50 battleblock thoughts

A day in the life of Battle Block

1.

Right. This is it. I’m gonna SMASH this battle block. I’m going to be the next Rommel, the next Bridges, the next Governor genera…

2.

 SHIT. Where’s my rifle?

3.

I’m so glad I have this section. I like them all so much. We work so well together. I can DO this.

4.

 We all ready to go? Good. Wait. Where’s Noi?

5.

Quick Attack orders, go! Go! GO!

6.

STOPPAGE!

7.

Oh man. Leopard crawling HURTS.

8.

Why is there water all down my back?

9.

I was SO sure I screwed that waterbottle lid on properly.

10.

I do NOT remember the patrol out taking this long

11.

Was that 78 steps or 68 steps?

12.

Fuck. Am I lost?

13.

Please don’t be lost, please don’t be lost, please don’t be lost…

14.

HALT! Check nav

15.

Thank god. We made it back. I am amazing. I will henceforth demand that I am known as the exalted COMMANDER GLY…

16.

...Fuck. Where’s my rifle?

17.

Do up your pouches idiot.

18.

Damn. Why are my pouches always open?

19.

Piquet again?! I feel like my life is one dirty, great big piquet.

20.

I’m hungry.

21.

It’s getting dark, and I’m hungry.

22.

I hope someone’s cooking me food.

23.

Someone had better be cooking me food, goddammit.

24.

Honest to god, how long does it take to do a clearing patrol?

25.

All these people are idiots.

26.

Where’s my rifle?

27.

Where’s my night weapon sight?

28.

Why do I have SO much shit in my pack? I can’t find anything I need.

29.

Is it too soon for a baby wipe shower?

30.

Am I already starting to stink? How is that possible?

31.

I don’t want to start stinking before everyone else.

32.

Piquet again!? Already?

33.

It’s so cold. Should I take my sleeping mat out?

34.

I don’t want ask if I can or not, in case they say no. I’m gonna just take it anyway.

35.

Oh god, what was that? Are we gonna get contacted?

36.

WHAT IF THEY CATCH ME ON MY MAT?

37.

I’m gonna put my mat back.

38.

What if they come when I’m gone?

39.

OH GOD. I’M SO CONFLICTED. DO I LEAVE THE MAT OR NOT?

40.

What was that?

41.

Bloody Sergeants

42.

STAND TO.

43.

Hah, at least if I have to be awake, everyone else has to be too.

44.

…bloody Sergeants…

45.

‘How do you know if a young frog is from Eastern Europe? 

It’s a Tad-pole’

- Go away Burley.

46.

Okay. Nope. That’s definitely me. I definitely stink.

47.

 I really hope I don’t sprain my ankles, just so the medic doesn’t have to look at my hairy legs.

48.

Chocolate for breakfast tomorrow? Yes. This is a lifestyle choice I can wholeheartedly support.

49.

OH LORD. BED IS SO GOOD.

50.

Oh god. Where’s my rifle?

The Bayonet Assault course

Something was definitely afoot.

After weeks of strict orders, sharp timings to be met, and the constant demand to maintain a 'sense of urgency' from sunrise till bedtime, there we were at 9pm, watching a movie.

It was weird, and initially people couldn't relax. Everyone was glancing over their shoulders, keeping an eye on the SGI's for any suspicious activity...but there was nothing and gradually people began to enjoy the evening off. The movie was Gallipoli and they sent us to bed just before the Australian soldiers were about to charge over their trenches to certain death.
'Go to bed' the instructors told us. 'We'll finish it in the morning'.

Oh boy, did we ever.

20 minutes before reveille that next morning they hit us.

Covered in cam paint, screaming like a maniac, as though he was on fire, one of my sergeants came bursting into the room.
'GET UP! GET THE FUCK OUT OF BED!!!! GO! GO! GO OUTSIDE NOW!!!!!"

I almost had a heart attack.

We raced outside our cabins, pulling our sheets out with us as we'd been taught, and we were deafened by the sounds of gunfire and explosions erupting all around us. There was smoke everywhere, it was pitch black, and someone had rigged up an extensive sound speaker and was blasting dramatic, war-y, music. Very much Two Steps from Hell-esk. It was absolute sensory overload. The sergeants were running up and down the corridors screaming at us to get back inside, that we were being attacked, that we had exactly 6 minutes to get ready but we couldn't stand up, we had to crawl on our stomaches back in and somehow, in amongst the darkness and confusion, find our clothes, find our weapons and put cam paint on our face. GO! GO! GO!

