My Spotify Playlist

So my most recent procrastination method has been discovering new (female) artists on Spotify (well, new artists to me, but not necessarily "new")…and this is what happened. There’s a bit of jazz, and indie folk mixed in there with a splash of alternative music, too. Click on the links to listen to the songs on youtube and let me know what you think. Have any cool artists you want to share?  Let me know in the comments below!

The Staves

The Staves - Facing West, The Motherlode, Mexico, Pay Us No Mind

Basia Bulat - Tall Tall Shadow, Heart Of My Own

Lia Ices - Love Is Won

Banks - Waiting Game

Thao & Mirah - Little Cup

Bat For Lashes - Laura

Kat Edmonson - Lucky, I Don’t Know

God Help the Girl - Come Monday Night

Hannah Peel - The Almond Tree

Lucy Rose - Night Bus

Molly Nilsson - Hey Moon!

Scout Niblett - Kiss

Lisa Mitchell - Neopolitan Dreams

Jenn Grant

Agnes Obel - Dorian

Haley Bonar - Bless This Mess, Candy Machine Gun

Jenn Grant - Paradise Mountain

Alice Boman - Waiting

Soley - Smashed Birds, Pretty Face

Alessi’s Ark - The Horse, On The Plains

Polly Paulusma - She Moves In A Secret Way

Over The Rhine - Born

Soko - First Love Never Die

Stacey Randol - Fragile Forest

Katie Costello - Stranger

Stacey Randol

Sweet Talk Radio - Dotted Lines

Nataly Dawn - Caroline, Still A Believer

Orla Gartland - Devil on my shoulder

Natalie Holmes - Backwards

Rae Morris - Don’t Go

Nina Nesbitt - Selfies

Miley Cyrus: She Was Never A Role Model

I only wish that the deterioration of Miley Cyrus was old news, but it really isn't. Frankly, I'm getting bored reading the same old articles being spewed out about her on a daily basis, so I've decided to come up with my own theory on the matter. Essentially, Miley Cyrus is an awkward caterpillar. She tried to turn into a butterfly far too quickly, and in doing so, found herself dressed as a gothic peacock ("I Can't Be Tamed") and straddling a wrecking ball (thankfully not simultaneously). Not surprisingly, the premature transformation from pre-pubescent caterpillar to dazzling butterfly didn't happen too gracefully; in fact, we are still witnessing the graceless transformation. However, I have a few (conflicting) thoughts to add to the pot...

I hate the fact that society is trying to find role-models in celebrities. Why? Because all we see of celebrities is the watered-down, over-elaborated, third-hand, recycled information about them. "A friend close to the source said that Miley was considering…blah blah blah". Listen - this "friend" doesn't exist. They might as well be called "a journalist's brainchild". It's like we're desperately trying to find and create role-models out of fictional entities who never existed in the first place. Because whether you like it or not, what you read in the press about our dearly beloved celebrities is far from the truth. Now I'm not trying to say that newspapers and magazines go about writing BS about celebrities all the time (although I know for sure that some of them do…*cough* mail *cough* online), but why would a celebrity in their right mind decide to tell the whole world how they "truly" feel? 'Cos that stuff's personal. I bet your bottom dollar that most of the stuff we read is either made up, or taken out of context due to ulterior motives, and lack of real news. When a photo of a celebrity gets taken, it's all about the "guessing game" - the amount of make-up they're wearing or not wearing could be the basis for a story. The fact that they're walking the dog "alone" sans boyfriend, obviously means they've broken up, right? That "mystery man" standing next to Cheryl Cole is obviously her new beau, yes? We have to stop guessing and pretending we know all about these people, when we clearly do not. Oh, you're a body language expert are you? You think you know everything about someone's life just because of one photo? 

Whether it's the way we dress, the parties we choose to go to or not go to, the music we listen to, the charities we support - there's always going to be a conflict between doing it to be true to ourselves, and doing it to boost our image (whatever that image might be). But it should be about the reason behind doing things, rather than the action itself. Giving someone a gift because you want to coax them into helping you with an essay, is not the same as giving someone a gift because you value them as a friend, and want them to know that. Same gift, different meaning behind it. Whether it's a Gucci handbag, or a lollipop - it's all about the meaning behind it. Which leads me to say this: I don't really care that Miley's licking a hammer, riding on a wrecking ball naked, dancing around with life-size teddies on stage, or whatnot. But I do care why. The whole world has been guessing. They've been trying to pigeon-hole her in different boxes which attempt to explain exactly why she's acting the way she is. "She's a slut"; "She let the fame get to her"; "She's trying to empower herself". But we haven't actually heard her side of the story. And I don't know if we ever will. Sure, she's fought back on Twitter and made a few feisty responses, but I very much doubt that she could sit face-to-face with someone and explain why she wanted to create this image. All in the name of art? I think not.

