Nostalgia, Pot Noodle and the Issues of Multilingualism

It's occurred to me that in a matter of weeks I'll have been writing this blog for a whole year....

What?!!

A WHOLE YEAR?!?!

That's right.

In a way, I feel like this thing is kind of like a diary for me. I look back on some on my earlier entries and I have a bit of a nostalgic giggle.

Even then, I was naive. I read the very anti-alcohol one and remember the time around 6 weeks ago I drank too much cheap vodka and threw up out of a window.

I know, I know, Classy, right?

It's a shame, I used to keep written diaries and realised this afternoon they accidentally got thrown away. It feels like 5 years of my life just got thrown away.

My favourite memory in them is the year my nan sent me 3 birthday cards because, thanks to her dementia, she'd forgotten she'd already sent one. I'd put all the cards in my diary.

My dad says that as long as I keep my memories locked up in my head, it doesn't matter that the diaries are gone. But reading words written when my biggest issue was whether I was going to be able to go to the cinema to see Harry Potter or not that weekend is sort of relaxing and made me smile.

So here's to many years to come on this blog, with years worth of memories to cherish, all here, on my own little website,

This will be something to one day show the next generations of mini-me's :)

Anyway, today I discovered something absolutely horrifying at school.

After weeks of near-starvation due to a combination of my poorness and my refusal to bring sandwiches to school, I decided to bring a pot noodle to school and get it filled up at the common room cafe.

This was only to discover that the school is by law, not allowed to fill up a pot noodle.

Naturally, I was fuming...not allowed to fill up a pot noodle?? What is this rule???

Apparently, it's a Government policy, so that students can't sue schools.

So the first thing I did was bring up the contact line for David Cameron and start angrily writing an email before i figured out a loophole....

I decided to buy a mug of hot water for 20p and then just poured it into my pot noodle,

Winner.

Dad's found me a mini flask for hot water for tomorrow, but the dilemma is actually whether I want to bring water, or mocha.

I hated coffee a week ago and now I'm hooked on mixing coffee with hot chocolate. It's actually so nice, to the point I smell coffee and start craving it badly.

It's a downhill spiral from here, I'm sure.

Talking of downhill, my German speaking AS exam is fast approaching and I am bricking it.

It's such an angry, yet adorable language at the same time.

Like the word for glove is a "Handschuh". A hand shoe. Isn't that just the cutest?

But then science.

French: Science
Spanish: Ciencia
Italian: Scienza
German: NATURWISSENSCHAFTEN!!!

Or... NATURWISS for short.

So while for the others I generally get somewhere with guessing...German...naaaaaaah.

What generally happens is I'm speaking and then I'm like "damn, what's the word for 'something'".

And I'll be sat there and suddenly "QUELQUE CHOSE" pops in to my head.

But, shit. That's French,

So I'm sat there and all that's going through my head is "quelque chose quelque chose quelque chose quelque chose"

And I'm sat there with my mouth hanging open, catching flies while the teacher is desperately trying to coax me to talk again.

"What word are you stuck on, Robyn?"

And by that point I can't even remember the English word any more, all I've got is "quelque chose"

And so I just have to say the French word and hope the teacher catches on.

You think I'm kidding but this is an experience I had during a mock speaking back in like October or something.

Turns out the word I wanted was "etwas".

So yup. If that happens in my AS I am pretty much screwed.

So wish me luck!

It's got to the wonderful point again where I'm going to be cheeky and ask for a bit of feedback. I've even added a poll to the bottom of this blog page so yeah, just click on what you think...

Make my day, or crush my hopes and dreams. It's entirely up to you.

But yeah, any comments, votes on my poll or +1s would be greatly appreciated

Thanks guys! Hope you enjoyed!

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The late-night adventures of Robyn and Alex

So, Tuesday night was probably the most eventful night of my entire life.

Not in a sexual way, before you even try and interpret that. You dirty, dirty little pervert. You should be ashamed of yourself.

I mean in an all-night adventure which started with me waking up next to my boyfriend in literal agony.

And there I am writhing around, crying and screaming that I want to die, Alex is pinning me down and trying to get me to take my medication and it's all a huge, scary mess.

