To the Racist Couple who approached me at Finsbury Park station

Yes, I am calling you racist for asking if you could touch my hair. My hair is not an exotic pet that exists just so you can stick your entitled fingers into it, swirling around my feelings of discomfort and disgust.

You can look, but you
sure as hell can't touch.

You invaded my personal space. Generally, I don't like people touching me unless I can see it coming and have consented to it. I don't like group hugs. I hate being on public transport at rush hour because of the close proximity I am forced to be in with strangers. Racist Couple, you touched my arm to get my attention - you already violated my body before asking my permission to do it again. Do you see how your behaviour was problematic?

What would touching my hair achieve? Did you want to see if it was real? If it was soft? It it made you feel whiter than the first snowfall on a late winter's eve? Your question actually made me feel sick in my stomach. It's 2015 and there are still people like you around.

I'm tired of people bothering me because of my hair. Yes, it's different to yours but that doesn't give you the right to approach me. I am allowed to be rude in the face of your ignorance because, frankly, at your age you should know better. I am angry at you and I'm also angry at myself, because after you were gone I thought "at least they asked".

At least they asked. Because so many other people haven't. People I don't know have dived into my hair, exploring the texture with their slimy fingers, just because they think they can. In their mind, they are superior to me. I am an object to be marvelled at, to be gawked at - but not respected. Oh, no! I can't be respected by them, treated like an equal by them, because they would never dream of violating an equal.

You have been warned.

What's a Jellicle cat?

It's no secret that I love musicals. Okay maybe you didn't know it but that doesn't mean it was a secret. I love musicals: Bugsy Malone is my favourite. I'm also a fan of The Sound of Music, the Sister Acts, Les Misérables, Into the Woods, Annie, The King and I, Wicked, Chicago, Mary Poppins, Enchanted, Annie Get Your Gun...

I haven't actually seen most of these live, though. I've seen Wicked, The Lion King, and Cats. I had this bright idea that when I was a university student, I was going to be all scholarly and sophisticated, with mature hobbies like going to the theatre and reading literary reviews.

Erm... Yeah...

As sophisticated and mature as it gets.

So I've seen three musicals. Cats was a bit of a weird one, if I'm honest. I kept seeing ads for it on the tube and thought "hmm, looks interesting". While working hard in the library, a bus went past that said the season would end April 25th. I mentioned to my friends that I hadn't seen cats. One of them was appalled, so I didn't tell her I only knew it was a musical thanks to an episode of Scooby-Doo.

Long story short, I got really excited and convinced a friend to go with me. We booked the tickets that day. I refused to look up a synopsis, as I was terrified of spoilers, but I did have a little browse on the website. I discovered the songs were based on poems by T. S. Eliot. I thought it was going to be exciting. Well, I wasn't wrong.

My friend and I spent the first ten songs or so completely confused. We had absolutely no idea what was going on. I mean, we had to figure out what a Jellicle cat was (we couldn't really hear what the actors were singing when they sang in a group) and then we had to digest that one of the cats started rapping (although, having heard the original, I now think the rap sounds snappier... but that might just be an effect of seeing it live). In the interval, I heard a guy behind us say to his kids "I've got no idea what's going on", so we weren't the only ones. It was all a bit weird - but wonderful at the same time. The first Act wasn't over before I had decided who my favourite character was (Mungojerrie - or was it Rumpleteazer?).

Regardless of plot or whatever, the dancing was amazing. I was in awe of the sequence between Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer: they moved with such litheness it was like magic. And when Mr Mistoffelees came on, my friend I gaped at his calf muscles. Seriously, they were like iron, and we weren't even sitting that close. He did about a million spins in one go and I think I broke my fingers applauding him afterwards.

On balance, I had a good - if strange - time seeing Cats the musical. In a week's time I'll be seeing Avenue Q and actually, I've got no idea what that's about, either...

University: why?

I have emerged from three years doing an undergraduate degree in English literature very much scathed. I went from "omg I love books so much!" to "I never want to read another book in my life get away from me". Of course, three days later and I'm re-reading Harry Potter but that's neither here nor there. How did I take such a drastic turn?

Your typical third year student.

1. Studying dead white men. Like, all the time. In one of my modules, the tutor talked about the same five white dudes every. Single. Week. It was a twenty-two-week module.

2. Literary criticising everything to death.

3. Books. So many books. Every week. The reading list never ended.

4. Sitting in the library, seeing the same faces, doing the same thing, every day.

5. Not having any time for hobbies. First year wasn't so bad and even in second year I managed to squeeze in some fun time. Third year? Forghedaboudit.

6. Some of-

You know what? Let's just move on because I could rant forever. What I ultimately learned was that you really have to be dedicated to the subject to study it at such depths for so long. Seriously. If you're thinking about doing a course at university because it will get you a load of money later on but you actually hate it - don't do it! You'll get to third year and you will hate your course. Or yourself. Or both. I did, and I actually wanted to do my course.

Here's another tip: first year is built to weed out the weak. Many will fall. The trick to staying upright is to read as much of the set texts as possible, don't go out late, don't make friends etc etc etc.

Second year? Okay you can have friends and stay out all night but only if you're willing to spend at least one night in the library. And I mean sleeping over in the library, doing work the whole time. Who needs to shower, am I right? Sure, it will be fun at first, surrounded by all your friends and their laptops and their eager faces. You might make it to midnight and think to yourself "this is so exciting! I now can't even go home if I want to because public transport is no longer running!" Somewhere around 3 or 4am, when you're struggling to read a language you've known for twenty years and the girl next to you is crying because she can't figure out how to make her essay flow, you will realise you have made a very, very big mistake.

Third year is what it's all been leading up to. It's the year of hating tutors, hating your grades, hating the institution, hating the system that made you think university was ever a good idea. Honestly? I have not had a worse time in my life than when I let the stress get to me. My anxiety increased dramatically, I was in the hospital at some point - I genuinely didn't think I was going to make it out of university alive.

But I did. I'm here. And I'm here to stay - and write.

The ghost says

I know it's been two months since my last post. I know I had all these great ideas about blogging and reaching goals and all that.

I also know that the final year of university is a b*tch.

However! I've got two days before my final deadline. After a couple of weeks of well-deserved rest, I shall be back with all new ideas, a new layout and more hope than ever before. Until then...

THIS BLOG IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION.