What’s your poison: quarantini or locktail? The ups and downs of life in lockdown

Disclaimer: I wrote the below on a not-so-special day a month or so ago. Honestly, time and space are a meaningless void to me now, so that may not be totally accurate. Looking back, it’s crazy to see how much has changed in that short time: be it too soon or not, locky d as we know it is coming to an end. The lack of distraction has allowed us to, as a collective, reassess our subconscious biases and critically analyse the way we live. England is on the verge of swinging open its doors and the spotlight has shifted from Miss Rona to the stark inequalities in our society.

Just a month or so ago, I was complaining about having my freedom restricted and penning down my frustrations on having no control… something I’d never personally experienced before. The rules have changed. The focus has changed. The conversation has changed. The world is slowly but surely waking up, in more ways than one. Though the below is painfully trivial on second glance and somehow outdated after such a short pause, it signifies as a reminder for me of these past few months. It also brings my privilege to the forefront. No matter how socially conscious I may think I am, my privilege is something I am continuously learning about.

Who remembers when the words ‘quarantine’, ‘isolation’ and ‘furlough’ were foreign to us and not seared into our everyday existence? Before the pandemic swept itself into every nook and cranny of our lives, I knew ‘Corona’ to be the countless bottles of lime-infused bev I’d swill on the weekends, and the only ‘curve’ I wanted flattening was my ever-growing muffin top. Alas, this painfully untroubled pre-pandemic innocence has now been infected by the global goings on of today’s world. We’ve become so easily institutionalised by this new vocabulary, that sometimes it’s hard to remember what life was like before it. Before this.

We’re all out of touch, taking blind stabs in the dark as to when this will end and how to stop it. Though very little has come to light, we do know one thing for sure: locking down and social distancing is our only option for the time being and it is something we must do. Stay Home, Save Lives – you know the rest. Though this way of life is undoubtedly a necessity at the moment, it doesn’t make the rough edges of its harsh reality any easier to swallow.

Truthfully, we’re all yearning to rush, whole-heartedly into the safe and sturdy embrace of normality… emphasis on the embrace. Above all things, an embrace has always been an uncomplicated source of joy that is now the furthest thing from simple. I mean, when was the last time any of us physically touched something, or someone, without being careful or – dare I say it – alert? One of the most primitive human impulses, to touch, has been cruelly stripped of its innocence and out of our everyday. Kissing, holding hands, hugging and everything in between has been put on hold for the foreseeable – along with everything else we like to do.

I stumbled across my purse last week at the bottom of my forgotten backpack and had to stop for a moment to remember its function: it’s been gathering dust in a corner, probably wondering what went wrong between us, along with my umbrella, heeled boots and stunted social calendar. All signs of a past life that now, on my eleventh weekend inside, seem like a very distant memory.

It’s been seventy seven days since I’ve partaken in awkward small talk, drank coffee that isn’t instant or had an unnecessarily deep conversation with a friendly Uber driver. I miss spontaneity. I miss holding the door open for strangers, meeting friends of friends and bumping into people on the street. I miss having face-to-face conversations with people who don’t come with a customised Zoom background and a crackly reception. Hell, I even miss the stale communal hangovers with my mates and the – occasional – stumble of shame. Now, the only hangovers I’ve nursed have been as a result of another virtual pub quiz, and the only stumble I’ve had to do is my thousandth guilty trip to the fridge. A bottle of red and my laptop now constitute as the only tools needed for the ‘new normal’ night out and any hopes of a romantic interaction have been reduced to ‘quarniness’- a coined phrase that I need not explain…

Lack of social life and withdrawals from the pub aside, it seems that everyone is facing different difficulties depending on their situation. At the moment, we’re all living for the blissful 3 minutes of every morning, when we’ve just woken up and haven’t thought about the stagnant situation the world has found itself in. Whether you’re locking down with your lover, isolating with a houseful of mates or riding the wave alone, the monotonous thud of the everyday routine in lockdown is hard to drown out. Much like my thought process of what to write about today, people’s conversations seem to now only focus on the same subject: COVID 19 and how we’re coping with it.

