The Magic of The Cuppa.
30 December 2014 • British, cafe, coffee, coffee coffee coffee, coffee date, coffee shop, cup of tea, cuppa, dates, independent coffee, opinion, social norms, tea
It’s
a stupid British stereotype that all of our problems can be solved by
just one cup of tea; I’m guessing it must have come about some time
around the war era, when women wore the cutest little picnic party
dresses and would use tea dates to socialise and appease in equal
measure. For years, relatives and old friends would meet up and
converse, catch up and mediate over cups and mugs; my family all do
our best to arrange a tea-date every other weekend, usually in the
grandparents’ conservatory, with leftover Christmas napkins on our
laps and a steaming cafetière on the fold-out coffee table, ready to
do our bidding and give us a buzz.
Social
media gets clogged up more and more nowadays with images of
pretty-patterned teacups and plates of cupcakes, endless posts
celebrating the miracle properties of a bag of leaves soaked in
boiling water with a teaspoon of sugar and a little sloshing of milk.
Over
the past few years, we’ve been putting an American phrase into play
when we ask someone out casually: “Fancy a coffee sometime?” –
this wouldn’t have worked for me as such – the guy I fancied was
a barista at my coffee joint of choice – but it’s generally a
foolproof flirty suggestion.
Why,
though? I’ll tell you why I think it is…a coffee date can be
anything you want it to be.
I
recently advised a friend of mine, let’s call him Chad, on the best
way to ask a girl out without endangering a burgeoning friendship –
invite her out for a cuppa. Meet up in town, have a wander about,
browse some shops if you must, then set up camp on a comfy leather
sofa in your favourite cafe, get double-shot lattes (to ensure
there’s enough energy between you, no awkward yawning during
conversations – hot chocolates with extra cream and chocolate
stirring sticks also work for this, sugar highs are not to be
underestimated), and have a nice natter. See if the conversation gets
going, takes flight; see if the first casual cup becomes a second
round, or a boozy beverage later on in the day, or even a table for
two in the local eatery. You never know…
I love
coffee dates. There’s something about steamed milk and perfected
espresso; something about holding a cup in your hands and looking
over at someone as you bring it to your lips…it gives me peace. The
sceptics in this world will claim it’s simply the comfort of having
your hands occupied with something as you talk, and that the same
could be said for rolling and smoking, completing a puzzle or
juggling flaming batons…maybe.
I
personally believe it’s the powers of the bevvies.
This
is partly why I love my current occupation so much – I get to serve
the miracle brews and see them work their magic. Later on, when I’m
washing up cups and saucers, I often wonder if my humble creations
have assisted the paying public masses in talking through issues
they’re having with one another, getting to grips with a new job,
seeing if a spark will ignite, or just waking up in the morning.
Now,
while we’re talking (or rather, I’m preaching) about the wonders
of the cuppa, I feel it’s necessary to set some firm ground rules
and gentle guidelines for any hot drink date:
If
they buy the first round, you buy the second. Same rule
applies in the pub. If you’ve been sitting awhile with empty mugs
before you, conversation still flowing and no sign of leaving the
cafe within the next half hour, take the initiative and offer a
refresher. Okay, fair enough if it’s five of you crushed around a
tiny table and wedged awkwardly in place on chairs stolen from other
tables – then you’re off the hook. But if it’s just the two, or
maybe three, of you…at least offer. And maybe if they decline, or
it looks like there’s no time, just say ‘okay, I’ll owe you
one’ (then try and remember you said that the next time you meet up
and grab a cuppa to go, right?).
Don’t
make a massive point of ordering a ‘skinny one’. Fair
enough if you prefer skimmed milk and order it every time without
fail, but don’t add on a panicked ‘SKINNY PLEASE, SKINNY!’ as
your barista turns to pour out some milk for your order. People in
the queue (and often behind the bar) will quietly roll their eyes at
you. Just slip it into the initial order – “small skinny latte,
please”. Simple as.
If
you take a photo of your cups, for Instagram purposes, maybe let your
date/colleague/mother know. Not only is it super annoying if
they don’t realise you’re trying to get a perfect pic of
untouched cuppas and immediately snatch up their beverage just as
your camera clicks, but sometimes logging into Facey B/Insta/Twits
later on and seeing your drink (and knees, usually) were papped
without your consent can be a little unnerving. Now I won’t
lie, as a barista, I personally aspire to be so good at making
cappuccinos that someday someone will take a photo of, attacking it
with filters and soft focus and uploading it for all to see. So by
all means do it...just be upfront about it. Acknowledge your
shameless hipster tendencies.
Know
your limits. Again, same as in the pub; know how many cups
you can have before you either shoot through the ceiling, shake so
violently you cause an earthquake, or soak through your trousers with
steaming caffeinated pee.
At
some point in your life, try and date a barista. You won’t
regret it. They know when something’s just hot enough, they have
the best idiot-customer stories, they always smell delicious and
they’ll clean until it sparkles. They can also hook you up with the
good stuff and they know the way you like it…I think that Lorelai
Gilmore made a noble and ingenious decision when she kick-started a
real relationship with Luke Danes. Not only is he hunky as can be,
beautifully sensible and astoundingly generous – he also makes the
best coffee in town. She had the right idea.
Follow
these rules and you’re golden. For those of you at home reading
along and still not convinced, still not enamoured with espresso or
yearning for that one perfect shade of Earl Grey, stop lying to
yourself.
The
sooner we accept this fact, the better: countless life problems can
be solved simply by boiling the kettle.
He just sleeps.
14 December 2014 • amwriting, creating, creative, creative piece, creative writing, Fantasy, life, morose, sad, sleeper, story, tale, true story, work, writing
I recognised the Sleeper as soon as he crossed the tiled store front. He had his thick black leather jacket on, riddled with cracks, the frayed lining exposed. The jacket hugged him tight around his hips, and beneath it he was dressed oddly dapper - rich blue knit, linen slacks and a paisley collar just visible, encircling his weary neck. His silver hair seemed to thin and retreat even more every time I saw him.
Having worked in this cafe for just four weeks, I had discovered that eighty per cent of the customers were seasoned regulars who had grown used to walking in to find their 'usual' cuppa awaiting them on the bar and the loyalty stamp poised to reward them. This meant that I had to learn quick, prove myself and earn my keep. I'm naturally sociable, luckily; I can chat for hours even when I'm given almost nothing to work with and the most sour and sullen of people to engage with. It's one of my redeeming qualities - I'm always a friend.
I just like to imagine that when I hand over an especially foamy mocha or a perfect ristretto espresso, I'm making someone's day just a fraction of a tad more bearable. Maybe I'm making it, period.
This customer, the Sleeper, strikes me as a lost soul in need of a good day. Or a string of good days. He's a local legend; he's out all night sinking ships and spirits in every public house along the old high street, come closing time he's wandering about freely but always constricted by something big and invisible - then by 7:10am he finds his way to our cafe, his safe sleeping spot. He sleeps. He sleeps on our sofas or propped in a chair, slumped on the round tables or reclining in the coveted winged armchairs in the back window. He moves from one spot to another, for hours on end, all day every day. Most days he comes to his senses and clears off by early afternoon, but some days he stays until past 5pm. Other customers, the suited and booted board-meeting mates, the gossiping girls and the young mums, the avid readers or the wifi hijackers, all take turns coming up to the counter and alerting us of his presence at the table next to theirs; 'stinking up the place', 'making everyone uncomfortable', 'taking the mick'... We apologise and explain. He's a regular. We wouldn't, couldn't, turn him away. He's lost and probably lonely. I personally reckon he's fighting a battle, and has been for some time.
Today, he bypasses the manager who is a proud veteran when it comes to dealing with him, and he approaches me. Manager M gives me a look, a raised-eyebrow licked-lips 'you got this?' expression. I nod quickly and easily, blink and you'll miss it.
'Good morning, sir! How are you today?' I can tell I've spoken too loudly, too early. He's searching the wall behind me, above my head, choosing which drink he'll be purchasing today and then leaving unattended on the floor by his seat, as usual. He brings his eyes down to my level. His eyes contract and get locked in a long blink as he adjusts to my brightness and volume.
'Black tea, to have in...please, miss.'
'Regular, or grande, sir? It's the same price for a grahhn-day.'
'Grand.'
I spin around and get to work. I pride myself on my ability to skid and spin around behind the bar, it makes me feel cool and cute. It also makes me seem spry and efficient. It's an art of deceit.
'You're sweet,' I hear him mumble behind me as I drop the teabag in. 'A sweet treat.' I assume he's talking to the little packet of white sugar he's twiddling and tapping between his fingers. I turn and his melted ice-blue eyes are looking through my friendly front. He's seeing something beyond. His inebriated state doesn't do him any favours. Or does it amplify everything and bring clarity?
