What I want to hear

 It is not nice to know what someone else thinks you want to hear when being kissed, especially when it is so spectacularly off the mark. Granted, I was kissed by the wrong person. Was kissed, was kissing? Whichever makes me feel better. 

A great big crescendo to the offending phrase. Stopped under a lamppost, wrapped in his jacket, his hands finding the curves of my cheeks to cup me like a bowl, like Please sir may I have some more? Great big knitted eyebrows, and then all earnestness: You're the smartest person I know. 

Kneejerk: fucking obviously.

And then walking home (alone), stewing: is that my defining quality? Or is that what he thinks I want to hear? Both? Did the word pretty get stuck in his throat somehow? I know I'm not that smart at all, really.  Didn't I always say I wanted a man who, you know, 'respected my intellect' oh ho ho ho.

But he finds me smart the way a toddler finds a wendyhouse big, sorry. There's no meeting of minds when we meet mouths (far too rushed and aggro too, by the way). 

The whole ordeal, I replaced him with every man in my acquaintance, trying them all on for size, who would I actually want here? What would I want to hear?

Maybe I haven't met the next person to kiss me, and maybe I won't mind whatever comes out of their mouth. I don't think all kissing should be done in silence, but think the general principle of 'if you don't have anything nice to say...' goes. 

I had plenty time to spiral on this, being infected with severe tonsillitis, biological retribution for poor decision making. If it was in a book I'd say that's a pretty laborious metaphor. When my throat was so tight I couldn't swallow my own saliva, and was left constantly dribbling out of the corner of my mouth for days, I didn't feel smart I can tell you.

Between Two Mistresses

 The gentleman's dilemma. The first is a constant woman who I did promise near-eternity (three years) to. I outpoured my heart to her father in a personal statement, and for a small fee of ten grand a year, keep her as my lady-wife. 

The second, a flashy wench oft-found in an alehouse, better found yet with friends to work upon her!

Ok I've had enough of that now. What I mean to say in my embarrassing manner of self-expression is that I've basically over-subscribed myself with comedy commitments in exam season for my degree.

I do ick myself out calling it comedy, saying I'm a person who does comedy. Mostly because I'm not a very funny or forthright person. To home friends I'm calling it theatre, as if that's marginally better. 

I was initially quite sceptical of the comedy scene here, its forever being overshadowed by its history of greats, and the inherent issue that student comedy is student comedy. Be that as it may, it's also fun. I like having a genuine creative outlet. I like putting down words to paper (laptop), I like reading them out, I like hearing other people reading them out. I'd like to be a better performer, I like performing. 

Now I'm staring at my diary (paper) and silently panicking. If I can walk out with a 2.1 from this exam I'll be very ruddy pleased with myself. 

Chip on my Shoulder

 I've made it onto committee. Yay! 

My co-officer is a former child star who went a private school with fees of £29K a year. A healthy year's salary to send these plonkers somewhere with Steinways. 

It's very very difficult to be in such an environment with such people and not feel inferior. The peasant instincts that have been bred into me, the subconscious twitch of my knee to go down into a curtsey at their presence. 

He has a better Linkedin than me, and this has kicked me into a spiral. But they are groomed for this. They are trained to have the kind of confidence and self-love I believe is only warranted for people who avert meteors from the earth. 

So I will take my boulder-sized shoulder chip, and I will keep on working. I will stand out through sheer effort, willpower and genuine care. I care about this role and what it can do to reach out to other people. 

I do not care about a well-tailored online networking presence, nor will St. Peter. 

I got here off the back of my own hard work. Not a tutor familiar with the admissions system. Not a family friend of a friend. Me. 

He Ain't Heavy

 But Jesus can he put it away. Ate lots today in the beloved and rare company of my brother. Good food. Chewing fills the silences. Are they awkward? I was worried, I don't know what to say to you, what questions I should ask. But then, that's because I already know the answers. 

What does it feel like to grow up outside the intense orbit of twin planets revolving around each other?  

I would love to speak to you in standard English and not meme quotations, but I'll take what I can get. Follow that tune, don't burn the beans. Oh, what a day. WhatshaPpninGerlY'alllllright? 

And then a glimpse into your life, brief but treasured nonetheless. Almost girlfriends I'd love to know. Our shared commiserations in that department. And then your too, too earnest comment on my future boyfriend or whoever...

