I Will Never Ever

     I will never ever be able to travel. You've heard of my past endeavors on traveling, most of the journeys consisting of me trying to get back home. Well, I had another journey to make last Monday, and it involved a train that I had caught many times before. No cause for alarm. I had a pretty confident sense about self as I made my way to the station.

     I left a little bit earlier than usual. By earlier, I mean half an hour earlier than I normally do. That sounds stupid, doesn't it? Like I was asking for trouble. But actually, my leaving earlier helped me out a lot. And the reason that I had left earlier is because I was ready to, and I figured that instead of waiting around in my room, I could walk to the station and wait around there. There was really no difference, I would be waiting.

     My train was supposed to leave at 11:52 AM, and I left at 11:00 AM, instead of 11:20 AM. It takes me twenty minutes to walk to the station, and I had to collect my tickets and all that jazz. I was ready to leave by 11:00 so I decided to walk over to the station and relax when I got there. I arrived, grabbed my tickets and walked to the platform where I noticed that something was amiss.

     It was a Monday morning, so the train station might have been busier because of that, yet there seemed to be an air of impatience and apprehension. People gathered underneath the information screen, which I glanced up at. My eyes scanned down the listing to be greeted by this:

11:52 AM - London Euston - CANCELED

     My stomach literally twisted in fear. And annoyance. And my mind screamed, "Why me? Why does it always have to be me?" It was either plain bad luck on my part, or bad karma. Why karma? The day before my Mum had phoned to tell me about her and my family's nightmare journey back home from Majorca, where they had to sit on the runway for four hours. I'd laughed. And now my train was canceled. Probably Fate's way of laughing right back at me.

     On the other hand, I never have any luck with train/bus/coach journeys. Or any form of transport. So it might have happened anyway, because Fate hates me, and doesn't want me to travel with ease. Either way, my train was canceled and that was my only way home.

     I went to investigate, seeing as my ticket was prebooked and meant I could only travel on the exact train that was canceled. I discovered from some nice Virgin train employees that all tickets that were heading in the direction of London were being accepted on any and all trains due to the overhead train lines being down in Wimbledon. Trains were still going to Milton Keynes, my destination, I just had to find one. Luckily for me, one such train was coming in now.

     Thank Goodness for me leaving early!

     The Virgin employee that I spoke with told me to get this train, as it was going to Milton Keynes. I didn't hesitate, ran and jumped on. The doors shut and the train pulled away and with a cold realisation, I figured this was the "other" train that went to London Euston. The one that usually skipped over Milton Keynes. And I'd also heard that the lines might be fixed.

     This is where my extremely overactive imagination kicks in. I had a horrible, sinking thought that they might fix the train lines and go straight to Watford or London and I would be stuck forever in another city. I know that if a train says it's going somewhere, it has to go there, but at the time I was frightened and freaked out and had visions of me seeing the station I wanted whizz by.

     All around me, commuters to London were planning ways to get into the capital without this line. Some were talking taxis, some other trains, others were talking a bus or coach. I was sat there, rigid, clutching my suitcase, chanting "Please stop at Milton Keynes, Please stop at Milton Keynes, Please stop at Milton Keynes" in my head, over and over again. Some of the other commuters gave me worried looks.

     To drive the fear home, the tanoy eventually announced that the lines were fixed and the train I was on would be one of the first into London. My heart literally stopped. My wild eyes glanced around the train at all the cheering, I desperately turned to the man behind me and asked if he were traveling to Milton Keynes, but he wasn't.

     The train driver continued his speech and informed passengers that the train would still stop at Milton Keynes for all the other passengers wanting to get off there. I tried to relax, but I think I was near hysteria from all the tension that had been racing through me for an hour. 

     I really think it is not safe for me to travel alone, so if anyone wants to volunteer to be my travel buddy ... What do you mean you don't want to risk it?

My New Old Room

     This is a picture of my room at university! You may wonder why I am putting up this picture. The answer is simple: I am moving out of it soon, and I think that I should commemorate my being here for eight months. Yeah, that's right. Eight whole months.

     You might remember me saying it was bland, ugly and smelly when I moved in. That is true, and I don't take those words back. It did still smell from time to time throughout the year too, mostly when I went home for Christmas and Easter. I would come back and be knocked down by the smell; musty and familiar.

