Making a Resolution: Will it be kept?

Almost on the dot every year, I sit down upon my harder-than-it-looks chair to ponder over which resolutions - ones which obviously don't involve embarking upon a bee-unfriendly diet of honey and curbing an non-existent addiction for teeth-enemy sweets (as I write this, a very smug and satisfied smile curls on my pouting-perfect lips - doesn't it feel so great to be following a beat of my own, particularly one which guarantees security of my health?) - hold the highest chance of being followed over the upcoming 365 days of the new year, purely on the basis that New Year's Resolutions are as much of a well-loved (yet secretly detested, if failure lurks upon your not-so-bright future) tradition as gluing your eyes to a 60-inch television throughout the holidays and risking a terrifying fall from the bumpy roof whilst stapling bill-hiking festive lights for the whole street - and possibly the town - to gaze and phone the police in a manic huff over. 

Considering that the majority of resolutions are associated with signing up to weekly meetings at Weightwatchers and seeing not only the pounds but the pounds lurking inside your bank account fly off (has anyone ever bothered to check out the price for a slimmers-friendly cake at the supermarket?), I, as a pear-devouring teenager, am left with an empty-looking list of resolutions which either don't strike any remembrance within myself halfway through the year or simply aren't worth the inevitable ache which shoots through my stiffer-than-an-upper-lip hand whilst taking the oh-so-precious time to use a pen instead of revealing my thoughts and uploading half-blurry pictures of my dozing kittens onto Whatsapp - in all honesty, what is the point of using a rainbow-coloured piece of purse-splurging paper to jot down your so-called 'wishes' when the need for it never arises? 

Despite what I would define as marvellous in relation to my writing skills (three paragraphs in and I already sound like a garish-appearing, lipstick-smothered pantomime queen), I guess that my intelligence falls below a racked-up high water meter as soon as the thought of producing a list of resolutions pops into my head; as is my temper-maddening tendency to fly into a breathless panic over forgotten French words during the lesson-free holidays, the typically unpleasant idea of hiding in my parents' wardrobe suddenly seems appealing when I'm faced - or choose to face - the difficult task of dealing with resolutions which barely make a dent on my life. The nearest that my tea tree-emitted hands have reached to a potential 'success' is avoiding to fall into the clutches of donning an ugly, baby-inspired onesie (if your lucky stars have certainly kept you in the dark from Britain's scream-inducing trends, please do not google any pictures for an animal-themed onesie, which is basically a romper suits for brainless adults without an ounce of knowledge as to Dior's more refined existence), yet in comparison to deciding to wait another year to take a French exam, steering clear of the most embarrassing outfit of the year, if not the whole century, doesn't necessarily strike one as a massive achievement, does it? 

Nah, it didn't ring any deafening bells to splash out on holding an extravagant party complete with a chart-topping album from this current decade blaring noisily from the music player (apart from Americana-style Lana Del Rey and Lorde's catchy lyrics and even more intriguing vocals, my music tastes have preferred to stay clear of chipmunk-sounding artists and potty-mouthed rappers), but at least I managed to stay true to my wish for an entire year and possibly the rest of my life - unless the world had been taken over by aliens with a particular penchant for panda-hooded onesies (alongside celebrity-promoting selfies and tongue-waggling images conjured by twerking diva, Miley Cyrus, the term 'onesie' has just won a prestigious place on my pet hates list), I think that I'll remain relatively sane as long as my beloved Swiss Milka bars all but cease to exist across the cheap chocolate-relishing world. 

So, in case that a crystal ball has not yet made my point, well, crystal clear, New Year's Resolutions just don't bring out the best within my achievement-loving self because there simply isn't anything which needs to be changed. Perhaps my brother, who has surpassed last year's record by receiving top-notch pinches and numerous playful punches towards the walnuts area from the one and only (moi, of course!), would argue against my statement, though I strongly stand beside my beliefs that I am entitled to air my views whenever necessary and called for - I don't just hand over the TV remote, whilst also giving up my movie-viewing freedom, for a football match without a form of payback, do I? In all honesty, the sole reason for which I remained at a crumbless table for fifteen minutes last New Year's Eve was to purely use up some free time before the clock struck midnight; bearing in mind that I'm a mere teenager whose closest experience to life is entering a melancholy sulk after being unable to come across any clothes during an one-day-only free shipping promotion on the Forever 21 website, creating a list of needless resolutions doesn't confirm an upcoming year of blissful happiness and continuous peace from my Dalek-voiced brother (especially when The Match to beat All Matches has drawn him towards the sofa for the entire duration of a tensely felt afternoon), regardless of the spirit-raising hope it may bring upon my attitude towards establishing several aspirations which may or may not stand a good-looking possibility of being fulfilled. Therefore, two of the last few lessons which I'm guaranteed to learn on the last day of 2013 are to never avoid jotting out a list of unreasonable and fantasy-like resolutions for the sake of it and keep clear of any pens around an hour before the new year arrives in explosive style!

Anyway, resolutions are obviously not the be- and end-all of celebrating a New Year, which offers hope and the opportunity to adapt a new approach towards anything; personally, I aspire to write a new story and progress further than my previous one, and keep my head buried in my studies for possibly the rest of my life! Oh, and taking as many pictures as possible of my ever-growing kittens throughout the whole year is an unignorable order! 

For your sake and potentially the users of social-networking websites, please play it cool if any invites to late-night parties have evoked a fascinating Fanta-slurping animal within your typically placid nature: as usual, a film and pretty lights will play a part in my New Year's celebrations, alongside a whopping headache and remarkable hunger the following morning. 

Happy New Year (in fourteen hours' time) 2014!

A Feast One Too Many?

Excuse me if I happen to interrupt you during your genuinely happiness-fulfilling feast of generously buttered turkey sandwiches and a plateful of nibbles which, rather frankly, nobody with an appetite as large as The Jolly Green Giant can resist, but I have quite a few things to say regarding the recent festivities and emotionally thrilling feelings surrounding Christmas, which has over the years become more renowned for the continuous servings of creamy iced chocolate logs and flavoursome pâtés being served at the high-class parties of the social season than the extravagantly decorated house adorned with plump-sized Santa lights and ridiculous ornaments which would make domestic queen Martha Stewart squirm uncomfortably in her shoes.

Yes, who could have the widely coveted power of denying the oh-too-honest fact that food plays such a prestigious role in almost everything we do at Christmas? Or, if you wish to search deeper beyond the obvious surface, neatly presented canapés and cakes iced to an inch of their shelf life (so it applies to money-wasting, cheaply-flavoured shop-bought cakes) are present in every season, holiday and event which goes around, though I won't go into shockingly great detail in relation to marzipan-topped Simnel fruit cakes and pink-bowed boxes of indulgent chocolate hearts on Valentine's Day because this current holiday - cracker-popping, TV-snoozing Christmas, if you fancy hearing a different description for the most entertaining and relaxing time of the year - is today's topic of this food-themed entry, so read on if the idea of being engrossed in being stuffed more heavily than a manufactured teddy bear grabs your wild-eyed attention.

Since Christmas Day shook me out of a restful slumber on a pitch black and damper-than-my-just-washed-hair three days ago, a luxurious feast featuring traditional favourites such as a succulent turkey - which was covered extensively in streaky slices of salty bacon during its near six-hour venture in the tightly-packed oven - and roasted vegetables took centre stage and was the beauty of our carnivore-like eyes during an once-a-year meal which has not only been erased from my memories but my heaving stomach, which has still taken on the ugly appearance of being as bloated as a balloon. That's Christmas for the majority of people, is it?

Scooping up every honey-glazed parsnip on the plate and finishing off a roasted onion which nobody else could dare to place inside their squeezed-shut mouths has finally caught up with me, dragging me along a deserted lane where the thought of making room for yet another roast potato brings a powerful wave of nausea upon myself - from today, all desires of tucking into an afternoon slice of my homemade fruit cake have but vanished like my typically disappearing ideas for my next Amazon No.1 bestseller book, which has compelled me to uncover an inner piece of courage to force myself to avoid my recently-created habits (those strongly-flavoured tins of Twiglets and bags upon bags of not-as-healthy-as-I-thought plain Doritos are the devil's snacks, so I've come to realize) like a non-existent plague unless lying around on sofa with an aching stomach is my idea of having a great time. As anybody fluent in the sharp-as-a-needle language of bitterly strong (though not as much as my dad's favourite beer) sarcasm would know, I've clearly expressed my boredom of gorging myself to the verge of spending an hour inside a bathroom without an open window because, after a day or two of letting your guard seek lower than your snobby-nosed taste in late-night car-crash TV, it just is not worth the hassle of sneaking a Lindt truffle heart from the cupboard if the near future only offers cocoa-scented burps and difficulty in squeezing into a slim-fitting pair of jeans, is it?

In all honesty, three days of pure food-related bliss and snatching a chunkier-than-allowed slice of turkey when my mum is placing her gaze upon the litter tray-destructing kittens could have been worse, right? Unlike a lot of people who simply don't know when to bring the Ritz-flavoured party to a halt and complain more passionately than my teenage tendencies as soon as January - and the often disappointing array of nutrient-lacking diets - arrives, sending the Christmas tree back into the stone-cold garage for another eleven months, I've plucked up the courage to ward off any wishes to stick my head into a bag of crisps in place for protein-rich nuts and vitamin-heavy clementines, a fruit which is often thrown away in a sad-looking box towards the end of the twelve days of chocolate-feasting Christmas. Oh, it will certainly take more than a peanut-featuring lunch to set me back on track in relation to my snacking habits, which still vividly remember the secret visits into the dining room in search of the stashed chocolate coins - until the hefty load of milk chocolate Santas and bars of luxuriant dark chocolate vanish into the winter-cool air, I still have a long while to go before I can proudly declare myself as chocolate-free.

All of us, whether we like it or not, have weak faults within our characters and mine affirms the home truth that the sight of well-made chocolate (preferably Swiss, if possible - one thing for sure is that I will never ever pick up a Cadbury's chocolate bar in the whole of my Lindt-loving life) provokes my legs to wobble like strawberry jelly, even more so when bags of coins are hidden inside my stocking on Christmas morning!

Besides, I'm slowly beginning to return to Planet Earth as the head-spinning excitement surrounding Christmas settles down, so the once urgent need to pile myself high with chilli-dipped crisps and warm mince pies is gradually diminishing into a more important desire to focus on anything else except the alluring subject of food. Of course, I enjoy everything which goes into making Christmas absolutely special - meaty turkey legs included - but the whole point of celebrating it once a year is in order to appreciate the joy while it lasts. At this rate, I will be all but giving up any hopes of baking a heavily frosted chocolate cake for my birthday in several weeks' time!

