The Three Freebie Faux-Pas

Inspired by my having got general pleb-ery down to a fine art, I felt this small but accommodating list will help my fellow dolly-day-dreamers when they need to act particularly appropriately.

In this case, my experience has come from one of the definite perks of tourism and lifestyle based journalism; being given freebies such as a free night in a hotel, free spa treatments, free gourmet meals, free testers, etc. What you most certainly do need to do is to be ever so grateful for it (ok, it's not a must and many journalists simply expect that, but I find that kind of manner a little arrogant and extremely undeserving), and come across as the professional who will do them justice and produce a lovely bit of writing in exchange for the would-be expensive luxuries they have provided for you.

I managed to get away with the following few things mostly unnoticed, apart from by my mother who accompanied me on this particular hotel review. These pointers are as follows:

1. Watch what you're wearing: No, I didn't have any wardrobe malfunction as such. In fact, generally I pride myself on what my wardrobe offers to the day, and I aim for it to be nothing short of exciting but appropriate. What I did do on this occasion, however, was test out whether or not I could walk in wedge heels. The shoes themselves? Beautiful. The way I exited Bodmin Parkway station to locate the hotel's guest host? Forgetting just how skinny and high the wedges were and coming THIS close to falling arse over tit just inches from the station's exit gate. I was red faced, my mum split her sides laughing, but luckily I'd been out of sight of the drop off bay. First impressions stayed in tact... luckily.

2. Watch where you're going: I'm sure we've all left the comfort of the bar to pop to the ladies and gone the wrong way. In this instance though, there I was looking to powder my nose, and instead waltzing straight into the hotel kitchen. I know it was the kitchen, because toilets do not possess cleavers.

3. Watch what you're doing: Clearly blinded by how ravenous I was by the time I'd sat down to dinner at 8pm, I reached for a delicious baked bread roll, and was about to comment on how divinely warm it was - a feature I enjoy in bread, because the butter goes all melty and nice. And this would all be fine, if it hadn't been for the fact that the warmth oozing across my fingertips was not sourced from the bread roll. I had put my hand in the tea light next to it.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever manage to speak words or get any writing down on paper to be honest...

Mum's the word.

Scary life doubts alert!

I had a very strange realisation a little while ago. I was at a gig of my little brothers - aka the musical prodigy - with my parents. As I watched him on stage playing a drum kit to death, it struck me how much he'd grown in all his eighteen years. NOT just height wise obviously, but how talented he'd become, how his wicked sense of humour has developed, his views on the world and the choices that he makes that impact his whole life.

It's something that we all have to do all of the time as part of life and we don't really think about it. Looking out for ourselves comes naturally to most people, but lots of us are lucky enough to have parents who have to deal with our problems as well as their own when it all goes tits up. Now, I speak as a person in sky high doubts that I will ever get married or bear a child. But regardless, I don't know how I would ever be able to deal with motherhood. It must be one of the scariest things around.

Both my parents are amazing. They stuck with me through thick and thin, and due to recent events I think I'd be dead without them there. While they help me, they struggle along with their own problems - money, mortgages, health, redundancies... - and still come out fighting when it's over. In comparison, I suffer enough emotional trauma by chasing the dream and moving away. While I still want to do it, it still brings a pang of guilt that I'm leaving after they do so much for me, and if this happened for me I'd miss them terribly. If I go through all these emotions just for myself, God knows how a mother must feel when her child goes off to university, or falls in with a nasty boyfriend, or even just makes a decision that isn't failsafe. I don't think that is something I could ever cope with, but I am eternally grateful that my mum and dad did.

Striking a blow for sisterhood.

Stupid media people making stupid media generalisations is a pet peeve of everyone’s - they’re there for no reason and are simply senseless. That is, unless you yourself are a sexist/racist/homophobic etc, in which case it wont be your pet peeve because you join in with the nonsense. That just makes you a generally terrible person.

The following stories have put me on the Girl Power warpath. Behold:

Kate Moss and her “unsightly bulge:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1375111/Kate-Moss-struggles-hide-bulges-fashion-shoot-Paris.html

In a nice juxtaposition and pile of contradictory tosh, the anorexic Victoria Secrets model and her “plus size” (UK 8-10??) colleagues:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1375244/After-stick-Candice-Swanpoel-Kate-Upton-shows-curves.html

And, for the Brit chicks who aim for role models beyond the realms of Jordan and opt for a little conservative elegance, Sam Cam endorses a designer who only uses “skeletal” girls to model his work:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1375367/Samantha-Camerons-skeletal-chic-wedding-dress.html

I talk in detail about these stories on episode 6 of the Jellyfielders Podcast, but my point is thus:

Why the pressure for such unhealthy and unattractive bodies in the name of fashion?

Why are these our supposed "role models"?

Why would any women strive to not only accomplish this for themselves, but do it to encourage ordinary, impressionable people that it's the right thing to do?

Come on now, what we're pressured into doing to our bodies is senseless, and what's more is that if you're not a good person then your image simply doesn't matter. I say that women should support women and find in each other what is naturally beautiful. Celebrate that we haven't starved away the brain cells that makes us successful and loved, rather than starve away muscles so we look good just before we collapse in a braindead heap.

Ladies, take care of each other. Because sometimes sisterhood is all you have left to fall back on.

Roskilly's Farm. Yeah. Farm.

Here’s a thing London doesn’t have and that Cornwall is plentiful in: Farms. Lots of farms. I imagine that fact doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you.

