Fighting back against street harassment

"Hey miss I was just wondering, what country are you from? Will you tell me over a drink?"

"You look fantastic in this dress, can I get a photo?"

"Hey babe!" (honks)

"Woahhhh look at those legs man!"

"Hey miss you got a boyfriend?"

(whistles, whistles, whistles)

(winks)

(lip licking)

Dear random man on the street I have never seen before in my life, guess what's going to make me your girlfriend?

Hint: none of the above. But all happened to me.

This morning I chose to wear a dress. I left the house feeling happy to be wearing my favourite dress. The weather wasn't that great, but I figured it'd attract the sun. As usual, none of that happens; rather, since this is England, a country where sexism is a problem of the everyday and the culture more patriarchal than it admits, I got cat called.

I have talked about street harassment before, and I'm not the only one. The media has started to care. Campaigns like Hollaback, Meet Us On The Street or Stop Street Harassment are given a little bit coverage, and manage to make their own noise through social media. Women themselves are starting to realise that this type of behaviour is everything but okay, and yet frequent. More and more frequent, it feels.

It's like shedding light on street harassment has made it increase — I guess that by putting a name on it and recognising it as a major problem, we're acknowledging it's a thing with power. Personally, I'd rather that than a deluded technique à la Voldemort that avoids the problem.

Feminists are often reduced to the idea of "the angry woman", and I'm sure the same qualifier will be given to women fighting street harassment (who are likely to be part of both groups, anyway). But you know what? I am angry. I am so incredibly pissed off. It might not be smart, but I have started to express this anger. What can I say, I certainly am not perfect, and I just don't have the composure to ignore the whistles and disgusting smiles and weird invitations anymore. I talk back. I challenge. The way that I can, I'm trying to take back my space on the streets, my dignity, the respect that is due to me. It's not like anyone else is going to do it for me.

Most will say this is dangerous behaviour — but should I choose taking it in when I'm being publicly degraded over making a stand for myself? I can't. Plus, it's dangerous enough being on the streets altogether, and at least now, I'm making a point to tell these men it's not okay. I'm not theirs. And if that attracts trouble, well, I'd rather be blamed for fighting back than for what I choose to wear (since apparently, it all boils down to that, what a stupid fucking excuse).

A few months ago, one of these stories came out in France ("one of", because now they are so numerous than they don't have the privilege of being special anymore), of a woman being assaulted on a train. It's in reading the comments and this French blogger's take on the issue that the most horrifying shock came: men saying "well what can we do, girls get their bums out as soon as the sun's up, of course we get aroused, it's their fault."

No, I will not be sorry for having the audacity of picking an outfit I love, because I like how it looks on me, because it makes me feel good about myself. *

No, I will not apologise for your disgusting behaviour in the face of what is not more than skin (I personally try to keep my bottom off the streets, but even then — if you're not capable to handle another human being without harassing or assaulting them, you have a problem and should receive medical help).

And no, I will not let you make the streets a place of fear and self-hatred.



* Funny story (not): my worst street harassment experience over the past few months happened will I was on a run. I was wearing very unflattering leggings and a bright red T-shirt the same colour as my running face. I was far from attractive, wearing no revealing clothing, and was literally sweating off my face. And yet I was whistled and called at by men in a van who slowed down to drive next to me.

At the end of the plan

So, it happened. I finished university.

I actually had my last class at the end of March. I then spent a month working on the last essays of my undergraduate degree, once again selecting some wild wild examples to apply Deleuze and Foucault too, and accidentally making hummus stains in books. And then I was freed.

Although what I feel is not an overpowering sense of freedom, nor is it really relief. The truth is, I loved education. I still do. I like the comfort of it, the routine of it. Over the past year I have learnt a lot about myself; one of the most important things being that my comfort zone keeps me sane, grounded. I like education because it makes clear to you what your days are going to be about, what your objective is, and how to get there. It is easy to visualise. There are people answering your questions. There are people asking you questions, too, but you get to answer them. It's a well-oiled machine, and while it evolves (I wouldn't say the third year of my undergrad was quite as comfortable as preschool), its rules never change, or barely.

It is too bad it's taken me twenty years to figure this out (by the way, I turned twenty), because during this time I've unfortunately taken on a real penchant for being out of my comfort zone. WHY and HOW I do not understand. Why would I enjoy and pursue a state of being that makes me feel, to a certain extent, bad? I wish I knew. The mysteries of the mind, eh?

Some choices had to be made in the past months. At the beginning of the year I was set on keeping to the comfortable. I did a little bit of 'window shopping', picked myself a postgraduate course, and off I went. And yet, quickly I had doubts. The routine of education, it is heavy. It might be comforting, but in a way that leaves you a little bit numb at the end.

I love myself a precise schedule, but there's nothing more exhilarating than change. There's nothing more overwhelming than testing your limits and knowing they are a bit further than you thought. There is nothing more powerful than facing your fears and kicking them hard in the butt. Hopefully this is what I'm off to do. (Recruiters, I am actually not violent and will not kick anyone in the butt, I swear.)

So, here goes. Back in 2007, I had this one great idea. It was pretty simple: when I'd graduate, I'd go study in London. That was the plan. I did that. Now I have no plan.* What next?



* Well I do have a plan, mainly, to be given money in exchange for labour in the world of media, preferably food and drink oriented. If you want to become part of the plan, please check out what I can do and hire me. Thank you.

Pebble-painting entrepreneur

When I was a kid I would spend every summer the same way. Three weeks with my mum's parents, three weeks with my dad's parents, and three weeks with my mum and dad. It wasn't always the same order, but it was always lots of fun. With my mum's parents we'd pick mirabelles and watch The Young and the Restless. With my parents we'd enjoy being around our home and would spend some time by the seaside. I think what I have the most memories of, though, is holidays with my dad's parents. We always did so many things, visited parks and museums, went to the zoo or to climb trees, played video games and learned to bike.

I remember one summer... being really bored ­­­­­— sometimes the best ideas grow out of utter boredom!

That summer I managed the loveliest exploitation of my family has ever succumbed to. I set up my own little business. I cut up cards and painted them and stuck little sea shells on them. I picked up pebbles from our seaside walks that I painted too with what I remember were inspirational messages and sunshines. I even persuaded myself (and others) that "grating" the crumbly shiny rocks I found would make really valuable "gold powder."

Mostly, I sold all this to my family.

The little sweet pies, they bought pebbles off me. Free pebbles from the beach! Isn't that the greatest display of encouragement ever? Either that or they really pitied me, but I choose to pick the first interpretation.

These days being creative is different. Although I've moved on from painting pebbles, I now have glitter balls and painting my nails and a three-year-old blog and the occasional video blog and multiple cameras... But being creative now feels restricted. Changed; sometimes a bit wrong. Often a part of me thinks: "Hmm... Should you really be writing another blog post? Do you have time for that? Don't you have things to do? What use is this anyway? Painting your nails won't get you anywhere. Nor will a silly little Polaroid shot. And what about what this will cost you? Shouldn't you be saving for your Masters/first flat/hypothetical future mortgage?" Etc, etc.

