THE BIG CLOTHES POST.

I'd like to make something clear now: this is not, and will never be, a fashion blog. That's not me skillfully ignoring what's hip and cool these days, it's not me eschewing the Leanne Woodfulls of this world; it's that I don't, and never will, have a clue about fashion. I try, I fail. I don't try and I fail worse...it's just not my thing. Only the other day did I learn that bootcut jeans WILL NOT FIT INTO BOOTS. I don't know what's worse, in retrospect: the fact that I tried or the fact that I wear bootcut jeans. I think I'm selling myself short ever so slightly: I'm not THAT unfortunate in the dress department. I'm just not incredibly stylish, like some of my friends are. That said, I don't really try. 

The t-shirt changes. My favourite is either this one my Communist Party one from Threadless or a short blue tribal one my mum bought for me in America. The shorts are occasionally swapped for a dress, and the shoes change on occasion. I have these Docs in a shorter version and I love them. I also have black leather boots that have been worn to death ...But by and large, that's how I dress. Day in, day out. I like to mix it up soemtimes - one of my favourite things is a leopard print dress. Ooh, I know, I'm just mad. But I mean- 

 it's leopard print. Let me have this one, fashion world. I know I should leave it to people like Kesha, but the dress hasn't got a zip, or a belt, or anything awkward. One just has to put it on. It's lovely. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I think I just proved the point is that I don't really keep up with trends, I don't actively seek out fashion and I'm really not that bothered. Sometimes, however, I just feel damn materialistic, and I drool over clothes from Topshop, A Wear and various other places. But goddammit. I just spent a good half hour online, looking at the above sites as well as others. It seems to me as though clothes I like have gone out of style, and have been replaced by ridiculous things like faux-fur headbands and peplum. WHO can wear peplum?! It's ridiculous!

This is why I end up in shops like Dorothy Perkins and this is why I'll never be as ~fashionable as some of my friends. I just don't understand a lot of the clothes out there today. Plus, I'll freely admit that I have an awkward body shape - by awkward, I mean big. Clothes just hang funny and "get caught" on my belly. What can you do?

I occasionally stumble across things that I love to wear, and I wear them to death. Some of them are a bit quirky, like the red beret I bought in Paris two years ago...

...which I wore in Paris, pretty constantly for summer 2010, for the entirety of last year's Gaeltacht, as a costume and teamed with a lovely red coat earlier this year. And all for the princely sum of 9 euro...

Some of them are completely un-interesting, like the leather jacket I bought in River Island the Christmas before last. I remember feeling sick to my stomach on seeing the 80 euro price tag, but thankfully the jacket is worn almost every day. It's been worth every cent...if only it was a bit warmer! Funnily enough, I have few photos of said jacket - I wear it with everything, but I always take it off when I'm inside.

So that's me and my relationship with clothes: in turns it's amazing, boring, depressing and exciting. I haven't been shopping in quite a while, but this post has made me want to go and take down half of Dublin city. Just in case anyone was wondering, here are my "fashion" tips:

• Hats are incredibly important. A hat got me a boyfriend. Never underestimate hats.
• Red, as Caitlin Moran says, is a neutral.
• Sometimes it's good to buy something you wouldn't normally - my flowery Docs, my rainbow suspenders. You never know. 
• If something isn't comfy, for Christ sake's don't buy it.
• Sometimes one has to step away from the floral. I own a hideous amount of floral clothes. Floral is cute but too much is just...no. I need to stop.
• Denim shorts + tights = lifesaving outfit.
• If you think something looks good, wear it. Ignore anyone else's ideas. One of my favourite dresses is yellow and ruffled. My mother did not approve, but I feel better in it than almost anything else.
• However, listen to advice sometimes.
• Always bring a spare pair of tights.
• Try to be interesting. It's all well and good to look like you've stepped out of a magazine (yay, you) but what does that say about you, really? My attempts at style make me look like a lunatic, but hey, at least I deliver what I promise.
• ACCESSORIES ARE GOOD. Outside of hats, I don't spend money on accessories, because I lose them almost straight away. What I have are a pair of earrings my darling friend Brenda made me, and a belt that doubles as a bottle opener. Buy accessories. Don't lose them. 
• Sometimes, sequins just have to be bought. I desperately want a sequin jacket. Then, maybe, I'll be cool. 
• ALWAYS BE WARM.

And that, my dear readers, is my part one of some on clothes, accessories, and what I have the nerve to call fashion. 

