Cuckoos and nests.

Coming home after being away at uni on and off for three or four years feels like a massive step backwards, but it can be hard to articulate the every-day, nitty-gritty frustrations it can bring. Frankly, I'm surprised this issue doesn't get more coverage on Jeremy Kyle: "I'm 23 and my mum still thinks I'm incapable of cooking pasta (even the really quick fresh stuff)". Seeing Jezza get caught between a middle-class mother and daughter scrapping over the right way to load a dishwasher? That is an episode I'd actually watch without wanting to hurt myself.

While I am aware, as always, that I'm one of the lucky ones - my parents are generally very easy-going and let me do my own thing, and so far haven't said "right, that's it, we're changing the locks, you're on your own now" - there's also only so much "darling, this was in your bin, did you mean to throw it away?" that I can take. Yes, that was a conversation that actually occurred in my house. I hope the parental signifier in question doesn't make a habit of noseying through my bin; they might find a little more than they bargained for. Anyway.

It perhaps doesn't help that we're not a particularly close family. I don't say (type?) that with any self-pity; most of the time I'm thoroughly relieved that we're not. Sometimes, it does bother me a little - last weekend, for instance, when it seemed as if everyone else in my social circle was going to be having an Easter-based family gathering, I was the odd one out. I worked Good Friday, Saturday and Monday, and my mother was away in Houston from Friday to Sunday. What with both parents working for airlines, and pretty substantial age gaps between the siblings, I don't think it's surprising that I'm not big on family-time. We're a really different bunch - while Mum and I have a lot of similarities, such as freakish tidiness, a complete inability to get ready quickly, pretty dramatic mood swings, and being prone to migraines and panic attacks (thanks for those, Mum, they're especially useful), we also fight like cat and dog. Little bro and stepfather are generally similar - quiet, laid-back, happy just doing their own thing, and little sister is a mini version of Mother Dearest, but a bit more chilled out.

The rather sad side to this is the feeling I get when I do spend time with close families - those that make a point of doing things together, and seem perfectly happy to do so. It's simultaneous envy and claustrophobia: "I wish we did stuff like this. Or do I? Do I really?" Growing up, I always wanted an older sibling, one that was close in age to me, a year or two older perhaps. Or to be an only child. I obviously wouldn't be without my brother and sister now - they provide me with far too much amusement; it's like Outnumbered but not quite as funny. But we're all very different - and the large age gaps don't help. While it's quite nice being the oldest - I get told all the family gossip, for a start, and I have set the academic standard for the other two - I find myself "helping with" (read: completing) a lot of homework, despite not having studied anything that wasn't the finer points of the English language for nearly five years. I'm also the "trial child", being the first one - all the parenting got tested on me. I'm petty enough that I've lost count of the number of times I've thought, "you two get away with way more than I ever did".

I can't wait to live with someone I'm not related to. I can't wait to be able to cook [the limited amount of things I know how to cook] for myself again. To not feel guilty about watching what I want to watch on TV, to do my own laundry when I need it done, to have sex exactly when and where I want (and not feel guilty about any ...noise). To not have to explain to the person I'm living with why the Daily Mail is a vile and dangerous thing. About the one thing I do envy my dear actuary-in-training friend is that she can choose to see her family when she feels like it. I can't wait to have that luxury. I suspect they won't see me for months when I eventually do move out; the novelty of not having to negotiate my life around people I'm related to isn't going to wear off in a hurry.

Perhaps the weirdest thing about my vaguely anti-family sentiments is that I already know that I want the boring, unremarkable, "nuclear family" set-up if and when I have my own kids (two boys and a girl, who will all have flamboyant names that border on ridiculous. Lila-Rose, Cassius and Lysander, for example. I'd also consider Casper, Rollo and Claudia. Mustn't forget the chocolate Labrador called Gulliver, either). So, quite different to most of my childhood (biological father AWOL, mother long-haul cabin crew, spent first few years of life with my grandparents). While I think having one parent away a lot is pretty good for a kid's independence and is a quick way to nip any emotional neediness in the bud (for the time being, anyway), I think its impact won't be wholly positive. The idea of simply being in a long-term relationship with someone who travels a lot for their work leaves me cold - which is awkward when you're the girlfriend of an aspiring musician, but all anyone can really do is see how things go, and try not to get too stuck on plan-making.

