N.B

This is the link to my new blog http://amie-coussens.blogspot.com/ unfortunately I couldn't find a way to use the same blogspot address. Got to love modern technology xx.

The final blog.

So it only took about three months to get the olde blog back up and running, but don’t worry there is VERY good excuse.

For some reason and going against the laws of female ability I can’t successfully multitask. Obviously I can breath and talk, eat and drink, sleep and well…sleep, but for when it comes to writing it is either blog or diary. Hence why I have a very fully diary and a very empty blog.

Anyway in theory this particular entry should mark the final entry of ‘the beautiful life of a student.’ No longer are NUS cards in action, staying in bed till 2pm is a thing of the past and tax dodging has officially come and gone.

I have been coming up with ideas on how to sum up university as a whole, some way of capturing the last three years in writing, but have not had much luck. Everytime I go to write about it I just lose myself in how to portray the most amazing three years of my life. Do I thank everything and everyone? Do I write a to-do list for future students? Do I take another degree and start writing about it from freshers week? (Like anyone could turn down that offer!) Do I just write the world ‘wow’- was going with that idea but then thought it was a wee bit to ambiguous?

What I can say is this…sitting back home in my room three years after the initial email congratulating me on my placement at Chester University seems like decades ago. I remember the excitement of buying mundane things such as towels and toothbrushes, knowing that in a matter of weeks I would be out in the wild and living the life every 18 year old dreams of.

Now having completed university just seems surreal. Still to this day I don’t know how it went so fast, or how I managed to get away with half the stuff that my housemates and I did. Chester was an unforgettable experience and that in short is about all I can say.

It hasn’t sunk in that we’re not going back in September yet, or that for the time being Surrey is going to be my home. No more uni.

I think I had secretly hoped this last entry was going to be full of emotion, every other word being flooded with tears, not being able to capture the minute details of every event or fully portray what really goes on behind Chester walls.

Perhaps university has toughened me up and totally destroyed my emotions.

One day I will be able to conclude university life, but for now I have just under 2000 facebook photos and a group of friends and memories that will stay with me forever. Thank you Chester I couldn't have asked for more.

Ginger meat

So here is the picture:

All the members of 6 West Lorne Street moved out two weeks ago and now two of us are back till Wednesday next week.

Now, when we moved out we got a little carried away and accidently took 99% of our stuff home, forgetting that we were coming back a few weeks later. As a result we have been eating all our canned food out of mugs (thankfully there were two left in the cupboard!) and almost resorting to ant powder as a sugar substitute.

If our lack of intuition wasn’t enough, we also have a fridge full of frozen meat. Well I say meat; the technical phrase would be half a butchers shop in our kitchen. Somehow a few days before we left two weeks ago we decided to buy some food, and a mixture of too many vegetables that week and a serious hunger for proper food resulted in 30 sausages, 10 burgers and an estimated two chickens. I can put my hands up and say no vegetarians lived in our house!

But what we didn’t get round to doing was actually eating any of it. So now in between our strict diet of Custard Creams and Milka is a daily allowance of British meat (so much for working of the excess university bulge.)

It has now got to the stage of what can we do tonight with six sausages each. Becky may be a culinary Goddess but we could easily feed a small army of Cheshire Jets with the contents of our fridge.

And if we weren’t under enough pressure of life outside uni, now having to demolish all this food may just be the death of us.

A simple solution would be some kind of massive road BBQ, or some similar meat centred event, but this is Chester after all. There is more chance of me seducing Prince Harry and giving birth to the next heirs of England than another decent house party here. Mind you…wouldn’t say no to Prince Harry, after all, he is ginger.

Initial panic

Ahhh ‘the beautiful life of a student,’ my old friend.

Life right now is about as planned as, well, something that is very unplanned. Fantastic description there.

I am now back in Chester and still house hunting and job hunting. It seems all we seem to do these days is hunt, and thankfully we’re not reliant on our hunting skills because we would be well and truly dead by now.

‘We’ is referring to my housemate Becky and I. The plan is still for the two of us and housemate number three, Amy, to stay up here and officially say bye to our student roots in the year 2011.

As you can tell by the beautiful punctuation and general flow of this blog my mind isn’t really in gear.

Being back here is weird and we are not talking about losing car keys and finding them in the car door weird, but more like the notion that something is missing.

Our little Victorian house is quiet and apart from the odd sticky note marked ring so-and-so regarding job A. it is the same as it was two weeks ago.

Having spent last week working at a paper down south my drive to become a journalist is in full swing and whenever I spot a newspaper I have to read it. Gluten for punishment clearly.

We viewed our first house yesterday but the more we see the more problems arise. Firstly because the three of us are not related we have a small issue of multiple occupancy laws, this means lots of three bedroom places around but very few tenants happy to lease them to three female friends not including the ‘ex-student’ bit.

We have all roughly agreed that come August/ September we will be up here, if not sooner. So I guess that is progress.

The biggest issue is discovering a personal trait that until recently I was unaware I had. Impatience.

Not having a house is upsetting seeing as in exactly six days we are kicked out of this one.