FAVOURITE DRESS IN THE UNIVERSE. 

Journo 2k12?

So I was just reading this post (which is brilliant, thought provoking and made me nearly vomit with rage. My god, do I have opinions on the same issue, but umyeahok discusses it brilliantly and, not only that, but I'm too bloody tired to coherently analyse the causes and effects of the RAMPANT SEXISM in Ireland today. Ask me in June, and until then go and read umyeahok.) and it caught my eye that the writer is a journalism student. Obviously, she's an aspiring journalist and judging by that post is going the right way about it.

And that's when it hit me. Do I want to do Journalism next year?

There's a story behind this, I promise. Back in the glory days of third year, where a livejournal was considered cutting-edge, I wanted to be journalist. I longed for scribbles on a shorthand notepad. I longed to give opinions, write news and be someone. Make a difference, even only through a column about my life. So far, so peachy. I did a three week Journalism course back in Summer '09 and I loved it. I followed this up with not one, not two, but three work experiences in the field of Journalism. Apart from the fashion world (which still fills me with horror) I adore it. This, without doubt, was my calling in life. I wanted nothing more than to follow in the footsteps of Bob Woodward or (somewhat more realistically) Ian O'Doherty.

So what happened? Why am I staring at my CAO form and wondering if I'd actually like primary school teaching?* Well, to be short, I grew up. I met people who'd interviewed the Taoiseach at sixteen, been printed at fifteen and me? Well, I was in the Leinster Leader once. Okay, I get that we can't all be printed-at-fifteen whizz kids but the fact that I had done nothing gnawed away at me. Should I be sending work into newspapers? Should I be trying for more experience? Do I, a relatively quick-witted Kildare girl, really have what it takes to brave the big bad world of media? Somewhere in fifth year, I decided I didn't. I was too soft, too breakable: big bad interviewees would crush my fragile spirit! I went back to writing solely about Adrienne Rich and Ireland in the 1950's, and prayed that I'd eventually decide what I wanted.

Which brings us up to now. Now, I'm in my penultimate term of sixth year and as I said, my CAO #1 currently reads: TSM, English and History in Trinity College Dublin. Journalism features once on the form - which will no doubt me mixed up - at number 7. Now I'm wondering if I'm wasting my time and if that DIT course should be bumped up a few notches. Why? Well, to be honest, I am beginning to think (again) that I'd be well able for it. I can write - not to sound conceited - for Ireland and I'm damn good at it. I have opinions - some a bit weird, some the usual (DYK? Hitler was bad is still an opinion!) and I'm wondering if I'll have the chance to develop these when I'm studying medieval English and suchlike. It's all a bit scary.

Short story #1: Quite a Night for it

Just for something a bit different. For the Leaving Cert., students have to write a short story or a personal essay - as a bit of a history nerd, I decided to combine my two favourite things. I decided I'd post it up here to see if people like it. It's called "Quite A Night For It" and I wrote it back sometime in September. I love short story writing, but I'm not brilliant at it...I'll work on it post-Leaving, much like everything else in my life! Anyway, here's my story, let know what you think :)

London, 1941

The familiar klaxon wait comes late, but when I hear it I feel the remnants of my meagre supper force their way up my throat. I want to hide beneath the table and cry like a child, but that’s more than enough to earn me a shake and a slap from Mother. Besides, in these times we do not think – only run. I fetch my bunker bag from beneath the stairs and I feel a pang for the tiny sack left behind in the dusty little room. The bag contains the standard: gas mask, a light, an identity card...and a bettered, worn teddy bear. He brought that bear everywhere with him, and in the end, the bear was safer than he was...

But I mustn’t lose my concentration now, and I fight the flashes of memory. The sirens are still screaming but I hear my mother, shrill above the din: “Amelia! It’s time! NOW!” The panic in her voice is obvious, and I know that she, too, fears that we will die here. In this damp, paisley patterned excuse for a home that we’ve lived in since our house was bombed to bits a few months back. A real home, filled with memories as warm and rich as a cake made with real sugar. A home of red brocks, smiles, bedtime stories and fearing nothing but the apparently-haunted apple tree in the garden. I instinctively smile at the memories of Victor and I taking turns to try and climb the apple tree. We were told that a ghost lived at the very top of it, and almost every day my cherubic, red-haired brother would demand that he and I climb higher to find her. We never did, of course, but we shared apples from the tree – we created a whole world up there, he and I.

