What's Wrong with a Hand-out?

Oops! Sorry, that just burst out of me uncontrollably after months of frantically suppressing it for fear of being seen as ignorant, disrespectful to my contemporaries, or vastly technologically inept.

But I am none of these things.

(Can I say before I begin that I am really grateful for the lecturers' teaching and I have a lot of respect for them all. I don't want this blog to be misconstrued as an attack.)

I have been feeling increasingly disorientated on the course as the year has progressed. Mainly because my life has been completely revolutionised by journalism (which is a good thing).

It has literally taken over my thoughts, it is the motivation behind many of my actions, and it underlies my interpretation of everything I read, watch, or listen to.

Lurking beneath this new pro-active, excited, career-driven buzz, though, is an undercurrent of panic.

I am finding the ferocious onslaught of journalism on my life in some ways extremely difficult to adapt to, which I suppose is expected. But do I really need to grapple with certain technological advances to add to the mix?

What IS wrong with a handout? If I am having trouble fathoming what on earth the law textbook is trying to tell me (my faith in it as a journalistic tool is somewhat impaired by its ironic persistence in using 100 words where three will do)the last thing I want to do is wait for the lecture to be blogged a week later.

And to be honest - please no one take offence at this - I find many of the blogged lectures very muddled and super-basic and overall difficult to understand. We were told not to worry about trying to write down everything said in lectures because they would be blogged. But I need more detail!

A piece of paper. Bullet points stating the main points of the lecture with brief notes following each point outlining what was elaborated on. That's all I'm asking for. I can put it in my folder next to my scribbled lecture notes. I can refer back to it when I'm studying without having to log onto the computer. I can make notes down the side. I can tick off the sections I have understood or revised. It is a physical entity that can be filed in organised order with my notes, and THAT is what complements the lecture for me. The online lectures complement the handouts.

To revise for law and public affairs (as well as having read McNae's obviously) I trawled through the course message board trying to find the posted lecture notes, and then trawled through the law site trying to make notes from that. A simple hand-out every week to put it all into order in my head would have made this task so much easier when it came to revising.

It helps compartmentalise the (excellent) lectures in my head before I start taking notes once the lesson has begun. I know then, if the class digresses or the we go a bit off course, what bits I need to be listening out for and making notes on.

So please, before making us run, let us walk. We have already crawled by managing not to have nervous breakdowns at the huge impact this whole new lifestyle has had on our lives, which I don't think anyone anticipated. I would love to run, but I need a bit of extra help first.

Ten Puzzling Questions

Why do people wander aimlessly across my path in the tube station when I am in a particular rush to be somewhere, but rush to move out of my way when I have time to spare?

Why do customers insist on being ignorant and pig-headed when I have been forced to go into work on a busy day with a ferocious hangover, but engage in polite chit-chat when the shop is quiet and I am well-slept?

Why does my hair invariably decide to curl into a corkscrewed mess on a potentially hot first date, but remain sleek and straight on a study day at the library?

Why does my computer crash on the rare occasion that I am engaging in some academically relevant activity, but work like a dream when I am wasting time on myspace?

Why do my tights ladder before an important interview, but stay in perfect condition when I wear them under jeans to keep warm when no one can see them?

Why do clothes shops supply an abundance of beautiful but expensive garments when I am about to declare myself bankrupt, but contain nothing but plus-sizes and grey jumpers when I have just been paid and am braced to embark upon a mammoth shopping spree?

Why do I fall ill before an important exam, but remain in perfect health when I have nothing better to do than surf the net for amusing stories concerning David Gest?

Why do online book stores charge extortionate prices for my course books, but sell every other book in stock for excellent value?

Why do I look like a scruffy old hag in the graduation photos members of my family have placed on their mantle-pieces, but manage to look half decent in drunken photos of me clubbing?

And finally, why do I never see anyone remotely nice-looking at my campus when I am dressed respectably, but stumble into the path of a virtual adonis on the one day I have come into university in a tracksuit resembling a pair of glorifed pyjamas?

Courting Disaster

Today I have been assigned the task of visiting my local magistrates court to find a story.

This may seem like a simple enough task, but in my world nothing is ever simple. Let me explain...

After several minutes attempting to persuade my father's resolutely sluggish and disobedient laptop to connect to the internet, I managed to establish that my local magistrates court is, in fact, in an adjacent town. Silly me! Who would be so stupid as to expect a court for one area to actually be in that area?

After further research I had also managed to ascertain that my destination weas reachable by bus, and duly set off.

