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I’ve learnt a few things about myself in France…

Posted on by Farrah Kelly

Travelling, it has been suggested, is one of the best ways to learn life lessons. You know, soul searching, horizon broadening, that kind of thing. And I for one agree. There are a number of things I didn’t know I was shit at, but now, thanks to my trip in France, I’m now enlightened to.

Cooking.
This may not shock those of you who have seen my culinary attempts before, but it’s been a genuine surprise to me. I am viciously proud of the curries I make- and am a spice snob like you’ve never known before. But pass me some flour and a whisk, and I deteriorate. A five minute can’t-fail bread recipe becomes all out kitchen war, a food fight between me and the mixing bowl. And after all the effort and stressed google searches (“what is hoummus supposed to look like”), the result always tastes like shit. It’s so demoralising.

“hoummus”…

Still, not one to let a little stodgy bread or salty chocolate brownies get in my way, I’ve made myself a little promise that I’m going to carry on making stuff from scratch. I’m going to stop relying on tins of peaches to get my five a day, and I’m going to make the perfect loaf of bread if it kills me.

Coping with bugs.
I’ve never been one of those people who squeels at the sight of a creepy crawly. I’d prefer for them not to be in my cocktail, or in my bed, but as long as they keep themselves to themselves, I can carry on with my life. If you don’t look at me, I won’t look at you. It’s worked for me all my life- and I even have the magic ability to not implode whenever a wasp dawdles by unlike basically everyone else I know.

But that’s changed. You try sharing a tent with the entire fucking cast of A Bug’s Life.When I’m trying to relax on a hammock with a good book and Beedrill, of Pokemon fame, tries to pick an unprovoked fight with me, then as far as I’m concerned, our laissez-faire deal is off. Next time a demon hybrid of Eight-Legged Freaks and the devil incarnate creeps up on me, I’m going to scream until someone bigger and braver than me disposes of it.

Speaking French
Despite my 80% attendance at my evening classes last year, it turns out I’m not fluent in French. Waste of money, I know. I do give it a good try, and spend a lot of my time at parties translating the conversations around me for Anna, the other workawayer staying with us who has an even tinier grasp of the language than me.

It’s cool though- I have one useful phrase nailed. If in doubt, I go “je peut comprende un peu, mais je ne parle pas“. And for those of you who can’t be arsed to translate, it means “I can understand a little, but I can’t speak it”. And for the rest of you who are aware how appallingly bad that attempt is- don’t jump to your trolling stations just yet- ITS SUPPOSED TO BE BAD FRENCH. That way, I’m promptly exempt from having to struggle to understand what’s going on. Genius, really.

Being cool 

Okay, this one isn’t really new. There have been some hints over the past twenty years that have indicated I’m not blisteringly cutting edge. I have a blog, for starters. I get withdrawal symptoms from Coronation Street, and form really strong attachments to authors (if you’re reading this, Bill Bryson/Simon Armitage, I love you). I’m not sure the press needs to be informed of this revelation.

But the extent of how uncool I am has certainly come to light. While I’m at a gangette (French riverside parties- very similar to Fishing For Bishops vibes, but with free onion soup at the end), and everyone else is passing around beer and joints, I’m taking a quick nap in the back of the car. I had to hold back the surge of emotion upon finding a birthday message in a handwritten prayer book. I only just managed to contain my excitement on finding a pressed flower in a French art book from the 1930s.

Long and short of it; if you are asked on a scale of one to ten how uncool Farrah Kelly is, you should politely ask the enquirer for a larger scale.

There have been some other life lessons, for good measure. It’s not all been about how sub-par I am. I’m not as bad you’d rightly expect at rockclimbing. I can find a books’ ISBN number in less than ten seconds. I can climb to the top of a pile of crates with a torch in my mouth, a book on palmreading in one hand and a long checklist in the the other, and still manage to come back down with the right edition of Keats. You know, real life skills. The important stuff.

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How being surrounded by books has made me die a little inside

Posted on by Farrah Kelly

Working in a book shop is, in many ways, an ideal job for me. I get to spend time rummaging through boxes of travel guides and novels, I get to scale ceiling-height shelves looking for signed anthologies, I get to have that gorgeous smell of books surrounding me. Basically, I can spend my entire working day nerding out without anyone judging me.

But there is one thing. Working with 20,000 books is playing havoc with how I view the world.

