This isn’t a post about how easy my life at uni is. This isn’t a post about how scared I am to finish uni and head into the world without a clue. This is a post about 332 and how much I lov….. haha no it isn’t. This is post about what I achieved and what I should have done better… Oh hindsight. You pain in my ass. (I am not going to deny to my lecturers that, as per I haven’t left this till the last-minute, when the stomach-wrenching realisation that this needs to be done. So for the work that started in October, I am blogging it now, in January. Memory of a goldfish… Or at least, I hope not.)

October 2011. Full of high hopes for the final stretch and convincing everyone it’ll be great and so what if it’s hard, we earning a piece of paper that’ll keep us segregated from those that haven’t got the shiny piece of paper telling them they are genius’ :/ or… so-called junior journalists, anyway.

The term started on a high note, and slowly but very surely as with any module, went down to the toilet. Unfortunately. Two newspaper productions in 3 months. Doable. Newspapers across the nation manage to produce daily newspapers everyday. We were a team, we were focused… we could have ripped each others eyes out. Tears, screams, arguments and absences caused the biggest rifts we’ve every experienced. But we got there in the end. November 29th. Two magazines. RAO and CU Today. Have we seen them? No. Was I a big part in it. No. I did what I had to do. I’m not going to lie, I’m not big on working in unorganized messes called University ‘Seminar Groups’. I am more than happy to be surrounded with hard workers who get things done, otherwise I am the happiest bunny alive if I can just sit, do and get done. In my own space, head and time, I see a deadline and I work towards it with what I’d like to think; a lot of work and minimal stress. In fact, a lot of work and a lot of stress. (Wow, really selling myself to the Journalism masses on this one!)

I excitedly signed myself up for a whole page in the RAO for Volunteering and a little tentatively, took the role of double page spread for the supplement in CU Today, based around the Olympics. Not going to put cotton wool over it, I am so bloody proud of what I achieved, but I do an’alf wish I’d done the simple things, like write articles for sub-eds and eds. Hindsight.

The Best Film. Ever. End Of.

1994. You’re a 3 year old again. Not that you remember this because you are now 20 if you were born in 1991 and you can’t remember that far back. What you can remember is this; every bedtime, putting on the Lion King VCR, that scratchy, jumpy video, wishing that it doesn’t get chewed up in the player and hoping you rewound it the night before, so you don’t have to sit there for 10 minutes and wait for it to get back to the beginning. Oh you DVD’s and Blu-Rays, you, what a novelty you still are.

The film starts. Excitement runs through your veins, you hear the start-up music, Zazu flies across your screen. And it starts. The magical journey of Simba’s life, the ups and serious downs that make you sob like a baby over and over again.

The soundtrack, written by Elton John and Tim Rice, with original score by the exceptional Hans Zimmer, does nothing but remind you of the Sega Megadrive Lion King game, the glitchy new technology, that would infuriate you because you couldn’t complete various levels, but every scene of the Lion King provides a memory of  jumping on Giraffe heads and being swung by Monkeys to the tune of ‘I just can’t wait to be King’ and Timon saying ‘It starts’ at the end of the loading screen. This film is not just a film. It is a memory of a childhood filled with Disney.

And it starts again. This time in 3D,  17 long years later. Even more magical and fantastic than before. And it reached our home screens again on November 7 re-released on Disney Blu-Ray and DVD; the Diamond Edition.

Your eyes begin to fill as if you are a 10 year old at DisneyLand for the first time, and this is before the film even has time to start. Tinkerbell flies over the, in the instance of Lion King, rich orange castle on a contrasting black backdrop and you hear “aaa winya…” except no one really knows the words, they just know the feeling, the feeling that they are about to watch the greatest Disney film ever to exist. Sit tight for 1hour and 29 minutes of greatness.

Lion King was produced during the Disney Renaissance, a time that began in the 1980′s and ending in the late 1990′s where Walt Disney Animation Studios returned to their most-loved fairy tales in a bid to get interest back into Disney films – well, that worked. Based on Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ with hints of the Bible’s story of Joseph and Moses, Simba must return to Pride Rock after running away, guilt-ridden, from his father Mufasa’s death to avenge his Uncle Scar who has become King of the Pride Lands in Simba’s absence.

