Tea

Tea is a wonderful thing.

A good cup of tea on a rainy day can make the world just a little bit brighter.

Whenever I travel, wherever I am in the world, a good cup of tea can bring me back home, even just for a few minutes.

Tea can mend broken bodies at the end of a hard day, and broken hearts at the end of a relationship.

What more do you need at the weekend than a friend, a plate of biscuits and a good cup of tea?

Tea may be the real nectar of the gods.

So when my cup of tea let me down, I'm sure you can understand my devastation.

This is my story.

Mornings can be a dangerous  time in my house if I've not yet had a cup of tea. 

It was a Thursday morning. A particularly perilous day as I rush to get ready for a counseling session (not something to look forward to first thing in the morning) followed by a day at work and my return to aquafit (dangerous at the best of times, but no less if you haven't done any exercise for 3 months)‎.

Ten minutes late getting out of bed. Off to a bad start. I can't find my swimming kit. This is unhelpful, but I'm going to have to stop looking and accept defeat. No exercise for another week.

Finally, my morning cup of tea. Ingredients: A large, white pint mug, caringly 'acquired' for me by a university friend (he flirted with the coffee guy)‎. PG tips. Soya milk. Hot water. In that order.

I settle down on the sofa to check my emails, laptop carefully balanced on one knee, cup of tea cradled lovingly in my lap.

All of a sudden, I feel a pain in my leg. There is tea everywhere, burning through my pyjamas, scalding me for not paying it the attention it rightfully deserves.

And before I acknowledge the pain, I notice my laptop. Drowning. Suddenly, my cup of tea is the enemy. My loyalty is torn. 

Slowly, carefully, I lower the offending item to the floor and carefully wipe milky tea from the keyboard, praying to the gods of technology that it will survive this traumatising ordeal. What will I do with no access to Facebook, emails, the outside world?!‎

My cup of tea has failed me. My laptop still functions, but only just. As long as I don't need the letters m, v or b. Or the space bar. 

So dear reader, take heed of my advice. A cup of tea can save your life. But it should not be combined with the morning rush and your laptop.

Recovery

Dear Diary

I've been trying to write this post for the last three weeks, ever since the day I handed in my dissertation.  But try as I might, I just couldn't work it out.  Something wasn't right.  No, nothing was right.  I'd lost the ability to do words.

You see, no-one told me that the hard part of finishing a degree wasn't the dissertation.  It was the recovery period that follows it.  I never thought to ask.

For months, I'd spent every evening, weekend and spare minute at lunch time thinking about my dissertation - about what I needed to write, about what the graphs and tables should look like, about how to format it, and about how to thank everyone who'd helped me with the process.  And then, all of a sudden, it was all gone.  No longer could I hide away in the library or squirreled away in my sofa-nest of blankets and journal articles.  I was expected to return to the world as a "normal" person, to be able to pick up where I left off - a time when I couldn't use my dissertation as an excuse for being permanently exhausted and just a little bit distracted.

The problem was, I'd forgotten what that was like.  Without warning, an empty space had appeared and "free time" had reared its ugly head. 

"Free time" and I don't really get on very well.  I don't trust it and I don't know what to do with it.  I live in constant fear that I've forgotten to do something, and that someone is going to come looking for it, forcing me to find an excuse for not doing it.

So the past three weeks have been just a bit empty.  I guess the reason I've avoided blogging is because I didn't want to have to tell you that, actually, I was feeling a bit crap. 

I spent a lovely three days "doing the Festival" with a friend from school (yes, I'm very aware that I promised you reviews and observations of the Fringe, and that hasn't happened.  They'll come, eventually), and it was great to have her here.  But apart from that, I've just been a bit lost.

While I was busy avoiding real life, I failed to notice was that the elephants in my head were secretly growing, hiding being my dissertation getting ready to pounce when I least expected it.  Have you ever seen an elephant pounce?  I understand they're generally not known for the element of surprise, but the elephants in my head are different.  They're sneaky.

To cut a long story short, the "lost" became "miserable", which became "depressed".  Although I still see myself as "having depression", I've not been "depressed" for ages.  So when I realised that was how I was feeling, it hit me a lot harder than before.  The problem with discovering emotions is that I now feel stuff, and that can hurt.

The hurting, as the result of thinking, as the result of not having a distraction any more, all came to a head two weeks ago - a Saturday.  I spent the day at a training session for Girlguiding Trainers, up in Stirling.  On the way home, I began to think.  Thinking and driving can be dangerous - I found myself in Glasgow, which is definitely not on the right side of Scotland for me to be a) not concentrating, b) feeling miserable, and c) exhausted. 