A whole world that now lies rotting in ashes, much like the smiling red- haired boy. His body was never recovered, so deep in the remains of 34 Cherrywood Road lies my little brother. And here Mother, Father and I remain, shell shocked ghosts of ourselves. I was at a friend’s the night of the bombing, and Mother and Father won’t speak of what happened that night. And it’s hardly the time to ask, running through the tiny garden towards our houses’ bunker. I have time only to take a lungful of smoggy London air before I’m being pushed down, down, down...

After Victor died, I woke up screaming every night, seeing him trapped beneath layers of debris, alive, gasping for air. Not exactly conducive to a weekly stint in a dank little space beneath the ground, but what choice do I have? The steps down to the bunker seem endless, the crashing sirens keeping twisted time with our footsteps. I hear Father mutter “again...this is the third time this week...do you think that...?” but Mother immediately shushes him, with a meaningful glance at me. Ignoring this strange conversation, I go down deeper towards the bunkers. The sirens are quieter now, as they drive us deep below the ground, away from light and freedom and safety. I shiver – not only from cold, but because fear of the bunker pips fear of the Germans to the post for me. The thought of the tiny, narrow room beads my forehead with sweat.

Eventually – eventually – we unlock the narrow grey door and floor the shelter with light. I see something move about in the gloom, but luckily it’s only a mouse and my scream is drowned out by the Vicar crashing in. Round-faced and booming, Reverend Winters is the perfect sort of man to have in a crisis. “Evening, folks! Quite a night for it, quite a night!” His unflappable manner affects us all and by the time he and his wife have settled in, I feel almost calm. He begins to chat quietly to Mother, giving me time to take in my surroundings. Steel beams reinforce the stone ceiling and the place has a musty, unkempt smell. Something drips in a corner and the hanging gas masks give the place an eerie feel, their empty eyes staring into the blackness. It’s the sort of place meant for sadness and fear – it’s completely without happy memories. It’s also impossibly small and I begin to fidget uncomfortably, feeling as though the walls are closing in on me. One...two...breathe in. I stare at the floor, feeling sure that the rooms boundaries creep closer. Three...four...breathe out. Stiff upper lip. Keep calm and carry on. It’s easy to be strong, proud and British above ground, but deep in this underground place, considerably less so. My stomach tightens and again. Breathe slowly to try and calm down...one...two...breathe in...

And that’s when the first bomb hits. It resonates deep in my body, my bones. It threatens to shake the teeth from my skull. The bunker shudders, but only dust falls from the ceiling. The five of us creep closer together, powerless against the Nazi monsters in their giant places, fighting the unknown, unseen war above our heads. I’m terrified. My legs cramp. Blood rushes to my head and I fully expect the ceiling to open up, the sky raining death.

Suddenly, the lights go out. Total darkness reigns and I lose myself to panic. I leap Father’s arms and scramble towards the door, uncaring about the outside chaos. I try to scream but it lodges in my throat and I emit only a strangled sob. I’m crying, tears running down my cheeks as I pound the door. “We’ve...we’ve g-got to get out!” I choke, slamming against the walls uselessly – if they can hold out against the rage outside, what chance do I stand? But I need to get out. “We’ll be trapped. Trapped like Victor, nothing but ashes. Don’t you see? We’ll all die here! Buried alive!” I don’t realize that I’ve spoken aloud until I see the shocked, uncomfortable looks on my parent’s faces. Nothing about hysterical teenagers in their guides to The War, I suppose.

Again, the room is shaken by a blow that brings cans from the shelves and drowns out my screams. I need to run. To hide. The rooms quaking like it’s going to collapse around us and I know that now, I am not alone in my screaming. A drawn out vision of death flashes before my eyes as the bunker rattles. For a few minutes – or hours? – I know nothing but the screams of the Luftwaffe planes but I can imagine the chaos outside all too well. People, running and screaming, becoming balls of flame. Bodies littering the street. Fire and death at every turn. In my daze I hear a muttered “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...” and we all join in, even though my family aren’t religious. Perhaps God is our only way out of this. We sit together, chanting every prayer we know for what feels like hours, feeling the bombs explode around us, buried beneath it all.