And, if I must say it, talking about turkey and one too many chocolate coins is getting me in the mood to undertake a search within the kitchen!

The Aftermath of Christmas Day: Sleepy Heads and Disappearing Sausage Rolls...

Hey you, how you're doing the day after Christmas came and went within a turkey-flavoured, festive TV re-run blur? Does your head hurt after trawling into your bed, which is still littered with tiny shreds of reindeer-patterned wrapping paper, a lot later than your usual bedtime? Hmm, it's going to take quite a lot of Christmas spirit to prevent you from sinking lower than the bottom of a bowl bulging with creamy bread sauce which you just couldn't bear to say no to - how can a nude-lipped teenage girl, with an increasingly freaky penchant for black-as-night liquid eyeliner (in scream-inducing thick lines, too), place a smile as forced as the one you specially reserve for those ancient relatives who always give you gifts which even the most uncaring, non-jolly person wouldn't envy? Oh well, I guess that there is only so much that I can do to lift your spirits on the day after Christmas - Boxing Day, if I wish to remain loyal towards my Paris-themed calender - but it's still worth a try, right? Here goes!

Despite giving in to my hard-to-fight temptation by splashing out a decapitated head from my silky smooth Lindt milk chocolate bear (not a pleasant detail in all honesty, but still a luxurious treat nonetheless) and a creamy truffle which tasted like a slice of warm, utterly perfect heaven and of course stuffing myself to the verge of chucking up in a darkened corner (preferably not in my own room, though the kittens' newspaper-covered litter tray would've been absolutely fine) with a spectacular range of honey-roasted parsnips and juicy onions, I still mustered up the admirable courage to drag my zombie-like form out of bed before eight this morning and tuck into a sweet-as-pie apple without nausea threatening to ruin my daily 5-a-day fun - quite an astounding feat on Boxing Day, huh?

Although the majority of those who wake up with a sore headache or astonishingly bloated stomach the following morning have probably drunk one too many glasses of supermarket-brand Bucks Fizz or became untamable whilst going wild on an once-a-year-only ramage across the crumb-littered kitchen, I was still expecting to experience the eventual perils of awakening before dawn to allow the festivities - those which traditionally involve opening my stocking inside my own bed - to officially commence and put an abrupt stop to my younger brother searching around the present-piled living room with only a torch to guide his way around the Christmas tree.

Whether it was excitement building more rapidly than a block of cheaply-designed flats round the corner inside of me or an energy-lifting clementine at lunchtime keeping me going, I still have no idea how I got through the entire day without experiencing the uncontrollable desire to place my head onto a pillow and sleep through Love Actually during the star-lit evening or allow my typically snappier-than-a-crocodile's-teeth temper get the better of my sleep-deprived self - compared to last year's fiasco of only gaining a mere four or five hours before dragging bags upon bags of chocolate coins onto my bed at 6am, I did far better than what I had led myself to expect, but don't all of us, whether it is related to an unhealthy cut-back of sleep or resisting the thought of picking up another sausage roll before sitting down for the most luxurious dinner in your entire life, make a sacrifice of some sort for Christmas? However, it must be said, losing out on much-needed rest isn't always intentional, as misfortune had intended for me to learn, and pre-elation of sitting next to your brother on the sofa - who, for once in his life, is not wearing a Samsung-sponsored football kit - and watching a few holiday-themed episodes of The Simpsons on a malfunctioning DVD player is simply part of my Christmas, which makes it even more special and meaningful to me.

Anyway, I don't think that I have grinned and smiled à la a buxom-lipped Angelina Jolie (in certain ways, our bee-stung lips share quite a few resemblances, though I prefer to not say it out loud) as much in my life as I did yesterday morning while opening my presents with my family, all of whom were beyond elated with our generously-given gifts. As I get older, there is always going to be more freedom and independence given in relation to choosing my presents and gaining full control of my wishlist on a Microsoft Excel document, the privilege of which I strongly appreciate and feel immensely proud that, unlike a lot of other people, needn't be fought for, yet my heart would have to be as hard as stone if I didn't feel a pang of yearning to return to my childhood days where a surprise was lurking in almost every box - alongside waving goodbye to dressing already scantily-clad Barbie dolls with yet tighter and shorter clothing, letting go of your parents and family making a decision for yourself is something you like and don't at the same time, which particularly hits home at Christmas.

Of course, I loved every single thing which I received because I already knew what it was and would therefore avoid any disappointment of being given a present which didn't set my heart beating faster than a fast nightclub track, but it isn't quite the same, is it? To my relief, I never have to think twice of setting aside part of my Christmas budget to my parents who, with their expert eyes and equally decent tastes to rival my own, never fail to surprise and please me with a gift which I either wear or use all year round - so, I can still have the freedom to make my own decisions and be the recipient of a present which is kept under wraps until the very last moment! With a nature more inquisitive than a story-seeking journalist, it always astounds me how I never stumble upon a secret surprise before the time comes for it to be revealed; part of me usually wins over my nosiness by reminding me of my yearning to keep the surprise a perfectly concealed secret until the moment comes in its glorious, tightly-wrapped (thanks to my dad's excessive usage of cellotape) glory!

On another subject, there was one part of the day which excited me more than I expected and received a higher total of appreciation due to my ever-flourishing interest in the skill: the mighty Christmas dinner. To my surprise, some people refer to the meal as a 'lunch' which, in my opinion, strikes me as a small snack to get you through the middle of the day before lapping up a hot meal in the late afternoon or early evening - and after complaining of nausea and a bloated stomach at the end of the 'lunch', a dinner is later served in the day, which surely must be the very last thing that anybody stuffed to the verge of bursting must want! Still, traditions are probably very different in my house in comparison to anybody else's, but I wouldn't change any of it within a heartbeat because it is utterly perfect in its present form!

Staying in line with a traditional turkey, which my mum roasts in juicy streaks of salty bacon the evening before (in all honesty, there is hardly any choice: how could we roast any another vegetables and stuffing when the larger-than-most bird takes up every inch of space?), we always pile our plates high with vitamin-rich vegetables such honey-flavoured carrots, tasty sprouts - which, I'm dying to admit, is one of my favourite foods - peas, roast potatoes and parsnips, which develop a delicious flavour when roasted in sweet honey. Oh, and I may get a roasted onion or two from the turkey - otherwise known as Juice Central - or the potatoes, so I probably get more than a week's worth of vegetables in one sitting; any fruit beforehand needn't count!

Although I may heave with exhaustion or sigh heavily as I shovel a bucket load of sprouts into my mouth half an hour after gathering at the table, it doesn't dent my enjoyment of the meal which my family share together and appreciate entirely - in my eyes, it is a meal which is spoken about for months after Christmas has all but disappeared from the household and brings us closer towards one another, which, if you look beyond the John Lewis-purchased presents and over-commercialized portrayals of enjoying the festivities, is the main message of Christmas. Getting together and displaying our love for everybody who means all the world to us is the whole point of celebrating Christmas, which ought to be promoted more heavily - despite coveting a hair curling styler rather strongly this year, I've pushed the presents aside slightly to make more room for promoting my appreciation of everything else which goes into making Christmas what it spectacularly is!

Now, excuse me, as my eyes are beginning to flutter weakly and transport me to a land of disappearing sausage rolls - festive dreams, I find, seem pretty weird - I ought to return to joys of watching my kittens fight near the defrosted piece of gammon. Sales or claw-scratching fights have become a tradition of sale-starting Boxing Day, right?

The Joys of a Very Merry Christmas Eve

Yes, the day for which almost every single person has been counting the oh-so-long days towards for months and awaiting for the clock to strike midnight to officialize the incredible beginning of a 12-day long feast has nearly arrived on our sodden doorsteps! All of the homemade frangipane (an almond-scented sponge topping) mince pies are ready to be taken out of the arctic-frozen freezer at a moment's notice, whilst the stomach-rumbling delicious sausage rolls lie in wait on a cooling rack to be snatched by a pair of monster-like hands (and beautifully filed nails, though the same would obviously not apply to my messier-than-David-Luiz's-hair brother, whose strikingly long nails can be placed on a par with a growling werewolf) and devour with a relished hunger and piles upon piles of presents only need to be brought into the living room, where the immaculately decorated Christmas tree - which glitters with shiny golden tinsel and sparkles like Swarovski jewels when switched on as the final blast of weakening sunshine fades away into a starlit night - welcomes the carefully wrapped gifts and sits beside the meerkat-themed bags (even though I've now hit my teens, a computer-generated picture of a red-suited meerkat never fails to place a smirk upon my nude-tastic lips) until the best loved morning of the year awakens us from an energizing, eagerly excited slumber.

OK, if I wanted to, I would probably carry on describing my traditional Christmas until the early hours of tomorrow morning, so I might as well get on with what my heart has long desired to say - Merry Christmas! No, no, no there isn't any need to log off this site and check out your secret Wish List on Amazon for the final time purely on the basis that I declared a cringe-worthy 'Merry Christmas' to my beloved (near non-existent) readers - at the moment, my excitement has thrown me higher than a dreaded gust of wind tearing away part of my garden's fence across the slippery lawn, which currently looks far muddier than a Glastonbury concert, and I seriously don't know when I'm going to return to stable ground and gale-free Earth! So, I do apologize in advance if this entry does seem a little messier and unclear as a fake crystal ball than usual, but surely almost everybody experiences a cluttered mixture of emotions before the big day arrives?

Christmas, however great it is to wrap up in a cosy new pair of pyjamas and spend time with cherished friends and families who hopefully manage to put their problems behind them and get along together, can sometimes send you in a worry-inducing panic which provokes you to run around like a headless chicken (and by the way, a turkey weighing as much as many people put on in heavily unwanted weight during the festive season is on the table this year comme toujours) because you feel intensely inclined to perform so many actions which, in reflection, are not possible without hiring a house-load of helpers to offer you a moment or two of pure peace - even if the agenda is simply related to whether you ought to shave or use an epilator on your hairy bush otherwise known as a pair of legs on Christmas Eve or days beforehand.

Considering that a women is usually paired with the face-scrunching job of cleaning a cold, slimier-than-a-used-tissue turkey and eventually cooking in it an all-too-small oven for around four hours - unless a wacky Heston Blumenthal happens to take charge of the kitchen, destroying all of your previous notions of a traditional Christmas dinner - us girls have a belittling tendency to complete countless tasks which, if honesty must be admitted, nobody else wants to do yet still highly need to be done. For example, who gets a buzz as energy-lifting as drinking a can of Coca Cola by wrapping up seemingly millions of presents beyond your usual bedtime and working through eye-drooping exhaustion until you reach a point where you can no longer push yourself through the fatigue clouding your hazy mind?