This was when the trouble began.

I boarded the bus and made my way to the nearest available seat, slumping into it gladly. Unfortunatly for me, the seat had somehow and inexplicably detached itself from the vehicle. As a result, I catapulted rather ungracefully into the aisle.

As if this wasn't embarrassing enough, an elderly lady, sporting a blue-rinse perm and an array of frankly hideous clothing, had the audacity to laugh at me!

Fuming, I regained my composure and moved to the seat next to me while shooting menacing looks at the cackling witch.

When the bus at last pulled up at my stop, I deboarded gratefully and entered the magistrates court, whereupon I was informed by a slightly scruffy attendent that there was no public gallery.

'Ummm, I think you'll find there is,' I said witheringly (I get irritable when my elders belittle me in public).

Finally, a woman with half an ounce of sense and professional training approached and confirmed that, yes, there was a public gallery, but that the trials did not begin until 2p.m.

This left me with almost three hours to spare! So I made my way to the nearby library, resolving to adopt an uncharacteristically studious persona for the remainder of the morning and get some other work done.

This studious persona lasted approximately half an hour, following which I cooed at an alarmed mother's baby, updated my MySpace account and consumed enough food in the library cafe to feed someone of at least four times my body weight.

I am now uncomfortably full, freezing cold (as usual) and becoming extremely drowsy. Only an hour to go until the trials begin - I'm off to the celebrity autobiography department...

Laying Down the Law

As part of my course I am having to learn about the law in the context of what journalists can and cannot legally report.

This is proving significantly more complex than I had anticipated.

Firstly, I seem to have inherited selective narcolepsy. Unfortunately, the main trigger for a spontaneous and uncontrollable nap appears to be reading about journalism law.

This is becoming a considerable hindrance to my progress in understanding what on earth it all means. As soon as I am half way through a chapter of my book, I drop off, waking up a few hours later having had a terrifying nightmare about the impending law exam.

Secondly, what I have managed to successfully read and understand of the law with regards to journalism has scared me half to death.

If my understanding thus far is correct, then I find it very hard not to believe that prisons up and down the country are severely over-crowded with bewildered young hacks who have unwittingly commited contempt of court and still can't figure out how.

However, I am determined to master this law lark. It is clearly very important for young journalists to be acutely aware of our legal limits when venturing into the profession, where several tabloids will undoubtedly attempt to mislead us into reporting less than legal material for their own sensationalist gain, and then leave us to face the music of the courts.

I'm off now for a double espresso and a read!

Horror in the Congo Wars

Sarah blogs here on the horiffic implementation of rape as a weapon of war. She discusses her thoughts on the related Guardian article raising much-needed awareness of the subject.

The behaviour of these soldiers, like that participants in countless other wars, is characterised by dehumanisation, outlined here by Amnesty International.

As Kate Bermingham asks, how can a man do this to another human being?

The answer is that they are not doing it to another human being, they are doing it to an anonymous representative of their opposition.

We have seen pictures of Iraqi prisoners of war being tortured by our forces with bags over their heads. This is a common way of physically dehumanising victims of abuse.

Hitler managed to persuade thousands of Nazis to take part in the Holocaust, in which millions of Jews were murdered.

He engineered their dehumanisation through mass propaganda dealing with them as a parasitic collective devoid of individual identities. He also forced all Jews to wear their religious symbol, a star, stripping them of any overriding physical differences within their community.

Now women are being raped in the context of war. I wonder if any of these women's heads are covered too.

Unfortunately women are an easily dehumanised target of abuse in some cultures becase they are considered inferior to men anyway.

War does terrible things to its victims, but also to the minds of its perpetrators. William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies' depicts how 'man is inherently tied to society, and without it, we would likely return to savagery'.

When society degenerates into a state of war, many of its citizens, denied the social structure to which their moral and social values are attached, regress into an animalistic state and become members of a pack, shedding their own value systems for an often vicious group mentality that allows them to abdicate from personal responsibility.

In this way, they dehumanise themselves as well as their victims.

Donate to the victims of rape in the Congo Wars

Winter Blues

Winter has always been my least favourite season, and this year's is a definite contender for 'Worst Winter Ever'.

Here are some reasons why:

My Bed

This is usually my favourite place.

Despite the fact that it is on wheels and therefore prone to skid halfway across my wooded bedroom floor if I get too excited during an episode of Eastenders (I mean the news), it is comfy and warm.