I retrieve the mug from under the boiling steam tap. I turn and smile. I place it on the glass counter and push it gently toward the Sleeper. He tries so hard to pull his smile up to his eyes. I see a decade of sad winter Sundays pass behind those eyes. He extracts a wad of notes from his jacket pocket. All purple notes. An abundance of twenties. He must have just shy of four hundred there in his paws.
I could always tell he wasn't homeless, as some of my colleagues would sympathetically suggest and our customers would disgustedly insist. He has a back story, and it involves a frisky fortune being caught too early and carried away on the breeze.
The Sleeper apparently disappeared for six months, about a year ago. The town missed him somewhat; he was a sore subject, and the stuff of lore. The pubs all conferred and none had held his presence, no bartender had reluctantly pulled him a pint and tried to make sense of him, for quite some time. They wouldn't admit it, but they worried. They'd say they were afraid they'd lose a substantial amount of their weekly intake without him sitting at their bars each night - barrels would be sitting in the basement untouched, their deliveries would be out of sync, they'd have more goods coming in than going out, the other regulars would feel worse about themselves because if the poor sap who was always around had tidied himself up and packed his bags, why couldn't they? - but really, they feared he was in trouble. They envisioned him banged up or beaten down, locked away or pushed over the edge. He then returned abruptly and continued his usual anarchic yet resigned activities as if he'd never left, but he was 'different'. Something must have happened. He wasn't in this world any more.
'You remind me of a daughter I had some time ago.'
I'm jolted back to the present.
'Excuse me, sir?'
'I had a daughter.'
'Is that so, sir?'
'You could be her.'
Stumped, I say, 'I assure you I'm not. Sorry, sir.'
His face falls even further. He produces a thin wooden stirrer stick from nowhere, and pops it between his teeth. He's shouldering a burden. I daren't ask.
I pick up the grande mug, and press it into his open hand, careful not to upset the sad wedge of wasted money. 'Enjoy your tea, sir.'
He makes a sound, a unique sound born to a growl and a whimper, and he backs away to his favourite sofa. He places the mug on the very edge of the marble table, sits, and slides down into sleep instantly. Sleep is his relief and his insane sanctuary. I look on, and I wish I could help. I wish someone, anyone, could. For now though, he can sleep.
They'll never believe it.
11 December 2014 • advice, boyfriend, first impressions, friends, friendship, future, home, life, memories, past, revelations, surprises, uni
Maybe it's some unhealthy yearning to be the protagonist in a piece of especially supernatural character-driven YA fiction, but I have always harboured the desire to be able to travel back in time and revisit Past Me, remind her of the people she's only just met or show her photos of people she has yet to even come across, and tell her the stories. After all, ninety-nine per cent of the time first impressions count for nothing - yet one per cent of the time, they are everything. I'd love to show Past Me if her instincts were correct; I'd love to see the look on her face when she's told certain things.
Let's start slow.
The guy with the cranberry-coloured hair who you're drunkenly chatting to at the SU, he becomes your best friend, you go on an epic holiday with his family, AND in third year he falls on his feet and starts dating the first girl who spoke to you in your first Drama lecture (the super-cute one with those eyes). The guy you're seeing come the end of Freshers fortnight sure can be a complete fool with the ladies, and you'll hate him for a little while, but he'll grow up pretty damn well sooner or later and you'll get along just fine. The creative genius chick in your poetry seminar will be one of your dearest friends before long, back home she lives a fifteen minute drive away and she'll inspire you constantly and consistently. The lovely lecturer you have a massive creative crush on, someday he'll be messed about by the uni; you and your other course mates will help him get a permanent position secured once and for all. That rather beautiful perfectly ginger American gal in your Drama lectures for one semester will earn her title as an Honourary Brit, and despite being across an ocean most of the time, she'll always be there for you.
Now, some pleasant surprises... The girl you converse with over Twitter about your mutual love for Joshua Radin? Someday you'll be sitting side by side in the most picturesque chapel in Islington, watching your favourite artist onstage bewitching the crowd. Oh, and also you'll meet Joshua himself after all those years lying on your single bed playing his albums on repeat as you contemplate your existence and fret about the boy in your English class. You'll hug him, he'll write down your favourite lyric in Sharpie pen (a pen which you keep) and you'll get it tattooed.
The crazy chick sitting outside your Sociology classroom chatting about hair dyeing with you (after you told her your bright orange hair was a horrible hair henna-related accident, then she reassured you it looks rad); she'll be a constant for some years, always reachable online and always up for a tipple, then suddenly you'll join the team on her exciting new project and she'll be your wicked-perf editor.
The guy in the Single Honours Drama clan with the long blonde hair, the one you met while drunkenly scoffing chips from the food hatch on a night out, will become a good friend and a fantastic drinking buddy. You'll be in plays and performances together a fair bit over the next couple of years, then discuss moving to London with other grads.
That Fresher chick on the Ultimate team who you so desperately want to like you, despite hearing that she definitely doesn't - give it a year, she'll be your best friend. For real. The best of the best.
Yes, some things are upsetting.
The girl you've made friends with during Freshers week, the one you take all those webcam selfies with, yeah that friendship won't last. She'll shag a guy, stake her claim to him, then he'll stupidly (and completely independently) take a shine to you, and she'll make it all your fault. Don't worry, your lecturer will defend you and shut her up when she screams at you in the middle of a Drama seminar.
Your second year house mates will be challenging. The 'lads' will relentlessly take the piss because they're both strapped in with long-term relationships and you're bringing guys (as in, TWO different guys over the course of one year, you slut) back to your box room for nightcaps. The other girl will turn up her nose at most of your guilty pleasures and best intentions, but when it comes down to it, she's a decent friend. You two have plenty of nice moments drinking tea and watching Gilmore Girls.
Don't push it too much with your Ultimate team mates. If they like you, if they're wanting to be friends, they'll reach out. Stop smothering them and scaring them off with your mad chatter, just because you're scared they won't like you right away.
Your college besties, they hurt you like no stupid guy ever could.
One last thing. Those new third year house mates of yours. You cook with them and drink with them; you'll be discussing the politics of sexuality one minute and the best essay-writing techniques the next; they support you better than anyone, most of the time. By Christmas, you'll never want to be in that house. The damage will be irreparable. You'll be crashing at friends' or your other half's (we'll get to that in a minute) or even setting up camp in the library until the small hours even though you only have a couple hundred words to write... You hate being at home. But you find home elsewhere, don't worry.
Some revelations are uplifting.
Who is that boy in two classes with you at college? He's a laugh, apparently. He entertains in Drama and has his head down in French. Admit it, those yellow-blonde inconsistent highlights through his brown hair are somewhat endearing. He's your soulmate - and he'll prove to be an invaluable friend to you for years to come. Don't try to live without him, you can't.
Your two playgroup besties who both live with their families across the road from you will be lifelong friends; one day suddenly you'll all be twenty-one and having a cup of tea together still loving each other's company and totally at ease together.
And that guy your course mate and colleague introduces you to, with the colourful tattoos down one arm and black work down the other - the boy you shyly say hi to, and he's shy right back - he'll make you the happiest you've ever been. One night you'll come home from work and he'll be waiting with a cup of green tea, plus biscuits and a big smile. He genuinely cares about you, and you can barely believe it. You did good there.
I'd also want to tell my past self about the experiences she'll have in the near future - but I wouldn't want to terrify her beyond belief. I think she'd get a lot of excitement out of seeing photos of future friends/enemies/something-mores. She may somewhat perversely love the fact that someday she'll get her heart smashed to pieces which are then scattered around for all to see, that's just an occupational hazard of a hopeless romantic, and at least it means that she has a mad mess of thrilling feelings and epic drama headed her way... She could probably even deal with the fact that she has a life-changing medical revelation come the end of her degree. I wouldn't tell her that she gets an Upper Second Class, or that she gets Firsts in certain essays, or that her old school invite her back to make speeches and she receives insane endless applause and positive feedback after she speaks - she couldn't handle that pressure. It's better as a surprise. I wouldn't tell her that she moves back to the family home after uni - because even though it's due to the medical drama, and even though it's for practical rent-free saving-up purposes, and even though it's nice and comforting for a while... She might be disheartened, and think of it as a failure. I may let her know that someday she'll suffer from depression, because maybe then she'll realise what it is earlier, maybe then she'll get something done about it earlier, maybe she'll read up about it and be properly prepared... That is, if it's something you can really prepare yourself for.