This means if we get an interview for the end of next week we have to come back and fork out for accommodation, and so the cycle begins.

You can’t really have one without the other, which ever way you look at it. But now is a case of grabbing bulls by the horns and pointing the animal in the direction of a career and a penthouse over looking Central Park…a girl can dream!

So safely locking the fear of the unknown away and giving Pandora the key, the life without university begins.

All that’s left to do (apart from find a house and a job) is to find a way to sum up these past three years. Maybe I’ll leave that for the next blog.

Balls up

Last night was the uni ball, the official way and tradition way to end a university life. However, I was not there. Instead I spent the day at work and the evening doing mindless things to distract myself.

I should have gone and yes, it will be the biggest regret of my university experience. Not only was my dress ready to hop into, but the tickets and table were practically written in stone.

There were only three major issues. One not all of us were going, two my bank account consisted of £5 let alone £57 (not including drinks!) and thirdly being in the same venue as two of my ex’s wearing suits was a disaster just waiting to happen.

So like any coward I took the easy route and decided to bail out, rather than go. Hanging my head in shame it was wiser to forget what an amazing night I was missing by literally not thinking about it. I did briefly wish for Tiny Tempah to keel over with some form of 24 hour killer flu and then decided it was probably best not to jinx fate.

After interviewing the guy in charge of the whole event and getting the exact details of food, music, venues and general excitment, the decision not to go was even harder.

Now all that’s left is to hear all the people that went swear that it was their best night ever and those dreaded words “you missed out.”

Chester uni only has one ball a year and anyone is entitled to go, so the fact that I (or my housemates) never went to one is more than a tad depressing.

So there it is, my one university memory I won’t remember. But on the positive side it will not replace any of the amazing experiences over the past three years.

Why am I getting the impression the summing up of this entire blog is not far off?

The summer ball and Six West Lorne Street is soon going to be filed away like eighteen Garden Lane and 31 John Milton Hall. Scary or what.

Decision time

Home is where the heart is so the saying goes. However, home is also the biggest pain since the fashion gods of the world thought it wise to bring back leggings.

So it comes as no wonder that the students, adolescents-call them what you want-people regard home as simply a free supermarket and a decent bed.

Stepping back into familiar territory of home is welcoming but it causes a much greater feeling, the feeling that you are not living your life to its full potential.

Having lived in the same house since the age of 3, going to university in Chester was bliss. Chester itself was a little piece of ancient history and it quickly became ‘home’ and after there years of education and alcohol experimentation the question of where next to set up house was breached.

The South is warm, fun and the general pace of life is so fast compared to its northern counterpart that many people choose never to live it. It is very rare these days to hear a northern accent in these parts (Surrey) generalisation or not, it is true.

In comparison the North is colder and in its own little way trapped in time. Granted, both areas share history but in experience, people in the North are much more likely to flash you a smile than the workaholics found on the streets of London.

Having been brought up in the South, the North was always exhilarating even the droning M6 was exciting. Perhaps it was the prospects of so many KFC’s, who knows?

So as crunch time grows ever closer this decision becomes more and more like Jaws. Do you pack up the best three years of life and move back in with parents, under the same rules and regulations that surrounded the then 17 year old, or do you stay up North, admit financial ruin, move in with friends and continue as an independent woman?

The very reasonable housing market and availability of jobs in Chester makes staying in Surrey point blank pointless. And let’s not forget there would always be the question ‘is moving back into your parents house a step backwards?’

Perhaps the only way to find out is to rent a house up North (well West Midlands) and give it a shot. So here’s to the next adventure and having survived student accommodation, several boiler explosions and killer mould, what’s the worst that can happen?

How to be a student

No one has ever laid down the rules on how to correctly be a student. Tax payers think students are tax dodging ‘young adults’, ex-students think they are jealous and future students will strop until they finally become one.

The simple point of fact is that no matter how you’re perceived as a student, it is what you put into your experience that truly counts.

Let’s start off with a few basics, they can easily to sleep in till lunch, eat breakfast for tea and drink the house dry. They attend lectures once a week and regard channel E4 as the equivalent to the BBC News.

Once they have finally dragged themselves out of the lairs then they can really begin the day. One can imagine their day to be very hectic, what with all their extra curriculum activities (stealing road signs, cones and various other night reflective objects) and keeping the local kebab shop in business, the life of a student is not to be snubbed.

In order to be the very best student a student can be they must follow several simple guidelines…

Firstly: student discount. See it, sign it and get it. Life is not complete without some form of discount and tight fisted, money holding persons that they are, any discount will be welcomed. So get hold of a student card and start flashing it.

Secondly: food shopping. Just because Tesco value food looks like it has been reared on the ugly farm does not mean it is not edible. With a pinch of salt and a sprinkling of pepper they should be Gordon Ramsey-ing it before they know it. Before long the British economy will be booming thanks to students and their low standards of food.

Thirdly: sleep/ sleep deprivation. Students don’t sleep. They are not nocturnal, they simply don’t sleep. Think Twilights Edward Cullen but without the blood curdling thirst. Although sleep deprivation may sound like terminology from doom, it will become a student’s best friend pushing the boundaries of human function to the extreme.