Although I do wish that I could offer some help and do something useful for my mum whilst enduring a restless and exhausting night, there is hardly any chance of my getting through several rolls of teddy bear-patterned wrapping paper until I probably have children of my own; the same also goes for producing nose-sniffing batch upon batch of spicy mince pies and pushing a trolley loaded with plain-flavoured Doritos and basic necessities during a weekly shop at the supermarket on the weekend before Christmas. Despite having many years before the whole of my preciously regarded time is numbered before my half-closed eyes, I still feel the need to compile a list solely dedicated to completing certain tasks in order to remain as organized as I usually would be during the year, albeit an ink pen which actually works isn't always to hand - apart from telling of my daily tales and opinions on my diary and peeling a bag load of juicy carrots, I've ticked everything off my imaginary list, provoking a smile, one which tells of heartfelt relief, to light up my face. Therefore, a major disaster of flying into a huff and attempting to blame all of my problems upon my door-slamming brother has been neatly avoided and I feel free to do whatever my heart wishes to do, making this Christmas even merrier than before!

Though I may get my fair share of responsibilities as I get older and perhaps a little bit wiser (absolutely typical of a Mickey Mouse-viewing, toy tiger-hugging teenager, after all!), there is always plenty of space to be made for moments utterly dedicated to having a great and memorable time - what sort of message would be promoted if Christmas was no longer a season to let your hair down and unleash your inner euphoric spirit as the world has never seen it? Having already made a secret pact to steer clear of losing all sense of sensibility during the festivities (despite the obvious lack of energy-soaring sugar, you would be amazed how much vitality a single can of Diet Coke offers to a party-swarming mood), I cannot deny the fact that my heart soars with elation at the jubilated thought of dressing up to the nines in a new black spotted dress and coating my face in a layer of shimmery make up, a look which I specially reserve for highly important occasions which definitely includes Christmas Day as anyone would expect! One of the greatest aspects of getting older is that I appreciate the strenuous effort put into transforming your ordinary, everyday look into one which would rival a world-famous star on the Hollywood Red Carpet and how it dramatically changes the way I feel, offering a sanguine confidence with which I'm not entirely familiar yet seems absolutely right for my newly found bold mood!

Also, I can bring myself to think something else apart from opening presents, many of which I added to my wishlist back in the sweating heat of the summer, as I'm really looking forward to watching and inevitably learning how to produce a successful Christmas dinner which is still the talk of the town halfway through the very unfestive year. Within the space of less than a year, I've picked up more tips and absorbed a tremendous amount of information in relation to baking and cooking which has enabled me to understand all of the effort which goes into roasting the mouth-watering and crispier-than-a-Dorito (sorry for the example; it's just my unfortunate luck that my brother has nearly devoured most of my favourite brand of corn crisps) roast potatoes and making the turkey keep its succulent tenderness and taste deliciously moist moist during its long venture into the desert-like oven for several hours. So, alongside finding out how to operate a smartphone back to front and successfully completing a story for the first time in, well, years, my cookery skills have reached higher than I ever believed was possible and has led me to the conclusion that the Christmas Dinner is on a par with the presents. However, I may change my tune as soon as I start using my new and soon-to-be-legendary Curl Secret with twenty-four hours...

As I near the end of this entry, Christmas is unsurprisingly getting nearer and Santa Claus - in whom I abruptly stopped believing years ago as soon as it dawned upon me that if he did exist, a tiny Tiffany's diamond would somehow fit inside his sleigh, though my wish has not (yet) come true - will probably be eating his fifth meal of the day before setting out on a tiring journey across the world, eventually arriving in my town and supposedly eating the mince pies which my dad always keeps asking to eat after dinner. You and I know the answer to that one, right?

Anyway, have a very Merry Christmas and enjoy every single moment of it - from the moment I awake at 6am and carry my bear stocking onto my bed, the magic will begin and feel as fresh as it did a mere year before!

Rain, Mince Pies and a TV Overload: Christmas Traditions

While I politely stretch my legs as inspired by my semi-professional gymnastic-mad kittens (forget the old 'semi-feral' title; judging by Bart's loud purr as he pleasantly enjoys being stroked by my seemingly giant-sized hand, he couldn't be further from the original truth!) and await to go outside into the damp and grey clouded unknown, I'm preparing myself to get my foundation-caked complexion soaked more heavily than a grubby pair of cheap trainers and risk falling over in the mud which is messily adorning the front, horribly soggy lawn. Rain, without a doubt, has officially become one of my largest pet hates - of course, no reference to my two furry pets, both of whom have somehow learnt how to destruct their litter tray and recent edition of The Daily Mail before breakfast is served - and I've got no choice than to face the hard facts that it will probably remain a constant presence as Christmas comes and eventually goes.

Let's face it, at least one of us have endured a misery-inducing wet Christmas if the option of flying over to a sunnier Hawaii hotel or a fitness-revitalizing trip to a ski resort in Switzerland has been hastily slammed shut before our puppy-sad eyes: despite being incapable of remembering what I did in a clear state of mind several minutes ago, I can never fail to recall the countless memories of mud splattering my size seven star-patterned boots or miserable clouds resembling a similar shade to a typical grey tracksuit boring into my eyes, bleeding them dry of any wishes of spending a perfect White Christmas in the comfort of my own warm and cherished home. And what I find the most strangest above everything else is that I either don't remember or had an attention span of a memory-losing goldfish as a little girl, otherwise I wouldn't feel so adamant that all of my Christmases - and Easters, too - have been dedicated to a shower pouring heavily on our soaked-through garden and preventing my brother from kicking a ball as imposing as a pair of breast implants over the fence.

Alongside obvious recollections of devouring bowlfuls of much-appreciated brussel sprouts - am I the only person in the world who just adores the natural flavour of vitamin-rich brussel sprouts in their perfectly tasty form? - and awakening my groggily-spoken brother from a soothing slumber at six in the pitch-black morning to check his heavily loaded stocking, rainfall has simply become a tradition at Christmas, albeit I hasten to add that it is a highly unwanted one. Don't get me wrong, jetting halfway across the world to a warmer and more vibrant country (believe me, all signs of eye-popping colour is drained down the toilet more dramatically than my paling complexion if a storm happens to befall the grim-faced town) does not interest me in the slightest because Christmas strikes myself and many other people as an occasion to return to your roots and stay near to your beloved, but should my blossoming hatred for non-stop downpour and fierce gales more powerful than a chemical-addled nail varnish remover be ignored?

Amongst giving in to my brother's persistent pleading and sneaky stealing of my recently-baked batch of cinnamon-coated snickerdoodles (minus the calorific and energy-packed chocolate bars) and dealing with constant messages of rejection regarding work experience, I put up with a lot of various, crazy things which usually issue a threat of driving me round the bend. Yet being surrounded in an area soggier than a pastry bottom on The Great British Bake-Off all the time is hardly the pick-me-up which I'm looking for as I rip open my thickly-sellotaped presents (thanks Dad!) in a darkened living room on an eerily grey Christmas morning. But perhaps it's just me or my dampness-detesting hormones getting the better of my wiser senses, all of which takes place on a suddenly bright Sunday morning...

Apart from getting knee-deep in dampened fields of grass and running for my life as a pair of muddy football boots sends alarm bells ringing as they near my squeaky clean high heels, there are numerous other traditions at Christmas which hold a particular presence in our families, whether associated with our choices or as decided by the powers beyond our control: the TV guide. Yes, I may not dedicate half my time to lying on the sofa and being transported to a programme set on a planet similar to my own - there is a box piled high with clementines which needn't go to waste, you know - but a life-changing tragedy would have had to occur if the annual purchase of the festive television guide was unable to stir any hand-clapping excitement from my leopard mitten-clad paws.

Despite barely encountering any programmes which I would bother to record on the Sky+ box, I still enjoy reading the TV guide because it has claimed the high exclusive title of a treasure in the household - how else would my blockbuster-mad brother remain so organized as to which films he yearns to watch? And, like many people, Christmas results in a higher viewing of programmes than usual because a wider range of films, genres and popular programmes are aired when they may never receive any precious screen time throughout the year, which somewhat creates a pile-up of unwatched shows on the Sky+ planner and uses up increasingly valued space for other shows that other members of my family wish to record. Except for a festive one-off edition of a documentary following the often hormonal-fuelled lives of teenagers at a secondary school, I have so far recorded no other programmes which run the blood pressure-rising risk of draining the storage below a critical level - what sort of hard-hitting evidence could my sibling conjure against me if I only take a tiny amount of space from the drama-cluttered planner?

And finally, one more Christmas tradition which is always welcome in our spice-adoring home is the one and only mince pies, all of which must be homemade with the most elite jar of nose-clearing mincemeat (you'll see what I mean if you stick your nose inside it). For some reason, I don't quite know the origins of mince pies except for the well-known fact that Christmas simply wouldn't be the same without a hint of golden pastry standing out in an airtight container and the mouth-watering spices and dried fruit packing an immense load of flavour within a single bite.

This year, the traditionally pastry-covered mince pie was given a remarkable makeover when my mum adapted a recipe featured in a festive-themed leaflet which used a frangipane topping (one which contained a powerful combination of ground almonds and strong almond essence, instantly reminding me of the distinctive scent of marzipan) and decorated with flaked almonds, whilst still remaining true to the original pastry bottom and mincemeat filling. The result was even more delicious than the traditional recipe and went down as a massive hit among my family; as soon as the first spice-coated currant hit the tip of my tongue, my instincts knew that Christmas had finally arrived in my home.

Of course, anything else could provoke such powerful feelings of festive fever for yourself by decorating a tree, using your best pen whilst writing cards to family and friends or attending a party - all of it counts. Sure, a few drops of rain may not be a tradition which automatically plasters on a Hollywood-perfect smile on my lips, nor does an overload of television programmes reduce the sickening ache in my stomach after a heavy Christmas meal, but all of it holds a place within the festivities, right? As I like to believe, traditions either already exist or you create your own - just make the best of them!

Presents Mixed with Envy - a Christmas Thing?

Having typically prided upon my generous and gift-offering nature since I first handed out Bratz-themed sweet bags to my friends as a bright-eyed seven year old, Christmas usually signifies that the generosity season has well and truly arrived in silver tinsel-decorated style; without delving into the £5 or less section inside a booze-retailing shop to discover a marvellous gift for a particular somebody once a year, how would Christmas' original message still thrive in today's selfish-riddled culture?

