Green eyed memoirs

When I was six years old my Granny and Grandpa got a cat called Jasper. As a pet-less child at the time, this was a big deal to me and I fell in love with him pretty instantly. My brother and I would spend hours upon hours for so many years squealing with delight as we rolled marbles across the floor for him to chase and we would shout at my Dad whenever he picked him up because we were convinced Jasper didn't like it - as if he was our younger brother being bullied in the playground by a bigger kid.

Jasper had a fantastic intuition for human identity and emotion. I suppose any animal lover or pet owner will claim that of their furry friend, but it's true. Jasper knew when people were arriving and leaving and he remembered them from their last visit. Jasper knew when you were relaxed and he knew when you were busy...and would interrupt you regardless.  Jasper was beautiful, funny, clever and greedy all at the same time and had a permanent throne in my heart. When I was 14 I did an art project on him for a whole term, and to this day I still have a huge folder full of these sketches and paintings in my bedroom at home. I have truly never met an animal with more of a vibrant personality.
When I was about 10 years old I developed an allergy to cats. Whenever I'm near them now I begin to sneeze continually, almost without pause for breath, get a chesty cough and my eyes water. And yet, I still love cats. I love cats wholeheartedly and unconditionally.

Unconditionally - that's a word that I learnt from Jasper. When we met I had no allergic reactions to the feline world; they all appeared after I'd grown to become very fond of him. But for 10 years more, 'in sickness and in health' as they say, I would pick him up, hold him and play with him regardless of consequence. (There would always with a box of  tissues and Piriton allergy tablets nearby.)

Yesterday I was told that Jasper had been put down. I'm heartbroken and hurt in a way that is new and raw and tender to me. But my comfort in the news is that we did say goodbye. Animals drop hints when they're leaving. The last few times I saw him I could feel his spine a little more and it was clear that he was an old man now. When I last left him in summer, I picked him up and held him tighter than normal and my Mum said 'Rosemary don't be silly, don't make yourself ill' and I said 'I'm not being silly, this might be the last time I see him', and it was. I think Jasper knew it too because he didn't squirm and he waited at the door as we left.

I feel silly pouring so much emotion onto a page for a cat I saw 3 times a year. But that was 3 times a year for my entire childhood. All Christmas and birthday cards for the last 13 years have been signed from him and any phone calls to my grandparents included updates about Jasper. He's left a hole bigger than I'm willing to let adulthood fill.

But I like to think he's residing somewhere lovely now - somewhere warm, with children to play with and strategically placed meat scraps to snack on.

And with that thought, I end this post. Sorry it was sad and sorry if it seemed unwarrantedly so, but one of my first ever friends just died.

Ro is listening to: She's Got You High by Mumm-Ra

Shaking hands with school

On this grey and miserable first Monday of September, I come to understand that many young people across the country are returning to school today. How my heart weeps for those poor unfortunate souls. I'm sorry for their inevitable treading/sitting/placing their hand on chewing gum incidents. The 'it was only banter' name calling. The painful realisation that this year is not the year they become cool, but maybe next year. And I’m sorry for the drudgery of Gove's shadow - aspirational grades and targets and their teachers having breakdowns and their friends having breakdowns and Learning Objectives and What am I Learning Today before they've had a chance to sit down.

I don’t miss school. I used to worry I would because I don’t like change and my life up until now has been very familiar and simply a case of placing one foot in front of the other on a very even terrain. But now that I’ve jumped off that pavement and onto a sort of yellow brick road, heading towards this big green mystery, I can see that the pavement was quite grey in places and didn’t have much of a view because there were so many speed limits and signposts in the way.

School was fun and made me laugh and shaped me in a way that nothing can knock out of place. School filled me with insecurities but it also filled me with a raging fire and I am finding value in both. School is the home of my early adolescence and that’s a connection that doesn’t leave you. But I honestly can’t say I miss it. In year nine Mr Lucas played the entirety of ‘Summer of ‘69’ by Bryan Adams in an assembly and told us that we were in our golden years. I believed him for long enough to appreciate school for what it was, but I realise now that my ‘golden years’ lie very far from the confines of over-sized blazers, science classrooms and parents evenings.

