Southside with who?

Ever since I saw the trailer for the film Southside With You, I knew I was going to see it in the cinema. It had a totally adorable premise: the Obamas' first date. Although I'm not a big reader of romance novels, I've got a soft spot for it in film; especially if there's something decidedly un-mainstream about the story. I've been generally quite disappointed with the wealth of superhero films and remakes that have flooded the cinema these past few years - it's all getting a bit predictable and has always been overwhelmingly white.

Realising that Southside With You was being released in the UK on Friday 30th September (more than a month after the initial US release, naturally), I arranged with my girlfriend to go see it on its opening night. As we were meeting up with friends later in the evening, we chose the Odeon in Surrey Quays which was close to the location.

We bought the tickets for the 7.30pm screening from the self-service machine, got some popcorn and drinks and then made our way inside the screen. It was empty, I guess because everyone else was settling in the opposite screen where Bridget Jones's Baby was about to start. We made ourselves comfortable in the best seats (middle row, middle chairs. The perfect vantage point for the cinema) and prepared to sit through half an hour of ads and trailers.

After seeing Oatly Oat Milk advertised three different ways, two ushers came into the screen to inform us that the film had been cancelled and we would have to leave. We walked out very confused (I think I kept repeating "how can they just cancel the film?"). We were eventually told that the film would run into another film and had meant to be cancelled from before we even bought the tickets. They offered us complimentary tickets if we watched another film that evening, which meant we still got to watch a film and could come back at any time to see Southside With You.

We saw Bridget Jones's Baby which was so funny I forgot that I was confused and annoyed by the cancellation of the film we had originally intended to see that night. But now it's two days later and I'm not laughing at Bridget's completely awkward and hilarious life, I'm back to being disappointed in the whole situation.

That Friday was the release date of Southside With You in the UK. The Odeon cinema in Surrey Quays had one showing of it that night. Which they then cancelled because it would "run into another film". And, yeah: sure. I guess that's a believable excuse, but then they should have just put on the other films at a delayed time and cancelled the last film of the night, since my girlfriend and I were already in the screen and the ads had come on.

It felt to me like they didn't care about the only film screening at the time with a predominantly black cast and thought nobody else would either, and so couldn't be bothered to put it on.

Actors Parker Sawyers and Tika Sumpter sum up my feelings in their expression.

Ageing

For my birthday this year I was in Crete and away from my family ("family" here meaning my mum and siblings). I had mixed feelings on my birthday. On one hand, there's always that magical sense of the day being a celebration of yourself - people give you gifts they think you'll like because they love you (or were invited to your party and feel awkward showing up empty-handed). They write messages in cards that express how special you are to them. They generally do their best to make sure you're happy on that day.

On the other hand, it's... Well...

I wrote a short something on my birthday that describes my mixed feelings. It was supposed to be a Facebook status but I didn't really want people on Facebook to figure out it was my birthday or for my family to start commenting hearts on my status. So I held on to it for my blog, and now that I've remembered I do in fact have a blog and should update it, here it is.

22 is not a milestone age, but when I was 16 a friend of mine died suddenly, just before his 18th birthday. His death got me thinking: would I reach 18? What about 21? Then I started seeing death in other places: one cousin at 16, my nan, another cousin at 13, an aunt. Young or old, death didn't wait for anyone to be ready - it just took people.

22 is not a milestone age, but I'm happy with what it's given me: long years of laughter, three brilliant brothers, a wonderful girlfriend. And I'm looking forward to, at 22, working a job I (surprisingly) love as well as starting a masters degree and being surrounded by cats.

22 is not a milestone age, but I'm glad to have reached it.

Sunshining

So it's officially summer. Have I written any poems this year? Have I finished a WIP? Have I stuck to my workout schedule?

The answer to all these questions, as you might have guessed, is a big fat no. But I'm not disappointed in myself, nor do I have any regrets. My life since the start of the year has been full of changes and events: new job(s), new people, new bank account, new goals.

My main job, at a secondary school, is over for the holidays and I had to say goodbye to a few people I had grown to like. It was particularly difficult when I knew some of them I would probably never see again, as they were leaving the school for good! Something like ten teachers have left and at least two of them I enjoyed talking to (I'm not really a sociable person so that was an accomplishment). We were like the awkward, quirky ones but now they're gone, it's down to me and this other teacher left to fill those boxes.

Ah well, here's to a great summer. I'll worry about where I'm going to get my autumn term lunch time banter in September.

Return of the cat-sitter

I felt like I had won the lottery when I was contacted a month after my first go as a cat-sitter, asking if I was able to look after another cat - still in my area but in the opposite direction to the trio of fur. I said yes at once: four days, one cat? Let the purring begin.