Eventually the all-clear sounds and it’s suddenly eerily silent. I feel as though I’m in a tomb, as though that this London street has surely a graveyard for thousands, and though Mother is sobbing softly with relief and Rev. Winter’s is thanking God for keeping us safe, I can hear only one thing. The screams of the German fire bombers ring in my ears with each step we take towards the shattered street, mingling with what I am sure are the moans of the dying above. Surely Mother, Father, even the Winters’ must know this. The shocking, unadorned truth: we aren’t safe, not really. We’ll leave this unkempt, unloved prison underground safe and unharmed, yes – but what of above?

Sickening images thunder through my head: people running and screaming, flash ablaze, crying out for loved ones. Houses lying in ruin, crippled by Nazi shells. Bodies of those who didn’t get to a shelter in time littering the streets maimed and burned. Everywhere we’ll turn, we’ll be followed by carnage – and yet, that won’t be the worst part. London will become a graveyard again and again until this War is won. Mr. Churchill won’t stop, Hitler certainly won’t stop and I reel backwards as I realize the truth: nothing in the world can make me feel safe again. The gas mask’s faces seem to be teasing me “as if you can feel safe again after this. As if anyone can feel safe again after this, after the bombs. We can pretend, of course. We can adapt, repatch, and keep fighting for victory and for Britain. But I realize in that moment, deep underground, that there’s no real victory, no real leaving. That I’ll never leave this dark, dusty cellar, cowering powerlessly, never truly escaping the horror of the bombs.

2011: Because a picture speaks a thousand words, part one.

I'm not going to lie: up until June, 2011 kind of sucked. I was sad, school was basically my whole life and I listened to a LOT of bad songs. I also wrote some really cringy poetry...but anyway. Happily, the latter half of the year took the roughness of January-June and kicked it's ASS. I had a blast from July through to the fun I'm still having now...in between studying, of course! So much has changed - I know people say that EVERY year, but it's true, this year more than ever. I've grown up (a lot!), done new things (I've been drunk! I went to parties!) and I've chilled out a lot. Basically, the second half of 2011 made me a lot happier than the first half, and possibly several preceding years. Or maybe that's the tomato relish and cheese sandwich I just ate talking.

July

In July, I did the best thing that I could have done: I fucked off to France for two weeks with only my family and 8gb of Doctor Who to keep me company. We stayed for a week in the South of France, before training it down to Paris for a few days. Taking the train around France was so much fun - I'd love to go inter-railing when I'm in college, solely for that dusty, exciting smell you find in train stations in Europe. Not the damp smell of pee and weariness in Connolly. France was gloriously sunny, pasta filled and relaxing and even though I was ready to leave by the 14th day, two weeks with family and without a phone did me good. Also in July, I had a bunch of people stay over and we watched horror movies and Jeremy Kyle until 6am. My last day of July was visiting a CTYI reunion, which was nice, but weird. I didn't miss it this year, to be honest. But that's another story.

I love this photo. I'm not sure why - it was a mistake, Dad got in the way. But it's cute.

August.

Ah, August. August 2011 is a month I have a feeling I'm going to remember for quite a while. [warning: this WILL get slushy. Those who cannot wait for my New Years Resolution to take effect, look away now!]

August started off with a very scared, chocolate finger-touting Áine spending three weeks in Connemara: totally alone. It was the scariest thing I've ever had to do in my life - I'm FINE socially (better than I think, apparently) but my god, when you're surrounded by hundreds of teenagers, all with friends, it's a bitch to go up to them and become their new BFF. Scratch that: that's hard IN ENGLISH. In fractured, halting, why-do-I-do-honours-Irish gaeilge? It's next to impossible. For some reason, however (karma?) the fates smiled on me and Gavin, who I knew vaguely from Colaiste Acla 2008, was there. After a slightly awkward dance on the first night, some intervention from the wonderful Jana, and a very helpful beret, I eventually managed to make some friends. And, wonder of wonders: dear readers, I met a boy! David, after a week of asking me to dance, stealing my hats and trying not to get kicked out of Colaiste Sheo, got his act together about a week in and we've been together since. And it's wonderful. And he's wonderful - I can't say it enough. AND I WILL SHUT UP NOW.

August was cray-cray when I got home, too: suddenly I had this boy, perched in South Dublin, who I was expected to visit from time to time. So a good portion of August was spent on Bus Eireann. I did have time, however, for a few tea evenings with my friends, some trips to Donadea, and, most importantly, THE DEBS! The Debs was absolutely fantastic - after months of waiting, dress trying on and worrying about how short my hair was, I had a lovely night, happily drunk off friends, David and vodka and ribena, the drink of kings. Oh, and Kate got her Leaving Cert. results - 475. Exactly what she needed. Vintage-fucking-Kate.

