A Postcard Post

"I know there's a desk under here somewhere..."

Along with blurry photos, souvenir t-shirts and the sudden need for sunglasses, postcards are a sure sign that you are On Holiday. Whether depicting white sandy beaches at sunset or something involving a dirty pun, they are a way of telling family and friends exactly what you are up to while they are stuck at home.

There is something rather delightful about receiving a postcard from half way around the world (or even just Kent.) Postcards make you feel that despite a hectic schedule of camel racing, scuba diving and cheese rolling, your friend thinks enough of you to take the time to purchase a postcard, track down a suitably expensive stamp and hunt out a post box. Once they have popped through the letterbox and been suitably exclaimed over, postcards go on to take pride of place on a fridge or corkboard, or maybe on the Random Stuff Pile on the side. Once here, they become part of the furniture, remembered only when you are looking for that bank statement, pizza voucher or event poster.

There is always the slight chance that of the myriad of cards that you send, a few won’t make it. This can be particularly awkward if they are aware that others have received one. My dad claims that he sent my brother, sister and I one each from South Africa, yet while Claire’s and mine arrived shortly after him, Matt’s has apparently been lost in the mysterious swirling fog that is the worldwide postal service.

Given the unreliable nature of the post compared with instant forms of communication now available to us, it often seems like postcards are more effort than they’re worth. I generally buy postcards with the vague notion of perhaps sending them at some point, only to find them a year later, still in their little paper bag with a Eurocent coin and flimsy receipt floating around in the bottom. However, before undertaking the Mad European Dash, I made a solemn promise to myself that I would send postcards this year. In the light of this decision, we dutifully went through the rigmarole of buying, stamping and sending the postcards from a variety of beautiful, historical and generally postcard-worthy locations.

Was it worth it? In time-honoured tradition, we are currently waiting for the postcards to arrive after us. While three have made reached their respective fridge doors, five are still missing in action. This includes Matt’s, who seems to have fallen out of favour with the god of postcards. It certainly felt good to take a minute and think of home while standing in the middle of the fearsomely beautiful Vienna or a cold and windy Brussels street. While the simple messages I managed to fit on could easily have been conveyed quickly and overall more cheaply via text, the little moment of delighted surprise was worth the extra effort.

Lessons learned on a mad dash round Europe

No matter what angle he tried, she kept sticking her head in the way.

Along with various facts about Amsterdam canals and a profound understanding of the habits of the Austrian monarchy, my six days, six nights, six countries and approximately nineteen train journeys have taught me some invaluable lessons about how to travel.

Learn to pack light. Of course you intend to wear all four pairs of shoes, use every millilitre of conditioner and read all seven books when you are cavalierly throwing them into your suitcase. However, when you are standing forlornly at the bottom of the fifth flight of stairs you've come across in one Metro station, chances are that you would happily exchange Life of Pi or the red trainers that match the cardigan for the extra boost. Besides, when you’re collapsing into a train seat after a hard day of trekking through palaces and scoffing pastries, an iPod and magazine are more than sufficient entertainment.

Motorists in Europe will try to kill you. Be aware that motorists in Europe see pedestrians as sport rather than obstacles to be avoided. The friendly green man on the pelican crossing is not so much a signal that you may cross the road without danger of death as a challenge to try and do so. The traffic lights may officially be red, but be prepared for trams, motorcyclists and BMWs to hurl themselves at you without remorse. Indeed, every road crossing becomes somewhat reminiscent of that old game, in which you are frog trying to make it across the road without being squished. After employing many strategies, I discovered that the safest approach is to form a large group on either side of the road and cross together. While this may seem like a rather touching act of mutually beneficial camaraderie, it’s not: the aim is to make sure that you are in the middle with everyone else acting as a buffer between you and certain death at the hands of a malicious French driver.

No matter how high your grade, GCSE German will not help you. While certain phrases may have been useful when crafting that coursework or desperately trying to understand what the distant voices on the tapes were saying, in the real world no one cares that ‘Ich gehe gern ins Kino’ or that ‘je m’entend bien avec ma famille’. Confronted with a sign that doubtless conveys some vitally important information, the knowledge that ‘Ich habe eine Schwester’ suddenly seems deeply unhelpful. Furthermore, when you do work up the courage to respond in the native tongue (or a variation thereupon), the other party will inevitably respond in perfect English, which may even extend to sarcasm. Either book yourself into that foreign language course now, or avoid further humiliation by admitting defeat, tearing up the phrase book and going to America.