And then I met her. Oh my god. Clarice, Cleo and Willow were lovely cats (and Willow still has a special place in my heart) but they were all pretty huge. Extremely well fed, and just generally big domestic cats.

Bella was tiny.

Barely a year old with a face flatter than a frying pan, I struggled not to laugh with delight the first time I met her. She was so precious. And she loved to be stroked. And play with toys. Her favourite was this bright orange ribbon:

Those eyes.

I can't even caption the other photos, they sort of just speak for themselves. Although I will say that getting a new phone seemed to have improved my photography skills.

She looks tall but she is small.

*contemplates the meaning of life*

She was chasing a laser pointer.

Cutie over here

I can't wait to be asked to look after more cats!

Cat sitting

You guys, I love cats. So imagine my joy when my girlfriend introduced me to the most amazing website ever: catinaflat.co.uk. Once you sign up and prove yourself trustworthy (usually a DBS, and a phone call from the people running it, among other documentation), people in your neighbourhood can request that you take care of their cat while they're away. This can be anything from one day to... I don't know, however long the person is away for. And you get a bit of money for doing it, too!

My first opportunity to cat sit came about three months after I had signed up to the website and had lost all hope of ever being trusted with a cat. The owner was going away for two days and had chosen me (me!) to take care of her cats while she and her husband were gone.

Sorry, cats? Plural?

Yes. She had three. Clarice, Cleo and Willow.

The invigilator's diary

Tick... Tock...

During the month of June, I was given the task of being an exam invigilator at work. And oh, what a task it was.

Day one: I hate everything. Including clocks. Especially clocks.

Day two: I love everyone! French exams are a blessing (half an hour? Awesome!). Aw my classes miss me. They do care.

Day three: My back is dead. Like proper dead. But I'm now used to this life. Also... who am I?

Day four: If I stare hard enough at the students' ears, does this count as working?

Day five: Thank god it's Friday!!

Day six: Oh no, not this again. I won't survive the week.

Day ten: My brain is dead. My soul is dead. I am dead. ...Wait, it's half term now? YEEESSSSS

Sitting in the shadows

Me being hella shady

Don't you like my brand spanking design? You can thank Sensei for inspiring the colour scheme.

I promised you five things: Updates, cat-sitting, short stories, life after university and an explanation for the new url. This technically counts as an update, so that's one off the list. I'm currently cat-sitting and will tell you all about that after the cat's humans return. Short stories -ha! You already know I'm doing a masters.

And now for the url.

I was at work a few weeks ago (I still work in a secondary school, as of February) and one of my colleagues asked if I had Facebook. My naive response was "I do but haha, you probably won't find me because-" She found me and added me before I could finish that sentence.

I went into FREAK OUT MODE. I thought my security settings had been locked down prior to this. The colleague had a friend in common with me, which is how she was able to find me. That being said, I started worrying about other things she would be able to find now she knew my name. I feel like people I work with should remain at arm's length from my private life, so we can maintain a level of professionalism. As a result, I did not want this colleague to be able to find my blog. Or Twitter.

I removed myself from the staff room and began to brainstorm new names. I thought up "Err and Umm" because I'm anxious and awkward and sometimes I stutter and this is all reflected in my posts without giving away my actual name.

Try finding me now, colleague! (Actually: please don't, I might have to block you.)

Under construction

Maybe this will make my blog work again.

Update: none of my links work! Yaaay- oh wait, that's not something to celebrate.

I've decided to take the plunge and finally revamp this old blog of mine. It's already got a shiny new name - Err and Umm - and will soon have a shiny new look to match. The focus will be much the same: my writing exploits, life after university and general complaints about my grievances with humanity.

Things you can look forward to in the meantime:

• Updates! Holy moly, I may actually post an update!
• Posts dedicated to my new job as a part-time cat-sitter
• More short stories
• What life after university will entail for me (probably more university, if I'm being honest)
• An explanation of the url change

So until I've sorted this blog out, I guess this is me saying... see you in a few weeks?

It's a wash

I wrote this poem aaaaages ago; some of you might recognise it from the last video I posted. However, even while I was reading it out I could tell the audience didn't quite get what the words meant, and after discussing the poem with a friend, I realised it was best to have it written down as well. The inspiration for the poem came from- actually, maybe it's best if I don't go into what drove me to write the poem. I'll just leave some subjective tags and leave the readers to figure out the rest. That's how a true poet does things, right?

The Absence of Water

The absence of water does not mean land;
elements exist between the two states.
Air, light, and shadows, the nothingness void,
alone they may stand, together they rise,
all exist equal, no ranking divide.

The absence of water does not mean land.
(Repeated for those of you right at the back.)
The absence of water does not mean land.
The absence of water does not mean land.
The absence of water does not mean land.

The absence of woman does not mean man.