So I force co-codamol down my throat and lie there hoping to die. But the pain doesn't stop and I can't stop twisting and turning and crying and Alex is getting irritated as he doesn't know what to do, he's trying to hug me to calm me down but I keep moving and pulling away.

So I decide to phone 111, the NHS helpline to see what they say.

I'm explaining my issue through floods of tears and the guy on the other end says "do you think you could get up and make yourself a cup of tea?"

I reply "but I don't like tea."

Apparently it was a figurative question, I wasn't meant to take it seriously. 10/10 to me.

Then we're standing on the pavement outside the house waiting for the ambulance the 111 guy called, Alex wrapped up in the duvet and me constantly moving and hyperventilating.

He's trying to grab me, wrap me in the duvet with him and comfort me but I'm just wriggling out, sitting on the pavement, leaning against the car, trying to shake it off like some kind of spastic but it just won't go away.

The ambulance shows up and it's this little car. The lady asks if we can go inside. We say no because everyone is asleep and we don't want to wake them. She seems kind of pissed off about that one. But then it is like 3am, I'd be pissed off too if I had to work at that time.

I have all these things measured, my oxygen levels and heart rate, blood pressure, my blood sugar level (which is very low) and my temperature (which is very high).

So it gets decided that I need to go to the hospital. As I've had a recent urinary tract infection, it's discussed that it may have spread to my kidneys and caused the amount of pain I'm in.

The blood sugar is due to me having had a bottle of cider. Good God, the party animal in me is beginning to destroy my health.

The only issue with going to hospital is there's only one seat in the car. And there's no chance in hell I'm going anywhere without Alex.

There's also the issue of emergency equipment needed. So a big ambulance gets called.

When it arrives some 15 minutes later, I get taken inside the ambulance and sit on a chair, my problems are told to the new paramedics. One's a bloke and one's a lady who seems quite cheerful and funny.

Then I'm given a breathing thingy, which I'm told is laughing gas, and it won't have a lasting effect.

Alex gets sooooo jealous at that. Look how the tables have turned - now I'm the badass.

I'm then handed a little bottle of sickly sweet gel and told to eat it. It's for blood sugar. It's meant to be forest fruits flavour but just tastes of sugar.

As I'm under 18, we have to go to Margate, to QEQM. To the paediatric ward.

Fml.

Blood sugar back up again and we arrive in Margate, I'm helped out of the ambulance, donned in pyjama bottoms, Alex's sweatshirt and a denim jacket, with my tatty pink blanket wrapped over my shoulders.

Alex is stood near me, wearing his classic hoodie, and a pair of baggy blue trackies, wearing trainers with no socks. His hair's all ruffled and he's got his sleepy face on.

We're shown to the waiting room, where we buy coffee, Coke and watch the BBC news about female circumcision. By this point, the painkillers have kicked in and I'm feeling slightly better.

There's a couple in there, a man and a woman. The woman declares loudly that she likes my hair as soon as we walk in the room. I'm quite taken aback but manage to have a discussion about hair dye.

While I'm in the toilet, Alex has a chat with the bloke. Apparently they'd met that night and were planning on eloping together as soon as they'd left the hospital.

All I find out is that they'd been escorted here by the police.

Well you meet some interesting folk in Marga... I mean, the hospital.

After ages, I'm called into the consultation room. Nothing gets said much, I'm just given a tube to fill with my pee.

Back in the waiting room and Alex and I curl up together and try to sleep on the many chairs we have at our disposal. We also buy some food to eat out of the vending machine.

An age later, we're called by a doctor, who sits us down and takes away my pee. Good riddance. We're quickly moved to the paediatric ward, which only has one light on as I'm the only child in the hospital.

I lie on the bed, get poked and prodded a bit and am told that I have still a mild UTI. Then I'm given hardcore painkillers and antibiotics and sent on my merry way.

We ask the chap how far the train station is.

He replies "Oooh, is far. Is very very far."

Greaaaaaat.

So we walk to Westwood Cross at 6am, as one does, still dressed in pyjamas, Alex with my blanket tightly wrapped around him. He pretends to be irritated in the fact I dragged him to hospital at 3am but he later admits he'd never ever leave me in a situation where I needed him.

