A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to be joined in Rhodes by Winnie-the-Pooh's wise old friend Owl. I had only been working on the Greek Island for around four days when he came and sat beside me during the evening entertainment. Just as the Abba tribute band launched into their rendition of Waterloo, he leaned over and gave me the best piece of advice that I have received to date.
He began explaining that years ago, before settling in Hundred Acre Wood, he himself lived and worked in Greece, and thought he probably knew how I would be feeling.
"Greeks will tell you to do one thing, watch you do it, then tell you that you're wrong and need to do it another way. They will change their minds about what they want from you, and expect you to accommodate their changing needs. You will never know where you stand, and there are no set rules for anything."
Since I had arrived I had attempted, unsuccessfully, to explain via emails, phone calls and endless Skype conversations with friends and family exactly what it was like to work here. Owl had managed to do it in three sentences.
I had no idea what to do to make my new employers happy because they had no idea what they wanted from me.
Having perfectly summed up the difficult situation I was in, Owl culminated the conversation with the following golden nugget of information; about to change my whole attitude towards work and towards my background.
"Never be afraid to be British. It doesn't matter where in the world you are, if you do it the British way, nobody will object."
With that he smiled and patted me on the knee- something which I took as confirmation that he knew that my current homepage was 'Easyjet flights from Rhodes to Stansted', and that he thought I should stick at it a little longer.
This support from one of the only British guests in the hotel at this time meant a great deal more than I'm sure even Wise Old Owl will ever understand. Not only did it feel like a big cup of hot chocolate when the rest of the world had let me go cold and thirsty, it also changed my outlook on my heritage. In one passing comment Owl had transformed me. He had pushed me into the telephone box as a lost, confused, ridiculously-young-looking English girl, embarrassed at her lack of foreign language skills and ashamed at her poor darts-playing abilities; only for me to emerge a taller, prouder British woman wearing a union jack as a cape and a big, welcoming smile on her face.
His words echoed around my head for the rest of that night and when I woke in the morning I decided to test his theory. I would stop being worried about what these people wanted from me: they clearly didn't know so odds were that if I did things the British way they might just be satisfied. And if they weren't at least I would be.
I started by singing hello at everyone that I saw. This was something that, out of habit, I had naturally done in my first few days. The response that I received from those not from the UK usually consisted of a nod of the head, occasionally paired with a grunt. I would then continue on my way with the distinct feeling that everyone found me childish and annoying. This morning, though, I put those embarrassed feelings aside and remembered Owl's words. I would remain British. Could people really bemoan the fact that I greet guests with a cheery 'good morning!'? If anything surely they should be embarrassed at their rude and miserable attitudes in the face of my happiness.
That morning I was lucky enough to receive a few grunts and even a couple of smiles as I went on my way around the hotel. My team leader laughed at my happy statement and commented that it was a lovely welcome- even if he himself did only raise his eyebrows as a way of greeting. The few British guests- obviously- returned my 'good morning!' with an equally cheery 'hello!' or sometimes even an 'isn't it glorious?!'
Later that day, my manager was talking to the team about how to engage guests. He explained that engaging with English guests was easy. "They're always up for joining in, always say hello and always have a smile on their faces."
Is this really how we're seen abroad? I had always thought we were seen as hooligans. I asked my Tunisian boss as much.
"No! The English are always the best guests. They're happy, excitable, ready to join in and rarely complain."
What a revelation.
As I carried on through the week, I discovered that Owl had been right. When I stopped worrying about what everyone expected of me and did things the British way, suddenly everything that I did was right. Guests, staff and managers alike were happy with my work, leaving me free to notice little British quirks that make me proud of my background....
1. Putting at least shorts on to go to the supermarket on holiday. Sound obvious? We're the only nation that do it. Trust me.
2. Meeting new people and being happy about it. Part of my job was to spend my evenings introducing myself to guests and getting to know them. Like greeting people in the morning, this is a far more acceptable ritual in UK culture. On more than one occasion (in fact almost every day), my team leader had to 'have a word' with me about my tendency to spend more than the allocated ten minutes with British customers. I could skip over to guests from any other background and they would happily ask me where I'm from, and inform me of their trip so far. I would then wish them a pleasant evening and leave them with a smile, moving on to the next table. As far as my manager was concerned- this was fantastic. It was straight out of the 'How To Be The Perfect Entertainer' textbook. With British guests it wasn't quite so straightforward. I would introduce myself and ask them about their trip exactly the same as I would with any other guests, and quicker than you can say 'enjoy your stay' I'd be sipping my third cocktail and looking at pictures of their grandchildren.
3. Our passion for football. The Greek hotel bar didn't even have a screen to show the football on (I know!), so when a whole gang of (mostly Liverpudlian) guests almost had a group panic attack on the night of the FA Cup Final, they had to compromise with a karaoke screen and a dodgy satellite.
Recently when I was in France one family had brought their own TV and dish and set it up outside their tent to ensure they didn't miss out on any of the Euro 2012.
So far it doesn't sound like a trait to be too proud of does it? Getting over-excited about fully grown men kicking a ball around?
What I am proud of is our ability to forget everything else, come together in our matching shirts and face-painted cheeks, and support our team as one.
4. Joining in. Whilst less than 40% of the hotel guests were from the UK, approximately 90% of activity participants were British. As I stood each morning on the edge of the pool shouting 'Water Polo!', I felt confident and safe in the knowledge that there would be at least nine newly-tanned, enthusiastic, British faces beaming up at me before I finished the second word. The final participant would be pushed in as he walked back from the supermarket in only his speedos.
5. Our sense of loyalty to one another. As a holiday maker you may not have noticed this- but it's always there. Many of you have probably been in a situation involving staring round at empty sun loungers, unable to take one as they have already been reserved by a towel belonging to someone from outside of the UK. Remember? I would bet my right foot that you discussed this with another British holidaymaker and complained about it together.
I once went on holiday to a campsite that provided fantastic evening entertainment but not enough chairs for all the guests. That holiday involved observing a lot of arguments but not one of them involved two British families against each other. Like siblings who are not always best friends but remain fiercely protective, British people tend to stick together.
My most memorable and moving experience of this loyalty happened on the day that I left Rhodes.
That's right. I left Rhodes.
I tried Owl's advice and it did work, but it sadly didn't change the fact that I was deeply unhappy there for too many reasons to list here, so I handed in my resignation and worked my twenty-one days notice before leaving just over a month ago.
Due to the nature of my departure, I was asked by my manager to keep it a secret that I was leaving. A secret from everyone. Which meant that when my pre-booked and pre-paid taxi arrived and I asked the bell boy whether it was for me, he insisted that it wasn't. As did the driver. It was only after he had left that reception realised their mistake (having sent him away assuring him that there is no Rebecca staying here- a little clue as to why I may have left) and told me that I would have to pay seventy Euro for another taxi.
Having already paid for my flights to and from Rhodes, as well as my overweight luggage, my living expenses and the taxi that they had sent away, all to work for free for a month, I wasn't exactly in a position to find another seventy Euro for somebody else's mistake.
I'll let your imagination decide how I might have responded to the receptionist's suggestion.
When she then told me to 'calm down, it's only seventy euro, it's not a big deal', I was promptly surrounded by four English people.
The first gave me a hug, told me that it was a big deal and that I had every right to be angry and upset. The second two told me that they would go and speak to their taxi driver and organise for me to go in their taxi for free. The final one helped me carry my luggage out to the taxi and put it in for me.
Those four people who had never met me before and had no obligation toward me whatsoever, stayed by my side for the rest of my journey, ensuring that everything else went smoothly until the moment that I put on my sunglasses and pretended to be a celebrity for the walk out into the arrivals lounge.
Those four people made me more thankful and more proud to be British than ever.
I returned from Greece to the most British Britain in history.
Supermarket ceilings were dripping with Union Jacks showing Queen Elizabeth's dignified face, shelves were stacked with Royal Family themed...well...everything. From plates, cups and tea towels to masks, champagne and bowler hats, almost every product in every store was covered with the Union Jack and Her Majesty's face. Similarly I found that I couldn't drive anywhere without seeing beautifully decorated red, white and blue houses, as well as flag-adorned cars and vans.
On the Royal Jubilee weekend itself I found myself working on a campsite in France. Wearing red, white and blue, faces painted and Britain-themed cups in hand, the guests made the weekend fantastically British and once again I felt proud of my heritage.
In the following weeks I found myself feeling increasingly patriotic as I visited Greenwich, Stratford and Chelmsford.
As I spent days out with my friends Timone and Mary Poppins, spotting the Equestrian Competitions being set up in Greenwich Park, the viewing platform in Westfield Shopping Centre, and various tracksuited Olympians running into Starbucks for their caffeine fix, I felt a rush of excitement for the summer, and pangs of regret that I wouldn't be here to witness it.
I then spent an evening in Chelmsford watching the England-Sweden match with Woody, closely followed by equally-nail-biting matches in the Isle of Wight and Bicknacre. On each of these occasions as I stood with a group of people that I (mainly) didn't know, I felt that warm sense of community and togetherness that can only really be brought about by football or a natural disaster.
So despite the fact that I will be in France for the Olympics I will be keeping up with the success of it all- particularly the opening ceremony which my beautiful friend Gabriella Montez will be taking part in- and look forward to returning in September.
In the mean time, these are the things I will miss most while I'm away....
1. Robinson's Orange and Pineapple Squash. This amazing concoction comes second only to my brothers on my Best Things About Being Home list.
2. Cadbury's Dairy Milk. That would be on your list too, wouldn't it?
3. Miranda. The best television programme to come out of Britain. EVER.
4. Driving on the left. I only drove once in France last year but I don't think all the practice in the world would stop me from reaching for the door handle to change gear.
5. Saying 'thank you' loudly and clearly and knowing I'm pronouncing it correctly. I try, with 'merci', I really do. But saying it properly makes me gag.
6. Buying fruit and vegetables the same way you buy everything else, i.e. not wasting twenty minutes working out how to use that weighing/sticker machine.