I'm not a kid anymore, so being creative for fun seems like a long gone privilege. But when I let myself take a breather and do a little thing for my own pleasure and happiness, instead of dedicating all to my degree + future career, things are good. And I don't think it's only from being creative (although I do really love paint/glitter/fabric); there's also all the support that comes from it.

No one pays me for painted pebbles anymore, but I have encouragement. For reading my blog, for my little homemade tree decorations, for my painted bedside stool-table, and for the handmade hand warmers I proudly gave my family for Christmas, I get smiles and sounds of 'well done!' and 'you could sell these', Facebook likes and yes, even the odd blog comment.

I wouldn't be half the person I am if it weren't for the people who believe in my painted pebbles and keep believing in me every day. So here's a little thank you. Just because.

Life lately...

Phew, the past few weeks/months haven't been easy! Hence the absence of posts... I want to try to get back into this blog a little, and find the occasional hour to write a post or two, but do I have to dig to find such time!

Since the last time... I started a new job that is fun and well paid (yay!), lived through the first half-term of third year — with difficulties, ordered many a takeaway, had a visit from my mum and dad, bought the perfect winter boots, went to Cadbury World (and decided I would never live in Birmingham,) carved my first ever pumpkin, made litres of soup and batch after batch of chocolate biscotti, spent many an hour sitting on the floor of the Wired Radio studio, wrote a billion stories for East London Lines and even got commissioned for my first ever freelance journalism work! Look out for my name/face/words in the January issue of Company...

Here are a few snaps from all this for you to peer over while I go write a few more posts. See you soon x

 

 

 

 

Chocolate biscotti. / Vampire Weekend at the iTunes Festival. / Shake Shack! / The best burger in London, MotherFlipper's candy bacon burger / Took my parents to the Breakfast Club / Pumpkin carving, cake eating and wine drinking / Our take on Tuco's burritos for the finale of Breaking Bad / IT'S BACK!

Tales from Worthy Farm

So two weeks ago I went to Glastonbury. HOW COOL IS THAT.

It was my first real festival experience, since I had only ever attended one day of a festival, back in 2009, when Bruce Springsteen headlined Les Vieilles Charrues. It was incredible and remains a great memory, but Glasto was entirely different.

First: the size of it. If I thought that the Charrues were big, Glastonbury took it to a whole new level. We first got to see it from the coach as me and eternal wingwoman Courtney approached the site. Our first thought was along the lines of "how the hell are we going to find our friends in this total maze?!" (Spoiler: we did easily.) I loved experiencing this little world of its own. The festival literally emerges from the ground to create a fantastic town full of amazing sights, incredible crowds, never ending streets of food stalls and hat/sunglasses/wellies/waterproof shops, and gig after gig after gig. Performers are literally everywhere, and I loved seeing the big acts as much as I did hanging in hidden open mic tents in the middle of the night.

Ben Howard at the Pyramid stage

Second: camping. I had never camped for more than a night in my garden, since my parents put a absolute ban on it after traumatising childhood camping experiences, but it all went well. OH WAIT NO, our brand new tent turned out to be the most terrible pain to put up due to missing pieces, and some sneaky b*stards got into our tent at night and stole our money. Fortunately, this was an 'every huge silver lined extravaganza of awesomeness has a cloudy moment' type of event, and we powered on with our wallets empty.

As for the music, there is no doubt about it: Glastonbury Festival is the place to be. I got to see some of my favourite bands: Noah and the Whale, such dynamic and cool chaps and the perfect gig on a sunny afternoon; hipster rockers Foals who got the crowd going and me singing at the top of my voice; The Staves, the perfect chilled out act to enjoy in the sun with a (very) early drink. Some other highlights were starting the festival with The Hives being simply exceptional (props to lead singer Almqvist for being the best I've seen at interacting with the crowd), dancing like there was no tomorrow to Major Lazer, getting to see Rufus Wainwright play Hallelujah, Ben Howard being Ben Howard, and ending the festival on a French note with Phoenix's singer Thomas Mars crowdsurfing towards a pole of the John Peel stage and singing a song hanging from there.

Noah and the Whale at the Other stage

A thing I discovered at Glasto is that music festivals are about more than music. I went with quite a large group, we all had bands we really wanted to see, and in some cases music came first and we had to go our separate ways. I was at first a bit bummed I'd have to go see acts alone, but it turned out to be pretty cool. Dancing by myself to my favourite songs by Noah and the Whale was super fun; in fact I even got a high five and a 'great dancing!' from the guy next to me. But at other times, it was fun, exploration and chilling that prevailed. I spent quite a lot of times in the Healing Fields, drinking mulled cider and making pizza at Tin Village; avoided Shangri-La at night (who wants to queue 45mn?!) for late night drinks on the hills being The Park, and lazed around at the camp with friends when we couldn't bear walking past the stinking toilets to get to the stages. Glastonbury is an overwhelming experience that takes over everything, and feels very much out of this world (and this especially since it's almost impossible to get any form of phone signal.)

Solange at The Park stage (actually quite average, we left two songs in)

One note: Glastonbury involves a lot of waiting. Not so much necessarily during the festival (unless you want to charge your phone, in which case, bring a book) but rather to get there and back. I found it quite anticlimatic in both cases. When we got there, I was already tired and kinda fed up, and coming home took so long it felt like I had left the farm days before when I finally got home.

Also, Glasto involves a lot of smells. And not a lot of cleaning. Be warned.

The view of the festival from The Fish

Now it's over, and I could keep talking about it for ages and tell you about every single story that happened — although in some cases, a 'what happens at Glasto stays at Glasto' philosophy might be best. But there's too much to say, so I'd rather leave you on a simple word: REGISTER. I'll see you there next year!


(All crappy photos taken with my iPhone since I was (rightly so) worried my camera could get stolen.)

The Great Drumming Circle of Life - a love letter to technology

Let me tell you a story.

When he was very little, about eight I think, my brother was given a drums kit as a present. My mum wasn't entirely thrilled, but he was ecstatic. We still have pictures of 3 years old him playing with his toddler plastic kit; I guess my parents should've seen it coming. So my mum thanked the present giver for his generous, if not excessively loud gift, and scoured the Internet for someone to teach little Alex. She found a nice guy in his late teens who'd come to the house on his skateboard and show my bro how to bang his toms, and he got better, and everyone got happier.

The bro back in the day, when his kit was so new it hasn't made it to his room yet

Fast forward almost ten years. My brother still plays drums, and at the end of every year, his music school puts on several gigs for all kids to perform songs they rehearse during the year. Kids pick the songs at the beginning of the year, a way to get them more involved and motivated. My little brother, now 17, picked a song by the French band Shaka Ponk, one of his favourite bands — they're so cool he actually got the whole family hooked!