It is possible to execute a night-to-day look in a train toilet. Night trains may be a useful way of covering long distances, but they are not exactly conducive to stylish dressing, personal hygiene or daily skin routines. While the train company proudly advertises the onboard washroom, this turned out to be neither a room nor somewhere it is possible to wash more than a finger, owing to the fact it is actually an upright coffin with a sink thrown in. However, with a careful combination of wriggling, balance and grim determination, it is possible to enter as a pyjama-clad, make up-free, tired and dishevelled mess, and emerge a jean-clad, made-up, tired and dishevelled mess. Make sure you take baby wipes to replace your shower, a steady hand for the mascara and leave your best, carpet-scraping pyjamas at home. And if all else fails, throw on the dark glasses, grit your teeth and think about the croissant calling your name from the next exotic location.

Map reading is a crucial life skill. Consider the following exchange:

“We need to go down this street, through the park, along the canal and turn left.”

“No, it’s straight ahead, second left, first right, over the bridge and then third left.”

“That’s what you said yesterday, and we ended up in Calais.”
“Actually that was Hamburg.”

If you have ever found yourself in an unfamiliar location with a friend/relative/significant other, chances are you have had a variant of this conversation. It turns out that along with percentages and the names of the Tudor monarchs, map-reading is actually useful in real life as well as in school. At some point in your travels you will be lost. It may be that you are standing at the statue of an entirely different King Maximilian, are in the wrong city, or are desperately trying to find your Amsterdam hotel in the rain as it gets increasingly cold and dark. At this point, the ability to read a map correctly, preferably the first time, will seem very important. Fortunately, many big cities have large maps at various points in the city. While standing in front of these arguing may reveal you both as embarrassing tourists, if it means saving you a sprint to the station or a wrong turn down an alleyway, it’s worth losing the je ne sais quoi and finding that ‘You are here’.

These are not necessarily the most important lessons I learned on my travels. As you may have noted, there is no mention of how to securely attach your passport to an unused part of your leg, how to operate those foreboding lockers in train stations, or even details about the military planning required to send a postcard back to England. However, should you ever find yourself planning your own mad dash around Europe, I hope that these brief lessons will help you avoid discomfort, danger and deep humiliation.

Feel free to share any travel tips, tales or terribly unnerving warnings of your own below.

Leggings: A Stylemma

Three hours later and the paint still wasn't dry.

As I sat at the breakfast bar, nail brush in hand, foot on stool, I had something of an epiphany; leggings, with their cosy fabric and stretchy fit, are really quite useful creations.

It may seem that I have caught on to the genius of leggings quite late, but this is not the first time that we have met. There are definitely some photos floating around in the pre-Cloud world that show me with gappy teeth, a poker-straight bob and floral leggings. However, it was the early nineties, and I was about five. At that age, anything that wasn’t a My Little Pony, Barbie or Spice Girl just slid under my radar.

What is it about leggings that has suddenly struck me as so fantastic? There are so many answers. I think the crux of their appeal is that they are comfortable like pyjamas, pretty like tights and warm like thermals. They also make me feel vaguely sporty, as though simply by wearing them I am mastering yoga and running marathons while getting my five-a-day and drinking gallons of green tea.

However, for all their obvious perks, there are some definite perils lurking behind the inviting exterior. One of the reasons I was so reluctant to give this ever-popular wonder-wear a chance is that I have walked behind far too many girls who either don’t realise that their leggings are completely see-through, or don’t care. As multi-purpose as they are in the confinement of the home, leggings will never replace trousers when it comes to greeting your public. No, never. And no, jeggings, the bastard love child of leggings and jeans, don’t count either.

I have also cringed in sympathy for women whose leggings have taken a perfectly shapely leg and drawn big, neon arrows pointing out all its flaws. I look at my own perfectly shapely legs and immediately see the donut, brownie and cupcake that the spiteful little devils will highlight. Then I put the leggings back on the shelf and buy a cardigan.

Where do these issues leave leggings? Preferably safely hidden under a skirt or suitably long top. If, however, they must be worn as trousers, they should join the likes of Christmas jumpers, oversized band t-shirts you just can’t throw away, and (shudder) onesies, and be enjoyed only within the confines of your own house. Embrace leggings of all colours, shades and prints, and rejoice in the freedom of movement and soft caress of cotton, but for public welfare and your own peace of mind, keep what lies beneath to yourself.

