Gushy Harry Potter Post

Warning: expect mush and attempted profoundness.

For no real reason, I've spent a lot of time over the past couple of days watching various JK Rowling interviews / documentaries. I've got no idea what triggered it, but last night I watched A Conversation with Daniel Radcliffe and JK Rowling (filmed shortly before the release of the final Harry Potter film), and today I watched JK Rowling: A Year in the Life (filmed over the course of the year leading up to the publication of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows). I've had tears in my eyes on about eight different occasions, and was a watery, gibbering mess by the end of the latter.

I can't explain, even to myself, why my reaction was so overly emotional. Harry Potter is hardly my little secret; it's become a cliche to say that Harry Potter got you into reading (which it didn't, for me), to say it inspired you to write (which it partially did), to say it defined your childhood (which it certainly had a hand in). And it bothers me that I feel the need to justify my personal relationship with Harry Potter because it means so much to so many people. I don't really believe that there are degrees of loving something - it's not something you can measure.

I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone when I was six or seven, I think, and the final Harry Potter film was released two weeks after my eighteenth birthday - so the world of Hogwarts was my imaginary playground throughout my childhood. Sure, I may have shared that world with God only knows how many other kids, but one of my favourite things about reading is that it's a solo activity. For however long or short a time, it is just you, and the characters, and an adventure; and bloody hell, what an adventure.

There are so many things I could talk about, in relation to JK Rowling's books, but it was actually hearing Rowling talk about them that I think has got me feeling so nostalgic. Being so young when I was first introduced to Harry Potter, JK Rowling was a name to me a long time before she was a person, and when I first became aware of the person I wasn't sure what to think. For someone with an imagination so clearly extraordinary, JK Rowling seemed kind of...boring. And I think it's only in the past 48 hours that I've really understood how wrong that kind of judgement was.

It's a pretty astonishing realisation, when it hits you that the phenomenon (and I don't think that word is ever more appropriately used than when in relation to Potter) that is Harry Potter stemmed from the mind of one woman, and all the personal experiences, memories and tragedies that went towards forming that woman. Hearing her talk out loud about these characters, created by her but adopted by SO many others, and the directions she almost took their stories (there's a bit where she admitted to nearly killing off Ron - this blog post would not be waxing quite so lyrical if she'd followed that through) made me realise how much the work of one person's creativity can affect others. I have absolutely no doubt that there are people in the world whose lives were saved by Harry Potter, that there are people who found hope, happiness, friendship, escape, confidence, strength, imagination and who knows what else in those 17 zillion pages.

But for me, Harry Potter is a part of the foundation on which I built my aspirations, and I think I sometimes forget that. It felt nice to be reminded.

Excuses

As of this moment in time, I am trying to simultaneously balance:

1. Writing a children's novel.
2. Writing pieces and assessments for my MA.
3. Attending my MA.
4. A café job, working somewhere between one and four days of which most are weekends.
5. A bookshop café job (because that is infinitely more relevant - one day, my hoardes of screaming book fans may need coffee) of at least three days, including weekends.
6. A temporary writing residency at a local centre for children's literature.
7. Some freelancing (to make it sound far more legit than it is) for a reading project run by a local arts centre. 
8. Maintaining old friendships, which have conveniently scattered themselves across the country.
9. Making new friends, so as to not be sad and lonely. 
10. Seeing a boyfriend who works 9-5 weekdays. 
11. Sleeping.
12. Reading, so as to become a more rounded human being. 
13. General life requirements, such as maintaining personal hygiene. 
14. Pretending that I'm taking this blogging thing seriously. Again.

And currently I am either tragically behind on or entirely ignoring options 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13 and 14.

So yeah. Be right back.