This brings us to point four: ProPlus. Never underestimate the power of a student and a packet of ProPlus, especially around the exam period. The reason students can look like they haven’t slept in day is probably because they haven’t. These Proplus wonders can add hours to a student’s revision timetable and lets face it, they wouldn’t strive on pulling ‘all nighters’ to work if they couldn’t achieve it.

These are but a few guidelines to encourage the students of today to maximize their university experience. It goes without saying that they should firstly, before obtaining their student discount cards, enrol on a degree course they find interesting.

From one student to another, if they want to enhance their path in life, gain an extra qualification or simply learn more about specifics then choosing an interesting degree will certainly help.

At the end of the day isn’t that what students go to university for?

Talented Britain

Britain is famous for many things, roast dinners, David Beckham and two very good looking princes. However, none of these are responsible for the millions of British viewers that will be tuning into ITV at half 7 each day this week.

So without any further ado, I give you Britain’s Got Talent (BGT.)

Last night sparked the first of the live semi-finals and like the rest of Britain last night, I took my dinner to the T.V and sat partially ogling the hosts Ant and Dec (which one is which??) and debated with the rest of my household who we thought would go through and who would sulk off stage.

As the show started Piers, Amanda and the worryingly mesmerizing Simon Cowell (and let’s face it he shouldn’t look that good in a suit!) graced our television sets as the decision making judges. They sat down, the audience clapped and the little men with the signs at the front of the stage said ‘silence.’

The acts rolled by, a Bollywood dance group, a little girl who had a voice of an angel and young guy who also had the voice of an angel (is this show X Factor?), a dancer who used a floating ball as a prop, a slightly tangoed cruise ship entertainer, a singing knight chopping wood, a guy who likes to swallow things and a gymnastic group full of topless men.

My money was on the gymnastic group called Spellbound. Yes, nice men jumping around with their six packs on show may have been a deciding element, but their combinations and routine was flawless. So much so that it almost resulted in my housemates and I attempting to pull off some similar moves. Thankfully we decided for the sake of our living room windows it was probably best we did not try and ‘prove’ that we could each do a double round off. Besides, our landlords would probably kill us.

So as it got nearer and nearer to results time and our urges to injure ourselves by getting our feet wrapped around our heads (you laugh now…but you should have seen it!) subsided the suspense grew. Only two of the eight acts could go through to Saturdays live final and I was determined Spellbound had to be one of them.

But why did I choose that exact time to go and whack the kettle on? There was a sudden shriek of excitement from the lounge and like a bullet I ran to room, my love for Spellbound increasing and the fact that they would be great to see perform at the Royal Variety beaming on my face.

However, as things go I probably should have seen the chair, or the flipped over corner of the rug, or the big-fat-slightly less hairy than usual-slug on the floor. Instead I attempted a Linford Christie esc move, caught my foot on the chair, landed head first on the rug, arms in the air and narrowly missed the ultimate squishing of our beloved resident slug.

I had pulled off a spectacular spellbinding fall and Spellbound were through to the final. It was the perfect end to what could have been a disastrous night for women and slug alike.

So tonight when the clock strikes 7:30pm once again I will be in front of the T.V cheering for Britain, along with the rest of the country to discover whether as a nation we have any talent or if we should just stick to making roast dinners.

Café world

The area where we lived this year is about as civilised as a spam factory, but it does have one amazing quality. This place of wonder, the ultimate Thursday morning cure, the secret to student Ville…the café!
For a beautiful price of £3.50 you can get a full fried breakfast and drink, it may not be heaven, but it certainly isn’t too far off. I would like to think that if the world collapsed (or Chester self- combusted) then the café would be the venue all the survivors end up. A little piece of edible heaven.
Our house has always gone there after a night of, shall we say, vigorous, none eating and welcomed the rewards of comfort food the following day. So this week’s visit was no exception.
However, there was one difference. It was the last time Becky, Claire and I would all go together. As we all sank our teeth into Chester’s best bacon ensemble there was a definite feeling of grief. The baked beans that coated the fried egg just were not as ‘Heinz’ as normal.
And even the white plates that constantly spin on the lino table cloths were not making us as goofy as usual.
What had happened?
There was bound to be café’s all over the globe and they could probably offer everything our little one here did.
It seems this is yet another string-to-the-bow of tissue needing memories that are arising.
What I do know is that it has turned my brain into English breakfast mode; wonder if we have any bacon…

Death by Dyson

Suddenly in a matter of days our house has turned from student heaven (bottles on all surfaces, ants, dust and left over pizza boxes) into a domesticated housewife’s lair.
With only two out of us five girls still living here, it was oddly rewarding to whip out the hover and give the house the clean it needed. But as with most university related things at the moment it made my heart go ‘twang.’
Yesterday Claire left uni and we (Becky and I) watched her drive away, leaving the pair of us sniffling and a little bit teary.
So when I got the hover out this morning for a bit of spring cleaning and the same effect happened, I was more than a bit worried. Crying over a hover is probably a condition for a psychologist. Or some Dyson loving ‘fetisher.’
On the plus side the house once again looks new, but sadly on the downside the end is getting ever closer. I Might just have to stay clear of any hovers or similar cleaning equipment for the time being. Gutted.

