Ebay, The French Revolution and Margaret Atwood...

Definitely not three things you'd place hand in hand, but recently, they've been dominating my brain.

First of all, all three are addictive, the more you get into them.

Second of all, they're all a reminder of days gone by... On Ebay, 'Vintage' is my most clicked link - 80's Wayfarer Sunglasses and a beautiful Tie Rack scarf from somewhere in the 70's are my only purchases so far, but that's not bad for a girl who's only had an account for four days. I love trawling through pages and pages, asking my mum's opinion for that genuine Pretty in Pink look, cooing and mentally discussing how I'm sure I saw something very similar in Topshop last month...    Saying that, Topshop have nothing on the power of John Hughes, whatever the masses say.

I've just discovered the complexity that is The French Revolution (thanks to a finally optional Uni module, enticingly entitled 'Politics and Revolution') and the things people said, did and wrote are unfathomable. An event so simple, that escalated so fast - much like all political issues-  generated so many opinions from so many people ahead of its time. Female oppression was in fact first brought up here; a good century before it reached mainland Britain and Emmeline Pankhurst's brain and voicebox -  Olympe de Gouge, please step forward.
I have just come across this amazing woman - the original feminist, a martyr for her cause. She developed the original pre-nup and the idea that men should pay for their offspring - married or not. Jeremy Kyle would have loved her, however 18th Century France was not quite so liberal, and she was executed for attempting to push her ideas. Her writings were certainly hysterical, but it was a revolutionary time and the contraceptive pill hadn't been invented - who can blame her?

Feminist writings do not - and in my opinion can not - come any more mind screwing yet elegantly poised than any book by Margaret Atwood. Everyone rates The Handmaid's Tale, and it's a good book; it's a great book. Second only to Nineteen Eighty Four in the dystopian world, but The Edible Woman gets into your brain on an entirely unconscious level. Just like everyone thought Olympe was a hysterical female, you could accuse  Marian of being incredibly dull; doing a 'woman's' office job, doing 'woman' things (worrying about dresses and getting engaged) and yet, by the end you don't want her to be either sex. Sex becomes an enemy; all of the differences between men and women seem irrelevant and you resent men. I would even recommend it to male readers; the intense difference between men and women in the 60's are clearly presented, from the issues of single mother-dom to education being limited for females at the time. You can't help but come away feeling changed.

Days gone by aren't always as pretty as scarves and sunglasses, but they're essential for understanding now. Especially when you're about to spend £50 on a dress that's not even an original and one click can save your purse and credibility...

Journalism

As a History student, quite often I get the job of rifling through (old) newspapers - usually online-  tediously looking for the right quote to support a point. I usually enjoy reading vintage articles along the way, but whilst reading something as shocking as an english translation of Nazi Germany's hideously anti semitic Der Sturmer, it can be quite easy to want to lose focus. My latest essay is also on the uses and limitations of newspapers; as far as I can ascertain there are no uses, and there are no limitations - they are yin and yang, cheese and onion, one. Just like news itself, there isn't any absolutist point of being correct.

Today's big news is obviously the student riots that took place yesterday, with particular reference towards the vandalism that took place on Prince Charles and Camilla's private car. The son of one member of Pink Floyd took it upon himself to stand on the Cenotaph (he has today publicly apologised; probably because Daddy told him too - Ironic as you would think 'Another Brick in the Wall' would commend his 'revolutionary' attitude). Students say the Met Police were too heavy handed. The Met Police say the Students were demanding trouble. And on and on it goes; today, every single paper has the same image on its cover - Camilla is clearly shaken and ol' Charlie is gripping onto her hand (a far cry from the days of him and Diana, where he begrudgingly agreed he was in love with her, 'Whatever that is'; this is true love). The students have also been reported as chanting 'Off with their heads'. These people either like the new Alice in Wonderland a little too much, or they're not history students - (a monarch no longer rules and reigns, so really, unless we go to war or kill a swan, the Royals have nothing to do with daily life.) but all of them would have to agree, that this was a touch too far. In fact, I would say smashing The Treasury's windows, having the stomach to deface Sir Winston Churchill's statue (but not the guts to show your face) and stomping all over the Cenotaph was already a bit heavy handed, but that's fine. After all, let's show our maturity to the Government (because someday in the next 20 years, these students may well be the Government) by destroying Britain's history.

This just shows that the old saying 'No such thing as bad press' can't be true; today there are a lot of people being publicly humiliated or commended, being discussed and disgusting and of course, again... None of them are wrong.

Not to themselves anyway.

Fashion.

Now, my best friend would kill me for this (she's a Fashion Journo in the making), but I don't really GET fashion. Sometimes, I just don't see the point. I can look in a magazine, and tell you what I like. I can usually even tell you if it'd suit me; but somehow when I buy the outfit (accessories and all) I NEVER look like the girl in photo.
It might be a weight thing; I'm no size 24 elephant, but I sure ain't a size 0. It might be a wearability thing - maybe they're not deigned to be worn, but just visually appreciated.
Or maybe I just can't do the 'in' thing.

This is probably likely; I have no qualms about dying my hair green, piercing a hole in my face and wearing any colours and designs I want - I bought them because I liked them, and I'll wear them however I want.
Something tells me Louis won't be asking me to model anytime soon. The Devil Wears Prada's Meryl Streep has a point, when she points out to new intern Andy that everything she was wearing (cobbled together with no accessories and a wonkier haircut than my own - with far less success) was chosen for her 'by the people in this room, from a pile of 'stuff'.' Her 'pile' may be Chanel whilst mine is charity shop, but we're happy.