     I quite like my room. I will be sad to see it go. It's home now. Mine. My very first room all of my own, without sharing. The funny thing is that this room is bigger than my room at home, even without sharing it with another human being. That just goes to show how much of an upgrade a smelly, dirty, freezing cold room is .... No, even though it's bigger, I do prefer my room at home. It's not as cold, smelly, dirty, stupidly positioned. Yeah, the list goes on. University Halls are not glamourous. I'd say you get what you pay for, but you don't. It's expensive.

     It'll be strange moving into another new room in September. I don't even know what room will be mine yet, but it's a weird thought. I'll be moving all my stuff home, only to move it all back a few months later, into a brand new house. Technically, the house isn't brand new. It's Victorian. But it'll be brand new to me!

     I hope it doesn't break as much as these Halls did. The cooker broke the other day; it won't ignite anymore, so we have to use matches. It's a battle of wills. You have a flame in one hand, burning down the match towards your fingers, and you have gas leaking into the air with which you need to put your hand next to in order to ignite, so it's pretty much a matter of who will get you first. I'm such a coward. I do a little dance with the flame, closer, further away, closer, further away, until the gas explodes and warms my hand, its way of warning me to stop being an idiot.

      Anyway, here is a picture of my notice board. I annotated it, but I don't think you can tell from the size of the picture. Maybe if you opened it in a new tab ... Here's a friendly list of the things that you will find on my notice board: A Linkin Park poster, a bell, a glowstick bracelet thing,  a picture of Jensen Ackles, a picture of me and my brother, handwritten Dead By Sunrise quotes, a picture of Chester Bennington, pictures of me and my friends, another picture of Chester Bennington and some tags to get into the local clubs. I know, I'm such an original genius with an amazing imagination. Go team!

     I guess in the end, this is a post to remind me of my first home away from home. If you understand that, you're not special or more intelligent, because everyone can understand that. Stop pouting, it's the truth. But yeah, this is my experience of University Halls and it needed to be documented. I will be moving out in less than a month, I think, and so I'm going to have to take more photos of my roommates and friends in my Halls.

     Here's to memories!

My Irrational Fear of London

     I have an irrational fear of London.

     How can a person have a fear of place? Simple. Be dragged there every summer until fear clinches the heart and taints the enjoyment of journeying to the place. London is the capital of England, everyone loves it. Everyone, except me.

     I don't mind London. I quite like it. If I had to create an analogy for describing my relationship with London, it would be to compare it with a rollarcoaster. You go on a rollarcoaster, even though you know you're afraid, if only for the enjoyment. Except, the fear on a rollarcoaster adds to the enjoyment, whereas my fear of London does not add to the enjoyment. Sometimes it takes away from the joy, sometimes it's just there.

     Okay, that was one screwed analogy. If you managed to make sense of that whole paragraph then you get a sticker saying that you are brilliant. Because you are. Even I can't figure out what I was trying to say, except that London makes me tense.

     My fear was a lot more acceptable when I was younger. Children and central London were never going to get along. Central London is full of business people, tourists and crazy students all shoving there way from A to B, and children get trampled on in the bustle. It's like a river of bodies, and you get swept up and dragged along to places you weren't intending on going to. I was probably ten or eleven when we started these trips; too old to hold a parent's hand, but too young to hold my own against the tirade.

     Another issue that I had was the fact that my Dad works in London, so he is an expert in maneuvering through the crazy crowds and getting the right tube, and getting on the right tube without decapitating himself. So, us outsiders had to try and keep up with his pace so not to get lost, fight the people's of London so not to get pushed away, and get onto a tube carriage that is so full there is no possible way of getting more people on, all without dying.

     Am I getting through yet? London is scary when you are ten and you've just hit five foot. 

       I am also claustrophobic. I discovered that when I went caving. That's probably the worst place in the world to discover that you are claustrophobic. It was funny too, when I had finished crying my eyes out. I think I knew, though, that I was claustrophobic. It would explain the raging panic that coursed through me whenever I was on a tube. The tube sucks. And since most of our day trips to London consisted of being on the tube, or on a platform waiting for the tube, I began to associate London with fear and panic.

     I liked Madame Tussards. I liked the London Eye (the first time, not the ten times I've been on since). I liked the River Thames. I liked the Millennium Dome. I liked Covent Gardens. I liked the West End. I did not like tubes, trains, crowds, walking for miles, burning thirst and tiredness. 

