27 things I love.
7 August 2020 • birthday, happy birthday, life
Hang on a sec there, Gracelet. Haven’t you done this before?
Yes, yes I have. But before, I did a ‘24 Things I Have Learned’ list. That’s old news now. This year, I’ll be blogging about 27 Things I Love. Sound good to you? Good. Here they are, in no particular order…
Coffee. Let’s start with one of the biggies, and most obvious. I was brought up in cafes (thanks, Mama and Papa) and started drinking sachet lattes when I was 14, in my Drama classroom at lunchtime with my best friends. Since then I have worked in several cafes, dated several baristas, and really honed my coffee snobbery. I will only drink the strongest long blacks, these days. And the odd oat milk flat white (and in this weather I’ll have it on ice, please).
Books. Another obvious one. I’ve grown up with books. I love bookshops. I love the smell of books. I love writing about books. I love love love reading. It’s awesome, and important, and magical. Anyone who says otherwise is a twit.
Writing. I remember realising at the age of 10 that I was one of the only kids in my class/friendship group who wrote stories, diaries and even poems in their spare time. I started my blog at 17, and it was the perfect therapy as well as a creative outlet. I studied Creative Writing at uni. Someday, I want to write a book. I mean, I’ve tried many times but never got one ‘done’. Well, who knows? Maybe I’ll have one finished by 28…
Kindness. It’s the most attractive trait in any person. That famous, Instagrammable passage from The Twits, about being kind and it showing on your face? 100% true. Nastiness makes people ugly. Be kind. It costs nothing.
Work. I am very fortunate (and bloody privileged) to have only worked in jobs I have truly wanted. I am also blessed to have parents who have never forced me into a job, or criticised what I’ve chosen to do for work. I wanted to learn about coffee, so I became a barista. I love movies, so I worked behind a bar in a bloody bougie small chain cinema. I am obsessed with jewellery, so I’ve worked in a couple of crystal/jewellery shops. I wanted to be in the book world, so I interned (unpaid) for a publisher. I bloody love skincare and baths, so I got a job at LUSH. I’m worryingly experienced in the realm of social media, so I freelance as a social media manager. I want to write, so I blog and pitch and edit and do all sorts of random shit in that wild industry. I haven’t followed one path, ever.
Crystals and jewellery. As I said before, I’ve always been obsessed. There are photos of me as a teeny one with costume pieces on, or even grabbing relatives’ silver jewellery, and I used to wear the odd ring to school (the only school rule I ever broke, I think!) before starting to wear one on every finger from college age.
Drama. As in, theatre. Not toxic, shady real life stuff. I used to want to be an actor, and then a week or so into my combined honours Drama degree I realised I wouldn’t stand a chance, and it was okay to just study it because I was good at that, and act in the odd production for fun. What a relief. I miss acting, actually. It was such a lovely break from reality, and there was nothing like the bond you’d form with people when you worked on something together.
Plants. They’ve become my pets in this little one bed flat, throughout lockdown. They also look cool, and make fun projects.
Podcasts. Most of the time, I prefer listening to podcasts than music. There. I said it. It’s like my own personalised radio. I can have a giggle, learn something, feel seen, get some gossip… it’s magical. (Shall I do a blog post about my favourite podcasts? Would you read that?)
Tattoos. Obvious, again. I never thought I’d get any ink, when I was young. I actually thought sleeve tattoos were ugly and scary, when I was tiny. Please forgive Baby Me! I am now obsessed, and love how getting inked makes me feel; more in control of my body, and like I’m expressing myself for all to see.
Whole Earth Crunchy Peanut Butter. If you like smooth, get out.
Pooping. And poo talk. It’s a shit (lol) taboo, and it’s so great to talk about openly. As Mama would say, ‘everybody pulls down their pants to poo’ - and you are no better than me, if you don’t talk about it or even straight up deny ever doing it. You weirdo.
Hugs. Tight, hard hugs, full of emotion. Casual, gentle greeting hugs. Morning cuddles. Evening snuggles. All of ‘em. Love it.
Sex. And sexuality, sensuality, solo stuff, experimenting, literature, photography, intimacy, shops, kinks, all sorts. Much like poo, I wish it was talked about more openly.