As I dragged myself across the M8, I realised that I didn't want to be there.  I didn't really want to be anywhere.  And I particularly didn't want to be at home.  These new-found emotions were confusing, and I didn't know how to deal with them.  I was scared, and I needed to find a way out.

Since starting to see a counsellor, I've found ways to deal with feelings that don't involve crying and retreating into myself.  So, I looked for options.  What I came up with was possibly not the best advice for anyone feeling the same way:

1.  Talk to someone.  Find a friend - except at 6.30 on a Saturday night in the middle of August people generally have plans.  I didn't want to interrupt them.  And I was probably miserable enough without having to drag myself off to the crisis centre or to call the Samaritans and be patronised for the rest of the evening.

2.  Alcohol.  For various reasons, mostly naivety and stupidity, alcohol has get me into some pretty ridiculous situations in the past, so I don't really drink a lot.  But I do like red wine, and sometimes it just takes the edge off.

3.  Pizza.  For the record, I'm aware this sounds like a bizarre "way out", but bear in mind I'm quite severely lactose intolerant - half a dairy milk bar makes my face erupt, and you don't need (or want) to know about the other side effects. 

I found my respite in Sainsburys.  I hate supermarkets, especially on a Saturday night.  If you have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than go to Sainsburys, you need to get a new hobby.  But you can guarantee that there will at least be other people there, making it a "safe place".  And Sainsburys sells both wine and pizza.  Double win.

My poor attempt to make myself feel better by giving myself a hangover and some particularly unhappy dairy-induced-side-effects pretty much failed.  Mostly because I fell asleep after the first large glass of wine and woke up on the sofa at 3am.  As angry as I was with myself at the time ("I can't even do miserable right"), I'm glad this is the way it worked out.   

I guess what this has shown me is that life isn't always happy all the time.  Sometimes, it's spectacularly rubbish.  But learning to accept that, and being able to question why we react in the way we do, is the first  step to making it a bit less rubbish. 

I've spent the last two weeks letting myself feel rubbish, but the difference between this time and the previous ten years of feeling rubbish is that I was aware I felt rubbish, and I was aware of why.

Today, I'm done feeling rubbish.  I've had words with the elephants and they've shrunk just a little bit.  I've filled my "free time" with friends and Guiding and books and all of the other things I've neglected over the past six months (except washing up.  I'm not that desperate).  I've started eating vegetables again, and I'm looking forward to not having to do any more studying.  At least for now.

So that's my excuse for neglecting you over the past few weeks.  I'm not going to apologise for my disappearance - it's just a thing I needed to do.  But now I've stopped feeling sorry for myself and hopefully normal service will resume. 

*grins*

Rosy x

Rosy Burgess, BSc (Hons)... MSc...??

When I was 17, in my penultimate year of Higher Education, I was told I had to start applying for university.  There was no real discussion about what I wanted to do with my life, or where I wanted to go.  It had always just been assumed that I would go to university and get a degree which would get me a good job.

At 17, I had absolutely no idea.  I thought I might like to go travelling, to volunteer in Africa for a while, to explore the world.  But I was told that this wasn't an option.  That if I took a gap year, I'd be throwing away my education and would find it really hard to get back in later on.  And I accepted that.

I accepted being told that I had to go to a top twenty ranked university.  So of course I compared that list with a map, and pinpointed the six universities that were furthest away from home.  If I wasn't allowed to travel, I might as well get as far away as I could, even if it was within someone else's limitations.  Despite being told this was not a good reason for picking a university, I couldn't see any other reasons or way to decide, so this would have to do.

Long story short, I ended up getting the A and two B's in my A-levels, needed to accept a place at the University of Edinburgh (at the time ranking in the top 10; now ranking number 18).  So on 11th September 2005, I jumped in the car, my belongings in the boot, ready to head off on what people told me would be the biggest adventure of my life so far.  After getting out again to say goodbye to my family, I finally settled down for the five hour drive, with my dad, up to my new home.  Although I wasn't allowed to call it home.  Home was in Wales.  Edinburgh was just where I went to university.

Fast forward four years to June 2009.  I had survived first year - depression, anorexia, only just scraped through exams, didn't really know anyone I felt comfortable with; Second year - got promoted to Bar Supervisor, met some people I'm still friends with, just about scraped through exams; Third year - moved in with an awesome flat-mate, got promoted again, felt more comfortable around people, met the boy who is still my boyfriend, did slightly better in exams; Fourth year - moved house again, realised I hated being outside (a problem for someone doing an Ecology degree, which I was), messed up my dissertation and final exams (apparently slating the subject you are studying in your final exam is generally frowned upon), graduated with a 2.2, knew I never wanted to see trees or grass ever again. 