I love my family, don't get me wrong, and credit where credit is most definitely due, they don't ask much of me. I'd just rather not live with them for much longer if I can possibly help it. And I'm hoping, that at the age of 23, that's normal.

You need this lady in your life. Listen to "England", and don't be fooled by the gentle, folky start.
And, because I'd hate you to think I'm one-dimensional, you also need these guys. I'm going to keep telling you til you agree.

Forgotten city.

Warning: major placename-dropping within. I can't help it that both my parents work for airlines; wanderlust - and a serious dislike of staying in the same town for more than four weeks straight - is in my DNA.

Sometimes, you know - or think you know - what a new place is going to be like before you go there. Other times, you have no idea what to expect, so no matter what happens, it's a valuable experience. I had high hopes about Cardiff, yet didn't like the city as much as I thought I would. (That's not the city's fault, though, that's the Masters' fault.) I was excited for Paris, and Paris delivered, in exquisite style. Sydney and Hong Kong I had no preconceived ideas about; the former was pretty nice, while the latter was brilliant. Los Angeles is strange - for a city, it seems to have no "centre" - and New York is everything you think it's going to be, but more. And Belfast? That little city across the water, that's not exactly Irish in the twinkly-eyed, rambling-comedian way, and certainly not British? It has a piece of my heart I'm not getting back.

People looked at me like I was mad when I told them I was going to do a degree in English and Linguistics in Belfast. They were too polite to say, "you want your head looking at", but I think they may have thought it. Countless conversations ran thus:

"So, you're going over to Ireland, to do English? That... that makes no sense."
"Haha, yeah", I'd say. Inwardly, I'd be going, "Yes, but I'm going to a university, with actual lecturers and stuff. Not going over there to discuss Dickens with a local dairy farmer for three years, as you seem to be assuming."

The older ones would mumble about the Troubles and I'd have vague recollections of the news in the early nineties, but I'd done [some of] the research - Queen's University is part of the Russell Group, for a start - and was very keen to go on a plane to uni, so off to Belfast I went. Not knowing what to expect, except perhaps the occasional mildly-expressed anti-English sentiment, and a fair amount of drinking.

What I got, overall, was three years of happiness. Sure, there was a remarkable amount of rain; there were deadlines and boring lectures and intimidating tutors; there was an accent that manages to be welcoming, grating and incomprehensible - all at once. There was also the first year of halls, and all that that entailed (it's awkward when you spend your entire A-level year trying not to get too hung up on one self-styled Casanova only to find the guy in the room next door to you is also a self-styled Casanova, only with a better smile and a nicer accent and a more innocent face. Don't be fooled). There was "the time I went a bit mad in second year", in, erm, second year. (You know you have anxiety issues when you manage to make yourself physically ill. Well done me.) But second year also brought a nice boy, and great friends, and a lot of fun. Third year was undoubtedly the best year; a nice (if bloody freezing) flat, a top-notch flatmate, a lot of drinking, a lot of misbehaving (I'd elaborate, but you'd be disappointed in me), and finally, graduation. For which Belfast broke tradition and let the sun shine - all day!

I hadn't been back to Belfast since graduation until last weekend. In early January, my mother cornered me on the stairs in our house and said "What do you want for your birthday?" (She's nothing if not organised to the point of insanity. And generous, as you shall see.) Without even having to think about it, I said, "I want to visit Belfast. I've been meaning to go back since I left, and I haven't had the funds, so money towards flights would be great..."

Cut to last Friday, and I was off on what was to be the best weekend - and indeed the best birthday - I've had in a very, very long time. Aside from the 4.45am start. God, that hurt.

