Starting Secondary School

In September I started my first year at secondary school. It seems like so long ago, but it’s only been four months. This is my mini account of that awkward time.

September 2012- T Minus One Year

I get up in the morning, scrabbling around for my glasses, knowing this is the beginning of the end,the start of my last year of primary school. School is exactly the same, except for a  lingering sense of grown-upness, as we’re finally the oldest in the school. I know that we have SAT s this year but my teacher has promised us a fun filled year aside from that. I realise now that there is more to my life than just primary school. My horizon is further ahead and now I begin to see that I’m close, so very close to  the next chapter of my life…

March 2013-T Minus Six Months

I’m up at  4:00 am, worried of what will come. Will there even be a place for me at the local secondary school? Will everything work out fine? Four hours later, I’m called into my parents’ room to look at an email they have gotten from the education authority people. Two hours after this I’m busy telling my friends how I’m going to the very school nobody I know is going to. I’m extremely happy, as it’s a good school, but how will everyone there be?

July 2013- T Minus Two Months.

It’s time now. I am officially going for the induction day at my new school. I’m officially a Year Seven- for today anyway. I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my school council and librarian badges, brushing my hair until every last curl has been brushed out. My dad bundles me in the car and the fact that it is sunny and about twenty degrees seriously gives me a boost. My form tutor is really nice, she smiles a lot and by the end of the day I have made an awful lot of friends. My mum picks me up and takes me and my brother and my cousins to McDonalds and then to the ice cream place down the road. I feel better now. I may well be ready.

Still July-

After seven years of being here, it’s finally my last day of primary school. I wake up and iron that brand new poloshirt I had bought specifically to get signed by the kids at school. Our teacher, who’s recently been struck down by tonsillitis, has managed to get into school to sign our shirts. Everyone’s having a competition to see who can get the most signatures on their shirts and there’s a kid in year four repeatedly writing Boris on everyone’s shirts. Oliver from year five is signing our shirts with the name Esmerelda. Mr Cooper comes out of the Year Three classrooms with a ton of ice lollies and Jackie somehow manages to spill melted lolly down her dress. It’s probably the hottest day of the year, but at the end of the day it feels really cold. Chloe burst into fits of tears and giggles when the photo montage comes on in the Year Six assembly.  At the end of the day I pick up my little brother from his classroom and we both walk home, silently, him happy as he is now the oldest in school and me excited for what’s left to come.

August 2013- T-Minus Two Weeks

I run around the house in panic as there is only twelve days left and I have still not bought my uniform. After an hour or so, I’m in the car with my mum, then I’m in the uniform shop, frantically ticking items off of my list. The blazer alone cost around£30 and the grand total was around.. wait for it.. £250! I end up buying half of WHSmith in my quest for perfect organization, and my mum decides we’ve had enough at around 4:00pm.

   September 2013- T Minus Zero

My eyes are open way before dawn. Its time, and I’m ready. My pencil case is full, my phone is charged, my bus pass is in my bag and my skirt and blouse are ironed. My  shoes are polished, my blazer is clean, my lunch is made, and my hair is wet from the shower. I scramble downstairs, still in my pyjamas, at 5:00am and cook (BURN) myself an omelette.  I go back upstairs, pull on my uniform and spend fifteen minutes adjusting it until it looks perfect. I have everything ready and in my hands by 7:10 and I’m at the bus stop ten minutes before the bus even arrives. I’m alright.

T Plus eight hours

I return home , and I wonder what it really was that I was worried about. The day went well, and after all, it was just a day. Just a single day, that really couldn’t have been much.

A single day, no longer and no harder than the rest.

Lovely, eh?


T Plus 2 Years- September 2015

I cannot believe I wrote such a cheesy, weird thing. This is stupid. I was such a weirdo in Year 7. Wow, I thought my form tutor was nice? Obviously this was before she started doing these weird PSHE things called THUNKS in form time and just stopped being all smiley-smiley. WOW. I sound like a mini-English teacher. This is awful. Delete it now. 😀


Word for word-The first story I wrote

Everyone who writes has a cringeworthy first story, and thankfully it has only been eight years since I wrote my first, and I remember it word for word. when I was that age I always wrote stories because it made my parents smile a lot, and I hope this one makes you smile.- bearing in mind I was four when I wrote this.

So here it is: Fiona’s Surprise.

Fiona’s  Surprise

Once upon a time there was a princess called Fiona. One Day it was her birthday and Fiona was coming back from school. When she got back to the palace she found out that her mum and dad  had thrown her a party. She was really happy and she had a lot of cake and she got lots and lots of big presents. It was the best birthday ever. The next day she went to school and she was a teacher and she liked telling the kids the alphabet. There was a great big dragon on the playground and it breathed fire. The kids got scared. Fiona was scared of the dragon but Prince Charming came and chased the dragon away. Everyone was safe and then Prince Charming and Princess Fiona got married and they all lived happily ever after.


Please don’t think this is a stupid piece of writing, I swear it is the work of a princess and Shrek obsessed four year old.