I'd definitely tell her she becomes a barista; she gets four tattoos and ten piercings with intentions to get more; she develops a love-hate relationship with the bottle; she figures out how to make time for writing and reading recreationally; a fella finally gives her hers; she finds a real love for and has fun playing an actual sport (Ultimate); she eventually finds her way around the London Underground; she meets a writing hero of hers, John Green, and he wishes her luck in life; she finds a perfect way to express herself through blogging.
She does alright. And the people in her life, the ones she never thought she'd befriend and the friends she never thought she'd lose, they get her there.
The guy with the cranberry-coloured hair who you're drunkenly chatting to at the SU, he becomes your best friend, you go on an epic holiday with his family, AND in third year he falls on his feet and starts dating the first girl who spoke to you in your first Drama lecture (the super-cute one with those eyes). The guy you're seeing come the end of Freshers fortnight sure can be a complete fool with the ladies, and you'll hate him for a little while, but he'll grow up pretty damn well sooner or later and you'll get along just fine. The creative genius chick in your poetry seminar will be one of your dearest friends before long, back home she lives a fifteen minute drive away and she'll inspire you constantly and consistently. The lovely lecturer you have a massive creative crush on, someday he'll be messed about by the uni; you and your other course mates will help him get a permanent position secured once and for all. That rather beautiful perfectly ginger American gal in your Drama lectures for one semester will earn her title as an Honourary Brit, and despite being across an ocean most of the time, she'll always be there for you.
Now, some pleasant surprises... The girl you converse with over Twitter about your mutual love for Joshua Radin? Someday you'll be sitting side by side in the most picturesque chapel in Islington, watching your favourite artist onstage bewitching the crowd. Oh, and also you'll meet Joshua himself after all those years lying on your single bed playing his albums on repeat as you contemplate your existence and fret about the boy in your English class. You'll hug him, he'll write down your favourite lyric in Sharpie pen (a pen which you keep) and you'll get it tattooed.
The crazy chick sitting outside your Sociology classroom chatting about hair dyeing with you (after you told her your bright orange hair was a horrible hair henna-related accident, then she reassured you it looks rad); she'll be a constant for some years, always reachable online and always up for a tipple, then suddenly you'll join the team on her exciting new project and she'll be your wicked-perf editor.
The guy in the Single Honours Drama clan with the long blonde hair, the one you met while drunkenly scoffing chips from the food hatch on a night out, will become a good friend and a fantastic drinking buddy. You'll be in plays and performances together a fair bit over the next couple of years, then discuss moving to London with other grads.
That Fresher chick on the Ultimate team who you so desperately want to like you, despite hearing that she definitely doesn't - give it a year, she'll be your best friend. For real. The best of the best.
Yes, some things are upsetting.
The girl you've made friends with during Freshers week, the one you take all those webcam selfies with, yeah that friendship won't last. She'll shag a guy, stake her claim to him, then he'll stupidly (and completely independently) take a shine to you, and she'll make it all your fault. Don't worry, your lecturer will defend you and shut her up when she screams at you in the middle of a Drama seminar.
Your second year house mates will be challenging. The 'lads' will relentlessly take the piss because they're both strapped in with long-term relationships and you're bringing guys (as in, TWO different guys over the course of one year, you slut) back to your box room for nightcaps. The other girl will turn up her nose at most of your guilty pleasures and best intentions, but when it comes down to it, she's a decent friend. You two have plenty of nice moments drinking tea and watching Gilmore Girls.
Don't push it too much with your Ultimate team mates. If they like you, if they're wanting to be friends, they'll reach out. Stop smothering them and scaring them off with your mad chatter, just because you're scared they won't like you right away.
Your college besties, they hurt you like no stupid guy ever could.
One last thing. Those new third year house mates of yours. You cook with them and drink with them; you'll be discussing the politics of sexuality one minute and the best essay-writing techniques the next; they support you better than anyone, most of the time. By Christmas, you'll never want to be in that house. The damage will be irreparable. You'll be crashing at friends' or your other half's (we'll get to that in a minute) or even setting up camp in the library until the small hours even though you only have a couple hundred words to write... You hate being at home. But you find home elsewhere, don't worry.
Some revelations are uplifting.
Who is that boy in two classes with you at college? He's a laugh, apparently. He entertains in Drama and has his head down in French. Admit it, those yellow-blonde inconsistent highlights through his brown hair are somewhat endearing. He's your soulmate - and he'll prove to be an invaluable friend to you for years to come. Don't try to live without him, you can't.
Your two playgroup besties who both live with their families across the road from you will be lifelong friends; one day suddenly you'll all be twenty-one and having a cup of tea together still loving each other's company and totally at ease together.
And that guy your course mate and colleague introduces you to, with the colourful tattoos down one arm and black work down the other - the boy you shyly say hi to, and he's shy right back - he'll make you the happiest you've ever been. One night you'll come home from work and he'll be waiting with a cup of green tea, plus biscuits and a big smile. He genuinely cares about you, and you can barely believe it. You did good there.
I'd also want to tell my past self about the experiences she'll have in the near future - but I wouldn't want to terrify her beyond belief. I think she'd get a lot of excitement out of seeing photos of future friends/enemies/something-mores. She may somewhat perversely love the fact that someday she'll get her heart smashed to pieces which are then scattered around for all to see, that's just an occupational hazard of a hopeless romantic, and at least it means that she has a mad mess of thrilling feelings and epic drama headed her way... She could probably even deal with the fact that she has a life-changing medical revelation come the end of her degree. I wouldn't tell her that she gets an Upper Second Class, or that she gets Firsts in certain essays, or that her old school invite her back to make speeches and she receives insane endless applause and positive feedback after she speaks - she couldn't handle that pressure. It's better as a surprise. I wouldn't tell her that she moves back to the family home after uni - because even though it's due to the medical drama, and even though it's for practical rent-free saving-up purposes, and even though it's nice and comforting for a while... She might be disheartened, and think of it as a failure. I may let her know that someday she'll suffer from depression, because maybe then she'll realise what it is earlier, maybe then she'll get something done about it earlier, maybe she'll read up about it and be properly prepared... That is, if it's something you can really prepare yourself for.
I'd definitely tell her she becomes a barista; she gets four tattoos and ten piercings with intentions to get more; she develops a love-hate relationship with the bottle; she figures out how to make time for writing and reading recreationally; a fella finally gives her hers; she finds a real love for and has fun playing an actual sport (Ultimate); she eventually finds her way around the London Underground; she meets a writing hero of hers, John Green, and he wishes her luck in life; she finds a perfect way to express herself through blogging.
She does alright. And the people in her life, the ones she never thought she'd befriend and the friends she never thought she'd lose, they get her there.
What makes a good job?
9 December 2014 • barista, cafe, coffee, coffee shop, days, fun, future, job, life, love, money, plans, problems, time, tips, work
In
the months since I've been back in my home town since
graduating/being dragged kicking and screaming from uni, I've had
three jobs. I remember back in my first year of uni when I refused to
find one as I was determined to make the most of my time as a
Fresher, and so what if that meant I was surviving solely on the
little allowance my parents sent me each week – and then as the
weeks went on, my overdraft...?
Then
when second year came around and the reality of the necessity of
money had properly sunk in, I quickly snapped up two jobs in
September; one was every weekend, one most week nights. Friday night
finishing work at 3/4am then starting work at 9am on Saturday morning
was always grim, also I missed my weekends after a while, so I stuck
with the week night front of house gig for a few more months. I found
my beloved cinema job towards the end of second year, and was there
for over a year. Summer of third year, I took on another job at a
beaut shop in town, and I'm still upset that I had to leave to come
home. Luckily I have a few shifts at one of their sister stores in
Brighton this month to look forward to...
Anyway,
my work experience at uni – and before it, at the shitty racist
Italian restaurant for £3.20 an hour and then at my good friend's
beauty cutie boutique – taught me many things. My work experiences
after uni are teaching me a million things a day, too.
Contracts
are important. I've been
screwed over by many pieces of paper in the past. It's fortunate that
my dad is a little more than literate when it comes to important
paperwork. He likes looking over things for me. I've recently been
royally effed by a supposed contractual agreement to forfeit nearly
three days' worth of wages from a job because I left before I'd
worked six months in that (godforsaken hell hole of a) place – I've
missed out on approximately £160 purely because I couldn't bear to
be there longer than six weeks. I know £160 may just be a small
price to pay in the grand scheme of things, but it's still money I
could be putting towards a future. A future plan that I do not have.
This is a lesson learned.
You
should know what you're doing. Starting
a new job often feels like being thrown in the deep end of that
metaphorical pool – I personally hate the first couple of weeks on
some level, because even though it's exciting as can be and a new
challenge etc., I'm already wanting to be perfect at every single
thing I have to do.