Sweating, stressing and swearing, us girls finally made it outside and were lying flat on the concrete breathing hard. We were herded like cattle back into the main hall and from there watched the next 3 minutes of the film: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0Ankn-AzC4 then we raced off down the path to the bayonet assault course.

'FIX BAYONETS'

The whole point of bayonet training is this: if you're in a war zone and you're down to just you and your bayonet, something has gone horrifically wrong. The only thing you have left going for you is the tiny blade at the end of your rifle and your aggression. The sergents wanted us to channel that aggression.

We began by running at dummies.
Screaming till our voices were hoarse we ran and slashed and stabbed at the figurines. I don't know about the others but in my head was every angry thing that had ever happened to me at training so far. All the times me or my friends had been unfairly yelled at, embarrassed, tired and stressed or just not coping.
After we finished with the dummies we were put through the actual obstacle course.

We jumped into bear pits full of water, crawled under barbed wire, jumped off walls and ran through tyres, after each obstacle we ran at a dummy and screamed as we charged it. It was the most manic and psychotic thing I've ever done, and it was incredibly bizarre and frightening to see the calm, smart, rational people I'd been training with up until this point completely let loose in such an aggressive way.  It was a definite reality check I suppose. That behind the ironed uniforms and the strict discipline...this is the army, and the training we're all given has an ultimate purpose.

We were all absolutely shattered by the end, emotionally and physically. It was definitely one of the most intense things I've ever participated in however I'm glad I did. All of this training so far has been challenging in different areas and doing this course made me realise a few things about myself, perhaps the most important of which is that I discovered that I can keep my cool in these sorts of situations, and that psychotic, crazy anger definitely does not come naturally to me. Both good realisations.

Ladies and gentlemen: the bayonet assault course.

5 boot camp tales

'Tales of Attempting' has never been a more appropriate title for the stories I have of my time here in the Army so far. Every day is full on. There is a lot going on and you generally have to do every task as fast and accurately as physically possible. In my case... there's a LOT of attempting, and moderate amounts of success. Some things have been amazing and some things have been horrid. I'm cautious about blogging about it all too specifically because security and privacy are big Army issues however there are some amazing stories which have come out of my time here so far and I just had to share them.

1. The first week.
'Smash week' it's called, and that's a fairly accurate description of it really. Every morning at 6am the drill sergeant would walk down the hall way and scream out 'Revelli Revelli Revelli!!!' And god help you if you don't wake up instantly and scream it back to him whilst pulling out your bottom sheet, tossing it over your shoulder and sprinting into the hallway to stand at attention. From there you have 15minutes to make your bed (perfectly!!! Corners tucked in at 45° angles!!!) Get dressed and be ready to start the day. Days which would consist of hours and hours of marching practise, PT sessions which made people hyperventilate and throw up, and best of all; Impossible timings.

'Right. All 130 of you have 6 minutes to go up three floors, get your shower stuff, come back down here, shower, go back up and get dressed and then back down here and lined up outside for our next class. Go.'

I legitimately had 15 second cold showers that week and in my rush to print my name on my PT shirt I accidently wrote it as 'ELYNN' which made the staff laugh. However they told me a cadet last year had done the same thing and dubbed himself 'MONG'. So...it could have been worse I suppose. After smash week finished we were relocated to Majura where we met the rest of our boot camp staff and continued the next 6 weeks of Initial Cadet Training.

2. The people. 
The people I've met here have been amazing. There's one man who hid notes all over the house for his wife to find progressively over the weeks that he was away. There's another guy who just can't help himself and HAS to make at least one stupid joke or pun per day (what's the difference between roast beef and pea soup? - anyone can roast beef!) The girls who all look out for one another; who give each other massages and head rubs and plan waxing and cocktail parties - much to the envy of the guys and the disgust of the sergeants. Some of the sergeants are amazing too. They're all very proffessional and continuously in 'Sergeant mode' but every now and then something will happen and you'll see them try to hide a smile. For example, we had to pass a series of shooting continums which went over 2 weeks. I went just fine in all of them except the last one which I had to redo ten times before I finally passed it. As I came running down the hill to record my score the sergeant at the bay looked up and said. "I don't even need to ask if you passed Glynn. Just get that rediculous, goofy smile off your face". The same sergeant called me out just last week too. He goes "I've figured you out Glynn" and I was like "uhoh. What have you figured out Sergeant?". He said "You're the social hub of the cadets. Wherever you are people are always talking loudly and laughing" he gave me quite a reproachful look the said "not necessarily a bad thing I suppose but not always really a good thing here either".