Thrilled to bits with the opportunity to swap wedge sandals for sensible wellies, this city girl has driven across the county to the back end of St Keverne for an afternoon playing Spot on the Farm. Plus, I hear Roskilly’s are renowned for making really awesome ice cream, so I obviously must fulfill the crucial duty of providing you, the good tourists of Cornwall, with a verdict on the munch front.

I’d heard whispers that Roskilly’s had branched out from normal farm production and into epic ice cream escapades after an oversubscription of milk one year, so instead of pouring it away it was made into batches of ice cream. To my sadness, it turns out their ice cream bomb didn’t take off due to any lucky accident. I accost a couple of kindly farm hands for information but get nowhere . They did try bless ‘em, but they weren’t too sure as to exactly how all this kicked off, and were more bemused by the fact that I most certainly didn’t look like a local. Bit of a cheek really; one of them was from Southampton. After a little online nosing, it turns out it was more of a trial and error situation. So much for my attempt at investigative journalism.

Trying not to be too down-heartened that I hadn’t proved myself as Cornwall’s excuse for Louis Theroux, I shift the disproved rumour to the back of my mind and skip off to make friends with two tiny little fluffy donkeys I’ve spotted in a nearby field, stopping at the the dry meadow on the way to give the grand golden brown Jersey cows a pat on the back as a massive thank you for supplying me with years of clotted cream, strawberry yoghurt and Dairylea Dunkers. Speaking of which, the hefty drive over has rendered me a peckish little soul, and I start thinking about abandoning the farmyard critters to begin a search for their café - The Croust House. I didn’t bring any children to the farm with me because, well, I don’t have any (apparently you have to feed them and keep them alive and EVERYTHING) and few people would agree to lend me theirs after they’ve seen my attempt at driving, but judging by how much I’m enjoying the company of the many, many Roskilly cows, you might not have the option of cutting the petting time short. Besides keeping the kidlets entertained with hours of animal adoration, it would be a very good idea to time your trip to see the evening round of cow milking at 4:30. The viewing area in the milking parlour has a board where visitors can make suggestions on what to name the next calf: I noted an array of names scribbled on there - extravagant names like Talulah, traditional like Buttercup, ordinary ones like Harry. As I happen to be in a minimalist-yet-practical mood, I simply add the suggestion “Cow” In a herd of 100, I personally would want a name that’s easy to remember.

Across the way from the milking parlour is the Bullpen Gallery, an odd but entertaining play-area-come-furniture/card/book shop, and one gate down from there I find the Ice Cream Kitchen. Unfortunately it is closed today, however I challenge anyone, big or small, not to be interested in watching and learning about how the icy good stuff goes from the milk bucket to being cornet-ready. All these little side attractions are open for extended hours in the summer, and I really recommend making sure everything’s open before popping up, otherwise you may find yourself a little short of variety in terms of learning about how the place works.

The Croust House

A Roskilly’s Farm review wouldn’t be complete without checking out the Croust House; You can try as much as you like to review anything in Cornwall on as academic a level as possible but let’s face it, it’s always going to come back to food in these parts.

At first glance the café menu seems a little disappointing with its standard selection of jackets, baguettes and all day breakfast (though we’re all partial to the odd dirty sausage I’m sure...), however the specials board mixes it up in a health conscious way. They’ve got salmon, they’ve got Spaghetti Bolognese. There’s also the option of beefing up my afternoon with some spicy chilli con carne for a super special £7.95... and I do. An inquisitive glance at the rest of the menu counts numerous flavours of ice creams for dessert on offer - fourteen to be exact. All ices can be made into milkshakes, which is not a treat limited to the teenyboppers of your clan, as is made apparent when the amiable Northern fella to my left gets far more excited at the prospect of ice cream milkshake than his toddler son is.

Declining a seat in the picnic area outside for a spot inside by the open fire on this less-than-summery day, I place myself and my trusty notebook on a solo table well in earshot of of four fellow diners, where two silver haired gentlemen are conversing in such impeccable Queen’s english that Lizzie herself would be put to shame. As if they needed to sound any more Southern, the topic of conversation included Winston Churchill and PC World, which the gentlemen’s wives ignored, engrossed in their own conversation about walnut cake.

I can smell my chilli before it has even left the kitchen, and the mighty plate of nutritious brown rice (at ease now health freaks?) and gorgeously rich mound of flavoursome beef placed in front of me by the chef really is a meal fit for a king. As I tuck in, I feel some level of guilt that I am possibly eating the friend of the cow I’d just spent ten minutes cuddling in the nearby field. However, at the rate I’m shovelling my carnivore’s platter down, they’re not providing me with an incentive to turn vegetarian any time soon. So I dine in ignorance, as this scrumptiously mild and sweet chilli versus the watery microwave meal concoctions I was so well acquainted with during my student days just does not compare. Farmhouse fare for the win.

My favourite part of the whole dish is actually the homemade mango chutney accompaniment. I would be quite happy not only to stick this atop my savoury treat, but also atop one of the ice creams being sold in the next room. It is THAT good.

Like many of the good-willing Cornish attractions, Roskilly’s extends its support of local produce beyond the products of the farm alone. I’d noticed some products on my way past the gift shop that seem to be getting lots of attention around the county. I strike up a conversation with the kitchen chef about Cornish Sea Salt - a selection of flavoured natural Cornwall cooking salts rising constantly in popularity and “making waves in the culinary world”. She is happy to sing their praises; “I like it in cooking much better than ground salt, and there’s so many options. If you put the garlic one in pasta, you don’t need to add anything else! We use as much local produce as we can.” Indeed they do. Other gifts on offer include Halzephron Herb Farm’s chutneys and jams (the strawberry and rhubarb is to die for), Roskilly’s own chocolate coated fudge, Cornish flavoured tea selections and even their own range of soap, bath salts and shampoo. Watch out Crabtree and Evelyn.