This film is a true to form Disney love story between Simba and Nala, the film follows a heartfelt and tissues necessary death, (as usual in all Disney films, except for once it’s a father and not a mother, and not within the first 15 seconds of the film) unusual friendship with Timon and Pumbaa and a final fight scene where good must triumph over evil.

Following Disney’s first 3D movie, G-Force in 2009, a movie that marked the first scripted live-action 3D movie with Disney Digital, the 32nd Disney Classic was to be put under the same fateful torture that all 2D films seem to be enduring.

Linda Sharps, a Mother who describes herself as a woman who lives “in the Seattle area with her family, where she works from home while wrangling two small children always carrying a caffeinated beverage in hand and a LEGO embedded in her foot” expresses her views or sarcasm on Disney venturing into 3D on blog-page cafemom.com: “Finally someone is bringing that necessary extra dimension to a much-hated collection of movies that has bored children throughout the ages. Boy, I can’t tell you how often I’ve suffered through a Disney film, thinking to myself, if only I had a migraine-inducing pair of plastic glasses perched in my face, I would enjoy this so much more!

“Too bad the studios can’t focus on coming up with exciting new worlds instead of patching cosmetic enhancements on the ones that already exist. The prospect of milking more cash from already-proven films is just one more reason we’re going to continue seeing a decline in Hollywood creativity and risk-taking. To me, that’s even worse than the idea of watching a beloved Disney movie from behind a pair of uncomfortable glasses.”

The only bonus is you get to cry behind shades… in the dark… and can claim you have a cold to cover up the sniffing.

No matter how much the world dislikes the, clearly un-fashionable, 3D glasses, Lion King racked up $71.9 million gross by the end of the month in September after its re-release. No wonder then, that Disney and Pixar are planning to re-release The Little Mermaid, Monsters Inc, Beauty and the Beast and Finding Nemo in that wonderful new technological feature; ‘headache in 3D.’

At least children world-wide are able to live the way their parents did. In the magical world of talking animals and cheerful song of ‘hi ho hi ho it’s off to work I go’ and ‘With a smile and a song..’ because I for one, was worried they were missing out.

“You follow old Rafiki he knows the way.”

So I thought I should draw it. Just like all the others. Not to blow my own trumpet *Just wonder when will my life begin. Then after lunch it’s puzzles and darts and baking. Paper mache, a bit of ballet and chess…* it’s the best one I’ve done.

Flynn and Rapunzel

]]> http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/my-most-recent-drawing/feed/ 0 oumilie http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/memory-cant-be-stored-ready-for-retrieval-like-images-on-a-videotape-%e2%80%a6-memory-is-fallible-dependent-on-mood-and-circumstance-and-subject-to-distortion-margaret-murphy/ http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/memory-cant-be-stored-ready-for-retrieval-like-images-on-a-videotape-%e2%80%a6-memory-is-fallible-dependent-on-mood-and-circumstance-and-subject-to-distortion-margaret-murphy/#comments Thu, 01 Sep 2011 21:51:02 +0000 oumilie http://oumilie.wordpress.com/?p=477 ]]> On my first positive note (…insert sarcastic smiley here…) I would like to disagree with Mrs or even Miss? Margaret Murphy based on personal experiences and an A-Level in Pyschology (not that I remembered much..ha. ha :/).

Maybe memory can’t be ‘stored’, but if that’s the case how do we explain remembering our first kiss in excruciatingly clear detail, or small defining moments of our lives when your first Hamster Munchkins pet bit you or where you were when you heard about 7/7? Is it age? Your ability to remember certain times at your life, what you did 10 years ago compared to yesterday? Older people always use this to explain why they can’t remember putting their pants on in the morning but can remember coming home from the war to their wives and children.

The possible explanation being, you remember based on the effect that moment in time had on your life. The meaningless day-to-day walk to school, the usual, the norm, when nothing out of the ordinary has happened, you aren’t going to remember but the abnormal, the cherished moments you hold for life… all have to be held somewhere, right? So, if it isn’t memory being stored then I don’t know what it is, because recently my mind has been beating me with all the things I can ‘retrieve’ of the significant, even meaningless moments of my life. They must be coming from somewhere.