I'm Back!...Again

I feel like my relationship with blogging is reflected in the way most people feel about exercise. I know it's good for me and I know that really I've got no excuse not to, so every six months or so I'm like, "WOO, BLOGGING YEAH." Then I delete a load of old stuff, write two posts of whatever I'm currently feeling constitutes a 'theme', forget about it for three months and get all:

But slowly the guilt starts to kick in (not to mention all the applications for writing work that ask me for a link to my blog and I'm sat there thinking, "I HAVE ONE OF THOSE, YES, YES...oh. Balls."), and eventually I go trudging guiltily back to the blog with a sheepish attempt at a new theme / commitment strategy.

Take this post, for instance. I have a million things to do and three hours to do them, but I still had the idea for this blog post, started it (as in, wrote the first sentence) and then spent twenty minutes scouring the internet for a gif showing that bit in He's Just Not That Into You where Jennifer Connelly smashes a mirror, disappears and comes back with a dustpan and brush. And when I couldn't find it, was like,

Much like somebody getting their running gear on again, getting halfway down the street, feeling the beginnings of their first stitch, turning round and going home. 

And yet, here I still am. And once again, here I'm intending to stay. Theme and commitment strategy as yet undecided.

So, I imagine what will follow is a three-day revamp of the blog in which I battle between the self-deprecation of feeling as though everything I have previously written is shite and the self-indulgence of feeling that if I delete everything then it was all for nothing, and then radio silence. I have figured out how to add new pages though so, you know, that's something!

But you never know, I could end up like this:

Dying, but still going. 

No Make-Up Selfies

If you're not reading this in the immediate aftermath of the 18th/19th/20th March 2014, you will probably neither remember or care what I'm talking about.

But anyway.

The latest craze to have overtaken social media is the No-Makeup Selfie, purportedly to promote Cancer Awareness, and I really cannot decide where I come down on this. Having been nominated this morning, I naturally thought the internet was the appropriate place to voice my concerns before ultimately caving to social expectation. So here goes.

1. What does being make-up-less have to do with cancer?
Well...yeah. I had seen four or five make-up-less selfies before I realised the link to Cancer Awareness, and it's not exactly where your mind jumps. As a promotional campaign it's pretty vague, which then creates the danger of people uploading these selfies with no idea or real perception of what they're supporting. But then...

2. Cancer Awareness is a worthy cause regardless of how it's being promoted.
True 'dat.

3. Being 'aware' of cancer is vague and non-comittal.
'Cancer awareness' is an extremely non-specific banner. EVERYONE is 'aware' of cancer, so what are you actually saying? Are you promoting regular check-ups, like Coppa Feel? Are you promoting the general fight against cancer, like Cancer Research? Are you promoting support for those with, and the families of those with cancer, like Macmillan? Are you promoting the charity that supported you and your loved ones through whatever your personal experience with cancer has been, like the hospice that looked after my grandad during the final stages of lung cancer?

4. Why not more donations? Put your money where your face is.
And while we're on that, don't just promote when you can actively support. It's preachy, but whatever your circumstances, if you're willing to put a no make-up selfie on the internet, you should be willing to make a donation - it's only £3, and it's as simple as texting BEAT to 70007 for Cancer Research, 70099 specifically for Breast Cancer.

5. But discussions on social media seem to be far more focused on ego-boosting than cancer support/awareness.
If I see one more selfie where the only thing being said in the comments is, 'You're gorgeous anyway babe!', 'Stunning' or - most infuriatingly - 'Well done!' I'm going to scream. NOT THE POINT.

6. But social media is a great tool for great causes, and should be used as such more often.
Generic irritation with Facebook commenters aside, it's nice to see Facebook being used for a good cause, and not to spread the news of what sandwich that guy you knew at school is eating for lunch today. It is profoundly unfair, for instance, to be as cynical over this as the NekNominate fad that was all over social media last month. Questionnable motives aside, it's good to see Facebook doing good.

7. Why is going make-up less such a big deal?
This is a different rant, really, but why is wearing no make-up such a sacrifice? People shave their heads, bathe in beans and jump out of planes for charity - it's a shame that this is seen as an equivalent.