Living by the sea. Like, within 5 mins walking distance. The sea keeps me sane. I have to walk along my seafront every day and absorb it, because sometimes I actively dread moving somewhere else, where there is no fresh sea air, sparkling water, weirdly-shaped pebbles or big ugly honking seagulls.
The moon. I will frequently text friends simply saying ‘LOOK AT THE MOON’, when it’s looking particularly sexy. I like to think it comes out and shines some nights, just for me. (I know I could not be more wrong or more selfish saying that, but let me have this)
The sun. I forget how much I love the sun until spring comes rolling around - I think it’s a form of protection; part of me deliberately forgets that I am essentially solar powered, to prevent myself from getting properly miserable in the shitty, wet, cold, grey months.
Bourbon biscuits. See my Twitter account for stories, rants, photos and reviews of these delightful biscuits, that have been a huge part of my life since I was very young. No, I’m not joking. It’s a passion.
Getting emails on my professional account. Because they’re almost always exciting, weird and wonderful.
Spiritual shit. I love tarot, the moon, crystals, and just the idea that we are all part of this great big magical universe that has its own energy and plans - but we’re not its puppets, by any means.
Paper diaries. My memory is not what it used to be, and I have never trusted electronic devices with all my information and day to day plans - because, well, what if they die and I’m left without anything!? Eeek. Paper diaries are definitely the way forward. So many friends are shocked when I pull mine out to schedule a coffee date, but then when they try it out themselves, their lives are forever changed. You are welcome, friends.
Handwriting. I will never take it for granted again.
Whisky. (yes, this was originally porridge, but I had a rethink and realised this was more important than my breakfast projects)
I've grown up in a family that loves a good scotch (particularly Papa, and Grandad), so I've had that influence from a young age. But I started drinking Jack and Cokes at uni, genuinely just because I fancied a guy in a band who wrote a song that contained the lyrics 'your boyfriend's downstairs drinking Jack and Coke'. I stopped getting Coke mixers a few years later, because they gave me hiccups and tbh I hate Coca Cola (don't @ me). I moved on to ginger ale for a while, and then one night my local didn't have any... so I had it neat. And I've never looked back. I'd marry whisky if I could. It makes me so damn happy. Gin is another fave, but that can go any which way when I drink it (happy, sad, angry, dopey, headachey... it's a lottery). Whisky is always a safe bet.
Having no hair. Folks think when I say ‘I love being bald/buzzed’ I’m talking exclusively about the ease of it. Nope. I mean, yes, there’s that, but it’s something bigger. I have had so much more confidence ever since my lovely barber shaved my head for charity in 2018; I’ve learned how to own my look when people gawp at me in the street, and how to generally dress to express my inner self.
My body. It should come as no surprise to you, readers, that after everything my body has been through, I am truly in awe of how much it has coped with, and how it fights to go on. I’ll never criticise it like I used to, or see its normal human parts - such as cellulite, stretch marks and, of course, scars, as ‘flaws’.
My brain. Same as above, really. My own squishy collection of grey matter has been through the worst shit; it’s been delved into, pulled apart in places, examined intimately, and zapped ferociously with radio waves, yet it still keeps on.
Oh heck, I’ll throw in the NHS here too, because I recently discovered that I’d have had to pay upwards of $250,000 for all the treatment I’ve had on them for the past 6 years alone, and y’know what, y’all may trash them on a daily basis for having long queues or messing up the odd appointment, or not running the right tests, but let me tell you - they are the best of the best, I’ve never ever had a bad experience, and I owe them my life a few times over.
Myself. Well, obviously.
What am I doing with my life?! (Thoughts on my 25th birthday)
30 July 2018 • birthday, grace's life, personal
Happy Birthday Me, Nobody Likes You When You're 23.
1 August 2016 • 22, 23, birthday, future, gracie's life, last year, memories, next year, year
I recovered from my second lot of brain surgery. My family and I had our first Christmas without Grandma. I spent New Year's Eve in London, in a sparkly silver dress, with my uni friends, drinking vodka and orange juice. My little sis turned 18, and I treated her to a big surprise day out. I got another tattoo. I went to Berlin for the second time. The family, we four, went to Disneyland Paris. I started writing for The Olive Fox. I visited London approximately 104 times, and 70 of those times I stayed overnight. I stuck the middle finger up at the girl who bullied my sis at school. I actually got along with and firmly befriended a friend's perfect son - despite me being ridiculously bad with kids.