I completely agree that “memory is fallible”, I can make up situations in my mind that seem more realistic than real life memories. Schemas change over time, proved when in situations with people who may have shared the same experience at the same time, but have different memories or ideas of what happened hence distortion. A holiday anecdote is certain to be told differently between my Mum and I, whether that is just because she over-exaggerates or because we had different view points on the same story, I’m not sure. However, over time that differences is bound to become bigger due to the distorted nature of schema. It fills the gaps with what seems appropriate – what’s appropriate could be seen entirely differently between each individual.

I do however, half agree that memory is dependent on mood and circumstance, when sad and unhappy the mind may flit across various memories due to sentimentality but it can also be the other way around. The mind has a magnificent way of reminding us of times had when we completely unexpect it… a song, a smell, even as simple as a car driving past can evoke such strong emotions that our moods change.

————————————————————————————————–

Now I’ll start on my own memory or ‘ries’ after a laughter filled (at my childhood’s expense) dinner with the family.

I won’t deny that this wasn’t one of the hardest task I’ve come across. For a family that doesn’t really do sentimental, we are the Wonfords after all – sentimentality isn’t really an option, we collect what is necessary and store it away in a drawer or metaphorically ‘a mind box’ ready for a humiliating anecdote at dinner; “Em, do you remember that time you cut your fringe into a triangle right up to your hairline and we had to cut it all the time so you didn’t have the spiky bits coming out your forehead” (known as a fringle) or “Em, do you remember what you used to call your black currant juice? blackcurrant juicy stop and go, stop and go,” then Mum, on cue, will turn to a person at the table who hasn’t yet heard the hilarious story or in fact, someone who has, who must hear it again (…straight-faced smiley here…) and explain that when I was small, and I add very small, I used to think the tap had to be run, then stopped in order for the drink to be made, not realising it was to make the water cool.

What else? Oh yes, my long gone fear of chickens or buckaboos as my infant self would ridiculously call them. An eventful trip to Wingham Bird Park resulted in being chased by chickens…“Buckaboos gonna get me! Bucka bucka booos!” or my need to ride my black retriever, Dantwo, like a horse and my mothers need to take photos of my sister and I dressed in matching outfits (I’m adamant that all siblings must go through this at some point in their lives, twins or not).

Not that I had forgotten, but my Mum was sure to remind me of my good friend Lucy or Juicy Lucy as she was christened on my 5th birthday. Lucy of the Juicy variety was a 3ft walking doll, almost as tall as my 5 year old self and went everywhere – no exaggeration. Her first outing was to my reception class at Cliftonville Primary to meet my class mates – anyone who touched her was sent to the corner – unfortunate for one young boy. Her second trip resulted in a meeting with the police – she was so life like that when left in the car with the windows shut, people were concerned for her, (as were the elderly couple when she was left in Iceland car park in Margate on a warm summers day wearing jogging bottoms, winter coat, boots and hat – all my own). Dear ol’ Lucy would have baths when I wouldn’t (much to my mothers distaste, especially when I was still left grubby from a day building a mud hut on my existing plastic garden house). After each bath, she would need to be dismantled, limbs detached, so the water could dry out. Unfortunately Lucy’s hair endured the same fringle fate that my own did. Yes I cut it. Myself. Hair dresser in the making, not. Difficult to explain to the gentleman who bought her (and , hopefully, saved her from further hair malfunctions) at a car boot sale. I just explained that she needed a trim.

For a family of 5 girls and the female dog…(hell, for any male that steps over the threshold) who have only a handle of real life objects to remind them of the (cliché alert) laughs, tears, arguments and tantrums (the before-school breakfast tantrums, mainly, where Mum would pick up her briefcase and pretend to go to work but instead sit in the car, wait until the tears had stopped, breakfast was eaten and shoes were put on, come back in and take us to school) we rely heavily on the mental object: our childhoods and life together.

We are camera clickers but photos hardly get displayed, they get put away in a drawer, they lay there waiting to hit us with reminders of a life we’ve lived, the longer they lay waiting, the more of an emotional impact they have.

We own objects of course, but they make the house a home, materialistic purchases, rarely do they come with any exceptional memory, unless the shopping trip in which they were paid for and brought home was of an importance.

