Why can’t I just know what I want?

How do we ever know that what we’re doing is what we’re supposed to be doing? I ask myself this question day in, and day out. I wish I could just know when I’m happy with a choice, and when I’m not.

When I properly started this blog I wrote how my life flipped upside down… and I said that that’s how I’m going to stay. It’s a lie. I feel like my life is constantly flipping me over and over. Yet, somehow I cannot just stay one way, or the other.

I know it’s only natural to feel up, and then down. Anxious and then confident; or go from feeling like you’ve got it all figured out, to being completely lost.

I have all these ideas, and I know I can realise them all. Writing something I love to write. Filming something I wanted to film for a while and so on, and so on. Yet recently I’ve been feeling like I cannot accomplish anything that I set myself.

No matter how hard I want to, I feel completely defeated by life. It’s normal, I know. I just need to get myself together, it’s not that hard – I know.

But it’s hard to work on things in a place you don’t want to be in. I mean, I love Nottingham, but I want to do other things, that will make me happier – travel, film my travels, write about my travels – just see the world.

But where I am now, is exactly where I am supposed to be. I’m only 19, trying to figure out who I am, and how I want to live my life – and at uni it’s so so so difficult to be the person I want to be.

I’m not entirely sure what is the point that I am trying to make, but I know that I just can’t find something that I really love doing, and it’s just driving me to a point of frustration.

At first I was happy with my job, taking photos at events – but after a while, it gets so repetitive. Drunk people see me, wave, ask for a picture – they pose, I try to take a photo, 1000 people walk past and interrupt the picture 1000 times, and then I press the button and then do it again… 200 times – the EXACT same photo in one night.

It’s an endless cycle. I find something that I think I’ll enjoy, it gets repetitive, I get frustrated, and I spend months dwelling over how repetitive everything is, and how I feel like I’m wasting my time.

WHY.CAN’T.I.DO.SOMETHING.I.ENJOY?!

I know I want to travel, I try to save money for travelling – but how long will it take me to save so much money to just go away? 

Why can’t I just make a decision and stick to it? I always have to overthink every idea, every decision… just EVERYTHING.

I know I want to make documentaries, and learn to be a good reporter… but I just feel like I’m just learning how to operate a camera for 10 hundredth time, instead of letting myself be creative.

I know I’m still learning, but it’s frustrating..

Why do others’ opinions shape how we feel?

I know that I haven’t written in a while… but I didn’t really know what to write about. I over think it. Always. I don’t want to make my blog too personal, nor do I want to bombard you with a generic ‘what I got up to in the summer’ posts. I felt like I couldn’t write, simply because I didn’t yet establish a theme for this blog. It’s literally a mix of everything, my thoughts, my portfolio; and an attempt to write about travelling… I desperately want to write about travelling, but how can I do so, if I’m stuck in Nottingham, and it’s surrounding areas? (As a side note, I’ve been trying to write another post about Morocco, but I am struggling to put into words how amazing the trip was).

Recently I’ve been thinking about how strange it is, that our lives are mostly based about what others think about us. It shapes how we feel. How we act. It affects me definitely. Others? Clearly. I sit there, half observing, half drawing conclusions. Seeing people act different from person to person. Everyone is different from one another, of course. But are we, ourselves, different from our own selves?

Why do we struggle to be ourselves, and voice our opinions, just because we get intimidated. I recently had a lecture on freedom of speech. It has really made me think about whether we actually are free to say what we are. In theory, yes. We are. We can say what we want and think – I do it, almost, all the time. Almost. There are times at which I feel completely unable to voice my own opinion; depending on who the people that surround me are. I know that I’m ‘strong headed’. I like it. I like knowing what I think, what I want and how I want things.

The question ‘when was the last time that you felt like could express your own opinion’, was quite easy to answer – I could easily put my hand up, if I wanted to, and gave a clear example of when was the last time that I felt like I could express my feelings or opinions. But when asked ‘when was the last time that you felt unable to express your own opinion’, nobody put their hands up. Coincidence? I think not. I had a million and ten examples in my mind – and I am almost sure that others did too. The room was silent.