Maybe she wants to be "different". She wants to shock. It gives her a high. And if that involves being a hammer-licking, naked-on-a-wrecking-ball, tongue-sticking-out, foam-finger-in-my-crotch sorta-girl...if that's what "floats her boat"...if that's her way to mark herself as "different"... then, well, let her do it. At the end of the day, nothing we say or do is going to change that. It's only going to fuel her into greater depths of insanity. Do you really think Miley's going to say, "Wow, thanks so much Kate Winslet, Sionead O'Conor and all those other people who told me I was prostituting myself. I had no idea. You've totally put things in perspective for me!"? And the reason why she won't do that? Because it takes one hell of a strong person to admit that. And my thoughts are, she isn't so strong as she keeps telling everyone. It's not easy telling the whole world who've been hawking on you your entire life, that you are in fact "wrong" and that you despise the way you've been negatively selling yourself. She's clearly nothing more than an attention seeker, and by us constantly responding to all of her "attitude", she's getting what she wants. By acting insane, thousands of people end up writing articles about her, she becomes a Google sensation, and her salary just keeps rising. I mean, there's gotta be a reason why Marc Jacobs recently brought on Miley for his fashion campaign? There's something so titillating about the controversy that she's causing, that despite ourselves, we just can't get enough of it. Another reason is that anyone insane enough to think licking a hammer or riding naked on a wrecking ball is normal, is probably not "sane" enough to think otherwise. The more we say "STOP MILEY!", the more she'll respond with her infamous lyrics "WE CAN'T STOP!" So if she wants to swing on that wrecking ball, let her swing on it to her heart's content. One day, she'll get bored. Or fall off.

In today's society, it's because commonly accepted that we should want to 'mimic' celebrities, which is probably why Miley has been accused of being manipulative and a bad role model. Their fashion sense, their pets, their diets, their exercise routine. Yet if Miley goes to pilates twice in a day, she's described as obsessive and a bad role model because she's too weight-orientated. People start sending her threatening and aggressive tweets, accusing her of being anorexic, a bitch, or fugly. When you come to think of it, the people writing all these comments are far worse than Miley. These comments suggest that we believe, as "normal" humans, that we have the authority to dictate what a perfect celebrity should look or act like. WE decide how many times it's acceptable to go to pilates, WE decide if their diet is too extreme, WE decide if they are good people. Imagine if YOU went to pilates twice in a day and everyone started hating on you. How would you feel if people commented on your photos saying you look like a horse, have a monstrous nose, or the grace of an elephant? Again, who are we to decide what people should act like or look like? This is a free world, yet we abuse our freedom of speech. Celebrities aren't like robots. We can't control them, or tell them how to act.

Take Rihanna. Her relationship with Chris Brown was all over the press. When she ended it with him, she was deemed a role model for women in abusive relationships. Yet as soon as she took him back, everyone thought she'd let the world down. Just because Rihanna decided to momentarily get back with an abusive ex, does that suddenly mean that every single other woman in a similar position is going to do the same, or should do the same? Certainly not. I'm not saying that Rihanna should or should not have reconciled with him, but humanity can't blame her for the consequences. It's not Rihanna's problem; it goes much, much deeper than that. Why should what one woman does with her boyfriend, affect us? Why should we live our lives akin to Rihanna, or Miley?

The domestic goddess Nigella Lawson I'm sure disappointed (or even outraged) a few when they realised her culinary genius came with a line of cocaine. But I'm trying to crack (no pun intended) this "disappointment".  This doesn't suddenly mean we should start swapping flour for cocaine when we next bake a cake, just because Nigella fancied it. Why are we disappointed? It's not like we honestly knew any of these people. Go ahead and be disappointed for the person…be disappointed for Nigella or Miley. But don't be angry at them for the bad messages they're sending out. If you decide you want to mimic their actions, then that says more about you, than it does about them.

And as far as Miley's behaviour is considered wrong (because apparently she was/still is a role model for young girls), how did she even earn the honour of being a role model in the first place? Plus, it's not like she said "I'm a role model for young women." WE decided we wanted her as a role-model, and naturally, she let us down. All she did was take on an acting role in a show on Disney Channel. She's no superwoman. Let her solve world poverty, and then we'll talk.

So this leaves me with one final point: Miley Cyrus is not a role model, never was, and never will be. As a Christian, I believe the only person worthy of being called a role model is Jesus. Whether you believe in him or not, the New Testament describes a man who was faultless, loving, gracious, and sinless. Whether you believe he's the Son of God, just a random man who lived a good life, or think he's made-up (except there's more proof that Jesus existed than Julius Caesar if you know your history), you can't deny that his actions make him the ultimate role model for each and every one of us.

Finding Love On Tinder

One word: Tinder. AKA the fabulously cringeworthy and seedy dating app which has recently taken the UK by storm. And Exeter hasn't missed out on the "fun" either...Maybe I'm in the minority here but I don't really see the appeal, at all. Here are 10 bullet points which explain exactly why I think it's a waste of time and phone data...