Someone save us from our national anthem

No one had told Katherine about the group gym session.

During the weeks of the games, as is customary, those who were able found themselves standing for a variety of national anthems. From the unapologetically sentimental ‘Stars and Stripes’ of the USA, to Israel’s sombre ‘Hatikvah’ and the cheerfully resilient Polish 'Dabrowski's Mazurka', we have experienced a wonderful variety of anthems. Of course, for most of the spectators, the greatest enthusiasm was retained for the British national anthem.

Like everyone else, I was proud to honour all of the athletes, and particularly our own. I was lucky enough to watch Mickey Bushell speed to victory in the T53 100m race on 3rd September. Watching him on the podium receiving his gold medal, surrounded by thousands of fans abandoning British reserve and going absolutely beserk, was one of the most touching moments of the games. Like everyone else, I cheered, stamped, clapped and rose for our national anthem. However, while everyone else sung along with gusto, I remained resolutely silent.

It is not that I have anything against the Queen. In fact, I think she does a rather good job, particularly for someone who was born when cigarettes were good for you, cars were a luxury, and 'Wall Street Crash' sounded like a bizarre new dance craze. She even has a sense of humour, as shown by her recent Bond-inspired helicopter stunt and her taste in hats. I am sure that she is, as the anthem proclaims, also gracious, noble, happy and glorious. But I refuse to accept that one woman, no matter how elegantly poised and crown-bedecked, should be raised above the people in a nation simply because she was born into a family of unimaginable privilege.

A national anthem should represent the nation. The queen is not the nation. Although she is part of it, the people are a much greater part, and since this is a democracy, size matters. While the monarchy is seen as a symbol of Britain by the rest of the world, to praise them, and only them, in a song which stands for us all is inherently wrong. By requesting that she be 'Long to reign over us', we reduce ourselves to mindless, powerless subjects. The religious aspect of the anthem is also problematic, given that Britain prides itself on being multicultural and welcoming to people of all or no beliefs. We all deserve an anthem that includes us.

Our national anthem is over four hundred years old, meaning it was introduced when most British people believed that the monarch had a divine right to the throne, while they had been born into a life of poverty because God ordained it. This type of thinking has no place in what is supposed to be a modern, democratic and free-thinking society.

Of course, there are many who would purse their lips and shake their heads at such a flagrant disregard for Tradition and The Way Things Are. ‘Political correctness gone made,’ they would say, the hand clutching their bone china Diamond Jubilee mug visibly trembling in outrage. ‘It's been around for four hundred years. We can't just change it.’ To which I respond that while tradition has a time and place, such as around a May Pole, it is also important for us to recognise the changing times and move with them, particularly when the tradition in question affects the entire nation.

Four hundred years ago, people believed that women were intellectually inferior to men, the Earth was the centre of the universe, and that a little blood-letting was an all-purpose cure. We now know that these assumptions are wrong, and we have altered our thinking and actions accordingly. Our current anthem is a relic of the past and has an important place in history; let’s leave it there when we take our newfound patriotism and move into a future of inclusion and equality.

The Burning Truth

His novel way around 'No shirt, no service' was
 not a success.

As the Javelin sped towards St. Pancras on the eleventh day of the Paralympics, Tom turned to me and casually uttered the most feared words in the language of pasty people: “I think you’ve got sunburnt.” I followed his gaze, and to my horror he was right; a pale, bra-strap sized strip ran through a very red-looking patch of shoulder.

Like all fair-skinned people, I have waged a battle with the sun for as long as I can remember. On childhood holidays, my enviably dark-skinned cousins would swim with cheerful abandon in sunny Spanish rays, while my mum was pinning me down and applying Factor 30, a large t shirt and a pair of swimming trunks over my swim suit. And even then I would probably emerge from the pool red-cheeked, red-shouldered and seeing red.

For many pasty people, sunburn is as much a part of British summer as Wimbledon, rain and barbeques. The moment the sun appears, we join everyone else in a desperate beeline for it, knowing that this may be our only chance to transform from TB victims in a period drama to the bronzed beauties seen lounging elegantly in Mediterranean cafés.