We may have the right to freedom of speech and expressing our own opinion; but it has to be a somewhat accepted opinion. If, in that lecture, I did put my hand up and explained the situation that I felt uneasy in expressing my own opinion; I would be lying, because I would be able to express it in front of the whole course. I, however, remained quiet.

Now, going back the the idea of people’s opinions of us, shaping how we feel.

When we express ourselves, or don’t find something funny, that almost everyone else finds hilarious, we will be marginalised. So we pretend. We give in and act like we fit in. Find the same things funny. Interesting and even entertaining.

Why? That, I haven’t yet figured out myself.

Pattie x

 

The Moroccan Dream

Bringing myself to write about the best trip of my life, so far, is incredibly difficult. It’s almost like re-living it, but not quite the same. Just the images; lacking colour, scent and atmosphere.

I had always dreamt of my great Moroccan trip, and finally I was about to take off – listening to music, looking out of the window. I couldn’t stop smiling; I was about to see the beautiful land of mountains, old medinas, and the colours so bright you feel like you’re part of a beautiful painting. Feeling so surreal.

The bright sunlight hit my eyes, as soon as I stepped out of the plane. The light, so harsh and strong, that I struggled to keep my eyes opened.We landed in Fes, rented out a car, and drove for, what didn’t feel like very long, probably because the sight of the purple-brown mountains completely swept me off of my feet. Drove to a place you can call a ‘heaven on earth’, literally. Located high in the mountains, the beautiful old medina of Chefchaouen, blinded me with the blue paint radiating from the buildings. Each a different colour, all equally beautiful. Every door was prettier than the other.

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Arriving at a small traditional Moroccan medina guest house, for the first time, we tasted the liquid sent from the ‘h i g h a b o v e‘ – ‘Berber Whiskey’, the mint tea special – only prepared by the men (as the kitchen is dominated by women, men are responsible for the mint tea). It tasted sweeter, and even more minty, with every sip. Everywhere I went, Chefchaouen, El Jadida, Ouzoud or Fes, I couldn’t get enough of the mint liqueur (non-alcoholic, of course) – knowing that I only had a short 10 days to enjoy the flavour of non artificial tea, that’s completely unavailable in England. You can bring the tea herbs back home, I brought half a kilo, but you will never be able to replicate the flavour without real Moroccan, fresh mint.

I travelled during the Ramadan, expecting empty markets, closed shops and empty streets. I was wrong. The Moroccan markets beamed with people, massive hoards of them, buying, selling and enjoying the atmosphere, just like I did. Although in 43C heat, it was slightly less enjoyable. I can only imagine what the local Arabs felt like, not drinking water and working all day.

Walking past every mint tea stalls was the best feeling in the world; the freshness would hit your nostrils. Bright oranges sold at almost every stall – my favourite – a man with a stall and a hand juicer, squeezing fresh juice into a glass. Gulping down a whole glass of juice at once, does not compare to the Western take-away coffee and carton orange juice.  Since experiencing a fresh Moroccan ‘juis d’orange’, I don’t drink, or eat, oranges or orange juice anymore. I will save that for when I travel back. Soon.

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The blue pearl of Morocco, Chefchaouen, radiated with blue, the scent of hand made soap and spices. The oriental orange and red carpets hanging on every corner of small shop displays. Sellers inviting you to purchase souvenirs and traditional items. The sound of children playing and adults selling. Unique.

Silence; would sound at 7pm, every day, as everyone made their way home to eat their long awaited meals – after fasting all day.

The village really came alive at night, due to the Ramadan, of course. Children running through the dark streets of the blue medina – everyone eating, celebrating. Drums sounding in the middle of the night. Restaurants opening, smells of spicy Tajin and Harira. Tourists dining in local restaurants. The orange lamp light, warming the blue walls of the medina, creating a cosy atmosphere – incredible – finally the harsh sun has hid. The warm night air sweeping my skin.