7. Seeing Beckham's gorgeous face every time I turn on the television/open a magazine/read a paper.
8. Radio One. Especially Greg James. I know it's international but I won't have a radio in my tent....
I was asked in the third year of my degree whether I was happy that I was British. I answered that I was. I explained that I had always thought myself lucky to have been born here. When I said that I had meant because we live in a modern, first world society. The past few months have brought my attention to the fact that I am lucky to be British for more reasons than a nice, brick house and sky TV. For more reasons even than Richard Curtis and J.K. Rowling.
After my experiences in Greece, France, and the UK I have found that Owl was right. We should always be proud to be British.
So this summer as you complain about inevitable train delays, traffic nightmares and a lack of Mediterranean weather- just remember how lucky you are to be from somewhere as wonderful as the UK.
I know I will :)
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
Saturday, 5 May 2012
It's A Small World....
Exactly one week ago today I boarded flight EZY8971 to my latest adventure.
Having moved straight from Ireland to Chigwell to Chelmsford to Disney in the three weeks leading up to my flight, I had very little time to register that it was actually happening.
I had no time to feel excitement, nerves or anticipation.
One minute I was stepping onto a plane flying from Dublin to London, the next I was taking that amazing step that I look forward to every time I book a holiday.
The step off of the plane.
The second that your foot hits the metal your body is enveloped in a delicious heat and your nose is filled that wonderful smell of...holiday. It smells of relaxation and good food and too many photos all rolled into one.
As I walked toward the tiny airport with a newly washed floor (why do foreign airports always have a wet floor?) I finally got a buzz of anticipation.
I was in Rhodes!
After two days of sitting in a white van with Tunisian men shouting in Arabic about which hotel they should send me to (yes, it was just as horrific as it sounds)- I finally made it to my new home: The Atrium Palace Hotel.
It's beautiful.
The hotel has glorious views, three fantastic pools, a gorgeous beach and- most importantly- plenty of double chocolate magnums.
So far I have loved it, and am so thankful that the arguments in the white van led me here.
But I can't help thinking that it would be even better to be here on holiday.
As I have been greeting guests in the afternoon, "Opah!"-ing on Greek night and Agadoo-ing at the mini disco I have, on more than one occasion, found myself daydreaming about my next summer holiday.
Being here has got me thinking about holidays and prompted a discussion with my new roommate, Cinderella, about those certain people that you see on a European summer holiday every single year....
1. Super mum. You know her. Her children are wearing special hats that protect every part of the body from the shoulders up- hats that are never seen in normal shops or at any other time of year. (Except maybe Sports Day.) The children's faces are white from sun cream, despite the fact that they are wearing full body swimming costumes and sitting in the pop up tent that they flat packed into their case, and are therefore unlikely to see any sun. They always have a picnic with them including fruit, carrot sticks and cartons of organic juice. Super mum can normally be recognised by her Simon-Cowell-style high waisted beige shorts (worn even in December), beige, open-toe, flat sandals and bumbag.
2. The Retired Couple. They love the resort that you are staying in and they have been coming here every year since their first baby was born. They love to talk to anyone and everyone- making friends with those around them at the pool, in the restaurant and during the show. Those that they do talk to will have a run down of the funny things that their children did here when they were little, and will probably be shown photographs of their grandchildren.
3. The Ones With Money. This isn't their real holiday, oh no. They go to Florida in July and India in August for their real holidays. This European holiday, along with their timeshare in Portugal and their three weeks in Spain in February are just little breaks. You know this because they announce it at ten minute intervals.
4. The Two Point Four Children Cereal Ad Family. The beautiful parents sunbathe whilst the children play happily in the pool. The children have matching swimming costumes and evening outfits. The girls have their hair french plaited and the boys practice ball games with their dad. They join in all of the activities put on by the hotel- and win every single one.
5. The Northern Family. When I was younger, my brothers- Mowgli and Chip- and I used to call a Manchester accent 'a holiday accent'. I always wonder if Northerners used to say the same about ours...?
6. The Family That You Wouldn't Mess With. It's hard to see if the dad has a body part that isn't tattooed, the mum has bleached blonde hair in a tight ponytail and the kids are called 'Destiny' and 'Paris'. You know this because those names are constantly being shouted at a volume slightly above acceptable- all.day.long.
7. The Ones You Can't Quite Work Out. He's in his twenties, she's in her fifties. Are they a couple? Or mother and son? You can see other people asking the same questions and sometimes even discuss it with other guests, but very rarely find out. Shame, really.
8. The Ultra-Happy, Hyper and Bubbly Entertainer who sings 'Morning!' at you just a bit too loudly when you're trying to come out of your ouzo-coma brought on by the previous night's antics. She's super enthusiastic about things like aerobics and table tennis while it's forty degrees and you didn't go to bed until four and all you really want is to read your book and sleep by the pool.
Now you will definitely slot into one of these categories.
Which are you?
I'm the last one.
I don't know what they put in the entertainers' water here, but gone is the girl who needed a bowl of cereal and an hour alone before being spoken to. I have now become that annoying, enthusiastic animator who bounces into breakfast and gets excited at the prospect of anything that involves dragging people from their sunbeds and putting, albeit begrudging, smiles on their faces.
Over the past year I have been lucky enough to enjoy working with every single one of these stereotypes and am so excited to be back in this happy industry.
So next time you're on holiday- look around for these characters and remember how brilliant they all are: your holiday memories wouldn't be the same without them.
I, for one, can't wait to introduce them back into my fairytale- and to continue to play character number eight in all of theirs :)
Having moved straight from Ireland to Chigwell to Chelmsford to Disney in the three weeks leading up to my flight, I had very little time to register that it was actually happening.
I had no time to feel excitement, nerves or anticipation.
One minute I was stepping onto a plane flying from Dublin to London, the next I was taking that amazing step that I look forward to every time I book a holiday.
The step off of the plane.
The second that your foot hits the metal your body is enveloped in a delicious heat and your nose is filled that wonderful smell of...holiday. It smells of relaxation and good food and too many photos all rolled into one.
As I walked toward the tiny airport with a newly washed floor (why do foreign airports always have a wet floor?) I finally got a buzz of anticipation.
I was in Rhodes!
After two days of sitting in a white van with Tunisian men shouting in Arabic about which hotel they should send me to (yes, it was just as horrific as it sounds)- I finally made it to my new home: The Atrium Palace Hotel.
It's beautiful.
The hotel has glorious views, three fantastic pools, a gorgeous beach and- most importantly- plenty of double chocolate magnums.
So far I have loved it, and am so thankful that the arguments in the white van led me here.
But I can't help thinking that it would be even better to be here on holiday.
As I have been greeting guests in the afternoon, "Opah!"-ing on Greek night and Agadoo-ing at the mini disco I have, on more than one occasion, found myself daydreaming about my next summer holiday.
Being here has got me thinking about holidays and prompted a discussion with my new roommate, Cinderella, about those certain people that you see on a European summer holiday every single year....
1. Super mum. You know her. Her children are wearing special hats that protect every part of the body from the shoulders up- hats that are never seen in normal shops or at any other time of year. (Except maybe Sports Day.) The children's faces are white from sun cream, despite the fact that they are wearing full body swimming costumes and sitting in the pop up tent that they flat packed into their case, and are therefore unlikely to see any sun. They always have a picnic with them including fruit, carrot sticks and cartons of organic juice. Super mum can normally be recognised by her Simon-Cowell-style high waisted beige shorts (worn even in December), beige, open-toe, flat sandals and bumbag.
2. The Retired Couple. They love the resort that you are staying in and they have been coming here every year since their first baby was born. They love to talk to anyone and everyone- making friends with those around them at the pool, in the restaurant and during the show. Those that they do talk to will have a run down of the funny things that their children did here when they were little, and will probably be shown photographs of their grandchildren.
3. The Ones With Money. This isn't their real holiday, oh no. They go to Florida in July and India in August for their real holidays. This European holiday, along with their timeshare in Portugal and their three weeks in Spain in February are just little breaks. You know this because they announce it at ten minute intervals.
4. The Two Point Four Children Cereal Ad Family. The beautiful parents sunbathe whilst the children play happily in the pool. The children have matching swimming costumes and evening outfits. The girls have their hair french plaited and the boys practice ball games with their dad. They join in all of the activities put on by the hotel- and win every single one.
5. The Northern Family. When I was younger, my brothers- Mowgli and Chip- and I used to call a Manchester accent 'a holiday accent'. I always wonder if Northerners used to say the same about ours...?
6. The Family That You Wouldn't Mess With. It's hard to see if the dad has a body part that isn't tattooed, the mum has bleached blonde hair in a tight ponytail and the kids are called 'Destiny' and 'Paris'. You know this because those names are constantly being shouted at a volume slightly above acceptable- all.day.long.
7. The Ones You Can't Quite Work Out. He's in his twenties, she's in her fifties. Are they a couple? Or mother and son? You can see other people asking the same questions and sometimes even discuss it with other guests, but very rarely find out. Shame, really.
8. The Ultra-Happy, Hyper and Bubbly Entertainer who sings 'Morning!' at you just a bit too loudly when you're trying to come out of your ouzo-coma brought on by the previous night's antics. She's super enthusiastic about things like aerobics and table tennis while it's forty degrees and you didn't go to bed until four and all you really want is to read your book and sleep by the pool.
Now you will definitely slot into one of these categories.
Which are you?
I'm the last one.
I don't know what they put in the entertainers' water here, but gone is the girl who needed a bowl of cereal and an hour alone before being spoken to. I have now become that annoying, enthusiastic animator who bounces into breakfast and gets excited at the prospect of anything that involves dragging people from their sunbeds and putting, albeit begrudging, smiles on their faces.
Over the past year I have been lucky enough to enjoy working with every single one of these stereotypes and am so excited to be back in this happy industry.
So next time you're on holiday- look around for these characters and remember how brilliant they all are: your holiday memories wouldn't be the same without them.
I, for one, can't wait to introduce them back into my fairytale- and to continue to play character number eight in all of theirs :)
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Once Upon A Time...
