Look! I'm a grown up!

Last year, I wrote a post about being scared of turning 20. In the post (which has since been deleted from that particular blog) I theorised that this would be the decade where I would be forced to grow up, start a career, start a family and dive head-first into old age. I rounded up the post by stating that it was hard for me to say goodbye to my teenage years, and even harder to accept the fact that this is the decade where life gets serious.

I'm a whole year into my twenties now. Last week marked my 21st birthday. It was a monumental occasion for me - my mother could hardly believe that her first born had reached the pillar of adulthood, my sister spent the entire day calling me old, and I became giddy after realising that I could legally drink in America. It became incredibly tempting to run away to Las Vegas without my boyfriend, just to prove a point. (The point being that, because I am two months older than him, I am two months cooler than him)

Despite having a wonderful birthday week full of wonderful family and friends, the fears I'd expressed last June hung over my head like a dark shadow. Paint me depressed and call me Eeyore! I realised that I still don't have a proper career. Instead, I'm stuck in a job that has destroyed my social life, my confidence and my aspirations. I do still have a proper relationship, although like all other relationships we have our ups and downs. I'm still pretty determined that I'm not sacrificing my vagina for a child any time soon, in spite of the fact that almost every friend I have seems determined to force out children like a fashion craze.

I am still crippled by the insecurities of my future. I still have no real career in mind, nor do I have any sort of clue what I see myself doing forever. I do, naturally, fear that I'll drift from job to job until I succumb to either homicidal thoughts or my minuscule pension. But one thing I've realised over the past year is that I'm not alone in these thoughts and insecurities. It appears to be a plague on my generation. We've been labelled the "lost generation" and it's not hard to see why. Most of us lack any real direction - sure, we might be at university, or working in slightly good jobs, and we might have a general idea of where we want to end up, we just have absolutely no idea how to get there.

Unemployment is at a ridiculous high at the moment. Schools are stretched, filled to the brim with teachers who don't have the available resources to help as much as they would like, and teachers who just don't particularly care about the majority of their students. We're consistently told to "grow up, get a real job" and stop dreaming, by people who have become so bitter at giving up on their own dreams. The future isn't exactly shining bright for those of us in our early twenties.

But, unlike last June, I'm no longer paralysed by The Fear. So what if I haven't got a First Class Degree? So what if I'm still figuring out what I want to do in life? I've only just begun having an immense amount of fun in this life. We're here for a fun time, not a long time, and I refuse to allow myself to be dragged down over the fear of growing up. After all, Peter Pan never had to do it.

Twitter: @AmyWhitear

The Great Olympic Fools

If there's one thing hardly anyone knows about me, it's this: as a child, Taekwondo was my life. I joined my local club - a very small one - at the age of eight and rapidly fell in love with the sport. I competed at regional, national, and international level, and won medals at each competition. I was devastated when my club folded, mainly because I'm still here many years later and yet to find another great club that has the proper affiliations.

Not many people are aware of Taekwondo. It's not as well known as it's cool cousins karate and judo. But something has happened over the past few weeks that has propelled Taekwondo in to the mainstream. Aaron Cook is arguably Britain's greatest Taekwondo fighter, having won more medals than most could count over the past few years. He came forth in the Beijing Olympics at the age of 17 and looked an absolute certainty to scoop at least a bronze medal in his home Olympics. Except, that's not going to happen. Because for some absurd unknown reasons, he hasn't been selected to participate.

I never imagined that so many people would care about my little sport. When I mention it to people in passing, I normally have to spend a good ten minutes trying to explain the sport before eventually giving up and just saying, "it's a bit like karate." But here we are. Taekwondo is not only featuring in national newspapers, it's also on Sky Sports News. People with absolutely no affiliation to the sport - and I dare say that some have never even heard of it, nor care about it - are suddenly up in arms at the thought of one of our best medal options being sidelined for someone who, I'm sad to say, doesn't quite match up to the skills Aaron Cook has to offer.

I know there isn't much an individual like me can do. I even doubt a collective army of enraged individuals can change the minds of the selection board. But what we do need to do is raise awareness of this beautiful sport. We need to get more kids involved in Taekwondo. We do need to find a way to get Aaron to compete at the highest level. Taekwondo is more than just a sport - it is a way of life. It becomes second nature. Even now, I find myself counting in Korean, or comparing someone's actions to a Taekwondo movement. By refusing to allow Aaron Cook to compete, the powers that be are doing so much more than just taking away his chances of Olympic glory, they are taking away the very thing he breathes for. I can only hope something changes.