I’ve been lucky enough to have been marooned on the island I grew up on with my entire family – a luxury that many people across the globe have been starved of. Though I am well aware of how privileged we have been compared to those stuck solo between four walls, I must draw light to the sheer volume of emotions that can be passed between five locked up adults in one home. Let’s just say that the mood moves as mercilessly as Ross Gellar’s whilst making fajitas in Friends. One minute we’re all FINE and the next we’re sobbing into our margarita mix: there is no in between.

Stuck on the same broken record, we’re all on loop in the same setting with the same company and the cracks are beginning to show. To give context, we’ve now found ourselves discussing the dryness of this week’s satsumas compared to lasts, and are frequently having to silence each others stories due to having heard them a dozen times already. I fear that the tale of my dad accidentally ordering a schnitzel in illegible Austrian, instead of his desired dish of goulash on his trip to Vienna is now permanently seared into my sorry brain. Let’s just say that this household is in desperate need of fresh material and new unsuspecting souls to bore, as a matter of urgency.

With nothing to report and leisurely pass times restricted to a limited selection of home workouts, amateur baking and book reading, the subjects of which we now manage to argue over are getting a tad out of hand. The bitter debates over the second film choice of the evening have been known to physically divide us to separate rooms to find solace. The territorial attitudes towards wine distribution and the militant snack monitoring have become borderline feral: portions are a problem and a frequent source of feud. Not to mention the bathroom time squabbles, which have now intensified to full blown brawls in our towel turbans: who knew five adults and their individual bathroom routines could cause a small war? There’s been no sign of surrender yet from either party. What gleefully underpins all of this, with a kind of lovable charm, are our blissfully unaware pets, who have never wagged their tails with quite such vigor before – marveling over their silly owners and their silly spats.

That being said, things could be so, so much worse and I am no stranger to that indisputable truth. Drawing on the winning words of Gavin and Stacey’s Nessa Jenkins, “don’t get me wrong, but to be honest, at the end of the day, when all’s said and done”, I wouldn’t change my situation. This turbulent, inhuman time has really given my family and I some much needed perspective. Different as we are, we’ve had no choice but to stay together and now we’re all tackling this time as a unit. Sure, we’re fudging sick of the sight of one another and would kill for a night at the boozer with our mates – but the unwavering bond between us has only grown sturdier with every squabble and shared bottle (or five) of Merlot. We’ve had good days and we’ve had bad (very bad) days – but all of which we’ve had together.

No one knows quite how long this may all last and all of us are patiently waiting for the fog to clear and the weight to lift – but, until then, another few weeks piled together doesn’t seem so bad. Like the parents, un-distracted and present, who’ve been gifted this time to watch their young children grow; the unlikely friendships that have been formed under forced living confides, and the futile feuds that have been fixed due to clearer mindsets and long overdue reconciliations, there has been some good that has come from this devastating period. My hope is that, after the darkness has lifted, we hold on to these little glimmers of good and take it through to our post-corona existence: we’re really going to need them.

Rhi x

Modern day romance: mindless meandering

‘The more you swipe, the more you match! Rhiannon, now’s your time to find love.’

–Every other day for the last two years, Bumble

Is it my time to find love? Is the day finally here? Part of me says – god no, I’m in my 20’s, why should I find love? When trying to think positively, you could say that my complexion is yet to have completely lost hope. I mean, it’s still supported (ish) by collagen, all the things that should be perky still are and my desire for new experiences and adventures is yet to have been dampened by the depressing on goings of today’s society: think Brexit. Those things considered, the night is still bloody young and my flings are not yet flung. But then another part of me, the more cynical part, thrusts the reality of my romantic life in front of that rose-tinted reel and harshly projects my current situation. That situation being a onesie-wearing commitment-phobe, eating a family-sized tiramisu in front of Celebrity Masterchef on a Saturday night. Oh – and regretting her disorderly actions from the night before. With the latter considered, it kind of feels like maybe it is my time to seek refuge in a wholesome relationship.