But perhaps there are things I do miss, if I dare to let myself admit such a sin. I may not miss the grey and gritty institutional side of school, but there were little by-products of being a teenager in a familiar environment everyday with the same people that were pleasant. I miss the simplicity of it all. I think that's something I never knew to appreciate because it didn't feel simple at all at the time. I sorely miss the biggest deals in my life being what part I got in the school show or my incompetence in French lessons. Even at A Levels, when I felt more worn down and empty than I have ever felt in my life, I recognise a year later that there was still a certain simplicity about that time. I remember Mr Morrow telling me in Year 12, when I was staying after school to do a history mock exam paper, "A Levels are the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in education. Honestly, University is much easier". And in many ways, he was right.  University is freedom, but school had its own type of freedom too - the freedom of still being a child. It's tempting to try and shake that label off as soon as you can but there's really no need to - children are allowed to find things overwhelming and challenging and children are helped by grown ups when they struggle. When children cry they are comforted and their deadlines are extended and their essays are marked before submission. That's not to say that Universities are any less supportive - there are many means of seeking comfort and guidance, but it's not part of the package and it doesn't seek you out in the same way that a teacher who has known you since you were 11 would notice you're not quite yourself. You have to make the effort and help yourself, which isn't quite the same but it's adult.

I left school very bitter. My favourite teacher suddenly stopped making an effort with me right when I needed them most and my final grades were much lower than I had predicted. I was filled with a feeling that all was for nothing, but that was as untrue as Mr Lucas telling a room full of 13 year olds that their school years were their ‘golden years’. Sixth form was a sad time but I guess the rest was pretty great. This was cathartic.

To end, here is some advice for those still trapped:
Stay in school kids, but there’s no reason to cry at prom.

'Just don't'

Note - I wrote the bulk of this post in early June, but left it unfinished. I decided to leave the opening context the same for ease of read, but the date of publishing will be a few months later.

~

A few days ago I was sitting in the sun with a group of friends, predominantly boys, enjoying a BBQ. In the midst of conversation, one friend joked that my legs wouldn't get burnt if I didn't shave them. Perhaps I should have laughed but instead I responded 'I didn't want to shave them'. There was a pause, leaving just enough time for me to tell myself a hundred times in my head that I shouldn't have said that. Then a short discussion broke out in front of me, lead by my male friends, about how inconsequential and easy it is for a woman to 'just not' shave. Regretfully, I partook little in this moment because I was too engrossed in listening to what these boys had to say about a subject they are dreadfully ignorant about. However, since then I have had time to mull it all over and now I have things to say...safely behind a screen. 


First of all, I wish to make clear that I am not challenging the simplicity of not shaving. On a totally practical level, the act of not doing rather than doing, it goes without saying, is easier. I also don't believe myself, as a woman, to be under any force to shave. I recognise and appreciate my fundamental ability to choose and I do, for much of winter, take advantage of this. However, when told by a group of boys, the same boys who will tell me at length how attractive the girl with the smooth skinned hairless body is, that it is easy for me to 'just not' shave my legs, I can't help but feel uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable because by saying this they disregard all of the external factors that influence my choice to shave (or not). Factors that take more guts than they would know to override and ignore. There is no 'just' in deciding not to shave my legs. There is fear of judgement, fear of not being beautiful, fear of rejection, fear of bringing an elephant into the room with me. And whether other people deem these justified or rational fears is not relevant because they are mine and they exist by no lack of reason. I am reminded every day, subconsciously as well as consciously that beautiful women have hairless bodies, and not wishing to speak on behalf of womankind, that's really difficult to ignore.


These male friends of mine do not deliberately encourage women to look a certain way, and they cannot personally be held accountable for attitudes that are the result of generations upon generations of patriarchal brainwashing. But they do play a part in my choices, and to close their eyes to that with their hands in the air as if to say that I haven't been taught to seek male gratification since I was a child is frustrating.