In winter, however, it transforms into somewhat of a smiling assassin. As it masquerades as its usual cosy self, I am continually fooled by its fluffed up pillows and squidgy duvet.

But once I have hopped in, I find myself in what I can only assume is a freezer cleverly covered with bedsheets.

So instead of enjoying my well-earnt sleep, I develop seriously frost-bitten toes and a red nose.

The Shower

This is the only reason I don't spring out of the freezer in relief the second my alarm goes off.

The shower is a constant reminder of my father's decision to single-handedly renovate our house, a project that spanned the latter nineties and early noughties, and looks set to continue well into the 21st century.

Anyway, the water to the shower is plumbed wrong. You have to turn the water to cold if you want it hotter and hot if you want it colder.

Having stripped groggily out of my pyjamas and dived A Team-style into the shower, however, I am usually in such a hurry to thaw out the two blocks of ice that I formerly referred to as my legs, that I turn the tap as far as it will go in the hot direction, and am promptly slapped across the face with a jet of icy water.

My Hair

Having recovered from my brush with hypothermia, my battle with the straighteners commences.

Which really is the most awful waste of time considering that the second I step outside the front door, I am either met with a watery mist or swept off the road Mary Poppins-style in a galeforce gust of wind.

Either way I am left looking as though a bird's nest has just dropped out of a nearby tree onto my head.

The Train

The tube is a sweatpit all year round, which does not bode well when, like me, you feel the cold more than most and don at least ten layers before leaving the house during the winter months.

Once I manage to fit through the doors (a considerable task when sporting half my wardrobe) I embark upon the odious task of removing layerscopious amounts of woollen clothing whilst growing faint from heat exhaustion and trying not to elbow my commuting neighbour in the eye.

And by the time I have managed to free myself from my material sauna, it's time to deboard the train and brave the university air con, which I could swear is still being utilised in the middle of November...

Oh Baby

Today's Observer features a piece (here) about the Church of England agreeing in its contribution to a recent inquiry that in some cases premature babies ought not to be kept alive - in other words, that euthanasia can be a favourable option.

Personally, I am appalled at, although unshocked by, the Church's hypocrisy considering that the abortion section of its website features the biblical quote 'All human life, including life developing in the womb, is created by God in his own image and is, therefore, to be nurtured, supported and protected'.

I suppose, though, that a branch of Christianity created for the purpose of bending national law to suit the powers that be (Henry viii's divorce) cannot really be expected to unconditionally maintain its morals.

In the report Church of England leaders say that the 'enormous cost implications to the NHS of keeping very premature and sick babies alive with invasive medical care and the burden on the parents should also be taken into consideration.' (The Observer)

This is the kind of thing that really makes me feel sick.

A 'burden on the parents'? The parents of Charlotte Wyatt, the baby famously kept alive after a court battle last year, would surely not consider having her alive any more of a burden than the guilt and grief of having lost her to euthanasia.

They have admittedly found it extremely difficult to provide her with the care she needs, and she is subsequently living in care. But why is this something that should be called into question? The families of terminally ill patients are not expected to care for them at home, and I wouldn't like to imagine the outrage if doctors wanted to give them a lethal injection to economise or ease the 'burden' on their families.

The parents of these babies are citizens who (presumably) have paid taxes for most of their lives. Their children deserve the same entitlement to health care as everyone else's.

As the children's nearest relatives, they are the only ones who should be able to speak for the child in the absence of its ability to defend itself.

People may argue that the children's parents should not be allowed to decide if they are kept alive as their love for their offspring is likely to impair their judgment of what is in the best interest of their baby.

But how is the Church a better judge of what is in the best interest of a premature baby if its overriding concern is NHS cost, making their view just as likely to be biased?

If a child can be kept alive, it should receive the treatment that will achieve this. Anyone else suffering from a life-threatening illness receives this privilege. If we start evaluating who is more entitled to life than others, we are playing God and on extremely dangerous ground.

UK taxes go towards keeping mass murderers and rapists alive because the UK is against capital punishment. These people are evil and will never be allowed to contribute to society again, but are kept alive, largely because in some cases the judiciary fails and we may end up executing innocent people.

But doesn't this apply to these premature babies? No one can know beyond a shadow of a doubt how much pain they are in, and therefore euthanasia is surely out of the question.

No one has the right to end another's life, and that everyone has the right to any treatment that will keep them alive. This is the national sentiment of the UK, and there is no room for selectiveness. Otherwise, questions about who is authorised to implement such selection create the kind of discrepancies we are now seeing.

Total Eclipse of the Sun?