Join the fight to get Aaron to the Olympics. Sign the petition here: http://t.co/E4akK0TF


Twitter: @AmyWhitear

Idiot of Baker Street

Life has funny ways of testing us. Practically from birth, we're subjected to a series of lengthy examinations that determine whether or not we're up to the incredibly strenuous job of living: doctors exams, school exams, driving tests. But one of them grabs the title of being the most repulsive of all - the job interview.

I've been through more than my fair share of the dreaded interviews. Incredibly smug people grinning at you, doing their best to put on the correct airs and graces, offering you a glass of water and promising you that it will be an easy half an hour. Except, nothing ever goes to plan. I can remember in painstaking detail the most awful interview I've ever been through.

I had not long finished my final year of school when I decided I wanted to try working in the hotel industry. I took the necessary steps, enrolling on a hospitality course at college, attending front office training courses, and going through as many tedious practice interviews as I could tolerate. After seven painful months, I finally got the interview I'd been waiting for.

A prestigious five-star hotel in Mayfair had decided that my CV was good enough to merit an interview with them. I spent a good hour getting ready, going over the facts I knew about the hotel and convinced that I knew enough to at least warrant a polite rejection letter, if not, the holy grail of second interviews: the call back.

I arrived in Picadilly Circus and began walking down to the hotel when my brain suddenly decided to start paying attention to the busy West End life. I started looking at tourists for the first time in my life, taking in the sights for myself. It was then that I found myself planning my journey home: I would get on the 22 I had just seen to Baker Street, and make my way home from there via the underground.

I wish I had never looked at that bus, for it forced me to commit the stupidest moment in my life.

Bearing in mind, I was only seventeen, and still a complete Disney kid at heart, I walked in to the interview, gracefully shook hands with the manager who would be interviewing me, and proceeded to do pretty well in the interview. I knew the names for all the software equipment, I knew my way around London, and I was prepared to work twelve hour shifts.

The question of "what do you know about this hotel" came about quickly and I was delighted. I had spent hours researching the place ever since I received my interview invitation. I took a deep breath, recited a few facts, and then thought I'd pop in the most interesting fact I knew: that the first few Poirot books were written in the hotel. Except, I didn't say Poirot.

I said Sherlock Holmes. Why? Because of that damn 22 bus. It's destination was Baker Street. Baker Street in my head automatically equals "Basil of Baker Street" from Basil The Great Mouse Detective. Basil lived underneath the floorboards of Sherlock Holmes' house. And Sherlock Holmes became responsible for me messing up the greatest interview of my life.

I'm able to look back and laugh at the absurdity of the day now - I've since worked in some great, and some not so great, hotels, and feel confident enough in my ability to know that I would perform well in an interview should I ever decide to return to the hotel industry. But it was devastating to me then. It was the job of a lifetime for me then and I ruined it all because I couldn't get that stupid little mouse out of my head.

I found myself on Baker Street again last week and couldn't help but laugh as I overheard a young child excitedly asking their father if they could go and see where Basil lived. I can only hope that Disney mouse doesn't cost that little boy a job one day.

Twitter: @AmyWhitear

Young, Dumb, and Making a Bomb

As a writer who is struggling to figure out ways to gain attention, I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with the current influx of "writers" hired by national newspapers and magazines. It appears that if you are not young, blonde, ditzy, or the star of a woeful reality television show, you do not stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting published.

The ongoing Samantha Brick saga inspired me to delve further into my theory. Here is a reasonably attractive middle-aged woman (who totally lives in France, by the way) who is seemingly making a fortune by writing about how beautiful she is and how tough life is for the beautiful, comfortable, blonde expat in France. Her archive on the Daily Mail website reads like a teenage psychology student's wet dream: chubby as a child, haunted by her weight problems throughout life, until she settles down with a Frenchman and moves to France where she can revel in her beauty.Except she's not revelling in her beauty because, apparently, the world hates beautiful women. My friend was quick to rubbish the whole "I'm so beautiful" article by describing Samantha Brick as "looking like a dog's arsehole", and there precisely is the problem.

Ms Brick is not a stunningly beautiful woman. Angelina Jolie and Scarlett Johansson will be losing no sleep over her beautiful threat. Tulisa can remain calm: her dubious title of World's Sexiest Woman is safe. What Ms Brick is, however, is a somewhat average yet still attractive woman who is so arrogant and conceited that one wonders whether it is those very factors that conjure up feelings of hatred in her fellow women, rather than her blonde hair and doe eyes. The Daily Mail - and I'm sure Ms Brick herself (who lives in France) - are raking in the revenue from her many articles, so I fear we have not seen the end of her, or her dog arsehole looking face.