After spending two days in the blue gem, we set off to El Jadida, a town located at the sea side. Disappointing. We were staying in an old Portuguese Medina, which clearly has European influences… taking away from the enchanting dreaminess of Chefchaouen. The run down walls, the messy streets were really unappealing – now I understand the quote:

Morocco as it is is a very fine place spoiled by civilization.

Richard H. Davis

Despite Morocco being the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to, somehow, the poverty, the culture, spoils the beauty and art that Morocco explodes with. While driving through Agadir, the capital, I felt like I was in a completely different country. Tidy, neat, rich – flags every ten meters. Almost seemed too good to be true. Red and white curbs, soldiers every few meters. We were driving past the Royal buildings. We weren’t fooled for long. Just around the corner – slums – small, poor, neglected estate, where the people were not part of royalty. Poor beggar in the middle of the road, stopping cars, selling tissues, begging for money – with a small baby wrapped in a scarf around her back. 40 degrees. Children running around, playing in the grubby ruins. The streets that were not swept in years.

My deepest dream, Morocco – the synonyms that used to come to my head, before I arrived, were ‘colourful’, ‘happy’, ‘oriental’ and ‘picturesque’. Now, although I still think of those words, after experiencing living in traditional Moroccan homes, avoiding the touristy parts of Morocco, just immersing myself into the culture, I also think of poverty; The desperate mothers sitting on the floor with their babies, begging for money. I think of how the poverty turns men dishonest; how on the first day, searching for our hotel, the satnav, took up to a beautiful parking on a cliff, and an overly helpful Arab, let us park there. He even wanted to help us carry the bags to the hotel. All was good, until my grandad walked all the way down and up the b i g g e s t stairs in the world. He came back with sweat pouring down his face and out of breath.

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The Arabs laughed. One tall and one short, both lanky and dark skinned men, with missing teeth and dirty feet came up to him.

”Money for me and my brother.” He demanded gesturing.

My grandad gave him 20 Dirhams. He laughed in my grandad’s face.

”20 Dirham to me, 20 to my brother.” My grandad laughed and refused.

“50 and we share” he said in his broken English.

My grandad, gave him 20 Dirhams and walked away.

“Your daddy stupid.” I walked away, disgusted.

This was my first encounter with those type of men. They all scavenge for money, because of poverty, of course. It makes you feel uncomfortable. But you get used to it.

 

Outside of the old Portuguese medina, stood a market. Not a pleasant one. During the dusk, when nobody was around, when everyone was eating; the place was filled with rubbish. Unpleasant smells and darkness. During the night, however, the market was full of people – it was not the best Moroccan market I’ve seen, but it was more pleasant when there was a lot of people. The seaside was full of life, with boys playing music and dancing, sellers selling snail soup and sweet corn. Children running around and girls and boys walking together in groups. Incredible.

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It is so hard to fit everything into one post. The mountains, the awing road-trip views from high up the mountains, the waterfall, the 3000 street medina in Fes, the plate buying, the carpet haggling and eating. I will carry on writing more posts about my trip, until I cover everything.

Please let me know what you think! Have you been to Morocco?

Pattie

 

Our Skin’s a Canvas.

 I might not show it, or make it so obvious, but my appearance has always been an important part of my life. I am constantly conscious of my body, clothes and, especially, hair. My hair was always different; it was always frizzy. In some parts curly, in some straight; always dry and thin. And I always longed and desired beautiful, long and thick hair, like all the other girls that I see, literally, every day.

Yesterday, I spent a family day at a BBQ, I was taking photos throughout the day, and realised something, that I wish I realised before.

 My grandma put her hands on her head when she saw the portrait that I took of her. She didn’t like her wrinkles and the spots on her skin. Yet to me that picture was one of my favourite pictures from the day; along with a picture of my mum and grandma both laughing. My mum didn’t like her face in that picture – but I did.