How much I may have set my overwhelmed heart upon a stylishly designed tweed coat from the legendary designer label, the one and only Chanel, since I stumbled across my first high end glossy fashion magazines several years ago, my overly dramatic dreams must be shoved across to a lonely-looking side and instead I ought to focus my attention on finding the perfect present for a person highly deserving of being given a treat. Sure, a thrill of pride may warm my heart a little bit as I come across the most ideal gift - the ones which I'm always willing to search for my nearest and dearest family, all of whom spread heartfelt delight by blowing me away with a spectacular surprise on The Day - but my inner all-about-me persona threatens to take the throne, to which I'm sure that a large majority of teenagers will also admit whilst they are fighting a losing battle against surfing the 'net for a timeless little black dress in their even smaller hourglass waists (unsurprisingly, I was making a reference towards myself, which only exaggerates my point).

Before I leap onto an immensely clichéd bandwagon and lost as much sight as one would during a manic three day-only sale on the notoriously slow H&M website (which still doesn't offer free postage as often as onesie-loving New Look), there is a massive need to declare the fact that I am not selfish. Of course, many of you could be more tempted to roll your thickly eye-liner-penciled eyes towards the peeling ceiling than to jump to my defence in the manner of a like-minded, strongly admirable teenager would (where are they?), but I'm capable of defending myself by stating that my family and I chose to adopt two semi-feral kittens a mere fortnight ago, one of whom still has the painful tendency to hiss like an enraged Hollywood diva and unveil his sharper-than-you-would-believe claws upon our red-raw hands if he happens to feel threatened or sense a teenage-inspired tantrum overwhelming his tabby-and-tortoiseshell body.

Despite being entirely aware of their alarmingly sad background and fully prepared for any problems ahead of us, my family and I decided against looking elsewhere for kittens because we finally allowed ourselves to pour our hearts upon these two timid, yet utterly adorable kittens who deserved the right to belong in a safe and welcoming environment for the rest of their lives. Though the process has seemed to be a drag and extended beyond the two weeks since we brought them home, I wouldn't want to take care of another pair of brothers because I spend almost every waking moment thinking about what they are doing and steadily creating a rock-solid bond. So, in that sense, I wouldn't dare to place the subject of my thoughts upon anything or anybody else except my two squeak-tastic kittens, confirming my false status as a selfie-taking, self-obsessed teenager, but I can understand the allure of taking a heavy load of consideration about presents - particularly for your fastly expanding mind, as you experiment with various things and settle into what makes your heart soar higher than the moon - at this time of year as we are constantly bombarded with stereotype-fuelled presents, all of which sends us into an headache-inducing overdrive where we cannot think straight or fancy stealing another spicy mince pie from your mum's stashed-away collection.

As it is the case for various and the most bizarre things in the world - many of which I would rather not name because I simply don't know what they are - our minds are the key to sorting out our interests and dislikes into tidy boxes, forcibly steering clear of making an error which would provoke all hell to break loose. Taking into consideration that a generous number of slouching, bubble gum-chewing teenagers are unable to break their irritating habits of tossing their ketchup-stained clothes onto an even dirtier floor and are constantly nagged by their parents to clean themselves, an eye-popping amount of us are being brought up with the endless mantra of taking care of ourselves, which later leads to us mainly focusing on our emotions, likes and lifestyle, barely leaving any room for much else except relationships, free time and the scrunched piece of Maths homework which your mum somehow discovered in your chocolate Pop Tart box. Therefore, a near-catastrophe takes place almost every year at Christmas when the time comes for you to stand up straight, put on a passion fruit-scented pair of clean clothes and make your own decisions - all of which relates to buying gifts and cards for everybody else except you, which only makes the irresistible idea of flying into a My Sweet 16-influenced huff extremely alluring. And when you really ought to be spending your time on the internet more wisely than usual on the lookout for the most exciting gift to have ever existed in a land full of cheaply designed t-shirts and make-up sets containing more chemicals than a bleach would contain, you just can't - or will not - resist a tiny peek at the neon Beats headphones or latest remarkably fast smartphone which you've been dreaming of for months on end.

Come on, I have short-lived moments - do you honestly think that I have enough time to dedicate a thorough search in the cosmetics department on Amazon when there are two curiosity-seeking kittens awaiting a second bout of attention? - when I log onto a particular website, such a shopping channel of which my mum has been a loyal member, to coo and sigh over a collection of bright-coloured lip glosses from a certain mineral-based beauty brand, usually five minutes before lunchtime is over and the last half-empty bag of salted Doritos have been taken back to its permanent home inside the cupboard. Typically, I barely experience any pangs of yearning for the items which I look at because I otherwise wouldn't be making such a massive deal about it, but I guess that I wouldn't be a modern-day human if my watchful eyes failed to be captivated by the advertisement of a pair of glamorous earrings at a pocket-friendly price - for only a minute until my interest loses its spark and dies in the midst of the blinding sunshine peeking through the window.

Unlike budgeting adults and families whose main priorities lie towards making ends meet and basically surviving through the difficult recession, us teenagers are at an advantage to run wild with our money and have fun with it before the endless worries of paying off student loans and the consistent rise in basic living affects our enjoyment-seeking lives. Although I tend to keep my spending limits to an absolute minimum, it hasn't prevented some soon-regretted purchases of vivid lipsticks unsuited to my pale complexion, half-read boring books and baggy jumpers looking extremely unflattering on my petite frame taking place over the past few years, as I've assumed control of my buying habits and taken choices once decided by my wise parents into my own hands. So, if the troubling problems surrounding youth unemployment have yet to affect the most unfortunate of us for a few years left, why destroy the happiness which we yearn to hold onto during our often difficult 'wilderness' years when we could enjoy it for a while more, even if only a new CD enters the equation?

All in honesty, not only our age group but fellow adults ought to find the perfect balance to dedicating one's life to themselves and reaching out to others when they need it most. Who cares if we give a box containing an eye-catching pair of earrings to a relative or friend when you may experience a pang of envy for having it - we probably have one too many sets of jewellery which ought to be worn more often, anyway. Selfishness doesn't necessarily affect teenagers, but I guess that we are more vulnerable to remaining cooped up in a world entirely of our own as we search for the hidden key lying inside the core of our hearts. Christmas presents should not get in the way of spreading festive cheer to somebody worthy of being a receiver of our generosity, should it? If the moment of spending time on another person seems too much to handle, clearly remember that your moment will soon come, whether it is on your birthday or during the festivities which makes Christmas a season to unleash your inner jolliness.

And as I donate £10 of my hard-earned pocket money towards my younger, anger-inducing brother, I can only smile and await for the moment to arrive when his cash offers me the gift which I've been anticipating for a very long time...

I, The Lipstick Queen!

For almost as long as my mind is capable of looking back upon (particularly when a not-so-secret viewing of an old festive Disney cartoon has stretched my pencil-sharp memory beyond its usual capabilities), lipstick - typically viewed as a class higher above the glimmery tube of lip gloss with a more revoltingly gloopy consistency than a can of thicker-than-wavy-hair condensed chicken soup - has always been one of my top make-up must-haves, its glorious, colourful beauty shining more prominently to my captivated eyes than a tutu-donning Barbie Doll as a young child.

Like many other pink-loving girls, I found make-up to be a startlingly, yet fascinating revelation, with an instant desire to explore its world seemingly planets away from my own. Lipstick, in particular, generated more interest and buzz than a tantrum-inducing Justin Bieber concert at the o2 arena because it reminded me so heavily of my mum, who, unsurprisingly, applies a creamy layer of her favourite buff-shaded lipstick every single day - in fact, my one year old self must have loved the sight of eye-watering expensive lipsticks so much that my chubby fingers was unable to fight the temptation to draw the stick upon my Twilight-pale skin and the delicate cream walls, previously free of any cough-provoking dust and heart-dropping stains, embarking on my very first experience with the cosmetic as I now know it today. I still think about my short-lived adventure every now and then - with moment-long flashbacks occasionally popping through my thoughts usually surrounding Audrey Hepburn's dainty black dresses by none other than Givenchy, powerfully felt jealousy turning my mineral-coated complexion garden lawn-green with envy - because it opened up a life-long relationship with the cosmetics and, indeed, eye-popping magenta lipsticks which neatly adorn my heavier-than-it-looks make-up box, solely dedicated to the miracle products which transform my blemished face into an astonishing look of natural elegance within a flick of foundation-coated kabuki brush. 

Although I've already discussed my frankly-detailed love affair with mineral foundation and the numerous ways that it has revolutionized my make-up routine for hopefully many years to come, one item - or several, if various colours of the cosmetics rainbow count - has relentlessly served me well, offering me the confidence to figure out the brain-straining Sudoku puzzle inside the newspaper each day and staining my ashamedly bubble gum pink Hello Kitty when I take a sip of colder-than-ice milk at each meal. Without it, my wings - which have fallen in love with the spectacular gift otherwise known as freedom - seem to have been clipped and hidden away inside a locked metal box, its key thrown away into the unknown: this is one of the many perils from which I'm bound to suffer if a mighty red pimple dares to rise to the surface on my greatest asset, the buxom-shaped lips. Yes, lipstick is the all-time favourite cosmetic product which I couldn't bear to live without for a single day; just like sneakily melting a few squares of dark chocolate almost every evening, applying a thicker-than-necessary layer of velvety smooth, moisturizing lipstick prepares me for the long day ahead, where difficult French verbs and cowering kittens with a hiss more venomous than a rattlesnake await me. 

And so, as the words are lying on the edge of your tea-coated tongue, why does my heart flutter at the sight of a lipstick counter in an overcrowded beauty shop, my knees daring to fall beneath my two-inch heels? Somehow, part of myself cannot reach the very core of myself and offer a fully-developed answer, despite having almost an hour to go until the clock strikes the signal for cupboard-opening lunchtime: all of these wonderful colours, ranging from frosty pale pinks to scarlet siren reds to deliciously gothic plums, draw me into a fantasy which I can play out, if I'm willing to fork out nearly a month's worth of pocket money for an all-time classic Chanel lipstick. Perhaps my much-envied youth (I seriously don't need any reminders about that one!) is a reason for which I dream of donning the latest trends in the fast-paced beauty industry because hardly any shades - even the widely avoided ones, which would provoke an wild evacuation from the popular MAC counters - give me any fear-inducing goosebumps, which displays a certain amount of courage as to which colours that I would be willing to try. As long as the ingredients are very unlikely to cause an unwanted reaction against my combination/sensitive skin (face it, everybody has sensitive skin to a certain extent - why be afraid of declaring it?) and the price tag doesn't make my eyes water uncontrollably, there are no barriers in front of me which cannot be broken. 