Imagine.
You've just remembered Steps.
This was me.
It's 1998.
You've just finished a book about an eleven year old wizard called Harry. Your new favourite film is The Parent Trap (did you know the twins are played by the same girl?!). You're wearing pedal pushers, holding your Furby close and clutching your Pokemon cards, desperate to get hold of a Charizard because he's the coolest one.
There's music playing in the background- not the repetitive music coming from the Family Computer where the rest of the family are crowded round, fascinated as they watch one person play The Lion King game (Paint but with a picture of Simba). Different music. Music that makes you want to grab your Baby Born and Tiny Tears, line them up on chairs with your Furby to make an audience and dance your heart out.
Dance like you're at Wembley.
Dance like you're a member of the best band ever.
Dance like you're Faye, Claire, Lisa, Lee or H.
You can hear that music and see those dance moves, can't you?
You've just remembered Steps.
This was me.
This time last decade.
This time last year.
This time last week.
That's right. My gorgeous Irish Prince not only flew one of my favourite people of all time out to Ireland to see me, but also paid for us to see my favourite band of all time, in my favourite city of all time (if you don't know what that is- read my last blog) whilst she was here.
Standing in the O2 arena strutting my stuff to Love's Got A Hold On My Heart like it was only yesterday that I was in my bedroom practicing the moves (which it obviously wasn't....), singing those well-rehearsed lyrics at the top of my voice and seeing out of the corner of my eye that my mum was one step behind everyone else, I felt like I had been transported back fourteen years.
My current life disappeared from underneath me. I forgot about my job, my travels, my degree, my Prince, and my ability to drive, purchase a lottery ticket and eat sweets without asking.
I was nine again.
I loved it.
Remember being nine?
Everything's organised for you: meals are made, you're driven around, you dance/swim/trampoline, play football/hockey/basketball; you have endless toys, imagination and ideas, and there's always someone around because, unlike at age twenty-two, most of your friends live within walking distance and, in many cases, your siblings can't go anywhere without you.
I could probably quite happily still pretend to be a dance teacher in my front garden, or put on shows to my family, but, much to my disappointment, there seems to come an age that that's no longer socially acceptable. I came to that realisation quite late. Which is perhaps why I'm in my current job. Only in a holiday resort is it acceptable for a fully grown adult to dress themselves in a skull and cross bones hat with matching waistcoat and face paint, gain a suspiciously Irish-sounding accent and march around searching for pretend treasure whilst singing 'A Pirate's Life For Me'. And even then it's only really acceptable if you're doing it in the company of children.
Unfortunately I can no longer follow my pirate fun with back-to-back episodes of Sabrina The Teenage Witch and Kenan and Kel before a voice calls that dinner's ready. I imagine that if I knocked on my best friend's door this weekend with an old buggy carrying my favourite dolly (Charlie) and a picnic of Dairylea Lunchables and Sunny Delight, she might be ever-so-slightly less pleased at the sight than she was fourteen years ago.
And what about parties?
When you were nine, instead of vodka- there were Flying Saucers. Instead of Redbull-there were Smarties. Instead of doing shots- you ate Skittles. Instead of falling about shouting that you love everyone- you ran around, shouting that you were batman. Instead of singing badly at the top of your voice to a song you don't know the words to- you...well actually you did do that but somehow it's seen as cute before the age of eleven. And, of course- when you're nine, instead of a hangover- there's a party bag.
I think that last one is, in itself, quite a good reason to be nine.
But think of your life now- really think about it. Think about the people you have in it. The relationship you have with your friends, family and yourself. Think about the way you saw yourself then, and the way you see yourself now. Think about everything you've been through to get here. Think about your daily routine now, and compare it with your daily routine then.
Actually, being nine isn't all it's cracked up to be.
I know I loved it at the time, but I wouldn't swap where I am now for anything.
Seeing Steps made me compare my life now to the life I had the last time I saw them live. I have been through so much since then, and it made me think about what advice I would give to my nine year old self. Naturally I came up with exactly one million things, so I thought I'd write the top ten here....
1. Never worry about being popular. You'll probably hear this a lot but honestly- one day the girls that are looking down their heavily-made-up-ten-year-old noses at you will be shouting at their three wild kids to be quiet in the library as you print your one way ticket to Greece....
2. You will make a lot of friends. The ones that count will stick around. Don't worry about the others. Plus one day there will be this thing called Facebook that you can- just kidding.
3. The boy that you're heartbroken about, that isn't going to the same secondary school as you? He's going to sing in a rock band, cover himself in tattoos and get a lot of things pierced. He's not the one for you.
4. Nineteen is actually quite young to get married, and two children by twenty-three is a little ambitious. Make some other plans.
5. Mrs Tucker's a big bully. Don't listen to her. You'll be able to cook just fine. And one day you'll meet a lovely Irish Prince who will cook for you anyway.
6. Make the most of your family. Don't take them for granted. You're so lucky to be part of a cereal-ad family: remember that every time you laugh at the dinner table together or have an extended-family buffet at Nanny and Grandad's. It won't always be like this- savour it while you can.
7. Choosing your options ISN'T important. No matter how many times Mr Knox says it, it is not true- choosing Food Technology over Woodwork is not going to impact on the rest of your life.
8. Sometimes, relax a little bit. Have your shirt untucked, eat some chocolate and take a day out from revision. Maybe even leave your bedroom without all the ornaments perpendicular and facing the door....One day you're going to meet someone who will make you chill out and it'll change you for the better forever.
9. Sport is not just for boys. One day you're going to love it. There's so much more out there than dancing- try it.
10. You are going to meet so many people who will have a huge impact on your life and personality without even knowing it. Remember that you're probably having that impact on the majority of people you come into contact with. Make it positive.
Now think about what your list would look like.
Then ask yourself: what would your fifty year old self be telling you to stop worrying about now?
Makes you smile, doesn't it?
:)
That's right. My gorgeous Irish Prince not only flew one of my favourite people of all time out to Ireland to see me, but also paid for us to see my favourite band of all time, in my favourite city of all time (if you don't know what that is- read my last blog) whilst she was here.
Standing in the O2 arena strutting my stuff to Love's Got A Hold On My Heart like it was only yesterday that I was in my bedroom practicing the moves (which it obviously wasn't....), singing those well-rehearsed lyrics at the top of my voice and seeing out of the corner of my eye that my mum was one step behind everyone else, I felt like I had been transported back fourteen years.
My current life disappeared from underneath me. I forgot about my job, my travels, my degree, my Prince, and my ability to drive, purchase a lottery ticket and eat sweets without asking.
I was nine again.
I loved it.
Remember being nine?
Everything's organised for you: meals are made, you're driven around, you dance/swim/trampoline, play football/hockey/basketball; you have endless toys, imagination and ideas, and there's always someone around because, unlike at age twenty-two, most of your friends live within walking distance and, in many cases, your siblings can't go anywhere without you.
I could probably quite happily still pretend to be a dance teacher in my front garden, or put on shows to my family, but, much to my disappointment, there seems to come an age that that's no longer socially acceptable. I came to that realisation quite late. Which is perhaps why I'm in my current job. Only in a holiday resort is it acceptable for a fully grown adult to dress themselves in a skull and cross bones hat with matching waistcoat and face paint, gain a suspiciously Irish-sounding accent and march around searching for pretend treasure whilst singing 'A Pirate's Life For Me'. And even then it's only really acceptable if you're doing it in the company of children.
Unfortunately I can no longer follow my pirate fun with back-to-back episodes of Sabrina The Teenage Witch and Kenan and Kel before a voice calls that dinner's ready. I imagine that if I knocked on my best friend's door this weekend with an old buggy carrying my favourite dolly (Charlie) and a picnic of Dairylea Lunchables and Sunny Delight, she might be ever-so-slightly less pleased at the sight than she was fourteen years ago.
And what about parties?
When you were nine, instead of vodka- there were Flying Saucers. Instead of Redbull-there were Smarties. Instead of doing shots- you ate Skittles. Instead of falling about shouting that you love everyone- you ran around, shouting that you were batman. Instead of singing badly at the top of your voice to a song you don't know the words to- you...well actually you did do that but somehow it's seen as cute before the age of eleven. And, of course- when you're nine, instead of a hangover- there's a party bag.
I think that last one is, in itself, quite a good reason to be nine.
But think of your life now- really think about it. Think about the people you have in it. The relationship you have with your friends, family and yourself. Think about the way you saw yourself then, and the way you see yourself now. Think about everything you've been through to get here. Think about your daily routine now, and compare it with your daily routine then.
Actually, being nine isn't all it's cracked up to be.
I know I loved it at the time, but I wouldn't swap where I am now for anything.
Seeing Steps made me compare my life now to the life I had the last time I saw them live. I have been through so much since then, and it made me think about what advice I would give to my nine year old self. Naturally I came up with exactly one million things, so I thought I'd write the top ten here....
1. Never worry about being popular. You'll probably hear this a lot but honestly- one day the girls that are looking down their heavily-made-up-ten-year-old noses at you will be shouting at their three wild kids to be quiet in the library as you print your one way ticket to Greece....
2. You will make a lot of friends. The ones that count will stick around. Don't worry about the others. Plus one day there will be this thing called Facebook that you can- just kidding.
3. The boy that you're heartbroken about, that isn't going to the same secondary school as you? He's going to sing in a rock band, cover himself in tattoos and get a lot of things pierced. He's not the one for you.
4. Nineteen is actually quite young to get married, and two children by twenty-three is a little ambitious. Make some other plans.
5. Mrs Tucker's a big bully. Don't listen to her. You'll be able to cook just fine. And one day you'll meet a lovely Irish Prince who will cook for you anyway.
6. Make the most of your family. Don't take them for granted. You're so lucky to be part of a cereal-ad family: remember that every time you laugh at the dinner table together or have an extended-family buffet at Nanny and Grandad's. It won't always be like this- savour it while you can.
