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.

Shut up and put your money where your mouth is...

...Life is more interesting when you do that. Not just having a goal, but getting up and doing it. I've been thinking about this recently, and, if it's something slightly more inspiring than getting up and showering before noon, how much of a line there is between ambition and fear. Or at least fear of failure.

For example, I have to write a book. I would like to have it written in six months, if not within the year, and to have achieved that would be stupendous. I am scared of two things: The first is that it will be difficult to write in general. It will involve some painful things and haul up memories that are perhaps better forgotten, yet I think that they're too precious to the storyline to keep them out. The second thing is much more universally felt - what if no one likes it? Aside from a flimsy paper escapade which I attempted as a seven year old (a sequel to Pocahontas in which she and John Smith realise they have no food in their marital teepee, and so must venture along the mountains to a local Asda. Riveting stuff if I do say so myself), I have not written a book before. Having spent three years training, £10 000 in tuition fees and told a multitude of people that I am an "aspiring journalist/writer", I can't think of anything worse than a big fat rejection. I don't really understand what it takes to get over being too afraid to fail, and be pushed far enough to need to achieve whatever it is you want.

What is perhaps most worrying is that, speaking on behalf of myself (and many of the people reading this I imagine), the world is supposedly my oyster. Anything I could ever want - amazing friends and family, a beautiful place to live and money in the bank (not hugely helped by Student Loans, but I digress...) - makes me rich in privileges and more importantly leaves no reason not to go ahead and become something great.

I was holding this conversation with somebody recently, and she suggested that people from privileged backgrounds who are set up to be successful with a good education and supportive parents, can endure immense pressure to live up to what they've been given. I just can't get my head around it. I'm not directing this at myself or anyone in particular. But this causes genuine distress in people's lives. It's common in new graduates, and 1 out of 4 students suffer from depression under the pressure of performing to the expected standard. Amazing that having everything can backfire on someone like that - and there's not even a good reason for it. It's just a state of mind that develops into something that becomes an emotional disturbance.

And now, when I'm faced with an aimless path ahead and everything left to achieve, it begs the question: What do you do if you can't escape a fear like that?

...Shut up and put your money where your mouth is. And hope the bumps along the way don't shake you up too much.