3. The psychosis.
It gets to you after a little while. The Army gets into your head and under your skin and you start having crazy dreams and doing crazy things. I am no exception. There have been some great stories though. Not mentioning any names, one of my friends here routinely woke me up every night for a week by pulling on her clothing at 2am whispering frantically "hurry up! Hurry up! The sergeants are coming!". She also used to catch herself sleep walking, once standing beside the bedpost at attention waiting for orders. I did it too. I had a vivid dream that a sergeant was yelling at me 'get on your guts!!! Hurry up!!!" And when I woke up I was facing the wrong way on the bed, perched over the edge, holding an imaginary rifle. Just recently when we were out field I dreamt so realistically that a sergeant had told me to go wake everyone up and put them all on sentry at 2am that I was halfway out of my sleeping bag about to do it when I took a moment to stop and really try to work out what had been reality. It was a bit nuts. Lucky for everyone in my group I figured out it had been a dream.

4. The jargon.
God it makes me laugh when we go out as a group and people are speaking 'army'. Things like giving out drunken target indications.
'300m, my axis of advance, one McDonalds, rate of advance - 3 metres per second'
We text each other using correct radio procedure too. I was trying to meet up with a friend at a bar and legitimately got this text.
'Diamond formation. Patrolling, then single file into the harbour position. Correct drill necessary, complete silence and clearing patrol to be conducted".

5. The random moments.
In a world which is so structured and so orderly, you find you live for the random and unpredictable moments.
A friend of mine was preparing to do piquet for the evening (guard patrol) and she was rugging up in layers because it was freezing cold outside. The final additions to her ensemble was to pull a skintight silk beanie over her head which made her look like a skull. Then she put her balaclava over that - so that only her eyes were visible, and finally she put the head harness rig on that we had to wear every night when patrolling. She looked absolutely ridiculous and it was just as we were all laughing at her that one of the sergeants came bursting into the room to give her instructions for the night. He was halfway through his first sentence when he registered what he was talking to. He stopped dead, tried for a second to get back on topic with what he'd been saying, then threw his hands in the air and walked out saying 'I just can't. I can't have a conversation with that. Nope'.

Overall it's been uniquely the hardest and best thing I've done. I'm literally learning something every single day and the people I'm doing it with make all the difference. They're all good, smart, intelligent, witty and hard working people. Despite the fact that some days have really just been absolutely awful someone at some point during that day has made me laugh.

Some less relevant life questions

I've been struggling a lot with the big questions recently. Y'know. Things to do with life and death, with careers and relationships. In amidst this, some small, less relevant (but by no means less important!) questions have come up.

1) Dry cleaning...WTF
What on earth happens to your clothes when you take them to the dry cleaner?
How can you clean something dry?
My version of dry cleaning consists of scratching off the dried food or mud on my jeans with my fingernail. Is that what happens in a dry cleaner? Do they have troops of picking monkeys just...scratch, scratch, scratching meticulously?

2) How long do you have to wait before pooing in a toilet which has been freshly cleaned?
What is the etiquette? I want to know.

3) Do people realise the magic combination for not having a bad outing ever? Doesn't matter who you're with or what you're doing... you're just not going to be fun if:
a) you're hungry
b) you're the wrong temperature
c) you have the wrong shoes.

We need to spread the word.

4) Why aren't car windows like... one way mirror-thingy viewers?
Then not only can no one peek in your parked car for things to rob, but you can enjoy your little bubble of privacy when you're at a red light. You can sing loudly and animatedly without having to endure the ridicule of those around you.

...just some little things

Ready, Set, ARMY

Well, Well, Well.

Well.

So, I'm joining the Army.

I'll take a second to admit something which up until now I've shared with only a few people: the reality of this Army business absolutely terrifies me...but 6 months ago I was even more scared.

 So scared in fact that I ran away. 