The morning after

I will admit that my life is not amazingly exciting, and half the events in it should be written down and shared and the other half, well, who needs to know the entire list of my food shop.

Anyway, with a grand total of a few weeks to go till I leave Chester for good the day-to-day events just keep getting better.

This is probably one of these things that should remain in my head, or written down and forgotten about…but let’s be honest, where is the fun in that?

Last night my housemates and I embraced our usual SU Friday, complete with cider and black (my increasing levels of testosterone never seize to amaze me), music that would make my Nan cry and text messaging that will undoubtedly leave to a back ache the following morning.

Being single in university is a necessity, relationships are for the faint hearted and easily pleased. Which is why nights out which end in midnight rendezvous are disasters waiting to happen.

After weeks of happily scouting the male talent of Cheshire, constantly shaving my legs and loving being ‘me’ again, I was a little surprised when the last guy I dated popped up in my inbox. (No pun intended.)

Four hours later I woke up in his bed trying to figure out A. why I was there and B. where my clothes were and C. how I was going to explain this to my housemates. Either way stepping inside his front door was probably a rookie mistake.

All it took was one sentence to alter the relatively good opinion I had of him. After waking me up and doing his manly thing he suggested I leave before it got too busy outside. Not only was it raining but he let slip he was too drunk to drive me home, so it would be ‘walk of shame’ time.
Five minutes previous I was sleeping and now I had to try to convince the residents of Chester that looking like a tramp at half 8 in the morning is a fashion statement.

Also after seeing Sex and the City 2 yesterday this experience was a little too much Carrie Bradshaw for my liking and it seemed crazy that after the best break-up in the world it all went ‘poof’ in a matter of verbal diarrhoea.

This may be more evidence that men are well...men and for every good chicken there really is a bad egg. But then again, if you can’t have your eggs sunny side up in the morning when can you?

It is common knowledge that first impressions of a person leave a lasting mark, but last impressions leave a crater in your mind.
So it’s back to bed with a nice cup of tea and start writing a non-man blog. The big wide world awaits and with KG’s on my feet and a smile on my face what is the worst that can happen?

Vampire's and Twitter go neck and neck...

A second time spinner that has stemmed from no longer being a student is Twitter. Not only is this another device to broadcast more drunken opinions, but it is also the home of a twitter page called ‘the single woman’.
This page is terrible, forever telling single women-such as myself- that being single is ok. Constantly bombarding me and followers alike with sweet and meaningful sayings/ lyrics and quotes inspiring to help the single woman get through her lonely day of self loathing, and ensuring her that happiness is only round the corner.
What this is really doing is convincing females (or attempting to), that the reason he cheated was so we would find our true love. Highly unlikely.
However, being the romantic optimist that I am, I love it!
Granted he may not smell as fantastic as a vampire, but he may be the first guy you see tomorrow or the guy across the street.
I guess you do have to learn from your past, it must all happen for a reason right? But when is the right time to shut the door: “If he was dumb enough to walk away, you should be smart enough to move on.” Personally that sounds more like a critical statement than a form of literary encouragement.
So perhaps the end of Chester uni is the time to close the lid on the search for the ‘perfect man’ or should it read the ‘perfect male student?’
As a female I’ve laughed, cried and had my heart broken by men these past three years. Even wanted them dead. But one thing is for sure, every single one of them is different and every single one of them brings out something new in you.
There will always be the one that got away, the ‘what if?’ one. The one who would catch your breath and vanish your inhibitions with a single glance.
If uni has taught me anything it’s that you have to go through the bad ones to get to the good ones. And one day you will take that chance and it will be worth every pervious hesitation you’ve ever had.

The end of man as we know it.

I know I haven’t written a blog here for a while, but there has been a genuine reason. Last week I finished uni, forever!

Getting my head around this has been a huge challenge, one which admittedly has not yet sunk in.

Either way, writing this blog ‘the end of uni’ would be the first hurdle in accepting the truth.

So to put it in pure Coussens style I have decided to divert this topic with a reoccurring theme that has been present throughout my university life…men.

With all this spare time I have managed to finally attack my ever increasing list of books to read before I die. Yes, I am one of those sad people that can occasionally block out the world and read a book cover-to-cover in a matter of days. Not surprising being an ex-English student.

Anyway, first on the list was Twilight. I could write book reviews till the cows come home, but this book drew me in more than any guy I’ve ever known. And it got me thinking; are there men out there who are as irresistible as the allusive Edward Cullen?

I will be the first to admit that over these past three years of university I have dated as many men as I have completed Journalism assignments. In short that equals out as quite a few dates.

A few men never made it past the first date; some only just made it to the destructive forth date of doom and a minor two I actually fell for. I have been cheated on, cheated myself and done things that would make my Grandma turn in her grave (thankfully I no longer have that car.)

So it poses the question, are there men out there who can send you giddy at a single smile? Whose mere presence leaves you unable to keep your hands off them and who will take you home and tell you how edible you smell?