I'm not asking for a solution or an apology or for guilt. I'm not imparting any blame or seeking sympathy. I'm simply nodding to this state of affairs I find myself in where there are (whether we choose to acknowledge it or not) deep rooted ideas of beauty ingrained within society which leave many people feeling paralysed into a state of robotics; doing things not out of choice or necessity but from a blinded perspective that this is normal and that normality is law. To quote a fantastic Mitchell and Webb sketch, 'Men: shave [just your face!] and get drunk. Because you're already brilliant.' But for us ladies, there's contouring, waist trainers, Brazilian waxes and Kylie Jenner lip kits sweeping the Western world like an unwelcome flu virus. And for every one of these brainless epidemics on the cosmetics counter, the ever unreachable bar has been raised for what it is acceptable to look like when leaving the house. I will stress again here that of course we do not have to abide or follow these trends. And actually, I think deep down and lost amongst the ifs and maybes of this piece, that's precisely my point. No one has any obligation to obey social expectations or gender stereotypes, but it's difficult not to. This is not a practical issue, it's an issue of attitude on both sides. 

So please, guys, don't tell me to 'just not' when you belong to the body that instructs me to do so.


Ro is listening to: Toothpaste Kisses by The Maccabees

My mother does not cry

I’m a crier

A watery-hearted, soft-in-the-middle crier

I routinely sob


There was a time I was embarrassed by my blubbery nature for my mother’s eyes never wet. I know she is not made of iron, but her pretence is convincing to those who do not share her blood. For a number of years I tried to be like my mother; to feel and to hide it.
To remain rooted to my path, unmoved and undeterred. To get things done.

But I am not my mother

I was not made to get things done

I was made to feel and to show it.
To empathise, sympathise and story-tell.
To listen, to grieve, to hope, to challenge, to help.


When I cry it is not always because I am hurting and my mother’s dry eyes do not always mean she is not hurting. I think she may know more hurt than I will ever realise, but who can say?


My mother does not cry.


~


Note to self: Should post more of my writings on here, even if they are late night rambled nonsense like this.

She is in love with the world

Marina needs the audience like air to breath, that’s the gasoline she’s running on. She lives for her art, she lives for the audience.

When I met her I thought ‘Oh God, she’s in love with me’, and it took me a while to understand that she is in love with the world.

And now I realise that she is repeating this misunderstanding with every single person in the atrium.

- Klaus Biesenbach, curator and director at MoMA, New York, commenting on Marina Abramovic and her performance The Artist is Present in 2010. Words and stills taken from the documentary film  Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present (2012).

~

I wrote an essay on Performance Art in April/May and whilst writing and researching, I stopped to write down this quote and capture the screenshots from the film because I thought they were really beautiful. The words really resonate with me but I'm not entirely sure why yet.

Ro is listening to: Half Light by BANNERS

Referendum musings from another anxious young person

It's a running joke/tragedy in my family that we never visit anywhere exotic. 75% of my summer holidays throughout my life have been within the UK and the remaining 25% in France. And really, despite the abuse I have given my parents about how culturally deprived I am, there really is nothing wrong with this and I am grateful to have had holidays at all. Albeit consistently rainy ones.

However, in the last few weeks and especially so since this week's referendum result, I have grown to truly appreciate one of our trips far more. The holiday in question was in 2013, the summer I finished my GCSEs, had my braces taken off and played Miranda in my theatre group's production of The Tempest. Life was kind of glorious and the epitome of teenage milestones. My favourite birthday present that year was Tom Odell's Long Way Down album if that adds any social/historical context.

Anyway, my parents took me and my brother to Strasbourg, a beautiful and historical city in North-East France and the capital of the Alsace Region. One day we drove to The Deux-Rives garden, located on the edge of the city, right next to the Rhine river. The garden was huge and we spent some hours walking through it, with my brother and I taking goofy pictures besides various art installations and fountains. As we made our way across the park we came to a river and a huge bridge. What is important here is not the bridge itself but what is and what is not on the other side of it. Germany was on the other side and border control was not.