Some people get their thrills from donning the newest collection of Jimmy Choo stilettos; others receive their uncontained bout of excitement by spending a whole day in a Dior changing room; and I, on the other hand, would be sent to heaven and back if I were to try on literally all of the most luxurious lipsticks which the world has to offer, though it must be said that only the widely renowned and critically acclaimed brands are worthy of residing in my make-up box. Sure, I may be young and prone to purchasing short-lived shirts from New Look on a heart-stopping whim, but would I take a leap of faith with a product which could or could not wreck my wild-hearted record of high scores on long-lasting, pleasantly silky lipsticks? Although I typically remain loyal to high street brands, many of whom run countless ad campaigns which hardly anybody would be able to avoid on either TV or a popular magazine, I always keep my savvy-hat on when it comes to searching out the good and, rather unfortunately, the bad brands from which I'm desperate to stay away at all costs. 

A few days ago, I stepped out of my cosy-decorated, warm-as-baked-mince-pies comfort zone by splashing out a few more pounds than usual for 'the lipstick of my dreams', as I so happened to coin it - a perfect nude pink. Typically, my heart leaps at the sight of a dark, goth-inspired lipstick which adds a certain punky edge to my minimalist attire, to my parents' frown - unknown to myself, the colours which I picked out in a five-minute dash had a tendency to drain my face of what little colour I had, taking my Casper-pale complexion into consideration. 

Originally starting off as a joke surrounding the then-popularity of the Twilight films (and my penchant for reading the attention-boring books within the space of a warm summer), I stopped making a forced effort to go out into the sun during the hottest hours of the day, which later led to my skin turning a fairer colour. Despite my eventual realization that a nightmare would have to occur if my marble-shaded skin suddenly looked like the contents of a fake tan bottle, I just couldn't get as much colour as I liked - and instead of resorting to applying nasty chemicals onto my reaction-prone skin, I embraced my lighter tone and glowed in spite of the startlingly fact that I looked more like Buffy Summers' blood-sucking enemy than an olive-toned Californian babe. 

Which, therefore, led to my continuous problems surrounding an impossible discovery of a more muted lipstick suited to my skin colour, which I yearned to be a basic nude with a hint of pink. But what turned out to be the most ideal nude for somebody usually highlighted the stark contrast between the colour and my complexion, banishing all previous hopes of coming across my long-wanted nude. In all honesty, I wanted and needed a nude for various reasons, not purely to keep clear from any ghost-related remarks: I needed it to manage an easy-going look with darker eyeliner, which seriously does not associate you with Hollywood glamour if paired with an equally noticeable lipstick, and I also wanted to make-under my look ever so subtly, as many examples had been given in popular fashion know-how magazines and books. 

After many weeks filled heavily with frustrations and near tosses of boldly-shaded lipsticks - needless to say, the complete opposite of what I'd been searching for - I eventually came across the nude which has dramatically changed my make-up routine within a mere few days of being bought. Produced by applauded beauty giant Maybelline New York, the colour, aptly titled 'Sweet Pink', is the perfect addition to my overwhelming collection of lipsticks, many of which have been purchased in recent months alone: whenever I brush my hair or look in the lightly dusted mirror (I cannot complain about the dust lying on the mirror if it disguises my sore-looking outbreak of spots so brilliantly!), I usually have a double take because it's quite hard to tell whether I am wearing any lipstick or not. So, the quest has finally been completed and my baby-smooth lips look miles better for adopting a softer, more elegant style, which makes a brilliant match when teamed with a pair of smoking hot eyes! 

Saying all of this has only made me realize how much I love wearing and putting on lipstick as part of my daily routine; for all I care, I may as well have skipped my usual Braeburn apple because I just wouldn't feel entirely the same without a glimpse of colour twinkling in the sunshine. From nude pinks to deep berries, almost all lipsticks - except the mud-like brown - gain a thumbs up from me and derives such a vivid passion within myself, which is pretty hard to discover as the clock counts toward the impending Doritos time. 

You definitely won't have to think twice about what I'm wearing tomorrow!

Life as a Girl: Hard Work

Alongside getting on with piles upon piles stacked high with incomprehensible Maths schoolbooks and attempting to place a permanent reminder inside your forgetful mind to record that final episode of your favourite show on Sky+ before anger as you've never known it flares more dangerously than a flickering Yankee Candle, us eyeliner-wearing girls have got it all when it comes to dealing with life's adventures and problems, right? 

From resisting the face-scrunching temptation of sneaking a ball or two of golden marzipan whilst decorating a gloriously rich fruit cake which reeks of knock-you-out brandy to figuring out how you could possibly disguise an irritating ladder on your black-as-night tights being noticed, my life as a girl and eventually a young woman hasn't been as easy as it may seem for the other gender - car-honking, Doritos-stealing (at least that it is the case with my finger-dipping brother, whose breath smells of sickly sour cream and chives) and football-dedicating boys. Unfortunately, I've already reached a stage where gut-wrenching realization has opened my pencil-coated eyes to the world surrounding my navy coated form: whether it's about getting my hands dirty by peeling the squishy skin on a salty sausage to produce a homemade batch of tasty sausage rolls or even daring to pop the question regarding a ten minute search on the internet during the crucial, un-televised football match, destiny typically seems to have written a girl's future in the eye-catchingly twinkling stars, which I'm sadly unable to see on a regular basis due to the pollution and satsuma-bright streetlights clouding the sky from a crystal clear view. 

What I'm trying to explain in fascinating terms (if my adventurous usage of the Oxford Dictionary has been worth it like a L'Oreal skin care advert) is that while boys needn't worry about taking care of their skin or give a slightest hint of attention as to the best method of putting on the beloved decorations onto the Christmas Tree in a coordinated order, the world definitely wouldn't function as efficiently - or perhaps not all, if a frazzled tracksuit-clad mother somehow 'forgot' to place the family's ready meal of solid frozen fish fingers into the oven during the so-called 'captivating' final of The X Factor, leading to a historic meltdown for all those affected - if girls and women didn't have a burden to bear by carrying on in the manner of admirable soldiers when the going got tough and their shoulders heaved with the unbearable weight of carrying everybody else's problems like a sweat-inducing bag of jacket potatoes. Who cares whether the term 'feminist' comes to mind if one wishes to describe me - in fact, I don't shy away from being given a title which symbolizes equality for a gender whose caring and fiery nature is not a force to be reckoned with, nor ought to be ignored purely on the basis that my naturally medium-length hair isn't shaved to an inch of its life and my voice doesn't growl or sound gruff, my femininity being proudly displayed in every step I take and discouraged from hiding in a darkened corner. 

Until now, I suppose that I've never particularly given much thought or time towards the razor-hot subject, which burns more ferociously than many other matters relevant to our world in this modern day and age, especially due to my young age, which has a rather irritating tendency to be overlooked by all those high and above my kitten-heeled frame - an esteem-lowering problem which has the strongly deserved right to be banished from our world for once and for all. Perhaps commonly described stereotypes had weaved their inexcusable messages brimming with nonsense into my head a little bit: unless you are a member of feminist society Femen, where the majority of its members have the bravery to bare their torsos in horribly freezing temperatures to make the headlines on page 20 in a national newspaper, feminists are often portrayed as man-hating, out-of-control creatures with a fierce temper to match their beliefs or are so believed by many people, including fellow women who are given an immensely false impression of others of their own gender. 

OK, I'm not a brunette version of a kick-ass female vampire slayer or jaw-dropping beautiful video game character with a noticeable penchant for heavily padded bras (obviously, my Xbox-loving brother would know all about that one), but I think that it's alright to stand up for my beliefs and obvious rights as a female because none of it ought to inflict any harm upon somebody - what could be deemed as so humanely wrong to yearn for respect and receive in the nicest form possible? According to my decade-old Law book, The Sex Discrimination Act 1975 promotes the values that a woman deserves to be treated as equally as one would with a man, yet countless articles report that these rules are failing to be complied with, despite the act becoming law almost forty years ago. So, what with the law being on our sides and stating the obvious facts that discrimination of any kind is a defence, is there anything else that can be done to prevent being shoved into a corner and stopped from our voices being heard? 

It saddens me that it may be very true that a certain stigma towards my gender - and obvious lack of abilities in relation to kicking a muddy ball on a soaked-through football pitch and domineering form of a tall, lanky male as to my average, curvier figure - could continue to exist for years and potentially generations to come, regardless of rules being legalized and put into place for nearly four decades. Although luck has successfully stayed on the right side of myself by avoiding any comments, jeers or feelings of discrimination from anybody, fear somewhat strikes a chord inside the pit of my stomach that another girl or woman could be experiencing what would make any person of the female species to gasp with horror - why should we bear the blow of being struck with oh-so-cruel words, which turn our hearts to bulletproof glass and destroys binding faith in whom we believed that we could trust? It's an on-going battle which could take place from an over-stacked aisle at a supermarket more jam-packed than a John Lewis Bear & Hare display to a conversation with a person at school or work; and what are we supposed to do when our guards are down and all of our weapons and barriers are left elsewhere, feeling utterly defenceless by the overwhelming power of knife-slicing words? 

Along with dreams of pursuing a successful career as either a journalist or a barrister and an unlikely fantasy of purchasing a bottle of Coco Mademoiselle for less than a quarter of a year's worth of strongly valued pocket money, my wish is for discrimination for all people - accepting their gender, lifestyle choice and whom they want to be - to disappear within a wave of a magical wand, preferably one without silver tinsel and messy glitter which somehow finds its way into my kittens' soft tabby fur coat. As long as they live a respectable lifestyle and respect the law and other people, I don't see why making offensive comments and upsetting others purely because of their assigned gender at birth ought to become a part of everyday life. Sure, dewy-skinned youth may play a special role in regard to my opinions - until I become an official taxpayer at the age of eighteen, squeezing a yellow-headed spot is the worst of my worries - but it doesn't suggest that I cannot form a view about a problem which could one day affect myself or somebody I know. Feminism should be celebrated with a light to keeping a clear head when the tricky topic of genderism pops up on either the news or a seemingly 'outspoken' public figure. Don't hush your voice to a whisper if you have something to say about your gender - it is about time that difficulties and perils about being female are destroyed forever, whether you wish to face your fears or not!

Dreaming of a Perfect Christmas!