It felt like coming home. Even the boring stuff, like the bus journey from International Airport to the city centre, and nipping into the Tesco Express on the Dublin Road, and trying to get served in Madison's before the cocktail prices went back up (failed that one, despite making the Boy queue for 15 minutes). It was a bit of a charmed weekend, it must be said - not only did I manage to meet up with all the people I wanted to, my mother treated the Boy and I to afternoon tea, and one glorious night of luxury, at the Merchant Hotel. Told you she was generous. And gloriously luxurious it was too:

But before we got there, we spent the Saturday at the Giant's Causeway, so the Boy could take pictures of the distinctive rocks - ever the geologist - and we could wander along the cliffs, raving about the spectacular views:

It wasn't an ideal time to remember I don't like heights, but there's nothing like fearing the wind might blow you over a cliff-edge to your certain death to make a birthday memorable. Northern Ireland seems to get forgotten about - goodness knows why, given its history - but that Antrim coastline is home to some beautiful scenery that makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of the world. And Belfast itself is a great city, as I've said - it's so much more than its past, but it's also cool and busy and not too big, with great shopping opportunities and plenty of bars. And The Undertones recorded Teenage Kicks there (thank you, conveniently-timed Saturday Times feature on Belfast-based punk).

I'd move back in a heartbeat, if there were any jobs there (at this rate, I could try out for the NI tourist board, couldn't I?) but moving to a smaller place probably isn't the wisest decision in these economically-hopeless times. But after having the honour of being named "pretty much half-Northern-Irish now" bestowed on me by a friend, I'm just going to have to keep going back to visit. One day, I'll have a second home there. Maybe a suite at the Merchant - now that would be good...

Original material from this lady for the first time in nearly three years; I for one am very excited.

This is precisely why I don't write topical stuff...

This post constitutes my application to one day appear on Have I Got News For You. I have a major soft spot for Ian Hislop, and no, I don't know why. He just looks sort of cuddly. Just me? Yeah, thought so.

It's all been kicking off recently, hasn't it? The news has been better than a particularly tense episode of Homeland over the last couple of weeks or so. The Pope's resigned, Oscar Pistorius is on trial for murder, people are bridling at horsemeat making it into the food chain, and Iain Duncan Smith has put his foot in it rather spectacularly. All we need now is a meteor to - oh, hang on.

I'm usually kind of loath to write news-centred posts - I'm not great with politics, and as His Lordship Dylan Moran puts it, there's nothing like the news for both enraging and boring you. Simultaneously. Like most people (I'm guessing; maybe you're not all as relentlessly self-involved as I am), I'm really only interested when it's directly relevant to me. So when I heard that the Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, Iain Duncan Smith, had been generally quite insensitive and ignorant about people on Jobseeker's Allowance (it involved Cait Reilly), I was intrigued.

I'm not going to go into the details now - partly because I am in the middle of a very hectic week and am too tired, and partly because I'm presuming you know how to use the internet - but it's at the end of this interview here that Duncan Smith comes across as a callous Tory knob. A Times journo - can't remember his name, sorry - subsequently wrote a piece that was admittedly pretty tongue-in-cheek, but also reasonably supportive of IDS, detailing all the menial jobs he'd done in his time, and what he'd learned from them. His overarching point was that if nothing else, you soon learn that you don't want to be stuck doing menial, badly-paid jobs for the rest of your life.

The point that callous Tory knobs and their supporters seem to be missing - and you'd think they'd have noticed this one, being the ones in charge of the country, and the economy, and whatnot - is that shit still needs to be paid for. Take both freshly-hatched graduates with not enough work experience, and those who aren't super-educated and therefore have perhaps a more limited set of career prospects available to them - these people still need to eat. They still need something to put on in the morning, they still need transport, they still need to be able to let off steam, and try to have some fun so that the tedium and sheer bloody frustration of being turned down for the umpteenth job doesn't drive them mad and/or kill them. And those things cost money - it doesn't matter where you shop. It's not the government's responsibility to provide their people with clothes, food, transport, et cetera, but it is their responsibility to ensure that everyone can afford the basics. Yes, this is where benefits come in. But to use the case of Cait Reilly, making someone work for free while threatening to cut their benefits if they don't comply, when they're already doing relevant voluntary work they've sorted out themselves, doesn't. Make. Much. Fucking. Sense.