And man, the world must be a really tiny thing, because Shaka Ponk's current drummer is none else than that teenager on his skateboard.

But the best part is, I got to watch him play it live.

I got to see him play a gig live in a small town in Western France while sitting in my living-room in London, England; thanks to my dad deciding to Skype in from the audience; thanks to his phone network being strong enough to handle it; and thanks to my Internet connection staying live for ten minutes straight for once.

The Internet and all these brilliant little pieces of technology allowed me to be part of an event that my family and I have been attending for years, and watch my brother complete what I shall from now on refer to as the Great Drumming Circle of Life. So yes, you guessed it, I teared up a little bit. I suddenly had a lot of these things called feelings and got stuck in a warm bubble of gratefulness for a few days.

So many things are blamed every day on the Internet and technology. From children violence, procrastination and broken marriages to back aches, conspiracies and poor work performances, it always has a role to play in them. What people seem to often forget or at least downplay, in my opinion, is the other side of the coin. Internet connects people. I really like John Clang's Being Together series of Skype family portraits.

Being Together - John Clang

Clang told The Atlantic: "I am marking the time for these families, enabling them to remember these strange moments of togetherness with the technology presently available. The picture (...) embraces the intimacy and closeness of a family, no matter how far apart they are."

In a strange manner, but a way that I think many expats have experienced, distance has brought me closer to my family. When I get to see them, I enjoy the moments as much as I can because I rarely know when I'll be home next. And when I get to skype them, or receive an email from my mum showing off her new shoes, or wake up to a video message on Whatsapp to wish me happy birthday, I feel a little tingle of sadness that we're apart.

But first and foremost, I'm grateful that technology makes it possible for us to be together for big things and small things and everyday things.

Hoarding material memories

My room has been an absolute mess recently as I prepare for my holidays.

My summer promises to be an excellent one this summer, especially compared to spending two months working as a cleaning lady last year. It all started with my internship, followed by a little weekend discovering Brighton, and is about to take off for an incredible two weeks as I a) continue my journey exploring Britain by heading up North for a long weekend, b) attend Glastonbury for the first time ever, and c) take a week off from life to lay on the beaches of Sardinia and show the boyf around Paris.

You'll hear more about all that soon, but today I want to focus on the mess.

My room has always been full of stuff. Bits and bobs piled everywhere, dozens of old postcards stuck to the walls, boxes after boxes full of books and old school notepads... It never stops. My mum was always — and still is — amazed at how much stuff I could collect and never throw away. She had this way of looking around my room with a half judging, half amused look, which I could very well read as "How can my daughter be so different from me?" (A much larger problem with many, many examples that I won't dare try to solve today.)

You'd think I would have matured and grown out of it, and this especially since I found out in the meantime that I'm actually allergic to dust! Stacks of trinkets and old things don't do well for me.

But ey, looks like I'm a hoarder through and through.

Committing to things makes me feel more grounded. I get to look around my room and see the things I have loved and still do, and the things that have changed. It's a sort of who I was, where I've been, how did I get there. My collections are material memories of every single little part of my life.

I have loads of earrings, boxes filled with old photos, stacks of books I will never read again and notebooks I barely even open anymore. I keep clothes I used to love and cards I've been given and have a recipe book collection that's been going out of control. And that's only things I can categorise.

Throwing away things breaks my heart a little because it feels like letting go of the memory.

As long as I've got a material reminder for it, I know I won't forget about it.

So I've kept the Macbar macaroni-shaped tupperware I got in New York last summer, and the letters my cousin sent me when I was 8, and the ticket for the terrible opera I went to with my housemates a few months ago. (Now that I think about it, I should actually probably throw that one away...)

Problem is, I've had a thing for moving recently. Remember that one time I had to fit all of my stuff in the boot of a car because I was leaving France for the UK? My dad sure remembers.

Plus, there's also millions of new memories waiting to be made. I need space for these.

This is a pledge to get rid of stuff. I've had the urge to throw away things recently; a consequence of my closet being 'cannot fit any more hangers/three shirts on one hanger' full. I am going to do it. I will empty boxes and fill bin bags and eBay the shizz out of my dust catchers.

Then I'll replace old memories with new ones and fill my room all over again.

face fear, defeat fear

It feels really silly thinking this and writing it out even more, using words and letters to say it, but here we go, soppy as hell: I think this is the happiest I have ever been.

This is such a funny thing to say, because I write this after having had a crap week. I feel exhausted and incredibly sleep-deprived, I had a good deal of bad news last week, I got into fights with my friends, several of my mates are really upset about things and cheering them up isn't easy, and I've given biscuits + cake again for Lent this year which I can confirm is the WORST thing to do.

But life is capital-f Fine.

My v. smart + talented friend Nicole wrote a blog post last week titled 'Endure/Overcome.' For those of you who won't click on the link and go read it, I'll sum it up for you. Nicole compares her life ten years/five years ago to her current life and says: 'I didn't know then how much I could handle.' And she says it's silly. And she says it's obvious. And it is. But taking the time to sit down and think about it makes a difference because, woah, look how far we've come.

Ten years ago I was a fat kid with a bob that was much too short and a terrifying love for light blue clothing, so let's leave that time out. Five years ago, I was about to turn 14 and had just decided my one big dream in life was to study in London. My hair was blonde. I had next to no self confidence. I was just starting to believe in friendship again. It was my final year of collège (age 12-15 in France), which felt like so much work and effort at the time. This is the year I discovered I could actually do things, and be under pressure and make it through; although I had no idea just how much worse it would get.

Mostly, what I remember from being 14 is a bitter feeling of not really knowing where I stood. I was happy, school was good, I had made great friends (who I'm surprisingly still friends with, something I did not think would happen), I was working towards a goal I felt passionate about, but...  I felt small and restricted by my youth and the lack of possibilities/opportunities, and most of all, I was so incredibly scared of EVERYTHING.

Five years on, I still am, but I just don't care anymore (in most cases.) Nicole wrote another absolute killer in her blog post which is striking by its simplicity + bang on-ess. Describing what adulthood is, she says: "Face fear, defeat fear."

Why is life so exhausting and so fine? Because I've faced all the fears. ALL OF THE FEARS! (Untrue, but ey, I'm getting there.) A lot of 'the fears' have recently been talking to people. Whether it's because of my journalism work on my course, or at my job in the restaurant industry, or talking about our issues with friends, and especially last week when I was campaigning around campus for Students' Union elections; lately I've used my words a lot. I personally believe this is one of the scariest things to do. What's the worse that can happen if you skydive? You die. Well, you're dead then, big deal. Point is, you won't be there to live with the consequences, which is what I feel is the source of fear. In talking to people, you can fear the aftermath: what if I humiliate myself? What if people take things the wrong way and insult me/hit me/throw their drink at me?