My object is the reification of my childhood. It’s the most important thing I own and doesn’t just affect me but my sisters and my own Mum (I say own because as a child I was constantly reminded by my older sister that Mum was hers and not mine – I still say I’m adopted, though unfortunately my Mum tells me there is proof I am not, pfft piece of paper or no piece of paper I’m still a child that belongs to the wild things and the Gruffalo). I rely on her memory and that of my older sister to relay parts I’ve missed or forgotten and they rely on mine to do the same.

This is why I disagree so wholeheartedly with Murphy’s statement because memory can be stored, my family has proved that, we don’t need objects displayed around the house to remind us of our pasts, we just need each other, and as dinner proved this evening, we can retrieve all the memories we want within a moment…the ones stored away, ready for times like these.

Now, ‘apparently’ this module wants us to “look at how people, places and things connect with the themes (( MEMORY POWER SPECTACLE )) and to start thinking about how these themes are worked through in the media I consume…” (now here is where I am completely honest about the media I consume… the occassional newspaper, celebrity gossip ‘trash’ on a monthly basis, only to find myself sickened by the amount of paper space Cheryl Cole takes up (I am digressing) tv and online news. I’ll be frank, I am the journalist equivalent to a student nurse who passes out at the sight of blood – I am a ‘student journalist’ afraid of the world outside the four-walled room that is the safe house of her xbox and ipod and politicians just give her a headache.) And so the introduction continues… “We want you to make connections between the ideas, ways of thinking and challenges we will explore in this module and the realities of your lives now.”

So, have you got the jist? No? Nor me.

But remember: “Nothing helps the development of your learning more than making connections between new ideas and your own experience.”

And so, resisting every temptation in my body to, in fact;  “reject this challenge as the prejudice of an out of touch opinionated and judgemental old academic,” because it may mean having to be defenseless against my own personal memories, I shall embrace such a challenge all for one thing… My final year. Degree, here I come.

Margate was the first seaside town, a once a successful ‘kiss-me-quick’ “seaside town” that epitomised the summer months of British holidaying. Stick of rocks, deck chairs and parasols, pubs and fun fairs, donkey rides and playgrounds on the beach.

Now it is merely a town for those who can’t get out. A bleak statement of regret brandishing what once was. They say once you go back to Thanet, you get stuck. For so many reasons; lack of motivation, money, family, a need to be grounded to a place that could be great again. But mostly because you find yourself secretly attached the way of life, the culture and hidden optimism, that if you wait around long enough, you can relive the past, get back what you cherished most.

When you tell people where you come from, be it when you are at University and your peers are trying to decipher your accent or in social situations and everyone’s asking the same things and give that nod as if they completely understand where you live, most people react in the same way… with a look of disdain, no possible interest and sometimes just pure disgust.

“I am from Thanet.” (With every attempt to be able to lie and pretend that I live in the nicer area of Broadstairs, knowing that the person I am conversing with would have no clue either way)

*Gives a look of ‘I’ll nod and give a gleam of my eye to pretend as if I know where that is* “Oh Right and where about is that?”

“In the south.”

Then, somehow, in some roundabout way it comes out, like word vomit, like a need to explain your lie, that it is nowhere near Dover, that you are not lucky enough to live in the quaint yet blooming seaside town of Broadstairs with the elderly, but you do, in fact live in the run down, ‘artistically thriving,’ job seekers land of Margate. It hits you like a shame, like an itch you can’t scratch, a burning desire to run to the land of Dinosaurs and Elves because anywhere is better than the surrounding burning scent of the Scenic Railway in the ‘Great Dreamland’ or the whiff of a toilet block that cost the town £17m, only to evoke the sense that Margate is an artistic town, full of talent, rather than five year olds finger paintings plastering the fronts of empty shop windows. Don’t get me wrong, the picture of 2D sweets on shelves covering the empty shop window reminds me of the days when the actual shop was full of sweets on the shelves, but it would be nice to have the real thing rather than a taunt of what was. And for me, that’s what my hometown seems to have become. A taunt of a forgotten and lost past, being rebuilt to something not quite as good as it was. Maybe I am being harsh, but then, this is my home.