Still, this season I made progress. I bought nail varnish that could be classified as 'in trend'. That wasn't red or a derivative of black. Maybe Louis will call....

Autumn

Autumn, according to Keats, is 'the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness'... Or at least it was in 1819. To people everywhere now (alas, despite the global warming fears of both the twentieth and twenty first centuries, Autumn has deigned itself not to change and carries on as normal as ever) Autumn represents fears of 'leaves on the line', slipping over in Louboutins due to soggy pavements and rain. Lots and lots of rain.

Autumn does however remain my favourite season. As soon as I get off of the train and start to walk the 1.1 miles to University, I see conkers. I walk through a leafy lane (something so countryside, it sticks out in the grey hues of London) and everywhere I see those avocado green porcupine shells that have spent months holding little chocolate toned spheres. For months and months these tiny seasonal accessories have been being crafted (without any help from sweatshops) and how do they end up? In a mud pool, or being smashed to pieces by children in playgrounds everywhere who are lucky enough to attend non politically correct schools. I was a child lucky enough to attend one of these schools (the 90's were much more liberal) and as a result, I automatically associate Autumn with nostalgic memories of cheering people on, and pulling disapproving faces when one of the offending conkers split and debris would fly.

Autumn means a new start; New pencils that need sharpening, a new diary that needs drawing over, hot chocolate, a good reason to shop for woolly (and preferably found in the mens section) socks and woolly hats, fighting with gloves to send a text, and holding hands. I love to hold hands in Autumn, partially because I'm a romantic, and I like nothing more than wrapping up and snuggling up to my Man (who won't see the romanticism but has been dragged along and promised Starbucks) and partially because I'm particularly clumsy and need someone a bit bigger than me to hold me up, and still love me for my Bambi feet. I love the freshness of the air, the pink cheeks, the happy smiles and that never far feeling that The Season To Be Jolly is one step closer...

Still, as much as I love it, I do observe that tomorrow it will almost certainly be only just breaking dawn as I wake up, and I'll groan because it's still only September, and I also know I'll dare myself to get out from underneath the 13.5 tog quilt that stays on all year round, whilst telling myself I'll never regain this position of warmness ever aga... Oh hell, who am I kidding? I'll love it really, Glove wrestling and all.

Books.

Books.
It seems with every passing year, there is a new way to read a book; but is a book still a book if you can't pick it up, turn the page, break the spine, fold the top of the page over, spill nail varnish over it or settle down in bed and fall asleep (glasses on, of course) whilst reading it?

Yesterday, I went to print something off at the local library, where I was told I could either buy a day pass or join for free. At first, I was irritated. Why would I want to join a library?I just wanted to print something off and be on with my day! Then I realised that clearly I was behaving too cosmpolitan. 8 year old me used to love the library, and often refused to leave. The library was where Roald Dahl lived, and where I first convinced my Mother that Harry Potter was not a satanic book. So I joined, received a much prettier card than I had when I was 8 (with a scenic shot of Newlands Corner on it, nonetheless) and went up the stairs... to sit at a computer.
Although that's what I had intended to do in the first place, it felt wrong. Like I had ignored my life-long partner for some new toy boy on the scene. So I went for a walk. I love the smell of books, the feel of them. Books to me are like people; some I get on with straight away (Jilly Cooper's 'Riders'), some I have to meet a few times before really liking them (Antony Burgess's 'A Clockwork Orange'), some I just don't like (John Milton's 'A Paradise Lost') and the One. The thing every girl searches for, the one that'll never leave her and always love her, even if she asks the same questions every time she sees them (George Orwell's '1984').

Today, I am going to buy a new book; granted I already have a small library which was recently increased in size with encouragement from an English Literature degree booklist, but these books are like teachers; forced upon me whether I like them or not. A new book.
A new book a day keeps the doctor away.
But it really doesn't help your vision.

Commuting

This week I have begun to commute. This is one of the most stressful, most busy, yet most beautiful forms of travel; there are people everywhere. Much like walking in a Toulouse-Lautrec poster, Clapham Junction is full of people. Thin people. Fat people. Ugly people. Old people. Rich people. The beauty of it is hidden in it's anonymity.
In a world where everybody knows everything about everyone else, commuting is oddly lonely, yet full of togetherness. I find myself wondering where people are getting off, where are they going to, who will they talk to today? Yet the general public appear as if they cannot stand to be alone; as soon as you sit down (or stand and look tall - impressive with my personal stature) as if by some James Cameron 'Avatar' style telepathic link, everyone around you will reach for a Blackberry or an iPhone, headphones or a newspaper. We can't stand to be singular, to have those 9 minutes for Clapham Junction to Barnes People Free; forgetting anything outside this metal carriage exists. Sure, the odd person leans back, closes their eyes, but all the while, their eyes move under their lids, fully aware they're going against the expected behaviour and praying no-one's looking.
It's the walking to platforms that's so interesting. Everyone walks so fast. You just know that even if they have 20 minutes before their train is due, they'll rush. It's like a tiny olympic race to Platform 9 to catch the 10:02; you walk fast, you look at no-one, and you keep to the left; like some untaught regime the masses follow. You learn to fit, and you learn to fit fast. Smiling is a no-no, you ignore everyone, even if they look like they need a cup of tea and a chat, simply because right then, it's more important to get in front of the 6'2 Rugby-Player-framed-suited-and-booted-briefcase-clutching-simultaneously-texting-man that is always within reach of your studded cowboy booted steps...