Chapter Three of Ice Story

Chloe froze. Nobody rang their doorbell. No-one. Not ever. So who was this? Was it the landlady, coming to evict them? She was sure she had paid Sue the rent for the next four months. There was no way it was her, was there?


“I’m sorry Craig, but your wife has Osteomalacia. She may need a break, Alaska is not the best place for sunlight, now, is it?”

A girl sat outside the doctor’s surgery, and her eyes widened in shock. Her mother couldn’t have that big word disease, could she? This couldn’t be happening. She was only ten years old, what could she have done to deserve this? Her dad had only just lost his job, and now her mum was going to die. She didn’t know what was happening, she just knew they would never be able to afford her mother’s medicine, or a trip abroad, or that food the doctor was recommending. She didn’t know. She didn’t know.


She didn’t know. As she walked to the door she didn’t know what was happening, or what she had done to deserve this. She didn’t know.

Her hand shuddered as she went forward to turn the doorknob- partly because it was cold, partly because she was scared- but when she opened it she heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Sue. It was a young woman, in her mid-twenties, with scraggly blond hair that had frozen to her head in the subzero temperature. Her jacket was ripped and her clothes were caked in mud, and her shoes had more holes than her gran’s crocheted teddy bear, but the fact that it wasn’t Sue cancelled out the effects of the woman’s appearance.

“My name’s Sarah Hardy, and I really need somewhere to sit down.” her voice was rough and hoarse, but through what was obviously a bad cold, Chloe could hear a trace of a British accent.

“Chloe Wilson. And you can come in, you’ll freeze out there.” she may have  been broke, but Chloe wasn’t heartless. “So, how did you get like,” she stopped, hoping not to offend her “this?” Sarah could see her looking at her attire, slightly perturbed.

“I, um, long story.”

“We’ve got time.”


“You can’t just eat so we don’t need to pay for your medicine!”

“I would if you could get a job to get food!”

Chloe closed the door quietly and went to her room, trying to ignore her parents’ voices, but still they continued. She lay, curled up on her bed, her fingers in her ears and her pillow in between her elbows. She lay, hoping for a better day tomorrow.


It took Sarah nearly twenty minutes to explain how she had been kidnapped, and how she had seen her fourteen year old brother for a brief moment before she ran away from the men who had taken her.

“Whoa.” Chloe felt stupid for taking pity on herself, while this girl had been through it all and was still humble. “We’ll help you.”

“Don’t worry.” Sarah said, but Chloe couldn’t help it, “I just needed somewhere to sit.”


The sun hit Chloe’s face and woke her up immediately, its warm light urging her to leave her bed, telling her that this would be a better day, a brighter day, a happier day.

She opened the door and crept down the stairs, trying her hardest to pretend the loud sobs she could hear were tears of laughter, that what she was fearing hadn’t happened.

“Mom, what happened?” she asked, but she already knew what her mother was going to say.

“Your dad’s left, dear. We just thought it would be better.”

But Chloe knew her mother didn’t think it would be better. She wanted to pretend it was all a dream. Mom would be gone in less than a month if she didn’t find money to pay for her medicine. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it.

But she had to.


“Thanks for the bread, Chloe.” Chloe had given Sarah an old jacket of her mother’s and her dad’s old boots before she had forced her to let her leave.

“Any time.” she wished that there was more she could do. “And if I see your brother, I’ll try my best to find you.”

“I’ll make sure you can.”

I remember- when my mum had cancer

It may never seem so, but this one’s from the heart.

Nobody really expects me to remember much about when my mum had cancer, but sometimes, bits shine through. I remember my dad crying silently when we went to visit her. I remember my aunt, who was nine months pregnant, dropping everything and coming to our aid. I remember how my mum got diagnosed the day we got handed the keys to our house. I remember the whole family trip to the beach my grandparents organised to keep my mind off of my ill mum. I remember how, through all of it, my mum was always smiling and telling me to be glad we were still together then.

I remember

I remember how my dad and my uncles used to take it in turns to take me to school on their shoulders, so that I could never feel that my mum wasn’t there. My aunt used to cook for us every day, so we wouldn’t feel the lack of my mum’s cooking. When her baby daughter was born, it was really good for us. It made everyone happy after so much sadness. I guess maybe she helped my mum get through as well. She always says to me now that she only got through because she was fighting for something. She says she was fighting so she could see us get older and so we would never feel the lack of a mother like she did, so we’d always have her there.

I remember.

It seems silly now, nine years on, that all that’s left is the scar of the fear, the strength of the hope and the ‘I remembers’ from the girl who was only five when it all ended. When I was three years old I already knew how to call 999 and tell them if anything happened. I had to know. My mum was allowed to take care of me, but who would take care of her?

I remember.

I bet if my mum was writing this there would be five hundred pages by now. Her own mother passed away when she was fifteen, and I guess mum must have been afraid that would happen to her. But my mum can’t write this right now, because she’s downstairs with my dad, in front of the fireplace, happy and warm, because now she’s seen all of those things she never thought she would live to witness. My first day at secondary school, her 40th, my little brother’s 10th.