I have just read a really interesting post by Mary-Ann Williams ('We Got Him'), in which she brands the proposed regulation of blogging as elitist.

This week Wikipedia has reportedly banned additions to certain pages on its database due to the deliberate posting of misinformation.

Despite this, I have to agree with Mary-Ann's point.

Her example of the media's reaction to Saddam Hussein's execution sentence perfectly highlights the dangers of restricted news coverage.

The tabloid press has erupted in a frenzy of blood-lust, stepping down from its pedestal as informed reporter and joining the baying crowds chanting their support for the punishment. The Sun's 'Hang to Rights' headline exhibits the paper's aggressive support for the sentence.

This is a dangerously senstationalist stance for the king of the British tabloids to take in a country which often loves nothing better than a scapegoat or a political drama. It is a particularly dangerous stance to take considering that the core audience of the tabloids is of the C2DE demographic and therefore perhaps likely to take their chosen paper's ramblings as gospel.

I am not debating the justification of such venom towards the former dictator, or people's right to euphoria at his demise. What I am saying is that the issue should have been dealt with more responsibly by the British tabloids.

As a medium of overwhelming power over their readers' perceptions of the world around them, they ought to have honoured their influencial position instead of subscribing so totally to a particular viewpoint to the detriment of any semblance of balance or impartiality.

It is in instances such as this that the internet's full value as an unregulated source can truly be seen. Explore a cross-section of only ten blogs and you are likely to stumble across a huge variety of viewpoints on the Saddam subject.

And while it is true that users should approach the use of blogs as reliable sources of information with extreme caution, surely the thinly-veiled censorship increasingly exercised by the British tabloids merits the same wary treatment.

Unlike the tabloids of today, blogging allows us a wide and reasonably balanced sample of opinions from which to discern the reliable from the rubbish. And while the powers that be may not relish the prospect of the uncontrolled musings of citizen journalism - as I suspect is the case from the level of anti-blogging propaganda appearing lately - I think it can only enrich our society in the long-run.

Never Judge a Book by its Cover

As I waited patiently at the bus stop this morning minding my own business, a tiny woman in bedraggled jeans and a matching denim jacket approached me enthusiastically and began wailing and gurning in my face. Alarmed, I looked frantically about me for some assistance but in true British style, everyone else pretended not to see the spectacle unfolding before them.

The clearly unhinged woman continued to gyrate in front of me and then raised her hand to her mouth to expel a chipped brown tooth.

'Shorry luv', she bellowed.

'That one'sh alwaysh fallin aaaht. Got a shpare shigarette?'

Horrified at the decaying tooth still displayed upon the outstretched palm in which I was presumably expected to place the desired cigarette, I shook my head timidly and muttered, 'No, sorry, I don't smoke.'

Undeterred, the woman then began harassing other travellers instead. This actually proved hilarious to watch as they were all even more terrified than I had been. One woman looked as though she was on the brink of haring off down the road to the next bus stop just to get a safe distance away from her.

When a bus pulled up, she pulled a sheaf of dog-eared travel cards out of her pocket and thumbed through them, eventually brandishing the newest-looking one. Then she boarded the bus in an exaggeratedly casual manner which, far from rendering her inconspicuous, only served to draw more attention to her. I struggled to suppress my mirth as she swaggered past the driver, flashing her expired travel card in his face at the speed of light and then scurrying to the nearest seat. Needless to say, she was promptly asked to deboard.

Apparently unabashed, she then continued on her doomed quest for a cigarette amongst the commuters around her, who scattered like scared pigeons. When the next bus came, a driver change meant that the exit doors were left open. Quick as a flash, she had energetically hopped on via this route and sat down innocently next to a startled mother and her child. Once again she was removed from the vehicle.

Once on my bus, I began to castigate myself for my initial reaction to C.L. (Crazy Lady). I tend to pride myself on being a fairly liberal character and make a great effort to avoid making snap judgments of people. However, this poor woman, a lisp and a rotten tooth her only crimes against me, had asked me (reasonably) politely for a cigarette and I had scared myself half to death and manically clutched my bag in front of me like a shield (tightly, in case she made off with it).

What did I have to be so snobby about? Chances were, if I knew half the situations this woman had faced in life, I would not have fared much better, and yet here I was instinctively treating her like a social leper. In actual fact, she was most probably a harmless, although slightly loopy, character who had got into some bad habits when she was younger. And if I had not happened to be born by chance to parents who did their best to ensure I received a solid education and steered clear of drugs, who is to say I would have ended up any differently if her situation had befallen me?

