Shepherd’s Bush Market

Or at least this is all i could get to when i was trying to film/get smoothie ingredients on a rainy sunday morning. this was for a media assignment. maybe it’s because it’s late at night and i lack any sense of achievement from this week that lead me to putting it on to wordpress



Queen Mary

The last time I encountered anyone called Mary, she was drowned in tomato juice, cheap vodka and getting acquainted with stick of celery. A miserable experience, one might suggest, but nothing to what I am currently occupied with.

I am sitting in a modern lecture theatre, designed by someone who never wanted to be lectured to in it, and being spoken at by a man with greying hair, slicked back and wearing a fleece that the Geography department would be jealous of. I am waiting to be told all the reasons why I want to study English at Queen Mary University. Edge of your seat stuff.

The rest of the room are listening perhaps even less intently than myself. A collection of hijabs sit in the front row eating crisps (not burkas – a little too difficult to eat and wear a burka, no? think about it…) and the girl behind me is whining on the phone in a dialect that I cannot even begin to understand.

My journey here was more interesting. I have an irrational fear of Bank tube station (too many employed people, there are gaps in the tiling and you can see the earth from inside the tunnels – a little too metafictional for my liking) and so I decided to traverse accross the bridges from Waterloo to Embankment, with all the meander and swagger of a Romantic poet. Before which, I evaluated my coffee budget, and requested that Emmanuel, the French ‘barista’ at Costa that he “put all the caffeine you have in a large Americano to go”. He complied.

On my happy wander from Waterloo, I observed a gaggle of Koreans queuing outside a hired out building near the Savoy. Some were stretching, others were warming up vocals in an unfamiliar, Gangnam style (pop culture! Ha) sort of way. On further inspection, I discovered that today are the auditions for ‘e-pop’, some desperate entrepreneur’s answer to the hideously successful chain of reality music shows. So if you see yourself as the next K-pop star, sorry but you missed your chance. You’re just going to have to sulk in lack of kawaii.

The chap with the fleece has introduced his colleague. A chirpy woman with a PhD that you’d probably describe as having a “nice personality” or “good sense of humour”. I think she can tell I’m not listening.

I should’ve stayed home and juiced a tomato.

Pub Tran (or, why I’m specifically not backing Boris)

So usually this blog is free of rant, but I made an actual post the other day, so I think I deserve one now. Yes? Agreed. I should jolly well hope so.

So I, as a sixteen year old who lives outside of London, cannot vote for a London Mayor in the upcoming elections, but it’s fair to say that I am an avid user of the services TFL provide.

As an avid user, I occasionally skip fares, fail to tap out, unleash my rage on bus drivers and talk loudly on the telephone whilst on the train. I feel that these aspects alone render me eligible for the vote, but the UK democratic system does not. Whatever, I’m over it.

The system used to elect Mayors in the UK is a first choice second choice basis. My first choice? Well this year, old Ken Livingstone. I’m surprised as much as you are, but hear me out on this one.

It’s a pretty well known fact that the strength of Mr Livingstone’s campaign is based on the fact that he is promising fairer train fares [hilarious pun], and that’d be great if he delivered, but it’s not all about what he’s promising. In a recent study of the people of Britain, it was revealed that the least trusted individuals by profession are politicians, followed a close second by estate agents. So with this in mind, we take their manifesto promises with a pinch of salt and hope for the best.

What you must realise here is my hop from backing BoJo to K-Stone isn’t a politically based notion. I haven’t suddenly leapt on the Labour bandwagon. I could probably still be put in a box with other safe-seat constituency Conservative backers, all singing, all slating ethnic minorities with a nice degree and a four by four to show for it, don’t you worry. It’s not even about the fact that he’s promising that he’ll knock down my Oyster card bills, it’s about what voting for someone who isn’t Boris. Yeah, gotta love the blonde haired ragamuffin, but this is about accountability.

What I’m saying is that if I did have the vote, I’d vote for someone who hasn’t put the price of a child travel card from zone six from £2 to nearer a fiver. Thus holding the muppet to account.

Yearbook Entry

“We cut out girls’ pictures from the yearbook, and then we wrote comments”

If you are here to do that, then by all means, go ahead. I have provided a photograph of myself, so if it facilitates the content of a burn book I am glad to have assisted you.

If not, then you can laugh inwardly about the Mean Girls quote. I suppose that is what a yearbook is all about really. Listing textual exerts from authors without citation, then reading them back years later and finding them vaguely amusing.

With no useful hints from Google on what to fuel one’s yearbook entry, I suppose I am on my own here. I tried to turn to film and television for advice on such matters, but it seems that high school movies tell of an American setup, which is a little different to what we are dealing with here. In the Land of the Free you only have to jot a line or two underneath a photo of yourself, and this is seen as sufficient to represent four years of academia. In the Land of Hope and Glory you have to write up a whole page scribble to summarize the ‘happiest days of your life’.

I can tell with upmost certainty that a yearbook page does not traditionally consist of comparing cultures and education policies of our transatlantic cousins, but I fear that I have managed only to achieve this.

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