Rippling six packs and physiques aside, do we women have to look to the fictional characters to prove that love exists? Or do these made-up-males just make it harder to see the real men in front of our eyes?

Brannies biggest rival. Or not?

It is common knowledge to any journalist writing an opinion piece, that in order to write a fair and balanced article you should not be bias; so admittedly have already kicked myself in the head on this particular subject.

I have been a student in Chester for almost three years now and being a regular Wednesday girl, the closing down of Brannigans back in January left more than a little tear in my eye.

Brannigans always was the life and soul of Chester student nights and although you got stuck to the floor, lost limbs trying to get served and always returned home resembling something that had been dragged through a bush backwards, there was little not to love about it.

In short the ‘student night’ set to replace it would have a lot to live up to.

Sure enough a few weeks’ later rumours began to fly of an alternative to Chester’s much beloved Brannigans, a club in Ellesmere Port called Destiny and Elite (it is known to the locals as desperate and easy. Not the most promising start.)

It was originally arranged by Chris Davies, a previous manager of the Su bar and a few other well known names and costing £5 a ticket, it got you a coach fare to and from the club, as well as entry into the club itself. Add in all drinks priced at 99p and you shouldn’t be far off student heaven.

So on Wednesday the 14th of April with my housemates in tow, I went to Destiny and Elite, keeping an open mind and preparing to be swayed into my beliefs on Chester’s hottest student night club.

As the clock struck nine we put on our heels and headed into town for a few pre-drinks before out night of ‘research’ began.

Having been told that the buses leave from two points in town, one being out side the town hall and the other outside Revs, we ventured down to Revs to have a few cheeky drinks before hopping on the next bus ride to Destiny.

Now, in hindsight this should seem like a simple idea. You go to a bar, have a drink and relax, while you wait for your bus to take you to your desired destination- perhaps Arriva should take this idea into consideration?

This was probably the first, shall we say, hiccup.

Glancing over at the bus stop for some idea of bus times, we noticed a group of students pile out the door. That was our first sign that a bus was here.

We then flew to the door ready to clamber on the bus. What followed next was a doorman turning round saying the bus was full and we needed to wait another 15 minutes for the next one.

This seemed a tad disorganised but it was no disaster. It simply meant time for one more drink, jump on the next one and go to the club. The only slight issue with the commotion was some unfortunate girl had done a spectacular 360 degree fall outside and we were now minus two housemates who had managed to barge their way on the previous bus.

Anyway, 15 minutes rolled by and we left the bar, and headed over the road to the bus stop. Then 45 minutes passed and we were still standing in the same spot and still waiting for the bus. Baring in mind the dawn of Thursday the 15th was not far off, the temperature outside was fluctuating between 10 degrees and minus one and a queue of 40 odd students behind us, the atmosphere of night had dropped well below freezing.

Being the right-old-age of 21 I refuse to moan and groan over something as small as a 45 minute wait for a bus, but if first impressions were anything to go by this night still had a lot to prove.

Two buses run to Destiny every 20 minutes, so why were we left standing in the cold for over three quarters of an hour? This would never happen at Brannies, you could walk straight in and were lucky if you had to queue for more than 15 minutes.

Eventually the bus arrived and instead of filing on like the respectable students that we are, we were vultures in for the kill. Never before has a stiletto heel had so many advantages.

We found the nearest seats and like school kids suddenly became possessive of our space and began scouting out the male talent. All that was missing was school ties around our necks, lollipops in our mouths and random shoes being thrown down the coach.

There was the chanting, the laughing and even the girls at the front of the bus smoking. It really felt like we had stepped back six years and vey little had changed.

I had heard so many good reports about this place; it was supposedly double the size of Brannies, better, cheaper and a guaranteed ‘quality night out.’ So far I was just pleased we didn’t have to queue to get inside.

Once inside little did I know my heart was about to die again. Not only had the bus journey there been the epitome of home grown sprouts, but the whole club appeared to have been decorated by a blind primary school kid. I had been to more exciting year five discos.

On the plus side there was a lot of room to dance, which is great seeing as their drinks prices are so low that everyone needs an arms width of space to dance (think drunk Uncle at a wedding.)

After a few hours of strenuous dancing we decided to head home, only forgetting that this requires getting yet another bus home and the accompanying thought that my bed was still 30 minutes away, a painful thought compared to the 10 minutes speed walk it used to be from Brannigans.

When the coach pulled into Parkgate road I could finally see the light. Whether or not if was actually the gleaming reflection of the recently placed sick on the bus floor shinning off the moon is another story. Either way, my bed had never felt so good and my feet had never been so grateful to be rested.

It would be wrong to say the night was a disaster, because every element of Destiny and Elite is student orientated; it was encouraged, planned and created by Chester students.

You get the impression with a bit more time and organisation this really can be a huge success and could be a Wednesday night that could easily rival those Brannigans days.

To say neither I nor my housemates will never go again is untrue, but for the time being Branniagns (RIP) will always be the best student night in Chester.

Men: The rational creature.