August deserves two photos - it was the best month of 2011 by a country mile. So here is the gang in Connemara - I'd just begun to talk to everyone there, I was freaking delighted.

Me, Neil, Conor, Roisin, David, Emmet, Gavin, Orla, Jana, Andrew, SHANE!, and Eoin :)

The Debs! (also the only decent photo of Dave and I known to humankind)

September

Oh, September. The hallowed month of returning to school - for the final time. I feel as though a cloister bell should be sounding. Yup, in September I began my Leaving Certificate year, and it's been pretty relentless so far. There were still some great moments, both in school and out - History class has become somewhat of a sanctuary for me, and no doubt the bants were had in that class. I also turned 18 in September, in the middle of the week - party hard! My favourite moment of September came from the "information night" we had in school, where Sheila, Ashley and I laughed so hard I thought we'd be kicked out. And we learned the most important lesson of all...

October

No doubt the highlight of this month was Frances', Brenda's and my joined 18th shindig, held in the splendour of Chez-Franki. I went to see The Lion King for my 18th - which was lovely, too, but it doesn't quite compare to a house party and all that Blue WKD. I also voted for the first time in October, saw Michael D. in town, and stayed in my granny's house for a week. Here she is reading my Home Ec. book, which is apparently fascinating. Oh, and the obligatory costume party shot -

November

Like April, November is a nothing month. It's dull and boring and no one likes it. Is November your favourite month? I thought not. I saw three plays in November: An Triail, Big Maggie and Silent, the latter being a definite 2011 highlight. It's a one man play about homelessness, suicide, drugs and homosexuality, but it's hilarious, heartbreaking and wonderful. Go see it if you ever come across it. Phenomenal. Other things that happened include my trip to the Mock Dáil in NUIM: I didn't exactly do Scoil Mhuire proud but I enjoyed it, and it was definitely a cool new thing to try. I also attended my best friend Ross' older sisters wedding, which was mucho fun for a school night! Here's my and Rosstifer on the night - aren't we cute?

December

As I type this, it's the last morning of December 2011. December was great once I got off school - which seemed to take years. I also attended a party in ~Terenure, which was interesting to say the least. I went to Open Days and celebrated Christmas with a cow tea towel and a shiny new iPhone 4. So yeah, I didn't do too badly at all. There isn't much to say about December, mainly cos I've been blogging it all - so, to sum up, some photos! Here's Emmet skulking at the Terenure party, and Roisin and Brenda being Harry and Ron in English class.

To sum up: 2011 was the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When it was good, it was very very good, but when it was bad it was weeping, wailing and bad poetry, not to mention horrid. Here is a list of things that I learned this year:

• It's very hard to maintain a secret relationship with an asexual.
• More cheese is always a good idea, but so is the gym.
• Long, drizzly walks in Connemara CAN be fun.
• Sometimes, one has to accept the weight.
• Space Mountain is less fun the second time.
• Alcohol is, in fact, my friend.
• Documentaries about bikes are a whole different genre of documentary,
• Black leather boots work with ANYTHING.
• Stuff is always more fun when you have a Blue Box.
• I could trust Brenda and Zoe a hell of a lot further than I could throw them.
• I might never be Beyoncé, but it sure as hell won't stop me trying!
• How to make truffles.
• SOCKS!
• When you're sad, Doctor Who can always cheer you up.
• I'm actually pretty great.
• I have no idea what to do with my life.
• Sometimes, dance music is great, particularly when Calvin Harris is involved.
• Never trust a suit wearing Englishman. He will steal your beret.

Here's to 2012. Come at me, bro.

One of the funniest photos of me taken this year. Success Áine says thank you for reading and have fun in 2012 :)

2011: Because a picture speaks a thousand words, part one.

Here's the deal. 2011 was a big year for me. So much changed that quite frankly, I can't get my head around it. Writing about it, even in two halves like Meg did, seems like an enormous task that I'm simply ill-equipped for. Too many personal things happened, and not enough cool stuff happened to me. Meg interviewed the Taoiseach, goddammit.

Then, however, Eimear from Tumblr saved the day. She mentioned that sh'd post her favourite photo from her project 365 to represent each month - and I'm shamelessly stealing her idea. 2011 will thus be summed up in 12 snapshots, each with a different meaning. Nights out, school books, new friends... Hell, I might post a song for each month, too. Anyway, let's get ready to rumble!

