A Great British Send Off

Us Brits love a good moan. We complain about everything. People don't queue up properly, you'll get eyes rolled at you and hear a series of tuts along the line. If people are indeed queuing up properly by the line is too damn long, well shop assistants, expect eyes rolled at you and tuts from down the line. (We spend a hell of a lot of our time queuing over here. It's an art form). We complain about the weather: on sunny days, we moan it's too hot and uncomfortable and on rainy days we moan about it always being cold, rainy and miserable. There's never anything us Brits can't complain about. I've often wondered several times whether we should consider taking away the crown of 'national sport' from football and handing it to a bunch of Brits waiting at a train station. We'd win every prize going (you know, unlike with the football)

But something truly bizarre happened this month. For two whole weeks, barely a single person complained about anything (well, not in London at least). You see, for seven long years, Brits have been complaining non stop about the Olympics. "It's gonna cost us a bloody fortune", "won't be able to move for tourists", "great, yet more delays to the District Line", and my personal favourite "just give it to the French!" (NO! We give nothing to the French!). When the plans were announced for Danny Boyle's opening ceremony, the complaints rose and rose until they eventually reached a fever pitch and I'm pretty certain the majority of those complainers just complained so much that they spontaneously combusted because they were nowhere to be seen after July 27th.

The Opening Ceremony was truly magical. We had everything that made Britain so truly amazing. Yes, some of the things went completely over the heads of the foreign viewers (the NHS tribute, for example) but we had Voldemort, and sheep, and cricket, and Mr Bean and the Queen turning Bond Girl for a few minutes. It was almost as if a collective sigh of relief occurred on that night. Either that or Danny Boyle used a few tricks he learnt whilst making Trainspotting and just plain doped the entire country. Because for the first time in my living memory, everyone just shut up, got on with it and had a jolly good time of it.

We cheered our athletes home. We all felt like hugging Rebecca Adlington when she couldn't match her double gold from Beijing. We felt a huge bursting of pride when our male gymnasts accomplished the first British men's team gymnastics medal in 100 years. We screamed until we lost our voices when Mo Farrah ran his 10,000m race and we tears started forming when Jessica Ennis took the podium. We were amazed when Andy Murray actually sang the National Anthem (kudos to you, Mr Murray) and we were finally able to breathe on the tube because we weren't stuck underneath someone's sweaty armpit. Although, I did get squashed underneath one of our soldiers on a Central Line train heading to Bank. I didn't mind, I thanked him for doing the job G4S were too feckless to undertake.

They think it's all over...

I don't know a single person who didn't sit down to watch the Closing Ceremony. Rumours were flying everywhere - would The Who be there? Or perhaps Take That? One thing we knew for certain was that it would be the "greatest after party of all time" and that the SPICE GIRLS would be there. Seriously, I was a little girl in the 90s, the Spice Girls are my Gods (especially you, Victoria!). Twitter was buzzing, Facebook was buzzing, and I ended the night teary and without a voice.

The Closing Ceremony did have it's faults. One Direction mimed their way through a dismal set, and George Michael turned his originally-promising slot into an advert (would it have killed him to have done Club Tropicana or Careless Whisper?!). There was also the over-saturation of Jessie J who appeared to have lost the keys to her wardrobe as she proceeded to butcher We Will Rock You. But, never mind, it was still bloody amazing.

We had Timothy Spall (Battersea boy done good!) and the best of our British supermodels coming out to David Bowie's 'Fashion'. Take That came out to sing 'Rule The World' and I don't think there was a dry eye anywhere in the country; we all had so much respect and admiration for Gary Barlow who sadly had a stillborn daughter last week. Yes, we got bored when Seb Coe rambled on a bit like I do, but it was still a great night. Pele made an appearance for the Rio de Janeiro handover bit, and the wonderful Boris Johnson got down to Spice Up Your Life.

I commented on both Twitter and Facebook that it's not a British party until Wonderwall and Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life are played. Both came on, both were amazing. Although, my heart broke a little that Liam Gallagher insisted on being called Beady Eye whilst singing one of Oasis' two best songs (so wanted Noel to come out and trounce his brother with Don't Look Back In Anger, alas it was not to be). 

I felt myself swelling up with British pride at the end of our amazing send off. We've looked after the Olympics and they've been so good to us. London has been a magical place to live in over the past two weeks and I'm so glad I got to witness this spectacle in my home town. I'm so very sad to see it leave.

...It is now

The extinguishing of the flame was a sad sight to see. I'm sure everybody remembers the world's sympathies after the Beijing ceremonies, snidely remarking that London would never in a million years be able to top it. I'd like to think that they were incredibly wrong. I think London did an amazing job at creating two beautifully diverse ceremonies and I now feel some sympathy for Brazil, who now have to beat us. If last night reminded the world of anything it's this: there is no music on earth that matches the excellence this little island has to offer. From Lennon, to Mercury, via Madness, Pet Shop Boys, George Michael and Bowie, we've had it all. Thank you for sharing in a most special night with us.