I'm one of the lucky ones, I know. On good days, I manage to remember this. I live in a nice bit of the country, my parents don't mind having a [massively-opinionated, overly-fond-of-wine, convinced-she-will-one-day-change-the-world-with-her-words] 22-year-old living with them. They make it very easy for me. I have two part-time jobs that occupy nearly as much time as a full-time one. I could jack them both in, sign on for JSA and devote all of the resulting free time to looking for that elusive career-starting job, but it would drive me insane. I still take "not tonight, wench, I'm knackered" as personal physical rejection, so I'd hazard a guess I'm not much fun after rejected job application number 15. Or 56, or 435. So I'm going to carry on as I am - working the two jobs, fitting applications for "proper" jobs into the slivers of free time around them, and trying not to get dragged down into the mire of doom and gloom that tells me I'll be proofreading and tanning-salon-minding for the rest of my life and won't be moving out of my parents' place until I'm well into my forties. Not that there's anything wrong with either of these jobs, I hasten to add, they're just not central  to my ultimate life plan.

About the worst thing you can do in life is decide you're too good for something, or indeed someone. That tends to be when life decides to take a run-up and kick your arse back into touch. So I repeat, I know that I'm lucky. Some very clever, able, wonderfully-qualified people I know are struggling to find any work whatsoever. I'm not expecting anyone to hand me a nice little writing job on a platter (though that would be awesome, world, if you could? I'd be ever so grateful).

All I'd like, really, is those in power - specifically, the man in charge of Work and Pensions - to apply a little understanding, and to look at the finer details, instead of dismissing people as "job snobs" or "workshy" or whatever else, because they simply can't afford to work for free. Especially if they are already working for free, as I might have mentioned. It applies to unpaid internships as well - if you want to get into a certain field but the only "in" is an unpaid internship, then seriously, what are you supposed to do? I don't know exact benefit figures but they're probably not going to cover much more than say, two-thirds of the transport, if current train fares are anything to go by. Oh hell, I don't have any answers - I don't know if you'd guessed - and I'm not looking for sympathy, a pat on the back, or anything more than blog page-views, if I'm honest. Frankly, I think we need a few more Cait Reillys - people who are quietly unafraid to say to those in charge, "what you're doing isn't helping. We'll work with you, but we need to know that you understand what's really going on here". Right now, that doesn't seem to be happening. Which is a worry.

On a brighter note, I bloody love this song.

And this one.

Bloody Valentines...

I am a hopeless romantic. Really. Under this cynical, twisted, borderline-misanthropic, Bernard-Black-lite facade, there beats a heart as mushy as melting cheesecake. I am absolutely powerless in the face of a romantic gesture, no matter how big or small. I love seeing old couples walking along hand-in-hand*; I think airports are romantic places, because of all the lovers' reunions potentially happening in them, and I find it hard to stay dry-eyed at weddings.

But I really, really couldn't give half a damn about Valentine's Day.

*PDAs from young couples are unnecessary, however - on the train the other evening, The Best-Dressed Couple Ever were literally entwined around each other, all the way from London Bridge to Crawley. Eww. And don't even get me started on sixth-formers who think they're in love. Until you've spent a day bringing them tea and toast while listening to them hack up bits of lung, in the grip of a filthy, snotty cold, it's probably not love. Until you've heard them chuck up badly-made Pina Coladas and then nursed them through the ensuing hangover, it's probably not love.

It's not as if I once had a bad Valentine's experience; I don't need to go to a support group (Valentine Victims Anonymous, slogan: "one rose petal at a time"), I just absolutely and emphatically could not care less if I tried about February 14th.