...I'm not a lesbian though.

Whatever.

Your massive fuck-off BMW stealthing back up the M11, like Batman's got business in the North. I'd go with you and be your Robin any day. We say goodbye, but can only say I love you if it's a joke. Nice one lad. Take care now. 

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

 New Year's Eve with my home friends. Funny that they come with that prefix now. 

On the slow train to Liverpool. I hear, amid the rattling of wheels on a track, subtle hints of new accents, words sitting different in their mouths. I hear myself, me, a homing pigeon who flew South for the winter. Do I sound posher now? I try to swallow the self-disgust alongside my words, and stick to nodding for now. 

The business of the night: tarting ourselves up. It does not seem such a long time since we were all seven, rifling through the dress up box. Now we are playing again. I opt for a black lace up tank instead of a low-plunging red number I had bought online in one of my more confident and probably wine-hazed moods. 

I am showing enough breast to fit in with the group as a Girl Going to The Club. Not enough to make me go weird and funny about it. Having breasts makes me feel a bit like a farm animal, like two reminders of the undeniable biological end goal my body has - to have children to latch on and feed. I fix my bra, and put my descendants out of mind for tonight. 

This whole getting ready process is interspersed with many vodka-and-somethings to keep me warm and buzzy and agreeable. We eventually reconvene for a drinking game. Never have I ever makes me feel like I'm still the seven year old dressing up, who has accidentally made the company of these young women. I do enjoy Party Bomb, though. 

Then the hours calls. We must go. Like Shackleton and his men pioneering through the Antarctic, we charge through the East Village. In front, many groups of middle to pension aged, big-coated bastards walk by, warm and full-bellied leaving their civilised dinners, surely. In my head, I curse against early club entry times, the sole reason that sees us cross this alien demographic. I think of when I will join their ranks. The best we get from them is a few stares, with our bare legs and arms and tits out I wonder if there is any sympathy behind that look. 

The worst, a passing man comments, 'there is no sense of shame anymore'. 

My first reaction is to want to turn to him, and explain. You're wrong actually, I have a very well developed sense of shame, thank you, I never normally dress like this, I'm a good girl and well-behaved. I've got the longest skirt on here. In fact, I never once rolled my skirt in high school, actually. I chose this top over something worse. I actually go to Cambridge University, did you know that? I'd make an amazing granddaughter for you.

Then secondly - 'anymore'? The hypocrisy of these aged old pricks, whose generation invented miniskirts. Just because you married at the end of the sexual revolution does not make you the grandmaster cunt of all that is modest and good. 

But in the end I keep walking and pretend not to hear.

The club queue, the cold still bitter, but I feel less like a streetwalker in the company of others dressed the same. Coked up lads in front. Hope there's something better inside. Remind self that admirable, intelligent man who respects my mind is probably not situated inside, abandon hope of pulling and try to have good time. Remind self that I have a whole year now to rectify my being a big virgin loser. 

Good music. Bad music. The DJ is following this running order: hit, miss, miss, hit, miss, hit, hit, miss (repeat). The politics of the dance circle and my weak diplomacy. The countdown, the year becomes 2026, nothing changes. To my upset, no Auld Lang's Syne. Upstairs, downstairs, no up again, back down please, toilets, upstairs, downstairs. 

Walk back is easier, no prying stares, a box of greasy chicken warming me. The flat, the sleeping bag I took on DofE with the same girls. Would I rather have done that again than tonight? Stop thinking these things, sleep for two hours, first train back. Home. 

Will I spend New Years next year with the same people I wonder? Where will I be, who will I be? Maybe I haven't started the year as I mean to go on, but I think I can pull it back. And if not, there's always 2027. 

Busy and Grateful

 Cheer up, me. Yes you finished those essays on time, and yes they were probably shit. But you did it. Guess what I'm doing again. Only writing another sodding essay, aren't I? But do you see me complaining?

I know it's hard work, and that I'm also writing this to procrastinate but I'll tell you something - it's not half bad here, and the feedback is to help. Not to wear you down as a person. So I am preparing for a few very busy days of rehearsal, writing (fun stuff!) and writing (uni work) and meetings etc. etc. etc., but I am grateful. 