Here's what happens: you get over it. Fear faced, fear defeated. I think the reason I've been in such good spirits since the beginning of this year is that I know that I can handle things. And YOU CAN TOO. Facing one's fears is horrible, and sometimes it sucks and actually ends badly and for a moment it feels like life has never been this bad. But that's not true. Doing these scary things is good, so actually, life has never been this good (is a really twisted idea but you know what I mean. Maybe.)

Onto the next fear. Skydiving anyone?

Life as a student

I've forgotten what it feels like to be warm. We have heaters, but we rarely turn them on. Layering is the number one student skill. Layers of jumpers, socks, duvets and blankets; layers and layers of words to fill up essays; layers of bread in between actual food to make it more consistent.

I'm sitting at my desk (just an Ikea wood board shoved against a wall), wiggling on my chair (no way it cost more than £5 since it is the most uncomfortable thing I've ever sat on, and I've slept on the floor multiple times), writing an essay about love and how it's basically a dead thing in our contemporary society (and yes this is what I got a loan for.)

Reading week has just ended and all I could think this week is that I had too many things to do/nothing to do. It's difficult to know where to start/when to end. I spend days on end thinking about work/going out. I sleep too much/not enough. And at the end of the day, I blog.

On Friday, I got really good grades back on an essay I really thought I'd failed (after going through the worst tutorial of my life: tip for you all, don't do one-to-one uni work when hungover) and went for a celebratory spontaneous haircut. I didn't think about the consequences. Didn't think about my tutorial when I was out drinking, didn't think about my bank account when I walked into the hair salon, didn't think about my hair when I said 'cut shorter.' Ain't nobody got time for that.

Also, the library has become a second home. I watch videos of the Old Spice Guy in the library (my friends wrote an essay about him.) I watch videos of a guy making pizza in the library (I'm interviewing him.) I watch videos of my friends awkwardly talking to a camera in the library (because this how we do SU elections in my university.) Sometimes, I actually read books and write. Sometimes.

This is (part of) life as a student.

And it's so incredibly good.

Expats and relationships: the curse of long distance

I have a complicated relationship with my front door.

On the one hand, the very fact I have a front door means I have a house, which is always appreciated for things like sleeping, making food, or just dancing in my pyjamas to the songs of Ed Sheeran. The people who open my front door are often my housemates coming home, or friends coming to visit, or the delivery guy with shoes/cookbooks/mystery parcels and I like all those things.

It's true that my front door is an absolute pain to open, but at least I'm assuming it'll discourage burglars from popping in to steal our stuff. Which is also good, because I like our stuff.

The problem I have with my front door is that I keep having to stand in its frame saying goodbye to people I love without knowing when I'll see them next.

Being an expat sucks.

I can already hear the 'Oi, you suck, you dirty ungrateful froggie,' so please bear with me. Yes, being an expat is all kinds of marvellous. Great experience, great fun, new things all the time—woohoo! Yes, being away from people is an almost compulsory aspect of my generation's lives. We are lucky enough to live in a globalised world, a world of networks, of high speed trains and cheap charter planes, an online world where relationships happen as much on screen as they do in the physical world.

Except sometimes it's just not the same.

I've argued before that friendship on the Internet is a real, true thing and that I believe most people who position themselves against it are people who have not experienced it. I stand by this idea, but I want to add something: although friendship on the Internet is a thing, a) it is made stronger by meeting up face-to-face and b) chatting to someone on Skype is but a sad consolation when you're used to seeing someone every day and hugging them whenever you feel like it.

My mum came to visit in December and I had to close the door on her leaving. Wasn't fun (especially since it was 6am.) But at least, in this instance, I knew I was going to see her again a couple weeks later. Except when I got on the train back to the UK after Christmas, I didn't know when I was going to see her or my family next (and I still don't.)

Front doors, trains—everything I used to love has been expat-cursed into evil.

This week, one of my best friends came to visit, and I had to watch her go having no idea when I'd see her next. She doesn't live in my hometown, and studies on the other side of France from where we went to high school. Meeting up is such a challenge we probably deserve gold stars for managing it every so often. When you live abroad, planning anything with people-from-back-home becomes an absolute nightmare (and more so when people-from-back-home are expats as well. Fun timez.)

Friendship takes on a new meaning and has to be adapted to everyone's new life. Once again, I guess this is an issue of our time. Relationships are evolving. It's good, it challenges you in a good way, it asks for effort. But relationships should be able to exist without being at risk of becoming chores. Distance turns some relationships in nothing more than the nostalgia of what it used to be. And it sucks.

This being said, those who know me know that I could be saying the opposite of this tomorrow. I love being an expat, but sometimes I really, really wish teleportation would finally be invented so that I could at last stop tearing up on my doorstep.

#rantover

2012 -- The year everything happened

So it looks like I took a month off. Oopsie.

The end of the year tends to always be very busy. There are presents to buy, Christmas dinners to organise, essays to research and trees to decorate. This year was no different; it was just even busier. My mum came to visit for a week-end, I went to the university """ball""" (very loose understanding of the word ball) and I had a photography project to finish and hand in before the holidays.

After all of this was done, I worked a couple shifts to win back what I'd spent on presents, packed my things and got on the Eurostar to head home for a few days. As I was enjoying a complimentary breakfast in business class (apparently, this is what happens when my mum books my tickets), I took a moment to think back on 2012.

There's this great thing on Facebook this year called "2012: Your year in reviews." Using what I'm sure are very advanced algorithms (not), it tells you what are the twenty major events of your year. I thought it'd be pretty lame; turns out it got my year quite right.

Although it did select this:

Well... Almost right.

2012 was a pretty big year for me—and that's an understatement. I turned 18, I voted in presidential elections for the first time, I moved into a house that I picked without even consulting my parents and signed a rental contract with my name on it (!!!!), I got a seriously cool job, I went to freaking New York, I made some incredible friends that contributed to big changes in how I go about my life, and last but no least—I reached 10,000 views on the blog.

Most, if not all of these things have one thing in common: they resonate with a sense of adulthood that I wasn't expecting so early. Of course, leaving home and moving abroad when I was only 17 certainly accelerated the separation from teenagehood (French understanding of teenagehood, it stops around 18 rather than 20 to me.) But as I was lying on my university halls bed, eating Ben & Jerry's from the tub while watching Twilight (this is pure fiction by the way), I most definitely did not feel like an adult.

I recently had a conversation with two good friends of mine about The Future. After a fancy greek dinner with fancy skewers and fancy fried chorizo and super tasty tzatziki, we sat down with a glass of wine and discussed Real Life Problems, things like job opportunities and youth unemployment and asked each other important questions such as 'Would you rather work for McDonald's or The Daily Mail?' The view I had on these issues was pretty pessimistic. Looking at what goes on in the outside world these days, my first instinct is to hide under my covers.

However, when I think of 2012, of all the amazing things me and my friends went through, I feel like my generation might actually be ok. It might be a hell of a ride, but at least we've been taught to fight for what we want and hold on even when things look terrible.