And I'm allowed to say this, because I'm not single and bitter. (Just bitter.)

Fortunately, this wasn't really an issue for me until I was nineteen (at which point I found myself a nice Chemistry student from Birmingham and my mother breathed a "phew, she's not a lesbian" sigh of relief. Not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian, it's just my mother reads the Daily Mail on a regular basis, and well, y'know...). One day in early February 2010, the aforementioned Chemistry student bounded into my room and sighed, "The dreaded day's coming up. What do you want?" as if I were dragging the words out of him with rusty pliers. I was momentarily confused - "The dreaded day? My birthday's not for another six weeks. Oh, Valentine's Day. Oh, riiiight. Well, no. Nothing. Couldn't give a shit." He too looked confused, then relieved, then positively thrilled. He may have stammered something along the lines of "but, but you're a woman", so I had to elaborate thus.

The thing is, it's bollocks. I think I've made that much quite clear. People like to say "oh, it's just a Hallmark holiday", but it does have quite a long history - according to Wikipedia, at least. My main problem with V-Day is that if you're in a relationship, you should be doing nice, romantic things for each other anyway. Not all the time - you need to bitch and bicker sometimes, keep them on their toes - but essentially that's the point of being in a relationship in the first place. The difference between that and a friends-with-benefits arrangement tends to be the romantic element. The "I'll cook you your favourite dinner" evenings. The "I got us gig tickets because I thought you might like them" times. The "yeah I'll come and see that weird indie film with you" times. But you shouldn't need a designated day for that. There's nothing special about calendar-scheduled romance. My line on Valentine's Day used to be "if you're in a relationship, it's pressure to do something special, and if you're single, it makes you feel like you shouldn't be". Now, I take that back, because the sensible people, of both the single and coupled variety, know that it can be ignored altogether.

Don't get me wrong, if someone did take a notion to rock up to my house on Thursday holding a massive bunch of tulips, I'd hardly be churlish enough to turn them away. But that has more to do with the fact that I've never been bought/sent/randomly presented with a bunch of flowers in all my 23-ish years. That's not even a veiled hint; a) flowers are such an easy, obvious choice when a man is trying to find something Valentiney for his lady, and b) I'd rather be given flowers on a day that's not specifically earmarked "BE ROMANTIC OR ELSE".

The most romantic moments tend to be the ones you don't see coming - for instance, you might find yourself on a bridge with someone, looking at a spectacular view and realising that suddenly a few things are making an awful lot of sense.Which I hope goes some way to hint at why there's a picture of Clifton Suspension Bridge at the beginning of the post. I'm saying no more.

A cautionary tale, by one of the best songwriters there has ever been.

And this band are my current guilty pleasure, and this song of theirs has been getting me through a lot of early mornings.

Purely academic

As I write this, I am waiting for the results of my Masters dissertation, which will determine whether or not I can actually put “MA in Forensic Linguistics” on my CV.  If I’ve passed, I may well read this back and think, “Well, there was no need to sound quite so bitter, it turned out fine”.  I can’t actually think about the other course of events; it’s too frightening.

I wanted to do an MA in Forensic Linguistics well before I started university. I don’t know where or when I first heard of this small, but growing field, I just remember thinking, at some point “That’s it. That’s my thing.” Analysing language to solve real, important problems – using language to have an actual effect on the world? But of course.

I don’t wish I hadn’t done the MA. I learned a lot of very interesting things, was taught by - and with - some great people, and discovered some excellent bars in Cardiff. 

I sometimes wish I’d done it part-time. Or worked for a year or so, and then done it. Or given the MSc at York some more thought. (As they say, hindsight is 20/20 vision.) Worrying about money, almost constantly, is – as I’m sure we’re all aware – a pain in the arse. It was actually my mother who insisted I went straight on from a BA in English and Linguistics to an MA, saying, “You won’t want to go back to being a student after working for a bit”. Knowing myself fairly well by now, I suspect she was right. It was tedious enough combining freelance proofreading work with a dissertation over the summer; going from some kind of income back down to no income would have been even tougher.