We walked through a park and into a new country like there were no borders at all. The language written on the road signs changed so unassumingly and I thought that was beautiful. Strasbourg and Kehl, two towns belonging to two different countries were at such harmony with one another and people could walk, as I believe we are supposed to, from one to the next freely and without consequence. I remember asking my parents how this was the case - how each country could trust the other that whoever crossed the bridge was not dangerous and why there was not border control to manage that. And I remember them telling me about the EU and I remember being proud that we were apart of that body.

  

View from the French side of the garden

A View from a Bridge (by Arthur Miller) ((lol))

Kehl, West Germany

Almost three summers have passed since then, and because one of those included my 18th birthday, I can now vote. And the first opportunity of note for me to express this right? The UK's EU referendum: whether to remain or whether to leave. I'm not going to rant about all the reasons I voted to remain or all the reasons I believe voting to leave was wrong. The time for that has passed, and instead I'm going to just put some of my more personal jumbled thoughts post leave (spoiler alert if you've been living in a cupboard: we left. I know right, fools.) into some hopefully coherent words. Read at your own discretion.


I am grateful to have witnessed some of the active functionalities of what it means to be a part of the European Union whilst we were a part of it and it was not some foreign body to envy. I believe the ideals of unity and belonging to a larger body of people are important, and Europe is without question stronger together. I don't think the EU as it currently stands is the perfect answer to our post war need for unity and alliance, but to leave is to take a very, very large step backwards, isolating ourselves at a time of global unease.

Boris Johnson stated before the referendum that if we were to leave, then the 24th June would become our Independence Day, and many people have found much excitement in this prospect. Personally I find it insulting for us to even consider calling the anniversary of our leaving of the European Union an Independence Day. This is not because I voted remain. This is because across the world country after country celebrate a legitimate Independence Day where they rejoice at being freed from our colonial rule. As a country we have a dreadful history of ruling over land that was never rightfully ours and acting as a form of dictatorship over people we deemed lower than ourselves. Being a part of the European Union was absolutely no reflection of the atrocities we committed in our Imperial years and to imply as such is ignorant and offensive. Whatever you chose to believe about the amount of laws passed in Brussels that were out of our control, we surely must all agree that we were by no means oppressed in the EU. And for that reason, for Britain to have an Independence Day would be sickeningly insulting. Of course, Boris never truly believed we'd leave so that statement was never intended to be to be put to use. But for the people I see on my newsfeed using it sincerely, stop.

I was talking to a friend the morning the result was announced and he said 'I don't feel as bad as the day after the general election'. On the contrary, I felt considerably worse and don't get me wrong, I was devastated after the General Election. But his comment got me thinking. In a parliamentary election, no party is the opposite of another; the Conservatives are not the opposite to the Greens, and UKIP are not the opposite of Labour. But in this referendum, 48.1% of those who voted got the exact opposite of what they wanted. And with stakes like that, a difference of less than 2% is not enough. Especially when those who voted leave were lied to. I've seen a lot of parody government petitions floating around making light of the hugely trending petition for a second referendum to take place. These infuriate me because they completely ignore the extent to how different this vote was to anything else in recent history. You simply cannot compare a referendum of this weight and global importance to not winning the lottery. I really really don't want to be close minded or the sort of person to disregard the privilege of freedom of speech or democracy, but there was a right and a wrong choice in this vote. And the wrong choice was picked.

There is much much more I could say on this subject, but from here it would start becoming nonsensical, so I'll finish.

I'm scared for what my future holds and grieve what it could have been within the EU. I feel I have been robbed of what was rightfully mine, but I would be lying if said I could not still feel a small burning flame of youthful optimism inside me. I must now work harder than ever to keep that alive, because the moment that flame burns out is the moment I am truly in danger.

Two countries, both alike in dignity
In fair EU, where I lay this blog

Ro is listening to: For You to be Here by Tom Rosenthal

Things Eliza taught me

So I was in a production of Pygmalion for a month or so and it finished a couple of days ago. It took over my life and I have never been more welcoming to such an invasion. Forgive me if my mourning process is a little unorthodox or you are unsettled by how much of a wet blanket I am.