So—2012, the year I sort of became an adult. But only just. I still sometimes have cereals for dinner.

Gettin' back in the rythm

Sometimes I forget this blog started as a study abroad blog rather than a food extravaganza diary. I'm going to try and get better at balancing content in the future, but as you might have realised by now... I like food. Like eating it, like making it, like staring at it... Yeah.

Besides, balancing content asks for one thing, and that's content. There's been lots of recipes on here lately because no matter how busy I am, eating is a thing that happens most days. (And by that I mean all days.) As for the rest... I've been super BUSY.

All I really want to say with this useless rambling is that I got a job! Woo! After the ranting post I posted a few weeks ago, I got a call back from a place I applied to that said they'd take me in despite my absence of NINo. So now I'm a work person. I do very early morning shifts and have 'meal breaks' and have a cash drawer and get money at the end of the month. (Also I finally have a NINo. YES!)

I'm really loving it. I like the job, I like being busy (despite how tired I am right now) and I like drawing a bit closer to some form of financial independence. There's something very satisfying if the feeling of being exhausted after a day of work but knowing that you didn't do it for nothing. It's not like studying, which I know is supposed to reward me with knowledge and (possibly) a job in the future. It's labour for which you get simple straight-forward cash. And that's good. However, I now have to get back into an intense work rythm that I hadn't had in a couple of years. Balancing work and studying and friends and hobbies and going out is neither fun nor easy. I had the past week off uni (which is why the girls and I went to Paris), but from now on I'll have to do all the things, all of the days, all of the time.

So here's the punchline: I want some advice guys! Stories, wise words, strategies/pictures of puppies to motivate me when I'm exhausted (I don't actually like puppies, forget it.) I can see from the numbers I have quite a few readers now so I want to know who YOU are and what you think.

PS. There will be no October culture feature this month because a) we're already in November and b) I've not been reading/watching anything new. Sorry!

*

Je vais faire un test et ne pas traduire cet article en français. Je n'arrive pas à savoir si la traduction est véritablement utile ou non, donc laissez un commentaire si vous souhaitez que je continue à poster en français !

a little note

I know it looks a lot like I've forgotten all about you... But no! I've been thinking about the blog a lot but haven't had the shortest minute to write anything on there. Life is so busy right now, but don't worry, I'm coming back asap. In the meantime, here's a few snapshots of my weekend in Paris with my crazy beautiful/simply crazy housemates. See you all soon x

*

Je sais bien qu'on dirait que je vous ai tous oubliés... Mais non ! J'ai beaucoup pensé au blog mais je n'ai pas eu la plus petite minute pour y poster quoi que ce soit. Je suis incroyablement occupée en ce moment, mais ne vous inquiétez pas, je reviens aussi vite que vite. En attendant, voici quelques clichés de mon week-end à Paris avec mes follement belles/simplement folles colocs. Je reviens bientôt x

the beauts!

Stuck in a maze of administrative doom

Tonight I am really, really angry. And annoyed. And so very tired.

Let's take it back from the top.

I've recently applied for jobs. I thought it was about time I used all these free hours to get myself some money. So off I went, printing off CVs, calling up referees and filling in application forms. Everything was well, until.

Until I got slapped by the concept I hate the most in the UK: the National Insurance Number.

To get a job in the UK, you need a National Insurance Number. From what I understand, that's how they pay you, but mostly how they keep track of your pension scheme and taxes. I think. No one's taken the time to explain it to me, and I've long understood that trying to understand an official document is a bit like trying to make the Biebs sound manly: impossible.

Back in February, I applied for a NINo (its cutie nickname.) Then the letter that was supposed to tell me my number dissolved in thin air. I wasn't looking for a job at the time, so I didn't react. This one's my fault, I know. But Brits are cool and thought about me and the other silly fellas: they set up a confirmation system for those of us who don't know their numbers.

But.

1) You can't get a confirmation by phone. Or in person. You can only get it by post.
2) It takes up to EIGHT weeks to receive the confirmation letter.
3) During this time period, you can have NO INFORMATION WHATSOEVER of what's going on.

Coolsiez, right?

So, ok, it's not the worse thing in the world, but it's made my life pretty difficult. And it doesn't end there.

I've also been meaning to get my driver's licence! Yay, me! Great decisions everywhere! The procedure's quite easy for this one: go online, apply, pay the required £50 and fill in the form sent to you by post.

But. (There's always a but—this I know now.)

1) You need to send ORIGINAL documents to prove your identity. The fact that people who need to send original documents aren't British and thus NEED these documents on a regular basis apparently didn't struck anyone as important.
2) You need to get your documents translated. My ID card, translated to English. That's 25 words. 27 if you count "République Française" at the top. Really, England? REALLY?
3) You only have 30 days from the date they send the letter to send it back. Hello, expensive express translations! Goodbye student loan!

So right now I'm angry, and annoyed, and I can't be bothered to translate this to French. Here's a message for people ruling these administrative mazes of dooms: MAKE THINGS EASIER.

Yours truly,
Gaëlle, 18, still job-less and licence-less. Sad face.

***

Aujourd'hui, je suis vraiment, vraiment en colère. Et contrariée. Et incroyablement fatiguée.

Reprenons depuis le début.

J'ai récemment postulé pour différent jobs étudiants. Je me suis dit qu'il était temps que je me serve de toutes mes heures libres pour me faire un peu de sous. Donc je m'y suis mise, j'ai imprimé mes CVs, appelé mes références et rempli des formulaires de candidature. Tout se passait bien, jusqu'à ce que.

Jusqu'à ce que je m'en prenne une par le truc anglais que je hais le plus : le National Insurance Number.

Pour travailler au Royaume-Uni, il faut avoir un National Insurance Number. D'après ce que j'ai compris, c'est comme ça qu'on est payés, et c'est surtout comme ça qu'on paye nos impôts et qu'on cotise pour nos retraites. Je cris. Personne n'a pris le temps de me l'expliquer, et j'ai compris il y a longtemps qu'essayer de comprendre un document officiel est un peu comme essayer de rendre Justin Bieber viril : impossible.

En Février, j'ai fait une demande de NINo (son petit surnom.) Malheureusement, la lettre qui m'informait de mon numéro s'est perdue sur le chemin. Je ne cherchais pas d'emploi à ce moment, donc je n'ai pas réagi. Ca, c'est ma faute, je sais. Mais les grands-britons sont chouettes et ont pensé à moi et mes copains tête-en-l'air : ils ont créé un système de confirmation pour ceux qui ont perdu leur numéros.

Sauf que.

1) Impossible de connaitre son numéro par téléphone. Ou en personne. Seulement par La Poste.
2) La lettre de confirmation peut prendre jusqu'à HUIT SEMAINES pour arriver.
3) Pendant cette période, AUCUNE INFORMATION n'est disponible.

Trop khoule, hein?