Don’t get me wrong, being single is great. If anything, it can be an absolute hoot. No restrictions, lots of fun flirting and the ability to do whatever you like, whenever you like. No – the scary part is when everyone around you starts getting into serious relationships – ones that make you wonder if you’ll ever be in the same situation. After a certain age, you start to notice friends changing the way they live their lives. It’s no longer a case of swapping drunken antics of who got with who. Everyone got with their significant others half a decade ago and haven’t looked back since: it’s only you who’s done something horrifically embarrassing and untoward at last night’s supposedly casual get together. Personally, I still fancy everything with a pulse and the only thing I’m committed to is my obsession with Timothée Chalamet and flared trousers. I am yet to get it.

For myself and my fellow singletons, we are constantly encouraged to get on board with online dating. As I scroll through a familiar fleet of two dimensional suitors and attempt to evaluate their ever substance-less bio’s, I become more and more doubtful. Nothing is less inviting than a swipe right culture, with romances that revolve solely around the ruthlessness of the internet. For those who struggle to get fruitful results from the likes of Tinder and Hinge, the nights get longer, the fear of commitment grows stronger and the positive sexual experiences wain. Yep, lonely men and women sit alone with their family-sized Italian desserts and are still considered ‘connected’ and ‘active.’ Ah, the irony.

The reality is, I haven’t wanted to have to turn to forced conversations with complete strangers who, more often than out, have fallen under the same unsatisfying umbrella: one that’s very practical for an impromptu downpour, but will most likely be tossed in the bin after only a few outings. One night wonders rather than invested others. Though many a successful relationship has stemmed from dating sites and Tinder triumphs, I have been embarrassingly snobbish in my dismissal of them: an icy attitude that has (thankfully) begun to thaw.

Growing up, my generation fed itself on a steady diet of unrealistic romantic comedies. Be it pining after the humble Razzle-bearing Mark Ruffalo from 13 going on 30, or lusting after the undeniably delicious Matthew McConaughey in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days – it’s safe to say that we grew up with an unattainable idea of the perfect partner. Hell, we haven’t even touched on Jude Law in The Holiday: let’s just not go there. At the age of 25 and well-seasoned, shall we say, in my dating career, I have come to realise that this person does not, I repeat does not, exist. From my experience, I’ve had a very unhealthy approach to judging whether or not someone is worth investing in – something that the nonsensical chick flicks haven’t helped with.

Usually (though there are exceptions) it’s boiled down to two very different categories. There’s the notoriously bad eggs – rotten and unsavoury – that I end up chucking in the frying pan anyway. Despite obvious warning signs, I’m forever drawn to them. They’re like over-preened cats who love nothing more than to play games – toying with a ball of string: only this time it’s your heart strings that get cruelly plucked and slowly weathered by the ongoing up-and-down motion of being trifled with. Fudging exhausting to say the least.

Then, of course, there are the nicer than nice ones: sadly, these tend not to leave a much of a mark. If you’re anything like me you’ll have convinced yourself that their kind ways and considerate mannerisms are bloody boring and not enough to sustain your over-active mind and emotions before you’ve even finished your second course. By the time you’ve gotten to dessert you’ve mentally written them off and are yearning for an uber home: an uninformed and lazy move that I’ve regretted making on more than one occasion.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to digest the very bitter pill that the perfect partner is hard – if not impossible – to find. Until we’ve stumbled across them on a low-lit evening, we must open our minds to giving people a chance: a chance that lasts longer than the first course. As a society that needs a constant source of entertainment and distraction, we’ve become accustomed to constantly looking for the next best thing – a tactic that has proved to be very destructive when judging a person’s capability as a companion. The sooner we open our eyes to genuine people with real hearts and interesting conversation, the more opportunity we’ll have to make real and worthy connections.

Meet up with that hunk from Hinge and give that nice but boring bloke another opportunity to make you laugh. But, by all means, if you don’t fancy that, let family-sized tiramisu be the one… it hasn’t let me down just yet. Grab your spoon and godspeed.