Eliza Doolittle is by far my favourite role I've ever played. We had some similarities to start with, but throughout the rehearsal process I found her spirit and vitality to be tangible and alive and I know they'll stay with me for a very long time.

Being introduced to Pygmalion and Eliza was just like when you stumble across a text or a song or a film or a person at precisely the right moment in your life and it’s like the stars have aligned above you. You know?

So without further ado, here are some little bits and pieces of thought and philosophy and nonsensical Ro-jumble that I picked up along the way.

· People can influence, teach and inspire you, but your successes are only ever your own. “You won my bet? You presumptuous insect! I won it!”
In reality people generally don’t say things like this because it’s not the 1890s and Henry Higgins is a dick. But it’s easy to feel after an achievement that you owe it to other people. Perhaps it is true that you couldn’t have done it without the help of others, but that doesn’t render your own hard work and time and effort meaningless. Credit where credit is due, but we shouldn’t feel guilty in accepting our medals.

· Define your own self worth, do not place your sense of value in other people's validation.
Not only is this an unhealthy dependency, but that validation may never arrive.
“We didn’t make speeches to her if that’s what you mean.”

· You have no obligation to stay.
I know My Fair Lady and various other adaptations of Pygmalion have taught us to expect Eliza's return despite Higgins mistreatment of her, but Bernard Shaw's original shows much more respectful ambiguity, empowering Eliza with the choice to walk away after she almost becomes a shrinking violet. It is not selfish to put yourself first.
"What you're going to do without me, I cannot imagine."

· Sometimes relationships can't be defined.
Sometimes they're too tender and complexly woven. Sometimes it is enough just to know that you care for someone, regardless of how that is expressed. We shouldn’t try to dilute or reshape these feelings for the sake of being able to define them; let them be unknown, let them be pure. With a little character analysis, it's obvious that Eliza is not going to marry either Higgins or Freddy, so readers and audience members, stop wishing something would happen just to calm your unsettled nerves that have been taught that all relationships must be given names and boundaries.

· Just around the corner from Tottenham Court Road is Wimpole Street.
If I'm using Wimpole Street as a metaphor for hope and a better quality of life, remember that you need not Henry Higgins to invite you there. Be brave enough to "go home in a taxi".

· Perhaps for years and years, no one was interested in your flowers, your chosen trade that you thought people would buy into, but one day someone might be interested in your voice, a trait you were taught to be ashamed of.

So long, Eliza.

I hope you find a little kindness.

Ro is listening to: Rich Girl by Daryl Hall and John Oates

Shout

I think we've all heard of Britain First. I myself cannot claim to be particularly knowledgeable about politics or current affairs, but I'm acquainted enough with the subject to know that their members aren't always the nicest of people. For anyone who hasn't got that odd family friend or twisted old school acquaintance on Facebook who shares the xenophobic content that the group try to get trending, then to quickly fill you in with the basics, Britain First are a right wing fascist party that claim to be a 'patriotic political party and street defence organisation' (britainfirst.org). They have a reputation for being particularly aggressive with their views, which are predominantly incredibly racist and discriminative, and they can be found fear mongering in busy city centres.