7. Choosing your options ISN'T important. No matter how many times Mr Knox says it, it is not true- choosing Food Technology over Woodwork is not going to impact on the rest of your life.
8. Sometimes, relax a little bit. Have your shirt untucked, eat some chocolate and take a day out from revision. Maybe even leave your bedroom without all the ornaments perpendicular and facing the door....One day you're going to meet someone who will make you chill out and it'll change you for the better forever.
9. Sport is not just for boys. One day you're going to love it. There's so much more out there than dancing- try it.
10. You are going to meet so many people who will have a huge impact on your life and personality without even knowing it. Remember that you're probably having that impact on the majority of people you come into contact with. Make it positive.
Now think about what your list would look like.
Then ask yourself: what would your fifty year old self be telling you to stop worrying about now?
Makes you smile, doesn't it?
:)
Thursday, 22 March 2012
It's the Circle Of Life...
So here we are. The time has come. The time that we have all been dreading.
I am leaving Ireland.
Now I travel a lot. I've lived in Chelmsford, Coventry, San Remo, Pratovecchio, Foiano Della Chiana, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Verona, Loire Valley and Wicklow, and have had to say my fair share of goodbyes.
And the same two things happen every time.
Firstly, I get emotional and sentimental and everyone around me tries to reassure me that it's The Circle Of Life, that I should just Look Forward to my Next Adventure, that I'll meet lots of people in my life and those that matter will stay in contact somehow. That the world is small. That it'll get easier as I get older.
The first time I left I was eighteen. I'm now almost twenty-three. It doesn't get easier.
Secondly, the best bits happen right before I leave.
I don't know whether that's because I know it's coming to an end, or if it's just plain Murphy's Law, but what I do know is that Ireland is no exception.
Now in this case it may be partly my own fault for planning to leave two weeks after St. Patrick's weekend (that's right, it's not just a day in Ireland, oh no!)- the weekend that was always going to take my love affair with this beautiful island to the next level.
I once told an Irish friend that I would love to be in Dublin for St. Patrick's day, to which he replied "Ah now I'd say it's a bigger deal in England than it is in Ireland".
He was categorically wrong.
St. Patrick's day is the biggest deal in Ireland.
In the weeks leading up to The Big Day, my world became a green blur- shops were filled with bright cards and decorations, the TV was filled with celebratory, 'happy-holidays' ads, huge, emerald billboards appeared across the country, buses and train stations were suddenly adorned with over-sized shamrocks, and I was given strict instructions to make as many St. Patrick-themed-cakes as humanly possible for my lovely boys' school.
And that was before the 17th March graced us with its presence.
On the day, hot dog and ice cream vans popped up as if from nowhere, stalls settled themselves on roadsides; trains, buses and cars came to a standstill. Shops were empty- in fact most were closed- and Irish music skipped through the air, as though emerging only from the atmosphere itself. Ireland stopped, as one, to celebrate everything Irish.
Parades took over the whole country: they were on TV, shown in all pubs, and, of course, perfectly accessible in real life.
I chose to take advantage of the latter, and was one of over five hundred thousand people who made their way into Dublin to watch the parade as it happened.
The train was packed with bright-green-clad, face-painted, hat-adorned crowds, with huge, genuine smiles and excited laughter, as was the city.
The parade was made up of groups from all over the world celebrating Dublin's self-declared 'City of Science' name; answering questions such as 'why do we dream?' and 'why does the weather change?'
So I've been told.
I wouldn't be able to confirm that for definite because, whilst it was simply wonderful that people from all over the world came to Ireland to celebrate, what they don't advertise is that they appear to invite The Tallest People On The Globe, and stand them right along the front.
So I was stood behind the world's giants, between two groups of equally short girls who couldn't see anything either, and in front of a man from a country where they clearly haven't discovered deodorant yet. Or even baths.
I loved it.
Now I don't normally have a penchant for unhygienic men pressing themselves into my back and shoving a camera in my face, but for some reason in Dublin on St.Patrick's day, even that seemed magical.
I did only see the tops of the hats of the firemen (major disappointment, I know) and I missed all of the dancing, the kiss-blowing, the waving and the instrument-playing.
But the atmosphere was electric. It was magical and busy and multi-cultural, it gave you a sense of community and togetherness, and it was so, so....green (as my friend Mary Poppins found out when she tried to point out a man by describing him as 'the one with the green hat').
During the time that it was on, I laughed until I cried, then cried until I laughed, and just couldn't believe how lucky I was that I had only hopped on a train to get there.
When the parade was over, Mary Poppins and I had a quick trip to Butler's for a warm-me-up-hot-chocolate, stopping on the way to get the Irish flag painted on our cheeks, then dropped in at Claire's to buy some green accessories for the evening's festivities.
We both popped home for a couple of hours to get ready, then headed back into town again to see what St. Patrick's Dublin looked like at night.
Exactly the same.
Except the atmosphere was no longer mainly coming from the sense of community.
It was mainly coming from the alcohol.
Now I could bore you with every second of what was my favourite night of the year so far, but instead, I'll just leave you with three facts:
- Irish people will talk to anyone about anything. When I mentioned this to my host mum she laughed and said 'ah yes, the Irish and alcohol...', but I don't mean with alcohol. During my forty minute wait for the bus I made friends with a couple in their late thirties on their way home from a wedding-planning meeting. I may as well have been at the meeting- I imagine that I now know more about the wedding than the bride's mum. I also made friends with people on the bus ride home that I'm now meeting up with next week, and met someone as I stepped off of the bus that proceeded to walk me home to make sure that I was safe.
- The Irish know the words to every Irish song that there is. And I don't mean Flying Without Wings and Love Me For A Reason, or even Galway Girl and Fairytale of New York- more like The Rare Old Times and The Rose Of Tralee.
-Not only do they know the words to all of these songs, but they also all have the ability to play the spoons to these songs. Now I don't know if the whole world is secretly practicing The Spoons without me knowing- if you are then I apologise for being so excited about it-but until Saturday night I'd never even heard of this, then suddenly once one person whipped her spoons out, everyone else followed. And everyone was amazing.
I woke up at nine am on Sunday morning- just three and a half hours after I had made it into bed- with that fab, hungover-but-wow-last-night-was-amazing-I-wish-I-could-do-it-all-again-tonight feeling. So I grabbed a slice of toast and Bovril, walked down into Greystones and wandered along the beach before meeting Mary Poppins for a coffee and a post-night-out analysis.
After laughing our way through the events of the night, we came to the heartbreaking realisation that we have only two weekends left. This then led to a conversation about what we're going to miss most about Ireland...
1. Bressie. The gorgeous, rugby-playing, singer/songwriter coach on The Voice who is apparently fun and friendly. I hear wedding bells...
2. Today FM. Particularly Ray Foley who keeps me laughing all afternoon. In fact, I'm going to miss Irish radio altogether- only in a country this small do you get a shout out every time you text in to the national station.
3. Walking along the beautiful Greystones beach, listening to the waves (well....I actually normally have Be Our Guest blaring on my ipod) and watching families play at the water's edge.
4. Being able to make friends with everyone...everywhere. I've met people on buses, at train stations, in shops, cafes, restaurants, walking the dog through a building site where hardly anyone goes....
5. Going to order in a restaurant and the people on the next table leaning over to recommend what they have had. This has happened to me almost every time I've been out for dinner in Ireland, and not once in any of the other cities I've lived in.
6. Mi Wadi. Ireland's answer to Robinson's Orange and Pineapple.
7. Irish bread: the best thing since...well....
8. Ballymalone's Country Relish. It makes lunchtime an absolute joy.
9. The people I've met: the Irish Prince and his gorgeous family, Mary Poppins and the other nannies, my zumba instructor, dance teachers, bus/train/cafe friends....
10. My three new best friends: the beautiful boys that I look after and their wonderful mum.
We then discussed our favourite Irish-isms. In my January blog I posted a handy Irish-English dictionary for those of you travelling to the glorious island any time soon. I have, of course, discovered lots more since then, and have shared them below...
- Janey Mack!: OH MY GOODNESS ME I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. Or, 'Oh really? I hadn't realised.' Basically Ireland's very own exclamation mark, this phrase is used to express shock or surprise- at all levels.
-Deadly: Contrary to the obvious, this is actually a positive thing. I felt about eighty years old when the Irish Prince's brother used it and I had to ask whether that meant good or bad. I felt a bit better when my friend, almost-18-year-old- Justin Bieber asked the same thing.
-Yoke: Thing. I'm totally guessing the spelling of this.
-Gaff: House. I know this is used in the UK but in Ireland they use it all the time.
- Savage : Again, at the risk of sounding ancient, this is a good thing.
- Cop-on: Common Sense. When my host mum told me that a friend had no cop on I was temporarily horrified until she corrected me...
-Banjaxed: Exhausted or confused. A fantastic word that needs bringing to the UK.
-Mind: Look after. Like child-mind. But with everything.
-Sliced pan: Bread. Unlike most of the others, this does make sense really...
-Buns: Used for all cakes- fairycakes, cupcakes, even biscuits in some cases. At the risk of sounding patronising this one always makes me want to hug the speaker- whether it's the five year old boy I care for or the sixty year old man behind me in the queue at Superquinn. (That's the local supermarket for those of you who don't know. When Tinkerbell visited me a few weeks ago she was most disappointed to discover that it wasn't an Irish Legoland....)
-Delighted: Again, I know that this is used in the UK but it is used by every age group in every conversation here.
But my favourite part of the whole of Irish speech is the addition of the following words/phrases to ordinary sentences: making them sound Irish but actually adding no meaning whatsoever.
-Ah: Added to the beginning of a normal sentence, I think to emphasise the point, as in 'Ah she's grand'.
-So: Not meaning 'therefore' as it would in the UK, but just added to the end of a sentence. For the craic. For example: 'Ah she's grand so'.
- So he/she/it is: This phrase appears to be added to the end of sentences to confirm that the speaker still agrees with what they just said: 'Ah she's grand so she is'. I'm not sure whether everyone does this but I always picture it with an emphatic nod.