 When taking photographs, I never imagine photographing people who conform to the magazine ‘beauty’ standards. I love taking photos that aren’t posed – images of people laughing, are my favourite – images of people without make-up, and ones that show every little wrinkle, that shows that we are human, not plastic mannequins. If we never smiled, laughed or cried, we wouldn’t have those features, so we should cherish those, just like we cherish pictures.

When I went into the centre of Nottingham, to take photos of people around the city, I was imagining, not cool, hip or pretty teenage girls, but I was imagining women, and men, with real facial features. Ones that have wrinkles, unique smiles and freckles and sun spots. The small features that really made them ‘them’.

 Our bodies tell a tale, they’re like a big plain canvas; when we are born, our skin is empty, but with every smile, laugh and bruise, we develop into a piece of art, almost like a photo album, but one that we often ignore. When we remember people we love, we remember their features, that we love most about them. The way their dimples indent when they smile, the way their eyebrow raises when they’re not impressed and the way their eyes puff up when they laugh. Without those little features, we wouldn’t be unique; there is not one person with the exact same wrinkles, so why do we hate them so much?

 Taking care of our skin is important, to feel good, clean and healthy – but don’t despite the things that make you ‘you’. To others, those exact features you hate, are the ones they remember you for.

Loving our skin should be a social norm, not disliking it. Sometimes we forget that the wrinkles and stretch marks that mark our skin are permanent memories that we always treasure and wish we could capture. They’re the un-captured memories that we always wished we had captured.

Trust me, make-up won’t help you when you’re 45 years old, so why don’t we just accept the way our skin is, is the way it’s supposed to be? Yeah, you might have an ‘ugly’ face, who cares? If people love you, they will love you for those features deemed as ‘ugly’ in magazines.

Why ’13 Reasons Why’ is supposed to be simplistic.

Since the 13 episode Netflix series, that focuses on suicide and depression, came out; all I’ve seen online was articles analysing how the show doesn’t fully explore the complexity of depression and mental health, and I don’t understand why. It’s not supposed to be realistic or clinically correct.

 Watching the few episodes that I watched, I couldn’t help but think to myself, ‘who records a whole load of tapes and doesn’t realise that they don’t want to die and they were just upset’ and I know, I know, some people can’t handle their emotions; and I more than understand that people have insecurities and worries and a lot of people decide to take their own lives every single day. But although I didn’t think that this series was the best representation of mental health, it does the job it’s supposed to.

 All the criticism articles I have read say how unrealistic the show is when it comes to mental issues and problems. And I get that. But I think we should all agree that this show was aimed at young people, who ,like the main characters, do attend high school, where bullying is the norm, where relationships mean everything and your image matters not only to you but everyone around you. One gossip, and you are the subject of gossiping and bullying. They’re young, and they haven’t experienced more complex issues to think that a small rumour or a gossip is not the end of the world, because to them it means everything. 

 The series aims CLEARLY to make those young people realise their consequences of bullying, gossiping and spreading rumours. It makes them re-think their actions. Although the show isn’t clinically correct, and the story is too straight forward for a series that tries to explain what it feels like living with bullying and mental health, it is simplistic enough to show us how, although indirectly, we can all worsen someone’s state of mind. 

 A 13 year old, girl or boy, aren’t studying psychology. They’re watching a series which draws them in – and with its simplicity, it allows those teenagers to think about their actions twice, hopefully, before they say or do something. 

 The simplistic story line, focusing on how each one of those 13 individuals contributed to Hannah’s suicide, also shocks, not just the teenagers, but also me, personally, especially in the last episode, in which we can all see how Hannah took her life. The gruesome scene, the mother finding her, it’a all very disturbing. And that’s what the series is supposed to do. Leave a mark on the young viewers. 