Up until today I have been fortunate enough to never experience the displeasure of meeting a Britain First member, at least not to my knowledge. If I have, they have been discrete and pleasant. Unfortunately this did not happen today. I was walking home from church, and as I crossed the road that lies between my accommodation and main campus, I saw that outside the mosque, which is on the corner to the path I needed to walk down, there were four or five people blocking the path with a huge Britain First banner. At first I thought it was a parody and they were standing in solidarity with the mosque as a sign of peace and tolerance after all the global tensions surrounding Islam over the last year. As I  crossed the road towards them, I was reading the sign over and over trying to find a difference in spelling to prove this was a parody group. But alas, this wasn't a parody, this was the real deal. I kept my head down and walked past. But then something kicked inside me and I turned back around and asked the man who appeared to be the leader of the group 'is this legitimate? Are you from Britain First?', he confirmed they were. I can't remember the exact words and chronology of my 1 against 5 discussion, but I told them I thought they were incredibly disrespectful to stand outside a place of worship to intimidate people who simply want to pursue their own way of life. Their response interested me and took a path I haven't heard before. The man who I recognised as the leader dived immediately into feminism, saying 'you're a woman, so don't you think it's wrong what the Qur'an teaches about women?'. A lady in the group then piped up and started gruesomely describing to me the act of female genital mutilation. I didn't have the heart to tell her I already knew what it was. She tried to convince me that every muslim believes that women should be treated like this, and that this gave plenty of reason for all mosques in the country to be shut down. I argued that just like in any faith, there are differing opinions and practices within Islam, and I'm sure that FGM covers very little ground. And either way, my beliefs on gender equality lie wholly in the subject of choice and freedom, and this includes freely choosing to belong to Islam. I recognise that the culture of Islam frowns upon those who leave the faith, but standing outside a mosque with a poster saying 'BRITAIN FIRST - BAN THE MOSQUES' is not doing anything to help the women they claim to be helping. It could not be more transparent that they were using the argument of women's rights merely as a way of relating to passers by, and that at the heart of their aggression was a fear of change and people who are different to their hateful selves. Naturally, it goes without saying that I was bombarded with cliché phrases such as 'it's called freedom of speech, darling' and 'Oh, are we not allowed to stand here?'. I tried to politely explain that my biggest issue with their protesting lay not in the fact that they were expressing taboo opinions, but their method of expressing these opinions. The woman who previously described FGM in all it's clitoral gore laughed at me, asking 'shall we just stay silent then?' to which I responded 'of course not, but why can't you have a civilised discussion? Why not host a debate? Right now all you're doing is stirring up hostility and hatred and reflecting all that you claim you're fighting.' At which point an elderly couple came around the corner, read the poster and exclaimed 'not in my name' and 'childish, intolerant scum', which I took as my cue to leave as my post as outside resistance had been replaced. I took a few steps forward onto the path and with my back firmly turned away from the ignorance, I burst into tears. I am privileged to be able to say that passionate whole-hearted hatred has never been too close to me. Views such as those expressed outside Canterbury Mosque this afternoon have always seemed a world away, posted online by groups that were once nothing more than silly names to me. Today I learnt how real, raw and close to home hatred is, and it was surprisingly hard to swallow.

I'm not sure how to end this post as there isn't really an ending to the story; it's the same age-old tale of tolerance and loving thy neighbour that mankind seem to forget with every generation. So for goodness sake guys, lets start loving each other.

Peace.

Ro is listening to: Shout - Lulu
(Shout about love not hate!)

An update of sorts

...And I'm back!
I'm alive!
Rushed off my feet and fuelled entirely on tea* and biscuits, but very much alive!

(*Oh, I drink tea now. PG Tips, naturally.)

So what's new since my last post? Too much, but I'll list a few things for the sake of chronology in my blog history lol.