I remember

I’m near to tears now, because I can never know what she was going through quite as well as she does. Did it hurt? Was it hard to smile all the way through? Could she have ever done it without my dad, her siblings and her dad?

I remember

It seems ridiculous, when I think about it, that I could think of my problems with Barbie now as bad. I’m writing this at eleven pm on New Year’s Eve, but the words just keep on coming. Nine years ago my mum fought cancer and she won. My mum. My own mother. She battled every day for six months through intensive chemotherapy and a further year and a half recovering, taking frequent trips to the hospital, all so she could see me grow up. All of us can look at her as an example in our lives, because there is always something or someone worth fighting for. She hoped, when everything was dark and the world looked bleak, she hoped. Not a day goes by when I’m not inspired by my mum, because she is a living reminder, that no matter how bad things seem, nothing can destroy hope, and love, and if you just wish hard enough, that little spark of hope can turn into the biggest of fires, that’ll be all you need to come out of the darkness.

So here’s to all of those people who are fighting cancer now, for everyone who survived cancer and everyone who didn’t.
Here’s to everyone who’s fought or is fighting to see their loved ones at this new year, this new start. Here’s to them all, everyone who can look upon New Year’s Day as a new start, as a chance to leave behind, but never forget, the dark times they’ve faced and start anew.
Happy New Year and I HOPE 2014 will be your best year yet.

My Amazing Little Cousin

Ok now, you may think I am going to go on writing randomly about a little kid, but hold on, you’re gonna want to read this.

My little cousin is eight years old. She is small, cute and slightly hyper.

Oh, and you must never give her sugar!

At the age of three, she picked up me, then seven, and her sister, then nine, off the top bunk and pulled us into the beanbags. At the age of six she knocked her teddy out of a window and made me climb out to get it ( thankfully we were in those Haven holidays caravans).  Just this year she accidentally knocked a door down while doing her science homework. On this occasion, l had to screw it all back before my dad came home. 

I was never allowed to babysit again…



Is Barbie Giving The Wrong Message To Young Girls?


Just today I saw a new advert for a Barbie ‘Accessories Vending Machine’.

Seriously? After lessons in school about not being too overly obsessed with material things, what exactly is a stricken, paper-thin blonde saying “I really need more accessories or else I will, like, die!” telling those six-year olds who are so worried about their body image.

Adding onto this, recently a controversial Facebook post surfaced asking people whether toy companies should start making plus-sized Barbie dolls.

At the end of this, 40,000 people answered yes, and a mere 5,000 said no.

What does this tell us? That people are bothered enough about little girls or that they want to feel better about obesity?

This also sparked a debate over whether these 40,000 Facebookers were right or not.

The main comments from the 5,000 against the idea were along the lines of ‘this size will just encourage obesity’.

My form is an example of what Barbie’s paper thin dolls and pink miniskirts can do to people. There is a pack of girls in every secondary school classroom today whose lives revolve around going to town after school, buying five new dresses every night and sneaking lipstick and mascara into school. All of these girls are part of the Barbie generation- and Barbie is getting more and more material obsessed, skinnier and sparking more controversy among body image specialists. This makes us wonder; what are today’s six year olds going to be like in eight years time?

When I was younger, I always wondered why nobody I had ever met looked like the extensive collection of pink-clad dolls I had. Then again, as soon as I got old enough to understand about all the gender stereotyping and body image stuff, the Barbie doll population in my little cousin’s room increased by 56.

This next paragraph is aimed at small children, or anyone upsetted by Barbie’s lifestyle:

Barbie is severely anorexic/underweight, and about a quarter of that small weight is made up of make up and those eleven inch heels she wears. Not many people on earth could live their whole life wearing nothing but pink, there is no way Barbie or any of her squealing girl friends and little sisters could afford all of their ‘Accessory Vending Machines’, big pink mansions, ALL of those hot pink miniskirts without being billionaires, and there is not enough billionaires in the world to have as many Barbie-Like teenagers as are swarming our TV screens in this day and age.

Maybe you disagree with me, maybe you agree, but either way, comment and let me know what you think.

Peter Capaldi- Do we like him???-Don’t We Like Him???


On Wednesday, Matt Smith’s Eleventh Doctor began a whole new regeneration to become the twelfth incarnation of the doctor, Peter Capaldi.

I can’t truthfully say that I like Peter Capaldi, but I guess I have to live with it for the next few years.

Also, if he brings any of ‘The Thick Of It’ ‘s Malcolm’s language to doctor who, many Whovians may convert.

That said, this is the kind of stuff said about Matt Smith when he gained the seat.

So the real question now, hidden in plain sight, is, Do we like the Twelfth Doctor?

I think that he’s hoping we do.

Comment if you’d like to answer this question. If you do comment, please can you answer whether you think he’ll ever figure out how to fly the TARDIS.