Doing it part-time might have taken the pressure off financially, but it would have extended the whole process. I’m not sure I could have handled that. Why? Let me explain.

It was intense. After a carefree summer, post-graduation, I thought I was ready to get back into the swing of endless analysis, essays and hours spent in the library. I really wasn’t. Being plunged into a new city to do something you’ve been thinking about for at least three years is a weird situation. I repeat, it’s intense. You have to get comfortable in a new place while throwing yourself headlong back into academia, no holds barred. You need to know what you’re getting yourself into.

Undergrad life has got nothing on post-grad life. Yeah, I know I did an English degree – I’m aware it’s not the most challenging course you can take and in terms of contact time, it’s not particularly demanding. I know that, but I’m not going to apologise for making the most of my natural academic strengths. Doing an MA is much more demanding on the schedule and on the brain – it’s something you have to be thinking about pretty much all the time. There are no real breaks from it. Which is all fine and dandy if you’re already planning your PhD, but if your jury is still out on this whole full-time academic thing, just be warned. You have to really fucking love your subject. 

And be prepared to put up with academics. Most are great, some are terrifying, and some will just rub you up the wrong way. This isn’t so much of a problem at undergrad level, because you spend less time with them and can more easily avoid them if you really want to. But with smaller groups of students and more contact time at MA level, you may find yourself doing a lot of teeth-gritting, and your mantra may quickly become “it’s only for a few months”. Some academics will appear to act as if they’re curing cancer. I remember hearing someone complain about how inconvenient it was to have to prove to a particular funding board that proposed research was going to have “impact”, and upon hearing this, I had a little hissy fit in my head. That may be my problem and mine alone – the learning-fatigue may have been at an all-time high that day – but my gut reaction was “Of course your research should have impact! If it’s got no practical use in the real world, what the fuck’s the point?” Talk about things being purely academic, Jesus.

This is sounding rather bitter, I’m aware. As I said, if my results are what I want them to be, I may change my tune about the whole shenanigan, I don’t know.

Update: so I got my results in November, after an agonising wait and whilst I was in the middle of a violent cold, and I have that MA. The “final result pending” has been deleted from my CV. Do I feel differently? No. I can honestly say that I don’t. It occurred to me on the train the other day (where I do all my best thinking, except for in the shower) that I still don’t actually know anything. I really don’t. Or at least, nothing that is much practical use to anyone. Maybe in a few years’ time, it will have paid off. I’ll be glad I spent an extra year having meltdowns in the library and printing off rainforests' worth of assignments. It is, I'll grudgingly admit, a slight confidence boost to be able to say, "Yes, I have an MA. I did it, I passed, I didn't waste a year, nor over £4000". But as I'm currently in the rather weird and frustrating position of having two part-time jobs that are enough to keep me busy but not enough to engage my brain, I'm going to have to wait and see. And being the most impatient person I know, it's going to be quite the learning curve.

On a slightly-related but interesting note, I was reading something the other day - it might have been the Guardian problem page, don't judge me - and a young woman had written in expressing her concerns that she was experiencing mental health problems but was about to embark upon a PhD. There were many, many responses - and a huge number of them were along the lines of, "I did a PhD/some form of postgraduate study and found it triggered/exacerbated mental health issues for me. Be warned!"

I have rambled on enough now, and haven't even mentioned that I've finally joined the rest of the TV-watching world and become obsessed with Homeland (Carrie Mathison: most inappropriate girl-crush ever? Discuss), nor how I'm finally going back to Belfast in March and I'm already excited. Belfast, you're my favourite city so I hope you're less rioty by the time I get there. I'm very sentimental about you - a friend once decided I qualified as being half-Northern Irish, and frankly I've never been more flattered.

These songs seem to fit with the wintry weather we're having. Probably because one of them is called 'Winter'. The other one is just gorgeous.