Descent to the underworld.

The air is thick. The atmosphere steamy. You find yourself uncomfortably nestled in the sweaty armpit of an old man. You can feel the breath of the woman next to you on the side of your face. You can smell the remnants of her lunch, muddled with sweat, and someone else's overpowering aftershave. You're pressed together, skin to skin, like sardines in a tin can. 

It's dirty. It's dark. The glare of bright, artificial, white lights illuminate the way. There's something cold, unnerving, unnatural, about the way they crackle and flicker. 

Nobody talks. Nobody makes eye contact. We stand metres apart, waiting to be inevitably pushed closer together. Yesterday's newspapers flutter effortlessly, elegantly across the platform like tumbleweed in a desert.

Slowly, the noises get louder: whistling, then gushing, then roaring engines and bright round eyes lighting up the tracks, the speed whipping your hair, giving a rare, welcome, gust of air. You hurtle from place to place within seconds, one side of London to the other in mere minutes. You're swept away with the crowd, pushed and pulled from pillar to post, desperately trying to make sense of the maze around you.

That's right, this is the overwhelming pace of underground life, passing by the ordinary individual, a blur of a million faces, and the pitter-patter of busy footsteps. 

I've never been a fan of trains, mainly due to a slight claustrophobia, and I cannot think of anything worse than the London Underground. 

My throat closes up. My chest becomes too tight. My breathing becomes short and desperate. 

The descent into this underworld fills me with fear, but my desire to explore the city and see more of the world, is forcing me to attempt to overcome it. 

Last year, I took to the Underground more than ever, but most scary was the Metro system in Paris, which I experienced on an art trip last February. I can categorically say this was worse than any experience in London. Of course they share the same dirty, claustrophobic setting, the home of rats, but you are surrounded by twice as many people, all frantically talking in a foreign language. The trains themselves are a lot older and less stable, and just when you think you physically cannot fit any more people in a carriage, a good thirty people will barge their way on at absolutely any cost. 

For twenty innocent British art students, this came as a shock at first, and even after the weekend was over, I was still pretty traumatised, but after forcing myself to be more adventurous in London when I returned, I am gradually getting more confident and in fact, becoming quite fascinated by the whole experience.

I am a people watcher, not some crazy stalker, but people just fascinate me: their mannerisms, their facial expressions, their conversations. Never will you see more people in one place, at such close proximity than on the Underground. Everyone from any walk of life is forced together for that one minute, and it's a real test of character. 

Will that wealthy man give up his seat for the elderly gentleman with a walking stick, or the pregnant lady weighed down with bags? 

Will that young student have the courtesy not to eat his tuna sandwich in the overcrowded cart and wait until he gets off? 

Will you knock over a child, and shoulder barge your way into a cart, or will you wait a mere five minutes for another train? 

In the silence of the Underground, a lot can be communicated, and you can learn a lot about people merely by what they're reading, the muffled music from their headphones, or even their outfit. There's an element of trust involved. Although there is an 'every man for himself' mantra in every commuter, I think the actions of those in the 7/7 bombings of 2005, demonstrate that in the stony silence, there is the potential for human kindness and support, ready for action if necessary. It lies in the fifty pence thoughtlessly tossed to the busker, or the mumbled apology for trampling on your toes. It subtly ripples amongst the unspoken words and diverted eye contact. Nobody wants to think of the possible situations in which this emotional barrier would be forced to be broken, those possible situations that they have all made themselves vulnerable to by choice ...

Today saw the 150th anniversary of the Tube in London. It may not be the most pleasant of experiences and recent years have shown it not always to be the safest form of transport, but without it, we would all be lost. It is one of the most revolutionary creations in British history. 

So Happy Birthday to the London Underground. I will force myself to become better acquainted with your tunnels and pathways, to the big lights of the big city. 

Wonders of the mind.