Running away doesn't really come very easily to me. It's not often that I like to admit that something is a bit much for me or in this case, that I was consumed in a pant crapping state of fear. But I was.

I was scared of the prospect of 18 months of training, scared of going back to yet another institution just when it seemed I was finally reaching mature (?) adult-dom. I was scared of signing up for 6 years of a lifestyle more strict and more consuming than anything I've previously experienced. Scared of being in situations where I might question my morals and my strength. Scared mostly of losing myself in the brainwashing that I know is part of the job. I LIKED who I was then. I didn't want to be changed. The idea of it was just... wrong.

My running away also had the perfect cover story. There was this English boy I'd just met and I super dooper liked him. Excellent. What else am I known for if it's not a little bit of running across the world after boys?

So that was it. With the end of my masters approaching within the month I made a massive decision, e-mailed the Army asking to defer my enlistment for 6 months, and I took off across the globe....feeling very much like I'd had a stay of execution.

My first month in Wales was... absolute serendipity

My number one stress about arriving in the UK was finding somewhere to live, a close second was finding somewhere to work.
Within a week I had both.

I started out just visiting my friend Carrie Anne and during my first night at her house, one of her house mates mentioned that she was thinking of moving out but needed to find someone to take the room for 6 months.


Three days later I got a job interview at a bar called Rileys, and the manager told me,
"Tell me what hours you need, when and how often you need to work. I've been an exchange student living overseas before and I know that it needs to be about YOU. So you let me know what works for you".

I couldn't believe it.

Not only that but it turned out the English boy didn't really super dooper like me back all that much, but within a month I found someone else incredible in Wales who, it turns out, did.

The time that has passed between that first month and now has honestly been a blur. And I know that's a cliche but... it's true. I've tried to hold on to the major moments; the castles, the adventures, the friendships, the romance, the food, the drink (a LOT of drink)...










But while each and every one of these things has been fantastic, what I am going to remember most about Wales is how it has changed me into a person I didn't know I could become, a person I still really like, but a person who is now ready for the Army. And that honestly was the last thing I anticipated this forgotten little country (which I never even intended to come to) to teach me.

Ummmm, it's the Welsh flag... Duh

From working where I've worked, I've changed from someone who used to blush and seize up when men made lewd and suggestive comments, to someone who can hold my own and give back as good as I get. Not only that but I now have the courage and fortitude to tell them to stop and shut up. And they do.

I have learned what it is to live on minimum wage, to work full time and to truly know the value of money. I've learned that money makes good people do duplicitous things. I've become more streetwise, more savvy. While I still believe that all people are inherently good, I think I truly understand now how much money (or a lack of it) can push people into impossible situations.

I have truly learned what jealousy is, and what greed is. I'm lucky to have never fully encountered these before in my life, but fumbling to put the correct labels on these behaviours that I didn't understand was a really difficult and a harsh reality. I have learned how much a single £1 tip can change a persons evening for the better and that if you're generous it will come back to you tenfold. I've also learned that sometimes niceness is taken for weakness and that some people are just jerks, ...and there's nothing you can do about it.

I have learned the strength of my support system back home. Honestly, there was not one day that I did not have a message or e-mail from someone at home. So many skype calls made. So much encouragement, advice and appreciation received. So much genuine and heartfelt love and missing. 










And speaking of love. Not to get too soppy, but I've found a love which just...works. It's been the healthiest, happiest relationship of my entire life. My first non long distance relationship in fact, and that too has been a learning curve. Learning to balance myself and the rest of my life around this man who I am so continually drawn to hasn't always worked seamlessly.



I learned that I didn't need a tattoo to remind me to be myself and to stay true to the part of myself that I love...because amidst an absolute change of company, work, house and country... I was strong enough on my own to know I'm able to do that. And that was... SUCH a relief to realise.

So now? I have a life here that works. A life I've worked for. A life I like, surrounded by people I love in a country where I fit in, a country which I've never felt homesick in.
I'm in a position to stay. A huge part of me wants to stay. I'm so happy in fact that in a lot of ways leaving feels impossible.
And yet, the only thing more impossible than leaving...is staying.

I'm leaving to join the Army because I'm confident now that I want to, that I CAN, and still retain 'me'. Confident that this is where the momentum of my life is drawing me to and despite the fact that I'm doing something so very UN-Elyse and putting love behind my life plan...this is what I'm meant to be attempting at this point in my life. I'm playing the game with my head now instead of my heart, and I think that's something else I've grown into since being here.

