Advice I’m not qualified to give, but am giving anyway

Or, "stuff I wish I'd known sooner - not that I would have listened, in the event of actually being told".

My sister officially became a teenager last Sunday. I say "officially" - emotionally, she's been one for about the last four months. It's come as quite a shock to my mother: "she doesn't talk to me anymore, and she goes off in strops all the time. She's turning into you". Thanks, Mum*. And welcome back to the world of teenage girls. I suggest you buckle up.

*To be fair to our mother, I was a horrible teenager. I still am a lot of the time sometimes, at the age of 23.

I recently read a piece by one of my favourite writers, Daisy Buchanan (to the book geeks, yes, that is her actual name), that made me go "Aww!" It's an open letter and commencement address to her younger sister, who's about our age and has just graduated. Click here, if you're interested. And, in the absence of anything more pressing to write about, I thought I'd do my own, but for my much younger sister. So here's a handful of useful nuggets I have found to be, well, nothing but useful. I'll try and keep it as unpretentious as possible, but you know what I'm like; that won't be easy. I'll give it a go.

So then...

1) Work hard at school. There's no shame in being the diligent, conscientious one. Figure out the things you like and are good at, and get better at them. It really does make life so much easier, both now and later on.

2) Read. Read loads. You'll never be lonely again (well, almost). Getting totally emotionally involved in a story is an unrivalled joy. You'll never be stuck for something to talk about, and you'll pick up all kinds of information - you'll end up like Stephen Fry, basically. It also improves your spelling and grammar with zero effort - the more you read, the more you get to know when a word or sentence looks wrong. Which, while it isn't the most important character trait, does make you a lot less annoying to get e-mails from.

3) Get a part-time job as soon as you possibly can. It will do you the world of good, even if you're pretty ace already. It's the fastest and most effective way to become more responsible and a good team-player (guess who's spent too much time on recruitment sites recently. Eurgh). And, if you're earning your own money, no one can tell you what to do with it - because it's YOURS and YOURS ALONE.

4) Ignore magazines, and indeed anything or anyone that tries to tell you how you should look, or that you should be thinner. (Such as Mum. Please don't follow her example. Please.) The overwhelming majority of diets don't work, so just kind of pay attention to your body - it's quite good at telling you what you need. Unfortunately, a large part of the rest of the world doesn't quite seem to trust women to know what to do with their own bodies just yet, so it's up to you to tell them to bugger off and mind their own damn business.

5) Experiment with your looks. The time will soon come when you have to look like everybody else, and while you've still got the "teen" suffix in your age, it is not that time. Put bright blue streaks in your hair (maybe wait until sixth form to do this, I know what your school's uniform policy is like: militant), try out flicky black eyeliner or neon pink lipstick. Make-up is a good thing - unless you apply it with a tablespoon. It can cover things you don't like and enhance the things you do like. Have fun with it, it's cheaper than clothes.

6) Fancy someone you shouldn't. In a legal sort of way, I mean. One of those boys who thinks they are God's gift to women - you know the type. They’re not, so get this out the way early in life and you’ll save yourself a metric shitload of drama. Then find someone who’s kind (this is underrated, and shouldn’t be) and who thinks you’re wonderful. And makes you laugh til you yelp like a seal in distress. Yes, you can vomit. But it’s important.
     6b) You don’t have to have a boyfriend, either. (Or girlfriend, for that matter.) I didn’t have a proper relationship until I was nineteen, which was... fine. I didn’t absolutely love being the only person in my friendship group who was single, and it can feel especially bad when your best friend gets a guy and suddenly she’s not around half as much, but you’ll do the same thing one day. Plus, relationships are bloody hard work at times - factoring a whole other human being into your everyday life can sometimes be a case of moving from one uneasy truce to the next. You can quote me on that, it's probably the truest thing I'll say for a long time.
     And the majority of relationships that start before university/the age of 20 do NOT last. A rare few do, BUT MOST REALLY, REALLY DON’T. I cannot emphasise that enough, you're just going to have to trust me on it. You might get to your A-levels, look at a couple you know and think, “They’re going to be together forever, and get married and have babies”. Give it two years, love…

7) Learn that being cool is a myth. Or rather, the coolest people are the ones who just do their own thing, like what they like and stand by their opinions, even if those opinions aren't popular.