I saw 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang', 'Matilda: The Musical' (2nd time), 'Beyond The Fence', 'Wicked' (3rd time), 'American Idiot', Kenneth Brannagh's 'Romeo & Juliet'. Also 'Avenue Q', Vincent & Flavia's last hurrah dance show, and several other plays at the lovely Eastbourne Theatres.
I saw my 3 all-time favourite artists - Newton Faulkner, Joshua Radin, and Dallas Green - live. I started back at work in the cafe. I got a dream job, I became a bookseller at my local Waterstones.
I attended dozens upon dozens of incredible book events; launches, drinks, signings, panels. I met authors I idolised, and a lot of them became friends of mine. I realised the magical phenomenon that is book mail. My blog surpassed 200,000 views.
It's been a heck of a year. I still have a way to go before I'm 25, thankfully, which as I've said before in a post is supposedly the year you have to get your shit together (?!). I'm not the best at remembering what happens at what age, my concept of time is terrible (and I realised this yet again when writing this post, whoa), but hopefully the year of 23 will be a good one. One I remember clearly.
Things that will definitely be happening when I am 23.
- I'll guest lecture at my alma mater, the University of Winchester, on a module entitled Professional Writing.
- My reconstruction surgery. Possibly.
- I'll be driving again. After 2 years of having my licence held by the DVLA. (I called them on my 23rd birthday, today, and got this news. Best present ever? Maybe.)
Things that I hope will be happening when I am 23.
I'll stop biting my nails. I'll go to Australia and see my family as part of that graduation solo trip I planned so many years ago and never got to do.
I'll see the Harry Potter & The Cursed Child play.
I'll get an agent. And maybe a publishing deal situation.
I will keep loving myself, my body and my mind.
77 years old, 1 year gone.
10 June 2016 • anniversary, birthday, family, gracie actually writes, gracie's life, grandma, letter, loss, love, open letter
Not so baby any more.....!
6 May 2016 • 18th, birthday, family, Fleur, Floop, friends, friendship, gracie's life, life, love, memories, milestone, personal, sister, story
Turning twenty-two / Birthday Anxiety.
25 July 2015 • 22, anxiety, anxious, birthday, birthday anxiety, celebration, family, friends, happy birthday, memories, party, pressure, twenty-two
For the past week or so, when I've finally been forced to contemplate my birthday, I've been trapped in a state of pressured panic mixed and mashed up with weirdly specific sadness.
Birthday Anxiety. It's a thing. I've realised this recently, but that's not to say I haven't felt it over the years.
Or maybe when I bravely hosted an actual house party-type event one year prior to that and worried so much about my dress, the party room, my boyfriend at the time not socialising with my friends, my friends not being on board my boyfriend...
No wait, the best example would be when I decided I wanted a trip to the legendary Bluewater shopping centre for my birthday; I counted down the days, I made all of the lists, I planned my outfit -- then when we were all strapped into the car and a matter of minutes away from the turn off to the shopping universe that is Bluewater, it suddenly dawned on me that I really truly hate shopping.
I'm not sure when the anxiety first sprouted within me; when I was younger, a carefree curly-haired little kid, I loved my birthdays. I loved everything in the world screeching to a halt especially for me just one day a year (when in fact given the type of tyke I was, I'm pretty confident that most days had to be all about me). When I grew up and started wearing my deadly serious and very chic navy blue school uniform instead of the bright and cheery red I'd worn just down the road, I realised that my birthday being August 1st really did suck all the balls. I was the youngest in my year group! Everyone was ahead of me! For some reason being fifteen was so much more grown-up than fourteen, for starters. Then everyone was obsessed with hitting sixteen and being officially and legally able to get laid, and then of course came seventeen with the provisional licence and personalised number plate attached to it -- that really hurt, when everyone was driving to and from college and I had to get two trains there and back, plus just the general freedom and coolness of having access to a car and blasting the latest jams while putting your foot down on the dual carriageway... Finally, eighteen. I was luckier than most people my age in that I had friends who took pity on me and lent me their licences and passports if I ever wanted to tag along on a night out in wild old Eastbourne. (Plus these friends who did the lending were mostly happily coupled-up and so had no need to go out drinking, they'd be staying in all weekend ordering takeaways and watching vampire fantasy series with their other halves) (those boring suckers). Still, I yearned to not have to borrow ID or sneak into Spoons through the back gate. I had my shiny pink licence, which was most coveted the year before, and yet it was useless to me.