I'm still scared. But y'know what? I'm sure everyone else coming into this July's enlistment is too. And I'm sure after our first week of bootcamp, after we've all been yelled at for not making our beds properly or having our boots shiny enough, we're all going to bond and get to know each other...and from there it's going to get a lot less scary and a lot more manageable. So here's to enjoying my last week and a half here and heading off into yet another adventure.

Ready, set, go!

Encountering the Cardiff Ninjah

I was going for a run around Roath Park when a man pulled out in front of me and then stopped to catch his breath at a bench. I noticed things were weird straight away because despite the fact he'd just stopped, as soon as I passed him he started running again. I wondered if he wanted to race? So I started running faster because... well... I'm Elyse. And if some stranger decides to start an impromptu race with me I feel obliged to show him what a mistake he's made.

But then of course I remembered that I'm been sitting on my ass drinking beer for the past 4 months and that I can't run for shit anymore. So I had to stop... and this guy caught up to me.

He was immediately striking. Tall, black with bleached white dread locks and a big gold tooth.

"It's SO nice to see a girl so tall. I hate being tall y'know? Like everything bad happens because you're tall. Like...if you're mad and yelling at someone, suddenly it becomes "Oh! You're bullying me, stop bullying me" and it's like no, I'm not bullying you, I'm just angry".

It was a bit. Whoa.

So I told him the truth.

"I dunno. I really like being tall. It means that people remember me and I've always found sport and stuff pretty easy"

He stopped dead and was like... "Y'know? I need to think like THAT more often. Thank you... THANK YOU"

It was a bit intense, but I didn't get the vibe that he was crazy. Just...a bit strange, and a bit lonely. So we continued walking and talking. He told me about how he's training for a marathon, how he envisioned his training the same way he pictured an atom...so tiny and yet potentially so powerful. He told me he was a mix between a shadow and a ninja (but specifically with a 'H' on the end) and that running was like therapy to him. Not once did I feel threatened or intimidated. Then he started saying that if he just quit smoking he could one day be a professional athlete.

"So why don't you just quit smoking?"

"What?"

He stared at me blankly as though I was speaking anther language

"Why don't you just quit smoking"

He stopped dead and then started tearing up. He took off his glove and shook my hand.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I feel like I was destined to meet you today. You've said two huge things that I really needed to hear". He shook my hand, told me his name was Aldrich, then told me he had to go, he had a life to turn around, and he ran off into the distance.

So I went to work that afternoon and told some people about it and apparently I'd had an encounter with 'a local nutter' the infamous Cardiff Ninjah. He's on the internet and everything!

Well renown for playing the bins on main street like drums he's constantly seen running around Cardiff and having random existential conversations with strangers.

http://www.ilovecf.com/news/109/top_5_cardiff_queen_street_legends/

I

Taking on a street gang with a paper mache crab

Before I start this story, I would like you to click Here.

There. Now you have the soundtrack to this story.
I had this song firmly entrenched in my head as I was walking down City rd yesterday evening. I was whistling it and laughing to myself because I was holding this giant paper mache 'crab' that I'd made earlier for Jack.

It's a long story as to why this crab came into existence but the bottom line is that it existed. It was big, colourful, stuffed full of food, and I was laughing and whistling as I was carrying it down the street. I was completely in a world of my own.

Then I noticed two boys in front of me. They couldn't have been more than 12 or 13 and my initial thought was:
'Gross, he must have been pissing in the street' cause one of the boys had his belt out of his jeans and was swinging it back and forth. My next thought; 'He should probably be careful with that thing. He could hurt someone if he swung that hard enough'.
My next observation was that the boy next to him was holding a CHAIR (the fact that I didn't notice this instantly just further proves how far into my hilarious, happy fairytale world I'd sunk (you aaaaaare, a cinemaaaaa)
'Why is he holding a chair? are they playing some sort of game?'

Then I looked behind me.

Behind me was about fifteen other boys, all were holding their belts, chairs, broomsticks...all menacingly approaching these two kids and I realised I'd just been whistling loudly, holding my stupid big crab, being like... 'whoops! 'scuse me there! pardon me! Coming through!' and walked straight through a mini chav street gang turf war.