But I can handle the dreadful articles by Oh So Beautiful Samantha. A girl needs a giggle when she's stuck with either insomnia or writer's block. What I am finding harder to deal with is a current column running in London's Evening Standard newspaper. Every week, we are treated to the delightful offerings of Caggie Dunlop, 'star' of Made in Chelsea. Her column - the imaginatively titled Laid in Chelsea - is hilariously labelled as a sex advice column, in which the incredibly wise 23-year-old socialite imparts her vast knowledge with the no doubt exhausted readers of the Evening Standard.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all rely on Daddy's money to build a television show around ourselves, and then use that as a launch pad to deliver our humdrum writing? I could strangle my parents for having the audacity to give birth to and raise me South of the River, with Chelsea as my background scene. Think of how different my life would be if I'd have been raised a ten minute walk away - people might actually read the dross I publish on this blog!

Friday

It's Friday, and I have nothing to do! Those five words are sweet, sweet music to my ears. After working seven days straight, and over 48 hours on those seven days, the next three days are a godsend. I get to sit at home doing whatever I choose.. If I want to bake, I can. If I want to sleep in, I can (although I'm not exactly exercising that right at the moment by being wide awake and blogging at 7am) and if I want to forget all about horse and dog racing, I can.

But there's a flaw to my enchanted weekend off. And it comes in the form of an annoyingly addictive game. Angry Birds has plagued me ever since I discovered it was available on Facebook. I have fought the siren call of that catchy/annoying theme song for so, so long. And now I find myself desperate to splatter those little green pigs into obliteration.

On top of that, I'm struggling to find an easy way to register for an OU course. Expensive and not exactly easy to get through to them on the phone. I've tried and tried to register for my chosen course, but the registration materials didn't turn up until yesterday. So now, I have to wait until October to finally start doing what I want to do. Every silver lining...

That's My Cupcake!

For all who know me, it's no secret that I love to bake. So much so, that I've long envisioned one day opening my own little cupcake emporium. It's incredibly frustrating, and difficult, to find simple, exciting new recipes but I managed to find a delightful little magazine called, quite simply, Cake Decorating. I frantically searched high and low for the mag in literally every shop I walked into for a few days before the temptation got to me and I ended up subscribing.

Issue One came with a gorgeous gingham cardboard cupcake stand, two differently-sized butterfly cutters, and pink glitter. A godsend, if I'm honest, considering I've paid upwards of £3 for decorating glitter before! The easy-to-follow instructions in the mag have excited me beyond all reason, leading me to believe that I absolutely will ensure I turn my family into a family of cake and biscuit addicts!

I wasn't able to restrain myself from snapping up the second issue when I saw it in my local shop! This girl loves her baking too much to simply wait a few days...

Issue Two came complete with three reusable icing bags and nozzles. I've read mixed reviews about the bags online, but I'm sure anything is better than the disastrous bags I used for my Mother's Day cupcakes which literally exploded and ensured there was more chocolate icing on me than there were on the cakes!

I rarely rave about anything - especially magazines! - but it's rare that I feel so excited about a product. I've long waited for something that shares my enthusiasm about baking, decorating, and sharing and it's finally arrived in the form of Cake Decorating. I'm that one step closer to cupcake delirium.

An ode to (500) Days of Summer...

I'm about to sound incredibly hipster-like, but I've always loved The Smiths, long before (500) Days of Summer entered the realm. That's primarily because my mum had epic taste in music and passed that on to me, and partly because I went through the stereotypical miserable-teenager stage which had me listening to The Smiths, Joy Division and The Cure almost continuously. Morrissey and Johnny Marr shall forever be gods in my mind.

I was 18 when a little non-linear film entered my life. I was just beginning to leave my miserable teenager shell and grow into an adult (some may argue I'm still stuck there almost three years later, but we'll leave that for another day). Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel brought the characters of Tom and Summer to life and, for once, my kooky little indie-self suddenly became the 'cool' thing. Most indie kids would fall apart at something like that happening, but I completely celebrate it.

Anything that enables people to discover new music or experiences I'm all for. Any film that features a dance sequence to a Hall & Oates song deserves to be immensely popular and celebrated. And as I sit here alone on a Saturday night watching this film, I'm suddenly revelling in my kooky, indie, Smiths loving self. Especially now that people understand it's not a phase. It's simply who I am.

Well hello there...

