A Cry For Change

So I've decided to live life like I want to live it, but this is easier said than done. I want to wear my old man woolly jumpers, I want to have an accordion to stare at when I have a mental block, I want to party and stay over peoples' houses just for the sake of being out. In an ideal world,I'm sat in a park wearing my old man woolly jumper, with my oversized (fake) leather bag and huge Morrissey glasses. I have bright red hair, cheek piercings, amazing Jeffree Star make-up and I have a best-selling novel under my belt and a sketch book full of studies on many quirky pieces in many different mediums - there's a delicate study of a harmonica done in watercolours, there's a Vincent Van Gogh inspired study in done in oil paints, a ridiculously detailed study of an accordion done in pencil... But in reality, I'm just sat on the couch blogging, wearing a charity shop shirt. I have practically black hair with no fringe, no piercings and only mascara on. I can't find the time to write a book and I can't keep my mind on one story line. My sketch book has two crap pictures in that I want to burn because not only do I have no inspiration, but I have no skills either.You may be wondering what's brought this up now, hasn't it always been like this? Well the answer is yes it has been like this, but I'm sixteen and still go around places with my parents. I've been invited to a house party by someone I use to hang around with, then briefly lost touch with. The important detail here is that we never fell out. Mother said that she's tried to keep me from the Ammanford people, but the truth is that she's tried to keep me from the Carmarthen people, Brynaman people and Drama people. Well, I was stopped from going to Drama in its entirety because it was 'turning me into an asshole' but the way I see it, I was making me happy - me being an asshole is obviously me being happy. I want to go to this party badly. I want to hang out with these people, I want to share these people's experiences, I want to be able to be part of the stories that people remember.Mother says she's concerned because I'm never at the parties that people post pictures on on facebook, but when I off-handedly mentioned this party, she responded with "You know I don't like you hanging around with those people..." I believe the term used here would be double standards. I mean, I thought you were meant to grow apart from your parents, you're life shouldn't be constantly entwined with your parents. I'm pretty sure that that was in the Bible somewhere. Apparently, I was wrong. I have my mother as a friend on facebook, she reads this blog (which makes it harder to write) and she talks to Ashley a lot. Tess says that she and others think that it's not long until I rebel, and to be honest I do sometimes feel like freaking out and leaving, but that wouldn't achieve anything. I have to go to school, and they give me money to do so, and as my last post indicates, I'm seriously not independent. My parents and even my grandpa are involved in practically every element of my life - where I go, what I do, who I talk to, etc - and I can't change that or they would hit the roof. I remember the days of hope when I'd stare at sixth formers or the elders in Carmarthen and think, "When I'm sixteen..." I don't want to sound ungrateful, but it's felt like the equivalent to thinking "When tomorrow comes..." and tomorrow just turns out to be the same as today. There was no point in me turning sixteen. Hell, there'll probably be no point in me turning eighteen or fifty-nine, but I seriously wish there was. I've turned into Rob Fleming (from High Fidelity) already. I'm bitter, I'm resentful, I'm jaded, and more importantly, I'm too young to be any of these things. The quote "If you really wanted to screw me up, you should've gotten to me earlier" seems to apply for almost everything and everyone I meet now. It's not right. I'm not right. Nothing is right. It would be such a breakthrough in my life if I could go to this party. My parents keep on saying "You're turning into Tess... don't make us throw you out!" I'm sorry, but Tess was expelled from school, smokes and takes drugs, had the reputation of a whore, had sex with someone when she was allowed to go to a party at the age of fourteen, continued to have under-age sex and then boasted about it to me, has multiple naked photos going around the whole of Carmarthenshire, got kicked out of the college that is renowned for being full of drop-outs, is a lesbian, has no job or any intention of working and lives of her girlfriend. Yeah, I see what you mean, I am totally turning in to Tess because I happen to have a bad attitude. I so deserve to be kicked out the house with my bad attitude that absolutely every single teenager has. That's fair. That's completely fair. I suppose if I was kicked out of the house, I could write another rant to the newspaper... I seriously want to be like all the other sixteen year olds, I guess why I feel it so important to start now, a mere eight months after my sixteenth birthday. It's not much to ask. This holiday, I want to do at least two things a week. I want to have life experience, stories to tell, a chance to mature on my own, without any help or prompting. So far all I have planned is meeting up with Tess and shopping with Abi.

Money Bags and Lost Opportunities

I have two foolproof system in which I keep my money. One's my 'Every Little Helps' system, and the other is my 'Saving Up For a Rainy Day' system.

Every Little Helps:

I have a camper van money box for my coppers, a huge pink piggy bank for 5p coins, an adorable cow money box for 10p coins, a funky car money box for 20p coins, a classy white piggy bank for 50p coins and a small jigsaw piggy bank for my £2 coins. Notes and £1 coins are kept in my purse at all times. I count them up semi-annually, at the end of June and December.

Saving Up For a Rainy Day:

I have an amazing sheep money box (it's got wool on its body and an amazing face,) which I put £2 in at the end of every week. This came about when I had a £2 raise in pocket money when I turned 16. I figured that I wouldn't miss £2 a week, and as there are around 52 weeks in a year, that should mean £104. It will be counted up annually at the end of December.

