Hello Farrah - Page 35 of 46 - Getting lost & fed

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!

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!

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.
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.

Charity shop haul

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.
On a completely unrelated note, I have no sense of direction. Learnt the hard way, many, many times.
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.
Don’t publish embarrassing things online, because the internet is forever.
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.
Hangover cure= banana milk, trashy TV and lying down.
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”.

People that enjoy studying syntax should be treated with suspicion and ultimately ostracised from society, for our own protection.
Don’t play drinking games with Sam Dumigan.Or rugby teams. Or jagerbombs.
There’s a difference in being unprepared and disorganised. I’m usually both, but the difference exists.
Verve, nine o clock, Friday night.
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.

Boys: don’t expect them to remember who you are.

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.
Take pictures of everything, because you never know when you might need a stock photo for The Yorker.
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.
How to weave around busy city centres with suitcases, while on the phone, drinking a coffee, running late for a train.
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.
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.

I don’t know how this has happened. In fact, it seems just yesterday I was blogging about how I didn’t feel like an adult. But something has changed, and I’m not sure I’m happy with how this whole “getting old” lark is going so far.

I turn twenty on Friday- and rather than being all excited about a birthday (read: having an excuse to throw a party), I’m turned numb at the thought of leaving my teens behind. I don’t think I’ve accepted it, even now, with three days to go. But regardless of whether I’m prepared to leave nineteen behind, the rest of world seems to be heaping extra age on top of me.

My ideal man, Norris.

Camping with the family this weekend- I had very little signal and very few opportunities to charge my phone. I don’t particularly use my phone all that much, so it’s still pathetically exciting when I get a text. This excitement is then doubled by the fact that it provides a momentary distraction from sitting in a soggy field. So imagine my disappointment when my phone lights up, not with a message from a loved-one, or an invitation to a party, but with a text from Mecca Bingo, asking how I am. The insult to my injury arrives only ten minutes later, when Optical Express text me asking if I’m interested in a free laser eye surgery consultation.

Not convinced I’m weirdly middle-aged before my time? I spent (and thoroughly enjoyed) last Friday night in Sainsbury’s with my mum, debating whether to get frozen or fresh corn-on-the-cobs. (We went for fresh, jsyk). In a game of “who would you invite to your birthday party” played recently with my family, I, without shame nor hesitation, plumped for Norris Cole of Coronation Street fame. I’ve asked for an alarm clock for my impending birthday. If that hasn’t persuaded you, nowt will.

SO. What should I do? Accept my twenties glumly, start investing in some good blankets and sign up to online bingo? Sod that. I’m going to carry on holding my youth dear, and make the big two-oh something to remember. Forget the quarter-life crisis!

I’ve had a trip to France booked for quite some time. As it’s coming closer, I’m starting to panic, as I always do with this kind of thing. I’m in a horrid amount of debt courtesy of the unexpected turn my Turkey trip took, so a pretty easy way of cutting costs would be to cancel the trip.

But that’s what boring, middle aged 20 y o Farrah would do. And I’m going to be exciting and interesting 20 y o Farrah, and pull my tongue out at the idea of cancelling. I have savings that I’ve worked hard to earn, and a trip to south France working on an eco-farm-come-antique-bookshop is exactly the kind of rainy day I was saving for.

It mightn’t be the most financially wise thing to do, but I have a year of hard work ahead of me at university, and a wonderful part time job to help get me back on track once I touchdown in York again in September. This is me treating myself, in a way. Proving that my twenties are going to be as stunningly cool as possible, and not a one way road to knitting magazines. Though I might hold onto my Corrie infatuation for now.

I’m no pro with a camera, unfortunately. Doesn’t mean I can’t eagerly point and shoot, though, so here’s a smattering of pictures from my little Turkish seaside adventure. Click to enlarge/start the fancy viewing screen!