Alors bon, d'accord, c'est pas le pire truc du monde, mais ça a rendu ma vie assez difficile. Et ça ne s'arrête pas là.

J'ai aussi décidé d'essayer de passer mon permis ! Trop cool ! Je prends des décisions importantes ! La procédure est assez facile pour obtenir un permis provisoire : aller sur internet, faire une demande, payer les £50 et remplir le formulaire qu'on reçoit par courrier.

Sauf que. (Il y a toujours un mais—maintenant je le sais.)

1) Il faut envoyer les ORIGINAUX des documents qui confirment notre identité. Le fait que les personnes qui doivent envoyer ce genre de documents ne sont pas anglais et donc ont BESOIN de ces documents régulièrement ne leur a apparemment pas effleuré l'esprit.
2) Il faut faire traduire ces documents s'ils ne sont pas en anglais. Ma carte d'identité, traduite. Ca fait 25 mots. 27 si on compte "République Française." Vraiment ?!
3) Le formulaire doit être renvoyé au plus tard 30 jours après réception. Bonjour, traductions express bien chères ! Au revoir, prêt étudiant !

Un petit conseil pour les gens qui dirigent ces labyrinthes administratifs de la mort : RENDEZ LES CHOSES PLUS FACILES.

Cordialement,
Gaëlle, 18 ans, toujours sans emploi et sans permis. :(

Billy says I'm an adult

I moved into my new house. And we don't have the internet. (Yet. Hopefully.) So I'm sitting here, a glass of wine next to me, tons of biscuits boxes on the floor, and while my friends are reading their magazines, I'm staring at the ceiling. 

Why, why didn't I buy magazines at the duty-free?!

Naturally, with nothing else to do, I turned to writing. My friend Millie said I should write about her. "Say I'm wonderful. And wise. Witty and intelligent." So here you go. "Now I sound like a d*ck," she just added. 

What I really want to write about is this new year starting, the new house, the new habits… Lots of new beginnings around here, and it feels good. Summer was a bit strange; all of June and most of July I felt like not much was happening. After a whole year of having three classes a week and being annoyed at how much time I was wasting, summer was turning out to be the exact same thing.

Then I worked and time went by in a wink. And suddenly summer is over and I realise that it's been a whole year since I moved to London.

How did that happen?

And now I'm all grown up. There's my name on a rental contract, I'm paying bills, I have a house that isn't my parents', and most of all, I got my first Billy bookcases. (My mum says the purchase of a Billy bookcase is the ticket to official adulthood.)

While the new beginnings of last year were extremely student-ish, this year's novelties feel very grown up. It's all about decorating the house and finding a job. I find myself looking back on my teenage years and wondering how I got here so fast. 

These times are scary ones. But they're also really exciting. There's tons to look forward to, big decisions to take, jobs and work experience ahead, essays to write, friends and relationships to build and take apart, but most of all mistakes to make. 

So here's drinking to that. 

***

J'ai emménagé dans ma nouvelle maison. Et nous n'avons pas internet. (Pour l'instant... j'espère.) Donc je suis là, assise sur le canapé, un verre de vin à la main, des tonnes de boites de gâteaux sur le sol, et pendant que mes amies lisent leurs magasines, je fixe le plafond. 

Pourquoi, pourquoi n'ai-je pas acheté de magasines au duty-free ?!

Evidemment, vu que je n'ai rien d'autre à faire, je me mets à écrire. Millie déclare que je devrais parler d'elle. "Dis que je suis géniale. Et pleine de sagesse. Et pleine d'esprit et intelligente." Comme ça c'est fait. Elle ajoute "maintenant tout le monde va croire que je suis une pauvre c*nne."

J'ai vraiment envie de parler de cette nouvelle année scolaire qui commence, de la nouvelle maison, des nouvelles habitudes... C'est une période de nouveau débuts, et ça fait du bien. Cet été a été un peu étrange ; pendant le mois de Juin et une grande partie de Juillet j'avais l'impression que rien ne se passait. Après un an de semaines de cours de 10 heures passé à culpabiliser du nombre d'heures que je perdais, l'été se passait exactement pareil.

Et puis j'ai commencé à travailler et le temps est passé en un éclair. Et tout d'un coup c'est la fin de l'été et je me rends compte qu'il y a déjà un an que je m'installais à Londres.

Comment j'en suis arrivée là ?

Et maintenant je suis une adulte. Il y a mon nom sur un contrat de location, j'ai une maison qui n'est pas celle de mes parents, et surtout, j'ai acheté mes premières étagères Billy. (Ma mère dit que l'achat d'une étagère Billy est le signe qu'on a officiellement rejoint le monde des adultes.)

Contrairement à l'année dernière et ses nouveaux débuts très étudiants, les nouveautés de cette année font très grande personne. Il s'agit de décorer la maison et de trouver un job. Je me retrouve à me demander comment mes années adolescentes sont passées si vite. 

Cette période est un peu effrayante. Mais aussi particulièrement excitante. Des tonnes de nouvelles découvertes nous attendent, des décisions à prendre, des jobs et des stages, des disserts à écrire, des amitiés et relations amoureuses à construire et détruire, et surtout des tas d'erreurs à faire.

Et je leur porte un toast. 

On being an obsessive planner

My name's Gaëlle, and I am an obsessive planner. But it's all my Mom's fault.

It probably all started when she was very young. Then she grew up to become the head of organisation of a society. That was her job title. I wish I was kidding you, but no.

She also grew up to become a Mom. Mine.

So of course, her love for organising creeped into our lives at home and made its way into our hearts. Things changed slowly. We didn't realise it. We were simply following the logical course of things. Plus, it was mostly my mom's work—not ours, not mine. The kitchen reorganised every other month. An Excel-made family monthly planner stuck on the fridge. An Excel table to keep track of our brother and mine's pocket money. A database of all the movies we own.

Not my work—until I woke up to realise I had been using the same colour code for all my course notes for the previous five years.

Then there was the fact I couldn't do anything without making a list first. Then I had to buy notebooks to write lists in. And different ones for different themes and types of lists. I kept reorganising my books in ways I found logical (although the logic tended not to be obvious to the rest of the world.) I did all my homework several days in advance and was always several weeks ahead on flashcards.

I caught it. I had the organisation virus! And it got even worse when we went on trips.

As you VERY WELL KNOW since I'm sure I've mentioned it about five thousand times, I'm going to New York very soon. And since I'm an obsessive planner, I've been planning since pretty much before we even got the tickets.

So first, there's this Moleskine notebook I have. I've been working on it for a while... since it's my pre-trip notebook. (Yes, it's this bad.) It's full of information about New York and maps and places we need to check out and places of interest ordered by borough and cupcake shops that seem good and size charts and... There's also this suitcase plan sketch I've made, to plan all the clothes I'm taking and what outfits I can make out of them. And a playlist of New-York related songs is on the works.

I have a problem, don't I?