-There: Added to the end of sentences for no reason at all that I can fathom: 'I watched the football there earlier' (not referring to anywhere).
-Sure: This one can be added to the beginning or the end, which is why I think it's my favourite. 'Ah she's grand sure' or 'Sure she's grand'.
Finally, there are several 'Irish' ways of speaking that I'm not totally convinced haven't just been made up by the Irish Prince for his own entertainment....
-Now in a minute. He'll be here now in a minute? Does.Not.Make.Sense.
--'I'm going to head'. You're going to head? How is anyone supposed to know what that means?
-'Ooh let's get some Fruit Pasteeeels'. That's right, the Irish Prince has tried to convince me that the Irish way of referring to the delicious fruit-flavoured jellies is with a long 'ee' sound rather than the 'i' in its spelling. Confirmation from an Irish person not connected to my Prince would be gratefully appreciated.
So here it is, I can't put it off any longer.
It's time to go.
Following my lengthy 'Wonders of Ireland' conversation with Mary Poppins, I made a vow. Having fallen totally and utterly in love with everything about this gorgeous country, I have to come back. So now as I head to my adventures in Rhodes, Asia, America and wherever else my journey may take me, I know that I will return, that my Circle of Life will bring me back and I will grow old surrounded by Chocolate Kimberleys, Mi Wadi and beautiful accents.
Ireland: you have given me love, laughter, friendship and memories that will stay with me forever.
Thanks for the craic.
I'll be back now in a minute :)
I am leaving Ireland.
Now I travel a lot. I've lived in Chelmsford, Coventry, San Remo, Pratovecchio, Foiano Della Chiana, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Verona, Loire Valley and Wicklow, and have had to say my fair share of goodbyes.
And the same two things happen every time.
Firstly, I get emotional and sentimental and everyone around me tries to reassure me that it's The Circle Of Life, that I should just Look Forward to my Next Adventure, that I'll meet lots of people in my life and those that matter will stay in contact somehow. That the world is small. That it'll get easier as I get older.
The first time I left I was eighteen. I'm now almost twenty-three. It doesn't get easier.
Secondly, the best bits happen right before I leave.
I don't know whether that's because I know it's coming to an end, or if it's just plain Murphy's Law, but what I do know is that Ireland is no exception.
Now in this case it may be partly my own fault for planning to leave two weeks after St. Patrick's weekend (that's right, it's not just a day in Ireland, oh no!)- the weekend that was always going to take my love affair with this beautiful island to the next level.
I once told an Irish friend that I would love to be in Dublin for St. Patrick's day, to which he replied "Ah now I'd say it's a bigger deal in England than it is in Ireland".
He was categorically wrong.
St. Patrick's day is the biggest deal in Ireland.
In the weeks leading up to The Big Day, my world became a green blur- shops were filled with bright cards and decorations, the TV was filled with celebratory, 'happy-holidays' ads, huge, emerald billboards appeared across the country, buses and train stations were suddenly adorned with over-sized shamrocks, and I was given strict instructions to make as many St. Patrick-themed-cakes as humanly possible for my lovely boys' school.
And that was before the 17th March graced us with its presence.
On the day, hot dog and ice cream vans popped up as if from nowhere, stalls settled themselves on roadsides; trains, buses and cars came to a standstill. Shops were empty- in fact most were closed- and Irish music skipped through the air, as though emerging only from the atmosphere itself. Ireland stopped, as one, to celebrate everything Irish.
Parades took over the whole country: they were on TV, shown in all pubs, and, of course, perfectly accessible in real life.
I chose to take advantage of the latter, and was one of over five hundred thousand people who made their way into Dublin to watch the parade as it happened.
The train was packed with bright-green-clad, face-painted, hat-adorned crowds, with huge, genuine smiles and excited laughter, as was the city.
The parade was made up of groups from all over the world celebrating Dublin's self-declared 'City of Science' name; answering questions such as 'why do we dream?' and 'why does the weather change?'
So I've been told.
I wouldn't be able to confirm that for definite because, whilst it was simply wonderful that people from all over the world came to Ireland to celebrate, what they don't advertise is that they appear to invite The Tallest People On The Globe, and stand them right along the front.
So I was stood behind the world's giants, between two groups of equally short girls who couldn't see anything either, and in front of a man from a country where they clearly haven't discovered deodorant yet. Or even baths.
I loved it.
Now I don't normally have a penchant for unhygienic men pressing themselves into my back and shoving a camera in my face, but for some reason in Dublin on St.Patrick's day, even that seemed magical.
I did only see the tops of the hats of the firemen (major disappointment, I know) and I missed all of the dancing, the kiss-blowing, the waving and the instrument-playing.
But the atmosphere was electric. It was magical and busy and multi-cultural, it gave you a sense of community and togetherness, and it was so, so....green (as my friend Mary Poppins found out when she tried to point out a man by describing him as 'the one with the green hat').
During the time that it was on, I laughed until I cried, then cried until I laughed, and just couldn't believe how lucky I was that I had only hopped on a train to get there.
When the parade was over, Mary Poppins and I had a quick trip to Butler's for a warm-me-up-hot-chocolate, stopping on the way to get the Irish flag painted on our cheeks, then dropped in at Claire's to buy some green accessories for the evening's festivities.
We both popped home for a couple of hours to get ready, then headed back into town again to see what St. Patrick's Dublin looked like at night.
Exactly the same.
Except the atmosphere was no longer mainly coming from the sense of community.
It was mainly coming from the alcohol.
Now I could bore you with every second of what was my favourite night of the year so far, but instead, I'll just leave you with three facts:
- Irish people will talk to anyone about anything. When I mentioned this to my host mum she laughed and said 'ah yes, the Irish and alcohol...', but I don't mean with alcohol. During my forty minute wait for the bus I made friends with a couple in their late thirties on their way home from a wedding-planning meeting. I may as well have been at the meeting- I imagine that I now know more about the wedding than the bride's mum. I also made friends with people on the bus ride home that I'm now meeting up with next week, and met someone as I stepped off of the bus that proceeded to walk me home to make sure that I was safe.
- The Irish know the words to every Irish song that there is. And I don't mean Flying Without Wings and Love Me For A Reason, or even Galway Girl and Fairytale of New York- more like The Rare Old Times and The Rose Of Tralee.
-Not only do they know the words to all of these songs, but they also all have the ability to play the spoons to these songs. Now I don't know if the whole world is secretly practicing The Spoons without me knowing- if you are then I apologise for being so excited about it-but until Saturday night I'd never even heard of this, then suddenly once one person whipped her spoons out, everyone else followed. And everyone was amazing.
I woke up at nine am on Sunday morning- just three and a half hours after I had made it into bed- with that fab, hungover-but-wow-last-night-was-amazing-I-wish-I-could-do-it-all-again-tonight feeling. So I grabbed a slice of toast and Bovril, walked down into Greystones and wandered along the beach before meeting Mary Poppins for a coffee and a post-night-out analysis.
After laughing our way through the events of the night, we came to the heartbreaking realisation that we have only two weekends left. This then led to a conversation about what we're going to miss most about Ireland...
 |
| My future husband: Niall Breslin |
2. Today FM. Particularly Ray Foley who keeps me laughing all afternoon. In fact, I'm going to miss Irish radio altogether- only in a country this small do you get a shout out every time you text in to the national station.
3. Walking along the beautiful Greystones beach, listening to the waves (well....I actually normally have Be Our Guest blaring on my ipod) and watching families play at the water's edge.
4. Being able to make friends with everyone...everywhere. I've met people on buses, at train stations, in shops, cafes, restaurants, walking the dog through a building site where hardly anyone goes....
5. Going to order in a restaurant and the people on the next table leaning over to recommend what they have had. This has happened to me almost every time I've been out for dinner in Ireland, and not once in any of the other cities I've lived in.
6. Mi Wadi. Ireland's answer to Robinson's Orange and Pineapple.
7. Irish bread: the best thing since...well....
8. Ballymalone's Country Relish. It makes lunchtime an absolute joy.
9. The people I've met: the Irish Prince and his gorgeous family, Mary Poppins and the other nannies, my zumba instructor, dance teachers, bus/train/cafe friends....
10. My three new best friends: the beautiful boys that I look after and their wonderful mum.
We then discussed our favourite Irish-isms. In my January blog I posted a handy Irish-English dictionary for those of you travelling to the glorious island any time soon. I have, of course, discovered lots more since then, and have shared them below...
- Janey Mack!: OH MY GOODNESS ME I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. Or, 'Oh really? I hadn't realised.' Basically Ireland's very own exclamation mark, this phrase is used to express shock or surprise- at all levels.
-Deadly: Contrary to the obvious, this is actually a positive thing. I felt about eighty years old when the Irish Prince's brother used it and I had to ask whether that meant good or bad. I felt a bit better when my friend, almost-18-year-old- Justin Bieber asked the same thing.
-Yoke: Thing. I'm totally guessing the spelling of this.
-Gaff: House. I know this is used in the UK but in Ireland they use it all the time.
- Savage : Again, at the risk of sounding ancient, this is a good thing.
- Cop-on: Common Sense. When my host mum told me that a friend had no cop on I was temporarily horrified until she corrected me...
-Banjaxed: Exhausted or confused. A fantastic word that needs bringing to the UK.
-Mind: Look after. Like child-mind. But with everything.
-Sliced pan: Bread. Unlike most of the others, this does make sense really...
-Buns: Used for all cakes- fairycakes, cupcakes, even biscuits in some cases. At the risk of sounding patronising this one always makes me want to hug the speaker- whether it's the five year old boy I care for or the sixty year old man behind me in the queue at Superquinn. (That's the local supermarket for those of you who don't know. When Tinkerbell visited me a few weeks ago she was most disappointed to discover that it wasn't an Irish Legoland....)
-Delighted: Again, I know that this is used in the UK but it is used by every age group in every conversation here.
But my favourite part of the whole of Irish speech is the addition of the following words/phrases to ordinary sentences: making them sound Irish but actually adding no meaning whatsoever.