January.

See, I'll admit it...the best part of January 2011 was the return of a certain ginger-haired, Limerick based blogger who I happened to be quite fond of. Not to open old wounds, but the short story is that we don't talk anymore, so even though that was the most important part of that month for me, no doubt...I just can't bring myself to do it. So what else happened in January? Well, very little, it appears. I saw Black Swan not once, but twice, and enjoyed it both times. I travelled up north, and took a great photo of my dad grumpily reading "Hello!" magazine. I also seemed to do an awful lot of school work - what sort of fifth year was I?




February

Again, rough stuff was happening at this point - rough stuff that'd eventually take over and keep me miserable, until, well, August. Cheerful, huh? Now you know why I didn't enjoy this year...I did get my very first iPhone in February, as well as doing a lot of cooking and having a small party in my house. I also saw The Field, by John B. Keane, marking my year-long habit of going to the theatre. To balance this out, however, I made My Chemical Romance my single concert of 2011, and my god, if that doesn't make photo of February, I don't know what does.



March

Ah, March. Where shit got really real. Ok, ok, I'll stop now, but I spent most of this month being a moany, sad, stressed-out mess. I also found out I didn't get to travel to Zambia with my school - which, I'm not gonna lie, is still a kick in the teeth. But hey, Zambia isn't going away any time soon! There were also some lovely moments - I spent my St. Patrick's Day with a huge group of friends watching Moulin Rouge and eating. I visited Orla in Wexford and watched fireworks in the rain, and then kind of ruined a lot of things. I haven't been back since. I'm dedicating March to Orla, one of my best friends. We've had...well, we've had a bitch of a year, to be honest. But we're still awesome. Just saying.

Here are the aforementioned fireworks.

April

Christ, what happened in April? I find April to be one of those downer months, where nothing really happens. One is stuck between summer and winter, bored and grey. I know I was - I scarcely remember April, but my 365 says that I went to a bunch of parties, including Fiona's and Tiarnan's. Both were good nights, actually! I also cut all my hair off (not the first of many times where my hair goes way too short) and visited Wexford with my family. I read a LOT of books (6 Darren Shan novels in one day, if memory serves correct) and most importantly, my newest cousin, Isabella was born. She totally deserves the photo here, though she's a lot cuter now, I promise.

May

Fucking May, bro. May means summer, and summer means an upturn in Áine's spirits. Fuckin' ay! The Easter holidays finished up, and suddenly the world was one of BBQ's, grad parties and end-of-year things. I won the English award for my year, which was wonderful and (I can't lie), one of the highlights of 2011 for me. I also went to see Fucking Barack Obama, where I queued for a good six hours and was still about a mile away from him. However, the single best photo of May (and possibly the year) goes to this shot of me and Nicole in the bathrooms on sixth year grad night. She told me to look frightened. I still am.

June

June was the most fun that I'd had for the whole of 2011. I supervised the Junior Cert. exams in school, which sounds like a bore. Except that it wasn't. I made 300 euro by watching Doctor Who, chilling with some wonderful friends of mine and Mr. Gorry, history teacher extraordinare and hero of mine was there to chat with us. I repeat: 300 euro. Who cares that it took up 3 weeks of my time? It was fantastic. Other June highlights include my trip to Galway with Kate ("There is a startling lack of small free birds in Athenry!") , Franki's Come Dine With Me night (one of the best nights of the year) and the Shakespeare and performance festivals, lovely days in lovely Dublin. I also managed to get 4 A1's in my summer exams (and a B IN IRISH!!!!!) which was jammy enough. This is my favourite photo of June: on our last day of supervision, we ordered Dominos pizza. Twice. Roisín, who got quite attached to it, is pictured here doing what Project Maths does best...and by that I mean only does. Dividing pizza into 8 pieces.

Tune in tomorrow for 2011: part two, in which Áine actually has a rather nice time, despite the horrors of the Leaving Cert. beginning!

Handwriting tag!

I'm getting terribly obsesse- I mean, fond of Franki's lovely blog. Much like her, it's fun, pretty and laid back, and she tagged me to post some handwriting tag thing. I felt like writing earlier today (I promise, I did) but unfortunately, I was out until 11pm! Stupid Bus Eireann, ruining my plans for blogging and such...anyway, here's me tag.
My handwriting is somewhat multi-personalities. I have very, very, very small and tidy handwriting for Home Ec., very messy writing for History and everything in between for everything else. Mostly it's a mix of print and cursive and it depends on not only the pen, but how I'm feeling today. My handwriting doesn't reflect me at all - I'm damn consistent, but alas, my writing is not.