 There are scenes that make the viewers see rape from the victims point of view, suicide from the victims point of view, but most importantly the guilt that bullies have to live with after they realise their actions have driven their peer to that point.

I saw articles criticising the suicide scene for how graphic it was. I disagree. Although the narrative is simplistic, it’s supposed to be gruesome to raise the awareness young people in the era of such advanced social media need. They’re desensitised to so many things that they see online, that a point could only be made through such open and realistic suicide scene.

Without the simplicity, the show wouldn’t make the point that it’s trying to make. If you want a show that focuses on how complex depression is, you’d have to go somewhere else. 

I am my own inspiration.

As I am sat here, drinking mango juice and listening to some indie music that nobody likes, trying to write about an inspirational woman from Nottingham, I cannot quite decide who to write about.

It’s ‘Women’s Day’, just like every 8th of March, celebrating our ‘femininity’ and, basically, our gender.

I couldn’t help but think, why don’t we, women, see one another as competitors, rather than enemies. Women constantly keep building up, brick by brick, this culture of envy that is unhealthy. We can all appreciate one another, not be jealous. We’ve all been there, envied another female’s body shape, hair, looks, or even success.

Then I realised something, that I should have noticed a really long time ago. I am my own inspiration. Why don’t we all have this mentality?

My own success, hard work, and every time that I achieve something, that I did not expect to achieve. That inspires me. I know that every time I achieve a goal that I set myself, or that is set for me by someone else, I am proving myself, time and time again that I am worth a lot more than I ever realise.

At university, a time in all of our lives that makes it so hard to find external inspiration, you should be your own. As a females, we are exposed to a lot of negative role models; we are constantly taught that we are not good enough.

We are good enough. I am good enough. I learnt that it is okay to have bad days, to get a bad grade or to want a change. 

As this week, it was ‘International Women’s Day’, I want you to make that change. I want all of us women, to stop creating hate and being bad role models and just being kind. I want us to stop worrying that we are not pretty enough, that we are not good enough. That another female is better than us, just because she excels in an area that you do not.

Be yourself. To honour the women’s day. As cheesy as it may sound, be the change you want to see. Don’t envy other females, I mean, obviously, it is good to find external inspiration, and it is great when you do, but try to see what I realised myself.

 You should be inspired by yourself, before you are inspired by anyone else.

Just because I’m a feminist, doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel pretty.

There is this whole, forever ongoing, criticism of women wanting equality. I mean, come on! It isn’t the 1950 anymore, it’s 2017, for God’s sake!

I always, and I mean, always, hear things like”why does she dress like that, if she’s a ‘feminist’?”, “if you don’t want to be objectified, why do you dress like a slut?”.

 The funny thing is, recently, in a BBC interview, Emma Watson, also talked about this issue, as she, a woman wanting gender equality (otherwise known as a feminist) was judged and received a huge amount of hate from the public about “betraying feminist ideals” because she posed for a photoshoot with parts of her breasts revealed. Shock!

 Of course, she spoke out about it, saying “Feminism is about giving women choice. Feminism is not a stick with which to beat other women with. It’s about freedom, it’s about liberation, it’s about equality. I really don’t know what my tits have to do with it.”

 Equality is not about gender neutrality, although if people want to be gender neutral, it is only fair to let them do so without being judged. Equality is not about creating a list that defines someone who can be equal; only IF they do this, this and this. It is not about creating a list for the perfect equal woman!

 It is about having choice. Equal choice. There is no use saying a woman can either be a feminist, expecting equal pay and overall equality, and not follow gender stereotypes, or, follow gender stereotypes and not expect equality because “she’s dressing in a way that distracts men from doing their work properly.”

 A feminist, or any other ordinary member of the society, had the right to expect equal pay for the same job her middle aged, white male co-worker receives just because of her biology.

 Many women still want to feel pretty, appreciated and, most importantly, a woman, because it is fair to say, we are forever bombarded with women’s magazines that show attractive females, dressing in a fashionable way and it would be unfair to say that we cannot aspire to look like them. 