I always envied those lucky girls born in September - their intelligence was a year above everyone else, their breasts appeared before term had even begun, and they got to do everything sooner.
Anyway, hitting nineteen was a massive relief. Finally! An age that has no advantages to it, if anything it's more exciting than being eighteen, as suddenly eighteen seems so young... Nineteen was a comfy fit, and I happily basked in its boringness. Then twenty, too, actually. Ah, but then I foolishly thought twenty-one was only a big deal in America - nope! People party hard when they turn twenty-one, and they're showered with pricey permanent presents (I got my lovely purple laptop, tie-dye Vans and all of the jewellery I could ever want, ever). So I suppose twenty-one is the last age you reach where it matters a whole lot. Other than the milestones, e.g. thirty, forty, and beyond.
So I'm happy to be turning twenty-two. And not just because there's a top notch song to encapsulate this age. No, I just don't feel like a fun fresh twenty-one-year-old any more. The number twenty-two works for me. It even looks cute. 22. Two twos, side by side, like ducks swimming upstream on a sunny day, no doubt in the River Itchen cackling at the Winchester student population downing pints in pub gardens and neglecting their deadlines due to the sun coming out. *sighs*
Last year I actually arranged a casual little birthday shindig in my beloved Winchester. I'd been worrying about what to do to celebrate my birthday with my friends, as I seem to every year and, yes, am doing a lot this year.
Last year it was nice and simple, a series of drinking sessions at the local pubs which boasted the best gardens, then a dinner at the second best Italian restaurant in town which was open to all those drinking with me at the pubs, then a classy end to the night in Spoons. It was rather relaxed and perfectly lovely, in fact the only thing I stressed over (besides introducing friends from different circles to one another as I inexplicably would stumble over their names, despite knowing some of them for three years) was calling drinks at one pub short as I had the table at the Italian booked for a certain time. What a pleasant crisis!
A dear friend has pointed out that I can do that this year -- rather than inviting uni friends who are now based all around Hampshire or London, or even the Midlands, to little old Battle which is so far South it practically kisses the sea and gets tipsy with France, I can simply visit them in their little corners or large expanses of the country and celebrate when I'm there! How ingenious. So that's what I'll do. Less pressure that way. I'd hate to invite uni friends all the way down here, for them to then feel obliged to make an appearance in the sleepy South only to have to trek back soon after and splash out roughly £50 on a train ticket. Not to mention bringing a present and/or card! No, no way. It all seems too much to ask, and even if some of these faraway friends did genuinely want to come down this way, I'd be too stressed trying to ensure they had the most magical time and effectively got their ticket money back in joy and wondrous new experiences... It could be a messy and strained experience for all involved. Let's instead meet up somewhere more central or convenient for you, guys, and it can be at any time rather than just around this one day... I think what I'm saying is let's see one another soon. Like, in the next couple of months maybe. That sounds good.
Finally, presents. I'm also anxious about presents. I'm not trying to be coy and modest here. I've been told I'm not materialistic, which I suppose is a nice compliment in this day and age, however that's not what this is down to. I do worry that I've been enough of a nuisance to family and friends recently, so I can't help but feel that my birthday will be just another cry for attention and expense.
Also, let's hover over that word expense. I am especially upset and worried about spending money these days. It could be partially because I have very little of it, being off work and what not, but it's also the feeling that nothing is worth money at present. I'm content with my big bed, my bookshelves and my laptop, that's me sorted thanks. In fact the only time I'll let myself spend money is when it's going on someone else; birthday gifts for friends, drinks for colleagues, even today I paid the fee for my Grandad's parking.
For some reason though, yesterday I awoke with the most intense inner urge to go to Hastings (just that alone is shocking enough), get myself (and my sister, perhaps) a decent cuppa or two and then browse in Waterstones for books. I desperately wanted to treat myself to coffee and books. Those are my only vices, it seems. I'll waver over and eventually decide against that cute summer dress or the 79p single download, but I'll spend my millions (which I will earn someday) on a rich beverage and a new release novel. This whole waking up with the desire to buy something, not even something in particular just something under an umbrella, was a breakthrough.