As I sign off, I can't help but wonder if things could be done a little differently in future. The main Olympics is all done and dusted now and we have a few weeks to go until the Paralympics. Could the two not be run concurrently in future? Think of how epic the closing ceremonies would be then! Just a thought...

A Heartbreaking Moment of Reflection

It happens every so often. An impassioned Facebook posting, or a heartbreaking plea in the national newspapers that tells us every parent’s worst nightmare: a child has gone missing.

This past week has been a bizarre week for the UK. We’ve been flying dizzily high on the coattails of the Olympics, basking in the glory of our wonderful athletes and merrily sticking two fingers up to the rest of the world (but mostly the French) at how well we’ve done.

As I logged onto Facebook last week, I was confronted with not one, but two missing children. Two beautiful young girls who had seemingly vanished into thin air. The first, 14 year old Molly O’Donovan from Banbury, Oxfordshire, disappeared on her way home from school. I forwarded on an email to everyone I knew and struggled with my desire to head up to Banbury to help search for her.

In the midst of the search for Molly another plea launched onto the Facebook timeline. This one was much closer to home. Just a few miles from my home, 12 year old Tia Sharp had gone missing. The appeal stated that she had left her grandmother's house in New Addington to make the short journey to Croydon to buy a pair of shoes.

Devastatingly, the news came on Tuesday (7^th August) that Molly’s body had been found in woodlands on the outskirts of Banbury. Such a beautiful young life extinguished for reasons that haven’t been made clear. Her heartbroken family have requested no public contact and we must respect their wishes. What they are going through is unimaginable.

Following the heartbreaking discovery of Molly’s body, fears began to grow for Tia. Just twelve years old, the reports surrounding her disappearance were conflicting at best, confusing at worst. Nobody really seemed able to confirm who was the last to see her, except the unanimous confirmation that Stuart Hazell, the partner of Tia's grandmother, was the last to see her. He stated during a television interview that he walked her to the local tram station, yet no CCTV footage of Tia on any trams or buses could be found. Eventually, he stated that he was not the last person to see her. Everyone who commented on the situation shared the same opinion: something doesn’t add up.

Police forces from Yorkshire were drafted in to assist the Metropolitan Police in their search for Tia. The Yorkshire police force have unfortunate experience in searching for a missing young girl in unusual circumstances, following the bizarre and sickening events surrounding the disappearance of Shannon Matthews.

At around 5pm today (10^th August, I sat back to enjoy a relaxing evening following a long day of writing when my phone buzzed. A message from a friend of mine telling me to brace myself and switch on one of the news channels.

The announcement was made that a body was found in the house of Tia’s grandmother, confirming everyone’s worst fears. The police also announced that they were launching a manhunt for Stuart Hazell, the partner of Tia’s grandmother. The same man who sat on national television and delivered a heartfelt plea for Tia’s return that convinced just about nobody.

My first thoughts at hearing both pieces of devastating news was identical in each case. Those poor, poor, beautiful little girls. They will never experience the joys and awkwardness of teenage life that we all take for granted. They will never be able to giddily recount the first time they were asked for ID and could merrily produce it. They will never experience life. It is almost too difficult to think about.

At the time of publishing this post, the Metropolitan Police have requested that anyone who sees Stuart Hazell should not approach him and should instead call 999. Everyone I know – parents in particular – are united in their shock over the events of the past week. Even one missing child is too many, but for the world to lose two beautiful young girls before they had even begun to live their lives? It's just too cruel for words.

Twitter: @AmyWhitear

Writer's Block

It was all going so well. Halfway through one novel, a quarter of the way through another, and planning finished for a third. Feelers put out there, envelopes and paper bought for the submissions. And then boom. Writer's block. I sat down this morning to continue another writing session and nothing happened. Fingers were poised, tea was brewing, but not a single word came out.

I've decided to stop for the rest of the week. I'll come back on Saturday (or Monday) hopefully with a fresh mind, hopefully with new ideas. Hopefully these damn novels will be finished soon. I certainly hope so.

In the meantime, I've started Cupcakes & Calamity which will eventually grow into a lifestyle blog of sorts, detailing bits and pieces and hopefully growing into a happy and healthy hobby. Take a look and let me know. New posts will be updated every Sunday.

The Great Depression Shield

It's the taboo subject that isn't really a taboo subject yet still has an enormous stigma attached to it. I am, of course, talking about mental illness. 