     I don't think that London's tourist advertising companies will be getting in touch with me anytime soon.

     Okay, when I read back through all that rambling, I am not hating on London, more on London's mode of transports, or London's citizens, though tourists aren't citizens and are the most annoying part of London, even though when I go to London, I'm a tourist, but does that really count since I was born in London. Does being born in London and two years of living in London make me a Londoner? Or am I something else entirely, since I spent my next sixteen years living in another town, and then a year at university? Am I babbling? Yes. Okay, I'll shut up.

     I guess what I have really discovered is that I have an irrational fear of the London Underground and that it overshadows my enjoyment of family day trips to London, although now I am older, that fear is a little subsided and more controllable. You now know why I get panicking in the depths of London. The tube is dark, hot and crowded. People get stupid in their rushing and I get nervous when I look at the spaghetti maps. To everyone who uses the tube every day with ease, I applaud you. You are much better people then me, who cannot even keep up with a guide. 

     Don't be put off by my poor description of London. It has so much to offer, like the Globe theatre, and London Dungeons, and the Tower of London. My advice to you, though, is to walk. Your legs will probably drop off, but it's better than losing your head.

     Shame about mine though. I think I've already lost it.

Me + Travel = Apocalyptic Doom

     Soon, I am going to have to come up with newer, safer modes of transport. Yes, this is a follow on from my last blog. On a side note, I think it's funny that "apocalypse" throws up "nuclear" pictures when you jam it into Google imaged. On another side note, I need to get better quality earrings that don't go green. On another, another side note, I don't have the money do to that, so I should just shut the hell up. Right ...

     On my latest attempt to get home, I was thrown into the longest bus ride ever. If you can call it a bus ride, ya know, since the bus was stationary. And before that, there was my first train ride without adult supervision! That went swimmingly, as you can probably recall. And in between these two disasters. Well, there was the trip to London I made and the fantastic journey back to Coventry after my visit home. You know these won't end well either.

     In fact, my roommate has declared that she, "Will never, ever travel with me, as things seem to spontaneously go wrong whenever I decide to go somewhere." I love her faith in me, and the fact that she is now associating my presence with the crappy journeys, as if it's somehow my fault. But then again, I can't blame her. I actually agree that the mini London issue was probably my fault.

     London is a scary place for an eighteen year old Dead By Sunrise fan -

     I heard that you know, that comment about me dragging Dead By Sunrise into this, but they were the whole reason I was going to London. That's a story for another time, but a story I will tell, nonetheless. It deserves telling!

     - and I've always hated traveling in London. It sucks. Okay, okay. It's more than that. I'm actually pretty freaked by travel in London. Me and my family used to go at least once every summer, for a day trip, and the travel was the worst part. I was afraid that our rushing for the tube would end with me being trapped on the other side of the door, staring at my family as they disappeared into the black tunnel. Since I've already been left on a platform while someone I care about disappears into the distance, I have nothing to worry about.

     Tangent over, I was nervous. I had to get a taxi to the station, get a train into London, get the tube to High Street Kensington, and then find the building I was supposed to be going to. I was sure that I was going to screw things up. I did. I ended up on the wrong underground line. How? I have no bloody idea, since I was meant to be getting on Circle, and had all the time in the world. I guess I panicked and jumped on the wrong train. 

     It's a good thing I spotted my error, otherwise I would have been screwed. I figured it out when they announced the next stop was in a direction I was not meant to be heading in. I saved myself, getting on a different tube that would get me to Kensington, but it left me scarred. I did, eventually, feel grown-up that I managed to weave my way through London unaided, but it was still scary. And it will probably be scary forever, due to my irrational fear of London.

     My next screwed up journey was a lot simpler, and a lot less my fault. Unless you count the stupid conversation I had mentally in my head. If you're superstitious then yeah, this screw up was probably my fault too. I had come home, which had been easy enough, and it was my first weekend back from university. I was doing well at university, but being home reminded me of what I was missing out on, so I began to doubt whether I wanted to go back or not.

     I was conflicted. I wanted to go back, but I didn't at the same time. I wanted to stay at home, but I didn't at the same time. I didn't know where I wanted to be. It turned out that conflicted was the worst possible thing that I could have been. Why? Because I ended up in Rugby.     