8. It's a great idea, but why not make it more relevant?
Along the same lines - if you're going to post a no make-up selfie, why not make it relevant to the cause you're championing? Contemporary body image and the media's promotion of 'beauty' are both infuriating attitudes, well worth fighting against - and then at least more people would understand the point you're making. This, I understand, was actually the origin of the no make-up selfie; author Laura Lippman going barefaced to support Kim Novak, after she was criticised for her looks at the Oscars. It's hard not to be cynical when 'Cancer awareness' has just been slapped on as justification for a fad nobody quite understands the point of.

9. Cynical attitudes are as prevalent as supportive ones.
As I have clearly demonstrated, scepticism and questioning are accompanying this craze with at least as much vigour as cancer awareness / support - The Independent, the Daily Mail and God only knows how many blogs have challenged it - justifiably and understandably so. But...

10. It's obviously working.
The Telegraph reckons the no make-up selfie has raised over £1 million in 24 hours for Cancer Research - and you can't really say fairer than that.

Ultimately, there is no simple answer. I and many others can and will question the sincerity and the purpose of the no make-up selfie for cancer awareness until we're blue in the face, but you can't argue with figures. However many people miss the point, consider it a sacrifice to go make-up-less or 'forget' to post anything about the supposed cause, if money is being raised for charity then I will shut up and cave:

Glamorous Twenty-Somethings

So it's one in the morning, I have to get up for a nine o'clock seminar and have already turned the lights off - and then back on again - three times. But obviously these are the moments when I have ideas my deluded and sleep-deprived brain considers to be borderline genius, therefore must share with the world as soon as possible. Cue internet. I guarantee I will read this back in the morning and wonder if I have now actually cracked.

Today's thought, or really more of a pondering: Why is society so fascinated by the lives of twenty-somethings? 

This stemmed largely from having just watched too many Girls episodes in quick succession, but it got me thinking more broadly: Girls, Friends, How I Met Your Mother, The Big Bang Theory, New Girl. All shows which explore the lives of young adults trying (and in many cases, failing) to get their shit together. 

But why the fascination? In my current position, I'm standing on the edge of twenty-something-ness, feeling the semi-security of university shaking under my feet and looking at the vast, unknowable, unpredictable chasm of the 'Future' with a gradually building but increasingly distinct sense of panic. Up until now there has always been a Next Step along The Path; go to school, get A-Levels, go to university, get a degree. Now, it feels like I am counting down to the point in a few months time when I will fall off the edge of The Path and come face-to-face with reality in a horrifically sink-or-swim manner. To put it more simply (and drop the weird combination of metaphors), imagine the red dot is security, consistency and general confidence in your life - the pug is me: 

Now what, dear God what, is so fascinating about that? Depressing, concerning and mind-blowingly terrifying, yes, but fascinating? This seems to me a prime case of romanticising. 

In the end I think it comes down to misunderstanding - or more likely misremembering. If nothing else can be said for being young, poor and confused, at least most twenty-somethings have no responsibility to anyone but themselves. In theory, sure, we could fly off travelling at a moment's notice, quit the day-job to follow our dream and sleep with anyone we happen to come into contact with. Except we don't live in a sitcom; the real world has real consequences. 'Free' from responsibility we may be, but that doesn't make us 'free' in any other sense - particularly financially. Regardless of what you are capable of doing in terms of personal freedom, thinking about what you, as a young adult just out of university, can actually afford to do is probably more likely to make you feel like this: 

(This is getting way more depressing than I meant it to be...sorry.) 

Or maybe it's just that the problems of youth are easier to sugar-coat than the problems of later life. Sure, you've got no money - but at least you've got parents to fall back on. Sure, your love life's a mess - but at least you're young enough to take advantage of all the options worth exploring. Sure, you don't know where you'll be living in three months - but at least you're not tied down or trapped. 