-Ah: Added to the beginning of a normal sentence, I think to emphasise the point, as in 'Ah she's grand'.
-So: Not meaning 'therefore' as it would in the UK, but just added to the end of a sentence. For the craic. For example: 'Ah she's grand so'.
- So he/she/it is: This phrase appears to be added to the end of sentences to confirm that the speaker still agrees with what they just said: 'Ah she's grand so she is'. I'm not sure whether everyone does this but I always picture it with an emphatic nod.
-There: Added to the end of sentences for no reason at all that I can fathom: 'I watched the football there earlier' (not referring to anywhere).
-Sure: This one can be added to the beginning or the end, which is why I think it's my favourite. 'Ah she's grand sure' or 'Sure she's grand'.
Finally, there are several 'Irish' ways of speaking that I'm not totally convinced haven't just been made up by the Irish Prince for his own entertainment....
-Now in a minute. He'll be here now in a minute? Does.Not.Make.Sense.
--'I'm going to head'. You're going to head? How is anyone supposed to know what that means?
-'Ooh let's get some Fruit Pasteeeels'. That's right, the Irish Prince has tried to convince me that the Irish way of referring to the delicious fruit-flavoured jellies is with a long 'ee' sound rather than the 'i' in its spelling. Confirmation from an Irish person not connected to my Prince would be gratefully appreciated.
So here it is, I can't put it off any longer.
It's time to go.
Following my lengthy 'Wonders of Ireland' conversation with Mary Poppins, I made a vow. Having fallen totally and utterly in love with everything about this gorgeous country, I have to come back. So now as I head to my adventures in Rhodes, Asia, America and wherever else my journey may take me, I know that I will return, that my Circle of Life will bring me back and I will grow old surrounded by Chocolate Kimberleys, Mi Wadi and beautiful accents.
Ireland: you have given me love, laughter, friendship and memories that will stay with me forever.
Thanks for the craic.
I'll be back now in a minute :)
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
When you wish upon a star....
Just over a month ago, I found myself smack bang in the middle of one of life's cruelest tests.
It was one of those gorgeous, crisp winter evenings and my sparkly new ipod had just arrived: the perfect time for a power walk. As I was wandering (I mean um...marching vigorously) along the beautiful Greystones beach and marvelling at how lucky I am to be once again living in such a wonderful place, my host mum called to ask me to pick up some milk. So, instead of sticking to my plan of striding determinedly past Tesco-proving to the world (well, myself) that a power walk is just as satisfying as a Butler's chocolate bar- I went in. And that's when it happened.
The self-service machine gave me €10 too much change.
What would you have done?
Now if anyone had asked me two months ago, I would probably have said the same as you. Tesco won't miss it. They'd never give up an opportunity to take extra money from you. Nobody will ever know.
So I left, an extra €10 in my pocket, and continued on my walk.
It took approximately thirty seconds for the guilt to set in.
I called my brother, who told me that I had to keep the money.
I called my mum, who told me that I had to keep the money.
I called my dad, my Irish prince, and my host mum, who all said the same thing. Keep the money.
Then I remembered my theory. Nothing big and bad ever happens to me. All the little things go wrong. The really little things. Anyone that's ever spent any time with me will tell you that. But the big things tend to go my way, and my theory is that this is because all the little things go wrong: it keeps things balanced somehow.
So now that this exciting little thing had happened to me, did that mean that the big things would start to go wrong? Would everything go off balance?
I took it back.
The lady working in there, Louise, was very pleasantly surprised, and didn't disguise her opinion that I should have kept the money. But then she went on to tell me what wonderful luck I would have now- that Karma definitely owed me one. I skipped out of the store feeling lighter than I had all evening. What would luck bring me next?
Nothing good.
Since that day, I have had the worst luck I have ever had in my life. Big bad things have started happening to me. Maybe Karma's annoyed I didn't take her little bit of good luck, and has decided to teach me a lesson?
When I recently returned to Tesco with the Irish prince, I was once again served by Louise, who immediately asked how my luck was going. When I told her, she shook her head and promised me it's on its way. She then asked me- if I could make one brilliant thing happen to me, what would I wish for?
So I gave the most obvious answer in the world- the one that everyone would give, surely?
I'd wish for a job in Disneyland.
I sighed, carried away in the daydream that I live in all day and sleep in all night. Then I heard a...snigger.
Louise actually sniggered at my wish!
'Why on earth would you want to work in Disneyland?! I can't think of anything worse!'
Now if you're shocked at that part (which I know you are), brace yourself....
I closed my disbelieving mouth, collected my thoughts and was just about to launch into what I thought was an obvious and unnecessary explanation, when my Irish Prince- the person that I had thought was the other half of me, the person who understands me more than anyone, my Aladdin, my Flynn Ryder, my...beast (?)- laughed, nodded and replied 'I know! It's what she's always wanted, I'll never understand it either!'
It was one of those gorgeous, crisp winter evenings and my sparkly new ipod had just arrived: the perfect time for a power walk. As I was wandering (I mean um...marching vigorously) along the beautiful Greystones beach and marvelling at how lucky I am to be once again living in such a wonderful place, my host mum called to ask me to pick up some milk. So, instead of sticking to my plan of striding determinedly past Tesco-proving to the world (well, myself) that a power walk is just as satisfying as a Butler's chocolate bar- I went in. And that's when it happened.
The self-service machine gave me €10 too much change.
What would you have done?
Now if anyone had asked me two months ago, I would probably have said the same as you. Tesco won't miss it. They'd never give up an opportunity to take extra money from you. Nobody will ever know.
So I left, an extra €10 in my pocket, and continued on my walk.
It took approximately thirty seconds for the guilt to set in.
I called my brother, who told me that I had to keep the money.
I called my mum, who told me that I had to keep the money.
I called my dad, my Irish prince, and my host mum, who all said the same thing. Keep the money.
Then I remembered my theory. Nothing big and bad ever happens to me. All the little things go wrong. The really little things. Anyone that's ever spent any time with me will tell you that. But the big things tend to go my way, and my theory is that this is because all the little things go wrong: it keeps things balanced somehow.
So now that this exciting little thing had happened to me, did that mean that the big things would start to go wrong? Would everything go off balance?
I took it back.
The lady working in there, Louise, was very pleasantly surprised, and didn't disguise her opinion that I should have kept the money. But then she went on to tell me what wonderful luck I would have now- that Karma definitely owed me one. I skipped out of the store feeling lighter than I had all evening. What would luck bring me next?
Nothing good.
Since that day, I have had the worst luck I have ever had in my life. Big bad things have started happening to me. Maybe Karma's annoyed I didn't take her little bit of good luck, and has decided to teach me a lesson?
When I recently returned to Tesco with the Irish prince, I was once again served by Louise, who immediately asked how my luck was going. When I told her, she shook her head and promised me it's on its way. She then asked me- if I could make one brilliant thing happen to me, what would I wish for?
So I gave the most obvious answer in the world- the one that everyone would give, surely?
I'd wish for a job in Disneyland.
I sighed, carried away in the daydream that I live in all day and sleep in all night. Then I heard a...snigger.
Louise actually sniggered at my wish!
'Why on earth would you want to work in Disneyland?! I can't think of anything worse!'
Now if you're shocked at that part (which I know you are), brace yourself....
I closed my disbelieving mouth, collected my thoughts and was just about to launch into what I thought was an obvious and unnecessary explanation, when my Irish Prince- the person that I had thought was the other half of me, the person who understands me more than anyone, my Aladdin, my Flynn Ryder, my...beast (?)- laughed, nodded and replied 'I know! It's what she's always wanted, I'll never understand it either!'
What?!
How many of these people are out there?! Is there a whole collection of them, or am I just..ahem... lucky enough to have met the only two?
And I still don't understand why.
I knew that I wanted to work in Disneyland the day that I first stepped into the Paris Parc aged thirteen.
How many of these people are out there?! Is there a whole collection of them, or am I just..ahem... lucky enough to have met the only two?
From what I have been told so far it appears that the world sadly doesn't share my dream. Not even my very own Prince....
And I still don't understand why.
I knew that I wanted to work in Disneyland the day that I first stepped into the Paris Parc aged thirteen.
Disneyland is the happiest, most magical place in the world. It's where Mickey Mouse lives. Working there would involve spending the day either playing the part of one of your childhood heroes -a fab way to experience celebrity life and remain anonymous (you'd practically be Hannah Montana)- or you would be surrounded by your childhood heroes all day at work, and have unlimited access to parades, shows and rides!
So, a few years ago, I set about making this wish come true. I tried Pinocchio's advice, but no matter how many stars I wished upon, my dream still wouldn't come true. I agreed with Cinderella that a dream is a wish your heart makes, but unfortunately she was wrong too- no matter how much I believed, the dream that I wished still didn't come true.
This led me to seek advice from a more practical source.
Rapunzel.
When she wants something, she gets it.
If she can wake up one morning and decide that, having been held hostage for seventeen years, she wants to See The Lights; then go on to spend that very afternoon escaping from her evil-witch-cum-adoptive-mother, blackmailing a passing thief and charming a pub full of thugs, and be singing under the lanterns of her dreams by the evening of the next day, then I can definitely get the job that I want.
Right?
So I have spent the past four years applying, interviewing, auditioning, characterising, dancing, acting, researching, dressing up, dressing down, Princess-ifying, smile-perfecting and pirate-accent-attempting.
At times this dream has been so close I could almost taste the fairy dust. I have passed Disneyland auditions, waited for months for phone calls and even was Donald Duck last summer (but if it's not for Disney it hardly counts really...).
Then today Disney decided to sprinkle the tiniest pinch of fairy dust onto my eyelashes then run away before it reached the tip of my nose.
"You are currently being considered for positions starting in 2013 and will receive further information on your application towards the end of June 2012"
So, a few years ago, I set about making this wish come true. I tried Pinocchio's advice, but no matter how many stars I wished upon, my dream still wouldn't come true. I agreed with Cinderella that a dream is a wish your heart makes, but unfortunately she was wrong too- no matter how much I believed, the dream that I wished still didn't come true.