Book shade: a review

All my friends said it was really cool, so I finally joined Goodreads. Apparently, I've only read four books since I've joined, which is kind of disappointing - though not as disappointing as setting a book target of 40 for the end of the year, then realising a few weeks later that I REALLY had to lower my expectations...

While writing my first review, it hit me how hard it was going to be to review this book without major spoilers. Luckily, I had figured out how to do the codes to hide spoilers and then went to town on them, because well! I had some intense feelings about this book.

Something I didn't mention in my review but probably should have: A Darker Shade of Magic ticks all the checkpoints for diversity, so if you're looking for a fantasy book that's not just straight white men, you might like this.

My natural hair journey

This is me before I discovered the love for natural hair that's becoming a movement among black women. I had been relaxing my hair for about eight years and it was damaged as a result. It was dry, I had split ends up to here and it was basically falling out with each stroke of the brush. Seeing people around me embrace their natural curls encouraged me to take that step too. My friend Sarah A played a big role in convincing me to get my 'fro back, assuring me we'd do it together. So at the age of eighteen, I stopped relaxing my hair in preparation of my big chop. A couple of days before my nineteenth birthday, I went to a hairdresser and asked for my hair to be cut off.

The hairdresser chopped my straight bits off and that was when I realised I actually wasn't ready. But it was too late: there was no going back. I had to make the best of it, getting to know the texture of my hair I used to have as a child.

Past, present and poetry

I'm not going to sugar-coat it: I've been putting off this post for a while. Purely because it required me to hook my camera up to my laptop and transfer some files, but I finally forced myself to do it. Here you can witness the mess that was my most recent poetry reading. I call it a mess because I was incredibly nervous about reading, more so than I ever have been. I'd already cancelled on the event once (but they rescheduled it anyway because of a flooding issue, giving me a second chance). I didn't read out all the poems I originally planned to, either, because I just wasn't ready.

When I say I've been using poetry as therapy, this is what I mean:

I apologise for the weird cut, the camera had to be changed at the beginning.

Twelfth Night

Last week, I saw Twelfth Night at Shakespeare's Globe. Which confused me for about five minutes just now as I struggled to find any mention of the performance online, and only managed to come up with links to the 2012 all-male production that has since transferred to Broadway.

But I digress.

Photo credit: Sarita le Roux

Work-life balance

I'm not going to sugar-coat it. I'm struggling to balance my work and life.

Prior to this, I didn't have to. All I had was life: university life. Work was a tiny ingredient thrown into the mix but it didn't really impact me because I didn't do it out of necessity, I did it for a little extra money while I studied. Now I'm not studying, I work from 9.10am until 3.10pm. In a secondary school.

When I first started, I was surprised to discover that I enjoyed helping out in the classes. Kid needs an extra nudge to do their work? Great! Kid would benefit from someone proof-reading their coursework? Pick me! Some kids were kicked out of their class and need a reminder that school is for education? I'm there! I was (and still am) making a difference to a small number of children who would otherwise fall through the cracks of the education system. And like any fool, I thought I would continue to enjoy myself.

It's not the waking up at 6am that gets to me. Or the being immersed in a school of hundreds whilst being an introvert. It's the fact I haven't spent actual time with my friends in weeks. My hobbies have dwindled to nothing. The people I socialise with outside of work live with me, and are either my mother or my younger brothers. And one of the brothers works at the same school so we see each other throughout the day as well.

I crave companionship. I didn't realise before this job how much value and regard I have for my friends. Hopefully now that I'm aware, I'll be able to adjust so I see friends around work, balancing work with the more fun aspects of life.

Wazzat?

Photo credit: THIS website, funnily enough...

A while back, I had this issue with my left ear. It would make a crackling noise like radio static, or things would be muffled like I was underwater. I did the sensible thing and went to the doctor. Three specialists later and I was told I have a smaller-than-normal inner ear tube and my eardrum was further in my ear than it should be.

With a smile and a wave, I was sent home. Like: who wants a solution, right?

I guess the issue wasn't bad enough to need treatment, but it's not the sort of thing that makes my every day life easy. I have trouble hearing things in my left ear if there's a lot of background noise, or if it's windy, or if I simply don't know you well enough to know what your voice sounds like.

Take this scenario at work, for example. Colleague I've never met before says "Are you wearing a wig?" to which I respond with an understandable "what??". He repeats himself. I say no.

Then it dawns on me that he wasn't asking if I was wearing a wig, he was asking if I was in all week. D'oh! Maybe it's time for an updated hearing test...


P.S. I'm trying out a new font. We'll see how it goes.

How not to adult

I've forgotten to turn the oven off before. Twice. I didn't even realise until my family asked why the oven was still on.

I've slept through the fire department arriving outside my house to put out a car that was a blazing inferno.