Questions:
1. Forename and name of blog
2. URL of blog
3. Write 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog'. (It has all 26 alphabet letters. Oooh!)
4. Favourite quotation
5. Favourite song(s)
6. Favourite Artist(s)
7. Anything else you want to say?

Hugs and stuff.

Remember when you were a kid? You'd fall down, someone would be mean to you, or you'd break your favourite toy. It was like THE END OF THE WORLD, at least to an over-emotional kid like me. But for the most part, our knee jerk reaction was to burst into tears and run to Mammy for a hug, right? Parents had this knack for making everything better - I know that if I was a mum, screaming kids would wreck my head, but that never really seemed to happen with my mum - rather, she always, always made it better by hugging, kissing and cuddling Tiny Me.

For some reason, my intrinsic thought was that Hugs Just Make Things Better, along with soothing words and (in my dad's case) threatening to "fix" the perpetrators.

Fast forward ten years. I'm eighteen and I spend a lot less time falling down. Being mean to me will generally result in being screamed at and most of my dearest possessions are in less than three pieces. My love for affection, however, has remained. Physical affection is something most of us adore, but I'm the first to put my hand up and claim addiction. It doesn't have to be parental or romantic, I just love showing affection to my friends and family. I visit my granny once a week and I've never once forgot to hug her goodbye. I kiss one of my best friends (on the cheek!) for something as small as holding a book for me. I get comments all the time concerning Dave and affection, from my mum to my sister to people we went to the Gaeltacht with.

Affection comes in lots of forms - for instance, I know people who do kind things for people they like, or even just tolerate them, but that's as far as they go. In a way, the toleration or the nice gestures (ceetainly the latter) is affection, just in a more abstract sense. After all, who hasn't got the warm fuzzies after someone bought them something or lent them their French copy? As I've talked about before, those who are aloof people I admire, not only because of their infinite coolness, but the fact that they don't need to constantly prove how they feel about someone. That's just it, isn't it? For some reason, a lot of affectionate people feel the need to express how they feel about others. All the freaking time. I'll freely admit to this. Telling people that they're awesome makes me feel awesome, and though lately I've been getting a twist in my stomach thinking about being annoying, I generally assume that it makes them feel good too.

Speaking of twisting stomachs, lately I've started to think that, at eighteen, my affectionate nature just isn't cute anymore. In fact, in terms of romantic relationships, it's probably a little bit...well, can you say desperate? Luckily, I have a boyfriend who's (to quote) "very used to it" and doesn't mind my near-constant hugs and compliments. Still, I'll admit, my nature has started to plague me. I've been able to scale back (somewhat) with my friends - sixth year and all that - but in a way it's repressing myself, and shouldn't I be able to be Born This Way? I guess not. I guess there's a line between cute and annoying, and my nature stands astride that fine line.

What do people think? Is affection overrated or integral to, well, being human?

The Christmas.

I love it when older people call the festive period "The Christmas". It's one of those ways of talking (along with the truly wonderful "I do be" tense found only in rural Ireland) that has become quaint and unusual, now that we all talk like we're American. But anyway, that's another post.

We're well and truly into Advent now, with a mere 12 days to go before Christmas day. As a sixth year, I don't have exams this year, but for some reason this hasn't really helped my festive spirit. I'm just not feeling Christmas this year, though I think that might be the Leaving Cert. talking.

If it's not that, it might be that we only got our tree on Sunday. Normally, we all go to Donadea forest and spend a good hour debating the merits of trees (I like the short, plump ones. Everyone else likes them as tall as they'll go.) before buying two as a compromise. We bring them home and decorate them with our mishmash of decorations, ranging from classy spangly baubles mum bought last year to, eh, my doughy playschool creations. Job done. Pretty as anything. This year was different. I was too bogged down by projects to pick the tree, and it's now Tuesday and it still hasn't been decorated. It's a little bit sad. I can see the tree from where I'm sitting - it's cute, quite small actually - with three sad looking ornaments on it. Sin é. It's a sad sight, I'll tell you. Our other tree - the 7ft behemoth in the corner of our conservatory - is something I don't even want to look at. Why my parents insist on buying a tree for a room that's about -20c on a good day, I'll never know.