Firmly of the opinion that my shopping trip warrants an ice cream trial, I inspect the counter. I assure you, it’s probably easier to solve an intermediate algebra equation than to make a quick decision on ice cream flavour. Among the selection of fourteen is Hokey Pokey, Coconut, After Eight, Apple Crumble and Fudge. A lengthy debate results in me selecting the Malty Mystery (Mystery spoiler alert: it’s Malteaser!), clotted cream topping optional obviously, and a cheeky taster spoon of Mulled Wine and Pear sorbet. Delightful.

I finish my visit by trotting off for a gentle walk around the lakes, serenaded by the sound of really loud mooing. Strangely, the gaggle of ducks living on the wonderfully picturesque waters seem more animated than your average pond-dwellers, but they were lovely to watch while my legs get a good stretch before heading back to the car. I manage to give myself a small shock by peering into the overlooking sheep field, and do a double take when I realise there is a dog sitting in there trying to blend in with its woolly friends. That definitely isn’t found in London much either.

Surviving Public Transport in Cornwall

The general rule is, if you’re visiting the folk in the vast and vibrant South West, you really have to drive. I would always recommend going by car if possible, but I also have first hand experience of not having that option. As a fully fledged member of the Oh-Dear-This-Is-What-Happens-When-You-Max-Out-Your-Student-Overdraft-Then-Graduate-With-No-Sufficient-Funds club, I’ve had to make do with a few days getting around via the range of rickety yet charming little Western Greyhound buses. So, in a bid to advise my fellow purse-pinchers, it’s time to tone down my usual cheeky-chops demeanor (well, to some extent anyway) and get informative. Who knows, maybe you can save enough to treat yourself to an extra special Boutique Retreat eh?

Getting there: Going by train is Raileasy.

That six hour drive each way (that’s if you’re going from London. From the North I dread to think) isn’t always the world’s most pleasant experience, particularly with a clan of bored brats (I mean, little angels) / aggravating, motion sick whingers (I mean, your husband or wife) / deranged and restless dogs (...or husband or wife) in tow.

Factor in hiking petrol prices, and you’ve got a pretty expensive feat on your hands. Plus, when you get all the way to your holiday spot, there’s the cost of pay and display, the hassle of finding parking in the first place... it’s not always straightforward. Especially if you’re trying to park on a hill in Newquay; if you’re not firm with that handbrake it can quickly turn into a case of straight backwards and crashing into a corner shop.

Going by train has some serious pros - one being that it takes half the time of driving. The quickest way would be to fly, though unless there’s a a pretty deal going on Easyjet you may as well have spent that money on petrol and had your car at your disposal while your holidaying if you’re thinking in terms of saving pennies. That, however, is another positive to the ol’ railway - you can save an epic amount of cash. By booking as far in advance as possible with raileasy.co.uk, thetrainline.com or redspottedhanky.com your tickets are discounted by up to 80%. Bung in a rail card on top of that (available ones are the Young Persons 16-25, Senior Citizen and Family) and you can save tons. If you qualify for a rail card but don’t have one, sign up anyway as you can use it to save on fares within Cornwall too. And, in fact, anywhere you go all year. So get on it, and treat yourself to a bottle in your first Boutique Retreat night with the savings.

Getting around: Just the ticket.

Ok, so Cornwall’s bus and train services can occasionally be a bit erratic, but if you’re on the ball you’ll be fine. Those of you already hyperventilating at the thought of having no access to the tube or a night bus should especially take heed, or else risk a bit of a culture shock.

Keep the Traveline number in your phone/pocket/sock at all times as it’s incredibly helpful. By the time one particular Cornwall visit of mine had come to an end, the poor pestered guy working on Traveline knew my mums maiden name, my star sign and my favourite shade of blue... but I found my way home. So call 0871 200 2233 to get you out of any bus timetable related shtuck, or avoid it in advance by planning a journey at www.cornwallpublictransport.info. Trust me, it’ll save a whole lot of hair horrors from waiting in the rain when the weather isn’t being too kind. At the risk of receiving a couple of OCD jibes from your mates, the more meticulous visitor may even wish to schedule an itinerary for their visit to ensure you’re not sending yourself in all directions in one day when you could group the attractions you’re visiting so they’re all near each other.

This info is particularly handy as buses and trains can catch you off-guard. They do not run all day, arrival times are not always the same minute past the hour, and trains - particularly those not on the Truro line - may do strange things like only appear every two hours (beware if you’re visiting Newquay), which will no doubt make your average commuter sick to the stomach at the very thought.

Happy Hint: If you’re going in or out of Redruth and need a bit of a caffeine boost, the lady in the station snack bar make a damn fine latte. Seriously, she could give Starbucks a run for their money.

It’s worth remembering that although the main Cornish bus providers are First Devon and Cornwall and Western Greyhound - cheeky green saucepots that they are - you can find odd little random routes served by alternative companies. One memorable example of this was discovering a Williams bus that ran at perfect times from Redruth, through the steep cliffs from Wheal Rose to Porthleven and dropped me in the centre of St Agnes. The route took me through some breathtaking scenery looking down over tiny Porthleven Bay. So engrossed was I in the sights that twenty minutes passed before I realised that the one other passenger on the bus was a man casually leaning on a sharp and shiny looking new hoe, which can make a lady travelling on her lonesome a little uneasy, and has certainly never happened on the no. 12 from Regent Street to Peckham.