In one way, my faith in hardcopy reading (and therefore humanity) is deepened. I’m stirred into a fuzzy feeling when I see the sheer volume of books that are ordered everyday. Someone, somewhere, is really looking forward to getting that first edition children’s book. A book that was printed in Milan, lent in libraries in Sao Paulo, and packed up in a barn in south of France, is now winging its way to Susan in Dorset. Removing bookmarks from well-thumbed novels, reading annotations from people’s close studies. The romantic in me is having an absolute field day.

On the other hand, I’ve realised how crazy people are. Utterly, utterly batshit. People will read anything.

But before I tirade about this, a disclaimer; I hate that snobbery that inhabits people’s opinions of literature. You know, how anytime a novel gets a film adaptation, everyone’s knickers automatically twist and we all splutter about it not doing the book justice. Or whenever something that The Independent didn’t review gets popular, and everyone guards their precious Waterstones loyalty cards like Twihards are going to soil all the “real” literature in the world. Let’s just man up about books- people like to read, and are entertained by different things. Get over it. You have more important things to troll than a Fifty Shades of Grey Facebook page.

So I’m really really not being snobby about this. This is unadulterated astonishment.

Yesterday I catalogued a book by a German woman from the seventies, talking about her drawings of cats. Seriously. That’s it. Not only does the book exist- and just think what that entails; someone thought the idea of the book sounded neat, someone WROTE that book, and someone else went out and PAID MONEY for it- but the thing is selling for about £20.

It’s even stranger when you have to examine these books closer. Think no one would be interested in 700 recipes that solely rely on the use of a microwave? Think again, there’s four editions of that bad boy. Couldn’t possibly foresee a situation in which someone would want to update a guide to behavioural habits of German Shepards? Wrong. Volume four, now available in shops near you.

The one that really hurt my feelings, though, was the catchily titled “Mathematics in Fun and Earnest“ . I swear to God. Google it right now. If anything was going to put a dampener on my definition of fun (and earnest…), it’s this book.

Now I know that seeing as anyone is allowed to write books, about anything they want, there is a LOT of crap out there. There’s not much I can (or would) do about it. But this really was taking the biscuit. I can’t think of anything worse than having to read that book. As Emma Bennett once eloquently put it, “I’d rather sick up a chip”. I calmly put the book back onto its pile, and tried to hold back the rush of sheer disgust.

My main rule for travelling has been to always overestimate how many books you’ll need. The extra weight in my suitcase will be worth it- I don’t want to end up reading taxi leaflets again like on my last day in Turkey, with seven hours to spare at the airport. But just knowing this Mathematics in Fun and Earnest exists has cemented for me what was already core advice. In no circumstances do I want to be left with a choice of MIF&E or staring blankly at an airport wall for seven hours. I honestly don’t know which I’d choose.

“For the traveller”
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Bonjour, Perigueux; unexpected & inexplicable nerves.

Posted on by Farrah Kelly

To put it as politely as possible, I was absolutely beside myself as I boarded the plane to Bordeaux at Gatwick on Wednesday. Hysterically sending last minute texts before having to turn off my phone for the next three weeks- if I’d have received just one message that said “Don’t go, Farrah“, I would have taken it as a God-given sign and marched right out of the departure lounge. I probably would have passed out from hysteria had anyone phoned me to wish me luck or say goodbye.

Why would you be nervous here?

Having experienced a less than successful workaway situation before, perhaps you might naturally attribute this overwhelming desire to sod the plane tickets and wedge myself firmly between my duvet and sheets for the upcoming three weeks instead is down to my little drama in Turkey.

But I’d have to disagree with you. My new workaway placement had excellent reviews (more than can be said for the Turkish one), and I’d spoken to my new host a handful of times on facebook- which relaxed me (and mum) to no end. The place looked gorgeous from the pictures, I was pretty much completely prepared- as far as I ever “completely prepared” for anything- and was looking forward to my French adventure.

So why the nerves? I’d never been this way about anything like this before. I wasn’t afraid of flying- I was with BA, not Jet2 this time, far too many rich people to risk crashing or anything silly like that. I wasn’t particularly afraid my new placement would turn out to be rubbish. I’d done ample catching up and spending the highest of quality time with the family and friends. I was to return to a newly boxed up house somewhere in Holmfirth (yes- moving again- don’t mind me) and then straight onto York, where I’d return to my part time job, which I missed, frankly, and back to another year of linguistics and The Yorker business.

Honestly? I don’t know what brought it on. I was shaky and brimming with dread- though I have no idea what of. In fact, it took until I entered my stopover hotel in Bordeaux for the nerves to subside. The receptionist gave me my key and I pottered off to bed a calmer and much more normal version of myself.