We make it to McDonalds at 6:20am. We explain to the guy at the till that we've been in hospital. I must look fucking rough because the guy offers me a free drink and hash brown.

We manage to get 2 buses and a train home, and 8am just crash.

So basically, I got fobbed off with more painkillers and no real solution to the problem.

Alex wants us to go back to hospital to actually find out why I'm hurting so bad but I just wanna sleep. So much.

But anyway, it was definitely an adventure!

Such exciting things happen to ones like me.

Broken Fences and Cartwheeling Trampolines

I haven’t written in in a while… Sorry about that.

Don't get me wrong. I love writing this blog. But there's just so much for me to do.

Like studying and eating and studying and breathing and studying and sleeping and studying and showering and studying. The list is just goddamn endless.

And what doesn't help is that life has literally grabbed me with both its grubby mitts, thrown me down its ugly pie-hole, chewed me for a while before spitting my mangled, saliva-clad corpse back on to the pavement to ferment.

Though I doubt it would ferment in this type of weather. Maybe freeze so all my toes fall off and I end up an ugly purple mess.

So yes. I'm an ugly, purple, over-worked, stressed out, cold-ridden, nervous mess.

So I apologise profusely for not having written in.

In regards to the topic of this entry, which I am yet to decide... Let me just decide a topic quickly.

I have just started learning to drive.

Crazy to think of 5"5 little bespectacled me driving around in a little white Skoda Fabia and wreaking havoc on the Kentish roads.

But then it's also crazy to think that it's an act of treason, punishable by death, to place a postage stamp upside down on an envelope.

Yes. In 2016 that's punishable by death.

Anyway, back to maniac Marchant over here, just driving around the abandoned area of a local town called Deal (no stalkers plz). For those who know, opposite to Fowlmead.

So I had the liberty of a roundabout, a small car park, and a stretch of road.

And a car.

I stalled the damn thing like 15 times because I'm badass.

But the most interesting situation was me trying to turn the car around in this pathetic little excuse of a car park.

My dad starts shouting next to me "Slow down! Slow DOWN! SLOW DOWN!"

The obvious course of action in this circumstance would have been to slow down.

But, see, I'm not that intelligent.

Ohhhh no.

Instead, I decided to floor the accelerator in a blind panic and crash in to a wooden fence.

Smart, I know

My intelligence never fails to amaze me. Just this afternoon I was asked to hold a tent down to stop the 40mph winds grabbing hold of it and pulling it off to Timbuktoo.

So naturally, I let go.

Up, up and up the tent went, and soared over the six foot garden fence and to the gardens beyond.

Needless to say, Alex was not impressed. He went on a bit of a rant about women and how I’m completely incompetent at times.

Someone needs to remind him who’s the only one who can put the tent down again.

HINT: It’s me.

We ended up knocking for next door to try and get it, but no answer.

So we’re both standing on the kids’ trampoline trying to see where the tent went and then Alex ends up letting the duvet fly over the goddamn fence as well.

Hypocritical much?

We ended up managing to retrieve both tent and duvet and weighting it down with paving slabs.

Hoorah to us!

So we decided all the hard work had earned us some chicken nuggets.

Walking down the road in the dark and blustery conditions, we see a 12 foot trampoline escaping a garden over a massive hedge.

And that’s when we realised, even the worst situations could, theoretically, be so much worse.

It was also quite funny.

Christmas and the States

As pretty much the worst excuse for a blogger, I apologise. Things have been pretty hectic, and as I write I'm living the high life in the mighty US of A.

Family holidays to Florida tend to be pretty jam-packed and as for school...

SCHOOL...

It has this habit of lulling you in to this wonderful sense of security that you're on top of all your work and you can start to relax.

NEVER TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY EVER IT IS ALL A LIE

The second you leave your work for a little while because you've got a while and not much else to do, you watch a few films, go on social media, spend some time with your boyfriend, the second you decide that that's a good idea, the worst thing possible happens....

You're in your bubble of security and then you get to school one day only to be given 36 essays and 42 pieces of homework in for next Tuesday.

And the second that happens.... Well, basically... You're fucked.

I've made this mistake 5 or 6 times now and am still waiting to have learnt my lesson. I'll probably make it at least another 13 times. Just, ya know. Just to be sure.

