Crocuses In The Snow

Model Behaviour or Why I No Longer Envy Kate Moss

I consider myself a pretty intelligent person. That’s pretty intelligent, not: pretty, intelligent. Thus it might come as some surprise that there’s always been a small part of me that has harboured a secret, completely unachievable desire to be a model.

This fantasy goes completely against my staunch feminist upbringing and makes me feel slightly ashamed when I find myself daydreaming about  my model ambition whilst bussing my way around London (if I was a model I wouldn’t have to catch the bus, for one) but c’mon I defy anyone not to have thought about it at least once.

In my daydreams I’m the sort-of messed up, impossibly skinny type model with a penchant for drugs, not eating and breaking hearts. I collapse in expensive hotel lobbies, my Bambi legs unable to take the pressure of my oh-so hard yet superbly glamourous lifestyle, where I can have whatever suite I want at the Chateau Marmont but have no place to call home.

Before you baulk, come running round to tear the copies of Vogue and Elle out of my hands and Gia out of my DVD player, let me quickly tell you I know that this daydream is: a) impossible (what with me having my fair share of curves, happily so) and b) a complete and utter romanticised version of what being a model is really like.

It’s very easy to assume that if you’re born with the looks, being a model is an easy ride to stardom, success and early retirement. I used to think so. Until I began to get to know those in the know and attend shoots myself, watching the pros at work. And I’ve also, Goodness knows how, had the odd chance to pose in front of the camera myself and discover that it really, really isn’t as easy as it looks.

Yesterday was one of those days. Never one to turn down the opportunity for a great dinner party story (how else will I keep myself fed when I’m 40 if it isn’t for my witty repertoire?!) I became a ‘real person’ (a tough job if ever I heard one) for a national newspaper, road-testing horizontal versus vertical stripes.

Now, as some of you may know, this wasn’t the first time I’ve volunteered myself to appear in the national press. It was, however bizarrely, the first time I’ve worn clothes in print. I’m no page three girl nor am I an extrovert so it is somewhat of a mystery how I’ve been near naked in not one but two publications.

I appeared in a, very unflattering, bikini for a Cosmopolitan ‘Love Your Body’ special and got fully naked for a life drawing feature in Scarlet (an assignment I was given first day on the job)

Despite airing what few want to see I’m proud of these two achievements. I’ve never been ashamed of my body but nor am I head over heels in love with it either. So by taking on those two experiences I taught myself that confidence only comes from pushing yourself way out of your comfort zone.

Therefore, I was more than prepared for yesterday’s antics upon arrival. But this shoot was a whole different ball game compared to the other two. It was frantic, rushed and all-in-all  professional. Therefore, it gave me somewhat of an idea of what it would be like to be a model for the day.

And it’s exhausting!

First of all, it’s true what they say, to look good on camera you have to wear a shed load of make up. After sitting in the make up chair for, I kid you not, 2.5 hours I began to wonder how Kate Moss et co have enough to think about. It gets seriously dull. And how to do they adapt to having to move your eyeballs about in odd directions? I’ve got serious eye strain today.

Oh boo hoo, I hear you cry, models have to sit in a chair, being pampered for hours on end and the only exercise they have to do is with their eye balls? Yeah, that sounds tough. But seriously, try moving your eyes from left to right then down again: it is actually quite hard. And I’m only half joking.

Second of all, to be a model you must have to have an ego made of steel. As previously mentioned I’m fairly happy with the looks God/my parents gave me but it takes a lot to not get down heartened changing in and out of clothes that either don’t fit or seriously show off the body part you hate the most.

Don’t get me wrong, the photographers, stylists and make up artists were all seriously lovely: complimenting me at every turn to ensure I gave them the right shot. However, contorting yourself into completely unnatural poses (head back, chin down, shoulders back, tummy in, heel kicked) under the brightest white lights was difficult for someone whose only real experience of contorting in front of the camera is that odd face I accidentally pull whenever someone points one at me.

But to a professional model that all comes naturally, the camera doesn’t instantly love them, they make it so. They know exactly which pose to pull, which lens to look at and how to smile shyly/coquettishly/sexily whenever they’re asked to do so.