Something else that's preventing me from getting into my usual Christmas happiness is the fact that I don't finish school until the 23rd. Neither do any of us, I guess, but it's not exactly festive to have French verbs, photosynthesis and algebra heaped upon your head. Though I guess we did cover "Advent" by Patrick Kavanagh in English, which prompted me to start singing this, and it's been stuck in my head ever since:

Yeah, it's a four year old. I can't find the Grinch version! It's accurate though. This year, I just can't seem to find Christmas. Maybe I need to look deeper into the box of Roses or go to mass or something...

Nomz.

I just ate four slices of pizza without really thinking about it. Yes, I'm disgusting, but I've also eaten little else today. Pizza is the most horribly addictive food, with the noble exception of cheese & crackers. But hell, I really, really adore food, particularly when it's cold and when RTE News is on in my living room for the third time today. I do things without thinking a lot of the time nowadays, often things that aren't particularly good for me. More often, it involves pizza, actually.

However, some things are better than food, though largely because they don't evoke a sense of guilt regarding the eating of pizza. Some things, however, are out of my reach because of the bloody year that's in it. Sigh.

Some things make sixth year survivable.

I am terribly cheesy.

Madeira cake and a length of copper pipe

This is a blogpost brought to you by two things: my stress and my brother's taste in music.

I get stressed because I'm doing my Leaving Cert. When I'm stressed, I like to bake - but I'm not good at baking by any means. My best friend Zoe makes the greatest cake in the world - it's science - but I'm more of a "sure toss it in, it'll be fine!" kind of person.

This has occasionally gone very, very well (cinnamon and chocolate cupcakes, anyone?) but more often than not ends up in me feeding the mixture to Marley, our dog. I don't bake for the cake, though - it's a wonderfully de-stressing experience, like taking a bath or going for a walk. The mixing, the scooping, the measuring, and the deliciousness of a warm cupcake are just brilliant for chilling me out.

Madeira buns are the single greatest thing to make when you feel like something sweet and you've got feck all in the house, which I nearly always do. Sometimes, I make my granny's wonderful marbled madeira cake: it's plain madeira with chocolate swirled in and it's absolutely to die for. I'd give you the recipe, but I'll leave that to part two of the post...

My younger brother is quite the accent whizzkid, and lately, he can't stop singing songs by The Rubberbandits Spastic Hawk ("Spastic Haaaaawwwk") is his most recent find, and he will not stop singing it...at dinner, doing homework, playing football, he never stops!

He also showed me this recently enough, and I was in stitches laughing at it! I never normally go in for Irish comedy - particularly novelty-ish acts like these guys, but my god, this is perfect. Though it's ten times funnier when Enda does it.

Hello.

There, I've started. The first word typed on Áine's blog part 6 is an inane greeting. Typical. Now that I've started, I'm not sure how to continue.

Some of you may remember me from such moderately successful blogs as Dobby's Sock, which got (kind of) nominated for an award once and actually did okay for itself. Then I deleted it without warning, advice or much thought, really. I didn't miss it at all - a word of warning to bloggers, the "blogosphere"...well, it's not a nice place. Or, to be blunt, it's full of absolute pricks.

I'm not here to talk about DS, though. It was nice and pretty and I put a lot of effort into it, but it's over and done with and this blog is certainly not going to be version 2.0 of that. For one, it got boring and for two, I'm going to be a lot lazier nowadays. Meg still posts on her blog daily - sorry, but that shit ain't happening here guys. This blog is for funsies.

For those reading who have forgotten or have never heard of my other blog, hey, I'm Áine. This blog is for me to post ill-written thoughts concerning life, love, music and The Leaving Cert.

ll be a lot of that, but hopefully it won't develop into one of those hugely depressing Leaving Cert. blogs. I don't want that, so I'll try and keep it interesting. Even more so, I'll try to keep it as a Leaving Cert distraction, of which I have an alarmingly large amount, between Facebook, the boyfriend (who will be mentioned way too much, just warning you) and organizing my notes by colour and topic.

And cleaning my desk. Though that normally doesn't go so well.

I'll also try and keep it short. A lot of blogs I read go on and on and on...and on about one vaguely interesting topic, and I know I find myself scanning lines and wishing I had a highlighter for the key points. (God, I really am an LC student) so I'll try not to bore you too much.

A bientot, lads. And yes, I'm aware that should have a cicumflex-y thing. Oh well.