I’ve seen the changes from seaside town, thriving on tourism, to its main attraction of Dreamland shut down, burnt to a crisp and left to no more than an idea of reinvention that doesn’t seem to be jumping off the front porch and the upheaval of a high street to fund and ignite a shopping centre slapped upon the fields to encourage more commercialism into our society.

Margate, of course still has a lot to offer, air shows, bike shows, steam and fun fairs, an award-winning beach, pigeons and a gracious, pleasant civilisation of the unemployed and those of the teenage pregnancy variety, but it wouldn’t be the stable ground of home without all these things. Without the memories of the thrilling night adventures to Dreamland Fun Park when you are 6 or 7, before it became so run down, it closed and became nothing more than a plot of land for houses and occasional fairs that roll into town.

Dreamland used to be a place of ‘dreams’ of fun and family entertainment. Animals, roller coasters, miniature steam engine rides. If you got a wrist band, it meant a whole days and nights fun complete, if you had a wristband… you were a lucky kid. The bad days came when all you could purchase were disc in exchange for £2 for a single ride on the dodgems, or whatever had been left in the aftermath of the move out of the fun fair. Get the discs… you were an unlucky kid.

It seems that Margate is just being burnt bit by bit and every time I come home part of the scenery has changed. A shop has shut and in its place a boarded up window or a shop that won’t last longer than a month before it is turned into a carpet shop or a woman’s gym.

But there is one spot that rain or shine, never changes, my secret place.

Granted, everyone knows of this place, dog walkers and families in the summer, the guys on jet skis, the runners and the lone wanderers clearing their heads.

This is one part of the town, Palm Bay and Botany Bay that for me, never changes. It’s my safe place. Whether the tide is in or out you can guarantee a ship on the horizon, the green glaze of seaweed upon the rocks and the sweet scent of salt water and the ebb of waves crashing amongst the rocks.

It doesn’t matter what is going on in the world of Margate, the burning of arcades and Grade II listed wooden roller coasters and the construction of the Turner Contemporary, that is to ‘boost Margate’s tourism and artistic flow,’ you can always count on the calm and peace of the sand between your toes to take it all away, to stop it mattering, for everything to vanish around you and for your only focus to be the soft sensual sounds of the sea. The sentimental nature of home, I guess, is different for everyone. But, I wouldn’t change Margate for the world. Although, less one legged freakish looking pigeons would be nice.

On reflection of writing such an essay, I am saddened to say that one fateful trip to the local fish and chip shop, my view of the youths of Margate were proved correct when an outburst from one foul-mouthed young lady “He called me fat, the f***king p***k” came in response to a group of young boys called such a, well let’s say not skinny, girl..fat.

However, with all its downers and some negative perspectives, the Water Council for the UK named Margate Sands one of the best beaches in the country, alongside some of the other beaches in the area; Joss Bay and Botany Bay. So, can’t be all that bad eh?

Below is a video I designed specifically to accompany my project.

For my placement for 201MC, I chose two work areas that I felt I wanted to get more experience from.

To coincide with my attendance on the Volunteering and Employability committee and my interest in the voluntary sector, I chose to work at the Deal Centre for the Retired, where I regularly go to help where I can. However, unlike on the days where I go in just to help with Boccia on weekdays or to make teas and coffees and keep the older people entertained, I was given meaningful jobs. For my first week I lent my services in the Charity Shop and met Helen Morgan, Shop Manager. Every day, new bags, full bags, would come in and need sorting, tagging and pricing or sometimes just trashing. I’ll admit it wasn’t hard work but I thoroughly enjoyed it, my obsessive compulsive side liked being able to sort and organise.

On Friday’s I was allowed free reign in the store room and this allowed me to use what I had learnt during the week with Helen, by standing on my own two feet. I was left to sort, tag and price on my own. As simple as it was, this was a test of my confidence in myself to make the right decision.  I was also trusted with decorating the shop window, a chance to let out my creative side. I really enjoyed this, as I could be particular and tidy. I know that I had done this well because as soon as I was placing items in the window they were being bought. I don’t think there was anything in this area that I could have done better, as I was only a volunteer with minimal responsibilities. I would have liked to have learnt more about the running of the shop, but I have been advised that in the summer months I will be trained to cover managerial duties whilst Helen is on holiday.