This led me to seek advice from a more practical source.
Rapunzel. When she wants something, she gets it.
If she can wake up one morning and decide that, having been held hostage for seventeen years, she wants to See The Lights; then go on to spend that very afternoon escaping from her evil-witch-cum-adoptive-mother, blackmailing a passing thief and charming a pub full of thugs, and be singing under the lanterns of her dreams by the evening of the next day, then I can definitely get the job that I want.
Right?
So I have spent the past four years applying, interviewing, auditioning, characterising, dancing, acting, researching, dressing up, dressing down, Princess-ifying, smile-perfecting and pirate-accent-attempting.
At times this dream has been so close I could almost taste the fairy dust. I have passed Disneyland auditions, waited for months for phone calls and even was Donald Duck last summer (but if it's not for Disney it hardly counts really...).
Then today Disney decided to sprinkle the tiniest pinch of fairy dust onto my eyelashes then run away before it reached the tip of my nose.
"You are currently being considered for positions starting in 2013 and will receive further information on your application towards the end of June 2012"
Now my initial reaction to this was utter disappointment- I have to wait three more months?!
Then I spoke to the other applicants. Four out of one hundred and twenty had been offered dates. The rest of us had either received that message or been rejected.
For those of you who have never been to Disney- it's big. And they actually employ more than four people.
So maybe this is it.
Maybe if I continue to wish upon a star, continue to dream in wishes, and continue to work as hard as Rapunzel, this time my dream really will come true.
In the mean time, I'm off to see Louise....
Wish me luck :)
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Part Of Your World...
Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be visited by the most fun, kind and gorgeous pirate (yes, pirate) that I have ever met. I loved having him here; not only because it gave me the opportunity to catch up with a fab old friend, but also because for the weekend that he was here, I was reminded of how....simply wonderful Ireland is.
We had breakfast in Bewley's, took the walking tour of Dublin, saw spontaneous theatre on Grafton Street, wandered around the beautiful grounds of Trinity College, ate dinner in the tiny, hidden pizza place that is now famous for being Imelda May's place of work, and went into a lot of pubs and bars. We then took the luas back to the Prince's castle, and spent the next day wandering through the Irish countryside, feeling like Gerry and Holly in the Dun Laoghaire scene of p.s. I love you.
All in all, a fantastic weekend. And a brilliant reminder of exactly why I chose Ireland to move to.
Now it wasn't just the days that reminded me of why I love this little country. The Pirate himself got me thinking when he asked the casual question that I'm sure has crossed your mind as you've been reading this.
'Surely living in Ireland is just the same as living in England...isn't it?'
No.
I'd like to begin explaining by telling the story of what happened to me several weeks ago....
It was New Year's Eve. In keeping with our hopelessly romantic tradition, the Irish Prince and I were in a gorgeous restaurant in Stepaside; looking back with the kind of bittersweet nostalgia only acceptable at that time of the year, and looking forward with the kind of hope for the future that only lasts until Epiphany.
By the end of course number four and two hours of discussing...well, everything, I was certain of three main things: 1) 21 was definitely the best album of 2011. 2) Even the Olympics would never beat the excitement of the Royal Wedding. 3) I would never need to eat again.
Which meant that when the waiter came over to take our order for course number five, I, in my prim and proper English way, politely refused with a small smile and a sip of my water, and waited for the man to nod and disappear.
He didn't.
I wasn't in Chelmsford anymore.
Instead, the waiter (or 'yer man' as the Irish Prince would say), pulled a shocked face, and exclaimed 'Ah you will! Go on, you will! You can't not have dessert! It's so good! Just have this one! This one's SO light! But SO good! Go oooon! I'll bring you that one. Fantaaastic.'
And was gone.
In my experience of Ireland so far, this is normal. Staff are happy. Customers are happy. Even the most miserable of all creatures- bus drivers- are jolly and friendly here. The other day when I didn't have my exact fare ( a stupid rule that does, unfortunately, travel across water), my bus driver smiled and said 'Ah well I'll just drop you up the road then will I? No worries about the money.'
That's amazing.
So following the Pirate's question, I started thinking about all the little things that remind me every day that I'm not in England anymore....
*Green postboxes.
*Every sign/notice/tannoy announcement is translated into Irish.
* Having an Irish TV channel.
*Fair City.
*Chocolate Kimberleys (the BEST biscuits/treats in the world).
*Butler's Chocolate Cafe (if you don't know what this is, book a flight NOW. Trust me, it'd be worth it.)
* Everyone knowing EVERYONE. Seriously. I met someone on Saturday night that was surprised when I didn't know his friend Annabel even though 'she's from Essex too'.
* The way everyone speaks. And I don't just mean the accent (although if that's not a reason to move to Ireland I don't know what is...) It's the words they use, and the way they use them. Now I'm not claiming to be an expert in this, in fact I'd say at least 50% of the time I have no idea what's being said. Unless I'm with the Irish Prince's friends. In which case I'd rather they spoke Spanish. At least I have a GCSE to help me out with that. But for those of you who may be venturing to this glorious island in the near future, here's a handy dictionary....
- Grand: cool/brilliant/fantastic/fine/ok. General positivity on a wide scale.
- Give out: Tell off.
-Bold: Naughty. In the child-misbehaving sense. Could be embarrassing if you tried it in any other sense.
- Hot Press: Airing Cupboard. Unlikely to come up but good to know nonetheless.
- Yer one/man/woman: Any person, at any time, anywhere. Unfortunately I think the knowledge of who each person means when using this phrase is something Irish people are born with. Those of us not blessed with Irish genes will never know who they mean.
-Will: Used instead of shall. As in 'Will I stop singing now?' Advice from experience: resist the urge to answer 'God I hope so'.
-I'd say: Used instead of 'reckon'. Far nicer in my opinion, and one I hope to catch while I'm here.
-In: Used instead of 'at' or 'went'. As in 'I'm in Lakeside' or 'I was in St. Patrick's School'.
Now I am very aware that so far I have done the very British and very annoying thing of moving to another country and preaching back to everyone at home how much better my new found home is. Trust me, not everything is better. Here's my list of things I don't love about Ireland...
*Every single website is useless. Even the ones that we get in both countries like Ticketmaster or Vodafone are pointless here. 'Does nothing work outside of London? Hm?' (Little Bridget Jones reference for the film fans amongst you.)
*Buses don't run to a timetable. It's impossible to find a timetable online. If you do manage to find one, the locations are written in Irish, and even once you've translated them, the happy little drivers don't follow it AT ALL.
*It's SO COLD. All the time. August Bank Holiday weekend was possibly the coldest I've ever been.
*Radio stations do HALF the show in Irish. And not 10.30-11.30 in Irish and the next hour in English. Oh no! They actually just change language every few words. I had to listen to the news three separate times before I could work out exactly what Beyonce had given birth to.
* Everything is ridiculously expensive.
3€ for Glamour magazine.
5€ for a smoothie.
13€ for a Malibu and pineapple.
Seriously.
*Saying pardon 400 times a day and spending an unreasonable amount of time nodding and smiling vaguely.
Despite everything I've said I think that it's safe to say that I love Ireland and everyone in it.
So what exactly is that special difference that I see and the Pirate couldn't?
I was once lucky enough to meet a well-known, certified genius, who told me that the reason Ireland is second only to Disney World on the happy scale, is 'because they work to live there. We live to work. We've got it wrong.'
Perhaps we need to take a shamrock out of their book?
Something to think about :)
We had breakfast in Bewley's, took the walking tour of Dublin, saw spontaneous theatre on Grafton Street, wandered around the beautiful grounds of Trinity College, ate dinner in the tiny, hidden pizza place that is now famous for being Imelda May's place of work, and went into a lot of pubs and bars. We then took the luas back to the Prince's castle, and spent the next day wandering through the Irish countryside, feeling like Gerry and Holly in the Dun Laoghaire scene of p.s. I love you.
All in all, a fantastic weekend. And a brilliant reminder of exactly why I chose Ireland to move to.
Now it wasn't just the days that reminded me of why I love this little country. The Pirate himself got me thinking when he asked the casual question that I'm sure has crossed your mind as you've been reading this.
'Surely living in Ireland is just the same as living in England...isn't it?'
No.
I'd like to begin explaining by telling the story of what happened to me several weeks ago....
It was New Year's Eve. In keeping with our hopelessly romantic tradition, the Irish Prince and I were in a gorgeous restaurant in Stepaside; looking back with the kind of bittersweet nostalgia only acceptable at that time of the year, and looking forward with the kind of hope for the future that only lasts until Epiphany.
By the end of course number four and two hours of discussing...well, everything, I was certain of three main things: 1) 21 was definitely the best album of 2011. 2) Even the Olympics would never beat the excitement of the Royal Wedding. 3) I would never need to eat again.
Which meant that when the waiter came over to take our order for course number five, I, in my prim and proper English way, politely refused with a small smile and a sip of my water, and waited for the man to nod and disappear.
He didn't.
I wasn't in Chelmsford anymore.
Instead, the waiter (or 'yer man' as the Irish Prince would say), pulled a shocked face, and exclaimed 'Ah you will! Go on, you will! You can't not have dessert! It's so good! Just have this one! This one's SO light! But SO good! Go oooon! I'll bring you that one. Fantaaastic.'
And was gone.
In my experience of Ireland so far, this is normal. Staff are happy. Customers are happy. Even the most miserable of all creatures- bus drivers- are jolly and friendly here. The other day when I didn't have my exact fare ( a stupid rule that does, unfortunately, travel across water), my bus driver smiled and said 'Ah well I'll just drop you up the road then will I? No worries about the money.'
That's amazing.
So following the Pirate's question, I started thinking about all the little things that remind me every day that I'm not in England anymore....
*Green postboxes.
*Every sign/notice/tannoy announcement is translated into Irish.
* Having an Irish TV channel.
*Fair City.
*Chocolate Kimberleys (the BEST biscuits/treats in the world).