It's been a while since I updated this lovely little blog. Bad Amy! I admit, I've been too busy for it. How incredibly terrible of me!

A lot has happened since our last meeting. I've gone and got myself a real job! Yes it's still an evil job, and one that consumes my evenings and weekends, but it's a real job with real people and - perhaps most importantly - real money. The funemployment is over, and I admit I have shed an imaginary tear at that thought, but now I can begin moving on to bigger and better things.

On top of that, my months and months of trying has finally led to the creation of Chasing Alice! Not many people are particularly interested in my little side project, but I'm trying my hardest to get people to notice. I'm all for more contributors, or feedback. Alice isn't just for me to chase, there's magic for everyone out there!

Taking a break from writing before I go insane. Amusing myself with 'Alice Roulette'. It's something I used to do as a kid whenever I was ill, and seeing as I'm still stuck in this cold/flu haze funk, and am suffering from severe writers' block, I've decided it's time to play once again. The whole idea of the game - which I invented as a six year old with chickenpox - is to flick through 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' and whenever I land on a page, I read the first paragraph that I see. After that, I watch the relevant scene from the original Disney movie. Sure, it's weird and doesn't make much sense, but it kept me happy as a child, and I'm still happy with it now.

So as I battle this awful flu/cold thing and attempt to break down this horrifying writers' block (seriously, why is it so hard to break through this?!) I'm finding comfort in my childhood companion. And also, baby animal pictures online. Who doesn't love baby elephants?

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It's 2012! We made it! I made it! I've developed a new fondness for exclamation marks!!!

Seriously, I can't believe that we have made it through yet another year. 2011 wasn't the best year (it wasn't the worst year) but I'm shocked I made it through relatively unscathed. And I sat down today to write out my New Year's Resolutions. Thinking that I'd only come up with two or three, my notebook suddenly had a three-page long list of resolutions. Some are slightly obvious (get a job, become healthier, quit bickering with Val) but some are slightly bemusing, even to me. It's incredible what your mind can come up with when you're not forcing ideas out. 

I doubt 2012 will be my year (after all, I'll still only be 21 at the end of it) but I've got a good feeling about the year. Maybe it's because I feel liberated from the god-awful job I found myself in last year, maybe it's because I honestly feel safe and comfortable with the people in my life, or maybe it's just because I know it's finally my turn to have an amazing year. Either way, I'm not going to think about it too much (another New Year's Resolution - Stop overanalysing everything).. I'm just going to enjoy it and hope that this good feeling lasts. It's been a while since I've felt so happy, I'm gonna cling on to it as much as possible.*

*Give it three weeks and I'll probably be saying "2012 is The. Worst. Year. Of. My. Life." It wouldn't surprise me.

It's all about this Amy..

Rewind, if you will, to last Thursday night. The day after my last Tinselitis post. Now, I was extremely busy doing my normal, regular Thursday night routine.. Travelling to Kingston to meet the Other Half from work before coming home to settle down into bed to watch American Dad. A regular, ordinary Thursday for me. Except the most bizarre thing happened that night. My blog literally exploded that night (well, not literally, but I'm known for my slight exaggerations). As I innocently logged into my account on Friday morning I discovered the strangest thing.. My overnight unique views had grown from a fairly modest number to the thousands. I sat bemused for ages, desperately trying to figure out whether my Tinselitis posts were really that good (they're not) or if someone had spammed the URL somewhere.

Turns out, I was wrong on both accounts. Instead, my blog name had attracted a vast amount of attention for the wrong reasons. You see, Thursday night saw the launch of a "reality" show on Channel Five. Yes, Five. Titled "It's All About Amy", it follows the hapless-yet-people-still-find-her-lovable Amy Childs from the secretly brilliant/awful The Only Way Is Essex. It turns out that people were obviously heading to Google after the premiere of the show to ask themselves, "exactly who is Amy and why is it all about her?" That simple, innocent pondering led them here..

Let me clear a few things up for those who may still be confused. I'm Amy (last name withdrawn, unless you stalk me on Twitter or Facebook). I'm 20. I live in Battersea. I have a dude named Valentine. And I look like this...

I have never, nor will I ever, participate in any form of "reality" show accompanied by the brilliant Yazz song that I'm not too ashamed to admit I know every word to.

The other Amy is Amy Childs. She's 21. She's from Essex. I don't know if she has a dude, but she has a hanger-on by the name of Claire Powell. And she looks like this...

The name is pretty much the only similarity. I don't have blow-up body parts. I'm not orange. And I don't vajazzle. I also don't believe that there is only 12 months age difference between the two of us..