Rhi x

Content: are we ever?

The threads of thoughts, feelings, needs and wants that weave themselves into everyday life are so fine. You choose certain colours and materials, if you will, that seem paramount to the tapestry of your happiness and self-worth. The vibrant must-have outfits, glittering latest iPhone, the rare attention of a disinterested other and the sturdy fabric of an impressive career are just some of the ingredients that, on paper, make the cake that we call ‘contentment’.

Unless you can honestly claim to be devoid of any longing to be accepted or admired by others (if so, bravo), the majority of us crave the green-light, the go-ahead and ratification from those around us. We can spend months, years, even decades searching for approval. Be it adhering to the expectations of loving parents, attempting to consolidate past accomplishments or desperately trying to keep up with the ever-developing trends and tastes of the modern world: the list of opinions to consider is endless. In my experience, no matter what you do, it can often feel like you’re missing the mark. Choosing one path can often cancel out another one – leading to incomplete aspirations and inevitably back-tracking on past promises.

Having been lucky enough to have been born into a family that cares for me and to have met friends who have supported me, my existence so far has, on paper, been plush. If anything, the amount of love I’ve always had has been overwhelming. Overwhelmingly wonderful. Despite this however, my pursuit for contentment is yet to come full circle. As someone who has always been uber sensitive about growing older, my 24^th birthday has brought with it a cloudy sense of self. My parents were married with a career by the time they were my age: I am single (sense the bitterness) and currently in search of a career. The difference is stark (no sign of Rob Stark, regrettably). When I was a little girl, I definitely didn’t picture the life I have now in my crystal ball of prediction – think zoo keeper with a Leonardo DiCaprio lookalike in the mix. My roaring twenties certainly haven’t been devoid of glittering parties and the occasional sequin dress, but Gatsby and his millions are yet to make an appearance.

It’s hard to pin-point what components you need to make a nest a happy one. Birds need twigs, mud, feathers and leaves. You may be a bird with plenty of plumage … but sometimes self-doubt can make you feel featherless. Cold, uncomfortable and unable to fly. I am in the process of realising that the wind under your wings doesn’t have to blow at the same speed as everyone else. You may not have it all mapped out in your tender twenties, but what you will have is the opportunity to do whatever you like. If you have nothing in place yet, that only leaves more room to build whatever life you like. In the end, your own self-belief and self-approval is limitless in its value. Try not to let what seems like disapproval from those around you, a dwindling bank account or a seemingly blank CV steer you away from feeling like a boss. Be the boss of your own business.

Rhi x

My first encounter with the world of PR

Though this piece claims that my placement at Approach has been my ‘first encounter’ with public relations, I must stress that it was not the first I’d heard of the profession. I first became familiar with it when watching Jennifer Saunders on Absolutely Fabulous. It was the humorous tone of Edina Monsoon, with her impossibly extravagant manner and her admirable attitude towards life, that first alerted me to the foggy world of PR.

Saffy: ‘I’m sorry Mum, but I’ve never seen what you actually do’

Eddy: ‘PR!’

Saffy: ‘Yes, but…’

Eddy: ‘PR! I PR things! People. Places. Concepts.’

I found myself laughing at a line of work that I had *absolutely* no knowledge of – a problem that is, according to Saffy in the quotation above, one that is widely shared across the working world. What does it ‘actually’ mean to do ‘PR things’? Well, my time at Approach PR has given me a glimpse of just that.

Firstly, their close-attention and appreciation of the modern realm of social media is something that has had a significant imprint on my business acumen. All I have ever known of social media has been the self-indulgent scroll down Instagram on an event-less evening or the substance-less tweets of reality television stars and beauty bloggers. If anything, I have always seen social media as a platform for vulnerability and self-confidence issues.

However, I have been pleasantly surprised by the way Approach, and other PR companies alike, use social media to spread their word. By utilising sites like Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, Approach share stories that may not have otherwise reached certain demographics and in turn cover a larger audience. Never underestimate the power of the hashtag or the lure of the Instagram location. It’s all clickbait – an opportunity for business!