I always seem gutted when the ‘other sex’ does what they think is best, generally the overall outcome is a guaranteed mood dropper, followed by a viscous attack on a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

However, it has the estranged ability to make a woman wonder if there is enough space in their testicles for a brain and whether god intended them to have the function of the central nervous system in the first place?

No woman should ever become a ‘man hating’ machine, or swear never to go near them again, because in short, we need them (generalization or not) and if you can’t wake up with your head on the rugby captains chest now, when can you?

I am not suggesting you immediately sprint to the nearest womanizer on campus (please note not all rugby captains are like this and no rugby players were hurt in the writing of this blog) and seduce him till he sleeps.

Anyway here is the context…the end of uni is on the horizon and the only thing separating you from a Las Vegas wedding and real life is a pot noodle and four episodes of Come Dine With Me.

So do you A. Keep ploughing along with your perspective date or B. Throw in the towel?
Both have their own advantages and both will have you searching for ideas at the bottom of your trusty ‘Chunky Monkey.’

It is a tricky set of crossroads, where and let’s face it, denial seems like a fitting path. But is there a right choice?

Put one man in a room and he will try to solve the problem; put three men in a room and they will achieve a convincing resemblance of three monkeys and a banana! Leaving you wondering if the Neanderthal man of today has swapped stone tools and fire, for PHDs and male bonding time.

Either way, perhaps it is safe to say, that the art of rational thinking is not for the faint hearted.

A womans secret

So today I had to make one of the biggest decisions of the month and seeing as we’re only on the 6th of April it seems next month has a lot to live up to. Either way the panic was as followed: what colour to dye me hair?

Now this may seem like a highly irrelevant and typically female thing to say, but in a world full of deadlines and pressure, taking three hours out to have a haircut is possibly one of the most rewarding things a woman can do. In short it can elevate life as a whole, or leave you very bald.

For some reason, aside the fact that my decision making skills are rubbish at the best of times, the dilemma was my head saying make me blonde and my brain saying make me brown. So after some strenuous hair colour samples we (my extremely talented hair dresser and i) went for something inbetween.

Now why my brain and my head couldn’t coordinate together and come up with that solution is beyond me, but nevertheless I spent three hours sitting in a shop, rapidly losing feeling in my butt, getting high off the colour solution and resembling a very realistic plastic palm tree.

The most heartfelt moment was having to cut a few inches off the ends to make up for the abuse my GHD’s had created, and when you are trying to grow hair that grows on a scale of an inch every four months, it is not a nice experience to see it all surrounding your feet.

Guys that is the equivalent of trying to grow a beard because you think it looks good and (after months of odd looks from various family members) you get some form of spot, or facial fungal infection and have to shave the whole thing off.

But it was not all doom and gloom, whilst I was being yanked, dyed and plasticated, there were two other women also in the same shop. Now you have to bear in mind this hairdressers is quite small, friendly, family appealing and was at the time only occupied by women; so what better conversation for them to strike up than childbirth.

Now… being a courageous future journalist (*cough), woman of the world, stiletto wearing, recently blonde-ish, man-eater; childbirth is the LAST thing I want to hear about.

In short, one night of incredibly hot sex is followed by nine months of a see food diet, acceptance that your boobs are going to double in size and then the eventual popping out of a miniature version of you. That is how it goes and until the fortunate time such an occasion has to take place the subject is dropped.

So that was the end to a productive day of dissertation work, that left me begging for my innocence and wanting to pull together the collection of hair on the floor and run off.

Suddenly I felt less inclined to discuss anything remotely graphic with one of my friends, who as fate would have it, is expecting the arrival of her little girl within the fortnight. I know nature is a wonderful thing, but could quite happily settle for another dissertation rather than having to hear about the workings of a womans womb!

Right, now back to the hard stuff…

Mug of the future

Today I went shopping, exciting or what, wasn’t out for anything in particular just tagging along with my mum and bro and making the most of being back home; that wonderful place that you love and need to leave all within five minutes of arrival.
Anyway, it was Robert Dyers (of all shops!) that got me excited; well they’re spotty mugs at least. Then it hit…I need to get house hunting.

After months of indecision, changes and pro’s and con’s lists, a final decision on living arrangements for next year have been made. I’m staying in Chester! Moving back home is a step back, and an unnecessary one. Life is too short to be waiting for stuff to happen and what if questions.

So what if the only job I can get is one totally unrelated to my degree and so what if we end up living in a dump for the following twelve months, that’s what it’s all about. Suddenly the unknown seems ridiculously inviting.

After playing by the rules for 21 years I finally feel ready to live and I have a spotty mug to thank for it.

Uni so far has been one of the most amazing and fulfilling experiences of my life, but am so excited about turning a new page on the Coussens chapter that it’s unreal, and lets face it, you can’t get much cornier than that!

Tea break

Sugar slowly poisoned my tea, till I could no longer recognize the taste of it and the sweetness of the cane had disguised the grotty bitterness that corrupted my tea stained mug.

I drank endless cups like a drug, till I couldn’t tell if I was drinking it or it was drinking me. Every time I weaned myself off, it laughed in my face; you want me it cried, you need me.