As I've said, I count up my 'Every Little Helps' money at the end of June. As I couldn't fit any more 20p pieces in the specified money box, I decided it was time to count them up now. I've bagged up £95 so far, not including coppers. There was £20 in £2 coins, £20 in 50p pieces, £10 in 20p pieces, £10 in 10p pieces and £25 in 5p pieces (which was a shock). Hopefully, by the time I've put all of the money in the bank, the balance will have doubled! In September I should start receiving £60 a fortnight with EMA.

Yesterday was my first time paying money into the bank myself. I went up to Barclay's Llandeilo Branch after my half hour Welsh listening exam, and clutching the pay-in book to my chest, I fired loads of questions at Grandpa. During this scene, one of the main staff members from Gegin Fach y Gwili (an uber tiny, quaint cafe in Llandeilo that I planned on working in over the Summer) watched us. Grandpa said to her "She's never paid money in to the bank before!", to which she replied "How old are you?" Dreading what she'd say next, I quietly said "Sixteen." She said "There's something not right there..." Grandpa continued to embarrass me and then took me to the cafe in question for food. When we walked in, the woman was in the kitchen, and upon seeing me, she smiled and clapped patronisingly. I asked Mother how much, on a scale of one to ten, that damaged my chances of working there. She said eight. Then Dad chirped up and said, "I wouldn't hire you after that!" which means I now have to look for somewhere proper to work.

My Position

So only three more exams to go until two months of freedom. Well, I say two months of freedom, I might be getting a job in some tiny old cafe that's always full of old people, but you know what I mean. I've had all the teachers sign my leaver's sheet, and I've had to re-do a part of my Welsh Baccalaureate because the school happened to lose a piece of it, but I've handed that in now. Today, in fact. Then I was sat in the car thinking, "It would be so cool to go out and meet up with people today..." but my phone's key pad has come unstuck and Sony Ericsson's are under warranty for two years. They didn't mention the fact that it keeps turning itself on and off though... That's the thing that gets my goat the most. The other day, I turned my phone off and I went in my bag to unplug my iPod before an exam and that's when I saw it. The screen flickered and showed me the 'turning on' screen, that probably has a real name but I've forgotten it. Anyway my new phone has a huge lack of contacts - at least a huge lack of contacts that I use, seeing as this phone is the one that I used in 2008. But if you didn't receive my facebook message, then I guess we won't be talking any time soon... I considered boring you with an exam update, but I'm going to give a brief one when they're all over. The last day will be Friday June Twenty-Fifth, Twenty-Ten. The same day that this amazing show comes back onto our screens:

Jumping From One Blog To Another...

So I am about to embark on the worst week of my life - tomorrow I have a Business exam and a Math exam, the next day I have an English exam, then I have two History exams followed by an English exam and on the last day, a Math exam. It's mainly the day of History I'm dreading, and the fatigue that I know I'm going to be suffering from even more so... However, this past week has been great. I met up with my sister, an old friend/ex I haven't seen for ages and a bunch of her delinquent drug taking friends who are actually really nice; I also dragged Abi along even though I knew she wouldn't like them, she promised that she'd try but nevermind. Of course, there was the whole thing of meeting me good ol' mate, Tim Minchin (pahaha) and of meeting up with William, Cerian, Shaun and Henry, as it turns out, to sell the harmonica. These were all very good days for me, but none beat yesterday night.

I was in one hell of a mood. I'd woken up in extreme pain, mainly in my spine, and my throat was bad too. Ashley was coming over, and although I wanted to cancel badly, I couldn't since I hadn't seen him since Tuesday morning and even then I hardly spoke to him. (The thought of society and their values has been depressing me lately, and he's had to suffer.) Mother had to find my machine for me, and we watched lots of Tv. I occasionally checked my facebook and formspring (like a real junkie does), and I had a message on the latter asking if I held grudges, and in my reply, I said "I like to get back with people I might've lost accidentally, there's one especially, but I won't push it." I wanted someone in particular to see, but I was scared of being ridiculed. Then, moments later, I received a text from this particular person. It simply said, "Hello?" I replied with the biggest smile on my face, but I was also anxious, anxious that this was a set up or was about to implode into a huge argument. I then got a phone call, and I looked at Ashley on the couch before screaming "I NEED TO TAKE THIS CALL!" and sprinting up the stairs.

This particular person's name? Matthew. Why was this call so important? Because we haven't spoken since August 21st and up until that point, he'd been my best friend, in fact, it was more than that... What happened? It's a long story that I'm not telling for the 100th time because that would be a bitch to programme! (pahaha! Sorry if you don't get it...)