Basically, looking back, I'm about 98% certain my undergraduate degree was a complete waste of time. 

So when I decided in August 2011 that I was going to take on an MSc, I was determined this time to do better.  I'm not stupid, I could totally get a distinction.  And this time it was on my terms.  None of this top-twenty rated nonsense.  I wanted to go somewhere where I felt like a real person, where tutors knew my name and I wasn't just a statistic.  I also wanted to go somewhere I knew had a good reputation for the course I wanted to study.  And this is how I ended up at Edinburgh Napier University (currently ranking at number 98 in the UK, if you really care).

Today, I have become a lot more realistic about my own abilities and my expectation of myself.  Ok, maybe I could have got a distinction.  If I hadn't been working full time, been to the UN HQ in New York to represent WAGGGS, been battling major depression and the resultant months of counselling...  So now I'm not expecting a distinction.  Infact, even if I only just scrape a pass it will be enough (as long as I get more than the 53% I got for my undergraduate dissertation).  Knowing that I made the decision to come back to studying, at a time in my life knowing it wouldn't be great, and that I stuck with it, that is enough.  Having a Masters degree is something I never thought four years ago that I would ever achieve.  So to have come through it so spectuacularly (I'm thinking a bit like a bull in a china shop) is a huge achievement.

And this time round, it doesn't matter that I know I don't want to work in the field relating to my degree.  That's almost not the point.  I survived, I don't feel guilty and I have a job.  And soon, hopefully, I will be able to call myself Rosy Burgess, BSc (Hons), MSc.  If I want to.  Which I don't.  

I do still want to go travelling though.

--
NB.  There's nothing wrong with the University of Edinburgh.  I am really proud to have studied there and to be part of the alumni.  I just prefer Napier. 

Edinburgh Festival Fringe

You may or may not know that I live in Edinburgh. This beautiful peaceful city in stone-throwing distance from the sea and close enough to the country that I can see it from my bedroom window (living on the fourth floor does have its benefits!)

This is the magical city which, for most of the year, reminds me of an old bear that's consumed slightly too much caffeine - a bit slow but buzzing and not really sure what to do with itself.

And then August happens. The bear suddenly forgets its age, brushes off the cobwebs and replaces its lattes with jaegerbombs. And it brings all of its friends with it. The festival has started.

Edinburgh has about nine million festivals throughout the year, but none of them compare even remotely with the fringe. What started out as the younger brother of the festivals, bumbling along trying to be cool and artsy and a bit alternative, has become a massive event in its own right.

This year is the first year since moving to Edinburgh that I've been in the city and not been working in one of the main fringe venues. It's been a bit weird knowing that somewhere in my city there were posters, stages, even a big purple cow, but I've not been part of it.

I've missed the weeks of preparation, the mad panic to make sure there are enough people in the right places, to order and unpack thousands of crates of wine and kegs of beer. The long nights of setting up pop up bars and theatres, and the mass influx of thousands and thousands of people. This year it's all sort of snuck up on me.

I quite like it!

But I love the festival, and I’m really excited about being part of it as an 'outsider'.

And since I've started this blog, I figured I can share my experiences with you. So keep an eye open for my reviews and observations, and if you're in Edinburgh, share your stories - tell me what you think, what you've seen, and what you absolutely wouldn't see again!

Crisis - because I am a girl

So recently I have noticed that my attitude towards myself and the world around me has shifted. Years of working in pubs and clubs taught me that, maybe, to succeed in life I needed to act more masculine. To dress less like a woman and wear more suits. To be tough and hide my emotions. 

Clearly that wasn't working. So now, thanks to nearly a year's worth of counseling (not all because of working in pubs and clubs I might add) I have a new, different perspective on life. 

I have a new job, I've nearly finished a masters degree (which I have actually enjoyed, for the most part), I have friends who actually want to be my friend, and I seem to be doing ok at this life thing. I've even stopped wearing suits and started to feel human in a dress and heels. Not because that's what society expects of me as a woman but because it's what I want, as a woman. 

I've even found myself having opinions and thoughts of my own. Again, not because society tells me what I should think, but because it's actually what I think, as a woman. I've talked before about my views on feminism. I don't see myself as a feminist, but I'm not scared of the word any more. 

Which is probably good, because this week I've found myself in a number of situations where my inner female (yep, aware that sounds a bit odd) has screamed and shouted at me to do something. Let me tell you about them.