Me? I only know how to pull one smile, and that’s my own. It won’t ever have teenagers rushing to buy the latest Loreal hair colour nor will it set sail a thousand ships. But it seems to be good enough for my boyfriend, my friends, my family and even my dentist. And I guess that’s good enough for me.

No worries

Despite being devoted to a ‘glass-half-full’ life philosophy I do spend a large amount of time worrying. My brain is preoccupied thinking of those what-if’s that keep you up at night, that eat away at your stomach and that sometimes, in the worst case scenarios stop you from doing what you really want to do.

What if I don’t make it as journalist?

What if all those close to me forge out incredibly impressive careers and I’m left temping for the rest of my life and I’m forever bitter and resentful to those who have made something of themselves?

And, most scary of all, what if I spend so much time obsessing, letting my ambition eat away at me that I forget what’s really important in life?

Around Christmas I had a job interview and was sitting up the night before worrying and what-iffing myself out of a good night’s sleep. But then I came across an advent calendar themed blog post of my Dad’s that reminded me of the strength of this world and of myself.

Telling inter-linked stories from my Dad’s life and imagination, I could pick up little parts of my own life story from it.

There were bits of my Mum in the entry, how she said: “this is everyone’s worst nightmare. Dying from a brain tumour. But it’s not so bad. It’s not as bad a people think.”

Can you imagine that strength? She must have been terrified yet wasn’t willing to give up an iota of her courage or passion for life and didn’t want us to either.

And then there’s me in the blog, my small part in the story where I tell my Dad that there’s no way we’re not having Christmas and that I’d do it, I’d do it all.

And I did, I bought all the presents - a pashmina from East which we opened and held against her cool cheek, a little book on ‘how to survive Christmas’ for Dad in a bid to bring some smiles to the day and all those little things Santa gets from the bright, yellow shop on the Bridges that are then, in turn, stuffed into long, grey socks and left at the bottom of the bed. I forced us into decorating the tree and placed, on the window ledge, above her head the nativity scene containing various odd nick-nacks from my parents travels that certainly weren’t there in the Bible’s version of the story – a stuffed, bright red Elephant with a bell round his neck, two porcelain China dolls and a cheery camel sewn from pearlescent beads.

It was something so small, something so normal yet it took so much to unwrap each decoration from its paper wrapping and place it down next to the cotton Baby Jesus. And these small acts of bravery happen everyday.

Have a think back to something you did, something that in the scale of things doesn’t seem so huge but to you took an amazing amount of courage.

And when you think of those moments, the bravery - what you and I have gone through in the past you realise that there is no need to worry at all. For whatever it is, you’ll have gone through it before, just in another way.

There’s no need for me to worry about those who think badly of me now or are mean because, like the bullies of the past, pretty soon I probably won’t remember their names. Or if I get a job rejection, I should look back onto when I failed my Standard Grade prelims and was told not to bother sitting my Highers and I truly thought my future was doomed.

And yet, here I am, having gone to University with a, hopefully, bright career in front of me and it seems I haven’t learned my lesson yet. That as long as I have faith in what I am doing there’s no need to worry at all.

All those little niggles and concerns will all be the past soon. And right now, there is so, so, so much more that matters.

For those who would like to read the blog post that influenced this one, click here and scroll down to Monday, December 13th.

I don’t scare easily

 ‘Do something each day that scares you’

‘Live each moment as if it were your last’

‘There is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only today’

Three phrases pedalled out often to supposedly ‘inspire’ us to achieve our dreams, live a happier life and altogether be ‘deeper.’

When, actually, all they do is make me feel guilty. Guilty I don’t savour every moment of my morning commute, revelling in the stuffy, carpeted carriage admiring the view of Croydon’s grey buildings, blocked by the smear of sick down the window. Or guilty that I’m planning tomorrow’s outfits or chuckling at last weekend’s antics and, of course, guilty that I am yet to tick off that ‘one thing that scares me’ off today’s to do list.