     Okay, I'll go back a few steps. I was getting a train back to Coventry, a train that left from Milton Keynes Central. This is the same station that I sat at for an hour when I was abandoned on its sixth platform. Me and this station have history. We go back. Way back. And it seems that our unresolved issues are stirring more issues between us. Anyway, I was getting a 19:11 train to Coventry. All I had to do was get on the train and everything after that was a done deal.

     I got on. I sat down. I waved to my Dad on the platform. We pulled away. And then the tanoy system crackled to life, and a woman's voice echoed down upon us.

Announcer: "This train will not be going to Coventry, Birmingham International or Birmingham New Street due to there being a person on the train line."

     WHAT!

     That was the first elegant thought to my head. The second being, "Why'd someone have to go and commit suicide when I was getting the train home?" Sympathetic I know, but a lot more clued up then the girls sitting opposite me.

Girl 1: "There's someone on the line? What are they doing on the line? And why do we have to be diverted?"

Girl 2: "They probably need to get the person off the line."

     I smiled at their naivety, knowing that it was going to take a long time for them to get the person off the line. Then panic kicked in. Hang on a minute. If I wasn't going to Coventry, where was I going?

     Rugby, it would seem.

     Slap bang in between home and university. This is where superstition fits in. If you are superstitious, you'll probably think my earlier indecisiveness and confliction lead to me being in between the two places. It was Fate's way of laughing at me.

Fate: "HA, you couldn't make your mind up and now you're stuck in the middle of nowhere. Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it."

     Well, that was the last time I was going to be conflicted about a journey. Just to be on the safe side. And yeah, I know, Rugby isn't in the middle of nowhere, but it might have been for all the good that it did me that fine night.

     On a morbid side note, the male announcer at Rugby was a lot less sympathetic than the woman on the train, and he clearly doesn't like to beat around the bush. Why'd I say that? I think he's announcement gave that away.

Announcer: "There are no trains traveling between Rugby and Coventry due to there being a person under a train. We will do everything in our power to ensure that the lines are cleared quickly and efficiently so you can be on your way. Thank you."

     Thank you indeed. 

Foiled: Attempt to "Get Home"

    I can't seem to manage a simple journey without something going wrong. You've heard about my first solo train journey, and you've yet to hear about my first voyage to London alone. Then there was the time when I went back to my Halls alone ... Yeah, there is a pattern forming. I am a beacon for misfortune, and yesterday was no different to those other times. 


     I honestly thought that it would be different. I thought, "This is it. This is the one. This time, there are no problems to get in the way. You'll make it. Believe. Just believe." It was almost like the introduction to a cheesy song. I was going to make it somewhere without something else messing it up. How wrong can one person get?


     ANSWER: Very.


     Friday, 7th May. I am going home for the weekend to see my family before they go on holiday (yeah, I know, they're going on holiday without me! Rejection much). It seemed simple enough, and welcome after last week's four day extravaganza of complete solitude. All I needed to do was get a coach as close to my hometown as possible, then get the bus from the town centre to my house. The latter was a journey I'd made many times. The previous? Never. 


     I was nervous, to say the least. Coaches? Coaches without any instructions? Coaches that may make me stranded in some Godforsaken place. Man, I was worried. I had all this weird scenarios playing in my head. I'll share some:

1. I get to the bus station, only to miss my coach because I can't find the stand that it leaves from. I've wasted £7, and end up spending the weekend in Coventry.
2. I get on the coach, but the driver ends up deciding to skip my stop and I end up at Stansted airport, stranded. 
3. I get on the coach, and there are no spare seats for me, so I end up being left behind, because who really cares about whether an eighteen year old student gets home safely?

     There are more. I have a rather big imagination, and it likes to torture me when faced with new situations about the possibilities that aren't really possibilities, but incredibly farfetched fears. The coach journey was the one part of the trip my mind was fixated on and couldn't get passed. Like I said before, the bus trip from the town centre to my house was a piece of cake. Done a million times before. The coach? Bleh. 

     I went to the bus station early, to make sure that I was stood at the right stand, on the right side of the bus station, and not some other place where I could see my coach come in and leave without me. I checked with a nice lad, and he assured me that my stand was Stand C. Of course, even his assurances didn't ease my fear, and I didn't believe his words. He was in on the conspiracy to get me stranded. 