Come on, get out of your man-made tunnel and face me directly in the eye - there surely will not be a possible way of wigging out of this soon-to-be-asked question, unless a secret corner has not yet been discovered with my watchful, sea-blue eyes. If today's date has strangely 'slipped' from your mind or you are still getting over last night's dreadful offering of so-and-so programmes on TV, one only has to count all of their ten fingers and one of their needed-to-be-cut toes in order to remember that Christmas is just eleven days away from our desperate reach; and having recently caught up with my old, cringe-worthy Disney DVDs surrounding the heavily commercialized holiday, I'm absolutely ready to hold a glass half-filled with pure pineapple juice and spread the festive cheer! Yet, as I feel utterly compelled to ask, are you dreaming of a pitch-perfect, easy-peasy Christmas like almost everybody else across nations and continents around the world?

Maybe it isn't entirely my cosy-as-home place to be placing my attention over the length of time it takes for an immensely large turkey - which, in my opinion, gives the startling impression of weighing as much as many people put on the scales over the festive period - to defrost before being cooked in the oven typically on the night of Christmas Eve; I probably won't have to give much thought about roasting a bacon-covered turkey for many years yet, but as my interest for all things culinary-related has steadily grown over the past year, I guess that discussing the Christmas dinner fascinates me somehow. Besides, Christmas just wouldn't feel the same in my family without a lovingly prepared turkey taking centre stage on our dinner plates, despite a near-disaster occurring with the oven - which happened to break down and threaten to place everything in jeopardy - on Christmas Eve several years ago.

Having been thrown into a deeply unwanted and perilous situation on one highly special occasion, perhaps a part of myself wishes to appreciate all of the effort - and the mouth-watering smells which waft into my awaiting-to-be-amazed nose into the living room - which goes into producing and creating an once-a-year-only meal that is still spoken about in months to come: how could such a potential catastrophe not leave a mark upon myself when the memory remains as clear as an expensive bottle of luxury mineral water inside my mind? That year, it proved to me that, sometimes, you simply have to make do with what you've got and use it to your advantage; also, the visit from the repairman in the week leading up to the big day has become somewhat of an annual tradition, albeit a demand for a check inside the dustier-than-my-bedroom oven is often not warranted. A perfect Christmas, I soon realized, doesn't necessarily suggest that you have to follow countless examples which have already been made in order to have a great time - i.e. a portrayal of Christmas time being set in an idyllic, pleasantly-presented village where all of the family meet up with one another and sing carols without giving the evils to a particularly detested uncle or whoever and it actually snows, resembling those jealousy-provoking festive cards which you admire and sigh over every single Christmas, is a misrepresentation of the holiday which ought to be banished into a locked metal box straight away. However, snowfall doesn't quite compare to a troublesome oven wiping away jolly spirits on one of the holiest days of the year, does it?

Whatever may be aired on the television over the next few weeks - from films you've seen and nodded off during previous holidays over a thousand times to more modern, yet increasingly dull TV specials which provokes a hidden yearning to be rid of an electronic screen until an abrupt airing of your not-so-secret guilty pleasure grabs your attention from the messy bowl of shelled mixed nuts - none of it will take away my child-like excitement over the impending holiday, which seems to take me back to the days of snatching a chocolate coin or two from a bowl whenever my mum's eyes aren't in my leopard print-donning direction and babbling about my must-have present to whoever will dare to listen to me.

This year, I've set my easily-won-over heart upon the famous Babyliss Curl Secret, which is already a massive hit in the hair-dressing industry and has reached a numerous legion of followers within a few months of being released to the public, which I firmly believe will put a stop to my oh-so-sad days of purchasing so-called 'praised' curling wands and rollers, the lacklustre curls of which barely manage to last a whole day, let alone transforming into a mane of beach-perfect waves the following morning. I literally landed on top of the moon when I grabbed my hands upon the curl secret at a temporary, heart-stopping price during a promotion a few weeks ago where the price was dropped significantly, delighting not only my bargainista-titled self but also my parents, both of whom encouraged me to snap up the offer and rid away their worries of my splashing out extravagantly elsewhere. Well, I'm not so sure about whether my dad, whose hair is definitely not long enough to be curled (and, thinking about it, the same fact applies to my hair-gelled-to-perfection brother, too), felt as eager as a recently charged Duracell battery to add another hair-related gadget to my massive collection, which has been heaving with an extreme lack of space since I got my first curling wand almost three Christmases ago. Still, as long as I'm guaranteed to swap my Kim Kardashian-straight hair into a showstopping mane of enviable curls on Christmas Day, what more could I want?

Apart from the greatly looked forward to Christmas lunch and piles upon piles of lavishly wrapped presents beneath tinsel-decorated tree, spending time with loved ones and friends at this time of year is one of the biggest parts which signifies perfection in our light bulb-reflecting eyes - if one can pull off a successful party without a hitch and receives praises from all attendees, a fault would be unable to lie amongst the dimmed scented candles and rows of canapés lying in their magnificent glory before the merry guests, all of whom are revelling in the euphoric atmosphere and bonding with fellow people sitting beside them. Without family and friends participating in the festivities, the true meaning of Christmas, where others come before your needs - a message obviously forgotten during a flash sale at your favourite shop, when the yearning to spoil yourself rotten on a designer pair of shoes seems a greater need than getting a well-meaning gift for a fellow person - is therefore lost, which is quite sad indeed. Opening presents and taking pictures with my family on Christmas Day is a tradition which signals all of the perfect qualities I consistently look for in everyday life - happiness, peace and appreciation, the most meaningful emotion of all. To experience gratitude for all of the wonderful presents and joys which I'm a part of, I repay my dues via spending some beloved quality time with the people whom I love best and whose company I constantly revel in; it is one message which I have never dared to forget at Christmas and the meaning behind it becomes clearer to me as each year passes by.

So, I could be having a perfect day when a growling kitten hides behind the TV sockets as my hands are stuck in a sticky bowl of glacé cherries and my brother pleads to the sky above for the curious creature to have mercy on his beloved Xbox 360 console - and this applies all year around, not simply one day where many people go out of their way to play the Oscar-winning role of a heavenly parent, sibling or friend over the period of twenty-four hours. Even if one of the kittens makes a bold move to escape from his basket over the next few days, my euphoria won't disappear into the chilly winter air because I have already found my perfect slice of heaven - just enough to make this Christmas the best one ever!

Socializing via the internet - is it my network?

Unless a dirty paper bag has been adorned over your head like a scruffy, horrid-smelling Christmas tree which is simply dying to be taken out in the trash bin for the past few years, social networking - websites where you can 'tweet' about your highly opinionated beliefs or click the famous 'like' button over a message which doesn't necessarily make your heart flutter - has exploded across the world, gathering an idolizing legion of networkers who couldn't dare to resist uploading a picture of their half-cooked breakfast for the whole world to see and inevitably share.

So, judging by my extensive use of needle-pinching, sardonic adjectives, I guess that I've made it fairly clear that social networking - and the irritating references to these websites from highly respectable newspapers to everyday conversations, many of which have stirred up more trouble than a ghastly-flavoured beef broth - is not for myself, despite my oh-so-young age and typical stereotypes leaning towards teenagers spending and wasting their time slaving away on Facebook for an entire weekend. Honestly, am I going to be alienated because of the fact that, yet again (cue the predictable ding-dong of a bell), I choose to not follow the crowd and credit myself to staying true to my beliefs, regardless of the obvious yearnings of giving in to mood-lifting temptation? Hmm, perhaps I ought to stay off the originality-is-best subject for the time being, though the topic of how social networking websites are taking off so many people's lives is a necessity to be discussed urgently. 

As I live in a popular tourist-attracting country situated in money-squeezing Europe where great fry-ups rule the roost and generally poor weather is a subject to avoid in a manic haste (seriously, have you even made an effort to guess yet?), I always get the impression that, behind the orange-streaked followers of chemical-addled fake tan and potentially fatal cans of caffeinated drinks, social network websites are one of the most important aspects of life here because I'm hardly able to escape these text-speak traps on Facebook or blurry pics of half-dressed celebrities posing on Instagram wherever I go, shoving me into a corner from which I am stuck and incapable of running away to a more pleasant refuge. 

OK, I may have an account on Blogger which, as it is one of the many companies being snapped up from search engine giant Google, could be viewed as a social network, however I think that I've made my values and purposes fairly obvious to the eye - taking a reasonable chunk from my precious free time to tell of my opinions and live in hope of somebody other than a domain website checking my blog out is, as I believe, quite a stark difference to writing a comma-less sentence in the heat of a regrettable moment on Twitter at three in the morning, so that unmissable fact doesn't deserve to be ignored or waved off as though it doesn't hold any purpose.

Besides, I just want to declare that my mouth stretches into a cat-like yawn before anybody mutters the gut-wrenching words 'Facebook', 'Twitter' and the countless other sites which are increasing in popularity all the time - yes, a smartphone-loving and blog-writing teenager has grown tired of reading about almost everybody she knows on the internet, many of whom seem to give the relentless impression of following the so-called crowd and being unable to forge a path staying true to their originality. Is half the world turning into mindless, tweeting robots who cannot feel a tinge of emotion unless those feelings are associated with their Twitter account? If these problems - and yes, there is an actual problem if workers, in a day and age of hard-hitting recession where every penny has to be squeezed, are losing their 'valued' jobs for offending co-workers by posting a nasty comment on Facebook as a hollow laugh - carry on at such a spectacular rate, I'm doubting whether any of the damage which has already been made can stand even a possibility of being repaired. 

Yet, as doubtless others have managed to notice, people whom many would regard as standing in a prestigious position in either politics, media or any other industries don't appear to be setting such a great example from which the public, particularly the younger generations who have a higher tendency to be led astray into what I would prefer not to mention, can commend and appreciate. Perhaps the criticism from newsreaders and well-known public figures seeped into my mind more greatly than a new Lady Gaga song, but it was impossible to not join in with the disgust which followed shortly after the Prime Minister David Cameron posed for a 'selfie' (which, by the way, is the Oxford Dictionary's current Word of the Year) along with Barack Obama and the president of Denmark at Nelson Mandela's memorial several days ago. Who ever suggested that the leader of a highly influential country - and the same also applied to the other presidents - had the right to pose for a picture at the memorial of one of the greatest people to have walked upon this planet? Alongside the struggling economy and worrying surge in sales of weight-gaining Gregg pasties, we have no hope at all if a person with so much power can give in to such a selfish impulsion and promote messages which ought to be discouraged: surely there is a hint of common sense in what I strongly believe?