Magic. It simply enthrals me. I'm not talking about pulling rabbits out of hats, never-ending handkerchiefs in the pocket, sawing someone in half (although that one is pretty exciting). No, this kind of magic has been exhausted generation after generation, with people's quest to discover how the magician does it. 

I just don't understand this concept. It completely destroys the magic in a puff of smoke. For me, the magic is the element of the unknown. Without this element, it is no longer magical; it becomes simply ordinary, like riding a bike or driving a car. Anybody could do it. 

Last night I went to see an amazing local magician called Sylar. He's not a cliché,  wand-bearing wizard but a psychological illusionist. 

Deceptions: Wonders of the Mind saw him manipulating the minds of his audience, controlling their thoughts. Even the biggest cynic would not be able to work how he did some of the tricks he did last night. There were tricks with symbols, money, and it concluded with him actually reading a member of the audience's mind. He demonstrated all of this with random members of the audience and I for one was completely blown away. For all I know, I could have been under a spell or hypnotised, but either way, it worked ...

He specialises in close-up magic as opposed to big, theatrical sets. The simplicity  accentuates his talent. He doesn't need creepy music or lighting, from the outset, he had audiences utterly gripped. They were focused on the tiniest of details, highlighting the smoothness and skill with which he works.

Despite being used to one-on-one interaction and street magic, the Waterside Theatre in Aylesbury was the perfect stage to showcase his talent to a bigger audience. There must have been roughly a hundred people there but the venue was warm and intimate with a great view for all. I stuck around afterwards to watch some close-up stuff  for his website with playing cards and the atmosphere was brilliant. I'd watched a couple of videos on YouTube but they just don't do him justice. To see something which doesn't seem possible, with your naked eye, is quite breathtaking. 

Sylar is incredibly talented and I hope he gets the big break he deserves. He is genuinely up there with the likes of Derren Brown and Dynamo, but has a great personality which sets him above the rest. Audience participation was met without reluctance, as his warmth of character shone through. There was humour, modesty and his passion for his art is refreshing time and time again.

If any of you get the chance to go and see him, it is a truly wonderful show and you won't be disappointed. You can follow him on Twitter and Facebook, take a look at his website and there are a variety of videos on YouTube. He is also available for private functions such as parties or weddings. 

Prepare to be confused, stimulated and shocked all at once, it's a magical experience. 

Ugly babies, Transylvanian accents and happy-ever-after.

I love going to the cinema but often I miss a film I really want to see and have to wait until it comes out on DVD. The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn - Part 2 was one of these films. 

I finally got round to watching it with some friends on Friday evening, and after it was voted as the worst picture of 2012 at the Razzie Awards last month, I wasn't exactly filled with confidence, and prepared myself to be disappointed. 

Now, I wasn't convinced by the ugly, martian-looking computer animated baby. 

The name Renesmee sucked.

The Transylvanian accents were a little dodgy to say the least. 

And it did have the clichéd happy-ever-after ending everyone predicted. 

I can honestly say however ... I loved it. 

It was epic, dramatic, humorous, unpredictable and what's not to love when you have Robert Pattinson's face and Taylor Lautner's body in one film. 

I'm by no means one of these obsessed fans; I will always be loyal to Harry Potter and the fact I waited over four months to see it demonstrates this. I was also quite late in getting involved with the whole Twilight Saga, in fact it wasn't till around the second film that I started watching them, and as much as I tried to restrain, I was instantly gripped by their creepy seduction. I couldn't put my finger on it. Quite frankly, not a busting lot actually happens in the first couple of films. It was the classic 'will they won't they scenario', with a vampire and a wolf thrown in for good measure but I was hooked. I  persevered knowing there was going to be a climax, and Breaking Dawn Part 2, did not disappoint.

I was even impressed by Kristen Stewart. Despite critics describing this as the worst acting role at the Razzies, I genuinely thought she was at her best. Throughout the other films, I thought she was grumpy and lacked personality but in this film she was jumping off cliffs, pulling out some serious Matrix style moves and genuinely became the star of the film. 

