Happy Birthday

A greeting cast to someone as an obligation? Sometimes to greet a friend because it's the thing to do. 'Happy birthday' is said these days, but often left so empty. Yes, it's been the birthday greeting since you can remember, but do you realize what you're saying when you wish someone a 'happy birthday'?

I don't see happy birthday as a simple hello, one day a year.

I do not take those words lightly.

Happy birthday is wishing someone well on their birthday. It's a celebration of life. You are celebrating someone being born, and so, in essence, celebrating them being alive. Suicide is the leading cause of death in 16-25 year-old's in the United States, and the third leading cause of death in 16-25 year-old's in the United Kingdom. If I wish you a happy birthday, I'm telling you that I am glad you are alive.

I used to hate my birthday. I didn't have a reason, I just started hating my birthday after I turned 11. For so long I used to dread my birthday, hope people would forget it. I think I hoped people would forget me. and for the past few years, since I was 14, something disastrous has happened on or around my birthday. I dread my birthday these days for what it might bring. Even now I don't remind my friends when my birthday is coming up, partly for luck's sake, partly to see if anyone cares enough to remember (which I know is mad, especially coming from me as, if any of you know me, I have the worst memory you could imagine). I no longer despise my birthday- if someone wishes me happy birthday, whether they see deeper meaning in that greeting or not, I know that someone, somewhere appreciates my life just that little bit to acknowledge that yes, I am alive. My arrival apparently has a bad effect on the world. But I don't care, because recently I've come to realize the importance of birthdays; hence this blog post.

I have been meaning to write this post for about 6 months, but I keep putting it off because I can't find the right words- even though I write them in every birthday card I send. Birthdays are such a massive deal- you were born on this day a year ago; 10 years ago; 18, 21, 30, 80 years ago; you made it!

You

        are

              alive.

And it is so important that you are. Because every time someone says 'happy birthday' to you, whether you realize it or not, they're congratulating you. They are thanking you.

Thank you for being in my life.

Thank you for being born.

Thank you for being alive.

We are all living stories. You must not give up.

Happy birthday, my friend.

"It is an honour being a character in your story"

A School With A Story.

I've been at Bluecoat since I was 11. At first I hated it. By the time my place was confirmed I was adamant that I did not want to go; every morning of my first term there, my parents would have to get me out of bed and dress me themselves because I was so against going. I eventually settled into it though, or I wouldn't still be here 7 years later! One of the only things I remember from those first 16 weeks was Founder's Day. Our school hold one of these services every year, to welcome the year 7's into our school and to present them with a bible. This began as a Braithwaite edition of the bible, but has changed to a Youth bible in recent years (which, in my opinion, is a much better translation anyway). This makes sense to Bluecoat kids, as one of our houses is Braithwaite, named after one of our founders, Thomas Braithwaite.
The whole point of Founder's Day is really to remind us where we come from. We are a school with a history- not a history in the sense that it's been going for a while, but a history that means something. My school has a real story behind it, which continues to grow each year, and the next chapters in our story are acknowledged each year at our Founder's Day service. I've been involved in every Founder's Day since I started at Bluecoat- mainly singing- and this day has never really impacted me that much- until this year, my last year at Bluecoat, and I have either only just realized that I love that my school has a story, or I've just become very gushy and sentimental. I would rather believe the first, and if you've ever received a birthday card from me, you'll know that that is the more likely reason.
Although our head teacher says her part at the beginning, the service is held by kids like me... and our youth worker (who is basically a big kid anyway!). This means that the service is slightly more interesting than you'd imagine, and in the last few years, a drama has been performed by a group of year 7, 8 & 9 students about the history of the school. This is naturally performed as an over-the-top, comedic train-wreck, but it gets across the story.
Nottingham was very poor, the poor were getting poorer, the rich were getting richer, and all schools had to be paid for except the high school- oh the irony!- and Bluecoat. Bluecoat was held in the doorway of St Peter's from 1706 and was free, funded by donations from various benefactors. The uniform was originally grey, but was later changed to blue. After a while, a plot of land was bought and as more money was given to the school, more and more children arrived- more money, more children. The school was relocated- twice- then another campus opened in 2003. We have sister schools in China, Africa and South Africa. Each house raises money for a chosen charity each year. Every year we run a Coast-to-Coast bike ride for the British Heart Foundation/Macmillan (these alternate) and Rainbow's Children's hospice- a charity very close to my own heart. So many different things have happened to our school in the last 100 year, and even the last 10 years, which I can't begin summarize in just one blog post. I urge you to go and read about my school's history here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nottingham_Bluecoat_School
There is such a story behind my school. It's very long, but it's very strong. And it is inspirational.
I'm a sucker for a story.
We are living stories.
And every story must to be told; every story has a right to be told.
So this is our story, and we will continue to grow it and develop it through the beautiful gifts we've been given. Our school does a lot for many, many charities- it's in our roots, it's where we come from. Our school- my school- changes and invents each and every one of us, whether we know it or not. I know that my school has made me who I am today- sometimes I love her, sometimes I hate her, but I know that I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for Bluecoat and some of the amazing people I have met there.