1) It encourages people to be shallow

2) It encourages laziness

3) It'll make you paranoid

4) It's addictive

5) You suddenly become boring because all your "chat" revolves around tinder conquests

6) You forget how to act in real-life social situations because you realise you can't swipe left or right

7) Somehow it's now considered OK to use a dating app, even if you're in a relationship

8) You might get tinderitis: (n) the harmful side effect of incessant use of the smartphone app - Tinder. Often diagnosed by a flat battery, blowing your data allowance or a ruined index finger or thumb tendon.

9) Its tagline is "It's like real life, but better". Surely your life would have to suck big time for a silly dating app to be better than real life? Do I smell a whiff of arrogance, Tinder? 

10) If you do get a match, and the person responds, chances are a) they look nothing like they do in their photos, b) you confused him/her for his/her hotter friend who appears in all the pics, c) if they do initiate conversation, they'll probably call you "babe", d) how do you know it's not a prank? (which leads back to point 3 about paranoia).

Tinder encourages people to base their "worth" or "value" on the number of matches they get. It's the epitome of superficiality. Why let the world, AKA a bunch of horny students in a 3 mile radius of you, define your potential? So limiting. 

I read an article recently on businessinsider.com which spoke about how Tinder was thinking of introducing a "trending tool..that highlighted the most popular users on the app at any given time." Imagine how awkward that would be? This algorithm takes into account how active you are on tinder in terms of matches, messages sent etc. So while you're telling all your friends that you hardly use tinder and that it's "just for bants", they may not believe you when you're heading up the leader board on the "trending users" page. Not so subtle now, are we? As one person said: "Ordering a date is pretty much as mundane as ordering food"…But then again, maybe you're quite picky when it comes to ordering food. Maybe Tinder is your opportunity to pick out the caviar from the baked beans in life. Your Sainsbury's Taste the Difference from your Basics. 

"But it's just a bit of fun" you say, or "I do it for shiggles because it's hilaaaarious". My response to that? The majority of us already waste enough of our precious time on Facebook connecting with semi-real friends, that wasting more of it on a site like Tinder with non-friends seems absurd. It's like "Take Me Out" for smartphones. You can't share anything about your life with the other person until you've decided that you "like" what you see. And the likelihood is, you'll just end up being disappointed when their picture-perfect face doesn't have a personality. And all that time spent getting excited about your match could have been better spent investing in more worthwhile activities. Like getting out of your room and meeting people in real-life circumstances.

I'm not for a second trying to undermine the importance of physical attraction - hell, you've GOT to be attracted to someone for a stab at a relationship. If all you're thinking about is putting a paper bag over your significant other's face, then something's not quite right. Maybe swiping someone's face on Tinder is a method of filtering out, of selecting the best gene pool for your future sprog - but how would you feel if someone came up to you in the street and slapped you across the face because they didn't like what they saw? I guess the "beauty" of Tinder is that you can do all that from the comfort of a screen, without knowingly hurting anyone's feelings. But still - it encourages people to stare at someone else's face for a long amount of time and decide whether this person is "good enough" for them. The next time I hear someone say "I'm SOOOO out of his/her league", I'm going to roll my eyes. Did people never learn that there's no such thing as leagues? If there's going to be a league of any sort, there should be a league to distinguish the nice people from the arse holes, not the aesthetically pleasing from the less beautiful.

Let's be honest: our profile pics on Facebook tend to be our best. If you're picking 4 gorgeous pics of yourself where you've gone crazy with photoshop and removed pimples etc., just think about the pressure you're putting yourself under if you do finally meet your date. And if you're treating Tinder purely as an "online only" adventure without physically meeting up, any matches you get are probably because the guy likes the 4 best pics you've ever taken of yourself. He's liking a construction of you. That feeling might make you flutter or make you happy. But when you look at yourself at 7am in the morning with no makeup on, greasy hair and bags under your eyes, you want to be with someone who can see all this, and still want to be with you, no matter what. (Tip: If you haven't quite got the hang of photoshop - see photo on left - there's an iPhone app called Pixtr which is designed to make pictures of yourself more beautiful. Say what??)

If you're single, and this thought is depressing you, please do NOT resort to Tinder. It is attention-inducing and utterly repulsive. Fair enough if you're age 30 - online dating might be your thing. But please don't be sucked into this completely irrelevant and annoying app which only promises awkward confrontations and deception. If that's your thing - by all means, lap it up. But I'll only say "I told you so" when things don't go quite the way you planned….

NB: Maybe you just want to use it for hooking up with buff people, in which case, by all means, the platform is yours. 

NBB: For all the overly-sensitive readers out there, this is supposed to be a slight exaggeration on my real feelings.