8) Stay in touch with friends who move away. Take it from someone who is God-awful at doing this. Even if you just drop them the odd Facebook message, it still helps. It's never anything but lovely when you hear from someone you haven't spoken to for ages: "Oh! They were thinking of me? Well, that's made my week".

9) Be nice. Polite. Kind. You know, not a dick. If you find yourself in, say, a shouty situation, or a serious personal disagreement, and manage not to make it worse, then it's a start. Being able to walk away with a clear conscience gives you one less thing to worry about.

10) I've saved the best two things for last, you'll see:
     10a) Always, always, ALWAYS send hand-written thank you notes for presents. ALWAYS.
     10b) If you're feeling down, look up videos of babies laughing on YouTube. Ditto baby animals doing pretty much anything.
Yeah, you're welcome.

OK, now I have a request of any blog-readers that may be out there. I'm planning to enter a feature-writing competition, and I need some assistance. I'd like to write something about mental health in university students - you know, cheery stuff - for reasons you're probably aware of, if you've read previous posts. So, if anyone found that being at uni either triggered, or worsened any mental health/emotional issues/problems they had, and fancies dropping me a couple of lines about it, then please do. Names won't be used in the piece, obviously, and I'm certainly not going to be gossiping down the pub about anything I do get told. I am particularly interested in people who actually managed to use their uni counselling service - did it help? Etc, etc. I will also be writing about my own "I think I'm losing my mind" moments in the feature, too. So, if anyone feels able to share, I would be very, very grateful.

Music time! If I could have anyone write the soundtrack to my life, it would be Gary Lightbody - he just has an unparallelled knack for writing simple songs with all-time melodies; tracks that are effortlessly epic. And he's one of those rare singers who sounds better live than he does on recordings (the Northern Irish accent helps too). This is one of my favourite tracks from the new Tired Pony album - an album that feels like being reunited with an old friend - easy and joyful. And here's another - it starts all slow and yearning, then takes you by surprise about 1:18.

And this lady needs to make a comeback; it's been years. That isn't one of her best songs, by a long way, but it's a fun, playful one.

I didn't want this to be a list post, but...

...I spent two weeks at Student Beans, in the name of finally getting something a bit writer-y on my CV, and most of the 30+ ideas I pitched to them over the course of the fortnight were list-type posts, a la Buzzfeed. It was a good fortnight though - it turns out being a writer involves spending a lot of time on the internet and then trying to be faintly amusing. I've been doing it right all along.

I managed to break the golden rule, though - the first rule of work experience is you do NOT get ill during work experience. I don't do ill. Aside from the odd migraine and like, one bad cold a year. So to go down with tonsillitis on the evening of my very first day was, to be honest, absolutely hideous. I'd never had it before; does it always reduce its victims to weeping messes who are incapable of anything except drinking tea, sleeping and crying? It's rare that I shamelessly heap praise upon the Boy (Lord knows he's all too aware of this) but that week, he more than earned my eternal gratitude. From not complaining about my 6.30am alarm, to spending five straight evenings marathoning Modern Family* with me - someone give that boy a medal. Or I'm actually going to have to start being nice to him.

*I'm starting to develop some seriously maternal feelings towards Lily. I mean, look. Look!


Since work experience ended, I've felt a bit drained of ideas for the blog. I've got a couple of other writery projects on the go too, but it's been a month since my last post, and if I'm honest, I'm missing seeing those spikes on the page-views graph. Which is sad but perhaps inevitable.

As my friends and I were trying to leave the pub on Monday, we walked into - or rather, through - an argument about what the best super-power is. My friends are geeky enough to have this conversation down to a Really Fine Art, so naturally they decided to weigh in, with amusing consequences. Which got me thinking - no, not what the best power is, it's clearly and unarguably "being able to control people's moods" - but what the best pub conversations are. Because nothing spells conversational gold like being happily drunk and gathered round a table with your best friends.