So thank you, Timothy Fenton.
Thank you, William Thorpe.
Thank you, Thomas Braithwaite.
Thank you, Messrs: Inglis, Mellors and Rippon.
And thank you, Alfred Harisson.

Tigger's Trip to The Vets

I promise that once this post gets going it will be funny, but i have to give you contextual knowledge so you don't just think my cat is a pussy.

Cats do not like V.E.T's. They don't mind vets; they don't know the word 'vet' as no one ever says it, it's always 'V.E.T', so I like to say in my kitty cat voice "Come on Mister Tigz, let's go to the vets!" and he really excitedly jumps up and follows me to wherever this magical land is. By the time he's in his cat box, he's too traumatized to remember where it was I said we're going, but by this point all he can hear is my parents saying 'V.E.T' over and over again.

Okay, lots of cats hate the vets- lots of animals hate the vets- because they like their dignity and don't like being poked about here there and everywhere. Especially with latex gloves. But Tigger has issues with vets for more than just his personal space protection-instincts. My cat once got stuck in a wall. The builders had to knock the wall through and threw bits of wall at him to make him move. In this facade he injured his back, became anorexic (which in animals just means they stop eating) and had to be hospitalized for 2 days. Earlier this year, he was hospitalized for 3 days due to a stomach bug- which our other cat had, and loved as she was away from Tigger for 6 days (she was far more poorly as she is older and so was in for longer).
But the real reason he hates the vets so passionately is because in February and March 2011, Tigger went to the vets 5 times in four weeks. He had two operations, an MRI, a consultation with one of Europe's leading veterinary practitioner-surgeons and 3 lots of general anesthetic. On my 15th birthday, my dad took Tigger to Solihull to see this specialist vet. Tigger had an hour's consultation and an MRI under general anesthetic, which added up to 4 hours and £lots of his £not-that-mush insurance each year. Thank God he is insured. You seeeeeee, Tigger has cancer, and his is near-impossible to successfully treat. If he had the operation to remove it, he would have had a 12cm x 16cm x 12cm piece of him taken out. Tigger wasn't very big at this time. This was just before he turned 2. He also would have had to stay inside for 3 months after the operation, and with him being a professional free-runner and all, that just wouldn't have worked. Even if this was all managed, this type of cancer- fibrosarcoma- always comes back, and in younger cats it is especially aggressive the second time.
So his traumatic 4 weeks of heavy duty vet work told us we'd have weeks or months with Tigger, so naturally we were all distraught for about 2 weeks after. We've now had an additional 2 and a half years with him, and he's now absolutely traumatized from the experience of unfamiliar surroundings, 4 hospitalizations and 5 vets visits in less than 30 days.
So to recap, he does not like vets.

Today Tigger went to sleep in a rocking chair. I spotted the opportunity at about 3:15 to put him in his cat basket, as he will keep his eyes closed and pretend he's still sleeping if I pick him up gently. His appointment was for 3:30 so this was perfect timing. He must have felt the walls closing in though, as he opened his eyes just in time to see me locking the basket.
A howl of terror- he's so dramatic- told us he didn't want to go, but his insane itching this past week told us he did. It was bad news I'm afraid.

Fleas.

I'll tell you what happened, then give a running commentary of his thoughts.
We were in the car and he was angry at me for causing this situation to happen, so he gave me the cold shoulder for all of five minutes, then he forgot when he was mad at me and lay down on my hand rather than letting me stroke him in his basket. At this point he was violently shaking every time he exhaled... which was about twice a second, as he was hyperventilating- something I didn't think cats could do until today.
Arriving at the vets, we could see Lady number one. Lady number one was very anti-social, ignoring us, her cat and the massive flashing sign that said "this lady doesn't want to be here so she's ignoring her cat who really wants a cuddle" pointing right at her head. Lady's cat sounded like he was singing the descants for O Come All Ye Faithful. Veterinary nurse offered to do Tigger's flea jab to svae us time and money from having to see the vet herself. We accepted and were led to the overnight room which Tigger unfortunately knows all too well.
Tigger was now in full fight-or-flight mode but, being stuck in his box, chose stick-yourself-to-the-back-of-your-cage-and-under-no-$&£*ing-circumstances-let-go mode. I tried twice unsuccessfully to get him out of his travel basket. Nurse lifted the basket and I pulled kitty out of his box. My dad locked the basket and put it on the counter, and Tigger did a commando-crawl across the table in a poor attempt at returning to his safe haven- oh how the tables had turned! (except they hadn't because this was a surgical table and those things are about as mobile as me on a Friday morning)
Tigger was weighed... ish...
Nurse had to go and get the injection, so I picked Tigger up and walked over the the cages at the back of the room. We met cat and dog. Dog looked doped. Cat looked sad.
Nurse gets back- dog is Vet's and fancied a change of scene so got brought to work. We held a minute's silence for Dog and his innocence.
I then held Tigger whilst he had his flea injection.