Who actually has time for that? The average person commutes for 2.5 hours a day and the rest of the time we’re guzzling wine, doing the dishes or sleeping. Mundane day-to-day responsibilities don’t give us much time to scare ourselves.

If I was really clutching at straws I could count my daily rebellion against TFL by not having the correct weekly zone pass or checking my bank balance. Both scary but hardly life affirming.

A while back I went to Go Ape! – the outdoor assault course aimed at giving 9-5ers like me the option to experience ‘high wired’ adventure without actually risking a thing. But despite the low risk element I did find it scary, I’m not fit, I’m no good at heights and I cried three times. However, it did feel good to push myself and do something completely out of my comfort zone. And yes, for all you cliché pushers out there, it was indeed enlivening, But I can hardly zip wire my way into work each day.

But the thing is, now I don’t have to, because last week I took the biggest, scariest step of all: I quit my job. I was in a position of great responsibility and it was looking great on my C.V but I wasn’t happy and I wasn’t using my skills for what I want to do: write and inspire people (without using clichés)

And since then, everyday has been terrifying. The decision to go freelance means I have no idea when my next pay cheque will be coming and I’m resorting to the strangest ways to keep my lavish lifestyle afloat (read: cheap wine, charity shop dresses and Boots nail varnish)

I’ve taken on work as an extra and next week shall be shaking my, non-hipster, ass in an indie music video, I’m advertising my services as a dog walker and last night I followed around Sarah Harding so as to become the mysterious ‘source’ in a tabloid gossip story. But above all, I’ve got the time to write and I’ve been lucky enough to be commissioned by Grazia, the magazine I one day hope to write full-time for.

And, it feels really good. I feel more in control of my life than ever, even though a lot of it is out of my hands. I’m no longer moaning to my boyfriend each day, boring him silly about how unhappy I am. I’m getting to do all the things I moved to London for and I’ll definitely have a lot more adventures to write about in this blog.

I guess there is some point in clichés after all…

To all the tronners (especially one)

I used to wear a white uniform. Actually most of the times it matched me: dirty (like my hair) and grey (like my mood). I’d spend the day pulling forward shampoos, obsessing about the boy in the next door record shop and scanning products, beep, beep, beeping myself throughout the day. I thought I was happy. My mum was dying and I was numb.

Until one day, a friend of a friend came in and said to me, “you’re going to become depressed here, all alone on this till, come work in the pub with me, I’ll sort it.” This prospect thrilled me, the pub in question had a staff of hot guys, cool girls and endless alcohol.

I, of course, said yes.

Little did I know that decision and that girl changed my life. That pub was The Tron.

Many say that Uni is more than a degree, it’s a life experience. I agree with this, however, unlike my shorthand, the lessons I learned working in a pub will stay with me forever. I’d encourage anyone to learn how to pull a pint and live the life of a bar person for a little while. I promise you, you’ll have a blast.

There were some, obviously, terrible times, anyone who has ever worked for a Scream pub can tell you that. I think I quit twice. I once cleaned up a men’s toilet with piss up to my ankles. I carried a pitcher of sick up two flights of stairs and  came home every night with beer soaked coppers that me and my flatmate spent on penny sweeties in the local shop the next day, we were that poor.

However, even those memories are good. Because for every pitcher of sick I had to carry there was always after work drinks, slagging off the way too drunk customers, before getting that way ourselves. Learning exactly what a bouncer will do to an unruly customer. Piling beer bottles to the ceiling. And, above all, feeling as though there was nowhere else on earth that I belonged better.

This was the place I was taught how to snort vodka; I befriended boys without developing crushes on them; I was taught about new bands; I learned that those who take drugs aren’t addicts; I discovered that the quickest way to lose weight was to eat a burger a day, work double shifts and carry about crates of VK… and so much more. Ultimately, I grew up.

I also met the love of my life, but that’s another story…

This month The Tron will close down, to become an O’ Neils (I give it once month before someone spray pains at TR in front of that) and although those days are passed I can’t express how much I will miss it. And how grateful I am to that pub and the girl that gave me the opportunity to work there. So for all Tronners past and present, have a drink on me (at Quids night of course.)