Snaphatting "Uglies" and Beyond

Ever since joining the iPhone brigade (I decided that having a Blackberry for 3 years wasn't doing any favours for my social life), I have been taken aback by all the shamazing (thanks Scherzinger for that one) apps I can download in a matter of moments. My silly little crapberry (oh hey autocorrect, stop trying to change it to "cranberry" - that's just insulting!) which unsurprisingly enough, died a most agonising and drawn-out death, is now sitting powerlessly (literally) in my bedside table drawer. Why won't I throw it out? Oh ya know…brings back memories of those times when the battery used to fall out of the back and of me yelling at it to come back to life. #classiccrapberrymoments

And my iPhone (albeit the 4 because I'm stingée) provides much more amusement than my Blackberry ever did. I mean, trying to Google something on a Blackberry is about as fast as snail with a limp. And who uses BBM now anyway? That's soooo last year (and beyond). But now, thank heavens, my eyes have been opened to a whole new world of Apple (you know what the doctor says about apples..), which means loads of fun apps to keep me in touch with my sociable side...

My current 'fave' has to be snapchat. I think it's the fact that it's just so simple to use - it cuts to the chase. It doesn't try to over-complicate photo or video sharing or bring in fancy new design features unlike some of its competitors (touch wood/maybe I'm missing out on all the advanced snapchat features cos I iz stoopid). Unlike instagram which involves turning every moment into one of grainy nostalgia, snapchat records moments as they are, dependent on your quality of camera. And the best bit? Those moments are only available for your friends to view for up to 10 seconds! WARNING: if you place yourself in the "I like to send drunken snapchats" category, then this can be incredibly dangerous because you'll have literally no record of its contents on your phone in the morning. 

My new favourite procrastination method is sending "uglies" to members of my family and/or best friends. Of course these "uglies" (i.e. incredibly repulsive selfies) are rarely shared with anyone bar those closest to me. Why is this? Oh you know, the fear that they might get into the hands of a boy I fancy and ruin any chance at a romantic liaison…and I trust my family to love me, even when I'm sporting five chins and rabbit teeth. Although I was slightly put off when I received an update from snapchat, informing me that a few of my "uglies" had been "screenshotted" by said individuals. Let's hope they don't come back to haunt me later on in life…

And most recently I decided to hold an in-house "Miss Mount Bures" (the tiny village I live in) competition. Each one of the lads (aka the sisters - moi, Sash & Rejay) made a 10 second video application via snapchat on why we thought WE should be crowned "Miss Mount Bures". The competition was (slightly) rigged since I was the judge, so, naturally, I sent them back "refused applications" because they didn't fit the "really really good-looking" criteria (Derek Zoolander style). I thought the whole thing was hilarious and cracked myself up in the process. The things one does to avoid essay writing…pfft. #procrastinationbaby.

But imagine a world where you had to impress a future employer over snapchat. Job applications would no longer be the long, drawn-out applications they are today, but rather, a 10 second statement or film of some sort to explain why YOU have what it takes to be the next top dog.  Nope, I'm struggling to imagine it too…So in the mean-time, I'll stick to sending uglies to my sisters. And hope that I don't accidentally tick the wrong name and send it to a real-life hottie...

Sex-Deprived Strangers in Paris

OK so I know this title is a little bit promiscuous, but I'm struggling to come up with another way to describe their irrational behaviour. I mean, maybe "strange" men on this side of the channel are just far more forward than their British frenemies, but despite spending nearly 12 months here (eek!), their unrequited desire to be my lover me still fuureeeaks me out. Let me explain.

There are a few places where I believe it is unacceptable, and I mean unacceptable to chat up a woman. This info is clearly not ingrained in some people.

1) Public transport. I've already decided that I won't be meeting my future husband on an underground train/metro/subway/tube...or whatever you call it where you come from. This is the actual antithesis of romantic and anyone who thinks they stand a chance is shooting themselves in the foot. It's obvious that all you're looking for is a quickie in the disabled toilet of a skanky tube station, so GET OUT of my face. Exactly the same with buses or night buses. Tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're day-dreaming (best chat-up line ever?) is a no-go too; and tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're Irish (more about this one later), is at the top of the cringe list.  Do you really think a sweaty metro journey against a graffited door and piss-stained seats is the time or place for idle flirting?! Yea, me neither.


2) In the street. You see it in the movies; two people glancing across at each other on a crowded street and they fall in love. Earth to mankind: this is fiction. So for Pete's sake, don't come up to me and ask if I prefer strawberries or raspberries and then proceed to ask me out for a drink at a smoothie bar. It's not going to happen. And don't you dare randomly get out of your car, only to run after me and tell me you like the spirit of my walk. Spirit? Really? It's not going to get you a coffee date, or a phone number. So 4get about it. And pulling your motorbike up to the curb to try to stroke my face and dribble on me is also out of the question. In case there were any doubts. And for the love of Bob, stop calling me "charmante". It's not going to happen.


3) When you're a waiter in a restaurant. Yes, I'm surprised as much as you are. From asking for my Facebook deets on a receipt, giving me overly-generous discounts, asking me out for salsa dancing, inviting me over for a free glass of Champagne, to following me out of the restaurant to my office...I've had it all.