It's a problem I like, though. Being an obsessive planner is great: you get to relish the eagerness of doing things. By devoting countless hours to organising stuff, you ensure—not that everything will be perfect—but that you'll do your best at getting close to it.

When it comes to travelling, it's even better. When we'd go abroad with my parents, we'd rarely stay in one place. Rather, we'd map out a circuit and explore as much as possible. My Mom always had to plan months in advance the hotels we'd stay at, the towns we'd go through, and the spots we'd visit. Thus the visits were fantastic because we were so excited to go places, we'd imagine the beauty and exhilaration of the unknown, and it always turned out better than we'd expected.

This time around, I've planned way more than my Mom. The apprentice's finally overcome the master. That's the New York effect for you.


***

Je m'appelle Gaëlle, et je suis maniaque de l'organisation. Mais c'est entièrement la faute de ma mère.

J'imagine que ça a commencé quand elle était toute petite. Et puis elle a grandi, et est devenue responsable de l'organisation dans une société. Oui, c'était ça son poste. J'aimerais pouvoir dire que c'est une blague, mais non.

Elle est aussi devenue maman. La mienne.

Donc, évidemment, son amour de l'organisation s'insinua dans nos vies à la maison et s'installa dans nos coeurs. Les choses changèrent lentement, sans qu'on s'en rende vraiment compte. On ne faisait que suivre la course naturelle des choses. En plus, c'était surtout l'oeuvre de ma mère — pas la nôtre, pas la mienne. La réorganisation de la cuisine tous les deux mois. L'agenda de la famille fait sur Excel accroché au frigo. Un tableau Excel pour garder une trace de notre argent de poche à mon frère & moi. Une base de données pour répertorier l'intégralité de nos DVDs.

Pas mon oeuvre—jusqu'à ce que je me réveille un matin en réalisant que ça faisait cinq ans que j'utilisais le même code couleur pour mes notes de cours.

Et puis il y avait le fait que je n'arrivais à rien sans commencer par faire une liste. Et puis j'ai commencé à acheter des carnets pour y écrire mes listes. Et des carnets différents en fonction des thèmes et types de listes. Je n'arrêtais pas de réorganiser ma bibliothèque de façons qui me paraissaient logiques (bien que la logique en question était généralement un peu obscure.) Je faisais mes devoirs plusieurs jours en avance et j'avais toujours plusieurs semaines d'avance niveau fiches.

Je l'avais attrapé. J'avais le virus de l'organisation ! Et ça devenait encore pire lorsqu'on partait en voyage.

Comme vous le savez TRÈS BIEN vu que je l'ai certainement déjà mentionné cinq mille fois, je vais très bientôt à New York. Et vu que je suis maniaque de l'organisation, j'ai commencé à planifier le voyage avant même qu'on ait réservé les billets.

D'abord, il y a ce Moleskine. Ca fait un moment que j'y travaille... vu que c'est mon carnet pré-voyage. (Oui oui, on est à ce niveau.) Il est plein d'informations sur New York et de plans et d'endroits où il faut qu'on aille et de points d'intérêts classés par quartiers et de cupcake shops qui ont l'air de valoir le coup et de tableaux de correspondances de tailles et... J'ai aussi fait un schéma pour ma valise, pour préârer tous les vêtements que je veux prendre et les tenues que je peux faire avec. Et je suis en train de faire une playlist spéciale New York.

J'ai un problème, hein ?

Mais c'est un problème que j'apprécie. Être manique de l'organisation est génial, parce que ça permet de se délecter de la simple impatience de faire quelque chose. En passant des heures à organiser quelque chose, on est certains—non pas que tout sera parfait—mais qu'on aura tout fait pour en être proche.

C'est encore mieux dans le cas des voyages. Quand on partait en voyage avec mes parents, il était rare qu'on reste à un seul endroit. On était plutôt du genre à faire un circuit afin de visiter le plus d'endroits possible. Ma mère devait toujours tout planifier des mois en avance pour trouver des hôtels, des villes à traverser et des endroits à visiter. Cela rendait les visites d'autant plus fantastiques qu'on était impatients d'y aller, qu'on avait imaginé la beauté et l'euphorie de l'inconnu, et elles étaient toujours meilleures que prévues.

Cette fois-ci, j'ai planifié bien plus que ma mère. L'apprentie a enfin dépassé le maître. C'est l'effet New-York.

It's not easy being the baby

When I was five, I skipped a year. I'm not really sure why. The story doesn't say much, just that my teacher thought I already had whatever skills kids are supposed to learn in their third year of pre-school (probably like, colouring inside the lines or making pasta necklaces.)

My parents say the first months of school after 'the skip' were hard on me. I personally don't remember it being a big deal—I don't remember much from that time. So I'll trust them.

To me, it wasn't such a problem until a few years later.

See, skipping a class when you're five doesn't mean you're a genius. One could probably go on to become just a regular student, or even a bad one.

But it is assumed that you're a genius. Because you're 'the kid who's one year younger', every other child at school will assume that you're a NERD.

And believe me, no one wants to be the nerd in primary school.

As soon as my classmates realised that I had indeed skipped a year, I became the nerd. Not the accepted, sort of cool and underground nerd of today. Nerd culture didn't exist at that time. It didn't mean being into Battlestar Galactica or making Youtube videos.

Rather, it was about being good at math.

(Careful: I said 'being good', not liking. People assume being good at whatever subject necessarily means you love it. NO. THAT'S A MYTH. I've always been good at math—until today. And I've always deeply disliked math. It happened that despite our tensed relationship, I understood math. And when I didn't, I still managed to make it work. I'm the luckiest, right?)

A few days ago, my friend Charlie asked me if I'd answer a few questions on my university experience as 'under-eightee' for a piece she was writing for The Guardian.

I'm using quotation marks because to me, being younger has always been more of a tag rather than an actual thing. For years it got me the 'nerd' tag. I lived with it, accepted it, and finally managed to sort of make it disappear in high school. Since I joined an international section, pretty much everyone was 'the nerd' of whichever middle school they came from.

Here's what being one year younger did: it made me want to be average.

Average is not my thing, though. It obviously didn't work well. In my first six months of high school, I had showed up at least three times with smurf-blue tights and had died my hair from very blonde to dark brown.

Despite my wishes to be more 'in the norm' (a concept I've since grown to find misleading since it's pretty much non-existent), I stayed quite close to the top of my class in high school. However, the nerd tag did wear off. I think we finally all grew up and got over some of the school stereotypes. Some people didn't, and probably won't ever; sadly, I doubt they'll ever change mindsets, and I pity them for it.

Some of it stuck, and I'm glad: that's probably what got me to London.

Now that I had lost the nerd tag, I got a new one: the underage one. Charlie got nicknamed Baby Fresher. We both had the same problem: try going through freshers' week, and a whole year of nights out when your ID displays all proudly that you're very much not allowed inside the pub, sorry Miss.

Although it did annoy me quite often, and made my life much harder than it could have been, this new tag wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Being the kid in my group of friends has taught me two things.