And to look at it that way actually makes me feel the least worried I've been in a while. Maybe it isn't sugar-coating so much as a Real Adult way of looking back and realising that the problems you faced as a twenty-something, whilst still being problems, were at least simpler problems. Finding a last-minute place to rent is easier on your own than with a family. Moving to a new city for a fresh start or a job opportunity is far less hassle as a couple than if you have kids. Dating / finding someone to be with has much better odds as a young adult than a divorcee - through the simple fact that there are a lot more people in that situation. If nothing else, at least as a young adult you can look around you, and know that everyone has either dealt with this, is dealing with this, or will deal with it in the future. And that's actually surprisingly comforting. 

On which note, I am going to sleep, and leaving you with this: 

(Also this article on why Friends is fabulous / still relevant. It's like this post, except less embedded in reality, and thus cheerier.) 

Trrno

UPDATE: I'm actually posting this about three weeks after writing it, but iPod/time/laziness issues abound (I'm having to type this up from a draft written on my iPod, because the iPod has decided that blogger is no longer accesible to me. I swear, I could keep a blog based purely on recounting how often technology rejects me) and hey, better late than never...

The first day in Toronto (pronounced phonetically by tourists only - locals skip the first two 'o's and the second 't'; hence the stupid post title) was a bit of a non-event. Our bus arrived late afternoon, and after the most stressful taxi ride of my life so far, we arrived at the hostel without the energy to do more than eat and sleep. Toronto is by far the biggest city we've been to yet - it's almost a mini New York (apparently film companies often use it as a cheaper double for NYC).

Day two started early, on our first guided tour; a bus to Niagara Falls. I'm pretty sceptical about the rehearsed nature of these things ordinarily, but my faith in this particular guide was cemented when, on realising he'd left his bag in the city five minutes after setting off, he pulled onto the hard shoulder and had his manager run to a parallel walkway. There was a ditch between the highway and the path, so Tour Guide's solution was to have his manager lob the rucksack onto the motorway, over the ditch. I was already in stitches at the back of the bus, but I nearly cracked a rib when the manager missed and had to shimmy down the ditch for round two.

In the end, rucksack in tow, we made it to Niagara Falls without any more hiccoughs (hiccups? I'm never sure and spellcheck won't commit either). The Falls were gorgeous, if foggier than expected, and the 'Maid of the Mist' boat trip very funny in our ludicrous blue ponchos. The only problem with Niagara Falls is the town itself - this place makes Blackpool look classy. The whole town is one huge, garishly bright, overpriced gift shop.

As if to make up for this, our guide then drove us to a nearby village called Niagara-on-the-Lake, which by contrast was like the Pleasantville to Niagara Falls' Tacky Town. Our last stop was a winery owned by Ghostbusters's Dan Aykroyd, to sample some Canadian icewine. My distinctly tenuous understanding is that this is wine which, in grape form, is left to freeze and harvested in February (as opposed to, you know, that time of year when most grapes are harvested...), producing a thicker, MUCH sweeter result. It was like drinking alcoholic syrup. Never one to turn my nose up at free booze, I tried a couple of different samples, but there was no way I was paying $35 for a beer-sized bottle (sorry, Dan Aykroyd).

Day three was much less organised, but even more fun for it. Myself, Julia and Jess wandered down to the St Lawrence market, where my eye was instantly drawn to a sign advertising peameal bacon sandwiches (as far as I can tell, peameal is cornflour...I don't really understand either, but it was delicious). There was a gorgeous moment when the three of us were sat outside next to a busker, in brilliant sunshine, eating our butties and feeling extraordinarily smug.

Full and happy, we headed to the Distillery District - once a hive of factory workers and labourers, but these days The Chic Place To Be. We saw three separate couples having their wedding photos taken against the industrial red brick (looked like Manchester to me, but apparently qualifies as Canadian hipster). We were pretty convinced one particular couple were models rather than newlyweds, as their 'photo shoot' went on for HOURS and "they looked more pretty than happy". This theory was challenged later in the day, the three of us sitting in the sun with a beer and shamelessly ogling the progression of photographs, when a stampede of Barbies and Canadian Made In Chelsea extras arrived to spice up the pictures. It was like our own mini soap opera - the respective mothers in law throwing each other looks of absolute filth before the shutter clicked, the groom sneakily semi-groping a bridesmaid, the LAYERS of passive aggression palpable in the subtext of every conversation we eavesdropped on. It was brilliant.