     However, I had no other choice but to go to that stand and keep a vigilante on the incoming buses/coaches. Funny how fifteen minutes stretches on forever when you don't want it to. I kept checking the clock what seemed to me like every five minutes, but the clock never seemed to change. I was getting more and more agitated. I wanted it to be over and it was never ending. The minute hand seemed to hate me and be deliberately moving slowly, and then there were other people standing ahead of me, all smug and superior because they knew what they were doing and weren't eighteen and inexperienced ...

     After forever, the coach arrived and I stepped forward to claim my seat. The driver took my ticket, looked at it, and circled the destination. 

     "Luton airport," he declared. I shook my head, and he looked at me bemusedly.

     "Luton," I said, regretting my phrasing as soon as it came out of my mouth. The driver looked at me like I was an idiot, and I had to agree with him at that moment. I was shaking and thanking my Mum for reminding me I had clothes at home and didn't need luggage. That would have complicated things further.

     "The town centre?" he replied, and I nodded timidly. He sighed impatiently and I knew that I was being dismissed. I walked onto the bus, face hot with embarrassment. I found a seat, and settled in. For the next five minutes, I decided whether I wanted to sit by the window, or by the aisle (I originally phrased that "in" the aisle, but realised that looked like I was sitting in the aisle, literally). Anyway, I shuffled from one seat to the other, debating it out, before settling by the window, but only because I looked stupid shuffling between the two seats.

     The driver got on and I fastened myself in. The motion of looking down to fasten it made me realise something important, embarrassing and altogether uncomfortable: I felt sick. 

     I never get travel sick in a car, trains are alright give or take, and coaches have never bothered me. Until that moment. I started deep breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The woman behind me must have thought that I was a loony, what with the moving seat and heavy breathing. There is no doubt in my mind that she clutched her bag tight to her chest and rested her hand on a can of deodorant/body spray in case I turned around to attack her in a rabid rage.

     To make matters worse, the seats were leather and every time the coach went around a roundabout, or stopped suddenly, I slid forward. I was only held in by my belt, and even then there was enough slack for me to jolt forward, adding to the nausea. I held as still as possible, breathing in and out, my iPod plugged into my ears to distract from the stares. It would all be over soon.

     If only.

     Once we arrived in Luton (town centre, not airport) I hopped off the coach and stretched, feeling thankful that it was all over. All I had to do was get the 38 to my home and I could finally relax, a weekend away from revising, a weekend full of home cooked meals, a weekend full of people contact. I strolled over to the bus stop, the bus coming within ten minutes. I climbed aboard, paid and settled in for the ride.

     This is the part where the coach journey looked like a casual walk in a park and the usually half hour ride home looked like purgatory. 

     I decided against music this time, figuring I'd be home soon and that staring out the window at familiar sights would occupy me. We were stuck in traffic, but this part of the journey always took forever and once we were through, we were home and dry. The first signs that something was amiss happened shortly after I text my Mum that I was on the bus. A fire engine whizzed by. Not unusual, so I ignored it. I figured that it was probably heading towards the motorway to an accident.

     We carried on slowly through the street, Friday afternoon traffic playing havoc with the speed we could move at. I saw that we were almost through and relaxed. That was when another emergency services car sped by. It was a regular car, with lights, so I deduced that it was a paramedic of some sort. Still no alarms of my own sounded. A normal sight. But then, I spotted a car doing a three-point turn in the road. 

     Feeling slow, I tried to peer around the man sitting beside me to see what was going on. I couldn't see, so I decided that person had probably reversed off their drive into the road. I was wrong. It was turning around because the road was blocked. There had been an accident, except it hadn't happened on the motorway. It had happened on the only road I could go on to get home. 

     The bus stopped. People stared. I saw the fire engine from before, parked ahead. I saw the silver Chevy, its driver putting out cones to stop the cars. I saw police, ambulances and people from the nearby houses stopping and staring. I realised that the accident was literally in front of us, and people started talking.

     "They're cutting those people free."

     I almost face palmed. It had happened again. To me. I could not get home without something happening. Something like this. It was a curse that I carried. I texted my Mum. I sat back as a police officer stepped aboard.

     "Sorry folks," he said in a friendly manner. "You'll be waiting a long time. You might as well start walking."

     He was insane if he thought I was walking from where we were, to where I live. That was an impossible feat, too many miles and streets between us. Other people heading to my town murmured in agreement with my thoughts. Some people got off, having only to walk up the road. 

     I was effectively stuck.