And then it hits December 1st and all you can remember are the lyrics to Slade and Mariah Carey and you couldn't give a flying fuck why the American Civil War started, or the techniques used by Shakespeare to compare the Renaissance and the Medieval. You want to sit by the fireplace drinking hot chocolate in your pyjamas listening to the Christmas classics with a mince pie.

Then you hear on the news it's meant to snow. You think "yay, no school on Friday! I'll leave my homework!".

And then it doesn't snow. And you do have school on Friday. And then once again, you are royally fucked.

Anyway, iit's still the holidays, I need to stop fretting about school before I depress myself.

The last thing that I remember from school in 2015 was an Italian lesson in which my friends all appeared at the window brandishing a bra and shouting "WE HAVE A BRA FOR YOU!!!".

I didn't even bother explaining to the teacher what the circumstances were, but I can assure you it's a other more innocent than you're probably thinking.

Think my friend lent me a strapless bra for holiday so I could wear halternecks as we're the same size.

We girlies like to share more than just gossip.

But Florida.

Something I've noticed here is the fact that everyone is so much friendlier than back at home.

You'll be ambling down a street when someone waves at you and asks how your day is going.

Naturally,  I do the very British thing of looking over my shoulder, believing the stranger us addressing someone other than myself.  But alas, no. They did mean to talk to me.

Even Brits are more friendly to other Brits here. You hear the tones of another English accent and you start chatting to them no matter what and walk away as unlikely chums.

Back in the UK we're far more likely to shove someone down the escalators of the Underground than we are of making smalltalk with strangers.

Think about it. If I passed a stranger in the street back home I'd generally look at the pavement and scuttle along. If I was feeling particularly adventurous maybe I'd attempt a smile.

Here it's everyone talks to everyone, long conversations with waiting staff and parking operatives, and "ohmygawd I LURVE your accent!"

Within an hour of landing in this country I was asked what a Donnex's catchphrase was. I had not the foggiest what this chap from the rental car company was on about until he said "EXTERMINATE!". It then occurred to me that he must have meant a Dalek.

Some stranger walked up to me a couple of days ago at the swimming pool and asked what Premier League football team I supported. They laughed when they said football, as if we Brits were the ones that christened a sport which predominantly uses hands "football".

I had to disappoint him in saying I honestly couldn't give a flying toss about a spherical ball moving up and down a grassy field.

Thinking about it, I'm not very British. I don't even like tea which apparently just strips me of my nationality straight away.

Thankfully I've managed to find out how to mask my IP address on my laptop so we've been able to keep up with all our favour BBC shows. Luther, Call The Midwife, Doctor Who, Sherlock. We've stayed up to date on all our British faves.

A man from Northern USA said to my family the other day that you can always spot a Brit because they'll be the ones wearing socks on the beach. Usually black. True to his word my dad was wearing socks, only they were white.

I haven't worn socks since I got here. I'm really failing on the whole British thing I believe.

Corridor Wars and the Battle of Beauty

I haven't posted in a while. I apologise for this but I've been a bit busy.

I'm here now. That's what counts, aye?

Anyway, I'm not exactly sure what I'm posting about so I figured I'd just let the words leave my fingertips and see where exactly we end up once I'm finished. 

Something I have noticed at school is that everyone lied to me.

I was told all the younger years would be scared of me, dodging me in corridors and scuttling away frightened every time my gaze fixed upon their tiny faces.

Is this the case?

No. No it is not.

Quite on the contrary, these small children just shove me out of the way as if I wasn't even there. 

I'm late for lessons 100% of the time, not because I have abysmal time keeping skills, or dawdle in the corridors, or anything swaggy and IDGAF like that.

I'm late because all the little kids shove me in to walls.

They walk in rows. They walk down narrow corridor in lines, obstructing the whole path and I'm like arrrrgh where do I even go? 

I said "excuse me" the other day and a younger student had a go at me. I felt quite violated and ashamed. Not going to lie about it.

So now I roam the corridors clutching my travel mug tightly to my chest, sporting a fearful expression and prepared to throw hot chocolate over any unfavorable character.