The whole thing had attracted the attention of all the passersby. A crowd had formed. Everyone was keeping their distance, but watching intently. Everyone except me of course.

I'd like to think I added a certain light heartedness to the mood. I'd also like to thank the scummy younger generation of chavs for refraining from continuing their fight to allow the whistling, dancing crab lady to walk through peacefully without beating my brains into the gutter.

Wales #4 Hairdresser Strife

Visiting a hairdresser is always...ALWAYS a traumatic experience for me. 
No matter how carefully I plan out what I want done before hand, the tomboy in me just gets totally intimidated as soon as I sit in the plush leather chair and have the weird bib thing put around my neck. 

Seriously, I genuinely start sweating profusely. Sometimes I even shake. In fact, my fear of the hairdresser is so intense that I hold off as long as humanly possible. Once waiting two years before going in for a cut.


And it ends with me gesturing vaguely at my head being like...

'I kinda just...want you to like... y'know. Cut it???'

No matter how hard I try, it always comes out apologetic. 

And then I feel obligated to agree with everything they do. 

'Are these layers short enough?'

'Oh yes. Yes, yes. Of course'

'And your fringe? Is this okay?'

'Yes, yes, yes. All good thanks'

'The end result? Good? Yes?'

'OOOOHHHH YESSSSS. Thank you!!!!'

Because seriously... what am I going to say to the woman who has the next three months of my social standing held in the shiny scissors in her right hand? 

'No! What are you THINKING? STOP! STOP NOW. PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOPPPP!!!!!!'

Who's to say she's not going to get hugely offended and then start cutting big chunks out of my head? And to be honest. She's finished it now. What am I supposed to say. Sorry no? Fix it? I don't like it? When I gave her NO direction to start with?

The last time I went to get my hair cut I hated it so much I ended up going home and taking a pair of scissors to my own hair. 

BIG MISTAKE.

It's taken about 3 months for my chopping extravaganza to grow itself out to the point where I can finally set it free from a bun and wear it out in public. 

My most recent hairdresser disaster was when I decided to go to a hairdresser here in Wales and get my hair dip dyed. I wanted it to look like this. 

It does not.

In fact. Not only does it not look like this at ALL and has been a total waste of my £35, SOMEHOW ( I noticed last night) my pubes have gone ginger. What the actual fuck?

Hair dressers.

Not. Even. Once.

Wales #3 The Bingo Girl Diaries

I've started this particular entry so many times and have always pulled up short. It's about my job (of course it HAS to be about my job) but I honestly don't really know how to describe it. Either the job itself or how I feel about it.

So here goes. The accumulation of 17 years of study, a Bachelor in Communication Studies and a Masters in International Relations has led me to this.

I work at Rileys, which is a pool and snooker club. They have membership cards and a bar that I sometimes work at. But mostly I'm just the bingo girl. 
Don't misunderstand me here. I don't get to spin the ball cage and pull out a ping pong ball with a number on it. There's no microphone and witty repertoire for each number to memorise. I literally just print off a little ticket with numbers on it, and these numbers come up on the t.v. screens every 5 minutes or so.

It's alright guys. You can stop being so jealous of my high flying - multi layered career. 

It's actually the weirdest job in the world. Sometimes the place is packed, other times it's dead empty. If there are only two old men in the back corner playing snooker and neither of them want to buy a tickets... well... that's my next 4 hours sorted out. 

In this weird way... I'm kinda just really enjoying myself. There are a lot of regulars who come in and so in that sense it's turned out to be the best place to be for my first few weeks starting off in a few city because I've got to know a lot of faces. I've found myself walking down the street in Cardiff and bumping into people I know already. On my birthday I went out with some friends who came up from London, ended up bumping into a couple of the regular students who come into Rileys who knew it was my birthday and bought me drinks! 

So... a brief summary of the 'Regulars'

1. The Indians:

They're a bit chavvy, a bit 'lad-dy' and are there, never fail, every night. It's their 'local' and they alternate between being amazing at pool, playing the poker machines and proposing to me.

2. The Veterans:

The old men who have been coming in to play snooker there with their 6 buddies for the past 25 years. It was one of these many groups of veterans who come in who asked me the other night 'So, do you actually do anything or do you just walk around putting people off their snooker games for a living?' It definitely knocked any potential chip I'd been developing off my shoulders...