Beware the bus driver: The Cornish folk are the friendliest people I have ever had the fortune to meet, but one way to get on the wrong side of your bus driver is to present him or her with a £10 note for a 90p bus fare. Carry cash with you all the time, and try and make sure it’s the jingly kind!

Car hire: Getting to the wheelie difficult places:

There will be places that just have to be reached by car in the South West no matter how persnickety you are with your planning. If you fancy a wander around Port Isaac and aren’t going from Camelford or Wadebridge for instance, expect a three-and-a-half hour journey each way. Yeah. I thought that might put a spanner in the works.

For the purse-pinching tourist reluctant to fork out for taxis (no matter how genial the drivers can be, they’re not going to help fund a single pint of your Cornish Rattler binge) the option of grabbing yourself a hire car for a day or two is a good alternative.

Personally, I was happy with the service I received from M Y Motors, Redruth (though anyone who has read my Port Isaac review is going to be well aware of the obstacles the average car hire virgin might be about to face - at least you got a pre-warning!). They were pleasant to deal with and charged a mere £25 per day - that’s a 24 hours so you keep the car overnight - for a smooth running silver Ford Mondeo (but if you really cannot live without a sat-nav, check the lighter slot out before you drive off). Don’t forget to factor in petrol costs too!

Of course, you may be going nowhere near Redruth, in which case check Yell.com for an extensive list of places to hire your Cornish cruiser from.

Steer clear (literally) of:

• Country lanes near farms with tractors in the vicinity. Those bad boys aren’t too generous with their road space.

• Strange routes that the sat-nav tries to make you take. If it seems illogical, do not drive it. Time to reach for a good old A-Z.

• Driving through town centers. In Cornwall, it seems many of them were barely built for people, let alone cars.

Public paths: Follow the trail... On y’er bike:

Make a mission out of your journey on purpose!

Cornwall has many renowned scenic trails and public routes that’ll take you from A to B without any travel cost, and with the added benefit of working on those thighs of steel and taking on a whole lot of wholesome sea air.

The Camel Trail from Padstow to Bodmin (18 miles), Polzeath to Rock trail (2 1/2 miles) and the Falmouth to Porthleven trail (14 miles) are just a handful of popular trails that’ll take you meandering down lanes and across moors to your final destination. A better option for longer trails might be to go by bike (you’re never far from a hire shop in Cornwall), and if you wind up at the Porthleven end of the trail and need to crash at the sumptuously funky Blue Bar to recover, then so be it. You may not be enticing many unsuspecting young surfers though -I’ve heard the sweaty look isn’t exactly “in” right now.

Some Peapod to tide you over.

Due to the fact that the entire month of March has been sucked into a time vortex, I haven't been able to get a substantial post up between the hard graft for money and excessive reviews, even though I've got tons I want to write about (sorry!). So until I clear my scribbly little schedule, I thought I'd share one of my reviews with you. Enjoy!

Miss Peapod’s, Penryn.

It’s all I can do not to squeal with delight and dance my way up to the counter when I spot a mother and daughter, sat perfectly serenely at a table by Miss Peapod’s poster-clad entrance, having a casual catchup over...is it?...yes...yes it is! It’s tea. Tea poured from a teapot, drunk from a dainty teacup settled on a china saucer, all of which bear no colour/pattern coordination to each other whatsoever. Retro heaven. I’m sold before a single morsel has even passed my lips.

It’s clear that Miss Peapod’s, a neat little café situated down by the Penryn harbour, was made to draw in crowds as diverse as it is brightly coloured. The medium sized space - spattered with lime green sofas, orange and brown floral curtains and topped off with lemon yellow walls - is playing host to mothers who have palmed their kiddies off into the play area where they can run their very own little (plastic) café, family tea breaks, the group of work chums choosing a lunchtime snack spot, and one or two loners scribbling away and enjoying the Aretha Franklin album like me.

I’ve stopped here due to what I personally regard as a medicinal need for a hot, strong cuppa on the drive back from Roskilly’s farm. Absolutely gasping in fact. Grateful doesn’t even describe how I feel when the nice waitress/tea goddess brings over my brew for one, along with an enormous slice of chocolate and hazelnut berry cake; the obvious choice after an afternoon sampling Roskilly ice cream. I may well wake up diabetic tomorrow and my thighs may never forgive me for this calorie overload, but on the plus side a sign above the counter advertises that all of their dairy products are sourced by Roskilly’s, so at least I can indulge safe in the knowledge that I am supporting local trade.

Taking a humble £4 from me for her troubles, I fire a few questions at the waitress regarding their live music nights. The website states that on Friday and Saturday nights the café is open until midnight as a live music venue, while serving all kinds of crazy soft and alcoholic drink selections (I spy Baileys hot chocolate!). Missus Waitress tells me that the monthly Peapod sessions feature local South-West musicians - the “best on the scene” in fact - and other weekends are filled with acts from all walks of life playing music from all sides of the spectrum. Before bustling off to accommodate the next crowd of cake fiends, she hands me a leaflet detailing this months entertainment. It takes me a minute to realise why classical folk singer Ewan Mclennan’s name is ringing a bell. I wonder how much he’d save on poster ink by renaming himself Gandalf and be done with it? None-the-less, Radio 2 seem to like him, so he must be a talented lad.

All items on their menu come in at under £9, their inexpensive Sunday roast looks better than anything Wetherspoons will ever bung your way, and between the breakfasting hours of 10-11:30am you can order, among other things, french toast with maple syrup and fruit compote. Do I need to say anything other than “absolute WIN?!”

Rainbow Cake!!!

I feel the little Cornwall stream that I am trying in vain to find time to post on here can be interrupted for this triumph of mine:

DEE-BLOODY-VINE!