During my second week, it was more multi-tasking than one solid job. I would cover volunteers that were unable to make it in that day, in the Servery (where teas and coffees are made) and of course this was no test of my abilities but it gave me experience to work with people much older than myself and to respect them. Out of the two weeks, I found this was the most important factor. Other duties in the final week included paper work. My IT skills came into use and I wrote up the Risk Assessment records dating back from 2009. As far as what I learnt in this job, I know that office or receptionist work is not on my horizon. Between sat in front of a computer typing all day and doing physical work in the shop, I far preferred work in the shop. I thought this was where I could use my creative, artistic skills in a more exciting medium than in an office.

Although I wasn’t involved in a lot of the running of the centre, I feel my experience was invaluable. I have been volunteering at the Centre since Summer 2010 and it has turned me around as a person. I am far less selfish and have a new found respect for the elderly and truly enjoy their company. I learnt more about myself and others rather than experience which I can use in the work place. To me, this is far more useful for future careers than any experience typing up Risk Assessment Reports.

For the second part of this module, I chose to have two weeks at my local newspaper. I had previously had two weeks placement at the Isle of Thanet Gazette to decide whether I wanted to do Journalism at University.  However, this time around it didn’t have the effect on me I hoped it would. I knew it would hardly be exciting, but I thought working in a busy journalistic hub, with constant news feeds would give me the thrill I so craved after losing my desire for journalism two years into university. With local elections and the royal wedding it was exciting and busy but not enough for me, I couldn’t get as involved as I would have liked. Instead, I was left with mini stories and nibs.

I excelled on my first day, dipping my toe straight into a story about an artistic feature in Ramsgate. I trudged over a story, trying to do the gallery, which was essentially a construction wall with creative paintings on hardwood hung on it, for it to be made Friday 29^th’s page 8 lead. I was proud of myself and I got a buzz and finally thought I was on a roll.

If I got anything out of this placement, it was confidence.  I was sent out in the field to complete vox pops on my own on my second day and had to improvise. I did this well, as I got all the relevant information from the public and was able to write it up quickly and efficiently when I got back to the office. I was able to call people on the phone for interviews without hesitating and tried to ask all the right questions, although sometimes I would forget the obvious ‘age’ or ‘occupation’ questions which seem so relevant in article writing.

However, my confidence was knocked slightly when I wrote a feature on a new technology building and only a paragraph of my own writing was left in the article, and my nibs were cut short. I took this as constructive criticism and it has allowed me to learn that my writing needs to be adapted to suit the publication I am writing for, therefore it  has also taught me that I have a very specific writing style, that I quite enjoy and perhaps I am better suited to other publications. I find factual article writing mundane and dull and like to add creativity and atmosphere; I think I am better suited to more witty publications or travel pieces where I can let my creativity thrive and so I will start to focus on my strengths in future assignments.

I found it slightly disappointing that out of a two week placement, the experience that made me find my desire for writing was a trip with Steam Dreams to London in order to get a story for the local paper about a first time ever 8 day tip with a steam engine around the country. I also learnt that it isn’t what you know, it’s who you know and I have made some very useful contacts over the past two weeks that I shall keep for future reference.

So today was interesting and I will be completely honest, I am no train buff, I like planes and motorbikes and cars and boats, but I loved today.

I managed to bag a whole day out of the office to get to travel with the Steam Dreams company and crew (and for those who have no idea what I am talking about, they are a lovely bunch of people that go on choo choo chuff chuffs and love it). I did my job while I was on the train, obviously, interviews, the story, a nice little unexpected scope on the Wombles and to make me feel like I fit it in – brunch and champagne. From the starting point in Minster, I travelled up to London Victoria, where they changed engines (and I am only slightly ashamed, okay a lot, to say that I was leaving the station and purposely went back to look at the new big red one that was to take them all to York – Princess Elizabeth). One of my wonderful friends has gracefully pointed out that I am being converted to one of them.. never.

I met some people I hadn’t been introduced to before and others that I have known from my last trip on the Torndo at Christmas, 2009. If I’ve learnt anything from the day it’s that it isn’t what you know but who you know and I am thankful for the contacts I have made.

