The why of it all.

There's a (somewhat) strong voice in my head that until recently I identified as the voice of good reason. I recently realised that the voice is, in fact, my mother's.

Maybe I'm slow on the uptake on this. Haven't films been using this technique for decades? Either way,  I honest to god just noticed this, and now I'm mad.

It's the voice that goes: 'Oh, maybe you should just stay home tonight, it won't be that fun anyway.' Or: 'You need to get a good eight hours sleep before work tonight, otherwise you will fuck up your job and also your life.' Or even worse: 'That's not a good path for you. You're simply not smart/motivated/hard-working/good enough.'

Don't get me wrong, I love my Mum. And she loves me. And she will still love me even if I turn out to be transgender/gay/Tory/bartender-for-the-rest-of-my-life. But she tunes into her common sense far more than is necessary. I mean, what did common sense ever achieve? Apart from a good night's sleep.

It happened the other day. I emailed her to say I was thinking about going back to uni to study Journalism, and what did she think? The answer I got back was: 'I don't know, I think to succeed in Journalism you have to really want it, and if you did, you would have studied it the first time round at uni.'

Hang on, WHAT? That is the same voice that made me NOT study it the first time round. Instead, I picked advertising, because it paid more, I was more likely to get a job, and let's face it, coming up with a few slogans is pretty fun.

The entire time throughout my degree, EVERY SINGLE TIME my lecturers discussed the 'real' world of advertising, all I felt was a paralysing fear that I was heading in the wrong direction. All I could think was, I'd neck myself if that was the rest of my (professional) life.

In one class, we had to write a letter to our future selves, a year from that day. Most people wrote congratulating themselves on finishing their degree, and landing (insert job) at (insert agency). I wrote, 'Now you live in London. That's freaking awesome. Also, you've seen a bit of Europe, which I'm sure was pretty fun. Let me know how it goes.'

So I moved to London. It's one of the scariest things I've ever done. I travelled round Europe, catching last minute trains and deciding spur of the moment it was time to see another city. I got a job in a bar, and became a part of my local little corner. And now? Now I want to realise my dream of becoming a Journalist. And maybe (one day) earning more than minimum wage.

So this is it. I will do everything in my power to achieve this. And mostly, that's for me. But suddenly I have a slightly more motivating factor.

It's to prove my mother wrong.

Just in time.

The English are a funny breed.

For the last six months, the papers (and the pub) have been full of endless whinging about the Olympics. From the budget, to the extra tourists, to entire road lanes being restricted to Olympic personal, there isn’t one area that hasn’t been exposed to scrutiny, and found to be lacking.

Last night, I heard the Olympic flame was coming past Barnes at 10am. Despite the late night before, I set my alarm, bullied my flatmate out of bed, grabbed a couple coffees, and headed down to the river.

It seemed that at the last minute, the British have rallied together. The river bank was lined with people, and dozens more surged in behind us. It may not have had a turn out as the Jubilee, but there was plenty to witness this historic moment. In typical English style, it bucketed down 20 minutes before the boats were due to pass. Rather than grumble off home, however, everyone got out their umbrellas (or huddled up closer), and braved the rain anyway.

We forgot umbrellas and got soaked to the skin. Oh well.

It all starts tonight!!!

Everyone's a Photographer.

If you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve heard of Instagram. If you haven’t, then congratulations on dragging yourself out from under your technological rock and finding this little blog. Google and return, my friend.

There are two types of people (and now you are one of them!): those who think Instagram is full of arty wankers frothing over their latest ‘photograph’, and those that say fuck it, I’m excited about it, and while you’re facewanking* I’m spending a couple minutes creating something on my handy little iPhone that is mine.

You can probably guess which one I am.

(I love Instagram. And all the other photo-editing apps that come along for the ride.)

It’s just…. fun. And satisfying! There’s nothing better than making a photo something so extraordinary, you can’t tear your eyes away, because all you can think is: that’s mine!!!

Camera+ and PictureShow are my apps of choice, but I’ve been known to dabble… Which ones do you use?

*Facewanking. (adverb) To spent pointless minutes trawling through someone’s Facebook profile and feeling ridiculous amounts of envy over their life. In the meantime, you look like a zombie with bad posture.

Ally's Guide to Dip-Dying, Mess-Free Perfection!

So you want to dip dye your hair. Good for you! It gets tricky.

I’ve been dip-dying my hair with some regularity for the past couple months now. In that time I’ve had bright pink hands, a bright pink sink, and masses of bright pink glad wrap. After two months, through some trial and error, I’ve figured out the easiest way to do it, mess free. As I right this, the dye in my hair is setting, and it took me les than five minutes.