The close-knit team here source the materials for a promising story, search for an interesting angle or selling point, and then peddle the blueprint towards surrounding journalists and broadcasters. In one week alone, I have had the chance to attend several photoshoots, complete social media planners, analyse video content, conduct media sell-ins over the telephone and much more. Though this may seem to be simple, Approach has demonstrated to me the precision, persistence and social awareness that is paramount to succeeding in this line of work. Whether it be skilfully selecting the relevant information for a piece or eagerly waiting on responses from journalists – the PR account executives across the globe go above and beyond to transform what can sometimes be placid information into compelling stories. You could say they are the fairy godmothers of the media industry – making the arguably mundane media, magical.

Despite arriving as a complete stranger to the PR universe, I am pleased to say that my time at Approach has left me feeling like a welcomed guest in an environment I’d love to learn more about. It has offered me a first-hand account of what life as a PR executive involves – and it is so much more than Edina’s trimmed down explanation of ‘people, places, concepts.’ I look forward to unearthing more about public relations – a profession that need no longer be misunderstood by the masses but appreciated as a valuable, and vital, vocation.

Rhi x

This blog post was written as a work experience project and is featured on the website for Approach PR Ilkley: https://www.approachpr.com/my-first-encounter-with-the-world-of-pr/

Give in to the Gap Year

A wise couple you may be familiar with once said, ‘adventure is out there’. ‘Once’ being 2009 and the ‘wise old couple’ Mr and Mrs Fredricksen from the Pixar film UP. Though neither are Plato, Aristotle or Jean-Paul Sartre, these computer generated characters offer an, arguably iconic, perception of life and what it has to offer. No one can dispute with his bow-ties, or her makeshift explorer badge. It’s true, yes – the quotation highlighted is completely corny and has a candyfloss in the sky sentiment. However that does not make it any less charming, or any less true. ‘Adventure’ is something that most people, of all ages, come to crave. You can see it in children’s make-believe games and the many motorbikes and sports cars bought in the average mid-life crisis. Everyone gets bored of the ordinary. The real world, being that your stale nine to five job or life as an unsatisfied single, can be awfully stagnant in its rotation. The ticket to happiness, discovery and a passionate love-affair can be, literally, a ticket on the next plane. Just your average plane, mind you. You don’t have to strap your house to a swarm of balloons and journey to a pixelated waterfall to make that happen. That does sound fun though.

The easiest and seemingly the most popular solution is to go backpacking. It may not be the most glamorous option, but slumming it in dodgy hostels, eating local food and not having even a ‘pl’ to your plan is the perfect way to kick-start a new adventure (notice the Phoebe Buffay reference, please). I have learnt so many serious life-lessons from the places I have visited, rucksack in tow, and I will be sure to clog this website with wistful recollections of them in due course. Nevertheless, I think I must first address the reservations people have against backpackers. Before claiming that backpacking is the best way to find ‘adventure’, I feel I ought to reiterate that many of the typical, and downright embarrassing backpacker traits that accompany the ‘gap yah’ reputation have a lot of truth behind them.

It is painful to admit it, but a lot of the nauseating characteristics that come with ‘finding yourself’ are truly hard to avoid. I hold my hands up. No matter how hard you try, it can be a very easy to smoothly migrate towards the “unfortunately I can’t come shopping on the Kings Road today, I’m literally in Burma” crowd. You see it all over social media – the work suits come off and the elephant harem pants come the fudge on. What can I say, you really do feel invincible in the trademark baggy trouser and a tie dye headband. It really is a staple. Granted, some people genuinely are naturally carefree, forward thinking and unshaken by the commercial storms about. But in many cases, backpacking may as well translate to ‘bohemianism for beginners.’ It can often be an easy guide to achieving an, ironically conventional, ‘unconventional lifestyle.’ All you need to do is whack on your collection of market-bought wavy garments, get your sun-kissed hair braided and follow the spiritual pursuit to the over-instagrammed tourist spot. You’ll feel born again.