I find it unfortunate that after spending 2 weeks in a working newspaper office environment, with some great journalists, that it was today that helped me find my desire to become a journalist. I’ll be honest after 2 years at Uni I had lost it for a bit, but today put the creative spark back into me, I’m more confident in my writing style and I know that some publications, such as where I was for my placement, just isn’t for me. I am happy that I had this opportunity to find this out earlier rather than later. It has certainly been a learning curve, I guess that’s the whole point isn’t it?

Oh yes, the day was made better when I was allowed to sit in the footplate and blow the whistle…. twice. Anorak in the making? I think so.

Cathedrals Explorer's best Engine Driver

]]> http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/the-day-i-blew-the-whistle/feed/ 0 oumilie http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/revenge-of-the-sith/ http://oumilie.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/revenge-of-the-sith/#comments Wed, 11 May 2011 09:58:08 +0000 oumilie http://oumilie.wordpress.com/?p=429 ]]> May 5, 2011

Finally I was let out, like a labrador excited to go chasing it’s ball in a field, with a colleague, the amazing Saul (I have to be nice… he reads this).

We went out into the fabulous Ramsghetto (to the locals) and Ramsgate to those who still think Thanet has a ray of hope left in it, to get vox pops about the death of Osama Bin Laden. Of course, Saul did a fab job and you would have thought that after the 2 times I had been sent out on my lonesome to speak to unsuspecting victims in Margate, I’d be good at it. No. Wrong. I managed to pick two essex builders (and this is no dig at regional idiocy) who didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. “Do you really think he is dead?” “Yeah?” “Do you think they should release the video of his death?” “No?” “Why not?” “I dunnah.” Still, I managed to get enough out these wonderful gentlemen to write up a vox. These have been my speciality from the whole 2 weeks, I think. I can’t write a story without it being mashed to pieces but I can talk to strangers. Guess the days of, don’t talk to that man with the lollies sure don’t exist when you’re a journo.

Although, on a lighter note for the day, as it weas election day, we went to the Customs House where all the politicians live and I got to see the meeting room with a compass on the ceiling, yes, I was amazed by this and best of all… the Town jewels. It was amazing.

As it was deadline day and everyone was stressed out, it was nice to be  a cop out and get out of the office. I don’t bode well in office environments. I’m sticking to this idea of travel journo!

Not that this stopped my hard work for a minute! but it did n’alf make me chuckle in my boots.

So, was the Force’th with me today? Well, all  I can say is Wednesday’s must be ‘send Emily out into the wild and let her loose with a notepad, pen, camera and charm’ because no one can grip old people in ‘banter’ than Wonford. HALF AN HOUR they had me stood on the harbour arm, wind and hair in my face, talking education, university and youths (I’d only asked them about the regeneration of Dreamland). It was much like the Wednesday before, except more pleasant and less crude. I have to admit, I did wimp out on this one and went for the easy option.. shops! I knew where I could go and people would be accepting, willing and above all.. nice. Margate isn’t so bad, but I am one woman, small and intimidated by these rogue-ish beast that roam our streets. But, oh my, come at them with a notepad and a camera and they flee. I should carry this on a Friday night… no problems will succumb to me then.

And what else did my michievous self get up to? I was having a rather quiet day, calling a Teen Queen contestant.. I had to website research this and I could feel my teeth grating and blood boiling. Nothing says bulemia and anorexia quite like 13 year olds posing, face full of make-up, on show, than a Teen Queen and Princess pageant. No wonder girls these days are so bemused by catwalk models, and obese people and fingers in throats (excuse my vulgarity but it’s true) and not knowing where they stand.  I know I am in the media, as much as I like to say ‘Oh no I’m not media type… I do English and read books and such things’…I am part of this mess that has brazened young girls minds “you’re fat you’re fat you’re fat, you’re ugly you’re ugly you’re ugly and will never be as good as Cheryl Cole or What’s-his-face-he’s-famous-for-something-with model-trophy-wife Lady. So I give my luck to the girl I interviewed for her ‘near-to-the-final heat to become Queen. I hope it’s an experience of a lifetime. Genuinly. 

Otherwise, I spent the day writing nibs about various goings on in’t the Marghetto, and the Ramsghetto and Old Lady Broadstairs.

So excited for Friday, ~I get to go on a Choo Choo train to Ashford. ‘Citing stuffs.