That is all - Cornwall posts on the way.

Port Isaac, and Cornwall hire car adventures. ...Actually, mainly hire car adventures.

Twelve minutes. I’ve been in Redruth for a total of twelve minutes and, due to the contrast of Cornwall’s blue skies and bright sunshine with the thick fog and chilling breezes of the Big Smoke, I’m about to collapse on the pavement in a sweaty heap. Nice.

I am climbing the hill in Redruth’s East End towards M Y Motors. More pressingly, I am climbing the hill towards my first ever hire car experience in all my 21 years. I nervously hand over a really quite reasonable £35 for 29 hours worth of roadster rental. Ordinarily, I drive a neat little V-reg Astra, which has been with me since I passed my driving test. The grand Ford Mondeo I am presented with feels like a dinosaur in comparison: my incredibly short legs can hardly reach the clutch, I cannot see over the steering wheel so I begin driving in some short of mad hunched-forward-and-perched-on-the-edge-of-the-seat position, the acceleration (which, I have heard, is a fairly vital ingredient to successful car driving) is a little unresponsive until the pedal is entirely compressed, at which point the bloody thing shoots forward like a rocket, and to top it all off the cigarette lighter wont power my sat-nav. It’s own battery is of course almost dead, and I drive along very aware that it’s about to abandon me and my poor sense of direction. Oh, and I must NOT forget that this car takes diesel, not petrol. DIESEL. NOT. PETROL.

I brake, splutter and stall down the gorgeously picturesque Cornish roads, and about three minutes from my guest house the talking robot who knows where I need to go dies completely. It’s an emotional moment. She was my friend. It’s when I’m continuing down a road after a wrong turn that I start to miss her less, as I find my destination in the opposite direction to that of which she’d tried to take me. I have a feeling that my lack of satellite navigation is possibly a blessing in disguise, and conclude that a good old fashioned map is the way forward from now on. Not that I have a choice now anyway.

I let myself into my little budget room to freshen up after my long journey to Pasty Land, and cannot help but giggle to myself. For reasons unknown, the landlady has informed me, by way of laminated post-it’s attached to the inside of the door, what the breakfast choices are on two separate bits of paper (one large, one small, but stuck up just centimeters from one another), as well as the fact that I am supposed to “sleep in the WHITE sheets and lay your head on the WHITE pillow cases.” Thank you. I hadn’t been quite sure. My favourite post-it had not warranted lamination despite being pride of place in the en-suite. It was bright orange and advised that “this is a slow draining wet room. Please shower gently.” I am glad that the luxury Boutique Retreats gaffs, in all their glorious popularity, were fully booked up this week. My place is accidental comedy value at it’s finest.

After fifteen minutes playing with the driver seat functions until I can see the actual road, I head for Port Isaac - notably more comfortable and getting on far better with my automobile. I’m fine until Wadebridge, at which point things that appear on signposts abruptly disappear into thin air, and several times I inadvertently find myself in the arse-end of nowhere which more often than not consists of an endless country lane the width of a peanut. Note to motorists who are not used to this: Beware of tractors.

The Doc Martin theme tune loops in my head as I approach Port Isaac. So excited am I to finally arrive at this gorgeously quaint little village, known by lovers of the ITV series as the fictional harbour town of Port Wenn, that as I drive past Miss Glasson’s primary school (which in real life is a suave bar/restaurant) and spot the Doc’s surgery snuggled into the cliffside ahead (in real life, it’s just...well...someone’s cottage), I am about to make a fatal error. Do not, under any circumstances, drive through the actual town of Port Isaac. Narrow does not even cover it. On the upside, I got to practice every maneuver that my driving instructor taught me for the first time since my driving license turned pink.

I’ll put my hands up and say right now that my drive (ha ha) for coming here in the first place was fueled (and again...) purely by my love for all four series’ of Martin Clunes and his Cornish ventures as the town’s GP, and fellow enthusiasts will lap it up. It is a shame that the town’s fame has created an enormous surge in restaurant prices, as was the very first thing I checked out because on arrival I was starving. The Mote pub overlooking the harbour (aka the fictional Crab and Lobster) had amazing views and indeed dished up a heavenly portion of cod, chips, peas and tartare sauce - albeit for the area’s average price of £14. I feel it’s just slightly steep, which is the least I can say about the hilly terrain of the rest of the rest of the town as I wondered around matching buildings to Doc Martin episodes. This evening, Port Isaac seems a peaceful and happy haven populated by friendly locals (having lived in London all my life, it’s a pleasant surprise when a stranger greets you in the street). A full-blown nightlife review, however, can be saved for a day when I don’t have to drive myself home.

OH the suspense!

Lovely readers, before a lovely splurge of posts commences over the next few days, I need to make you aware of a couple of things so that it's all a bit less confusing.

The first is thus: I am a twit. I accidentally wiped the entire three-year-long contents of my blog last week. It has taken some time to retrieve my work after I got over the initial shock. What is on here now is the majority of my posts from this year, so it may look a little more sparse than before. I can only apologise, and assure you that I REALLY learnt my lesson. Back-bloody-everything-up.

Secondly: You're about to be updated on my Cornish adventures. You will laugh. You will cry. You will have an irresistible craving for scones, clotted cream and jam. Enjoy.

Watch this space, by the end of today there'll be some entertaining little stories, and by the end of the week there'll be a ton of them.

Defying Gravity.

Something that I suppose is taken as common knowledge is the fact that in the world, one makes their own way, their own luck and for the most part it's up to them to make contacts who impact whatever it is you are doing - whether it's a career move, social move or something tied in with a hobby. Now and again though, it's important to remind yourself that self-motivation pays off.