Now
this should go without saying, but... It helps to be properly
trained. At my previous job I was never properly trained, never
talked through rules and policies, never fully informed. I never
walked onto the floor with much confidence and in my fifth week I was
still struggling to make the most commonplace of orders.
At
my new place of work, I got trained in my first two shifts by a
Maestro, an employee who is specially trained and assessed to teach newbies. I made every drink in the book, twice, and was congratulated on each one. By the end of the first two days, I was serving every drink in the book with at least 72% confidence.
A
manager makes it. Example A: The coffee shop chain I joined as my
first job post-grad was rather horrific work, and a big contributing
bummer would have been my poor timing – the manager of this
franchise, the one who interviewed me and processed my details, left
as I arrived. She gave one day's notice, and that day was my first
day, and she was covering in another branch that day. Bad day. So for
the entirety of my time there I was not managed at all. We were a
group of baristas (notice how I say 'group' and not 'team') all on
the same level, with nobody being paid to be in charge. Eventually an
assistant manager from another store was brought in and due to start
after his annual leave was over – but I'd left by then.
Our
area manager was a character most feared. The news that she was due
to appear one day to do staff reviews or just check up on us meant
we'd be spending the day cleaning, tidying and panicking more than
serving customers. Her presence was like an icy chill that swept
through the cafe and down the high street – and it didn't help that
her other half was an assistant behind the bar so she had access to
gossip and supposed faults in her employees.
Example
B: I've been in my new position, at another coffee shop chain that
I've always loved, for three weeks now and it's already better by a
few million miles. I have the same job title, but it could not be
more different.
When I applied, the manager of the branch gave a thorough interview and explained everything there was to know about the job; the harder tasks, the cheeky benefits, and where it could lead. Sometimes you get a good feeling about someone when you meet them, a good energy draws you in and fills you with confidence instantly. You can tell when someone is a good manager, and when they are frank and relaxed on the surface but they really properly care. I met the area manager at this job just a week after joining – Northern, hilarious, casual yet caring. I helped her take a dozen pizzas out of an oven and load tables with crates of beer for the staff social, and we bonded instantly (at least I'm absolutely positive we did).
When I applied, the manager of the branch gave a thorough interview and explained everything there was to know about the job; the harder tasks, the cheeky benefits, and where it could lead. Sometimes you get a good feeling about someone when you meet them, a good energy draws you in and fills you with confidence instantly. You can tell when someone is a good manager, and when they are frank and relaxed on the surface but they really properly care. I met the area manager at this job just a week after joining – Northern, hilarious, casual yet caring. I helped her take a dozen pizzas out of an oven and load tables with crates of beer for the staff social, and we bonded instantly (at least I'm absolutely positive we did).
My
managers at the cinema were a bunch of delights. Each of them
beautifully unique, and hilarious (whether unashamedly deliberately
or completely unintentionally). One manager would come in every once
in a while armed with an armful of chocolate treats for us bar
minions. Another let me play my classic retro rock playlist over the
speakers. My favourite manager was the one I'd have endless
conversations with that consisted of ninety percent Community quotes,
ten percent depressed yet hysterical ponderings about life and love.
My manager at the shop last summer was chilled and friendly as can
be, we made instant coffee and had heart-to-hearts between serving
customers.
So
my current manager insists I come to staff socials, makes shameless
puns, explains everything to me and ensures I'm happy at all times.
At my shift a couple of days ago he took me aside and basically told
me repeatedly how well I was doing and how chuffed he is. I needed
that. Also, hugs from managers are not out of the question. If
anything, they are a goal to be achieved and a relationship level
most coveted.
Smile,
damnit. A good little
expression I came across recently (in italics against a cloudy
backdrop, very much a 'share me on Facebook, tag friends'
monstrosity) was 'Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle
you know nothing about.' This cheesy little string of words pretty
much describes my constant mentality when it comes to customer
service. For some customers that cuppa you make them, the extra stamp
on their loyalty card you give them or the free box of popcorn you
shoot their way will be the highlight of their day. They could be
coming to or from a terrible place and a tragic situation. I wrote a
blog post a year or so ago about Mrs Clark, and her casually telling
me over the bar at the cinema that her husband was dying of cancer.
She was happy as anything that night, smartly dressed and very...
Together. Excited to see a film, to spend time with friends and maybe
to get a break from some sad realities. I still think about her. I
hope my kind words made a difference to her day.
Then
again, it's not just about being considerate all the time –
sometimes you just have to take down the worst ones with some good
humour. 'Kill them with kindness', my parents would say. If you can
sense after just the brief over-the-counter chat that they're gunning
for a spat, you flip it on its head and really heap on the sweet
talk. Knock the wind out of their sails. Offer them every sweet
cheeky extra you possibly can; ask how their day is going; compliment
their outfit or accessories, preferably something specific – I
usually go for jewellery, it's a fail-safe option, people love
chattering away about their personal knick-knack keepsakes. Maybe
they'll walk out of the shop feeling acutely embarrassed of their
behaviour and demeanour thus far that day – or suddenly their
outlook becomes inexplicably positive and they're wondering what the
matter ever was... Who knows? It never hurts to be gracious and
friendly.
Take
note of feelings. If you're
counting down the minutes until you can run out the door at the end
of your shift, something must be wrong. Fair enough if you've been
battling a beastly hangover all day long, or you're in a hurry to
head home and watch Strictly, or if those customers didn't appreciate
your charming chatter as you packed their bags – but if it's every
day, if the countdown starts at 9:01am, you could do with a change.
The best shifts are the ones when your manager turns to you and says
'Why are you still here? You finished twenty minutes ago, silly!'
If
you have two days off in a row, but still you're filled with dread
every minute because you will be back at work in two days' time...
That's not good, either.
Think
ahead. Will this job help you
in the future? Is it a stepping stone, a savings plan, a means to an
end...? Is it your perfect occupation that you accidentally but
happily stumbled into? I've realised recently that it's so good to
keep these things in mind; my current job is by no means a potential
career, however it's something I enjoy and arguably a very valuable
skill. It's a profession I'm intrigued by and now I can tick it off
my job bucket list. I'm learning things, sharpening skills and doing
something I'll always love – making people happy.
Okay
yes, I have yet to take on a job that is on or at least adjacent to
the path I want to follow for the rest of my life, but what does that
matter? I'm young, and I forget that more than eighty percent of the
time. These are the years when you have experiences, and maybe lay a
little groundwork for the future, but there's no pressure. You don't
have to know where you are, you just need to have even the roughest
tiniest inkling of an idea of where you want to be. Then at some
point you work out how to get there.
The issue of over-sharing.
1 December 2014 • awkward, gracie actually has opinions, over-sharing, oversharing, sharing, tmi, too much information
I feel the need to inform you of a few things about me. For instance, I could talk for hours about every contestant on Strictly. I have an unhealthy attachment to my cat. When I say ‘the other day’, I could be referring to any time between the day before yesterday and nineteen years ago when my memories properly begin. Another thing you should probably know upfront before you read on, is that I over-share.
Although, what even is that: over-sharing? It’s a term I’ve only encountered in the past couple of years…my understanding is it simply means ‘going too far’ or ‘revealing a bit much’… ‘TMI, too much info, honey.”
The ever-reliable Urban Dictionary claims that over-sharing is:
‘Providing more personal information than is absolutely necessary. Typically done when two or more people are conversing and details of one’s sexual life creep into the discussion – or overly gross and disgusting details are included.’
A friend of mine says: ‘in social media terms, [oversharing is] worrying about whether someone is okay because they haven’t uploaded anything for at least 12 hours’…
My parents would most likely say ‘anything you have to say about boys’. Fair play to them.
‘Providing more personal information than is absolutely necessary. Typically done when two or more people are conversing and details of one’s sexual life creep into the discussion – or overly gross and disgusting details are included.’
A friend of mine says: ‘in social media terms, [oversharing is] worrying about whether someone is okay because they haven’t uploaded anything for at least 12 hours’…
My parents would most likely say ‘anything you have to say about boys’. Fair play to them.