As children, we're never really told about depression, or schizophrenia, or psychosis in the same way that we're told about asthma, eczema, or the common cold. So when we grow up to be faced with these issues, we simply don't know how to handle them. There is no education about mental illness, yet it's something we're all expected to know about. We should know how to assist a friend suffering from depression and we should know how to handle a schizophrenic individual but we just don't. And it's incredibly terrifying.

In the UK, 1 in 4 people will experience some kind of mental health problem in the course of a year. I know that it's affected me, and plenty of people in my life. I've suffered with depression on and off for seven years now. I don't mean that I feel a little sad from time to time and get a bit teary. When I'm struck with an episode, it is catastrophic. I go from being quite an outgoing individual to a shielded introvert who suffers from chronic panic attacks and can't sleep for days on end. 

Luckily - or unluckily, depending on how you view it - I have a mother who has also suffered from extenuous mental health issues over the years so I grew up knowing that you don't have to suffer in silence and there is no shame in seeking help for it. But how many others are out there blighted by depression who just don't have the information or support system to seek help? I would wager that the number is dangerously high.

My anxiety and related panic attacks have been a burden for an extremely long time. At my previous job, my employers didn't want to handle my rare panic attacks which would leave me needing just ten or fifteen minutes breathing space. It got to a stage where I felt like the best possible solution would be for me to leave. I wasn't expecting to receive special treatment, but a bit of understanding wouldn't go amiss.

Unfortunately, during my research for this article, I discovered that I'm not the only person who has been made to feel like a burden on their employer. One girl I spoke to - who has asked to not be identified - returned to work after a month off, due to a breakdown. Upon her return, she was subjected to colleagues making jokes about her being a 'nutjob' or 'special case' and an employer who was reluctant to allow her to leave early one day to make it to an appointment with a psychiatrist. 

After just three weeks back at work, she found herself facing a dilemma. Should she stay at work, knowing it's the best thing for her, and be subjected to cruel comments, or should she leave her job and begin freelancing? Sadly, she left her job and is now struggling to find anything in her field.

Another individual I spoke to made a bold move that not many others would make when he started a new job: He informed his employers from the very beginning that he was a sufferer of a variety of mental illnesses, hoping that the clarity would make things easier. He had been diagnosed as schizophrenic whilst at university, and was also on medication for anxiety.

Instead of finding himself with compassionate employers who offered their sympathy, he found himself in an office full of reluctant colleagues, each one afraid to communicate with him because he was a 'psycho.' Eventually, his employer asked him to leave as he had created an 'unwelcome atmosphere' within the working environment.

Hearing those stories made me absolutely furious. Can you imagine an employer asking a physically disabled employee to leave because them being in a wheelchair made everyone else uncomfortable? Can you imagine the outrage if a pregnant woman found herself subjected to insults whilst in the workplace? It would just simply not be acceptable. So why is mental illness any different?

Legally, employers are required to make any necessary adaptations when they hire a person who is physically disabled. There are currently no laws protecting those who have mental illnesses. An employer doesn't have to make provisions to allow someone time off to see their psychiatrist, yet they have to for a pregnant employee.

I know there are some wonderful employers out there who bend over backwards for their employees and try their utmost to provide them with a safe, welcoming work environment. However, there are far too many who do little to nothing to assist their employees who suffer from a form of mental illness. Insulting the physically disabled used to be the norm and is now, rightly, incredibly prohibited. Why can't the same be said for those who have a hidden disability?

Twitter: @AmyWhitear

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

50 Dull Shades Of Grey

Unless you've been living underneath a rock for the best part of this year, you will know that the latest literary sensation is the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. Written by E L James, the "mummy porn" series follows a young, bright eyed Anastasia Steel as she is mercilessly seduced by the billionaire Christian Grey. It appears to be the book every woman has nestled underneath her pillow: you see it on buses, trains, tubes, and now, apparently, there is a film version on it's way.

Desperate to understand the hype behind the series, I downloaded the entire trilogy last week and embarked upon the 'Fifty Shades Journey.' Now, I'm not a mummy, nor am I desperate for a kinky, erotic fix in my life, but I thought I'd dive head first into the first novel to see if I would have anything to contribute to the numerous conversations my female friends are having about the 'thrilling trilogy.'

I settled down on Monday with a cup of tea and the first book, ready to be taken on a wild, exhilarating journey through the young Ana's eyes. I made it to the end of chapter one and was ready to gauge my eyes out. I forced myself to the end of the book and can honestly say it is, without a doubt, the worst book I have ever read. The 'kinky, boundary pushing' sex scenes were boring, and the love story between the two leads was tedious. I finished Fifty Shades of Grey this morning, and I can safely say I won't be opening the next two in the series.