Okay, that's a lie. I wouldn't really throw hot chocolate over a child. But it does get agitating, especially with sarcastic teachers.

"Well good evening, Robyn. Might I ask where you've been?"

*shifty look left. Shifty look right*
"Well the corridor was kinda busy...."

They never buy it.

It doesn't help being near enough the same height/shorter than the majority of them.

I found out how tall I actually am the other day and let's just say I was not darn well impressed.

So having been one of the tallest in my year for a long time everyone was fairly confident I'd be tall enough to be a model. What a disappointment.

I was at the nurse's having a check up for medication (yay...) and she checked my BMI. My weight I scrunched my eyes up so I didn't have to look. My height.....

I stood up against the wall measure, the nurse brought the measurey thing down on to my head.

"One hundred and sixty-three centimetres!"

Half an hour later I googled what this is in feet.

5ft4. What.

I could swear I was 5ft6 at one point. After the vertebral disk injury a couple of years ago I must have shrunk. It's the only explanation.....

So yeah, now I'm one of the midgets.

So yeah, schools pretty stressful at the moment. OBVIOUSLY that's the worst of it though. Not the mountains of homework or anything.

My salvation is my free periods, where I can chill out a bit, slowly work on something while noshing on something that'll make life seem so much better, and giggling away with my girlies,

In a couple of weeks we've all got GCSE presentation evening, so everyone's all having kittens about what dress to wear to it.

This includes me, as my mother decided to buy some the other day which don't look toooo bad on me.

Naturally, I asked my friends and boyfriend, and while Alex was saying I should go for the red one, my girl mates were like "not that one"

So I'm like ahhhh. I guess I'll go in my pyjamas.

I dressed up fairly nice the other week for my cousin Becky's birthday party. It was at a cocktail bar I ended up getting served at and I had a tad too many.

Apparently I was stroking Alex's leg telling him I wanted to kiss him. Nice to know I turn into one hella creepy bitch when drunk. 

It was a great evening though soooo whateverrrr.

After his initial laughing at me, he said it was "kinda cute".

I'm sorry but no.... I just sound like some whacko molester.

All I remember is walking out my house looking and feeling pretty damn awesome and walking back in again feeling very giggly, loved-up and looking like the Joker.

Anyway we all had a great time and I did get to kiss him. So all was well xD

All's well that ends well.

A Damaged Pride Amongst Other Things

So on Saturday I had my first day off in a considerably extended period of time.

So how, do you assume, I spent my relaxing day off?

Going on a wondrous adventure with my boyfriend?

Shopping with my girl mates and having a right old laugh?

Chilling in front of Netflix in my PJs with a steaming cup of luxury hot chocolate?

THINK AGAIN!

I figured a nice way to spend my day off would be at the MIU of my local hospital.

For those with less hospital experience, that's the minor injuries unit.

How, you might ask, did I end up in said predicament?

Well...

You see...

I flew down my cellar steps like the second coming of Lucifer.

Yes. I swear on my life. That's what happened.

I thought, "Well hey, what's the point in going all the way upstairs to get my own shoes when I can just slip my dad's on quickly for nipping down the cellar!"

That thought process, while having occurred and in fact succeeded on multiple occasions, in this instance, was nothing short of insanity.

I got to the second step down and I'm fairly certain I must have slipped.

I'm not entirely certain because I don't really remember what happened up to That Fucking Moment.

That Fucking Moment where you realise.... you fucked up.

You fucked up BIG TIME!

So I sort of became concious that I was falling and that immediate doom was inevitable a few milliseconds before my back collided with the brick step with an incredible force.

Did it stop there?

No it did not.

In the true style of the pull of gravity, I continued my downstairs descent with a "DONK DONK DONK DONK DONK"

The whole "DONK" thing?

Yeah. That was the sound of my spine hitting brick. Somewhere amongst that was also my right elbow hitting brick.

There was basically a lot of me hitting brick.

After I'd stopped donking down the steps, I omitted such a noise that my sister described as a "hurty whale" and led my brother to the belief that a dog had somehow got in to the cellar.

Flattered, as you can imagine.

Anyway, I finally managed to move, found myself unable to move my elbow, laugh, cough or sit down.