One time I had a dream that I was chopping vegetables. I knew it was a dream because I didn't accidentally cut myself in the process.

So believe me when I tell you that yesterday, for about six or seven hours, I forgot to eat. It was only hitting me what my problem was when my brain was screaming at me, my hands were shaking and I started to hallucinate a little. I was on my way home but as soon as I got inside, I ate several pieces of fruit, drank some tea, then busied myself cooking a full meal to make sure I didn't succumb to the feeling that I was going to die.

Regular meals. Apparently they're important.

Even Alice thinks I'm a lost cause.

Out in the sticks

I'm job hunting. I graduated from university, I went travelling, and now I'm job hunting. I applied for a sales and marketing assistant job (by accident, but that's another story) and thought it was going to be sitting in an office, making phone calls and researching products all day.

Oh ho ho. How wrong I was.

So the company advertised a job like the one I just described, and emailed me for an interview about two hours after I sent in my application. Okay, I thought, maybe they're just desperate? Which was good news for me, because that meant Job. And Job = Payment. The pay they were offering seemed pretty good, too. I went for the interview.

The interview was less than five minutes of one of the managers telling me about the company, shaking my hand and telling me that I might get invited back for an 'Open Day' if I was successful. Dazed and a little confused, I left the office.

At 1.53pm I get The Call.

So I've managed to make an impression, I've passed the first stage of the application process. Can I come in the next day for 8.45am and stay until 6pm?

Erm...

I say yes. What else am I going to do: stay home all day? When I arrive promptly at 8.35am, it's to a room of ten other hopeful applicants. Yikes. I try not to let that phase me, keeping my head up, talking myself down from panicking, it will be okay it will be okay it will b

We're split up, partnered with current employees. Like a mentor-mentee system. This is good, I think. I just have to impress this guy - let's call him Hamish - and I'm in.

Oh ho ho. How wrong I was.

Here's my little secret

Oh, Scar. You really thought you were going to get away with it.

Not really guys, I didn't kill any lions. I promise.

So you know all those posts I have complaining about university and how stressful a time I found my undergrad? Disregard everything: I'm doing an MA!

I received my acceptance letter this morning in the post and boy oh boy, I was so excited. I really, really, REALLY want to do it. I had my application looked at twice by the helpful careers department at my university and was so completely stoked when the adviser told me my application was ready.

I've wanted to apply since November. While I was in Connecticut, I attended a couple of MA Social Work classes and found them incredibly interesting. So interesting in fact, that I even took notes. My one complaint from those classes was that nobody was discussing a book - and in that fatal moment, my desire to study a master's in literature was born.

And all the cons of studying melted away.

Literature peeves

Hey all! So I thought I'd build on this blog post, and add a few more personal irks to the list. Feel free to refresh your memory on the things I hate reading about and try to avoid writing.

Ready? Okay!

I didn't find the film all that interesting, either.

5. Explaining your imagery. This was done in a book I'm slightly ashamed to say I've read, but proud to admit I couldn't even get halfway through reading. Every metaphor made is explained by the first person narrator, justifying its relevance to the plot and therefore destroying any impact it might have on me as a reader. The novel was really popular when it was first published and from what I've read, I have no idea why. That's right, it's The Hunger Games. I actually managed to find an excerpt of the book on the publisher's website - you can read it here.

6. Introducing the story with endless amounts of back story. I'm sure it's integral to know how many partners the main character slept with in her youth, or what her parents did for a living, but maybe don't have all this information in a splurge right at the beginning? I am currently reading a book given to me by my godfather - who said he enjoyed reading it and maybe I would too - but I haven't gotten past the fourth chapter. Mainly because there are four POVs and the first four chapters and all of their back stories. Zero story. Urgh. The novel is called Waiting to Exhale, if anyone's interested. I'm hoping it gets better.

Elephant art

When I was a child, everyone thought I was going to be an artist when I grew up. Heck, I even thought I was going to be an artist! I was always drawing something, always sketching, colouring, painting. Art was always my favourite subject in school. I had countless art books growing up and my mum knew that when I was 12, my favourite present (by far!) was the briefcase full of art supplies she surprised me with. Which I still have. Thanks, Mum.

So what happened? Art GCSE. It killed the fun of art for me. I decided if this was what being an artist was, I didn't want it. I stopped telling people I wanted to be an artist. My artwork production declined. I dropped my pencil, picked up a pen - thus Terri the Writer was born!

Like art, I had been writing stories from a young age. However, I didn't really take it seriously: it was just a bit of fun, right? While my writing grew more serious, my art fell into the background. I didn't draw as much and actually went through a period of two whole years where I didn't do any drawing!

Since 2012 I've mostly been drawing the characters in my stories. It's mostly ensemble pieces.