     The iPod didn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. I tugged it out. Of course, this is a debriefed version of the two hours I sat on the bus. I didn't get the iPod out for ages, chatting with strangers about the situation we were united in. To be honest, I'd only started a conversation because I thought I was awesome for coming up with a plausible way to fix our problem. It was so awesome, I had to share. So I turned to the woman behind me and said:

     "I don't see why they can't get another bus to come down and stop beyond the crash, and then let us walk through along the pavement to the bus, and then be on our way."

     I was amazing for thinking that up. The woman thought I was awesome. The bus driver, however, did not do as I planned. So we ended up stuck there while the emergency services did their job. I sat back and relaxed, finding it hilarious that I couldn't go anywhere without something happening. Other people did not. In fact, the most annoying part about this was the other people talking loudly about themselves.

     However, my personal favourite was the phone call between one woman and her daughter at home. If there was an award for stupidity of the most genetic, she would have won, hands down. The phone call went something like this:

Woman: Stephanie, could you check to see if I've got any post. What? No, can you check to see if I've gotten any post. Post. I said post. No, Stephanie, check to see if there is any post. What? Get Dad to check if there is any post for me. I've got my social work coming through. What? What? Get Dad to check the post. What? Post. I said post ... 

     And on and on she went. Is it any wonder I plugged my headphones in?

     Anyway, the dilemma does not end there. The bus driver realised that we would be stuck beyond his paid hours. So instead of being a good, selfless citizen and driving us to the depo, or even home, he decided to chuck us off his bus and put us on another that was behind us. 

     We got on the second bus just as the traffic started moving. The two buses in front of us moved. We didn't. I looked up at the driver, who was desperately pressing the ignition button on his panel. Nothing. I figured that his bus had broken down. No one else did. They started moaning again, as all British peoples are exceptionally good at.

        "The bus has broken down," I supplied cheerfully, figuring that since so much had gone wrong so far, it wouldn't hurt for more to go wrong. "He can't start it. We're stuck."

     So, to resolve this new issue, we were put on another bus and then we were finally off. It took me longer to get home from the town centre then it did to get from Coventry to Luton. I loved the irony. Laughed at it.

     I kind of had to. That, or go insane from the magnitude of mind-numbing things that occurred on one, simple trip home. It's a speciality of mine. Screw up the simplest of journeys. 

The Crushing Guilt of Reality

     Do you remember that hypothetical, fear driven scenario I told you earlier today, concerning my exam? Yes. Well, it isn't that far from the truth. A sad, sad fact that still torments me now. 

     The day started out bad enough. In fact, it goes further back then that, but that's a different story all together. Anyway, I got out of bed, and knew things were bad. It's one of those creepy instincts that shadows your heart and clenches tight when you wake up.

     I crammed, and crammed, and crammed all morning for the damn exam. My mind tormented me the whole time, "Ha ha ha ha, you know nothing about SEN, or assessments, or IQ tests, or pain, or perceptions of health, or ANYTHING! Mwhahaha ... " This depressing realisation was doing nothing for my self-esteem, so I stopped cramming and started crying.

     Once I had pulled myself together, I realised that it was time to leave. I left, feeling slightly more cheerful as I figured that the exam would be over in less than three hours. I would be free. And then panic returned. Especially when I forgot what side of the road that we drive on in England. 

     I freaked. My mind laughed cruelly, "How are you going to pass this exam if you can't even remember what side of the road you drive on, and that's something you should have learned after almost nineteen years!" I had to agree with my mind. It was worrying that I couldn't remember something I should have known for eighteen years, especially since I had been revising for this exam a little over a week. 

     I quickly deduced that we drive on the left side of the road, and confidence fill me. If I could figure that out, I could figure anything out. I was feeling on top of the world, until I stumbled and quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen me. 

     It's horrible, walking to an exam. You feel trapped, you feel stuck, you feel stupid. You know you have to go and sit it, you know you have two hours ahead of you, but at the same time you can't wait for that time to come, so you can get over your fear and apprehension. A sickening calm fell over me, as I walked past a group of teens that looked like they'd skipped out on school. 

     "Hey," one of the chav girls said in a squeaky voice (it wasn't squeaky, but she doesn't deserve my kind words). "Are we going yet? My arms are starting to hurt."

     It was then that I noticed she was holding a coat over her head. It was drizzling, and she clearly didn't want to get her hair extensions wet. I could forgive her for that. She had some sense of self-worth. 