Do you not remember all those days in high school, the long summer break, sixth form, those big wells of time where you begged for something interesting to happen, just to pull you out, shake things up. Well, here you are. It's all happening here. So why scroll on your phone in bed? Why be lazy and introverted all the time? It's a stress and a half to take it all on I know, but the reward is the relief of finishing hard work. And starting it again. 

So finish this ramble, get back to it. And don't complain.

Procrastination

This lazy bastard has had a kick up the arse. I left a piece of coursework too late and now, sitting and attempting to write it, I am filled with dread. 

I had OVER SIX WEEKS TO DO THIS. I have given myself, effectively, THREE DAYS. What on earth is wrong with me? Why did I choose to do other things in my Christmas break? Why did I choose to go to work, see my family and RELAX? Stupid idiot...

I chose not to touch it because I was scared of failing. of getting it wrong, of it not being perfect. I could just see the face of my supervisor reading through the stupid shit that I was churning out and thought, you know what, I'll tackle this when I'm feeling smarter. Unfortunately, I have become progressively stupider over the break until I have fully deteriorated into sheer, sheer thickness. I feel so bloody dense just looking at the reading, how is someone like me supposed to understand this? What's worse, I bet everyone else has already sent theirs in. Bet they're all solid efforts. Mine could have been if I hadn't managed to complete the physical feat of both digging myself into a hole AND shooting myself in the foot. 

What now? I have to write the bastard thing don't I. Write down words that I know are airy-fairy wishy-washy namby-pamby bags of shite. I am saying something for the sake of saying it. To hit what is, to be fair, a very low word count - on a very specific topic that frankly, I have no strong feelings on. 

If I don't come at it swinging with an opinion, it'll be a toothless boring essay, but watch me try to do so and probably end up completely embarrassing myself and getting it all, all wrong. 

Additionally, when I get back I've got mocks I haven't even glanced over anything for. I have done this to myself and vow never to do this again. I shall kill that Jekyll inside me that thinks it's fine to take a break on your break, she's stitched me up now. 

And I'm procrastinating now, by writing this. Right. Off I go. 

Having what you want

 It could not be more me, I've been told, to get here, with its old turrets and old boys and new money, and hate it. Oh dear, what a shame, I've only gone and got exactly what I wanted. 

To the American tourist on King's parade, it is all very charming. The gowns, the college pride, the porters hats. Cambridge does not charm me. It leaves me with a sour fucking taste in my mouth. It is smacks of smugness, and frankly I feel quite disenchanted by it all. What a tragic disappointment, to walk through fairytale architecture in what was supposed to be some fucking Narnia of knowledge, and still feel unfulfilled. And this is the best it gets. If you take the Sunday Times' University Guide's word for it.

There is a new pidgin language that obviously must derive from aristocratic laziness - no one can be arsed to say full words properly. I walk out through Plodge to go to Mainsburys, wear my stash, scowl at townies and tourists on the way. I know the Mathmos, the Englings, the Bio-Natscis, the Chem-Natscis, the Neo-Natscis. I feel true self-disgust when I use the terms aloud. Even worse, I began to think in them too.

Where I come from, I am frequently told that I talk posh. I know I am incredibly privileged and thoroughly middle class, with my foreign holidays and recent extension. How bizarre is it then, that even that is not enough here? What a broken set of scales. "Where did you go to school?". Don't think you'll know it mate. Little comprehensive number, yeah. Oh really, that sounds nice. I'll google your tuition fees when I get back to my room and feel inadequate in my bathroom, probably. Well nice seeing you.

I am pretty much the only person (I think?) on a floor of 15 to not have paid for my primary and secondary education. Do they know they've been swindled? Should we call Watchdog or Which? Because I'm here too at a great discount. Except I don't know whose son's brother's rockstar's dentist that they know. I don't have old boarding school friends at Kings or Caius or Clare or St. Cunt's. I only have myself in a very foreign country, that is somehow my home country - surprisingly, there is no border control at the North/South divide.

 It is difficult to keep the facade up for the people back home. My being here is Big News, I am a pioneer charting the way for my family name. So many people wanted and worked hard for this, I wanted and worked hard for this. I do not want them to think I am ungrateful, to worry about me, so I am putting on a brave face for the moment. Why did I not go to ManMet and choose to be happy?