And I wish I could say that the reason behind all "this" is because I look like a modern day Marilyn. Not quite. The truth of the matter is that I am female, and that seems to be a good enough reason to be bombarded with attention. Although I do seem to have particularly rotten luck with attracting the creeps of this world. So women of this world: when a strange man tries to coax you into a cup of coffee, tells you he can show you what a "real French kiss feels like", or starts silent orgasming in the corner while staring intensely at you… RUN AWAY. 

Le Bal du Moulin Rouge!

As an avid supporter of the 2001 film of the same name starring my Scottish heartthrob Ewan McGregor and Australian beauty Nicole Kidman, it only seemed natural to be drawn to its namesake and take in the glam and glitz such a place has to offer. You got it! It’s off to the cabaret old chum...!

Located in the heart of Montmartre (the red-light district of Paris) amidst sex shops selling erotic memorabilia and raunchy attire, the Moulin Rouge (quite literally, the "red fan") is as spectacular as it is iconic. We arrived, 109€ (each) the poorer to a queue which ran its course down the Boulevard de Clichy, lit up with street lamps and the buzz of a crowd slightly stifled by the overbearing heat.

Once the queue started moving we were up and away and flapping our tickets at the door to suited waiters who scoured the room momentarily, decked with oblong tables of four to eight people. The majority of the seats were on the ground floor but I noticed that a cluster of tables had also been arranged on a balcony above. The ground floor surrounded a huge T shaped stage and there was no set seating per se; it really was all down to the attendants to choose where to place you. 

I had wanted to dress to the nines for the special occasion; each lick of mascara and stroke of eye shadow had been delicately placed with precision. I was wearing a white dress with a bandeau adorned with golden sequins. The night was all about opulence and extravagance and I was going to be part of it. I was only lacking in long silk gloves and a feather in my hair.

The waiter smiled at me and my suitor and I gleamed back at him with a needy elegance, as if to ask with the bat of an eyelash to be placed in the most superior of seats. He swung us past various different tables, some empty, some full, before arriving at a half-empty table at the front of the stage. He called me Madame and pulled back my chair. We'd done it! We'd been seated like royals, with a view matched by none.  It wasn't long before our Champagne arrived and the cool liquid was bubbling through my veins. Bliss.

The music started and the singers appeared with beads and faux diamonds hanging vivaciously over their slender frames. Each one of them a vision. The costumes were spell-binding; the lavishness, the colours, the feathers and the eccentricity. Each song or dance showcased a new magical ensemble as the troupe of the world's finest dancers performed in bewitching unison against the exotic backdrop. Their bodies moved like sculptures, chiselled and refined by the hands of an esteemed artist. From birds of paradise to peacocks, the dancers flaunted their costumes in glorious array, much to the excitement of the audience.

Perhaps the biggest highlights of the show were the acrobatic acts in the interludes. The sheer physical strength of the dancers was one thing, but the danger they placed themselves in was what made it even more provoking.  The ability to balance their bodies on each other in such a manner that one slight twitch could prove to be fatal meant it was both exciting and nerve-racking at the same time. The control and skill possessed by these select performers was inspiring to say the least. We also witnessed a woman diving into a pool of snakes and watched in horror as she coiled the snakes around her body as she danced amongst them. 

I couldn't say that I was aware of a narrative in the cabaret, but the show was not void of humour or character (the ponies being a definite favourite!) My one criticism would be the slightly 'cheesy' French songs and the fact that the singers were miming to a soundtrack which was noticeable given that we were touching distance from the stage.  The proximity was fabulous though: the tiniest mole, scar or wink between the dancers didn't go unnoticed. 

One thing which the Moulin Rouge was not was vulgar. Yes, breasts were sometimes on display, but a naked form in itself is not vulgar. It's how you choose to present it. This was art, not profanity.

Next stop (hopefully!): the Paris Opera!

America's Obesity & France's Fast-Food Addiction

This past year in Paris, I've been surrounded by slim women, in fact, slim people in general. I don't know how they do it - good genes perhaps? But the image of the slender, elegant Parisian woman holds a lot of truth. And when I'm out there working up a sweat as I jog around the Eiffel Tower, I'm stunned to see that it's mainly men who are exercising, not women. Maybe the women exercise within the comfort of their own home, but I have a feeling that a combination of chain smoking, small portions and good genes are the real reason behind their slim physiques.  And maybe the fact that on every advert there's a health warning. If there's anyone telling you to eat your five portions of fruit and veg a day or not to snack, it's the French.

My first stop this summer on my American adventure was a six hour layover in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Since the layover was so long, we decided to pass the time in the largest mall in America with its very own indoor theme park. And I'll tell you now - it was something else. Or, as I like to say, sumfin' else.