It was also refreshing to see the vampires and the wolves united for once. The love triangle of Edward-Bella-Jacob was getting boring, but this film saw a positive aftermath of its dispersion. It's always been Team Edward or Team Jacob, but viewers were no longer forced to choose; there was room to love both. 

Although we always knew Bella and Edward were going to live happy-ever-after, this wasn't to say there wasn't enough twists and turns on the way. The major twist at the end killed all of the good characters about twenty minutes from the end which was unexpected to say the least but thankfully, directors stuck to the book and managed to jump back in time so this never happened. 

Another pleasant surprise was the soundtrack. Have to say I'm not exactly a Christina Perri fan but A Thousand Years is beautiful and could not be more fitting to the film. 

The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn - Part 2 was action packed, full of stunts, and most importantly, despite the predictable ending, the journey to reach it kept me on edge. 

To say this was the worst film of 2012 seems slightly unfair. If this film stood alone, I'd be inclined to agree, but when placed in context of the four other films, this was the perfect climax. It had moved away from the stereotypical blood-sucking to a true love story. 

The finale in the Twilight Saga did not disappoint. The danger of being cheesy was outweighed by a great director and a great cast. 

For anyone who is as behind on the uptake as me, or maybe hasn't seen any of the films, they are definitely worth a watch so go out and get the box set. 

Beauty is pain?

It is said that shoes are a girl's best friend ...

This is possibly the biggest lie since the Tooth Fairy. 

Now I've never been a shoes kind of girl; I prefer hats or bags. Equally, I've never been particularly 'girly'; I was always more likely to be in a pair of football boots than ballet pumps, but there comes a time in every girl's life to don the killer heels. 

This comes after a night out on the town last night, which has quite literally, left me crippled. I wince when I walk.  My toes feel like they're clamped in a vice. They're still throbbing 20 hours after  removal. Amputation has seemed the preferable option at many points today. I haven't even been blessed with blisters; they are just raw and swollen. 

Here are the beasts that inflicted such pain ...

I have to say, I almost lasted the entire evening. In fact I did last the evening; it was the early hours of the following morning that defeated me. I couldn't take the pain any longer. So, I found myself stood in McDonald's bare foot at 2.30 am this morning. I sound like a tramp, but this pain is honestly inexplicable.

For many, these don't look very high. My best friend practically lives in heels. For her, Tescos is a perfectly good excuse for fancy footwear. Whether they are fur lined wedges or diamanté stilettos,  she has a pair for every occasion. I on the other hand, have only just mastered wedges in the last three or so years, thus the stiletto was new territory. 

I was like Bambi on ice but in my defence, the weather didn't help. I tottered along, falling awkwardly between the cobbles, almost sliding on my derrière in Market Square, and that was just on the way there.  

My Mum warned me not to wear them. I had other possible shoes to wear. I was worried about wearing them, and yet I wore them anyway. 

Why? Why do we do it to ourselves?

Because they look great? Because they make your legs look longer? Because they make your bum look smaller? 

All of this is true, but in fact, they are a further way of objectifying women. They draw attention, and anyone who says it is unwanted attention, is a liar. We do not go through such pain to merely make our legs look longer. 

No pain no gain? Beauty is pain? It's all utter rubbish. I have gained nothing for my pain, only ugly, swollen feet. 

We are all in denial: shoes are a girl's nemesis.

What's the story?

Storytime. I used to love it as a child. At 2.45, most afternoons, up until year 1, my teacher used to read us a story. A mere five hours later, I'd have story time again at home before bed. My childhood was built up around other peoples fairytales, but now my stories are formulated from reality and experience.

 

 

There's nothing I love more than hearing people tell their stories. Everyone has a story to tell and not a single one is the same. I used to be pretty shy as a child, and even now, sometimes I recoil back into my shell, but I've grown to love talking to people as this is how you hear their stories.