Now I know for a fact that I over-share when I’m drunk (‘See that guy onstage, on guitar at the back? Yeah, he’s pretty blessed with equipment if you know what I mean, but a little clueless as to how to use it…’; ‘I haven’t been this wasted since that time when I pulled off my top and puked all over my friend’s shoes!’). I’ve had some of the best conversations that I hardly remember in the toilets at Spoons with my best girl friends – I’ve even made new friends with the girls in the next cubicle who have overheard our over-sharing and can relate to our woes about unruly body hair and wild desires for (but lack of funds for) extravagant underwear sets…
But I’m only realising recently that I’m almost as bad – maybe not as blunt or graphic, thankfully, but still bad – when sober. I’ve spoken with friends over coffee about my habit of returning texts while on the toilet; I once spent ten minutes answering questions about a urinary catheter I had put in during an operation; I bragged like mad when I discovered I was actually three cup sizes larger than I’d previously thought when three beautiful ladies got me topless and measured me in Boux Avenue. The other day, an old friend and I had an in-depth discussion about the advantages of using lube, in broad daylight, in a clothes shop.
But I’m only realising recently that I’m almost as bad – maybe not as blunt or graphic, thankfully, but still bad – when sober. I’ve spoken with friends over coffee about my habit of returning texts while on the toilet; I once spent ten minutes answering questions about a urinary catheter I had put in during an operation; I bragged like mad when I discovered I was actually three cup sizes larger than I’d previously thought when three beautiful ladies got me topless and measured me in Boux Avenue. The other day, an old friend and I had an in-depth discussion about the advantages of using lube, in broad daylight, in a clothes shop.
When it comes to the internet, it’s all too easy to over-share; bloggers do it, vloggers do it, even the frank forum freaks do it…it’s a slippery slope. I’m a major culprit when it comes to this. I’m even doing it now.
If you’re ever poised with a finger over the mouse, ready to click on ‘post’ or ‘update’ or ‘SHARE’… Think twice. Follow my good friend’s advice: ‘anything you wouldn’t share with distant friends/acquaintances, in person, is probably too much information to share online ‘.
If you’re ever poised with a finger over the mouse, ready to click on ‘post’ or ‘update’ or ‘SHARE’… Think twice. Follow my good friend’s advice: ‘anything you wouldn’t share with distant friends/acquaintances, in person, is probably too much information to share online ‘.
I think there are some unspoken ground rules when it comes to sharing anecdotes and info. For instance, you can tell your mum when you go to the doctors’ for a contraceptive pill prescription, but you can’t run straight out of your bedroom in nothing but your boyfriend’s shirt and inform her that you’ve made use of it for the first time. You can giggle away when a friend goes into a little too much detail about an ex to the entire room at a party, but you must never repeat it on a separate later occasion without permission. And when you and your friends sense that enough has been shared, that you’ve exhausted the topic, you brush it off and move swiftly on to something much more mundane.
There are certain friends to whom you tell everything – you entrust your deepest darkest secrets unto them. Some friends know what personal things you’re thinking or what nightmare private moments you’re recalling just by you giving them a certain look. And that’s fine. I personally feel I’d be at a complete dead loss without my nearest and dearest – who would I talk to about my most awkward fumbling incidents in the bedroom and preferred feminine hygiene products? Who would give me advice on how to move on from my ill-advised one night stands? And who would swear on their siblings’ lives not to repeat any information I send their way when I’m in an inebriated state…?
Then there are certain friends you’d never share anything rated above a PG with. Friends who have lived next door to you your whole life, who you grew up with, who you’re crazy-close with and yet for some reason you’ve never swapped dirty details with. One of my old school friends asked me what my ‘magic number’ was a few Christmases ago (when it was quite a bit lower, oops) and I blushed instantly and refused to tell her. Why? I suppose I’m a selective over-sharer.
Then there are certain friends you’d never share anything rated above a PG with. Friends who have lived next door to you your whole life, who you grew up with, who you’re crazy-close with and yet for some reason you’ve never swapped dirty details with. One of my old school friends asked me what my ‘magic number’ was a few Christmases ago (when it was quite a bit lower, oops) and I blushed instantly and refused to tell her. Why? I suppose I’m a selective over-sharer.
Then again, over-sharing is massively therapeutic. Sometimes it helps to hear someone else feels the same way, has the same problems, fights the same battles, fancies the same Z-list celebrities. A little over-sharing, whether over a cup of coffee or a pitcher of Woo Woo, is sometimes the best thing to do. Just maybe don’t announce anything over international airwaves, or in an online auditorium…just a little advice, right there.
One more thing...
25 November 2014 • body love, letter, life, love, memories, ohnonotanotherblogger, past, teenage, teenager, tips
I don't always do the cheesy conventional thing, but my gosh I suddenly desperately want to write a blog
post in the form of a letter to teenage me – baby Gracie, chewing
on her thumbnails during a particularly challenging GCSE exam,
dyeing her hair dark brown/purple every week, sitting under
the shelter at break time bearing down on a packed lunch of peanut
butter sandwiches and pots of chickpeas while pondering the problematic
relationship between Liam and Naomi in 90210. She needs a little
guidance at times, and I feel it's my duty to help her out.
Follow these steps, my dear, and you'll be right as rain.
Follow these steps, my dear, and you'll be right as rain.
If you're going to wear eyeliner to school, be subtle and even it out.
I'd sneak off to the girls' toilets between lessons to top up my thick layer of No7 brown pencil eyeliner – only beneath my eyes, though. I'd never dare draw any on my eyelid, above my lashes, no way. Only the scene girls did that while walking home; they'd swap shoes and put their chequerboard Vans on, let their extensions down from the side-ponytails then slick some black liquid all around their eyes. I didn't want to step on their toes, or try to be part of their super-cool clique. Oh also Gracie, make sure you don't rub your eyes vigorously in Music lessons despite how deathly boring your teacher is – you'll turn into a panda.
It's okay to not be a whizz at everything.
Time and time again I'd skip merrily out of English class and into Art Textiles, good grades not far away and feeling genuine comfort in lessons chatting to teachers and putting my hand up to offer opinions. Then suddenly I'd find myself marching reluctantly to Maths and Science, hiding away in the corner and doodling all over my book covers rather than doing boring confusing calculations. I'd worry I was stupid, that it was wrong to be perfectly proficient in some subjects and appalling in others, that you're either a good student or a brain dead back-row rebel. No, honey. You have strengths and weaknesses. Someday your strengths will be the only thing you study, and you'll have the best time, but for now you have to nod along when Miss Mant explains Pythagoras to you for the millionth time.
You CAN have a varied taste in music.
Your best friend plays Release by Timbaland (ft JT) on her iPod during Maths, you have a headphone each, and you just wanna pop and lock all over the place. You listen to the one and only Taylor Swift Fearless album while walking home. Sometimes when feeling especially agro and angsty, Bowling For Soup are the way to go. When sad or reflective, only Kelly Clarkson will do. City & Colour speaks to you on every level.
Actually, I'm very grateful to the pop-punk lover boys I once fancied – I have the best taste in music thanks to them. I'd hear them talking about their favourite bands, or friends of theirs would send me mp4 files of their favourite songs, then I'd make a point of listening to them loudly while I waited near these boys to go into a classroom – I always hoped my headphones would leak and they'd turn around to say 'Hey, I love that song!' I hadn't seen the film yet, and wouldn't for the four years until it was released, but I always wanted a (500) Days of Summer moment. So yes, I discovered my all-time favourite bands because back in the day I'd wanted to snog the mop-heads in set 1.
She's not your friend.
Stop trying to fit in with people who don't give a flying f-word about you. Sure, you'd run across town to their house in a heartbeat if they texted simply saying 'idk bit sad rn :'( xxXxxXxx' but would they do the same for you? You know what she says behind your back, but she's perfectly nice to your face so you focus on that. Even when she embarrasses you in front of her 'popular' friends, you brush it off and giggle with them, then cry a little too hard when chopping onions in a Food Tech double.
You'll know when you're in love.
Don't force yourself to feel things for someone just because they say they feel them for you... Y'know? He may buy you Oreos, burn you the odd CD and cuddle you when you need it, sure. You love the sweet gestures and closeness, but you don't love him. You shouldn't feel bad about that, though! Arghh, it's hard to explain sweetie, but you'll get there someday. A guy will hang out with you every day, watch TV with you, buy you king size bars of Bournville, quote shows you watch and be absolutely word-perfect – do all the nice gestures you've experienced aged sixteen, but this time it'll be different. You'll be so full of this alien amorous amazing sensation, brimming fit to burst, and wanting to talk and write about it all day every day – rather than just at sleepovers with friends who are so totes in luv with their playground boyfs and you play along. When it's love, you'll know it. I promise.
Love your body. Now.