*Butler's Chocolate Cafe (if you don't know what this is, book a flight NOW. Trust me, it'd be worth it.)
* Everyone knowing EVERYONE. Seriously. I met someone on Saturday night that was surprised when I didn't know his friend Annabel even though 'she's from Essex too'.
* The way everyone speaks. And I don't just mean the accent (although if that's not a reason to move to Ireland I don't know what is...) It's the words they use, and the way they use them. Now I'm not claiming to be an expert in this, in fact I'd say at least 50% of the time I have no idea what's being said. Unless I'm with the Irish Prince's friends. In which case I'd rather they spoke Spanish. At least I have a GCSE to help me out with that. But for those of you who may be venturing to this glorious island in the near future, here's a handy dictionary....
- Grand: cool/brilliant/fantastic/fine/ok. General positivity on a wide scale.
- Give out: Tell off.
-Bold: Naughty. In the child-misbehaving sense. Could be embarrassing if you tried it in any other sense.
- Hot Press: Airing Cupboard. Unlikely to come up but good to know nonetheless.
- Yer one/man/woman: Any person, at any time, anywhere. Unfortunately I think the knowledge of who each person means when using this phrase is something Irish people are born with. Those of us not blessed with Irish genes will never know who they mean.
-Will: Used instead of shall. As in 'Will I stop singing now?' Advice from experience: resist the urge to answer 'God I hope so'.
-I'd say: Used instead of 'reckon'. Far nicer in my opinion, and one I hope to catch while I'm here.
-In: Used instead of 'at' or 'went'. As in 'I'm in Lakeside' or 'I was in St. Patrick's School'.
Now I am very aware that so far I have done the very British and very annoying thing of moving to another country and preaching back to everyone at home how much better my new found home is. Trust me, not everything is better. Here's my list of things I don't love about Ireland...
*Every single website is useless. Even the ones that we get in both countries like Ticketmaster or Vodafone are pointless here. 'Does nothing work outside of London? Hm?' (Little Bridget Jones reference for the film fans amongst you.)
*Buses don't run to a timetable. It's impossible to find a timetable online. If you do manage to find one, the locations are written in Irish, and even once you've translated them, the happy little drivers don't follow it AT ALL.
*It's SO COLD. All the time. August Bank Holiday weekend was possibly the coldest I've ever been.
*Radio stations do HALF the show in Irish. And not 10.30-11.30 in Irish and the next hour in English. Oh no! They actually just change language every few words. I had to listen to the news three separate times before I could work out exactly what Beyonce had given birth to.
* Everything is ridiculously expensive.
3€ for Glamour magazine.
5€ for a smoothie.
13€ for a Malibu and pineapple.
Seriously.
*Saying pardon 400 times a day and spending an unreasonable amount of time nodding and smiling vaguely.
Despite everything I've said I think that it's safe to say that I love Ireland and everyone in it.
So what exactly is that special difference that I see and the Pirate couldn't?
I was once lucky enough to meet a well-known, certified genius, who told me that the reason Ireland is second only to Disney World on the happy scale, is 'because they work to live there. We live to work. We've got it wrong.'
Perhaps we need to take a shamrock out of their book?
Something to think about :)
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Alice finds her (Winter) Wonderland...
So here I am, curled up in my much-longed-for window seat, Chris Rea blaring, watching as a series of dads fall out of their front doors, attempting to untangle themselves from endless strings of lights; their children running excitedly in circles around the garden, and their wives leaning cosily against the wall clutching hot chocolate. The street is a sparkly red and gold blur, and the only thing brighter than the O'Connors' front lawn is their jolly Grandad's red nose.
This can mean just one thing.
IT'S CHRIIIIISTMAAAAS!
And it's not just December anymore, oh no. I opened door number 10 on my bright pink princess advent calendar today. Which means it's only 2 weeks and 15 sleeps until parents the world over are woken up at 5am with squeals of 'He's been, he's been!'
Which, in turn, means that all you Scrooges that have been rolling your eyes and telling me 'It's too early' can go back into hibernation until next November thank you very much.
I am officially allowed to be excited.
Anyone that knows me will tell you that I can get ever so slightly excited about my birthday. By anyone that knows me I mean anyone that was in the West Midlands around my 20th, Dublin around my 21st, France around my 22nd and...well, you get the idea.
But Christmas is different. I love Christmas for way too many reasons to list here. For a start, it's the only time of year that even Primark feels as magical as Disneyland. Everywhere you go is buzzing with Christmas spirit; children and adults alike snuggle under hats and scarves, couples ice skate, lights twinkle, trees sparkle, not to mention always being within hearing distance of a Nat King Cole hit. Elf is on television again, the X factor final is looming, and there's the annual suspense of Whether It Will Snow On Christmas Day.
However. The main reason that I love Christmas is that it is the one time of year that the whole family come together. No excuses. I have spent most of the last four years away from home which, for someone who actually enjoys her family's company, and is lucky enough to call the world's most beautiful, intelligent and funny girls her best friends, is no easy feat.
Don't get me wrong, I have loved every second of my time away from home and wouldn't change it for anything. But I honestly believe that the reason that I am able to do this for 362 days of the year is that I know that for these three days a year, I will definitely be back in the company of the four most important people in the world.
This year I was presented with a multitude of offers to be away for Christmas. I could have been skiing in the Alps, frolicking in Lapland or sunning myself in Egypt.
What would you have done?
This decision was one of the hardest I have ever made. Do my dream job abroad for potentially a year, or be at home for those three important days?
Except, it's not three days, is it? As pointed out to me (oh so many times) by my friends The Scrooges, the build up to Christmas starts far earlier than Christmas Eve. There's the shopping, the pantos, the Santa-meet-and-greets, the fake snow, Disney on Ice...the list goes on. Then there are the memories. The faces when they open the presents you painstakingly chose and wrapped. The time you had to read the joke five times to Grandad before he heard it, and ten times before he understood it. The time Grandma played Butt Head and forgot to take the hat off before she took the bins out and bumped into Mary-Next-Door. The tradition of arguing over what to watch on tv then falling asleep in front of it anyway.
There was no way I could allow all that to happen without me.
So instead, I came to freezing cold, struggle-to-understand-everybody, buses-may-as-well-not-run Ireland.
And I am lucky enough to be living with one of the kindest, funniest and most entertaining families on the Emerald Isle. Not only that- but they love Christmas as much as I do. Which means that I am spending the all-important build up with this wonderful, warm, super-excitable family, New Year with my handsome Irish Prince, and those three special days with my favourite family of all.
So as I go along with my beautiful host mum and her gorgeous two boys to visit Santa, take a ride on the magical train at Dundrum, and squeal every time we see so much as a bauble, I know I made the right decision.
Maybe I'll go to Egypt for the Summer, but for the minute, Alice has found her Winter Wonderland just here.
Merry Christmas :)
This can mean just one thing.
IT'S CHRIIIIISTMAAAAS!
And it's not just December anymore, oh no. I opened door number 10 on my bright pink princess advent calendar today. Which means it's only 2 weeks and 15 sleeps until parents the world over are woken up at 5am with squeals of 'He's been, he's been!'
Which, in turn, means that all you Scrooges that have been rolling your eyes and telling me 'It's too early' can go back into hibernation until next November thank you very much.
I am officially allowed to be excited.
Anyone that knows me will tell you that I can get ever so slightly excited about my birthday. By anyone that knows me I mean anyone that was in the West Midlands around my 20th, Dublin around my 21st, France around my 22nd and...well, you get the idea.
But Christmas is different. I love Christmas for way too many reasons to list here. For a start, it's the only time of year that even Primark feels as magical as Disneyland. Everywhere you go is buzzing with Christmas spirit; children and adults alike snuggle under hats and scarves, couples ice skate, lights twinkle, trees sparkle, not to mention always being within hearing distance of a Nat King Cole hit. Elf is on television again, the X factor final is looming, and there's the annual suspense of Whether It Will Snow On Christmas Day.
However. The main reason that I love Christmas is that it is the one time of year that the whole family come together. No excuses. I have spent most of the last four years away from home which, for someone who actually enjoys her family's company, and is lucky enough to call the world's most beautiful, intelligent and funny girls her best friends, is no easy feat.
Don't get me wrong, I have loved every second of my time away from home and wouldn't change it for anything. But I honestly believe that the reason that I am able to do this for 362 days of the year is that I know that for these three days a year, I will definitely be back in the company of the four most important people in the world.
This year I was presented with a multitude of offers to be away for Christmas. I could have been skiing in the Alps, frolicking in Lapland or sunning myself in Egypt.
What would you have done?
This decision was one of the hardest I have ever made. Do my dream job abroad for potentially a year, or be at home for those three important days?
Except, it's not three days, is it? As pointed out to me (oh so many times) by my friends The Scrooges, the build up to Christmas starts far earlier than Christmas Eve. There's the shopping, the pantos, the Santa-meet-and-greets, the fake snow, Disney on Ice...the list goes on. Then there are the memories. The faces when they open the presents you painstakingly chose and wrapped. The time you had to read the joke five times to Grandad before he heard it, and ten times before he understood it. The time Grandma played Butt Head and forgot to take the hat off before she took the bins out and bumped into Mary-Next-Door. The tradition of arguing over what to watch on tv then falling asleep in front of it anyway.
 |
| Butthead: Classic Christmas Day game |
There was no way I could allow all that to happen without me.
So instead, I came to freezing cold, struggle-to-understand-everybody, buses-may-as-well-not-run Ireland.
And I am lucky enough to be living with one of the kindest, funniest and most entertaining families on the Emerald Isle. Not only that- but they love Christmas as much as I do. Which means that I am spending the all-important build up with this wonderful, warm, super-excitable family, New Year with my handsome Irish Prince, and those three special days with my favourite family of all.
So as I go along with my beautiful host mum and her gorgeous two boys to visit Santa, take a ride on the magical train at Dundrum, and squeal every time we see so much as a bauble, I know I made the right decision.
Maybe I'll go to Egypt for the Summer, but for the minute, Alice has found her Winter Wonderland just here.
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