As we wandered around the mall, the sheer size of the people we came across was worrying. Maybe malls are social hubs for overweight people, but I couldn't get my head around it. Fat kids licking ice-creams larger than their heads or people so overweight that they had to be pushed around in wheelchairs because they couldn't walk. At one point, I saw a man sitting on a bench with his XXXXL t-shirt which still didn't fit him and I noticed his leg was purple and swollen. When he got up to move, I felt pain come over me as I saw the large globules of fat bursting out of the back of his knees. Surely that cannot be comfortable. His head looked so small in proportion to the rest of his body that if I'd have seen a photograph of him, I'd have thought he'd been photoshopped.

From beer bellies to muffin tops, I kid you not when I say that 90% of the people we saw were overweight, and many of them clinically obese. In that moment I envisaged a world where everyone was fat; really fat. Where fitness died out and the average person didn't move from their couch because they had everything they needed within their reach. Fridges walked towards them with the click of a remote; people ate and slept in the same seat because they couldn't lift themselves out of it. Automated cranes heaved people from one location to the next.

And another shocking discovery in this mall was the fashion, or lack of it. I know this wasn't Beverley Hills but where the hell is Gok Wan when you need him. Neon trainers and oversized basketball shorts are never a good look. Neither are tight tops which cling painfully over heaving guts, butt cracks on display and cankles: the lack of calf/ankle definition where the two seem to merge.

The root of it? Oh where to begin. Free soda refills in every restaurant, the continual fast-food frenzy, the HUGE portions. I remember on our trip to Alaska a few years ago when I ordered a cooked breakfast. My plate arrived and on it I had about 3 fried eggs, 6 rashers of bacon, 4 sausages....and to top it all off, a stack of four large pancakes on the side covered in lashings of butter and Canadian maple syrup. If that doesn't clog your arteries just thinking about it, then I don't know what will. I think it's safe to say that I didn't even manage a third of it. And even just a few days ago when I went for a single scoop of ice-cream in a cafe, the scoop was so large that it could have easily passed for a triple scoop in the UK where in comparison, the portions seem stingy.

And I'm not kidding when I say that being fat costs you, and not just because of the amount of food you're getting through. Samoa Air for example charges passengers per kilo. Thus, a 60kg person will be paying a much lighter airfare than the 120kg person sitting across the aisle.  Fancy a future where along with baggage, passengers also have to hit the scales to determine their airfare. And before people start getting sensitive over the issue, "Every extra kilogram means more expensive jet fuel must be burned, which leads to CO2 emissions and financial cost" according to Dr Ian Yeoman.  

The sad reality is that the fast-food frenzy has made its way to France, too. A recent survey showed that more French people go out for fast-food than to your typical French cafe or bistro. The shocking discovery shows that 54% of all restaurant sales in France comes from fast-food chains. Part of me is not surprised at all; many (male) colleagues at work spend 4 out of 5 lunches a week at McDonalds, and don't bat an eyelid. For the country which gave the world "gastronomie", things aren't looking too great. In fact, reports have shown that after the U.S., France is the largest consumer of fast-food. But the pressing question is: How do the French stay so slim?

I appreciate that certain medical conditions mean that being overweight is not a choice. But I'd be very surprised to hear that all 75% of overweight individuals in the U.S. suffer from medical conditions which mean that being overweight is uncontrollable.

Now, would someone please go get me a corn dog with extra mayo, a side of fries and a large soda.  I'm starving. 

Giverny and Monet's Water Lilies

So a few weekends ago (yes, I'm a little *en retard in writing this), I went to Giverny, the former home of French Impressionist painter Claude Monet.  I could have just called him Monet but after a colleague in Paris asked me who exactly this Monet was, I felt that I should be a little more lucid, in case any of you confused him with the 21st century child rapper Chi Chi Monet. FYI, no relation.

Giverny is located 50 miles outside of Paris in Haute-Normandy and is accessible by train to Vernon followed by a one hour trail walk or 3€ shuttle bus. We picked up some treats from the bakery for lunch before making our way. It was boiling that day which called for factor 50+ suncream and a hat but I don't own the latter so had to make do with rubbing suncream into my scalp. A greasy affair.

The trail was nice in the sunshine, albeit a little long and monotonous, and after an hour we were entering the picturesque village of Giverny. The whole village was blooming with brightly coloured flowers and green; so much green. Quaint houses were hidden by charming gates and mini stone facades. It all seemed so mystical and I cherished the sweet chirping of birds and fragrant scent of roses. So much beauty in one place.

We couldn't have come at a better time of year.  It was none other than breathtaking as we walked down the rows of flowers of every colour imaginable. I drew my camera up to the buds but the end result could not even begin to capture what I beheld.

We followed the garden down into a small underpass which opened up into the pond. THE pond, with water lilies galore and an abandoned wooden boat which must have been used once upon a time when its owner came out to paint the ladies amongst the water lilies. We crossed a bridge and tiptoed through the gorgeous melange of forest green and vibrant purples, pinks and oranges. Delicate petals, as white as they were pure, clouded together to create a hanging bouquet over the water's surface. Large fish swam lazily through the murky water, just clear enough to see their dark shapes easing through the pond.  