1) The top one is obviously "if you could have any super-power, what would it be?" As I've said, my friends and I have spent hours debating this one. I always go for mood control, the Boy always goes for something to do with having infinite time, and my friend James just wants to control everything. (I think.) It often takes interesting detours, such as "would you rather have an arm that could turn into anything you like, or be able to make it snow whenever you want?" We must have been a few beers in by the time that made any sense.

2) The lunatic idea conversation. A conversation that genuinely happened on Monday night began thus: "What if there was a pill that could give you an instant orgasm?" I felt really, really sorry for the people sitting at the tables either side of us. We got pretty vociferous over this one - the boys were more concerned about how rich it would make them, and I was sitting there wondering aloud if it would bring about some awful societal decline.

3) The heated debate. Say the word "adoption" to a few of my friends, and watch them turn ashen and start going "OH GOD, NO. Not again, please, no." Last summer, during a cheese and wine evening, we started talking about adoption. (I've no idea why.) Cut to about two hours later, and we were all shouting at each other, going "You're wrong! You couldn't be wronger! Please stop offending me with your utter WRONGNESS."

Shit gets rowdy after too much Camembert, you know how it is.

We've also all agreed to never again discuss who, out of David Mitchell and Robert Webb, is the funniest. And no, don't you start.

4) i) The sexual bucket list one. Where you all end up talking about your "lists of stuff you'd like to try". You have to be quite drunk for this, and often, the weirder and more comical, the better. Can lead to...

    ii) ...the sexual tell-all one. (For cleaner version of this, see no 6.) Often a girl thing. You end up divulging everything you've ever done ever, and asking each other questions you wouldn't dream of had you not drunk an entire bottle of wine and multiple shots of tequila.

5) The character assassination one. One of your friends couldn't make it out, and conveniently it's the one you all find a bit annoying. After a while, you start talking about them. Then talking turns to bitching, and bitching turns to "I know! Let's make up a drinking game based upon their behaviour, and unbeknown to them, play it the next time we're all out together!"

6) The rant. Similar to 3), but it usually involves whisky or wine. I get my feminist rage on - and start saying things like, "when I have my own column in the Guardian" - while someone else I could name but won't once gave us the complete and unabridged history of his love life. With visual aids via the use of Facebook. Recounting this to my stepfather, he said "Aye, whisky'll do that to you."

7) The argument. Again, similar to 3) but much, much more personal. "I didn't tell you this before but I really have to tell you now. YOU REALLY HURT ME THAT TIME YOU -" etc, etc. Often ends with the argument-starter weeping profusely and declaring passionate and undying love to their victim. (I in no way speak from experience.)

Those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head, but I'm sure there's many more, so feel free to chip in (hark at me getting all interactive).

Music time - and what a lovely bunch of stuff it is too...

Just when I think I couldn't want to be this girl anymore than I already do, she comes up with a track that's even more gutsy and soulful and Stevie Nicks-esque than her previous stuff. Oh yes.

And I've not loved everything this band has done, but this song is perfection.

And this too, it's beautiful (and that kid is brilliant).

I'm not crazy, I swear.

A few months ago, I nearly died at East Croydon station.

I didn't really, but as opening lines go, that's not half-bad, is it? With the juxtaposition of melodrama and utter banality - yeah, yeah, English students die hard and whatnot; I'll get on with it.

I thought I was going to die. For perhaps 120 seconds, I was convinced that This. Was. It. I even remember thinking, "Here? Really, here? Of all places?!" To this day, it still frightens me a little to recall just how fast my heart was racing, how I pretty much forgot how to breathe in and out, how I spent a tearful ten minutes in the waiting room between platforms 3 and 4, trembling and trying to calm down.

Panic attacks can be so embarrassing.

I've had this post half-written for a long time, and I'm putting it out there now because 1) I'm having trouble coming up with ideas at the moment, and it's worrying me more than it usually would, because I'm about to do a fortnight's work experience at a student website and therefore need to be at the top of my writing and content-producing game (eek). And 2) in the last week or so, new charity Mindfull has advised that lessons about mental health issues should be a standard part of secondary education.

