that the Liverpudlian wife of Wayne Rooney used her rather lucky claim to fame to jump start her career. For those of you who don't know, her career involves writing a style book, being the face of Asda, writing a magazine column, making a fitness video and of course being there for 'Wayyy-ne'. Her TV show, 'Real Women' received many bad reviews, one stating that Coleen 'carrying around a Chanel handbag worth around a grand ain't exactly showing off your realness is it?' On a serious note though, if Coleen thinks that the biggest problem in this world is the modelling industry's dislike for women larger than a size eight, WAGs are more delusional than I thought.

There is a social stigma attached to being a WAG, and the likes of Abbey Clancy and Danielle Lloyd (to name just a few) seem to have facilitated this. Why should being unemployed and grabbing money off your partner be something to be proud of? However trife it sounds, I'd like to think women of today would want to gain some self-satisfaction from their own achievements rather than exist on someone else's salary.

We live in a privileged society bursting with wealthy women with nothing to do. Surely we as a society should encourage these women to give to charity or volunteer? Although the thought of Danielle Lloyd in an old people's home does make me smile, you never know, maybe they could make another dull reality series based on it? At least then they could become self-sufficient and able to pay for their own Prada handbag.

As long as we both shall live?

Whoever came up with the idea of spending the rest of your life with someone? Waking up every single morning to inevitably look at the same face staring back at you? Being accustomed to their bad habits, smells and eating patterns for as long as you both shall live? Most romantic comedies end at the point where the male professes his eternal love for his supposed 'soul mate'. They never seem to film the part where she picks up his smelly socks off the floor or he leaves his dirty dishes in the sink, 'cause lets be honest, who would want to watch that? More importantly, who would want to live with that?

Most girls have at some point, pictured their wedding day with the beautiful dress, tearful speeches and infatuated perfectly polished groom waiting at the end of the isle. But I'm sure it's a much lower percentage who have actually thought about what comes after the fairytale. What does the 'happily ever after' actually entail? Well for a start, you should leave your independence at the altar. You have just entered a three-legged race. From this day on, you will be bound to this person for the rest of your life (unless you request a divorce.) Your significant other will leak into every aspect of your life, wholly drenching your existence. You are to give up your name, your freedom and even half of your bed. These are all to be sacrificed in the name of true love. We must surrender our life as we know it and embrace this person and all that they are. Idealistically, if you find the love of your life you would do this in a heartbeat. Realistically, the sacrifices are colossal. Especially if you value your independence and life as you know it.

This is probably the most negative blog you've ever read, and for that I apologize. I can feel the realist in me oozing out at every word. I must say that I do believe in love, and that there is someone for everyone. But I've come to realise that every relationship you have with someone is a compromise with the relationship you have with yourself. A wise person once told me never rely on someone else to make you happy: happiness should come from within. This has led me to believe that we should assess how much we are giving up being in a relationship. Is the sacrifice greater than the gain? Because the biggest tragedy would be losing yourself.

Having said all this, I know there is a possibility I could meet someone who I would willingly give up everything for. But they would have to be pretty spectacular. Watch this space.

And so it begins

So I'm starting a blog. As an opinionated aspiring writer, it shouldn't be too difficult to fill the page with words. Although I would much prefer the old pen and paper to this blogging malarky, this seems to be the direction the industry is taking...if you can't beat them join them, right? And I might just learn to love it.

This appears to be an appropriate time to introduce myself, but I think my future blogs will give you an insight into who I am better than any description I could write. That's if you're interested of course.

The advantages of blogs like these (it seems I'm liking them already) is that you know when someone is reading your work, or if your words are just lost amongst the other 23937 billion web pages on the Internet.  But yes, views and maybe even comments would be much appreciated, and maybe the 'undiscovered' webpage could be discovered? Who knows?