You envy the popular girls who have the coveted thigh gaps and perfect pert butts, and at times you hate the thin yet inexplicably buxom girls who are getting a ton of attention when they bounce impressively with every step down the corridor. Don't stuff your bra. Don't wear flat unsupported shoes just so you don't seem awkwardly tall, your back will kill as a result. Don't spend loads of your parents' money getting a trendy Toni & Guy haircut that doesn't suit you. Don't hide in the shower cubicles when getting changed for PE, be brave and stand among your peers who are no doubt just as concerned about their thighs and tummies as you are, they just choose not to let it get to them as much. Your body changes so so much over the next few years, and at twenty-one it still isn't settling down. You have to allow it to change, and accept that everyone has a different shape for goodness' sake – you have a tiny waist and a big butt. That ain't gonna change if you skip your dinner every other night. Be content with yourself.
There
are a million more pointers I could give to that young'un, but I
think these are the most key. I could go on and on about how frequent
spot breakouts are normal, how thinking certain girls are pretty does
not make you a lesbian, how it's important not to be embarrassed to
ask to go to the loo during a lesson, how reading fiction books
beneath the textbooks in Science doesn't make you a geek but isn't
great for exam prep, how plucking your own eyebrows is both playing a
dangerous game and fighting a losing battle... No, that's it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6OuvaesBB0 – One of my all-time favourite songs that came into my life via a
skateboarding freckled mop-head classmate that I totally wanted to
walk to and from school with. Cheers, mate. That new haircut looks good.
Grace in the Face of Adversity / I'm okay at the words.
28 October 2014 • blogging, Claverham, Grace, graduate, graduation, happy, nervous, presentation evening, proud, public speaking, school, speech, teachers, the tumour tale, uni
For
a Drama and Creative Writing combined honours graduate, I am wildly
unprepared for and unnerved by public speaking. I'm used to writing
pieces and publishing them online, that's comparatively piss easy.
I'm used to the anxiety and apprehension before clicking 'publish' –
will she get offended? Have I described this accurately? Will he read
this one, too? Does that sentence sound stupid? That's totally normal
to me by now.
I
like to think that after around five years of blogging, I've got
better at deciding what to publish and what to keep to myself. I've
learned that some people need to be smacked or snogged in person and
others need to be harshly berated or lovingly immortalised in pretty
font for all to see; some events are better forgotten while some
should be celebrated accordingly in a happy slosh of mindless
alliteration; some feelings and memories must be cast aside or
brought to light in lengthy posts featuring honest wording and, no
doubt, dozens of hapless similes.
Blogging
may not be my most flawless forte, but it's a passion I've definitely
got down. Public speaking, however, is a whole other ballgame. I
don't by any means dread performing in front of an audience. I've
participated in my fair share of graded Drama performances over the
past seven years; GCSE, A Level, BA. For GCSE, I was the bride's best
friend on a hen night. AS Level, I was Rose Maloney for a monologue
and Cissy Franks for a group performance (see below, massive shameless post about my love of the play Punk Rock). A Level, I found
myself playing a psychotic invisible girl with no name. For my degree
I've played a deranged bouffant clown, a bitchy schoolgirl, a slave
to a sea sorcerer, a very camp male sailor, a citizen under constant
video surveillance in a horrific futuristic society, and J.K.
Rowling. I was always someone else. That was manageable, not always
convincing, but not that hard to do. Being myself in front of an
audience is terrifying.
A
month or so ago, I was asked on the phone by the principal of my
secondary school and my old Head of House there if I would like to do
a presentation about what I've been through recently at the school's
presentation evenings this year. My family said yes for me, I was
suddenly faint with fear but agreed because truth be told, I'd do
anything for my old school and the lovely senior members of staff –
especially after my old house raised around £300 from a non-uniform
day and donated it to my hospital (specifically the neurological
centre), and my esteemed ex-Head of House called me a couple of days
after my big op for a chat.
I
wrote my speech, I was told not to sugar-coat anything, so I
didn't... But I didn't exactly go too far into detail either. I asked
if I should be spinning the story so I could add a moral or a message
at the end as I wrapped it all up; y'know, I don't want to be a
massive malignant downer on an otherwise joyful awards evening,
slapping the prize winners with some particularly nasty reality
before they step up to receive their trophies and book tokens. I'd
much rather be a shining example that 'shit happens but it can be
okay in the end.'
The
first presentation I made on October 16th went rather
splendidly... I think. I spent every evening in the week leading up
to it slumped on the sofa half-asleep after a heavy shift making
milky coffee and glorified slushy milkshakes, writing and editing
furiously. I was still scribbling out and rewriting the odd sentence
as I rode the train to and from Winchester in Grad Week; I would read
the whole thing out loud (in a very expressive whisper) over and over
again changing which words I emphasised and working out when was best
to take a breath, in my seat on South West and Southeastern trains.
I
turned up at the school an hour before the ceremony of sorts was due
to start. I had a cuppa in the office with Mr W. We gossiped about
other teachers and pupils, shared stories of recent personal
experiences, then I moaned about my job and he became the sixth
person to tell me to quit. 'Twas bloody lovely. The principal walked
in at one point and actually uttered the words 'Oh thank God you're
here, Grace!' It's been a very long time since anyone said that, much
less someone so important. It was quite a pleasant shock. I remember
rooting for that guy to get the job as our principal, back when he
was a lowly Maths teacher. Our whole year group were behind him, and
we celebrated for weeks on end when he was given the title he so
totally earned.
Mr
W kept pestering, asking what I was planning on saying. I assured him
it was all printed and rehearsed, but I wasn't telling. I just said
it was my story with a moral. This was mostly because I dedicated a
paragraph to the school and him specifically, and I wanted that to be
a nice surprise.
I
saw my favourite teacher when entering the hall, the rather epic
Finchy who taught me English and Drama at GCSE – the wonderful
character who gave me full marks for my performance as a drunk
bridesmaid and would brew the loveliest lattes at lunchtime for me
and my close friends, the Coffee Club in Room 38. I hugged her
without thinking it through for a second, caught up as best I could
before I had to be ushered to my seat up the front on the side of the
stage. I told her I hoped I'd make her proud, after all, she planted
the Drama seed in my mind and got me into it, and she taught me how
to write to the best of my ability, how to get my point across. I owe
her a whole lot.
I
sat down beside a lovely redhead girl and a nervous but sweet-looking
boy. Both in the worse school houses, but I'll overlook that. I was
startled to discover that the presentations would be taking place
before awards were... Awarded. I wasn't sure which I'd rather –
have people listening to me speak after the prizes were given,
checking their watches, with numb bums and minds wandering to their
lovely home awaiting them, or before, when all they wanted was to see
their child get a little recognition for their excellence in
Geography class or they were desperate to walk onstage and get those
book tokens and a round of applause for their hard work in the Music
rooms. I figured before was best, people would still be alert and
paying enough attention, even if they hated me briefly for delaying
the proceedings.
We
were welcomed by the senior members of staff, who sat opposite me on
the other side of the stage in all their finery sipping water and
shuffling papers – it was charming. My old music teacher spoke,
then the head of governors who is coincidentally the mother of a
genius sweet girl in the year below me as well as a regular customer
in the cafe, then BOOM, time for the presentations. Oh, that came
around quick. I shuffle my own papers in my lap, bracing myself,
suddenly blushing hot but utterly frozen. The lovely gal beside me
sang 'When I Fall In Love', hitting the high notes and bringing the
goosebumps on all around. I assumed the young fella would be next in
line, but then my name was called from the lectern.
My
lovely pal Mr W had the ingenious impulse to give my piece a name as
the principal put the programme for the event together, and he nailed
it. Grace in the Face of Adversity. I
do love a good bit of wordplay on my name – have I mentioned that
both my names are words? Yes? Okay then – and it was just darned
awesome to be given a title. It also said next to my name that I was
a 2009 Leaver – that hit me hard. I'm a mature adult now, five
years out of the playground. Ha.
At
some point, after my next and last evening speaking publicly, I'll
post my speech on here for y'all to read, if you wanna. No pressure.
I've read it to my bestest friend when he tracked me down in the big
city crying into my coffee; I read it to the boyf after we went on a
dinner date, and as previously mentioned I've read it to complete
strangers on a train when I realised my expressive whisper had become
a regular volume of conversation and the women in front of me had
turned in their seats to peek through the gap and watch me.
Like
I said, I think it went well. When I finally caught my breath a few
paragraphs in and realised there was no rush, I could speak clearly
and slowly, I could look out into the audience and catch the eyes of
teachers and students if I wanted, there was nothing to be afraid
of... It all came together. I felt especially confident as I was
wearing my graduation dress and silver brogues – a winning combo. I
have a good track record of being onstage in this outfit. I also wore
my hair down, as part of my unusual plot twist – after years of
relentlessly pulling and scraping my hair back into a boring bun,
maybe a high exuberant ponytail, I've found I like it better loose
and brushing my shoulders. I may or may not have started wearing it
down in the first place because I was self-conscious about my scar.
Whatever.