I don't know many stats about mental health issues off the top of my head - and it really isn't for want of looking - but I can name at least four family members who've suffered depression and/or anxiety (I really won the genetics lottery). Most people know someone who has dealt with issues that are somewhere on the spectrum - from "mild" depression or the odd panic attack, to severe mood disorders. And despite a growing number of high-profile people (Stephen Fry, Catherine Zeta-Jones, my own personal heroine Thea Gilmore) being open about their own experiences of mental health problems, it remains a tricky thing to talk about. I almost think I'd more readily give my nearest and dearest a grim-faced account of a particularly bad bout of cystitis than admit that sometimes - no, often - my brain goes a bit rogue and starts throwing panic-inducing question after panic-inducing question at me.

I wouldn't say I have a serious problem. (You may read this and conclude otherwise, and I wouldn't blame you.) I mean sure, if I have two whole days off in a row I start to freak out a bit - too much time off triggers my "worst case scenario" montages. But if I've worked a six-day week or two, and have ended up relying on coffee in the mornings and a glass of wine in the evenings, it won't be long before the jitters set in. Which turn to tension, which in turn may spark a little panic moment, or a proper "OhGODIcan'tbreathe" attack. Sometimes hormones play a part, sometimes they don't.

There was a time when I would have said I had a problem. I've mentioned it before - "that time I went a bit mad in second year". In, um, my second year of uni, funnily enough. Until then I'd been a worrier, sure, but the end of 2009 saw that erupt, seemingly from nowhere, into a full-blown Thing. A Thing that hounded me for months, like an internal stalker. If depression is "the black dog", anxiety is a Jack Russell, yapping and snapping at your ankles, until you give it the attention and energy it needs.

During those horrible few months, I tried a number of things - saw more than one GP, went home to my mother, confided in one tutor, played a lot of clock patience (there's not much to do at five in the morning when sleep is an alien concept and you need something that's going to occupy your brain and your hands. Don't make it weird), and got as far as the door of the university counselling service. On two occasions. Did I ever make an appointment? No. By admitting that a few sessions of chatting to a trained professional might be a good idea, it felt like I'd be slapping a label on my forehead that read "nutter". I was scared of what other people would think - I'm still not sure why I thought I had to tell them. I think I reasoned that if I had good friends, a reasonably supportive - if not endlessly patient - family, a bemused but caring boyfriend, what was so wrong with me that I needed someone else to talk to? But that's the nature of the beast, I guess - the sense of perspective is the first thing to go.

I spent most of the summer that followed second year with gastritis. I'd literally worried myself sick. Things only started to settle down properly when I began my third year - I was living with a good friend, my workload increased, so I had more stuff to concentrate on, and I think I'd just worn myself out. Being in a constant state of anxiety is exhausting. 

I'm really not sure how to round off a blog post that is a little more soul-baring than I'm used to. Like I said, I don't feel I have a serious problem now - I have a few bad days every month or so, and I know what helps and what doesn't, even if I don't always act upon that knowledge. Would I be rid of my weird anxiety issues? Of course I would. I'd pay good money to be one of those asleep-as-soon-as-head-meets-pillow, whatever-will-be-will-be people. But the chances of that kind of a change happening are slim-to-none - the best I think I can hope for is just to get a bit better at dealing with the waves of panic as and when they roll in, and eventually, they might start to shrink.

If this doesn't haunt your dreams, well, then I'm all out of gothy-sounding country-folk to give you.

And this is cute. I don't know if I've missed the boat with this band - has anyone heard of them? Have they released anything over here? But the video itself is gloriously silly and camp, while the song is basically a shortcut back to the best bits of your teen years - sweet and fun and at times, a little bit sexy (altogether now: "we're going to rattle this ghost town!").

Checking your privilege...

Apparently, this is a thing at the moment. It started on the internet and is now some kind of zeitgeisty... zeitgeist. As I'm only partially employed*, and easily bored, I spend a lot of time on the internet, so I'm somewhat surprised that I've missed it - but then again, I had to have Snapchat explained to me the other day, and I feel old when I [am forced to] listen to Radio One, so... I'm about as down-with-the-kids as your great Aunt Mildred.