Yes. Matthew came back to me. Just like Jarvis Cocker's song 'Baby's Coming Back To Me' (that's a link). Ages ago, Mother said that Katy Perry's song 'Thinking of You' made her think of me and Matthew, but that just meant that I couldn't listen to it for nine months... I could've had a baby in the time that we weren't in touch. It could've been known as Heartbreak Kid! *story idea* But yes... he phoned and I answered, and I broke down and asked if it was some kind of cruel joke. I mean, I knew a few things about what was going on in his life because my friend happens to be pretty good at being an investigator. I never thought we'd get back in touch though. Once off the phone, I spent the night texting him whilst being sat next to Ashley. Mother said it was rude but I didn't care. That night, I read over the texts from the event of August 21st 2009, and I came across one from Carys reading: "You've lost Joe, you've lost Matt, now you've lost me." As it turns out, I only lost her, and dude, I can so totally live with that. No problem.

The Hay Festival, 2010

Monday, May Thirty-First, Twenty-Ten. This is the day I've been waiting for. This is the day that occurred yesterday. This is the day that as time goes by, gets further and further into the past.

Everybody knows about The Hay Festival of Literature and Arts. It's been hailed as 'the Woodstock of the mind' by Bill Clinton and is ever increasing. It was started in the late eighties, is an annual occurrence and spans over ten days. It originally only featured literature based events, but thankfully has expanded to include music, films, stand up and many other things. Is it a high society thing? Not really. Is it perceived as being so? Yes. I honestly think that that's only due to the interest in literature or arts (no matter what that may be) that you require to actually want to go. I'm not interested in drugs, I'm not interested in drink and I'm not interested in sex. I don't eat meat, I don't party and I don't have much in common with the media's perception of teenagers, and yes, you guessed it - I wanted to go to The Hay Festival.

My friend invited me to see Tim Minchin with her, and after a long conversation with my parents, which I dare not bore you with, it was decided that if I could get someone to go with me, I could go. Tickets cost a mere £15, and I say mere because he's really making a name for himself so I'm expecting ticket prices to mushroom by next year unless he does something spectacularly wrong. The person I got? My beloved Ashmlee Willie Winkie. He paid for his own ticket obviously, but it's all cocaine baby because he has a job and walks around with over £100 pounds in his wallet, which we've constantly told him not to do but to no effect. The car journey wasn't too bad, nor was it too eventful. I can't remember the time we left, or the time that we arrived, and it doesn't really make a difference to the story, with which I'm simplifying a lot to save time and energy for you guys.

We minced about for a few hours. We looked in stalls, Mother and I rushed to buy a The Guardian's Hay Festival bag each (which came free with a £1 Guardian that nobody really wanted), we looked for food but were shocked at the prices and lack of vegetarian food, Ashmlee Willie Winkie laughed at the ice cream stall that used sheep's milk to make their ice cream I stared wide-eyed in slight horror at a woolly jumper that looked like it was covered in swastikas and we caught the shuttle bus to town. We bought food from a small place called Oscar's, and I bought two CDs for £5 from the huge amount of CDs being sold, there were at least thirty standard school desk tables completely covered in music. I bought 'Nude' by Suede, and 'This Is Hardcore' by Pulp. Yes I am getting heavily involved in Britpop, the nineties scene. My parents bought me a cowboy voodoo doll thing and a pair of adorable bumblebee voodoo doll earrings which I wore to Tim Minchin. They also bought me a ladybug lapel pin, which is adorable. We roamed around two vintage stores (upon which I saw a girl dressed completely head to toe in vintage and realised that I could never carry it off), a bookshop which specialises in murder and mystery and the Castle Bookshop. We then caught the shuttle bus back to the festival sight so the two of us could meet up with the original friend who had invited me and her friend in the queue with one hour and a quarter to go. We could hear him through the tent and got overly excited. We went in and sat about six rows from the front. Tim Minchin came out and the three of us girls squealed and even Ashmlee Willie Winkie let out a smile not too dissimilar to our manic faces. He started off with 'Rock 'n Roll Nerd' and went through many songs and stand up moments. It was amazing. He went off track a few times and handed hecklers in such an amusing fashion. Of course, we all thought the hecklers were in their twenties, but it turned out they were in their thirties or forties (why isn't there a 'U' in that?) and were rather lovely. They seemed like paedophiles, but I think they were just a bit drunk and gay, and yes, I can judge all this because I met them when we were queueing up to meet the man himself. My friend made a spectacle of herself to one of the security staff men, who was oh so lovely about the whole thing. I won't go into it, because it annoyed Ashmlee Willie Winkie and myself. She is two years younger than me though. Stereotypes have some truth behind them, and there's a reason why thirteen year old girls are ridiculed. I don't care if she's fourteen, it still applies. She went insane about having to queue, I explained that it's because we're British and were raised with manners. She wanted to barge. I was sarcastic. The sarcasm might have been lost on her.

Tim Minchin signed all of our tickets, and Ashmlee Willie Winkie was so excited! I thought it would be quite sweet to all have a photo together, the three of us. It also saved a lot of time as the whole thing seemed very rushed. I don't care, I met the man, I'm a lucky bum! I said to Pa when he fetched us, "You'd be pleased to know that I was more excited to meet the Australian than to meet the drag artist," in referral to meeting Jeffree Star. He seemed pleased to say the least...

PostScript: I'm going to enter the festival's short story competition. There's a cash price, although it's not as big as you's imagine, and it has to be about Avarice. I haven't read the terms or the rules, but I'm excited nevertheless!