Ok, ready? Good.

Step 1: The tools.

You will need:

Hair dye. Duh. I’ve gone with Manic Panic's Hot Hot Pink, but whatever floats your boat.

Two hair ties.

Two plastic bags. (Preferably small. With tie able ends. The kind you might use to pick up dog poo.)

A small container you never want to use again. If you get one of those things restaurants use to put sauce in, that’s perfect.

A chopstick.

An old towel.

Step 2: Preparation.

BEFORE YOU START, put the towel on the floor. There should be no spillage, but you never know. And your housemates may not appreciate colourful splodges on the floor as much as you do.

Take your shirt off. Old shirts get in the way, and dye comes off skin better than clothes. Trust me.

Pop some conditioner into your container. How much is up to you. If you want your hair a little lighter than your choice of colour, put lots in. If not, just pop a little. Your hair will thank you.

Pour some hair dye into said container and mix in with the chopstick. Now wash the chopstick immediately in the sink, otherwise it will do what chopsticks do and roll of somewhere, leaving arty stains.

Step 3: The Dying Part.

Tie your hair into two pigtails, towards the front of your head.

Get one plastic bag, turn it inside out, and then scoop some hair dye into it. Holding the pigtail away from your body with your other hand, use your plastic-bag-covered-hair-dye-extraordinaire hand to rub the hair dye through the bottom of your pigtail.

You don’t need to comb in through. Just rub it in thoroughly. Combing it will just flick hair dye into inappropriate places. Like your knees.

When finished, grab the hair through the plastic bag, use your other hand to flip the bag over the hair, and tie it around your ponytail. Voila! All the hair dye is on the other side of the plastic.

Repeat with your other ponytail.

Step 4: While you’re waiting…

Clean the container IMMEDIATELY. It will probably stain, but that can’t be helped. Scrub the sink clean while you’re at it.

Now relax, knowing you won’t accidentally get dye anywhere during this process. Write a blog post. Plan some outfits that will look extra awesome with your new hair.

Step 5: The End.

Wash it out. Either jump in the shower, or just one pigtail at a time. Try not to flick your hair too much. 

When it runs clear, your good. Wrap your head in the old towel you used earlier just in case.

And now swan around town, getting disapproving stares from old people and jealous stares from the young'ens. That’s right, you look freaking fabulous.

How to make an art museum a wee bit more exciting.

I love a bit of art. I like to get a little highbrow sometimes. But ohmygod, afters a few months (or even weeks) in Europe, you'd rather scratch your own eyeballs out than visit another art museum.

But if you suffer from I-may-only-be-here-once-I-have-to-see-EVERYTHING syndrome, like so many of us, here's a handy tip from me to you:

Wander round the gallery with your headphones plugged in and your volume turned up. 

Dubstep in the Louvre, Drum and Base in the Musee D'Orsay, something super eerie in the Museo Nacional del Prado (because you need it to counteract all the Jesus paintings). You can visit the same museum a dozen times, and have a different experience each time. All based on the type of music you select.

Forget the audio guide. How long will you really remember the year it was painted in, anyway? Till next week? Till the next painting? Till coffee? Have some fun with Rembrandt, and observe the superb brushwork instead. All while enjoying you're own private rave, of course.

Try this next time you're staring at another soppy Jesus face. Or better yet, Mephistopheles.

An open letter to Twinings.

Dear Twinings,

I have been addicted to your Earl Grey Blend since the age of five. It has seen me through exams, heartbreak, and lazy Sunday mornings. However, I may soon have to switch to another brand.

In Australia, the Earl Grey tea packets come with a little piece of paper attached to dangle over the side of the cup. Since moving to London, I have noticed they do not. A trauma free cup of tea has become a thing of the past. Scolded fingers! Tea stains on my white counter! So many dirty spoons!

I am writing to ask you to please put the paper squares back on the Earl Grey, for the sake of my scalded fingers, and for all tea-drinking mankind.

Yours affectionately,

Ally




I've sent this off to Twinings, and wait in eager anticipation of their reply. And the paper squares back on my tea. And perhaps a few free boxes of Earl Grey.

Frozen footprints.

Some people are obsessed with birds. I'm obsessed with bird footprints.

I doodle them, I dream them, when I'm not too sober I see them out of the corner of my eye. They scutter across surfaces, appear then disappear. Is scutter even a word? I think so, but my mac seems to think not. Whatever. It should be a word.

Anyway, when I saw this, frozen into an Amsterdam canal? It was like my doodles had come to life.