We only had one morning left before our bus, so spent it wandering along the harbour of Lake Ontario in still more sunshine. I'd heard some pretty mixed reviews of Toronto and so wasn't expecting much, but our time there was every bit as lovely as Montreal and Quebec. Toronto, for us, was an example of being lucky in your wanderings, and a city I would love to return to.

Swings and Sun in Montreal

So apparently you can access wifi on megabuses in Canada. This does not really support my Internet cloud theory, but I'll go with it. Six hours between Montreal and Toronto should be enough time to bore you with the last few days...

Stepping out of the train station into Montreal was like a revelation - to be in a Proper City again after quaint little Quebec and the sleepy-small-town feel of Halifax was pretty overwhelming. There were, like, more than three floors on most of the buildings.

We used our first day to find our bearings - get an impression of the city, settle into the condo shared between the eight of us (3 Aussies and 3 Swedes now officially outnumbering us 2 Brits) and stare blankly at a movie after a 6am start.

Day two, we explored Mile End, the trendy, chic, hipster-filled 'indie as f**k' area of Montreal. I felt way out of my cool league, but some of the shops were charmingly quirky and I ate what I believe I can seriously call the best ice cream of my life so far (chocolate orange flavour...culinary genius).

But after two days of aimless wandering, I think we all felt as though we hadn't really done Montreal justice, so day three was an EPIC. We got the metro (even the underground stations were arty - these people take hipster seriously) to a food market which was largely closed, which was a bad start quickly remedied by the next metro station. A busking swing band gave Jess the opportunity to show off her swing dance skills by trying to teach us some moves. We were crap, but she caught the saxophone player's eye and he ran over for a dance. What followed was simply glorious. Both were good enough to make it look semi-choreographed, and the sheer number of gleeful faces at witnessing spontaneous dancing in the street could be matched only by the number of iPhone lenses trained on Jess and her sax player. With 'learn how to swing dance' now added to twenty-odd bucket lists, we headed towards Parc du Mont Royal (I'm sad for you that you can't hear my Inspector Clouseau pronunciation of that) to get a good view of Montreal.

The bad news was that the mountain had to be climbed via a set of never ending stairs - we were all laughing at the bottom, quiet by the middle, and my feelings were represented near the top by Georgia responding to the question 'How are you feeling right now?' with 'F**k off.' To be fair, the view at the top was worth risking the heart attack; a crystal clear panorama of Montreal and the Saint Laurence (possibly...) river, triggering a sequence of photographs that quickly descended from arty to silly.

Still not done for the day, next we hit the craziest charity shop I've ever seen - there was a literal room of clothes, in which you could wade hip-deep in one-dollar cast offs. Feeling mature after our mini costume party / clothes fight, we then found some swings. Said swings are right in the city centre and play a tune when you get high enough, creating a weird combination of ethereal music and shrieking adults. The fun we had was almost embarrassing. Releasing the inner child also unleashed my competitive streak, and Georgia and I both nearly killed ourselves trying (and succeeding!) to get high enough to tap our feet on the top bar of the swing set.

We ended the day eating pizza on our terrace, utterly knackered but happy.

On our final full day, a smaller group of us spent the morning packing / sorting / complaining about how much our legs hurt. In the afternoon we ventured out to Old Montreal to see the basilica, wander the shops and experience the contemporary art gallery. The latter was by far the most entertaining - between my cynicism and Georgia's sarcasm, I got a fit of the giggles of the teary, snorting kind not, apparently, appropriate for Great Art. I thought the art police were going to kick us out - I'd already been told off for taking a photo of four big red squares (maybe they didn't want me copying it...).

Maturity intact, we returned to our condo to take final advantage of the terrace. Full points, Montreal - Toronto is going to have a hard time living up to this.