  

We sidled up to Le Pont Japonais. It really was picture perfect with the branches hanging like a veil of green over the painted green bridge. A large weeping willow stood imposingly on the opposite side of the pond, its gallant arms sulking towards the water. I could see so easily the inspiration this place evoked.

We then entered Monet's house.  I was initially surprised by his obsession with Japanese art - the endless engravings; the walls were covered.  I had felt an immense curiosity to go inside and explore the world of such a renowned artist; to feel an essence of his being which he has undoubtedly left behind. It had such a magical air about it, as if living there would be like living on the pages of a storybook, much like the village itself which seemed so bite-sized; so mignon. I suppose I was charmed by its winding streets and sweeping landscape views, its sereneness and its ability to let your imagination paddle with the water lilies and never look back.

A definite must.

*late in French, not retarded

Katie Hopkins: The Snob Who'd Hate Me

It's not often that I stare at my laptop and actually scream in outrage (apart from during an overly tense episode of some trashy TV series).  That said, I'm known for being a tad dramatic - scrap that - highly dramatic when it comes to crossing the road without looking (I do this a lot), being tickled or watching Rafael Nadal play tennis.

It may come as no surprise therefore that whilst watching the hugely hyped interview on ITV's This Morning between controversial social commentator and journalist Katie Hopkins and Holly Willoughby, I was choking on my own saliva. On more than one occasion I had to pause the youtube video and divert my thoughts to a slightly mundane Facebook newsfeed to shake away the contempt towards this woman which was mounting inside of me.

Let's get to the crux of the issue: Hopkins bases who her children are allowed to play with solely on the child's name.  Why?  Because apparently the Tylers, Brandons, Ashlees, Charmains and Chardonnays of this world are working class children who aren't fit to wine and dine with her own league-above-the-rest offspring.  And not only that - a boy with a name like Tyler never does his homework, spends class-time being disruptive and beats up children in the playground.  Such is the way in Hopkins' shallow universe. In a nutshell, her remarks are so unfounded, so excessive and so ignorant that I can't even take offense.

One of the "name categories" she sneered at and labeled unfit for playdates was geograpahical locations (ironic that her own daughter is called India).  Being called Montana then, I guess I'm screwed.  Although maybe I'd beg at my knees and insist that rather than the American state, I was actually named after the New Zealand wine company (then again, she hates the Chardonnays of this world, so I suppose being named after wine wouldn't improve my situation!)  Or perhaps I'd go for the the protagonist from the 1983 film Scarface, or, God forbid it, Hannah Montana (despite her being a year my junior.)   Oh wait, she hates celebrity names too.  That includes Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter's name: Apple.  So I suppose that also cancels out "food" names.  There's a chocolate bar called Montana and I recently discovered a Montana bagel in a cafe too.  I'm really not doing too well at this game. Oh, and why not hate on the gingers too: "Ginger babies. Like a baby. Just so much harder to love." I really am doomed for failure in the Katie Hopkins survival-of-the-fittest guide.  And does the fact that my Dad is American make it all the more worse?  She's clearly scared of anything mildly exotic.

Wait, just wait! Her daughter is called Poppy and there's a Clematis called Montana - a vigorous climbing plant. *Dances around wildly*.  There is hope!

On a slightly different note; one thing being abroad in Paris has reminded me is that socialising with people from other backgrounds, nationalities, classes, cultures, religions - however you want to divide them - is one of the most fuelling and enriching things you can experience.  Katie insists that fast-tracking  - culling people with certain names from your social circles - is a quick way to avoid spending time with people who will be detrimental to your environment and success.  But why the desperate need to take a (what I would argue counterproductive) short cut? Life is short which is why young people should make the most of enriching rather than limiting their social circles.  After all, no-one comes in or leaves the world less equal to the next. Whether they're called Chardonnay or Matilda.

Putain! At War with French Women!

Gone are the days where I attempt to be polite on my blog.  Being polite is boring. (Disclaimer: If you're French and act like the women I'm about to mention below, you are exempt from this. You need politeness therapy. NOW!)

  

I'm one of the unlucky bunch who suffers from hay-fever and recently, the pollen count has been ridiculously high and I've been sneezing to hell and back.  My nostrils are flaming red after I practically devoured the toilet paper at work, while trying to avoid raised eyebrows from people who think I have an unfortunate bladder problem.  I'm sure my colleagues were appreciative of the lovely long strips of white loo roll I spent much of today wrestling with at my desk.  My annoying sniffs and continually running nose (if only I had as much stamina as my nose, I'd be an Olympic athlete) meant that I bucked up the courage to do something about it.  (Brownie points for initiative?!)

Big supermarkets in France are always useful; you can buy make-up, endless toiletries, medicine.....  All the things you can't buy at those trashy little supermarkets like Dia which attempt to sell cardboard in any form and pass it off as anything from pizza to crackers to soap.  No joke - I bought some crackers from Dia the other day to smear some cheese on.  I opened the packet and they looked like the sort of thing you'd put through a paper shredder and use for your hamster's foul pit.  *Trash*.  It's therefore nice to treat yourself to the more up-market places like Monoprix if you want to avoid eating paper sandwiches.  