 

Last weekend, I was having lunch in a busy cafe and was joined by a little old lady called Doris as there were no tables left. I thought it might be awkward me stuffing my face with a baguette but in the 17 minutes it took her to drink her milky coffee with two brown sugars, I learnt that she had a husband called John who had fought in the Second World War, that she was a Mother of two, James who had a very clever job that she didn't understand with computers and a daughter Sarah who had three children of her own.  She told me all about Aylesbury, she'd lived there all her life so she told me how it's changed, what shops there used to be, how much smaller the market is. We could have genuinely talked all day but I was only on my lunch break, and she was meeting Edith in The Bell for something to eat at 1.15.  

 

In those 17 minutes it was story time again. It's amazing how much you can learn about someone in a very short space of time. I'm not proposing stopping and talking to every random stranger you meet, but if someone wants to tell you their story, let them, they might be the most interesting person you've ever met and the world would be a pretty dull place without other people.

 

What I'm focusing on now however is my story. I am the writer, the narrator, the protagonist all in one, and I'm only on the first chapter. I've had a pretty productive week for once; I've found something I love doing and it's proving successful. I've spent my week looking around, planning all my possible pathways to chapter two. I learnt early on that life wasn't a fairytale; the world isn't full of unicorns, Princesses and Prince Charmings but this has only encouraged me to work harder for my happy ending.

 

Too much too young?

 

Despite this song being released 40-odd years ago, the subject matter is still very much applicable to today. 

I read an article this week which said childhoods ended age twelve. For me this is an incredibly sad fact, but it certainly isn't surprising when you think many 14-16-year-olds actually have children of their own; they are mere children themselves.

 

We all know the stereotypical image: a nice pink tracksuit, a fag hanging out of their mouth.

 

 

You know the ones. The ones who call their child McKenzie or Bourbon. The ones who are piercing their children's ears at 6 months, and putting sparkling Nike Airmax trainers on their feet before they can even walk. 

I walk past groups of girls in town who are parading around with pushchairs like the child in it, is a mere accessory, a fashion statement.

 

(This video does contain explicit content)

 

We laugh at sketches such as this and Vicky Pollard, but this kind parenting is genuinely quite common. One only needs to watch the horrors on Jeremy Kyle: it's all real life. 
 

Last weekend I was horrified to watch a man crash into a concrete pillar with a buggy. In this particular Tescos, there is a promenade lined with concrete pillars on each side, and around each of them are metal handrails that are head height for a child sitting in a buggy. The guy wasn't particularly young, maybe 22? So it wasn't his age that shocked me, but purely his atrocious parenting. He clearly just wasn't concentrating as he managed to drift from the path into the post with considerable force, to cause this kid to absolutely scream the place down. It made me think though, what if he'd have drifted the other way, into the road? When the kid's a little bit older, toddling around, will he be concentrating then? It's this kind of parenting which gives young people a bad name and genuinely concerns me at the people who are left in charge of a living being, I wouldn't have trusted this guy with a goldfish. 

Now it seems out of order for me to judge something that you can't even imagine until you've experienced it. I've said before that it's wrong to judge, but we judge what is different, what we don't understand ... recently, teenage pregnancy has touched closer to home than I ever cared to imagine. One of my friends from school, aged 19, is expecting a baby in just over a months time. It wasn't planned, she'd hadn't even been with her boyfriend a year and she'd just landed several great opportunities in her career; the timing couldn't have been worse. Quite frankly I'm scared for her. A life is such a huge responsibility and it's going to change life as she knows it. However, watching her endure the last eight months has been almost inspiring. I can't say I'd have been so calm, collected and realistic in her position. During this time, she's carried on with her college course, her full time job and moved into a house of her own, she's supporting herself. Although it's going to be hard, that baby is going to be so loved and she will be a great Mother. 