Anyway, I also hate costing people money, which brings us back to birthday presents. I'll say just this now: The only presents I really require are a cuddle and company.
I've written about it before, but no matter how anxious and upsetting the run-up to a birthday is, on the day it's always... Just nice. Waking up in the morning and immediately feeling content and comfortable, getting on with your day and even when your only plans are sitting on the sofa watching daytime TV or driving out to the supermarket for extra hummus, you feel the happy sparkles settling on your shoulders and are safely in the realm of your protective birthday bubble. I'm not anxious about that part, at all.
**Apparently I've written a few of the same type things about my birthday before. Oops. Posts can be found here. Please be kind to me okay, I was younger when I wrote them...**
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling... Twenty...
31 July 2013 • age, aging, birthday, dread, eighteen, excited, future, life, memories, nineteen, past, twenteen, twenty, year, years old
I'm excitedly babbling away to my family about how gosh-darned determined I am to push my teenage years just that one step further; I don't want to turn twenty, can I please be twenteen instead?
Alas, it appears, no matter how much wishing or bargaining or shameless pleading one does, the whole 'getting older' thing is inevitable. And after a year of a countdown to the day so horrifying it is often likened to that of Doomsday, a day that has always been a highlight and in fact a dear friend to me up until this moment in time, my birthday, the time is finally upon us. Tomorrow, August 1st 2013, dear little Gracie hits the big 2-0.
What's really interesting, though, is as much as I've been dreading this day, now it's come around (or will do in approximately 22.5 hours) I'm very calm. Zen in my oldness. Accepting of my age, and of the expected maturity that comes with it (well, kind of; I can still run around the house in my Supergirl pyjamas making whhoooOOOSSSsssshhhhHHH noises from time to time, right?). I'm ready for my twenties. Or at least, twenty singular.
A lot of friends have turned twenty before me, and so far the reports have all been something along the lines of "it's really not that bad", "it doesn't feel much different tbh", "dude, my twenty-first is gonna be CRAY"...
As one of the youngest in my year, an August baby no less, my birthday always seems to take the longest to come around. Even now, when academic years don't really matter, it still seems further away than Christmas from New Year's. Everyone turned sixteen and could legally *drive a tractor* before me; everyone was driving their mum's car before I could even start learning; I was always hearing scandalous Messy Monday gossip on Tuesday morning when hardly anyone turned up for 9am Sociology because they were all eighteen and had more important things to do with their time (such as: be hungover every day). Turning nineteen was like some giant weight being lifted. It was like the universe telling me "there, honey. Now you're alright." It was suddenly cool and enviable to be the youngest one in a group; now everyone was bitching about their upcoming birthdays, and expressing their insane jealousy at my youth - which, to be fair, was only a few months younger than them, but hey, I enjoyed it. I basked in the happy glowing feeling of being in no hurry to get any older. Finally. The playing field was equal.
Or was it? Because it seemed that suddenly everyone was in their twenties, and I was still a dumb irresponsible teenager who didn't know anything about life. I figured twenty was the age when you started to actually look down on those younger than you; when you lost your patience and tolerance and began referring to everyone who was young as "like, twelve"; when you had no time to explain anything to "kids". Maybe age will always matter. Maybe the playing field will never be equal. Maybe at 6:01pm tomorrow, I'll be hit with the Harsh Reality Stick/Mean Adult Branch, and I'll be just like every other adult. Who's to say?
Obviously I'll endeavour to remain the same idiot teenager forever. Just this week I dyed my hair lilac, and got really drunk, and today I'm getting a couple new piercings, as a final stupid act of teenagery. Well, making up the word 'teenagery' may actually be a stupid act in itself, but...
It's silly to get caught up in a battle with age. Because we'll lose. It's inevitable, it's unavoidable, and it's ever so slightly wonderful. We have no idea what the future will hold. At twenty, I'll be completing my final year of university. I'll be deciding what to do with myself when I leave this city, if I leave it at all. I'll be choosing a career - that is, a next step in the career that I chose when I was six. Exciting times lie ahead. Do your worst, twenty.
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