So I ended up waiting in the hospital for a considerable amount of time, being told it was ligament and muscle damage in my arm, and told that the muscles in my back, had once again, torn.

Having recently been diagnosed with hypermobility syndrome, this didn't really come as much of a shock.

What was rather shocking though was having to pee in a paper dish and walk out of the toilet, rather skeptical that the thing was going to even hold, and hand it to the nurse looking after me while trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

Yep. Had to have my pee checked for blood to make sure my kidneys hadn't taken too much of a bashing. Awkward much.

Anyway, I was sent home with a sling and a considerable dent in my pride.

A Mini Me

Most people have a lot of funny stories from when they were kids but having been talking to my mum, I was honestly such a classic *embarrassing* child it even cracks me up!

So I spent the first few years of my life living in a teeny village alongside the Kentish downs, so it was essentially like living under a very green and spacious rock.

So I saw mostly the same people day in, day out basically. However I did learn things through the TV which made me feel awful smart. I was one of those inquisitive little children that asked questions about literally EVERYTHING. I had to know the ins and outs of just about anything and everything.

Even from a young age I liked swimming, so there I was, swimming with my mum, armbands on, and who do I see other than a black man.

So I'd learnt about different skin colours on the TV but I hadn't really seen it first hand so according to my mum, my little chubby three-year old face lit up and I paddled off before she could do anything about it, to talk to the poor chap.

"You're black, aren't you?" I said, very proud of myself.

"Yes I am," He replied. "And what colour are you?"

My face shone even more and I flicked my head in a very know-all fashion.

"Oh, I'm SILVER!"

Silver. I said I was silver.

Silver. 

SILVER???

Oh my word. Wasn't I just wonderful?

I was also fairly demanding. I still am, really. Reply to my message, hug me, love me... JOKING. Or am I? I'll leave you to suss that one out...

If I wanted something, I wanted it and I would go to extreme lengths to ensure I got what I wanted. So, when I was three I actually lived in Kavala, in Greece for several months because of a work placement my dad had got. So my life was pretty damn chill, beach every day, sandcastles every day, paddling, glorious sunshine. The picture-perfect life, when you think about it.

But I wanted an ice-cream, even though I'd already had one. So my mum said, "No, Robyn, you can't have another one, play nicely now please."

But that wasn't good enough for me.

I waddled up to the kiosk, approached the man who was second-in-line and yelled "BUY ME AN ICE-CREAM, NOW!!"

And to the poor guy's credit, he did. 

So I walked back to mum, happily slurping away at my ice-cream, which shortly followed with a full-blown interrogation as to where I'd got it from.

"That man bought it for me, mummy!"

Just dropped him right in it. I was such a little shit!

So mum had to pay the bloke back and I got away with my ice-cream, although I did get in a LOT of trouble.

Like, a hella lot.

But the "now" thing kind of was kind of a thing for me. We were at some barbecue, I was two years old I think? Anyway, I went up to my mum and I said, "Mummy, I want another drink!"

So, my mother being a wonderful model parent for all the people surrounding us, replied "And what's the magic word, Robyn?"

So I stood up tall and went "NOW!!!" 

Everyone nearby scarpered pretty quickly, like oooh, how embarrassing. I had that effect. I made people walk away from us, I was so embarrassing.

But my all-time personal favourite has to be the time we went to B&Q. Again, I was two and I was stuck at that awkward stage where I called every lady "mummy" and every man "daddy". So mum was trying to get me to kick the habit, like "No Robyn, that's a lady."

This one time though I got it spot on.

So we were browsing for God-knows what around B&Q and the sales assistant walks over and politely asks "Hello there, is there anything I can help you with today?"

My arms dropped down by my sides. My eyes widened like saucers. My jaw hit the floor.

I lifted one arm, pointed at the sales assistant and yelled, at the absolute top of my voice,

"MAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!!"

For what was stood in front of me, was reasonably obviously, a male transvestite looking absolutely mortified.

So what did my mum do?

She scooped me up under one arm.

And she ran as fast as she could to get the hell out of there.

She couldn't exactly tell me off; I was merely being honest.

The moral of the story is: don't get caught with me out and about in public, because I have a talent for showing people up.

Yup. That's me.