Having shamefully read the entire Twilight series, it became painfully obvious very early on that E L James started her Fifty Shades of Grey journey as a writer of Twilight fan fiction. The parallels were too blatant to dismiss: the young, shy girl, stuck in the mindframe that she isn't pretty enough or cool enough to ever stand out from the crowd, whisked off of her feet by an incredibly beautiful man who manages to see her beauty and charm despite no one else being appealed by it. And herein lies the problem.

Twilight, in my mind, is an incredibly sexist story. Throughout the series, we are told that Bella Swann cannot survive without Edward Cullen. She consistently needs him to reassure her of her strengths, and hide her weaknesses. There is a desperately annoying scene in the New Moon episode which sees Bella attempting suicide because Edward has left her. It was the reason Twilight ruined any minuscule credibility it had in my mind, and it is the reason I despair at my grown friends holding it up as an incredibly romantic tale. Likewise, I consider Fifty Shades of Grey an abhorrent tale that is basically just Twilight without the Mormon influence.

I am not under any illusions that women will realise just how badly these two series' are patronising them, but I am incredibly worried that the next generation of bright, young women (including my young cousins, sisters, and my boyfriend's nieces) are being raised to believe that these stories are hopelessly romantic. They are not, not under any circumstances. Someone hand these women a copy of Wuthering Heights, before all hope is lost.

Twitter: @AmyWhitear

Get a life? I've already got one, thanks

On a rare evening off work, I settled down to watch the latest of BBC Three’s allegedly groundbreaking documentaries. In the past, we’ve been treated to individuals with freaky eating habits, not-so-informative sex education shows, and mothers and daughters with serious issues. Tonight, it was the turn of Cherry Healey in the form of her latest documentary series HowTo Get A Life.

The majority of the ‘documentaries’ offered up by BBC Three force me to sit there with my head in my hands. They often seem forcefully dumbed down, created by producers desperate to connect with the ‘urban yoof.’ As an ‘urban yoof’ myself, I find these documentaries incredibly patronising and I rarely learn anything, nor do I connect any of them to my own personal life.

I admit that I was a fan of Cherry’s previous documentaries for the channel, charting her stories on losing her virginity, dating, and parenting. However, I can’t really the say the same for the latest offering. The first in this series, titled Single vs Settled, presented us with Cherry pondering whether or not settled life had turned her into a bore. Over the course of an hour, we were greeted with several arrogant individuals with incredibly inflated egos, sleeping their way around town. It is honestly a miracle one of them hasn’t ended up with an STI or unwanted pregnancy.

Cherry’s own admission that she hadn’t changed her relationship status on Facebook to ‘married’ slightly shocked me. She stated that was putting off the change because she almost didn’t want to admit to herself that she was settled, committed, and no longer young, free and single. Is married life really that awful? Must we stop having fun as soon as we reach a certain stage in our relationship? I've been with my boyfriend for almost two years now – it’s a milestone relationship for the pair of us – and, if anything, I feel as if my life has become more exciting.

I'm with an individual who shares most of my interests: nights in with a takeaway and a DVD, nights out to either a restaurant or a cinema, fun days and nights out with our extended groups of friends – both single and those ‘tied down’ – and our mutual sarcastic status. I'm with someone who is supportive and encouraging of my writing, on top of my other personal endeavours. Likewise, I am also incredibly supportive of his education, and will continue to support him until – and after – he achieves his personal goals. The past 21 months have honestly been some of the most exciting months of my life, filled with love, laughs, and incredible memories.

Some of my single friends lament at my relationship status. They are enjoying their lives, being free and able to do whatever (and whoever) they want, whenever they want. They consider my life boring, and I should consider diving head first into their lifestyle. But it really doesn’t appeal to me. After all, is sleeping around with anyone who’s game for it really that exciting or cool? For me personally, the idea of sleeping with upwards of 100 people is absolutely abhorrent. Never mind the fact that it would be ridiculously tiring, I have no idea how you would even fit 100 people into your life, never mind the circa-170 men Bianca has fitted into 22 years of  life. I fail to see how anyone could be proud of that sort of lifestyle: sure, have your fun and enjoy yourself, but knowing that your legs are almost like a revolving door? The idea is absolutely revolting to me. I find it incredibly disgraceful that this behaviour seems far too common in Modern Britain, and even more disgraceful that this sort of behaviour is rewarded with reality TV shows, documentaries, and even book deals.

I know that most people of my age group would find the idea of settling down horrifying, but I find that it suits me. I'm sure that those featured in the programme tonight enjoy their own lifestyles and are, indeed, having fun. Maybe I'm just incredibly old for my age, but I would get rather bored of getting drunk, taking drugs, and sleeping around all the time, fairly quickly. Some may consider my life boring, but it’s my life. And it’s a bloody amazing one.

Twitter: @AmyWhitear