After a while, walking onto plane after plane is as breezy as hopping on and off the 56 bus into town, and learning a handful of local phrases can make you feel practically local. The transition is complete with the illustration of one’s body and acceptance of one’s true purpose as a beach bar owner with a hunky Australian guy/Sheila. On almost every trip I’ve ever been on, I have succumbed to this false sense of nonconformity. I’ve paid for it of course, with the odd infected nose ring and a fair bit of food poisoning. I am ashamed to say that my friends and I have, like so many others, fallen victim to that ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ mentality. Whether it be eating out of a coconut bowl in Bali or artistically twirling spaghetti into my ever-hungry mouth in Rome – all I needed to do was close my eyes and I may well have been Julia Roberts. After a few minor surgical operations, of course…

In spite of the embarrassing reality that all these scenarios and traits bring to light (that tourists can be shamefully ignorant whilst abroad) – I cannot deny that they contribute to that amazing feeling of freedom you have whilst being away. The sense that anything is possible is SO cripplingly cringe – and yet so present. Put it this way, I went to a club at the end of a four-day bender, in my pyjamas and a pair of horrific climbing sandals and *still* managed to attract the opposite sex. The inconceivable becomes conceivable. There’s a reason people become travel junkies: the sense of being limitless that comes with it is as addictive as anything. You can never predict what’s going to happen, because nothing is planned. It could be good, or it could be bad. Looking back, even the most trying memories are the fondest. The state of hysteria, impatience and bad hygiene that often accompanies them is comical and more often than not, half of the fun.

Travelling – in all its forms – has a reputation for temporarily curing all manner of misery. Break-ups, career confusion and emotional turmoil all fall under the umbrella of symptoms that warrant the travel bug. Some really like to focus on the ‘temporarily’ part and insist that everyone who goes away is running away from something. In all honesty, they are right on the money. Of course everyone is running away – but that’s the beauty of it. Sometimes the distractions in life become the highlights. Alongside this, some say it is the perfect way to ‘put off real life’. I’m guessing that by ‘real life’ these people mean growth, development and a stable career. Though stability and a lucrative income is, of course, an admirable path to take, I like to think that ‘real life’ is about doing things that interest and excite you. Seeing beautiful places, learning about different cultures and meeting people from all over the world seems like a good way to spend part of our time on this earth. Though you can climb on board with the hoards of tourists who insist on ‘finding themselves’, which there is *nothing* wrong with, along the way you can also create bonds with people and places that last a lifetime. It may not be going against the grain or changing the world, but backpacking can most definitely provide you with the element of adventure that is so often lacking in your day-to-day routine. You can taste new flavours of life that you may not have done, had you not followed an impulse. Whether it be ‘putting off real life’ or ‘running away’ from the ‘real’ world – it’s a bloody good time and it shouldn’t be dampened by the clouds of commentators. If it’s what you want, then it’s what’s right. Eat the spicy food: embrace new experiences: buy that ticket.

This is me signing off with a concrete image of the most gap yah get-up I think I’ve ever been seen in publicly. The photo in question shows myself leaning against an oversized bottle of Bintang, in a Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt, a classic nude harram pant and a high-fashion pair of sandles. Note the bumbag.

Rhi x

Ditch the Dressing Gown

Let’s start by clarifying that despite the title of this post, I have been a big, if not the *biggest*, advocate for the humble dressing gown. Though simple in design, it has been known in my household to medicate all matter of ills: colds, hangovers, heartbreaks – you name it, DG has seen it. Completed it mate. For anyone who has spent an extended amount of time with me (bravo), you will know that I usually spend at least 60% of my existence in my dressing gown. Throughout university, my housemates would comment that I was forever shuffling from one room to the next in a baby pink fluffy robe. In the last year however, I have upgraded to this plush number:

There’s definitely a hint of Count Olaf, the notorious villain in A Series of Unfortunate Events, to this piece. I’ve always been emotionally invested in Jim Carrey’s 2004 performance and therefore feel particularly evil and masterful walking slowly down my staircase in this – even in my bloody pyjamas. It’s got an edge. Completely ridiculous, I know.