When I was in there today, I waltzed over to the "mini-pharmacy" section to find some blister plasters for my feet.  I recognised at once the compede plasters I used for my Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award but I still wanted professional advice before parting ways with my well-earned dosh.  I spoke to a lovely man who was very helpful and didn't mind that I didn't know the word for 'blister' in French and we managed to get a good conversation going before I decided to choose the compede.  I thanked him for his time and he continued with his work.  

I then sneezed and remembered I needed to pick up some hay-fever tablets.  The man had disappeared so I approached another woman in the vicinity and started speaking to her.  She looked at me with such a judging mixture of disgust and confusion that I thought for a moment I'd accidentally approached a customer.  I told her I didn't know the word for hay-fever in French but I tried to describe the symptoms and said it was an allergy to pollen.  She just stood there staring at my face with contempt.  I mean, it wasn't like I'd asked her how to cure vaginal warts.  Seriously. She then muttered something under her breath about going to a pharmacy before I did one of those fake smiles and thanked her for "wasting" my time.  When I waited in the queue to pay, I did that thing where you just stare and stare and stare at someone when they're not looking at you, hoping your eyes might just burn into the back of their head and cause them to keel over and choke on their own depressing existence.  Bit harsh maybe?

Last weekend I was in Normandy and found myself in a touristy shop which had a clothing department upstairs.  As I walked up the stairs, I noticed a gorgeous trench coat on one of the mannequins and simply fell in love.  I don't actually own a trench coat and despite it being summer, the weather's been so foul that I figured purchasing a trench coat might not be such a bad idea.  I walked over to the rail where the coats were hanging and slipped on the bright orange number after finding my size (yes, it did clash with my hair a little). Before I'd even had a chance to look in the mirror, a lady who worked there condescendingly shouted over to me "are you actually going to buy that?", as if I were some random tramp who'd come into the store.  I was so taken aback that she actually had the cheek to speak to me like that and make such a grotesque judgement.  In retrospect I should have said: "No, I'm not going to buy it.  I'm going to steal it and sell it on eBay."  I stormed off.  If my mouth hadn't been so dry I would have spat on her.

My one piece of advice for these women?  Do us all a favour and remove that massive rod you have so firmly stuck up your arse. It's giving you wrinkle lines and a soggy disposition.

The Red Light District and Other Tales

It was eight in the evening and the sun was still a peachy orange.  Armadas of vintage bicycles were resting on top of bridges above canals of slowly moving water, their handlebars glinting.  Picturesque houses on either side slanted forwards, their crooked façades giving them the appearance of reaching out towards the water below. The night was still young.

Walking down streets the distinctive smell of weed brought me back to my first year at university; the unforgettable stench would linger in the corridor of my student residence or waft in through my window in the early hours of the morning.  Walking into one coffee shop - the notorious name for a cannabis cafe - we were met by dazed faces.  A group of young men were sprawled out in one corner of space cake city, smoking joints and absentmindedly watching the peculiar music videos being aired on the different screens.  A druggy's paradise.

I watched my friends around me nibbling on their first hash brownies or sharing joints.  I didn't mind being there but I didn't want to try it.  I suppose part of me was scared I might have a bad reaction to it.  And then there was the money issue...I didn't want to spend well-earned money on weed.  Cheese, yes, but not weed. Yet the root of my decision was that despite it being one of those "When in Rome" moments, I just wasn't interested.

...

On first glance, it seemed like any other part of Amsterdam.  I searched for women in micro skirts and too much make-up but they were nowhere to be seen. We wondered if we weren't a bit early.  But then, looking to our left, we noticed alleyways lit up with red lights.  I thought red light was merely a phrase for "risqué", "naughty" or "dangerous" but it suddenly all made sense.  I was feeling nervous but intrigued and we decided to follow the flow of men and women who hounded the windows.  Beams of pinky red light infused the cramped passageways and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as we ebbed deeper and deeper into the heart of Amsterdam's sex trade. I had been warned not to take photos; the pimps were protective of their ladies and wouldn't allow it.  I'd heard stories of cameras being taken and smashed to the ground. 

 

Walking past the windows, we saw slim, ample-breasted women wearing what looked like thin strips of elastic cloth, barely covering the essentials.  Some stared out at their voyeurs; others looked bored; some played on their mobile phones.  I don't know what was more upsetting; the women who actually looked like they wanted to be there, or the women who were conscious of their prison.  I felt a rush of guilt cloud over me.  They had been turned into dogs and these were their kennels. I saw a few men walking out of doorways, buttoning up shirts or doing up their flies. As we rushed back towards civilisation, seedy men eyed us up.  I couldn't help but ask my friends: "since when did prostitutes wear baggy jumpers and converse?"

Any woman who turns herself into a man’s whore knows no freedom.