 Of course, working on a positive body image and dieting and going to extreme measures to achieving said ‘look’, is a debate for another time, but let’s focus on what I am trying to say.

 When watching ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ (and I really am not trying to sound clichè) one scene really stuck with me. It is the scene when Liz (Julia Roberts) and her blonde friend go on a shopping trip in Rome to buy a bigger pair of jeans so that they can enjoy food without feeling guilty about their ‘muffin tops’. Although that is a message in itself, the bit that particularly stood out to me was when Liz was admiring a very pretty, delicate night dress on a manequinn. When her friend told her that the dress was beautiful and that she should get it, Liz’s response was “per chi”, which in Italian means ‘for whom’. My favourite thing about this scene was the moment when her friend replied “for you”.

 What I am trying to get out here is that as a feminist, you don’t need to steer away from gender ‘stereotypes.’ As a feminist you should strive to avoid using your gender to get money or a job, but use your femininity, sexuality to feel good about yourself. If buying a pretty night dress makes you feel good while you sit there and read a book, there is no reason you should not do so, just because it is ‘girly’ and because some people see lingerie and night wear as pieces of clothing that are made just to make you look appealing for men. This is what equality is about. Wearing what you feel good in. Wearing things you feel attractive to yourself, because no man can tell you what you look good in and what you don’t. It’s up to you. And this is what I mean, when I say ‘equal choice’. We should decide what we look good in and feel good in. We, as females, have the power to say no, when we want to and and yes, whenever we want to. 

 No man, or judgemental woman, have the power in telling us what to wear, because you can still be pretty and want to be seen as an equal opponent to your middle aged, white male co-worker.

 Now, I’m going to wear my cute silky pink robe for myself, and only myself.

 Stay pretty,

 Pattie.

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze…

There’s something quite beautiful about words, especially when they’re more than just ‘words’. It always fascinated me how poets and musicians could use words and imagery to create something nerve-wracking. Something beautiful; passing along an ugly message using words, not describing the crisis, but words that create the image of it.

Sitting in my empty studio, I happened to listen to a jazz playlist – a genre that I don’t tend to listen to that often.

When that uniquely beautiful piercing and croaky familiar voice of despair sounded in my room, the world seemed to freeze in time. “Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze, strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar trees…”

The lyrics of this song were first written as a poem; metaphorical words of despair in a time where the lynching of black people was a normality. Yet something about the way Nina Simone sang those words makes you almost feel the despair – her voice,  uncontrollably, screams at the top of her lungs. Jazz. Jazz was used as a way of communicating and telling stories, without having to understand the words, and this song does exactly that.

This song reminded me of the situation that was happening in America for many many years, and it brought me to think about the current situation there. Not only there, but also here, in the UK. When extremists are given power; they use racism to gain votes and popularity. Why? Nobody can understand that – nobody, yet a lot of people don’t need to understand, they simply AGREE with the awful use of the race card. Normalising Islamophobia, disgusting stereotypes about  immigrants and pointing fingers at the minority groups for the locals’ laziness.

How has the Brexit campaign turned into a green card for racism and abuse towards minorities? How has Donald Trump becoming president turned into an open gate for discrimination? Why, after having the FIRST black president and legalising gay marriage, are we moving backwards,  We fight agains the beauty standards portrayed in magazines, yet we allow skin colour to define how worthy we are.

 The amount of times I’ve heard ‘the Polish are stealing OUR jobs’ is actually uncountable – I HATE that expression. Why? Why would you blame a WHOLE race of people for stealing a job that is not even yours? In High School, I heard remarks like this thrown straight at me, just because I was Polish myself – as if the fact that I come from a Polish family is a HUGE contribution to who I am as a person.

The worst thing about hearing people say stuff like this is the fact that you know that they genuinely mean it (not like I was stealing somebody’s job in year 9, but even then it was super annoying).