 --

"You go first; you're a girl"

Heckles rise.  Clench my fists.  Grit my teeth.  Slide past him.  Don't say anything.  He doesn't know me.  Maybe he's just trying to be polite.

"You're a girl, you must like this music"

Heckles rise.  Grit my teeth.  Ignore him.  Carry on.  Maybe I heard him wrong.  Pretend it didn't happen.

"Awrite love!  I'd have a bit of tha'!  Aw, you're the quiet type?  Well, I'll see ya later, yeah?"

Heckles rise.  Clench my fists.  Grit my teeth.  Walk faster.  Don't say anything.  Dive into the nearest shop.  Find somewhere safe.

--

Right.  None of this is cool.

The first, and probably most innocent comment rattled me. It's so hard to know whether the guy saying this was just trying to be polite, not knowing me and my ability to over analyse and to over react, or whether there was more to it. Either way, it made me feel uncomfortable because I don't want to be treated any differently to anyone else, be it because I am a girl or for any other reason. I'm still just a person. Don't label me then give me 'special treatment' (it doesn't feel special and will just make me angry). By all means let me go first, just not because of my gender.

The second comment just irritated me. Just because I have boobs and hips and a different chromosomal structure to you does not mean I automatically like different music to you. Actually yes, I do like the singer in question, but I also like AC/DC and Rammstein and Chase & Status. I grew up listening to Simon and Garfunkel and Joan Baez. Mumford and Sons are playing in my car. And when I'm stressed I like a bit of Handel or Vivaldi. So don't base my taste in music (or lack thereof) on the fact I am female. If you have to judge me at all, do it on the grounds that I have pretty cool parents who encouraged me (and my sister AND brother) to open our ears, to explore and to appreciate all forms of music. 

And the third comment. This is the most inexcusable of them all. I'm raging at myself for not telling this man how I felt. But I have learnt to pick my battles. Outside a pub in the middle of the afternoon when I am on my own, and he is not, is not a battle worth risking, even if I am raging.

I know a lot of my friends, mostly guys (not stereotyping, just saying), would happily dive in and introduce this man's face to their fist. I was pretty close. But that's not going to help. Guys, you'll probably just get hurt and I'll feel more useless that, as a girl, I needed a man to fight my battles for me. That's not cool.

This week, for the first time in a very long time, I have felt just a bit useless. I have all this anger that a handful (and it is just a few) men still have the attitude and the belief that its ok to treat women any differently, but I don't know what to do with it.

I don't want to go round complaining that 'all men are dicks', because they're not. Some men are dicks, as are some women, but I'm not going to change that by being angry and preaching at them. If anything I'll just make it worse.

So tell me, what do I do? Do I just sit here and just take it? Do I write about it and hope that the rage comes across strongly enough to make people just stop? Do I stop being feminine and start dressing in my “safe” jeans and hoodies again? Do I become a black belt in some complicated martial arts and beat their sorry asses?

I just don't know.  But I know I need to do something. 

Centenary... 100 word challenge for grown ups

For the one hundredth 100 word challenge for grown ups, this week's prompt is "the Big C".  The challenge - to begin each line with the letter C.  To make it even more challenging (ha!) for myself, I decided to start each sentence with the letter C. 

Centenary

 

“Careful. Careful my dear. Come along. Come along my dear. Come along with me. Come along and see. Celebrate. Celebrate my dear. Celebrate with me.”

Carrying the cake, I stumbled through the garden as my grandmother encouraged, mumbling in her way. Chuckling to herself, her mind taken by the disease of age.

“Count the candles on the cake. Celebrate. Carefully my dear.”

Crying out, I tripped, catching my foot on the edge of my grandmother's walking stick. 

Cake flew everywhere, decorating the garden in a sea of pink frosting. 

Candles, one hundred, counting her centenary, burning the grass.

Hymns and Arias... 100 word challenge for grown ups

I really enjoyed the prompt  for this week's 100 word challenge for grown ups - it reminds me of a time when I sang in choirs and the rush of adrenalin I'd get standing on stage preparing to sing.  

 ... the air was expectant...

Hymns and Arias

 

The air was expectant, filled with anticipation. Standing alone, she looked out into the darkness in front of her, bright lights shining in her eyes. She caught the eye of someone in the dark and felt their excitement rushing into her, like a river through the valley.

As the music started, she took a deep breath, feeling the air rushing into her lungs. The tempo intensified, the sound taking over her body, becoming part of her.

Opening her mouth, she felt the sound flow out of her, filling the air with an aria she had heard a thousand times before.