My dentist knew I could and should cut out the sugar, but she just smiled and said these cravings will pass. It turned out sugar in my tea was just too good; I lost three teeth that day.

Today I’m almost wine total, but every now and then I go looking for the sugar pot. I know my housemate has hidden it from me and put it out of reach, but really and truly I would like to explain my compulsion, because then I know I will never need sugar in my tea again.

Procrastination

As it gets closer and closer to crunch time the weather gets better and better. Why is this?
If there were not enough distractions already, the almighty one throws down a day of gorgeous sunshine and we are all still suppose to work (like hermits) ignoring the thoughts of sun, flip flops and topless men.
Granted, if it were chucking it down there would be no heat related activities, but you would like to think there would be a slightly higher percentage of work completed. Either way, no such luck.
Any motivation there once was has well and truly packed it bags, and politely sodded off. Leaving me bored and going to such extents as mopping the floor to get out of working.
On a positive note our house does look amazing and in this brief moment of sunshine it is sparkling an awful lot. Great if you’re Ray Charles and bad if you’re anyone else.
So the Jane Austen thesis is still here, along with three remaining essays (our tutors love us!) and the ominous question of where will life take us next; the only difference now, is the countdown until the end of uni has been replaced, with the countdown of weeks until the dissertation deadline. May is going to be an emotional *drunk* month!
But until then…think the fridge needs a clean.

Running out of time- university.

If one person could give you three, genuinely good reasons to complete a degree there would be a serious reward to obtain. Yes, it can put you ahead in the world and yes, it keeps you off the streets but is it really all it’s cracked up to be?
After being in Chester for almost three years the end is finally in sight, but what have I actually learned? Sadly I will admit most of the course knowledge has evaporated and at times there needs to be a person with a very long stick behind me, constantly making me work.
But uni has left me with no clearer idea on what to do with life or which path to take. If anything these past three years have confused me more, revealing more career options and genuinely making me feel like a very dodgy ant, inside an ever increasing ant hill. (Whether ants actually live inside or on an ant hill still personally remains unknown. But I never said I was a zoologist!)
On the plus side uni allows you to grow up, sample various alcoholic concoctions, willingly steal road safety equipment and prove that narcoleptic sleep patterns can happen to the masses.
University is possible the worst form of preparation for what is waiting on the outside world. The daily 9-5 schedule sounds about as appealing as eating kangaroo testicles and the thought of £30,000 debt makes selling yourself that bit more of a necessity.
So in short; if you want to move out, make some amazing friends and you have a few grand lying around, go to uni my friend! If you have amazing patience and are hard working, dedicated and decisive, then go to uni. If you need a degree and have a future plan, so set in stone that it resembles Stonehenge to a 3100bc Amesbury man, then go to uni.
But a word to the wise, don’t go if you are expecting to leave with a wallet full of money and are just trying to kill a few years; you’ll end up with an impressive collection of photo albums for facebook and little else.
However, minus the revolting food, screaming cheer leaders and appalling living conditions, uni really is worth doing. Contradictory I know, but chances are you won’t be the future you, if you don’t give it a go.
The only advice is if you are going, then go. Don’t pull out after a week, month or a year, stick it out. You never know, you might end up with a few friends for life and a degree you are proud of under your belt. No innuendos intended.
Can you tell there is only 10 weeks left…?

Why were Llamas invented?

Back in Surrey for the second weekend in a row, except this time my folks are going away and unable to trust my 17 yr old brother with an empty house- probably a wise move.

The four and a half hour journey didn’t seem too bad this time, I had control of the music and yes; it did feel like Babylon had left our beloved RB’s and stepped into the un-named automobile that is my car, but still.

Getting the feeling there are a few too many Jeremy Clarkson like quotes in this blog, so going to shut up…something I keep being told to do recently. Have a feeling the big empty space in my head that was meant to be filled with an English degree, is rapidly shrinking and being replaced with utter nonsense, nonsense that is currently largely linked to Llamas.

Sometimes in life weird things happen, everyone knows this and it is part-and-parcel of life. But sometimes REALLY weird things happen, for example, you might be happily working away when someone asks if you ever get the feeling you are being stared at by a Llama.

Your instant reaction is “No, I have not just been released from the loony bin and officially have no idea what you are on about?” But then five minutes later, you are guaranteed to look up from your computer screen and vision a pair of googly eyes belonging to no other than a Llama, staring directly back at you.

But this will be no ordinary Llama; this will be a four foot, pink Llama, possibly with blue spots, dribbling Llama spit all over your key board, whilst looking at you completely dumb struck and giving the impression of the last drunk in Blue Lagoon, trying to figure out why there is salad is his chicken kebab. And before you know it you will never be able to work again, you’ll be doomed for life and Llamas will be popping up left, right and center.

So if you are ever in the library, on a plane, in the super market and you hear a sudden burst of laughter, think your self lucky. There is a Llama out there for everyone and it is only a matter of time before yours will find you!

It is not face book that ruins degrees... it is Llamas.