Anyhow, I’ve steered away from the point. That point being that I have found my dressing gown to be, hysterically, a rather dangerous coping mechanism for the endless emotional trials of adulthood. I cannot put my finger on as to why I wrap myself in my dressing gown every time I feel particularly drudged down or unsatisfied with the day’s proceedings – but I can tell you that it has always been the first thing I want to do when I get through the door. How SAD, the crowd jeers. Honestly, it has always appealed to me as a fluffy comfort blanket that won’t judge me for my long-list of horrendous decisions made the night before, or a quietly quilted embrace when I need it most. However, along with it brought a very lazy attitude. It seemed to be all I wore when at home, and I started to fear that I was in sloth-transition. There was a lot of negative energy surrounding my poor, defenceless dressing gown and with it a state of being I needed to shake. SO, I made the decision last week that the dressing gown will be… no more. Sure, I’ll still use it in the winter evenings when I want to feel warm and fuzzy, or on the brisk walk from shower to bedroom: it can’t be completely discounted. But as for it being a strict uniform for every day off – hundreds of which I have wasted thus far – it is not.

It’s remarkable how much good getting up and putting on actual clothes can do. I know this is something that normal, successful people do without hesitation, but you’d be surprised at how many people live in the same sad, squishy existence I did. Actually dressing in *real* clothes and preparing yourself for the day can ignite a fire in you that you may have thought went out a long time ago. Mentally, it powers my brain into productivity. It sounds trivial, but the dressing gown instantly made me feel like a failure. Since getting up and wearing the clothes I feel good in, I’ve applied for a number of jobs and courses, and have made productive changes to my daily routine. This website being one of them. Even if you’re working from home where no one will see you, remember that you will see you. Dust yourself off. Glean back that vital sense of self-worth that may have been led astray by the allure of loungewear. Even within closed doors where there’s no one else to impress – ditch the dressing gown to impress yourself.

Rhi x

There’s a first time for everything

Firstly, if you are reading this then prepare to be seriously impressed. You are about to embark on a truly unique reading experience – one that will see your mind journeying through time and space and your emotional capacity tested unlike ever before. Of course, I’m kidding. Nothing I write will ever warrant such a reaction. If all this will ever be is an outlet for my somewhat clamped emotions then so be it. This is the first blog post I’ve ever attempted, so do forgive its clumsiness. Though I love to read and write, I cannot confidently say whether I am any good at it.

Having always toyed with the idea of starting a blog, I have often found myself asking: where do I begin? What interesting things can I say to glamorise my current situation and make it readable? That situation being living at home at 23 with no job prospects or commitments of any kind. Quarter-life crisis a go-go. Some have said that I should embrace this time as a blank whiteboard of opportunity, one that is waiting to be doodled on until drenched in ink. However, being the pessimist I am, I have let this limbo-land existence drag me down to depths I didn’t think existed. Since graduating, I have lost a lot of the things that made me who I was. As self-pitying as it sounds, my confidence has certainly been knocked down a peg or two since leaving the safe haven of education. So, whether it be good content or not, I have always found writing to be a form of escapism and have decided to use it as tool to remind myself why I loved studying English, reading books and writing essays. Here goes. If I’m going to moan about my state of affairs to people in person, then why not bore defenceless internet surfers through the written word about it too? It’s only fair.

So, sliding the depressing stuff to one side, I shall mostly be writing about things that make me feel something: subjects that stir something in me. What that ‘something’ may be, is unclear. My collection of millennial musings may range from memorable stories from my travels across foreign lands to general commentaries on pressing world issues. When I say ‘issues’, please understand that this could vary from my insistence that the Harry Potter books deserve biblical status, to the consistency of my morning Weetabix. But if you’re into that oddly satisfying everyday drivel then, by all means, read on.

P.S. if you are reading this, I love you. Not in the same way Gerard Butler loves Hilary Swank, but you get my drift.

Rhi x

Both the images included are my own: the first is a still from my kitchen table and the second is a shot from a day out in York last autumn.