Happy Holiday, Loser.

Bit of contextual information here:

In my GCSE English mock exam last year, we were asked to “Write an article to a website of your choice describing a travel/journey which was memorable and why it was memorable.” and so I wrote this. It's fiction- I've never been  on a plane in my life and I have two brothers as well as my sister, (who I simply call 'Sister'), I've never been to America, and I've never even met an air hostess. I honestly still wonder how/why I thought of this, and why I actually wrote it down, but I got 100%  for it so I won't complain.

Hello wonderful world of Blogspot!

 This week I thought I’d share with you a story about a holiday (if it can be called that)  which my family and I went on.

So one morning we awoke to find our dad awake and packing for a holiday; completely spur of the moment, snap decision that we would “go somewhere warm”. Our dad had woken up at 5:00am (in the middle of British Autumn).

 So off we went to sunny Texas, USA!

At the Airport, my parents looking like out-of-season Eskimos (for fear of the cold), Sister being the only normal-looking one and myself wearing flight socks, joggers and a jumper (much to my protest) waiting for our flight number to be called and watching a toddler discover the world of free mints- SUGAR RUSH.

Anyway, on the flight, a good 50,000 feet in the air I decided I would go for an exploration of the plane. Upon standing up I hit my head on the ‘ceiling’ (luggage rack) and immediately began to feel ever so slightly nausea’s. This did not matter, and so my travels would take me to the toilets I decided.

As I got further and further away from my family, the world got darker and darker and became slower and slower. This did not phase me however, as I continued to my destination. Then I became aware of my sudden extreme fever and the world began to spin. Still I think I continued to the toilets, as the next thing I remember is waking up face down in the toilet cubical, my legs hanging over my body in an un-earthly knot and both of my arms sticking out in front of me and under the next cubical.

Then, for no apparent reason, my body was completely over-taken by an over-whelming craving for ravioli and plastic cheese, so much so that I ran through the toilet door (apparently my mind no longer believed in using locks on doors or door handles, and I just ran through the door, knocking it clean off it’s frame.) and running- stumbling such as a zombie would- down the aisle, ricocheting off one passenger to the next, and probably upsetting a good 10 pints of airline tomato soup (well, who would miss it, really?) and finally landing face down in a crumpled heap at the air-hostess’s feet, myself grunting and moaning in pain and for hunger of ravioli and plastic cheese, and the air-hostess (possibly in slightly shock) screaming in terror at my zombie-like appearance.

I remember only sounds for the next part of the story which are mainly composed of my family, the inter-comm saying something about slight turbulence and my head hitting many heavy objects on my way to being dragged, semi-conscious, back to a seat.

I then recall waking up to find Sister quite contentedly sitting on top of me in my hospital bed plaiting my I.V. lines and hair together.

So thanks dad,  for the exciting idea of a surprise holiday, but a fever of 105* on a plane, passing out and spending half an hour of turbulence unconscious doesn’t quite compare to a road trip to Target, the Hard Rock Café or Sea World Florida.

But I will forever have a nice holiday snap of myself, half-dead with drip lines knotted into my hair underneath Sister eating my grapes and drinking my juice.

Happy Holiday LOSER. 

Write, read and speak.

One of the marvels of writing, I find, is what unfolds when one has finished writing and begins reading. I have recently gone to write a letter, a blog post or a postcard and been unsure of what to write. Yesterday I realized that the problem was not what to write, but thinking about what to write.
I was once told "don't think, just write" and over the past few years I have come to realize that's true. The easiest way to create an intricate balance of words and emotions is simply by letting go and allowing your heart to take full control of what is written. Naturally things will have to be altered or edited, but- for the duration of writing the passage- the simplistic (and, admittedly, cliched)  idea of allowing your heart to do the writing is probably your best shot.

Writing amazes me. Writers amaze me. The way that just one passage of text, looking so plain when viewed as a one, can be so beautiful, so heart wrenching or just completely hilarious; the way that just one person's writing can change a nation, change the hearts of millions of people perhaps without even a common interest and unite them in one piece which they could all read again and again, for the journey of the words.
Another thing which intrigues me is language- how beautiful it can be when it's just stripped back. Just words strung together cleverly, the way they're delivered or the times at which they're said can move an auditorium to tears. I don't why. I just know that it's amazing.

I love meeting and speaking to writers because they're not dramatic, but more naturalistic. They know their words and they know how to use them. They don't over annunciate, but nor do they run words together. There's something in the way they speak which sends clarification and confidence to the listeners. Authors speak, just as they write, marvelously.

I don't know why I love language so much, it just really interests me; exploring where to put words, discovering new words and just learning about language.

I also love writing. I don't pride myself on all of my writings, but sometimes I feel something when I'm writing and realize that it's actually something I could probably use to help others- again, I don't know how.
I don't know a lot of things, but what I do know is this: language and writing are beautiful arts, and if everyone was more careful with words and treated language more delicately, there would be a world ready to transform future generations through both.

Lest We Forget

This past Sunday was Remembrance Sunday. It is one of the few days we have in the UK where things slow down and people begin to appreciate the delicate, fragile lives that were taken so cruelly and prematurely- snatched from the world before their stories were quite finished- because of war.
War is a horrific thing. It tears through countries, destroying the lives of those it touches. It can rip through a household- traumatize children, leaving them crying out for parents that will never come home, take a son from a mother, leaving her soul mutilated with emotional pain; having to bury her baby.
I stood at the cenotaph in my hometown, watched the parade and listened to the memorials for those lives lost in the war all those years ago, and those who are still losing their lives to protect us now. As I watched a 7-year-old lay a reef for her big brother, killed in action just four weeks ago, I felt sorrow, I felt anguish and I felt anger.
I felt a lot of anger, for many reasons. I felt anger for the speaker, having to give the incident the label 'unfortunate'. I know that that's the term for it in the army, but it angered me that a precious, loving life was lost and described as simply: 'unfortunate'. I felt anger that a little girl had to say goodbye to her brother for the last time before she even reached the ever-important 'double digits' age. I felt so much anger that nearly 100 years on from the second worst confrontation in the history of war, almost 90 years on since the worst confrontation in the same history, we are still living in a world where the arrogance and stupidity of mankind still kills so many beautiful people each day.

I was also, however, amazed at the respect on the occasion- of humans and animals alike. People of all backgrounds, coming together to spend a moment remembering treacherous war crimes we must never forget. Bickering siblings, pausing to question the change of mood: the silent parade of comrades; the candles lit in cathedrals; the families, gathered and weeping by the stone statue in the town square. Criminals, silencing themselves for a few minutes to remember those who gave lives for their own protection, when they themselves perhaps acted so stupidly in a moment of disregard for others of their own kind. I stood and watched a dog sit patiently, silently, watching it's owner as a tear made it's way over the contours of her wizened face. The dog laid itself aside and sat loyally by her. He looked almost expectant. He was determined to comfort her, had she needed him to.

The occasion put a mixture of emotions on my heart, all of which rooted themselves into my mind and in my heart, a burning passion which decided for me that I should write about it.

So I did.

Lest we forget those Heroes who gave their today for our tomorrow.