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt that unsure of my plans. I genuinely felt nauseous, and utterly convinced something terrible and scarring was going to happen to me. From a rushed farewell at Clapham Junction to the shabby lift of Hotel Clemenceau, I was 100% certain that I was going to either throw up or run away. Maybe it was because I didn’t feel as prepared as I had been for Turkey- and look how that ended. Though maybe it’s because Taken is set in France.

The barn…

As quickly as the dread came, it filtered away as the lift rose to premier etage. Possibly because I hadn’t been kidnapped yet. Probably because the receptionist was gorgeous. Either way, when I woke, I ambled down to the train station and made a nuisance of myself trying to find my platform, boarded my train, and sped towards Perigueux, happy and excited.

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It looks like no decent pictures for my French adventure- the camera I’ve borrowed is inexplicably shouting at me to turn it off every time I try and take a picture. Bit like when people try to wake me up early really, so I have some sympathy. Though I’d usually use much more colourful language than Panasonic have chosen. Anyway, yes. My iPod’s camera quality will have to suffice. Sorry!

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Twenty things from twenty years

Posted on by Farrah Kelly

As a homage to the loss of my teenage years, and equally as a convenient round-up of all the life lessons and wisdom I’ve worked hard to earn over the last two decades, I’m listing twenty things I’ve learnt over the last twenty years. I assume I’ve learnt more than twenty things in total (totally still remember every word of my essay on the law of theft from two and a half years ago), but I’m procrastinating enough right now as it is. Twenty will have to suffice. Enjoy!

  1. Mum is always right, and also knows everything. Not only about whether it’s going to rain, whether you look ridiculous in that outfit, but about the big stuff too. The university choice, relationship advice, what’s going to happen on Corrie. It kind of sucks when it’s not what you want to hear, because it’s definitely going to happen. 
  2. Charity shop books. They’re basically life’s way of allowing me to fund my reading habit despite the recurring problem of not actually having any money. 
    3. Charity shop haul
  3. Everywhere south of Manchester is “Down South” and masses as one big place that’s next door to London. The Midlands are just southerners attempt to join us, and I for one am not fooled. 
  4. On a completely unrelated note, I have no sense of direction. Learnt the hard way, many, many times.
  5. Always ask for your spicy food to actually be spicy. For some reason, people in restaurants always assume that despite ordering a hot madras, I’m not going to be able to handle heat. It’s cool, I’m kind of a snob about it anyway guys. Don’t skimp on the chilli powder.
  6. Don’t publish embarrassing things online, because the internet is forever.
  7. Moving house is kind of fun. It’s definitely useful that I think this, considering I’ve moved in and out of ten, with another on the way. It’s less fun if you have to do it on your own, resulting in hysterical phone calls to your mum.
  8. Hangover cure= banana milk, trashy TV and lying down. 
  9. Nothing will ever entertain me in the same way as scrolling through my little sister’s Tweets. Personal highlights include “Disappointing bowl of cocopops.” and “I can’t find Wally”.

  10. People that enjoy studying syntax should be treated with suspicion and ultimately ostracised from society, for our own protection.
  11. Don’t play drinking games with Sam Dumigan.Or rugby teams. Or jagerbombs.
  12. There’s a difference in being unprepared and disorganised. I’m usually both, but the difference exists.
  13. Verve, nine o clock, Friday night.
  14. I suck royally at games of any kind. Don’t know what happens if you win at Pacman. I drove carefully on Grand Theft Auto. I never completed Pokemon because I couldn’t figure out how so just imagined Pikachu was my pet and all the other battler-people were my friends. 
    15. Boys: don’t expect them to remember who you are.
  15. If you’re friends with guys, don’t expect them to turn up on time/at all/remember your birthday/remember to invite you to stuff. They will sheepishly love you forever though, so that makes up for it.
  16. Take pictures of everything, because you never know when you might need a stock photo for The Yorker.
  17. If someone makes you a crap brew, tell them before it becomes part of their routine to turn up at your bedside every morning with a cuppa.
  18. How to weave around busy city centres with suitcases, while on the phone, drinking a coffee, running late for a train.
  19. Putting something down usually means I’ll never see it again. Especially if it’s my glasses, phone, keys, essays, treasured jewellery, train tickets, umbrellas. This is because a) I have a terrible short term memory and b) my things are conspiring against me.
  20. Key to happiness is sitting around reading a book listening to Noah. Or it’s reunions with friends. Or it’s car journeys with mum. Or getting top marks in something you’ve worked hard for. Or it’s getting drunk on beaches. Or it’s those little family arguments about who has the most cushions. Or it’s conquering a to-do list. Mostly it’s Geordie Shore.
These guys.