 

It is when I spend time with her, that I realise that not every teenage pregnancy is a tragedy. All it takes is a basic education in humanity, support of great family and friends and love.

 

What's more, why is today's society being criticised so heavily for teenage pregnancy? It happened 50 years a go, possibly more so. The difference being, the Grandparents brought it up as their own, or the girl was whisked away to some sinful hospital, and the baby adopted before they could even hold it. It's interesting how conventions change ...

 

This post wasn't to suggest a solution, criticise or condone teenage pregnancy, but maybe challenge the way we view it. There is no solution; this generation have had the privilege of more education and contraception than ever before and it's still happening. It's easy to judge with the array of social stereotypes, but I don't see us judging the many other poor parents who are actually over the age of 25.

 

Don't judge them on their age but their parenting. Many young Mums and Dads are doing an inspiring job, what were you doing at their age? Getting drunk, laughing around for the next five years until your life finally starts getting serious. They love their children. That counts for a lot in today's society and I have the greatest respect and admiration for them.

 

It's time to eliminate this negative stigma.

Do the crime, do the time.

At what age is a child no longer a child? Some say 16, some say 18. The fact that the boundaries are so blurred and subjective, leaves the law in a very difficult position. 

If you are 16 or younger and you are arrested, you are entitled to a responsible adult. After this point however, you are not allowed a parent with you and thus at 17, it begs the question whether you are old enough to know what's best or understand what is going on. 

Based on previous posts, you will realise by now I have fixed opinions about the law and judicial system and thus it will come as no surprise that I was pretty disgusted to hear about parents pleading for 17-year-olds to be treated as children in the eyes of the law. I'm sorry, but if you're old enough to commit the crime, you're old enough to do the time. 

This particular case came about after 17-year-old Joe Lawton committed suicide last summer after he was arrested for drink-driving. The parents believe the fact he was arrested and had no support affected his mental state and that they should have been able to support him whilst he was in custody. Don't get me wrong, this is an awfully tragic situation and my sympathies do go out to his family, but at the end of the day, he broke the law. It was not the fact that he didn't have any support during the interview process that cut his life short. Despite not being old enough to drink, Joe saw himself as old enough to consume alcohol, and he was old enough to be in charge of a vehicle. There should be no further questions needed. He stupidly broke the law, and he's more than old enough to deal with what he's done. 

The parents claim he was 'frightened to death' which is probably true but I'm pretty sure the victim he could have killed would have been scared to death as would their family and friends...

75,000 17-year-olds are held in custody every year and although Joe's crime may have been stupid and irresponsible, he didn't harm anyone but himself, and it's not the worst crime committed by a 17-year-old. If we had made the exception for one boy, what would happen if we made an exception for the 75,000 others? Do they deserve rights, in light of atrocities such as murder or rape? 

Age is just a number. If in a different situation, a 17-year-old was being discriminated against for being too young, all Hell would break loose. There's just no pleasing people. Even if the offender is a child based on his numerical age, if they have the mentality to commit crime with intent, then they are an adult morally and old enough to take responsibility. 

Leading the campaign is a charity Just for Kids Law. The fact this charity even exists worries me; how some people sleep at night is beyond me. They believe everybody under the age of 18 should be treated as a juvenile. This however throws up all kind of problems particularly, when like Joe, driving offences are involved. You can legally drive at 17, even 16 on scooters. How can we allow such people to be in charge of vehicles potentially capable of murder, if they will be tip-toed around like children when they have done wrong?

To be fair, it's an incredibly tough subject when 'children' are involved, but offenders are getting younger and younger, one only needs to look at the overpopulation of juvenile prisons. The longer we tip-toe around youths, wrapping them up in cotton wool, reassuring them everything's going to be okay, worse crimes will be committed. There is no form of deterrent if you're allowed your Mum to fight your corner for you. 

Quite frankly, the whole system is a mess, and with such campaigns and distorted views on children and their rights, the future is worrying.