Some time ago, and on a very drunken night (oh yeah, partaking in drunken wisdom words. That's how I roll.) I was having the usual job/graduate/it's all very unfair whinge with one of my best friends, and she very wisely (if slurringly) said to me; "You have to remember that something can always change. Never mind new years resolutions - a new thing could happen that year, or it could be that month, or week, or day, or hour, or minute, or second. Just make sure you make things happen."

She is right. If I had been sitting here waiting for a website to show me a nice job vacancy (of which there are none by the way - it's the end of the financial year and nothing will be along until April now), I'd be wasting lots of time and I'd be off my face with boredom.

Making little things happen - paid or otherwise (blatantly otherwise for most of us) - stops the long gap feel less like a waste of time. Write stuff, plan stuff, and most importantly do LOADS of networking. I can't stress enough how good it feels to create a stir somewhere, even if it's only temporary. During these last few weeks which have been so dead on the job front, I've made friends, got freebies to review and had people interested in doing some more freelance stuff with them. What's to lose? Yes, I'm definitely living for the weekdays where people are doing business and I'm working within the confines of my email inbox every damn second of the flippin' day... But if it's not someone asking me to a job interview, at least I can count on the fact that it'll still be something exciting.

Come on now. Get on it ;)

Have A Heart

I admit, this blog is nothing to do with cake. I was just looking for an interesting way to bring hearts across in photo form, and found this which not only does the job but, in the most ironic fashion, makes my attempt at heart cupcakes as I showed you in my previous post look dishearteningly naff. Might put the "Kinky Cupcake" business plan on hold for the time being then.

The title "Have A Heart" actually refers to Heart FM's Have A Heart Campaign. You may have heard it on 106.2fm (or whichever frequency it is for Heart in your area), and I volunteered to help for this year. And actually secured a place, which is a miracle for any station owned by Global Radio. Being a charity volunteer actually ties in very nicely with the delightful Sam Sparrow's section of the latestJellyfielders Podcast, where you will of course also find myself. If you haven't listened to it yet, shame on you, and get on it:http://itunes.apple.com/gb/podcast/jellyfielders-podcast/id418876405

This year, listeners were phoning in to bid for prizes, and their bid was donated to children's hospices across the UK. Two of my shifts were from 6:30-9am, and the final one was 1:30-4pm.

Now, I'll hold my hands up. I was not amused at getting up around 4am to ponce into Leicester Square and not be paid for it. Selfish, yes. But as a lady who is getting majorly pissed off at having to settle for unpaid work rather than an actual media job with a nice income in our shit-tip economy, I did think for a minute in my tired state that my limits were being pushed.

Oh. My. God. I have never been so wrong.

Not only did I meet some of the loveliest people in the world and get a complimentary bacon sandwich for breakfast, but the work was loads of fun and it genuinely made me feel good. This is despite the first shift triggering an epic three day migraine, but even so, I carried on through. This warm, tingly, do-gooder sensation was magnified by a billion times on the final shift in the afternoon. I got into the office (bumping into One Direction from X Factor on the way... :-|) to find that some of the kids who need Hospice care, and who we were raising cash for, were spending the day in the office. On my desk were three adorable children called Jayden (4), Kieran (7) and Emma (9). I couldn't stop smiling at them. For a day, these sick kids were answering the phones with the volunteers (me included - a lot!), and when the bids went quiet we spent our time waving flags at a camera and doing "Spiderman hands".

As I walked out of there knowing that I wouldn't get to see those children again, it pulled at the ol' heart strings quite a lot. It was simply amazing to have gone in to help them and I'm glad I hadn't been too grumpy or selfish to not bother going on the placement.

Listen to the Jellyfielders Podcast, because Sam is right. If getting to stick the kettle on and veg out in front of the TV is what you think makes you happy when you've got some time on your hands, I think you should try out a volunteer scheme for a little while. I guarantee that it'll add a whole new dimension to the way you live your life.

Cake Tuesday!

Help! I think I've become a victim of routine and some sort of mad kitsch phase (it took me four attempts to spell kitsch correctly then. Not an easy word).

It so happens that my work hours at the moment fall so that my days off are on Sundays and Mondays. For the past few weeks, I have taken to popping over to Bluewater Shopping Centre of a Sunday afternoon, more often than not to purchase something super-sexy from New Look and obviously to take advantage of the sneaky 3 for 2 deal on Soap and Glory products.

Since I've just touched on the subject of clothes, here's a quick note for my lady/pervert readers! This whole 1940's-esque cutesy ditsy kitsch look the shops have got going on right now is utterly darling and I keep spending my money on it. Please don't tell my bank account about the way all of its contents are being spent on flowery t-shirts and loveheart hairbands...

Get used to the word kitsch by the way. It's a bit prominent in this blog, and there's no alternative terms for it.

Interesting that it's currently fashionable, as by definition kitsch means "Excessively garish or sentimental art; usually considered in bad taste."

Hm.

None, the less, here is a nice redhead lady being "kitsch":

And here is all the things I hope to fill my very own kitsch kitchen with one day:

Anyway, I digress.

So I spend some dosh on Sunday getting pretty things with dots on to wear on myself with shoes, then spend the rest of the day writing and drinking my bodyweight in gorgeous tea (naturally from a polka dot mug). Then on Mondays I've started to bake cakes. And because I'm so nice, I take some cake round to my two best friends round the corner from my house (cakes don't last long around Dan and Dave), and I take some to work too.