One: endurance. The jokes, nicknames, and mean teases you get used to. The remarks regarding your possible lack of maturity you shrug off. I've learnt to love being the kid. I took pride in seeing that people older than me weren't even mature enough to get past it.

Two: resourcefulness. I've had my share of crap administrative problems—especially since moving to London—pre nights out 'do you have a friend's ID I could borrow?!' freak-outs and chats with strangers after being rejected from pubs.

When one has no other choice, one makes it work!

One of the questions Charlie asked me was if, given the choice, I'd rather start university at eighteen. So I thought about it. And I thought about the bigger question: given the choice, would I still skip a year?

And the answer is yes. Obviously, it's yes. Because ultimately, despite everything shitty situation I've been in, it's about the good stuff. And thanks to being the kid, the nerd and the underage one, I was lucky enough to meet such great, fantastic, utterly beautiful people.

Plus, the great thing with being so young, and already at university, is that I can pretty much fuck everything up and start all over again, and this time my age will be average.

***


J'avais cinq ans quand j'ai sauté une classe. Je ne sais pas vraiment pourquoi. L'histoire ne le dit pas, je sais juste que ma maîtresse trouvait que j'avais déjà acquis ce que les petits de grande-section de maternelle sont censés apprendre (genre, colorier sans dépasser ou faire des colliers de pâtes.)

Mes parents racontent que mes premiers mois dans la classe supérieure furent assez durs. Personnellement, ça ne m'a pas marqué—rien de cette époque ne m'a vraiment marqué. Je vais donc les croire.

Pour moi, ce n'est devenu un problème que quelques années plus tard.

Le truc, c'est que sauter une classe à cinq ans ne veut pas dire que tu es un génie. On pourrait même sûrement continuer notre éducation à un niveau moyen, voire mauvais.

Mais on part du principe que tu es un génie. Juste parce que tu es "celui qui a un an d'avance," tous les autres enfants de l'école ont décidé que tu es l'intello.

Et croyez-moi, personne ne veut être l'intello au primaire.

Dès que mes camarades remarquèrent que j'avais effectivement sauté une classe, ce fut moi l'intello. Pas le nerd accepté, un peu cool et décalé d'aujourd'hui. La culture nerd n'existait pas à l'époque. Être un intello ne voulait pas dire aimer Battlestar Galactica ou être youtuber.

C'était plutôt synonyme de super bonnes notes en maths.

(Attention : j'ai dit "bonne notes", pas passion. Souvent, les gens supposent que parce qu'un jeune a des bonnes notes dans une matière, c'est forcément parce qu'il l'adore. NON. C'EST UN MYTHE. J'ai toujours été bonne en math—jusqu'à aujourd'hui. Et j'ai toujours détesté les maths. Il s'avère que malgré nos très mauvais rapports, je comprenais les maths. Et quand ce n'était pas le cas, j'arrivais quand même à faire que tout fonctionne. Grave la chance, hein ?)

Il y a quelques jours, mon amie Charlie m'a demandé si j'accepterais de répondre à quelques questions sur mon expérience à la fac en tant que "pas-majeure" pour un article qu'elle écrivait pour The Guardian.

J'utilise des guillemets parce, pour moi, être plus jeune que mes camarades a toujours été une étiquette plutôt qu'un fait. C'est ce qui m'a collé l'étiquette d'intello pendant des années. J'ai vécu avec, je l'ai acceptée, et j'ai réussi je ne sais pas trop comment à faire qu'elle disparaisse au lycée. Vu que j'étais en section internationale, quasiment tout les élèves de ma classe étaient les intellos des collèges dont ils venaient.

Voilà ce qu'a provoqué mon année de moins : j'ai voulu être comme tout le monde.

Le problème étant que je n'y arrive pas trop, et ça n'a dont pas trop marché. Au bout de mes six premiers mois de lycée, j'étais allée au lycée au moins trois fois avec des collants bleu schtroumpf, et j'avais teint mes cheveux du très blond au très chocolat.

Malgré mon souhait d'être plus "dans la norme" (un concept que depuis, j'estime trompeur sachant qu'il est pour moi inexistant), je suis restée assez proche de la tête de classe au lycée. Cependant, l'étiquette intello finit par s'estomper. Je pense que nous avions finalement grandi et dépassé certains des stéréotypes scolaires. Pas tout le monde ; certaines personnes n'y parvinrent pas, et n'y parviendront probablement jamais. Je les plains.

Un peu de l'étiquette survécu, et j'en suis ravie : c'est probablement ce qui m'a permis de partir à Londres.

Mais alors que je m'étais enfin débarrassée de l'étiquette d'intello, on m'en colla une nouvelle : la mineure. Charlie fut surnommée le Bébé de Première Année. Nous eûmes toutes les deux le même problème : essaye de traverser la semaine d'inté, puis une année entière de sorties quand ta carte d'identité expose fièrement que non tu n'es pas la bienvenue dans ce bar, désolée Mademoiselle. (Les anglais sont apparemment bien plus tatillons sur l'âge que les français, tout du moins à Londres. Je n'ai jamais eu ce genre de problèmes en France !)

Bien que ça m'ait souvent agacée, et que ma vie en fut bien plus compliquée qu'elle aurait pu l'être, cette nouvelle étiquette ne m'a pas empêchée de vivre. Être le bébé de mon groupe d'amis m'a enseigné deux choses.

Primo : l'endurance. On s'habitue aux blagues, aux surnoms et aux moqueries. On envoie balader les personnes qui questionnent notre maturité. J'ai appris à aimer être la petite du groupe. J'étais fière de voir que certaines personnes plus vieilles que moi n'étaient pas assez matures pour voir plus loin que mon âge.

Secundo : la débrouillardise. J'ai eu un paquet de problème administratifs—encore plus depuis mon déménagement à Londres—de crises "est-ce que t'as une amie dont je pourrais piquer la carte d'identité ce soir ?!" pré-soirées et de conversations avec des inconnus devant des bars après m'être faite jeter.

Quand on a pas d'autre choix, on fait avec ce qu'on a !

Une des questions de Charlie était de savoir si je choisirais plutôt de commencer la fac à 18 ans si on m'en donnait aujourd'hui la possibilité. J'y ai réfléchi, et je me suis posée une plus grande question : si je pouvais choisir aujourd'hui, est-ce que je sauterai quand même la grande section de maternelle ?

La réponse est oui. Evidemment, c'est oui. Parce qu'au final, malgré toutes les situations pourries auxquelles j'ai du faire face, ce qui compte c'est le positif. Et parce que j'étais le bébé, l'intello et la mineure, j'ai eu la chance de rencontrer des personnes belles, géniales, et absolument fantastiques.

Et en plus, le truc génial quand tu es si jeune et déjà à la fac, c'est que je peux absolument tout foirer, repartir de zéro, et cette fois mon âge sera dans la norme.