Academically, the workload is challenging, but I signed up for that willingly, so that I cannot complain about. Without jinxing it hopefully, this is where things are going the best for me. My first essay was well-received, my supervisions insightful and lectures incredibly interesting. Just a shame that the trade off is living in upside fucking down land and having no friends.

Maybe I am in the way of myself in making friends. The promise was that uni would be the place where I would 'find my people'. I wanted so much for that to be true. I recently auditioned for a Footlights show for which I got in, due to my obvious light-hearted humour, and for not taking myself too seriously. So far though, it has been a bit like hitting a wall in terms of finding the same language. The institution is a bit of a legacy one, frankly, than any living interesting thing, and too busy congratulating itself for Mitchell and Webb to get back to work and try to be funny. Or maybe I'm not funny. I think my humour is so specific to mine and my twin sister's internal world that I can't let anyone else in. I wish she was here. I wish we were conjoined and I was some sort of second parasitic head that could just watch her life and provide commentary. I can't relate to these people, because I'm so used to not needing to, I always had a built-in-friend.

My sister, to my extreme delight, is thriving in what she is doing, socially and in her degree. Nothing makes me prouder, and it is a great comfort that she is doing what she loves everyday. This all would be worse if I knew she was miserable too. She came to visit on Sunday, I worry she was expecting to meet more friends or someone a bit more well-adjusted. To my own disappointment and maybe hers, the other side of the train station ticket barrier was the same girl who is slightly socially inept, and so guarded sceptical of others she cannot entertain any friendship that isn't biological. Deary me, we'll have to fix that at some point.

What can you take away from this? That I am a lucky, lucky girl, in a place I dreamed of being, who is both disappointed in her surroundings and disgusted at her own ungratefulness. But when I dreamed of being here, it was a different girl who walked around, did the work, the shows, made the friends - I'm still under the same bell jar, under the so-called cambridge bubble. How much of my problems are internal or external? I don't know, but despite my perfect circumstances, I have to soldier on.

The Limbo of All Possibilities

I am suspended over a what-if chasm. At this point in my life, the likelihood of my becoming Prime Minister is the highest it may ever be. I have been invited to interview at a university founded when William the Conqueror was still a fresh memory.  

Here is the phenomenon - between now and my interrogation, I am a success. I have achieved a small indication that this could be my future, the old stones and the rigorous academic stretching and the landed gentry as roommates. It could be my realm. I could be the Spiderman of social climbing.

The infamous Sylvia Plath fig tree analogy means zilch to me in the void of these few days, all the figs of my future are equidistant from my reaching hand, all very-well-could-be-trues. And possibility is the promise of many figs, fig rolls, fig pudding, fig for breakfast.

I am enjoying my time in this vacumn as much as I can. I am a realistic girl, likely not enough to dazzle them when it matters most. And yet, I could. 

As Per My Last Post

'Pressure is a privilege' - Billie Jean King

I was in a state of mental turmoil last week. Seems like months, years ago now. I have transformed my attitude, adopting a new mantra given by a feminist icon, tennis legend and hopefully the next Dalai Lama.

A change in perspective was much needed. I was not suffering, certainly not rolled out on a medieval rack and screw. Really, I was being pushed, stretched, grown because I have been given wonderful opportunities and because there are people who believe in me. 

I had wished for all the struggling to cease and my growing to-do list to be empty. But where would that leave me? Relieved for a minute, but bored by two. In my catastrophising flurry, I lost sight of the why behind my long list of tasks. But I love doing these things. I love reading challenging things, I love writing challenging essays, I love taking on extra work outside the curriculum to feed my curiosity, I love responding to criticism and reflecting. Every opportunity given to me is borne of privilege. Someone has to walk twenty miles a day to a well, everyday. I get to write and learn and grow. Who am I to even begin to complain!

Tasks become difficult because of expectations - if I do not meet deadlines, show academic development etc, whoever reads my work may be disappointed. But I have been given this work because it is well within my reach. Someone believes I can do it. All I have to do is prove them right. 

Five-months-ago-me would be so happy to be in my shoes, so proud of herself. And the me one-year-ago, me five-years-ago. I have come a very long way, dealt with trying circumstances. And I did not do it all through complaining! I have another busy week, but I am dusting myself off and going again. Light work.