The point I am trying to make is: how do we get to a point where children make racist and stereotypical remarks at other children, just because of the descent of their family. How do we allow descent and race to be the main indicators of a person’s identity.

Vintage Shopping in Nottingham – why is it so popular?

When it comes to clothes shopping, Nottingham is widely recognised as ‘a good shopping destination’ and it is rated third, on TripAdvisor, for clothing retail.

The Portas Review, a government-run investigation into high street trends, independent shopping saw a 110% increase in the number of independent shops between 2010 and 2015. Nottingham is no exception to this trend. But what is it that attracts people to buy the second hand vintage clothes from the independent shops around Nottingham?

“THE WHOLE RENOVATION OF HOCKLEY AND THIS AREA JUST MAKES IT SO MUCH MORE POPULAR”

TOM WORMALL, SUPERVISOR AT COW

The Lace Market, Hockley area, in Nottingham is full of independent clothing stores and due to its’ independent led nature, it has been growing in popularity. Tom Wormall, a supervisor at COW, believes that there has “definitely” been an increase in vintage clothing sales as “we’ve got more shops out the way, we’ve got more stock, more space, which means that it’s obviously going to attract more people and I think the whole renovation of Hockley and this area just makes it so much more popular”.

Robin Pounded, the owner of Wild Clothing, has been running his second hand vintage shop for over thirty years now – being one of the oldest vintage and independent retailers in Hockley – he believes that at the moment “vintage is very popular, and it has been, possibly, for the past seven or eight years’’. Research conducted by the Leadership Factor shows that one in five consumers were doing more of their shopping with independent retailers in 2015 than the previous year.

“STUDENTS CONSTITUTE AROUND ABOUT 75% OF OUR TRADE”
ROBIN POUNDED, OWNER OF WILD CLOTHING

 As the new research shows that one in three 18-24 year olds choose to shop with independent retailers, it is very clear that it is the students who are mostly attracted to second hand retail in Nottingham, especially when looking at vintage trends. “Students constitute around about 75% of our trade and we certainly miss them when they’re not here”.

 “YOU GET MORE FOR YOUR MONEY YOU GET SOMETHING THAT’S LASTED A WHILE IT WILL STILL LAST LONGER THAN YOUR TYPICAL HIGH STREET BRANDS”
TOM WORMALL, SUPERVISOR AT COW

 Quality, price and individuality attract buyers to second hand and originality seems to be a hugely contributing factor as to why people tend to shop at charity shops more and more often. “It is definitely cheaper than your high street brands [also] quality, you get more for your money you get something that’s lasted a while it will still last longer than your typical high street brands that tend to just deteriorate and the whole idea of having something unique and that’s different”.

 Nina Chung, a worker at the White Rose, has also noticed that “everybody’s catching onto wanting their own individuality, which you can’t normally from most corporate shops – with charity shops and vintage shops you find that there’s an element of surprise, which I think is an ongoing trend”.

This article was written as part of a year 1 online portfolio. Grade: 1st

McDonald’s own interpretation.

So busy, yet so anti-social. You get lost in the rushing crowd. Each one individual chases their time in the endless line; yet time is frozen. Individuality is lost in such a horde of bodies.

An old man sits at a table. Alone. Only accompanied by a newspaper. His glasses thin, and his skin fragile. He slowly sips the cheap coffee out of the paper cup. The cold winter sun peaking through the delicate glass. I can’t help but stop. Stop and think for a while. His deep wrinkles tell a tale that everyone ignores – too busy looking inside their paper bags of ‘joy’. His calm nature, so vulnerable; contrasting the chaotic McDonald’s mess.

 How can a place so busy consume every inch of a person’s character – without a closer glance, the old man is like every other man. Yet, somehow, each one of them will have a completely different perception of the world. A beautiful perception of the ugly world.

 The chaos buries that.

This piece was submitted as an application for a writing position for the Tyro Magazine at Campus Society. The short piece is my own, written with no external influences.