-6th November: Travelled to London to help out on the set of Dodie Clark (doddleoddle)'s sketch Santa's Not Real and it was just the coolest thing because I've never seen such big cameras in all my life, and there was proper lighting equipment and booms and everything!!! On top of this, Dodie and Sammy are creatives who I've respected and admired for years so to be asked to help them create something that I would have usually watched in my bedroom was such a privilege. Dear life, more of this please.
-19/20th November: Was in my first drama society production, The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol in the Gulbenkian Theatre, which was nothing short of an absolute blast and my biggest acting learning experience to date.
-21st November: My Pop celebrated his 80th birthday with a lil shindig in a fancy hotel and it was so lovely and I got a bit secretly emotional because it happened right at a time in term when things were getting a bit overwhelming and I was beginning to really miss home and it was the best therapy to see all my family and go swimming and pig out on proper food. I remember people asking me how I was finding University and I'm sure I said nothing but positive things, but as we were leaving, everyone said 'you've only got four more weeks/ it's the final push/it'll be Christmas before you know it' as if they could see right inside me and knew that I was hurting a little bit, and I don't think that example of total understanding will ever leave me. I've definitely come to appreciate my family SO much more since moving away, even the people I didn't see regularly when I lived at home, it's bizarre, my heart is a puzzle.
-7th December: Was in a wacky production of Martin Crimp's Attempts on her Life, directed by the students of the Directing MA course. I got to where a pink gingham dress and draw lines on maps with fake blood and it was a lot of fun haha.
-10th December: Jess, Lucy and I signed for a house for second year! It was stressful and fun and scary and exciting, but above all, we proved that we are smart independent women who may not know everything about the housing market but we sure know how to assert ourselves in front of unnecessarily patronising estate agents (shout out to Stuart and Dave).
-11th December: House 5 cooked the bestest Christmas dinner there ever has been and I'm still baffled as to how we managed it all with only one oven because in true Parkwood style, our second oven was out of action for the majority of first term.
-I spent 95% of my Christmas holiday working at the cinema, but even though by mid January I was getting ill and showing signs of mild insanity, I loved it and I wouldn't trade an hour of my time there for anything, except another episode of War and Peace with my Mum.
-31st January - Got given a part in my second drama society production; King Edward in The Wars of the Roses; an adaptation of Shakespeare's earliest history plays. We're setting it in a children's playground with proper toys and climbing frames and I'm so excited!!

Et voila, an update. Not as brief as intended, but what can I say, I'm a sucker for self reflection. 

So back to now and my inspiration for this post. I have very recently realised that I complete everything in bulk, with a very 'all or nothing' attitude. By this I mean I (subconsciously, on the most part) let things pile up because I'd much rather deal with it all in one go than commit to the little and often approach that teachers, family members and doctors have preached to me all my life. For example, the time on the clock as I write these exact words is 03:35am and I'm sitting down having just tidied my room top to bottom because over the last week I let it mutate into a rather disturbing mirroring of Tracey Emin's infamous bed. I'm also waiting for my washing to finish it's cycle, because the early hours of the morning are as good of a time as any to deal with your dirty laundry, right? I've also just noticed in my peripheral vision how dry my hands are having spent half an hour washing up 3 days worth of cooking utensils earlier because once you've filled the bowl up, you might as well do the whole hog.

But my arguably dysfunctional way of dealing with life's demands doesn't just stop at the menial day-to-day chores. Instead, it manifests itself into all sorts of other tasks, most notably writing essays, reading, responding to emails and messages and shopping. It's funny, as I pondered whether this was a blog post worthy subject earlier I thought my only coverage was my laundry and course work, but low and behold I've gone and found heaps more examples and I can't work out whether this is a good thing or an awful thing, haha.

I think this topic is, in a way, an unintentional follow up from my post on procrastination I wrote in November 2014, because this way of dealing with things is undoubtedly a form of procrastination, but the  very fact that I am able to categorise it now is an almost exciting development in my understanding of myself and my brain and all that jazz. What I'm also finding interesting in this field of thought is the fact that my feelings towards my chronic procrastination were once numbingly negative with an almost self-loathing taste to them, but now, when I speak of it so rationally and in a practical sense, I'm totally at peace with it. I am able to recognise the positives that can come from it, and I understand that arguably, leaving things until near their deadline is simply a different way of working. By lessening the time I can spend on tasks, I find I focus much more effectively and I'm forced to prioritise simply by not having a choice. The trick is not to leave things too late...there's a fine line.

So if I'm a little slow in responding to a message you've sent me, know that it's nothing personal, you're not the only one, I'm just waiting for something to pass so that I can give you the time I think you deserve.

Likewise, if you haven't seen me for a while, I'm probably slaving away over something I've left a little too late, but will be back on the scene in the click of a turnitin submission. It might just be worth encouraging me to go to bed at some point.

Oh, would you look at that, it's 05:45am...lol.

Night!


Ro is listening to: Old Money by Lana Del Rey

AND

All the Wasted Time - Parade, London Cast
(It sort of starts at 3 different points, depending on how much context you like - 0:00/1:43/3:00)