After
telling my story in the speech, feeling the silence in the room
pressing hard, I got to the last page and thought oh thank
goodness, this is the good bit,
meaning the part where I talk real to the kids, preach a little in
the nicest way and remind them all how lucky they are etc, etc. I
smiled more and more as I looked out and saw the students staring
back at me, not necessarily in awe but definitely paying proper
attention. It was a new feeling, speaking out and making an impact. I
suddenly didn't want it to end.
It
ended. There was a whole lot of applause. I smiled and smiled, backed
off the podium and stepped down, walked along the front row and sat
back in my esteemed seat. The teacher nearest to me said it was
great, grinning; the applause went on and on; my old music teacher
onstage locked eyes with me and I stupidly gave her a questioning
thumbs-up, which she returned with a big nod. The super-important
senior members of staff looked on from their table, all smiling, all
shining. After the young lad played a gorgeous melody on the piano up
front that I somehow hadn't noticed in all my anxiety, we were
ushered to the back of the hall. As I walked along the aisle, I was
met with a beaming face at the end of each row. Parents nodded
respectfully or just outright grinned and whispered at me. I saw a
friend of mine in the back row and stopped to chat, she told me she
was excited when she heard I'd be here. My GCSE Drama/English heroine
grabbed my hand from her seat and brought me in for a cheek-smacker,
saying how beautiful it was and how proud she felt – how she hoped
she had contributed to my brilliance, even just a little. I reassured
her she did, she did a lot. Mr W treated me to a hug, then
immediately demanded to know why I'd mentioned him in my speech. I
believe I said something like 'well duh,' followed by 'I don't know
what I was thinking, I got carried away...' My Science teacher smiled
and gave me a thumbs-up, saying he loved it. I found my mum who'd snuck in at the last minute, and we sat together to watch
the kids be celebrated. The principal gave his speech and said I was
'inspiring and brave'. Without thinking I waved my hand dismissively,
to cover up the fact that I was weeping a little. Students and
parents kept tapping me on the shoulder and congratulating me. Two
teachers told me their own stories – one had a similar thing
twenty-five years ago, the other had a scare with one of his
daughters, and so my words meant a lot to them.
I
giggled at how the prize giving was a lot like my graduation –
students' names are called, they shake the principal's hand, walk up
a step onto the stage, receive a ton of applause, take their envelope
from the head of governors, step down and are ushered back to their
seats. It's cute, and the most wonderful idea – celebrating the
kids, egging them on. This school is so good to its students. Sure,
when I was being kicked through corridors and belittled in the
changing rooms it didn't seem like it, but when I freaked out about
my Art exam, worried I had no friends and threw up in a sex education
lesson, there was always a member of staff there to help me out.
Afterwards,
Mr W is escorting my mama and I off the premises – probably because
it's the only way he can ensure we actually leave and stop nattering
away to everyone we bump into – and telling us just how fantastic
he found my presentation. He ridiculously said 'it was the best thing
I ever heard', and I demanded he retract that statement immediately.
He then corrected himself, putting his newborn son's first cry just
before my mad monologue. He then told me to never make him cry again,
and take him out of the speech, and I refused to make any promises.
We parted ways at the gate, mum and I headed for the car, and we
debriefed on the way. It all felt fuzzy. As we approached our car
(Star the CRV), we heard a shout 'Grace!' behind us. We turned and
saw a mother in her mum-mobile, pupil in the passenger seat in his
Claverham uniform. She shouted 'You are an inspiration!' The tears
sprung up yet again.
My
next speech delivery will be on the 27th
November, at 6:30pm. This time will be a little different. Instead of
speaking to a room full of parents, teachers and Year 7s and 8s, I'll
be speaking to a room full of teachers, students and this year's
leavers – the ex-Year 11s, my sister's year group. Students who are
now studying for A Levels or diplomas, doing apprenticeships and
discovering coffee, most of whom will know me personally or recognise
me all too easily. Some of them have been in my house, some of them
have been driven around in my car. Some of them messed with my little
sis, and some kept her going. I have to edit my words a little,
change them to suit the high school grads, but also brace myself for
the inevitability that on the night I will look out into the crowd
and see faces I know looking back at me. It's like when we performed
our first year monologues in Drama lessons at college to the whole
class, a few days before we were due to perform them to the external
examiner. I would take the meanest stingiest external examiner a
million times before I'd take my friends and peers. Heck, I'd take
the nine hours of brain surgery again right now and it would probably
be easier than confidently communicating a message to a hall packed
out with teenagers and their parents.
It'll
probably be fine, though. What's life without the occasional
challenge? If it's not looking good, I can always whip out the scar
and scare them stupid. I wouldn't do that... Although I've done
dumber things when in a panic.
So,
wish me luck maybe? Thank you, darlings. I'll be backstage, breathing
into a bag.
In
all seriousness, in life things are only as scary as you make them. I
say that with the utmost sincerity and I have a massive backlog of
incidents to prove it. Push yourself, work hard, take a step out of
your comfort zone, and reap the rewards. I got applause, pats on the
back, hugs all round, a cup of sweet green tea and a beautiful
bouquet of thank you flowers. I also got a generous helping of
confidence. Boom, baby.
Gradding.
• ceremony, creative writing, grad, graduand, graduate, graduation, happy, hours, memories, uni, university, university of winchester, Winch, Winchester, years
7am,
jam to the recently released Taylor Swift tune in the hotel room with
the little sis – forget about those sleeping either side of your
twin room, they should be awake for this magical day anyway, surely –
splash freezing water on your face, zip up the sought-after dress and
get set for the future.
7:20am, tucking into poached eggs on toast with the mama, gulping down green tea and watching the morning sun light up the cathedral the other side of the glass.
7:20am, tucking into poached eggs on toast with the mama, gulping down green tea and watching the morning sun light up the cathedral the other side of the glass.
8am,
pick up gown and have hat attached.
8:07am, see a few of your favourite coursemates in the queue ahead of you and freak out massively, run up and hug each of them – despite the fact that you saw at least two of them in the hotel foyer with their families the night before. It's funny how you go from seeing someone every day, pretty much, to then seeing them next to never and therefore exploding with familiar joy when you see their face twice within twelve hours. It's more than you can cope with, in the best way.
8:25am, meet the charming ever-so-slightly camp fella who will be spending his day slotting mortarboards onto chattering over-emotional ex-students' heads. Have him wedge the size M hat on, feel it slip a little on your hair, super-shiny after being trimmed, washed and given a toner treatment by a trained genius friend the night before. He asks, 'nervous?' You reply 'of course not!' giggling with a tear in one eye, giving you away. 'But... Is it normal to be nervous?'
8:07am, see a few of your favourite coursemates in the queue ahead of you and freak out massively, run up and hug each of them – despite the fact that you saw at least two of them in the hotel foyer with their families the night before. It's funny how you go from seeing someone every day, pretty much, to then seeing them next to never and therefore exploding with familiar joy when you see their face twice within twelve hours. It's more than you can cope with, in the best way.
8:25am, meet the charming ever-so-slightly camp fella who will be spending his day slotting mortarboards onto chattering over-emotional ex-students' heads. Have him wedge the size M hat on, feel it slip a little on your hair, super-shiny after being trimmed, washed and given a toner treatment by a trained genius friend the night before. He asks, 'nervous?' You reply 'of course not!' giggling with a tear in one eye, giving you away. 'But... Is it normal to be nervous?'
9:43am, I find my seat, it's the one in the J-L row, with the gold-edged book that holds all ceremony info face-down on it, my name stuck on the back. My full name, first middle and last. It didn't occur to me that I'd be known as all three names today – my first and last are quite enough, they're both words you can use in a sentence, and I'm a-okay with that. My middle name is a baby girl's name, that happened to be the middle name of both my great-grandmas. I was cringing at the reveal of my secret second name, when I realised that one of my beautiful uni besties had the very same one. I was also feeling a little insecure and lonesome in my back row seat sandwiched between two classmates who had yet to arrive, then once again said bestie saved me when she sat down directly in front of me. My immense relief and joy at this prompts the first of many flashbacks that will be happening today – cornering the intimidatingly awesome self-proclaimed Bexhill girl in the stairwell after the latest uninspiring poetry seminar, exclaiming in her face that I'm from just down the road, excitedly hugging and babbling about our home towns, families and mutual friends as we walk back to halls, and thinking to myself 'thank goodness I didn't freak her out. I'm totally friend-crushing.'
Bexhill-born Creative Writer extraordinaire, the irrefutable Miss Holman-Hobbs, Cathedral selfie'ing with me.