     As I hurried past, I heard one of the guys with her say, "Go over there then." He was dismissing her. She didn't get this, and replied with, "Cocky, aren't you?"

     No, I thought to myself, he's not. He's just pointing out the obvious. If you went and stood over there, you'd be dry, and you could put your arms down, hence lengthening the amount of time you spend standing outside. 

     With all these clever deductions, I was sure that I was going to ace the test. I mean, I had figured out what side of the road that Brits drive on AND figured out that the girl was stupid. I could take on anything.

     Apparently not.

     I went into the exam, couldn't figure out how to fill in the front of the exam paper (which was foreboding enough) and was panicked by the sheer number of people in the room who were all cleverer than me (they'd figured out how to fill in the front of the exam paper). The woman with the microphone announced it was time to start when I was finishing off putting my name in the box. Damn. 

     When I opened the question paper I knew it was all over. There were three questions, and to the best of my memory, they said this:

1. Blah, blah, blah ... Social Cognitive models ... blah, blah, blah ... evaluate ... blah, blah 
2. Stress Intervention ... blah, blah ... Academic evidence and support ... 
3. Motivational Interviewing ... blah ... outline ... blah, blah, blah ... evaluate

     There should have been a fourth question, designed for me.

       4.  Did you take our advice, Kirsty, and read around the topic throughout the year? 

     I would have gotten 100% if that had come up. Looking up bleary eyed, I saw that many people had started writing and were already half way down the first page of their answer booklet. I was doomed. This was it. Apathy kicked in. I was going under.

     I had more luck on the Educational side of the exam. Not enough to save my sorry ass, but enough that I didn't feel completely stupid, even though I clearly was. I looked up at one point to see a girl asking for another sheet of paper. I was confused. I checked the front of my booklet to see how many pages there were in the answer booklet. 

     There were 16 pages ...

     How on Earth did she use all sixteen? She must have had GIANT handwriting that took up all the lines. I also recognised the girl as being one of the annoying ones who had been stalking me since January. By stalking, I mean sitting in front, or behind, me in lectures and TALKING THE WHOLE WAY THROUGH. I was amazed. How did she manage to write <16 pages when she never even listened in the lectures? I needed to talk to her and find out how she did it.

     The rest of the exam was a blur of me writing some stuff, pausing, staring around at other people, thinking about Pirates of the Caribbean (don't know why, so don't ask) and then scribbling some more. There must have been something wrong with me, because after an hour all the people sitting near me starting leaving the exam. 

     I personally think it was because they felt threatened by my awesomeness, and knew that their exams would never live up to the awesome I was writing.

     Okay, maybe not. But a girl can dream, right?

     Ah, I'm gonna have to sit tight and wait it out then.

     HERE'S TO HOPING I SCRAPED A PASS!

Going For Gold, My Tense Nerves

     It is not even funny how stupidly nervous I am for this exam. I'm sitting here, pretty much torturing myself with ifs and maybes. "What if that question doesn't come up? It's the only one you could possibly answer. You'd be so screwed if it doesn't come up ... " Well thank you brain, for being so supportive. 

     It's not only my brain that's against me; my stomach is in so many knots that I can't remember what it felt like before nerves took over. Which is ironic, or stupid, because nerves control your body, so they can't take over, they're already in control. And why is apprehension known as "nerves" anyway? That doesn't make sense, not when we have a nervous system. It implies we perform better on "nerves", but since we're wired up with them anyway ... Stop, I am reading way too deeply into this. 

     Educational Psychology will be the death of me. And what a dramatic death it will be. I will be sat in the exam hall, twitching, eyes quickly scanning the other 189 students taking the same exam as me as they all crouch over their papers, scribbling madly. And then a high pitched keening sound will make them pause momentarily, and they'll turn, and I'll collapse, arms outstretched in a beg for mercy and more time.

     Okay, okay, I need to stop thinking about the exam. It's not making me feel any better. I have time, all 2 hours, 45 minutes of it. And then it'll be all over. The apprehension, the nerves, the fear, because I'll know what's on the exam. 

     Irony is chasing me today. I'm supposed to be revising stress and the effects of it on the body for the Health Psychology part of the exam, but instead, I'm living through the effects of stress. Maybe it'll give me an edge in the exam. I can just sit there and list all the faults with my thinking and my body and score the 40% I need. 

     COME ON 40%!