Back in the North

The past week was reading week; a week devoted to enhancing your education in the comforts of your own home. In reality this translates into: will not do any work due to distractions that are just too easy to ignore.
But it’s not all bad, it meant catching up with old friends and some seriously over due bonding time for some people.
One of my friends is six and half months pregnant and it seems like only yesterday she let it slip she was pregnant. She is now huge and the proud mummy to be of a little girl called Lacey. It’s scary, seems only days ago we were both kids talking about babies and now it’s actually happening.
Also had the chance to catch up with another friend; we have been very close since the year dot, but since going to uni we’ve grown apart. You forget how easy it is to fall back into old ways when you’re in the right surroundings. Needless to say what followed were hours of chocolate, sweets and popcorn eating and all topped off with a girly sleep over, and a few hours of serious man talk.
But now back in Chester and unpacked, the reality of the uni situation is setting in. There’s 11 weeks, one dissertation, four assignments, ball, graduation and that is it. Then into the real world- what ever that means.
Growing up and decision making starts here.

Welcome back

Where has the past month gone? Been to Guildford and back to uni twice this past month and currently back south, yet again, for the wonderful week that is called reading week- technically it’s called ‘development work’ but lets not get all PC about it.
So with the dissertation finally under way and a remaining 11 weeks until deadline, pressure is building. Thankfully it’s not too strenuous yet.
That aside the plans for next year are still circulating and wafting around like the stench of my 17 year old brother, unconsciously hoping it will all sort itself out (next years plans as opposed to my brother.)
Sadly presently lacking writers imagination, so this will have to do for now. ..
Got my first ever valentines card last week, terrified the life out of me; after I had spent several hours skipping around the room, like some possessed grinning gimp, high on some form of illegal substance.
Looks like romance really does exist!

Appetite not to work.

As I cut myself a huge slab of chocolate cake for breakfast, I suddenly realised this was the first time I was in no hurry to get back to Chester and for some reason Shreddies were just not going to be enough today.
There is something so regimented and dull about a bowl of cereal, and as I have already written about breakfast before, there is no need to write any more about the Nestlé family.
This morning I was woken up, yet again, by a very enthusiastic email from a student, who for the sake of our journalism assignment, is my editor.
Nothing puts you off getting out of bed, more than a plea to complete all of your work and a week ahead of schedule. So he will die tomorrow.
So with that on the brain, and a serious lack of dissertation work, there seems very little reason to go back to Uni. If only it were possible to run away and let it all complete itself.
But sadly this doesn’t happen.
Looks like one will have to pack, load up the car and head towards the M6 after all.
Might just need to take the rest of the cake though…

Age concern

In 2009 my friends became 21 years old and now it’s 2010 and they are getting engaged and having babies. A far stretch from the school kids we once were.
But is there ever a correct age to do anything? Should life be run by the book?
It’s easy to pity those whose lives are planned out, with no room for compromise or change. But on the contrary it’s easy to envy those birds that spread their wings and go with the wind.
If only it were possible to view the crystal ball of the future and see where the next five years will lead. Perhaps then the fear of age and what lies ahead would slowly subside.
It is going to be an amazing year, but it is going to involve a substantial amount of change. I just hope being 21 is old enough to cope with it all.

Moral support

The first week back is always a hectic one; an over load of work, a very expensive food shop and a continuous list of items you forgot to bring back to Uni with you.

Anyway, rummaging through the remaining boxes that needed to be unpacked was a bit of lined paper with this scribbled on it:

‘I believe in the way that you are and the way you will be.
I believe in the things that you say. You mean the world to me.
And if you should go, if you should turn around one day.
If you should ever doubt your dreams in anyway, don’t think twice about it.
Don’t worry too long about whether you will find a place in this world. You belong!
I know you’ll get where you’re going someday.
For no matter what happens, you will find a way.
I believe in the way that you are and I believe in the way you will be.
You are a beautiful star in this world…and you mean the world to me!’

It’s very sweet, but does not really solve the HUGE (and not to mention terrifying) problem of what to do after Uni. It seems like only yesterday Uni started and it will be finished by tomorrow.

Suddenly the world seems a lot bigger than an oyster.

The funny side of men.

Men. Is there anything more confusing than them in the world?

Ten or so months of silence and then BANG; they walk right back into your life without as much as an apology or a bunch of flowers. One would have been sufficient.
The New Year may be the time for forgiveness and new beginnings, but we are women. Independent, strong and able to hold off jumping right back into male arms before the word ‘Hello’ is even exchanged- at least we try to.
We are only little things and can be hurt and torn surprisingly easily, so men, please be aware of this. The other thing I would be aweare of, in fact the correct word is probably weary of, is my housemates.
I would never hurt a man, but they will! Win them over (With more apologies and flowers) and you’ll have breakfast cooked for you every time you step in the house.
Either way, good luck.

(You sexy sexy man. Sorry. This is serious must stand ground. Think Queen Elizabeth. I don’t need a man. That’s slightly more Pussy Cat Dolls than Queen Elizabeth. Bugger. I will not give in. That sounds better. One apology will not replace months of ‘I hate men’. Great, now sound like a man-hating lesbian. Terrific. Oh shut up brain and lets see what happens. The end.)