I can't for the life of me think why I've slipped so easily into this routine. It's quite possibly because I'm not keen at being home by myself but have a profuse love for tottering around the kitchen in an apron and heels and licking chocolate off spoons. Oh. Might not be such a mystery after all. Behold my first attempt at Velvet Cupcakes with Cheescake Icing:

It has dawned on me, however, that to fund this yummy habit I need to be putting in some extra hours instead of spending my Cornwall trip savings. Oh well. It could be worse I 'spose,

You're perfect to me.

If I were a musician, I'd put these words to a tune.

I could play a guitar, hit every steel string with a swish

Look the part sat on a stool in front of a microphone

Absorbed in every strum, being an artist.

Or I could play the flute or violin or a harp as if I'd been born to do it

A talented woman making beautiful music for the beautiful people.

I could say the words out loud, but I just never would.

I could tell you about being one of the ones who gets lonely in a big crowd

And then I would tell you more that you haven't heard in cliche's or seen written in a book or haemorrhaged from the mouth of everyone who tries to show that they have a problem, because that's what they've heard people say before.

About the haunting feeling of an almighty, strong wind blowing you over and rolling you towards the edge of a cliff

Clutching at the grass which gives and gives

And every new patch you grasp to keep you stable and safe is a stab of fresh realisation that you're just inches from the brink. All the time. While an icy breeze flies at your face, blinding icy shards, and your body taking a battering and the fear in you heightening until you feel queazy and crazy and worry you wont be the same again.

Because a bottled smile doesn't make a person.

If I could write music, I'd give you an anthem about heartbreak

That can go deeper than a cut administered by the sharpest knife.

I'd give you a tune that holds a verse that tells a story

About someone I once knew

A person who I think about every day

Who makes me so angry that blood runs cold and tears slide hot from glassy green eyes

Who I will never see again

To make them see

What they made me see

And who breaks my heart afresh every single day because they've gone and they can't come back from where they are now. Peaceful. Happy. A memory.

If my best friend came to me and told me that all of this ran through their mind and changed them

I would tell them to step into a studio

Smell the acid of plastic and metal and new static carpet

And look like an artist

And write a song all about it.

And I'll watch through the soundproof window.

Because this is your moment.

Words for your eye-hole ears.

I really love words. I decided that today I would spread confabulation across my pretty page like a juicy lump of Lurpak on hot toast and make you smile. Plus, I think we've got some news to catch up on haven't we...

We'll start with news. My own self-promoting news, not that of worldwide importance (although I'd like to take this opportunity to give the citizens of Egypt a big fat virtual high five).

If you pop into the iTunes online store and type "Jellyfielders" into the search box, you'll find a delicious little podcast headed with the following badge:

This is where you can find my podcast debut plus episode 2, or just pop here towww.Jellyfielders.co.uk and have a listen. Here you can also sample the delights ofWhat Carly Hates by Miss Carly Ann Clements and Cake And Life by Miss Sam Sparrow.

So there's your task for the day. Go and enrich your ears.

Going home from work on Valentines day bestowed a nice sense of hilarity on the evening. Being the romance Scrooge that I am, I worked a late shift, and on the tube to Victoria was secretly a little satisfied that all the supposedly loved up couples heading out to somewhere fancy this February 14th mostly seemed to be really annoyed at each other. Evil? Yes. Bothered? No.

When I got to Victoria I popped to Boots to grab a drink, and stood at the till behind a girl buying what I can only be described as a mountain of contraceptive devices - because they were on offer. We must commend her for being incredibly sale savvy - being told by a very unimpressed Muslim lady that she couldn't get the 3 for 2 offer because she'd picked up the wrong box. The girl promptly went bright red, mumbled about going to get the right box of eighteen condoms, and tripped straight over her boyfriend on the back back to the isle. Teehee.

As my train platform still wasn't showing up, I took a seat on the bench next to the West Cornwall Pasty kiosk. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a pigeon attempting to stalk me. Upon closer inspection, it turns out that the bird (who I have since named Barry) was in fact sat on the floor keeping his ears warm next to the pasty oven, and gradually dozing off. He was my most favourite pigeon ever.

Just thought I'd try and bring a little smile to your face :)

Raise your glass if you are wrong... in all the right ways.

Apologies for my lengthy blog break. It's been a stupid couple of weeks that kept me pretty busy, time slipped away from me, and I'm about to tell you all about it.

I would bet money that you have read or seen a TV program (often referred to as an all-singing, all-dancing theatrical palarva called "The News") about the newer generations of graduates who are what is technically known as "screwed".

In case you don't believe that I stayed sober long enough to pass a course at University, here is a picture of me and my beautiful, talented friend Anika doing some graduating...

...No one needs to know I got a degree in cleaning, not journalism as I may or may not state on my CV. Anyway.

I'm sure we're all sick to death of hearing about the ordeal that is budget cuts, job losses, the raising of uni fees, how pointless most degrees are now, student debt and just what the government did to fuck it all up for everyone. I wont bore you with the ins and outs, not because you'll find it dull to read when you could be filling your time with something more useful like racing your pet snails, but because it annoys me so much that I might tear out my eyes and stick them to the back of my head to lighten the mood. What I'd like to do, however, is tell you about my predicament as a victim of this whole jobseeking jam we're in. And I'd really like to know what you would do.

In the usual crazy backwards way that I like to do things, I'm attempting to live the dream and get out of the rat race now, in the light of the fact that due to being young and having only just graduated, I can't beat the competition I face for even the most basic of media jobs in London - media professionals (and many other professionals, especially those working in the public sector) have faced redundancies due to budget cuts and now they are joining the clamoring for entry level jobs because there isn't anything else, having years of experience on their student competition.

