Sunshine Blogger Award

The Sunshine Blogger Award is given to a blogger who brings inspiration and positivity to their readers and followers.

Thank-you for the nomination Bex! I am very grateful to receive such an award and again apologise for the late posting of acceptance. I am pleased that my words and tales have connected with many bloggers, and hope that they continue to do so.

The Rules:

  1. Thank the person that nominated you.
  2. Answer the questions from your nominator.
  3. Nominate fellow bloggers you follow.
  4. Give them 10 questions to answer.

Continue reading “Sunshine Blogger Award”

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Breakthrough: A Landlord Rant

It is widely known that landlords are the bane of students lives and for anyone in rented accommodation they are equal to the wicked witch of the West. Unfortunately mine is no exception, although on first meeting I thought he would be.


A typical old man, he was kind and welcoming. With his curly white hair and bushy eyebrows, he was talkative and made us feel at ease. Regimented yet fair, I thoroughly believed he would be easy to get along with.

But since moving in to my flat in September, he has been a nightmare. The fairy tale image I was had held has been destroyed, replaced with a maleficent figure. His curly white hair and bushy eyebrows which were endearing before, now an image of regret and peril. Like caterpillars, they lie upon his face while his condescending voice booms. He barks his orders from afar, demanding payment when we had no WiFi, being the central reason for our WiFi-less pit and the demon who allowed us to freeze to death. Is this a Halloween transformation or a year long nightmare? Continue reading “Breakthrough: A Landlord Rant”

I should have read the contract.

I should have read the contract

But I didn’t have the time –

Before I signed my name

Upon the dotted line.

I swirled my name promptly.

Giving little thought,

To the hooded figure

Standing by the door. Continue reading “I should have read the contract.”

Big Sister, little sister.

I used to make you read me stories,

And design the Barbie house,

Roly poly races when the’rents were out.

I used to make you do my hair,

And help me with my French.

Teach me how to write an A

And even build a tent.

I used to make you speak to strangers;

Catch the fish at the dead of night.

Help me pronounce my words,

And stand up for me in a fight.

 

I used to make you do all these,

So I could do them too.

Being an older sister means,

Taking care of me and you.

 

‘Alone’ being the operative word

I want to lie in a hammock and stare at the stars. Trace the constellations with my fingers and count how many there are.

I want to sleep in a King size bed with one-thousand pillows and a throw. Curl myself up and experience the life of an Eskimo.

I want to sail  to the middle of the ocean where no land can be seen. And watch the life that plays out beneath the green.

I want to travel to distant countries and experience different tastes and sounds. My experiences will know no bounds.

Insatiable passion; eating the cake and still being hungry.

Because I’m a little bit obsessed (and a tad crazy). That is all. 

Recently I’ve become obsessed with art, more than I ever thought possible. I crave its escape; drawing in my journal and figuring out conceptual meanings is (I would go as far to say) my hobby. Weekends spent in galleries is my idea of heaven, and breaks away from home are based around the art and architecture of a particular country or city. I fan girl when I see my favourite artist is about to exhibit in the UK and will drag any poor, unsuspecting victim with me.

I’ve always known that art is my other half, but since starting History of Art in September, I’ve only now realised how strong the bond is – I’m obsessed! Normal girls my age would swoon over Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber or Chris Pratt but no, not me. My ideal swooning sessions come from the works of Anselm Kiefer, Tracey Emin and Edmund de Waal. They intoxicate me with adrenaline and excitement.

How could you not become transfixed?

The subjectivity allows anyone to interpret and interact if they look hard enough. Art has the ability to cover so many emotions in one simple swipe of a brush. It brings together a variety of different people who can understand and feel the event depicted, without having experienced it themselves. It can rip you apart and sew you back together.

Art is a drug. A drug I don’t want to ever stop taking – I crave more.

What is your insatiable cake?

Revisiting Childhood.

As of yesterday, I have officially achieved a distinction in Foundation Art and Design. The evidence – which consists of two certificates – has been successfully received.

I head to Glasgow University in September to study Philosophy and I’d be lying if I said this was always the plan…

Six-year-old Anna wanted to be a professional dancer.

Thirteen-year-old Anna wanted to be a Marine Biologist.

Sixteen-year-old Anna wanted to be a Zoologist.

And twenty-year-old Anna has no clue what she wants to do; all she knows is she has the overwhelming urge to travel.


This realisation prompted me to think back to my aspirations as a six-year-old girl: a professional dancer!

Wow…I set my standards high from a young age.

I remember it was my dream to be a backing dancer to the rich and famous. I would choreograph routines and perform them in my bedroom. The routines mainly consisted of me running back and forth across the room but I was convinced that was enough to gain a place among the best.

Then at the age of nine, I started Irish dance. I grew good at it; achieving by the end three trophies and a number of medals. I dreamt about dancing in the Irish Championships and one day dancing alongside Michael Flatley. A dream spurred on when my Grandma bought me ‘Lord of the Dance’ on DVD. I watched it over and over, transfixed on every detail.

I was convinced that this was something I would do for the rest of my life. And I prominently remember the day when I got my first competition dress. When I saw it hanging from the door frame, I stared at it in admiration. I had earnt it; it was mine.

I keep it now in my wardrobe. It doesn’t fit but every time my Mum tries to get rid of it the little child inside of me stops her. It has become a memento of my childhood.