*I say that; having just done a six-day week, I feel like I'm overly employed. Just not in the right job(s).

So, it's something the kids are saying a lot at the moment, in online debates about politics, feminism - the usual stuff. But it seems to have got up in a few writers' grills  - and thanks must go to Lucy from Made in Chelsea for making it borderline-acceptable to use that phrase. Hadley Freeman, Dan Hodges, Hugo Rifkind and Louise Mensch have all devoted columns to unpicking the phrase over the last week or so. Like I said, I hadn't even heard of it until I read the Hadley Freeman piece (possibly the most sensible one out there), but now I have read some of the varying perspectives, I have to say, it's a phrase I like.

Why? Well, because taking the words themselves - before they get lobbed carelessly into a debate about the social issue of your choice - they simply imply that we all need to be a little more self-aware before we judge people that are not us. Which is a concept I am in whole-hearted agreement with. Don't get me wrong, making scathing and witty judgements is fun - join me and the Boy for an end-of-week drink or five and we'll give you a crash course in being smug and superior - but when it's done to score points, make others feel small, start or win a fight, then it's just not cricket.

People are right to be sceptical of fashionable schools of thought that can be summed up with snappy, witty slogans. They often hugely over-simplify the problems they're trying to address, though the intentions are usually positive ("Make Poverty History" - remember that? If only it was - or will ever be - that simple). But if we look at the bare bones, the basic meaning of the command to "check your privilege" (former linguistics students die hard), it's merely a call to remember where you're coming from. It's the self-awareness version of a GCSE history teacher shouting at their pupils, "Look at the source, boys and girls!" - where are your opinions coming from? Your own experiences.

Now, a) that sounds like common sense. People do that automatically, don't they? Pffff, well... perhaps more on that in a sec, I want to make point b), which is this - you can still have an opinion on something if you haven't directly experienced it. You just need to add the self-awareness bit, and stir. Accept that someone who has had personal experience of the topic in question - being on benefits, any kind of discrimination, abortion, to give some topical examples - will probably have a much more visceral response. Which relates back to a) - most normal, rational, smart human beings will do this - they know their view is not the only view.

But some - the people who leave comments on Mail Online, people who demonise everyone claiming some kind of welfare benefit, people who get sniffy when you call them on it and start their comeback with "well, as a taxpayer, I..." - have forgotten to check their privilege. Yes, it usually takes hard, hard work, determination, failure, and trying again to get on to the ladder in your chosen field - now more than ever - but there is almost always a certain amount of luck involved. You might have been blessed with a fearsome work ethic, a pushy parent or two, the right postcode, a ceiling-smashing ambitious streak, or all of the above plus a pony and regular skiing holidays in Val d'Isere.

I'm nowhere near where I want to be at the moment, but I'm ok with checking my own privilege. When I'm raging about the lack of jobs for verbose young upstarts, I remember that at least I'm still employed, and therefore earning. When my mother and I are shouting blue murder at one another, because our house isn't big enough for two high-maintenance females, I'm grateful that she hasn't yet changed the locks with the words, "you're on your own now, princess" (she wouldn't say that; she's not Ray Winstone). When I'm judging the little flock of alcoholics who like to congregate by the fountain a few metres from my workplace, and wondering how it is they haven't got better things to do, I count myself lucky that I have people around me who would intervene without a second thought if I ever fell on the darkest of hard times.

Checking your privilege from time to time isn't a bad idea, because after all, privileges can always be revoked.

This song is like sex in the ears; it also contains the best use of the word "rascal" ever.

What to do with your free time...

...if you still have any.

I can't remember the last time I fell as completely and utterly in love with a film as I did with Mud, which I saw on Wednesday evening. It certainly wasn't the last time I made it to the cinema, to see Les Miserables - the only bit of which I didn't find glaringly underwhelming being Eddie Redmayne's face. I spent most of that genuinely concerned that Hugh Jackman was going to do serious damage to his vocal cords: "he's not going to go for that note, is he? No, he'll never make it. Oh, he is...? Brave. Very brave."