I am trying to relocate to Cornwall. It's beautiful there, there are nice people there and I just want to for lots of reasons. I don't want to resign the rest of my life to braving rush hour for a London job just now, and the South West is luring me so I'm following it, and I have lots of plans for when I get there.

The other plus is that job interviews go really well for me in Cornwall... until the inevitable final hurdle. Four Cornish interviews down the line and I have displayed my "infectious personality", "extensive professional experience" and "strong image" to the max... but my feedback has always either been that I'm "too strong", or more commonly, "you've worked in such big companies that we fear you may come here and be bored".

I do understand, but only to a degree. Given this list of professional placements I've got through in my short 21 years, I really hope the interviewers gave me the credit of knowing just what I was getting myself into. And they have all been lovely people to meet, I keep in contact with them and the most recent lady has given me some freelance work on the soon-to-be-launched Good Cornwall Guide, which is very exciting.

In terms of this whole job situation though... What do I do?! How is it that I can be too young and inexperienced for one place, and too good for positions in another? It's so frustrating and, if I could be so bold, a little nonsensical. What would you do if you were wrong in all the right ways? Because I really am searching for an answer that I'm not sure exists.

"I never fought in a war. But I served in the company of heroes."

I've been thinking a lot recently about responsibility. That, and how it ties in with the fickle and the bad.

I'm reasonably certain that it'll only take two words for you to get what I'm on about today: Kenneth Tong.

For those among the Anti-Twitterers, this sociopathic cretinous excuse for a human believes that women should all take on "managed anorexia" to slim down to a size zero. Because, according to Tong, fat people cannot be, and do not deserve to be, successful. I'll pause for just a second while your head implodes in anger.

I've got to be honest, if I start quoting too much of exactly what this rat bag was detailing in one of the first interviews since the promotion of his "size zero pill" with respected journalist Johann Hari, I'll be trembling so much with pure, unadulterated fury that I wont be able to type. You can listen to the full interview on Johann's site at http://www.johannhari.com/2011/01/15/kenneth-tong-the-full-audio-transcript. Brace yourself.

Since it emerged that, as it is impossible to manage anorexia because it's a condition rather than a habit, and so Tong is in fact trying to promote a mental illness for the sake of dotting the globe with thin but under-nourished and mentally unstable women the size of a seven year old, various people have sought legal cases against him. In light of the controversy caused by telling girls to starve themselves and the threat of being sued, Tong soon came forward to claim that the whole thing was a hoax. He tweeted that the point of giving very sick women more of a reason to die of anorexia was in fact in aid of a bet. Yes. Trying to tutor people to be mentally ill was a hoax apparently, a social experiment to see how famous he could get by saying outrageous things on Twitter.

Bollocks to that, first of all, you irresponsible, twisted freak.

Second of all... I can't imagine there are many people who don't think that the "it was a hoax" tweet is even vaguely genuine. But I think the whole scenario uncovers a greater and more complex issue: We let him do this.

How is it that armed with the only real powerful asset he has (his mind is certainly not excelling that of a child), he becomes the main topic of conversation the world over. Regardless of what he said himself, this untalented moron was talked about in households up and down the country and his word spread by international superstars such as Rihanna, Simon Cowell and one fifth of The Saturdays - regardless of the fact that they were speaking out against him, his profile is now raised, his incentive achieved.

I also tweeted about the scumbag. I am raving about him right now and thereby adding more to his Google Search results. I wasn't too inclined to add to that... until I realised how ashamed I really was of letting his enraging words allow me to be just another pleb using social media to talk about him so he can shamefully continue to relish that he's got into the heads of more people. Do you know what else happened in the same week that this lowlife shot to a temporary and sickening "fame"?

Major Richard Winters - WW2 veteran, heavily decorated, fearless and recognised for his outstanding bravery during his time leading a troop of soldiers - known as Easy Company, and later was promoted to lead the whole battalion of soldiers - through terrifying battles like Normandy and Bastogne, witnessing sights that we couldn't even conjure up in nightmares and watching his friends die all around him and, perhaps just as traumatic, knowing that he was the one responsible for trying to lead them through a relentless war alive (if this is beginning to sound familiar you've probably seen Band Of Brothers, where Damian Lewis plays the role of Dick Winters and truly did it well) - yeah, him. He died that week.

That extraordinary man who dodged bullets and danced with death and lived through hell for months on behalf of us, died. And what do we fill our days telling other people about? A man with no concept of morals or conscience who wants to starve women because it turns him on. Not only is it devastating that I saw just one person noting the terrible loss of this pure and wonderful man on Twitter - and that tweet was from Simon Pegg who also played a part in Band of Brothers - but even the English media completely overlooked the occurrence, opting instead to gossip about Tong. The Guardian ran a 1000 word article about Tong and his porn directing escapades, yet Richard Winters doesn't even come up in their search engine. It is the same case with many of our other so-called news sources.

I think it's terribly sad. It's all very well to speak out against bad people like Kenneth Tong who's fickle ideals adapt to what makes him most famous or most wealthy, but at what point are we all going to stop being blinded by feckless nobodies and take some responsibility to stick up for or even just acknowledge worthy people? I think I find the lack of media responsibility the most worrying of all. News networks are a form of information and education, yet so many find it appropriate to show everyone how to be famous by being appalling instead of honouring the memory of a true hero. I wonder what else we missed while we were blinded by idle crap?

I am just as bad as anyone else for being consumed by this infuriating size zero fad. Next time, I hope I will remember the people that matter, instead of contributing to such a massive act of social trickery.