3. The Students:

Definitely the most fun. The people my own age recognise that a job (even a fairly useless and strange one like this one) is money, and money provides a place to live and means to enjoy oneself  They don't judge it, they just accept it, and often they'll buy a bingo ticket from me out of pity.

The manager has been amazing. When I waltzed in for the interview; bankaccount-less, home-less and largely uncontactable she basically said to me, "tell me how many hours you need, when you need them and how much you want to work. I'll sort it all out for you".
Somehow this woman turned bingo ticket selling into a full time job and since then that's pretty much what I've been up to this entire time...

...Of course I'm joking. I've done a lot of exploring already, gone out on the town a fair bit, caught myself already picking up the Welsh-isms and saying some of the really stupid sentences that they use here with complete sincerity. I've made a heap of friends. I have extensive travel plans which include Scotland and Ireland, and I'm planning a weekend Castle exploring extravaganza. 

Many more stories to come! Promise! :)
For now, I remain,
your humble bingo girl.

Risk It.

The temptation to put it away into the 'Dreams' folder is always a shadow on my shoulder. 

That there is too much involved, that the rate of failure is exponentially higher than that of success, that heartbreak (or worse, soulbreak) is an inevitability, that you need to stop being such a child, stop gypsying around, stop ignoring facts, be smart, when are you going to get a real job?

But something innate and organic inside me keeps insisting that Atlas doesn't really have a clue what he's doing. That the world is growing smaller. That how things were in our heads when we were children (of how things would be and how things should be) (the siren call of the picket fence) only have the power over our reality that we give them to potential to be.

So risk it.

Being foiled by your inability to be fearless... is frustrating.

And in our hunt to find success, we've forgotten one thing.

There is no such thing as failure.

Surrendering to the worst case scenario makes it all the more sweeter; will move your story from a 80c Kindle tale to a meaty thing people want to hold, want to curl up with in front of a fire and READ; will give you depth of character and scars of heart that no pirate ever had. The things you'll see will be burned on your retina irreparably, the things you'll hear will make the buzzing in your ears louder than any concert. 

Fuck you picket fence. 

Let your heart be swollen by the anguish of impossibility - because impossible love is what Fairy Tales are made out of and can inspire a millennia. Be reckless beyond good reason. Be charitable outside of your means. Scare yourself into living. Throwing your soul whole heartedly into the stupid option. Accept it. Embrace it. Chase it. 

Something other than what you've assumed all your life is what you're missing. This is it. You've found it, grasp it with two hands and don't let go; even if it means losing your hands in the process.

Wales #2. Dodging puddles – and bullets.

I’ve always felt that a large part of whatever little charm I possess is my naïveté and underlying assumption that the people I meet are good people. It’s not something I’m ashamed of…but it’s not always something I’m proud of either because I end up looking like a fool.

Take yesterday for example.

I somehow found myself agreeing to a shady waitressing job, being assured that it’s normal in the UK for waitresses to receive 2 pounds under the minimum wage, cash in hand, and that I’d be the only one working there – along with the boss and his brother. It wasn’t until I got home (after accepting a MUCH more legit job elsewhere) and I talked to my friend Carrie-Anne who was like… 

‘erm…Elyse, that’s SO illegal’ 

that I realized they’d blatantly taken advantage of my foreigner status and naturally trusting personality.

'...oh yeeeeah'

When I told a friend about this he said to me that I needed to go re-watch ‘Taken’. And it’s true.

The first time I watched that movie I had to pause it and call for backup after the first 20 minutes. I was shaking so hard, was so traumatized… because that girl flouncing innocently around Europe was me, and my dad is awesome - but he's no Liam Neeson.

I'm not writing this story to have anyone worry about me btw. This blog has just become a space for stories about my life and inevitably the things I learn along the way. Yesterday was a wake up call because everything has been going so well here so far. It's honestly seemed like a dream land.

So yes. The bright side to the story is that I ended up getting a really awesome job at a pub in Cardiff, the ladies who own it are incredibly friendly and on top of all that, I'm probably going to be renting my own room by the end of next week within walking distance of one of my best friends. All this within 5 days after I gave myself a timeline/budget of 2 months to try to get myself settled over here. It's been amazing. My original plan wasn't even to stay in Wales but this is how it seems to be working out! I was meant to go to England but, when you think about it... what's so great about England anyway? I mean...really, only their flag's a big plus ;)