However...

My dad thought he might already have some live fleas, which meant a tablet.

Maybe some of you have cats? Or maybe some of you have had an encounter with a bear... at breakfast time... after hibernation... whilst wearing Lady Gaga's meat dress... having just told a joke really offensive to bears.
Nurse couldn't make Mister Tigger take his tablet, so she went to get the Pill Pusher- yes, correct medical term, Pill-Pusher- whilst we went to see Cat and Dog again. Dog wanted a cuddle. Tigger wanted to kill Nurse. Cat wanted more Valium.
Tigger took the tablet and we left the room or terror.
Whilst my dad settled up, I met Stone- a 30lb Pitbull-Terrier. Bare in mind Tigger weighs about 11lb. Bare in mind the stereotype of cats and dogs. And please, please, bare in mind the behavioral characteristics of a pitbull-terrier. I sat down to stroke Stone, and popped Tigger in his basket down next to me. Stone was very happy with me, then realized I was with 'the box'. Obviously, something Stone didn't recognize HAD to be sniffed. 'Ooo, smells of cat. Hmm, I wonder what will happen if I keep- HOLY CRAP WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT' *runs and hides under owner's chair, whimpering*.

Yeah Tigger doesn't like the vets.

Stone then tried to style it out. 'Umm... grrr..? GRR- please don't kill me!!'. This all happened whilst Stone was stood, trembling behind his owner's leg, his head wedged under Owner's knee. As we left Stone jumped up onto Owner's lap, whining for comfort.

Tigger does not like vets.
Now for his thought-stream.

Ahh mummy. Oh where are we- mummy no. No, NO! DAMMIT WOMAN WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Okay, okay, breathe, you're fine- OH WHAT WAS THAT- oh just a door. Okay. Okay car- I know that. Brum brum, yes drive dad, drive already. Is it the V.E.T? Cattery? Are they just torturing me? What is going on? Move your hand. Moveyourhandmoveyourhandmoveyour- where am I? STOP STROKING ME. Okay. Car stopping. Here we go. Oh that smells awful. Clean, almost, eww. What is that noise? What is that noise? Whatisthatnoisewhatisthatnoisewhatisthatnoi- where are we going? Why are we moving again? NO NO WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME. NO PLEASE NO. No I will not come out. No. CLING. CLINGGGGGG. Okay we're out. Mission one- get back in. Okay no-no-no- LET GO OF ME I DON'T WANT TO STAND ON THAT THING WITH THE- oooo the numbers go up. Ooo. Hey they've gone. So have I! Where's she gone? Where has that human gone? Oh a cat. OH A DOG LET'S BE FRIENDS. Oh she's back. See you later guys- hang in there! Oh an injection. Hold me mummy, hold me! Okay done. No. I will not take that. Right, I'll just wait for you to stop rubbing my throat then I'll spit it- STOP OPENING MY MOUTH IT IS MY MOUTH NOT YOURS- right. And again. And again- STOP IT IT'S MY MOUTH NOT YOURS LEAVE ME ALONE. Good she's gone. Dog! Cat! Hello again! Oh warm air- oooo red light... She's back! GAG REFLEX WOMAN, GAG REFLEX. You don't have to do tha-STOP OPENING MY MOUTH! Yes it's gone... Bitch. Finally back in my box. Wait was that it? Are you kidding me, was that it? Oh well come on at least give me something to work with, I didn't even get to bite her! What was all of that for, what the hell, why take me there and traumatize me- GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME DOG I'M TRYING TO RANT- for about 30 seconds of nothing? Why just not take me? Why? Why? Tell me why?

I'm pretty sure that continued until we got home and he forgot he'd even been out the house. He's not the brightest knife in the cookie jar. One sandwich short of a wardrobe, you know?

Anyway, that was Tigger's exciting day out.

Smile for the camera baby!