No to the Cyber-Supplements!

Journalism is becoming increasingly multi-media, and the trend is affecting every aspect of the print media.

One example is the Sunday supplement. Around half of all UK newspapers, including the Mail on Sunday, the Sunday Times and the Observer have already made theirs accessible online, and more look set to follow suit. The Telegraph is about to go one step further, relaunching as a completely multimedia service.

But do the benefits of multimedia journalism really outweigh those of the printed Sunday supplement?

My parents seem to think so. When I asked my mother where our Sunday paper was last week, she coolly replied, "Oh, we've stopped buying them now. Dad reads it all online."

What?? No more freezing cold early morning strolls to the newsagents in my pyjamas and winter coat to pick up the Sunday Times when my dad was too lazy? Okay, maybe I won't miss that.

But I will miss snuggling on the sofa, full and drowsy from my Sunday roast, passing the various supplements around my family after which we all become comfortably engrossed in their contents for a good few hours.

Personally I love to read the style supplements, folding down the corners of the pages with dresses that take my fancy. Then my sister seizes the magazine to do the same with the shoe features. Mum prefers the cultural pull-outs, murmuring the odd comment about which London shows are coming up and whose autobiography is to be released next week. Dad has the main paper to himself and is able to check the previous day's football results in peace.

Is all this to be lost to the solitary and unsocial act of my father logging into the internet in a hardbacked swivel chair and scrolling down the webpages whilst everyone else slopes off to their bedrooms for a nap? Or will we all queue to view our desired supplement before passing the mouse to the next family member?

I can't say this idea appeals to me. The main motivation behind my consumption of the Sunday supplements is the familial interaction it encourages. Spending a Sunday afternoon communally reading creates a feeling of closeness to my family that I don't often experience at home any more. My sister and I are constantly either at university, working or catching up with friends, and my parents are either at work or bickering. Sunday afternoons are one of the only occasions when we all spend quality time together and the Sunday newspaper with all its glossy supplements play a big role in this.

So although I am excited by the opportunities a multi-media approach to journalism will afford, I also feel that certain cultural commodities like the Sunday supplement should perhaps be preserved in their present form for now.

Un-Newsworthy Events

I was feeling inspired today, and bounced into work determined to have found something tasty to write about by the end of the day. In my extreme excitement, I clearly forgot that I work in a shoe shop in one of the least interesting areas in Greater London.

By lunchtime, the most ground-breaking occurrences were that I had walked into a shoe display, bruising my side, and that a ludicrously tall blonde woman had attempted to return a pair of boots that were not damaged and had quite clearly been worn.

Oh well. Maybe the afternoon would prove more journalistically fruitful.

Maybe not. My hair slide broke, meaning that I was forced to serve customers whilst resembling a shaggy dog for the rest of the day. And I got told off for standing in the corner with my arms crossed (apparently it's hostile).

So overall a very boring day. I may take to hanging round the local park at night to observe young ruffians whose anti-social behaviour I can write about for the local paper. Stories really aren't as easy to find as I thought.

My Newest Addiction...

...is this blogging lark. Since my last post I came home, had dinner, sent a few texts and then read a few of my coursemates' blogs, and now I've had the uncontrollable urge to post again! My fourth of the day! Mr Horrie, you may have opened Pandora's box...

I was just reading Ash's blog, and I have to completely agree with the positive comments Chris Horrie has been making about it. I think I could learn a lot from Ash's attitude towards journalism.

I have to admit (rather sheepishly now) that I have been inclined over the last few emotionally charged weeks to get rather carried away with my snap judgments of certain situations.

Take David's now infamous video journalism lecture for example. I relent that, rather than calmly assessing the core points behind what was perceived by many as an obituary to print journalism, I marched outside, telephoned my mother and informed her that I was likely to be on the dole for coming years as an unskilled member of society.

Reading the way Ash, and some of my other coursemates, dealt with the issue so maturely and diplomatically, has made me see what I've suspected for a good couple of weeks. That this course is not only going to mould me professionally, but also as a person. Mary-Ann blogged recently on the fact that good journalists learn from each other, and I couldn't agree more.

I feel extremely humbled by some of the people I've met so far at Westminster. I am learning something new every day. Amongst other things, I have learnt that I am not as mature as I thought. Also that my take on a situation is not the only way to look at it. Every single situation is open to debate and different points of view. Not one of these points of view is definitive, they are all mutually enriching. This is also important in journalism. If there were only one way to interpret or convey a situation then I would not even be on this course, because there would only be a few people reporting on every event.