But anyway. Mud. Set along the Mississippi, in Arkansas, two young teenagers find a man hiding out on an island near their riverside homes. He goes by the name of Mud, and is waiting for a girl - a girl he's been in love with for years, and whose violent ex he killed - and is trying to stay off the radar of the dead man's family, and the authorities. The two boys get drawn into his story, and begin to help him - the sensitive one, Ellis, more readily than his brilliantly-named friend Neckbone. Ellis is having problems of his own; his parents are on the verge of splitting, and he's got a crush on an older girl. He's amusingly given to throwing punches when frustrated in his endeavours - I kind of wanted to ruffle his hair and tell him that in four years' time, he'd probably be needing two sticks to fight off the ladies. And then I remembered he's a fictional character.

It's achingly middle-class to get gushy about cinematography, but Mud definitely warrants it. Thanks to its glorious, wild setting and Steadicam camera work (I've been reading everything I can find about this film; can you tell?) it's a film you want to step right inside and explore. I've also had the soundtrack on repeat for the last few days; it's as country as you'd expect, with some really nice guitar work going on. In particular, the track called "Snakebite" (which doesn't give away any major plot points, not at all), with its spiky guitars and menacing drums, makes whatever you happen to be doing while listening to it feel like The Most Important and Epic Thing You've Ever Done. I was proofreading the absolute shit out of my work on Friday to it... (You can find it on YouTube if you want to see what I mean.)

There is nothing about this film I did not love - the plot feels like it could have been adapted from a classic American novel, and it doesn't descend into cliche. Even Ellis' dad, who could be your standard emotionally-unavailable hard-ass, has his softer moments. Everything wraps up quite neatly, sure, but thanks to the story-telling and really good performances from Matthew McConnaughey as Mud, Tye Sheridan as Ellis and Ray McKinnon as Ellis' father, you don't feel short-changed. And plus, who doesn't love a sort-of-coming-of-age film that ends in a shoot-out?

I mentioned in the last post that I'd wanted to include something about the new Thea Gilmore album, Regardless, but that I'd run out of words. So while I'm on the topic of nice things to see and listen to, here goes. In several reviews of the album, much was made of how Ms Gilmore has reached musical maturity and finally found her "place" in the British talent line-up. Biased though I may be, I think what's actually happened is that British music has finally found a place for her. Presumably she has, more or less, always made the music she's wanted to make, and for any artist, that's going to change between the ages of 23 and 30-something. It's probably true that in Regardless, Thea Gilmore has struck her best balance yet between finely-articulated rage against injustice and apathy, and writing about more universal themes of love, family and loss. Stand-out tracks include Start As We Mean To Go On - my new drinking song, surely - Something to Sing About, and Spit and Shine. And if you manage to listen to My Friend Goodbye and remain dry-eyed, then you're a robot.

And so to reading material. On my desk, there's a stack of things I should get on and read, one being The Second Coming, by John Niven. It's the sequel to Kill Your Friends, a book so sharp you could hurt yourself on it. With a protagonist so vile you finish the book and feel a genuine need to read the Bible - but he has such a strong voice you find yourself slipping into his thought patterns. It's funny, but black comedy doesn't begin to cover it. It's a triumph of a novel, but God, you feel dirty afterwards. I'm both nervous and sceptical about the sequel - it's got so much to live up to.

To lighten the mood, I've also got Hadley Freeman's Be Awesome. It's not a self-help book; it's closer to a more balanced How To Be A Woman. I worship at the altar of Caitlin Moran as much as the next 23-year-old upstart who thinks she's cool, but her first book probably should have been called The World According to Catmo. Freeman writes in a similar way - it's like having a long, putting-the-world-to-rights chat with your best mate - but her arguments seem slightly more measured. And it's worth reading for the chapter entitled "A day in your life in Daily Mail headlines" alone.

That's all for now. Have some... oh God, I'm struggling for musical recommendations... Oh, this is quite Sunday-ish, that'll do.