However, in the rush for that last piece of sun drenched grass, many choose to forget that we are putting our poor, melanin-deprived skin in danger. While basking in warm rays after months of grey skies and icy winds initially feels like the greatest idea since Ben approached Jerry with a crazy suggestion, we may regret it later. Pale-skinned people don’t produce enough melanin pigment (which absorbs UV) to provide protection from the sun, which means that we go straight from pale to crimson. On the day in question, I had faithfully reapplied my SPF 20 three times, yet still those fateful rays got through. It can take between 12 to 24 hours for the effects of sunburn to show, at which point no amount of After Sun and regret will repair the damage inflicted on our cells.

That’s not to say that those golden glows are necessarily a safe reaction to the sun. A tan has long been hailed as a sign of good health, even before the first ‘sun clinic’ popped up in 1903, promising visitors numerous health benefits. The tan’s popularity was further secured when style goddess Coco Chanel stepped off a beach in the Riviera in 1923 with an accidental tan. However, that deep, long-lasting tan is actually your body’s version of damage control, induced by UVB rays penetrating and damaging skin cells and causing the pituitary to release a hormone that increases melanin production. Even cells belonging to those lucky people with a naturally high level of melanin pigment can be damaged by the sun, although this is far less likely than in paler people.

Thankfully, our knowledge of sun safety has come a long way. During a recent conversation with my mum and grandma on one of our more scorching days this summer, I discovered that sunburn used to be seen as simply a painful nuisance that must be battled through in order to attain golden perfection. A walk along a beach or park would reveal people of all ages whose skin was so badly burned that the layers of damage would be visible to the naked eye. Although seen as acceptable back then, this would now, as mum suggested, be viewed as child abuse.

Even at a less extreme level, sun care is gradually working its way into public consciousness. Dermatologists recommend wearing sunscreen with a minimum of SPF 15 all year round, since those devilish UVA and UVB rays can penetrate clouds, and this is now included in an increasing number of beauty products, including body lotions, moisturisers and BB creams. While this is obviously good news for our skin cells, it can also be beneficial on a superficial level, with sunscreen proven to be the most effective way of delaying the appearance of aging.

This is not to suggest that we must throw away our bikinis, brick up our windows and never venture outside again. UVB rays allow our bodies to synthesise vitamin D, which is important for bones, the intestine, and, as any sun-starved Brit will tell you, stress levels. So by all means, elbow your way into that last patch of September sun, but make sure you protect your skin.

Why brownies are bliss

All that cooking had left her with a lot on her plate. 

Whenever the world is too full of work, rain, vegetables or all of the above, the only solution is a big, good-to-be-bad batch of brownies. Oozing with rich gooey goodness, it is impossible to contemplate brownies and not feel a rumble of longing in the stomach.

Some of the joy derived from these chunks of chocolate heaven comes from my memories of baking as a child, when everything should be covered in chocolate and the handheld mixer was a demon just waiting to mangle any tiny hand that got in its way. Even though I now know the latter to be a myth, there is no denying that brownies are one of the most fun cakes to make. The thick, rich chocolate mixture, dotted with treats, feels reassuringly like a proper cake mix, or even a magical sludge of the variety usually seen in a witch’s cauldron.

This mysterious quality makes me feel adventurous; like a giddy child testing the boundaries, I love adding things to brownie mix to see how it works out. Anything from marshmallows, raisins, Mars bars, Mini Eggs, cookies - the list of dangerously delicious extras goes on. As the mixture bakes, that warm, inviting brownie smell fills the air and draws you to the oven window to watch as the spell is complete and the potion transforms into glorious gooey cake.

And then comes the eating. These are not dainty little sponges, with a light-as-air texture that lets you pretend they don’t really count, but delicious blocks of knowing chocolate sin. While other cakes are expected to be perfectly iced in a careful swirl and topped with delicately sculpted flowers and silky smooth fondant, brownies are a sensational exception. The rebels of the cake world, they are allowed to ooze and crumble, staining your plate with a telltale chocolate smudge.

So joyous are brownies that they have spread to brighten up other desserts. From cookie dough topped with brownie, to brownie cheesecake, brownie sundaes and brownie ice cream, these traditional childhood treats have conquered the world as the ultimate comfort food. So next time the work piles up and the rain comes down, reach for the chocolate, marshmallows and mixer and make some magic.