Although there have been a couple of moments in the past when thoughtless wishes of letting impulsion get the better of me have seemed all too irresistible to restrain myself from, luckily I've been able to reach the other side of the tunnel and allow self-pride radiate across my face - by turning my head away from which a lot of people couldn't bear to miss out, it has developed my strength as a person and displayed skills which I never knew lived inside myself to shine brighter than a twinkling star in the midnight blue sky. Sure, the matter may have been related to setting up an account on Facebook, which definitely doesn't hold such a high importance as hiding away a secret stash of Revels does (at least in my chocolate-addicted world), but it doesn't alter or diminish the surge of self-respect rise as heavily as a powerful wave in the saltier-than-soy-sauce sea; if I can remain immune to the brainwashing powers commonly associated with popular social networking websites and give up chocolate for a second year in a row for Lent, which other levels in society and success can I reach? Plus, posing à la a buxom-lipped model and uploading the otherwise face-reddening picture for the whole internet to look at doesn't necessarily guarantee a legion of admirers turning up on your doorstep - by trying to impersonate a commonly-called 'pretty' celebrity, which sort of benefits is that picture going to offer you? In other words, it's a displayal of egoism and an opportunity to show your true, often unwelcome colours, which makes my feet run faster than a spotted cheetah in the savannah than a tie-dye shirt losing its messy cool in a washing machine. So, if you wish to remain firmly in my good books, do not share a picture of yourself scowling into your five megapixel camera with the entire world; nobody likes to catch the ghastly sight of a teenager looking and probably behaving like a drama queen, OK?

Had the services stayed true to their original purposes, perhaps I would've created an account and counted myself as a fellow tweeter or Facebooker (if that word happens to exist) by now because the actual concept of keeping in touch with your family and friends through the internet sounds pretty fun. Yet, like so many things, the initial message is quickly lost through foul-mouthed rants, jaw-dropping pictures and heated discussions which would make your skin crawl with either heart-gripping fear or eyebrow-raising disgust. A while ago, I eventually concluded that I don't wish to be part of a society who tags along with the same boring crowd, therefore risking a farewell to a better and more welcome nature. Of course, I'm not making a suggestion that everybody loses sight of their wiser senses whilst using social networking sites because there are plenty of admirable people who log onto Facebook, Twitter, etc for the correct purposes, but the problem surrounding the abuse going on and horrifying messages being promoted has to be dealt with as swiftly and quickly as possible. Yet who will? It has been a re-occurring situation since the very first social networking sites of their kind were created around a decade ago, including Myspace and Bebo, both of which still have a plentiful amount of users. The future, in certain ways, looks brighter than a dreaded neon pink manicure, but I can't help but wonder what lies ahead in relation to social networking as we know it - are more sticky dilemmas and loss of originality ahead of us?

How to Not Write a Best-Selling Novel

As the excitement surrounding the festive seasons burst like a thunderous firework for its admiring spectators to witness and pour their joy upon à la merry-singing Christmas style, my nerves are preparing for a very startling signal to commence a worry which has become more traditional than purchasing so-called 'popular' CDs which are chucked away into the next car boot sale: getting my rougher-than-an-accent hands dirty by writing a festive-themed novel. Ugh, this annual nightmare which somehow seeps into my mind without leaving a trail or planting any clues which even puzzle-mastering Nancy Drew can comprehend manages to stir up more problems that I already have to deal with - hello, has anyone bothered to remember the ugly breakout on my chin recently?

Seriously, around this time in near mid-December, my life-long yearning to spend at least an hour more in front of a glossy red-covered laptop to achieve my ambitions of producing the next best-selling Christmas novel of the year springs out of nowhere - rather like my new kitten, Bart, whose wide-eyed curiosity has already landed him in trouble within ten minutes by leaping through a gate located in the 'hub' (otherwise known as the kitchen, a land of golden chocolate coins waiting to be snatched) in an astounded blur - and creates this sudden surge of panic to think of a fully-developed story within the next five minutes. Even if you don't have lunch with horror writer Stephen King once a week or are attempting to curb an on-going addiction to Mills and Boons novels, it doesn't take an university graduate or self-titled genius to realize that flying into a dismayed panic does not guarantee a much-envied place on The Sunday Times best-sellers list, much to my befallen hopes and angrily muttering disappointment.

Of course, I should bear this in mind because it was only back during the hottest summers in seven years (a.k.a. the one which almost everyone except myself wishes was still here, remember?) that my inner courage took the world by storm which later resulted in a story being written and completed - all before I eventually returned to my studies, astonished by the work which I couldn't quite bring myself to believe was entirely my own. Whenever my mum popped the question regarding my out-of-the-blue determination to dedicate hours on end to typing a chapter or two on my smaller-than-a-plate notebook, no answer - at least, none which weren't in a sense logical - would form itself on the tip of my tongue, awaiting to be dished out and spilled in a less messier manner than the glass of milk my brother sometimes 'fails' to finish. Whether boredom had dared to claim my soul and store it inside a greyer-than-a-teenage-strop dungeon for the remaining weeks of the summer holidays or something truly wonderful clicked in my hard-working brain, I'll never know: all which took up my time until early September was handing over my reins to my previously locked-away imagination, witnessing a near-lost dream be restored to vivid life.

So, a girl like myself, who is amusingly compared to brainiac Lisa Simpson (by a certain Simpsons fan whose secret boyhood idol is modern icon Bart) and trusts her gut instincts whenever she has stepped the dangerously thin line as to how much dark eyeliner she ought to wear without resembling a dog-tired panda, should know the best method of creating a fictional novel without coming across a dead end, right? Although my original method may not be viewed as the best or necessarily a wise one - bizarrely, placing too much attention on the plot before I have even started to type a single word makes me hit an undestroyable wall, therefore reaching an abrupt end at what should have been a wonderful beginning - it works absolutely fine for myself and steadily maintains my enjoyment during the writing progress, which can come across tedious moments of confusion and pure hot-headed irritation; not particularly the emotions that a loving family wish to go through with a red-eyed teenager, is it?

If I do continue to experience these painful feelings in relation to writing a novel - and also missing an one-time-only (or once-in-a-lifetime, as mighty online retailer Amazon 'forgot' to add in the description) offer on a novel-writing guidebook during an internet-freezing Black Friday sale, thanks to my father whose gifts at clicking a button at one mph will not be erased from my memory in a hurry - I'll probably have no other choice than to gather my ideas at the beginning of the New Year in order to avoid a last-minute rush before the festivities begin. Maybe there is a reason why I never enjoy going out and wandering through the crowded streets on Christmas Eve; alongside my hunger-satisfying breakfast of sugar-free muesli nearly being brought up my scorching hot throat at the sight of a boy band-themed toothbrush in a supermarket leaflet this morning, there is nothing that creates as much fear as being forced into a tiny corner and given a strict order to perform a task which is clearly easier said than done. As an independent young adult, I don't wish to return to my days of being barked at to behave like a sweet-faced angel and receiving a demand twice, otherwise what is the point of growing older and, as many would expect, a lot wiser? And what is even worse is that I am giving myself the near-impossible task of completing a job within a noticeably decreasing time limit: how on earth do I conquer a battle which I have somehow conjured of my own accord?

Since there are no longer any places where I can attempt to squeeze my hoodie-wearing self into a ball and hide away from novel-related hassles (unfortunately, the corner-adoring kittens have already reserved their spaces for the time being; hmm, my heart manages to envy their lavishly-led lifestyle), I'm going to have to get off my chair - obviously once I've finished writing this, of course - and face the bookworm demons sending me terrorizing threats to produce a book which will probably either become an esteem-destroying disaster or never see the light of day: which of those two unappealing options would I choose? None, if a decision could be made! Relaxation and a drop or two of easily-stretched imagination are the two vital ingredients which can potentially create a story which generates heartfelt pride and leaves you feeling satisfied of your passionately produced work - how could I dare to forget those two basic facts during my euphoric ten minutes dedicated to unleashing my newfound passion of brazil nuts, a festive favourite beloved by thousands across the world? Forget about slaving myself away whilst a welcome blast of warm winter sunshine bursts through my see-through curtains and the treasured Christmas decorations - from teddy bear-patterned stockings to happily-smiling Santa Claus ornaments to beautifully designed lights which warm your heart as much as it brightens your festive mood - are loving adorned in almost every room I go to: now I've come to the conclusion that forcing myself to do something which may not be currently in my best interests is not the end- and be-all as to how I go about completing a task with passion and clarity. Maybe when my writing skills have progressed beyond telling of my 'fictional' tales about yellow-headed spots and a mane of lifeless-looking hair oiler than a roast potato, I will feel ready to produce a Christmas-themed story of mine without resorting to nail-biting panic half-way through my chocolate advent calender.

And that, I hasten to add, is how to not write a novel!

Hissy Kittens and Sunny Weekends

As I had literally fell head over heels (though I wisely choose not to walk around in two-inch heels in my overly creaky bedroom) for my two new kittens, Bart and Benny, and had dedicated yesterday's blog to the ever-so-cute pair, I have since stumbled out of bed in a flustery panic and applied a thinner-than-usual line of brown eyeliner which may or may not coordinate with my naturally blue-as-a-teenage-tantrum eyes - in simple, much-loved plain English, my eyes have opened up to the world surrounding me, which happens to include a sudden spell of sunshine peeking through my bedroom's windows, a dark tabby-and-splash-of-white kitten hissing at his bowl of supposedly 'appetizing' prawn cat food and a set of Santa lights with a belly larger than a fast food addict neatly adorned across my wooden wardrobe. Getting up in the morning is never an easy and jolly task, is it?

Still, why should I give into my usual habits and have a moan like many would down a pint of lager (sorry for mentioning this, last night's viewing of the hilariously laugh-out-loud comedy The World's End is still as fresh as a daisy in my mind) without giving it a second thought? Alongside a traditional, sleep-satisfying lie-in and the mouth-drawling smell of a Sunday roast tickling up my eagerly excited nose, I like weekends quite a lot because there isn't a better time to escape from the daily perils of reciting a French phrase which makes absolutely no sense and being granted an hour or so to fulfill my heart's contentment via pouring my honest soul into an entry for my beloved readers (if I have any) to read here, so Saturday and Sunday definitely deserve a place in my filled-to-the-brim good books.

This weekend, however, has already turned out to be different to the usual ones which typically result in my lying on a blanketed sofa the colour of a golden labrador's coat, flicking through the pages in a 'free' newspaper glossy magazine and peel a few chunky-on-top, yet skinny-as-Alexa-Chung's-legs parsnips (quite like a pear, though upside-down) in order to help my mum out with the once-a-week roast, which was sadly abandoned last week due to my brother and dad attending their first Chelsea match together at Stanford Bridge. One thing which I can proudly remember (and have also learnt) this month is that a serving of chicken nuggets and horribly salty french fries (the worst food to eat when one has a disgustingly red spot near their lips, which have strangely plumped more in size than a collagen facial filler) is incapable of ever replacing the homemade goodness and lovingly prepared effort of producing a meal in your own kitchen, even if it wasn't necessarily your own choice to make.