10:36am,
it all kicks off. Our ceremony is the first of many; a week packed
full of graduands who become graduates and students who become
masters, kids whose families watch their hard work pay off.
The
ceremony was pleasant enough. Chancellor and Vice chatted and clucked
onstage, we the crowd laughed and clapped in all the right places,
and uni suddenly seemed more upscale and serious. As the rows began
moving in front of me, the robed students standing up and being
escorted to the steps to shake the hands and take the walk, my lips
wobbled and vision blurred multiple times – I'd have to clamp down
and remind myself of my make up. Don't cry until after, if you have
to. 10:54am, I see the pompous interjecting lecture commentator in
the row in front of me reading a thick fantasy novel. Even at the
end, he can still annoy me.
11:05am,
the Creative Writers are being called up. It's not until one of the
first Bs is called, a certain Miss Brookman, the one with the epic
full name that's almost as formidable as her writing talent, that
people are brave enough to cheer. Before long every writer gets a
whoop and several yells, at the very least a hard clap and a lukewarm
outcry.
11:14am,
I get a cheer. The surprise makes me turn and look into the crowd as
I head up the wooden steps after shaking the first hand.
I
would have looked anyway, to be fair. I've been watching countless
Creative Writers and American studiers walk up onto the stage to end
their student career and get the recognition and applause they
deserve, and all I've seen are the backs of their heads or their
profiles hidden beneath hair, eyes staring straight ahead as they
step back down. Boring! My lecture buddy of three years, the one who
happens to be a supremely talented writer and director as well as a
red-hot harlot on social media, turns as he mounts the wood and
treats us to a little chin tilt and playful eyebrow wiggle before
conforming to the boring as he approaches the Chancellor. Now, he had
the right idea. This is your moment, it's been a long time coming and
yet happened all too quickly, and it's a moment that may never be
replicated, even slightly. We're in the effing cathedral, the centre
of the city's universe; it's terrifyingly grand and fits the occasion
perfectly. When is the next time we'll be onstage here, looking out
over a gorgeous loving crowd? You have to appreciate that view. So I
take my time looking out, feeling the smile burning into my cheeks,
slightly embarrassed that my full name was just called out and echoed
through speakers for all to hear – I'm pretty glad that at this
point I didn't know that the many cameras on the stage were feeding
into monitors on pillars further back in the cathedral for the guests
to watch us close-up as we exchange a few words with the important
lady and focus all our energy on not tripping over at any point...
I'm careful to keep my handshake firm and friendly, I laugh a little
too hard when the Chancellor says 'Got family in, then?'
'Yes,
almost a whole row of them! I was lucky enough to get a few more
guest tickets...' I'm aware that the graduand after me is waiting and
the applause for me is fading.
'Well,
there's a lot of love in that cheer!' I thank her and feel my bottom
lip jut out and wobble violently. I was so close to making a joke
when she asked if I had family in; I'd respond with something along
the lines of 'no, just nobody believed I'd ever get a degree!'
Something self-deprecating always goes down a treat. I chickened out.
I make sure to quickly lightly tap the left side of my head as I walk
away from her, say thank you to my brain, because for all its faults,
it's done well here. I then get an impulse and turn back to the
audience, execute the perfect Rory Gilmore tribute with a deliriously
lewd sticking-out of the tongue, then finally step down and am
greeted by a suited fella holding my certificate. He hands it to me,
says 'congratulations', probably one of many millions he'll say this
week, and I respond with 'Thank you, can I cry now?' He smiles
sympathetically and utterly unsurprised he replies: 'yes, of course
you can cry now.'
That's
all the permission I need. I nod another thank you and as I stand at
the side waiting to be guided back to my seat, I let my face fall in
on itself and take a moment to ugly-cry. It's an instinctive childish
outburst, the kind you get when you fall over, graze your knees and
don't know how to laugh it off yet.
11:30am
(or thereabouts) was my favourite part of the ceremony, easily. Our
Chancellor and Vice are singing the praises of the uni,
congratulating themselves and members of staff, then us. 'Please do
join us in congratulating our graduates' is followed by a shit-ton of
applause. I feel we've been celebrated enough to last us a lifetime
at this point. Then, brilliantly, we graduates are told that our
families and friends have supported us throughout our studies and
surely they deserve a thank you, too – so we all stand, turn
towards our honoured guests and give them their due, a ludicrously
loud bout of cheering and clapping, several rounds of applause
somehow condensed into just a matter of minutes.
I
do think for a moment how wonderful those around me have been through
everything. I called my mum when Drama group work got me down, when
one person belligerently threw in a whole toolbox of spanners and a
whole piece threatened to flush itself down the drain. My dad bought
me coffee and listened to me rant and rave about my ECP and how I was
struggling with the characters' objectives in my creative piece just
as much as the technical wording and research I had to include in my
rationale essay. Little sis baked cupcakes and always understood when
my beloved dedicated team or loyal live-in friends became everything
but, and was a hotline for advice that was given in the form of
Taylor Swift lyrics. My grandparents wanted confirmation constantly
that my workload wasn't too unbearable, and that my part-time jobs in
the outside world didn't endanger my grades or my mental health. When
I'd get home for a weekend and message home girls asking if they
fancied a drink and a dance or just a long drive round and round,
they'd oblige and make sense of things I'd been stressed over for
weeks, in seconds. My degree is just as much theirs as it is mine.
They just never turned in coursework, pulled all-nighters in the
library or acted out giving birth onstage.
11:48am,
I'm willing myself to soak in the moment as we graduates – now with
the 'ate' instead of the 'and' – are parading out of the cathedral,
out of the big red front doors that apparently are only ever opened
for these ceremonies; we're walking past countless proud parents,
dear friends and there's even a very well-behaved dog on the end of
one aisle. The second the doors were opened, we heard a mad
thunderous din outside and turned to one another groaning 'oh no, is
that rain?! I thought it would have cleared up by now!' Then we
realised it was, in fact, outside applause. Applause from the crowd
gathered outside, waiting to see us all.
Eyes
fixed on the sky as we get closer to the doors, I reach into my dress
pocket and without looking at the screen I type a panicked 'I'm
out!!!!!' text to my best girl to ensure she gets down to the grounds
in time to see us all in our finery. She has instructed me to text so
she can come down, but really I'm being selfish, I want her here ASAP
because she's my fave and she's just gotta be here – there are too
many recent tricky times I wouldn't have got through without her by
my side.
From
noon onwards we were milling around outside the cathedral, in a sea
of smart clothes and dark robes, punctuated by hats flying here and
there. I threw my hat, of course, for that eagerly anticipated photo
op, and as I'd been warned that mortarboards can get confused and
muddled when thrown, I stared at mine as it flew and made sure I
picked the right one back up. It wasn't too difficult – my
mortarboard flew a little out of reach and smacked someone as it came
back down to earth. I kept throwing to a minimum after that, focusing
instead on grabbing everyone I knew while I could, posing for photos
together, squealing with happiness and hugging madly. I also
delighted in meeting everyone's guests.
It's
so interesting and all too rare meeting your uni friends' families –
I suppose going to school with someone, you'd see their parents and
siblings when you had play dates and dinner round their house in the
evenings, and you'd see college friends' rellies when you walked home
with them or when they got off the train at their stop. I find
parents fascinating. I meet a mum and a dad and I can see where their
child, my friend, came from. Not literally, of course, that's just
too gross and personal. I mean I see the features in the face they
share and the mannerisms they've adopted – also occasionally, if
they're like me, they will have learned to say certain things a
certain way due to a parent with an accent. It's not just that,
though. I met a fantastic friend's mother and thought 'she's so
sweet, it obviously transferred to her daughter,' then met the father
and it all clicked into place: 'and THIS is where the joyful,
slightly mad enthusiasm and infectious smile came from!'
I
cried periodically throughout the day. Before the ceremony, during,
right after when hugging friends outside in the sun, when visiting
the barista at his workplace, while lunching with the family, as I
waved goodbye to the parents, grandparents and sis, when I met up
with a good friend for dinner, even as I walked back to my digs for
the week with the barista. For the most part, they were happy tears.
I'm
not sure what brought on the tearful outburst right after my name was
called in the ceremony, I mean there are only several thousand
possible causes; I've been bashed about a fair bit by the boys, I've
been dealt a few shit hands as friends turned sour, there's been
health scares and true nightmares galore, there was always
embarrassment brewed within the booze, and nowadays the excitement is
gone and I'm stuck where I am, doing nothing of note and waiting for
the future to happen. It's been tough at times over these three
years, but it's far far tougher leaving them behind. I said something
uncharacteristically profound to my boyfriend as I waited for my
train back to reality at the end of Grad Week – 'It's harder to
leave than be left.'
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