I am really excited (although a little nervous) about continuing to challenge myself over the coming year, both professionally and personally. I'm sure I will still be headstrong and belligerent, and voice opinions at inappropriate times and with a false assumption of grandeur, but I am really going to try and curb these habits and use what I am learning from those around me. I am beginning to realise that in many ways, my greatest teachers are my coursemates.

Too Much Chocolate Makes You Ill

Oh dear. My friends Mary-Ann, Emma and I decided to do some work this afternoon. i.e. something preferably academic, and at the very least of a generally productive nature. Here is what Mary-Ann and I did...............

1) Modified our MySpace pages.
2) Worked out how to listen to Radio1 on our computers after Kiss crashed, then spent ten minutes discussing the presenter's irritating voice.
3) Consumed: 2 TimeOut bars, 1 Kinder Bueno bar, 1 packet salt+vinegar Nobby's crisps, 1 packet Walker's ready salted crisps, 1 tea, 1 coffee. (Between us, not each, but still a notable amount of crap to have eaten in an hour and a half.)

Emma, on the other hand:

1) Removed potentially libelous comments from a book review she's written
2) Smoked four cigarettes
3) Sent some academically oriented emails

Overall a slightly better balance of work and play.

Now I'm still sitting at the computer, feeling thoroughly ill, nearly crying because Radio1 just played a tearjerker of a James Morrison song, and my lips are stinging from the salt. And I'm still writing for the sake of it because I cannot bear to get up and embark upon a long, hot, irritable journey home, at the end of which my mother will probably order me to tidy my room having offered me no form of nourishment beforehand!

Still EastEnders is on later, I suppose that's something. Wake up, Ruby!!

Sleepless Night Syndrome (aka Shorthand)

Has anybody else on the PG Dip Journalism course at Westminster been experiencing any of the following symptoms??

- Palpitations on Tuesdays and Thursdays
- Sleepless nights
- Doing 'outlines' and 'specials' in your head instead of counting sheep during said sleepless nights

If so please let me know as I am becoming increasingly concerned about my state of mind!!

Jumping on the Primark Bandwagon

As an original worshipper at the temple of Primark, I am unsurprised by its recent rise in status within the fashion world.

During my final two uni years, I ought to have charged the chain revenue, as I spent most of my time parading round Southampton dressed head to toe in their clothes, comprising a sort of walking advertisement.

Four years into my Primark experience, I now own (I kid you not) nearly two draws of their underwear, at least ten jumpers, four pairs of shoes and countless pairs of £10 jeans (£10!!!).

At first, I reluctantly admit, I was dubious about venturing into the then-tatty looking shop, preferring instead to continue squandering my meagre student loan on extortionate clothing from better-respected retailers.

However, one particularly depressing morning after I had ripped open to my dismay a bank statement that reported I was eighteen pounds from my overdraft limit, my housemate did the sensible thing and dragged me into Primark by my scarf-ends.

Once I stopped my energetic protesting (which unfortunately involved wailing and a good amount of kicking) I unscrewed my eyes and looked begrudgingly around me.

And I must admit I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw.

There was no denying that the place was tatty. Shop assistants were scurrying around red-faced scooping piles of clothing off the floor whilst customers deposited more in the newly cleared spaces as they frantically scrambled to reach the few remaining items in their size. It was unclear which clothes were originally displayed on which rail and the shop had the overall feel of a badly-organised jumble sale.

After a few minutes, however, I began to spot some familiarly fashionable items in the growing piles on the floor around me. A polka dot boob tube, some skinny jeans and a wrap-around cardigan all came alternately into view.

That was enough for me.
"Right, hold this!" I instructed my friend, thrusting my bag and gloves at her.
I then turned towards the furore and dived in, emerging triumphantly minutes later with the boob tube and jeans (the cardigan had been lost to a red-head with vicious elbows).

And that was that. I can't buy anything now unless I've scoured Primark for it first. For £20 there I can pick up a pair of trousers, two tops and an evening bag. And although the quality may mean Primark clothes don't last me years, the fashions change so quickly that I never want things for more than a few months anyway.

Anyway I must dash, I asked a girl earlier where she got her leopard-print jumper and guess what she said....?

Welcome!

Hello everyone and welcome to my blog. I will be using this space to record my thoughts and views on various subjects (some of international importance, others of no significance to anyone other than me and my friends!)

Enjoy!

Kathy
xxx