Anyway, my lips can proudly curl into a smile this week because there are two fluffy kittens who deserve to discover the uplifting joys of playtime! Since picking them up from an animal rescue centre on Friday afternoon, this is the very first weekend that Bart and Benny are spending in their new home, which has excited their peculiar-eyed curiosity and have slowly set them upon the path to being brought out of their solid shell, and I have been able to make some progress with the timid pair by managing to stroke Bart's silky soft fur very lightly, creating a soothing atmosphere for himself and slowly gaining his trust. Although I usually stick to a regular bedtime rather strictly as to not disrupt my easily thrown-out-of-course sleeping patterns, I couldn't have cared less about hopping into my warm bed at a later time on Friday night when Bart eventually allowed me to place a finger upon his handsome fur coat - unlike Benny, whose darker, gold-specked furry gives me a strong impression of both my former cats, Tom and Jerry, Bart is a grey tabby with a smaller amount of white fur on his paws - which made my heart swell with happiness and my head ache with sleepy-eyed exhaustion. Bart nearly knocked me for six when he opened himself to human contact within a few hours of entering what would appear as a strange, noisy building in his muddled mind, which will hopefully give out a positive signal for his 'touchier' brother (i.e. Benny has either picked up on my hormonal tendencies or had some serious drama queen problems before I adopted him) to feel confident in my presence.

Meanwhile, I've finally figured out that Benny had assumed the tough role as a mother figure for Bart and presumably the other two kittens in the litter because he initially had a tendency to hiss and spit like a sweaty, saliva-drooling footballer if any of my family dared to make a single move towards his tensed form. Even placing a bowl of food which he would secretly gobble up with a feverous hunger in front of him would derive a sudden bout of irritation and mean-eyed fury - just like myself whenever I've made the most of my wild cat knowledge and growled like a lion towards my annoying brother, Benny would either give me the evils or grumble more dangerously than the head-banging building site near my home! To my relief, though, Benny's mood has steadily calmed down and been reduced to an occasional snake-inspired hiss (who knows from which source he picked up his fright-inducing ideas?), which has fizzled out my initial fear of getting near him to a hysterical giggle; why allow fear to tug at my heartstrings when my dad is obliged to carry the kittens in their box and give them a bowl of food every few hours? At the moment, I would rather it not be me, so I can happily lie back on the sofa and smirk in spite of my dad's cries when Benny's menacing side takes over! If Benny gradually gives a form of permission to stroke him and eventually become accustomed to daily life, I think that he and I will get on very well together - teenage and kitten drama queens have quite a ring to it, don't you think?

Despite making a not-so-secret promise to myself that I would try to avoid placing a particular emphasis on the adorable two Kits (one promise which I hope to keep is to upload a picture of the pair on a future blog entry; surprisingly, both of them rather enjoy playing the role of main stars in front of a camera!), I guess that I couldn't help myself to talking about them, could I? What with my brother turning thirteen last Saturday and having a life-changing epiphany regarding ridiculously sweet chocolate milkshakes last weekend and my long-awaited kittens turning up this week, weekends - and upcoming Sunday roasts - have never seemed better! I'm already thinking about this time next week where my spirits are preparing to be lifted in relation to Benny's Hollywood-diva attitude becoming a bit more humble: where will next week take me and my utterly adorable kittens?

Kitten Mania - Here I Am!

Little over two months since my heart was broken as traumatically as a snowman-themed snowglobe by the saddening death of the last of my two beloved cats, Jerry, I'm now able to smile with grace and experience the thrilling sensation of my soul being brought back to life by none other than two pretty handsome (though their appearance, by a quick glance, does give the impression of looking very feminine) male tabby-and-white kittens called Bart and Benny.

For a while, I've narrowly avoided the once-tedious subject of white-pawed kittens as the previous news regarding the pair who had not yet been given the all-clear to come home made me go through more heartbreak than I ever believed was possible during the soul-destroying stages of grief and acceptance. Alas, quite a lot of events have taken place since I last wrote here about my joys and sadness associated with the two kittens, whose pictures that I'd taken in a confused blur on a smartphone camera were adorned on a wall and captivated all of my attention whenever I switched my phone to a cute screensaver every so often. These kittens seemed utterly perfect, in both appearance (OK, a girl like myself should not use vanity when it comes down to looks, particularly if they are specially good ones) and personality, their endless tales of playfulness being described and a warm feeling tugging at my heartstrings, which, at the time, had nothing positive to hold onto as I walked my first steps through understanding my loss and, in effect, recovering from the blow which had forcibly threatened to knock me off my feet - how could I resist the alluring idea of bringing two fun-loving kittens home just weeks after saying an eternal goodbye to one of the greatest cats to have ever existed on Earth?

Unfortunately, it eventually became crystal clear last week that these kittens - both of whom had already been referred to as Bart and Benny, therefore creating a bond between them and my family despite only visiting and spending less than thirty minutes in their presence on one occasion - didn't stand much of a chance of joining our loving family and filling the gaping hole inside my heart, which, had the circumstances been entirely different, have torn myself apart and destroyed all of my increasingly fragile hopes for a dream that didn't seem to stand a chance of coming true. As I don't wish to burden you with any details (or relive the horror which had struck a painful gut feeling inside myself, which I so wished could be ignored as though it never existed), I won't describe in my usual tell-all manner about what had happened to provoke me to steadily walk away from these kittens whom I had long doted upon, each step as quiet as a whisper, until I had broken free from the spell which had bound me to weekly bouts of disappointment which tore at me like a knife - in other words, my hopes of adopting these two 'special' kittens were all but destroyed, leading to a new search being undertaken elsewhere which shortly raised my spirits higher than I had ever given myself permission to hope.

Let's admit it, surely some of us must have gone through the motions until they discovered what their hearts instantly latched upon and restored their hopes to a level which they believed could no longer be their own? That was the way I felt as soon as my family travelled to an animal centre and met two gorgeous kittens, whose twinkling stars foretold a destiny of being taken to a home who would offer as much love and affection (and vibrant fish-shaped catnip toys!) as they could ever ask for. From the moment I stepped into the pleasantly warm centre on an ear-numbing cold late November afternoon (ah, the curse of wearing a strict ponytail during the winter; how my bare ears suffer!), my instincts reassured me that, within a time, my family would be carrying the Kermit-green basket outside the door with two kittens lying upon the towel where Jerry used to sleep on a boiling, body odour-sweating summer day, happiness instantly filling the hole, one which revealed an inner vulnerability, inside my heart that had for so long awaited a form of closure.

So, fast-forward week of listening to the surprisingly relaxing music from Minecraft and fantasizing of baking an imaginary batch of homemade mince pies, and look at where I am - kitten mania! Our two new 'kit kats' (until both of them have learnt how to curb their unstoppable appetites for more than fifteen minutes, no Kit Kat wrappers will be placed in their curiosity-eyed sight), crunchie-devouring Bart and defensive, yet motherly Benny, only brought home late yesterday evening, but have already garnered an adoring audience consisting of my family and obviously myself, who has been left utterly inspired to tell of this magnificent journey which has led to their long-awaited arrival.

Unlike spoilt-rotten Tom and soft-as-butter Jerry who were adopted from a private seller back in the late 90s, Bart and Benny come from a background which is the complete opposite to the start in life which many kittens receive. In certain ways, I'm relieved that I purposely did not make an effort to ask too many questions to which my ears would have been reluctant to hear with regard to Bart and Benny's life before they were taken to the animal centre, but here goes (albeit some bits have been excluded from this statement): at the strikingly young age of two to three weeks old, Bart and Benny were found living outside without their mother alongside their other two brothers within the four-kitten litter, which resulted in their being taken to safety and saved from a life which I could not bear to imagine for their sakes. As all of the litter had assumedly been born outside, a term known as 'semi-feral' has been used to describe them, despite the fact that they had only spent the best part of a fortnight or slightly more outdoors - these truths have only strengthened my passionate love to give Bart and Benny a life to which every single cat in the world is entitled, whilst also helping a good-natured animal centre to carry on rescuing countless animals who took such great care of our kittens before they became our own.

Due to being classified as semi-feral (the image which may initially spring to mind is not necessarily the correct one; take it from the gloriously silk and well-kept fur which Bart and Benny keep clean every day without resorting to budget-destroying moisturizers), Bart and Benny have a tendency to shy away from human contact and can hiss à la that ugly-looking snake in the Harry Potter films if they feel threatened or afraid by their surroundings. Luckily, no pink-padded paws had flown in my direction as of yet because I've managed to successfully sense when Benny, whose wild-clawed temper can rival my own during my hormone-fuelled rages, has got a bit annoyed or cannot stand to be touched, albeit very gently. Bart, on the other hand, has grown used to be stroked softly on his adorably tiny head - which hardly looks much larger than my old Bratz dolls, minus the Dynasty-inspired overload of pantomime-like make-up - within less than a day, which has undoubtedly exceeded my initial expectations and pleased me to the point of bursting with pride! My fingers have remained tightly crossed ever since that Bart will gradually encourage hot-headed Benny to enjoy the soothing company which humans bring and purr from the joys of being stroked with the lightest touch, but I'm barely in a position to complain about the huge amount of progress that I have steadily managed to make!

Compared to the circumstances which had placed a mood damper than the towel reserved for my near-daily hair washing in the air last week, I might as well be walking on air because I'm seriously incapable of landing safely on solid ground! Without a doubt, it will definitely take a while (and a few so-called promises of fresh roast pork!) to lure Bart and Benny out of their naturally shy shells, which does remind me of my slightly timid personality though not to such a greater extent. If I'm going to succeed with creating a powerful bond with two heart-warmingly beautiful kittens - whose eyes tell a story of wonder and amazement of their new surroundings, no hint of fear or panic clouding their green-tinted pupils - there is no other option than to get onto their ground and think like a kitten, is there? I can easily adapt to thinking from somebody else's point of view, which also manages to extend to the feline species - it's hardly a wonder that Bart and Benny may feel out of their depth at the moment because everything is either newer than the yearly Christmas schedule on TV or bizarre to their easily confused minds. However, I'm looking forward to bringing a lot of joy to their lives whilst they spice up my own; it may have taken more time than I ever believed would be possible, but I can bring myself to admit that all of it has been worth it!

Now I've got to check and see whether Benny has thrown all of his mouse toys out of his cardboard box with Bart acting as his accomplice!