Eat. Explore. Adventure. Repeat.

(Notice the lack of "Sleep"?)

I'm super-psyched for an awesome New Year's Eve/ New Year tonight: I have silky soft hair after an at-home treatment, a shiny new camera to play with and a pretty see-through mug of good quality flowering jasmine tea to sip as I tinker. I even managed to squeeze in one last recipe and post for Tashcakes!, and I have freshly washed bedsheets to snuggle into later.

... What, did you think I'd be out there doing something interesting and quirky and Tash-ish?

New Year's Eve has never been a night of Going Out And Doing Stuff for me. I think anyone who knows me can agree that I do more than enough of that on normal days: so NYE is one of the rare times I just let myself do Bugger All. No FOMO for me- just kicking back and relaxing, and giving myself a moment to process all of the stuff I've done in the year (but don't worry, this isn't going to be a "Wot I Did This Year Lol Aren't I Amazing" post). As for tomorrow, the first day of the new year itself, I will think about all the things to come in 2015 (or rather panic mildly at the mad things I've signed up for and the things I need to get organised for).

The great thing at the moment is that lots of my friends are beginning to take on the same mentality as me- so instead of feeling guilty about turning down their events, I get to switch off at home knowing that they're doing the same thing! There is plenty to do in the city on a night like this- but you know what? This is London, and there is always plenty to do, every single day and night of the year. So just once a year- just for tonight- I'd just prefer to drink my tea, try not to break my new toys and look forward to clean sheets.

A happy new year to you all- as I said in Tashcakes!, "go try new foods, experience new things and most importantly: have fun!"

Sleep is for Sissies

My name is Tash and I am a serial sleep-dodger.

Most of the time it's genuine insomnia. Other times it's because I have so many little things to do and so little clue as to when to call it a day, and I just end up keeping on going. And occasionally, for no reason at all, I just seem to zone out and suddenly it's 3am and I have to get up in three hours for work.

Most of the time though it's because there is just far too much to do. Even as I'm writing this I'm pausing and thinking, "Oh yeah, I need to reply to X about this, and confirm with Y about that, and plan on my travel route for Z". This seemingly short blog post will probably take about an hour to write because I'm constantly doing All The Things in one go.

Even after that sentence I disappeared to a new tab because I remembered I needed to reply to a good friend currently travelling in Nepal, and then straight after that I found out that someone from the Geek Girls London meetup group had messaged me two months ago about spotting me at a K-Pop dance class, but I hadn't picked up on it because the notification system was playing up- so I picked that up too.

It has now officially been a full hour since I started writing this blog, at 11:45pm. Still so much to make sure I get done before bedtime...

I don't Like Sarcastic People

"It's food," said the guy (a friend of a friend), seeing me dither at the snacks table. I had already eaten before getting to the party, not knowing that there would be food, so I didn't really need anything- I just wanted to be a gracious guest and accept the host's generosity.

"Awesome, I like food," I said a little foolishly, not knowing what to say in reply to that, but feeling like I should say something under his mildly inquisitive gaze. I put a small handful of chips onto my paper plate and moved away to make room for other party-goers.

"Well that looks filling," said the guy, quirking an eyebrow at my meagre portion.

"Haha," I said weakly, and joined the others.

I love sarcasm. Used at the right times it's hilarious, clever and makes people bond.

However, I do not like sarcastic people. Not people that use sarcasm (or I'd be in trouble with myself)- just people that seem to live in a natural state of constant sarcasm. It's like they live to make try to make others feel uncomfortable or stupid.

One of the things that makes me not get on with sarcastic people is that I'm a very literal person. Puns are often wasted on me- and even though as a writer I can make (apparently good) ones up, I don't really find them laugh-out-loud funny. My friends love teasing me because I apparently become indignant really easily, even though I know they're only teasing. It's not as if I have a thin skin; it's just that it takes me one or two beats longer to pick up on social cues than other people.

"Don't worry," my friend said, "he's always really sarcastic." This was after first being introduced to him as her friend from dance- he asked me very seriously what time I was on, and I looked at my watch (I told you I'm really literal).

It made me think of how I have (had?) this old friend who had a razor-sharp tongue. I used to admire her for how forthright she was and how acidic her humour was- but after a few too many years of her using me as a whetstone every now and again, I decided that she wasn't just naturally talented in the art of sarcasm- she was just a bit of an arsehole.

So with this new revelation, perhaps I'll become more sensitive to the way people might interpret the things I'm saying. I believe that when I'm being sarcastic, I'm being so obvious about it that there is no question that I'm joking about something- but maybe there are times I'm not obvious enough and end up hurting someone's feelings. Perhaps we should all use sarcasm a bit less, especially as a way to cover up our own insecurities. Perhaps we should all be more open with each other, so the world will become a better place.

As if.

A Rare Positive Train Journey Experience

I was sitting next to the cutest family on the train home from a Birmingham visit this weekend. It was quite late at night for the two little girls, and they were a little giggly and quietly hysterical, with the mother warily trying to calm them down. At one point the two girls started making puns out of everything, while I tried to hold it together in my seat.

"We can all enjoy a nice lie-in tomorrow," said the mum.

"I'm a lie-on, raaaaawr!" the youngest girl chipped in without missing a beat. Her older sister burst into laughter, holding her sides.

"Mummy I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped between giggles. The mother sighed.

What an awesome family.

In other news, I have a shiny new phone! It's bigger than my old one, so I'll be able to blog on the go (so I'll never have an idle waking moment. Ever. Again. Yay?)

Red Lipstick

"Hey, you're beautiful! Gorgeous!"

I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.

"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.

I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.

What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.

All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.

Enjoy Every Second Your Way

My friend Sarah and I were trying to find the end of an immense queue for char kway teow noodles at the Malaysia Night festival. There were queues everywhere, full of all kinds of people waiting for all kinds of food, an organised chaos of interweaving lines like the London Underground. My British little heart looked at all the queues and found them beautiful.

Most people were happy to give other hungry and friendly strangers tips on where they had found the interesting food they were holding, or which end of which queue belonged to which food stall.

Of course, some were still a little bit too much on the British side.

"Hi! Hello! Um... excuse me, is this the queue for that stall over there?"

I smiled hopefully at the lady in the queue. The lady gave a mildly terrified look, as if I had just asked her to choose between her money or her life. Her eyes then unfocused, and stared right through me, a watery polite but insubstantial smile hovering on her lips. She turned away, having apparently decided I was some sort of ghostly apparition. Sarah giggled as I threw my hands up in exasperation.

It was my birthday earlier this week. I'm older, and none the wiser, and still asking strangers in the city questions while trying not to freak them out with my forthrightness. I also haven't been posting for the last couple of weeks- in fact, for two more weeks than I realised: this gives you some sort of idea of how badly I'm keeping track of passing time at the moment. My weekday evenings are packed with Mandarin, ukulele, Dungeons and Dragons and dance, my weekends are packed with cool friends, my kitchen is full of the cakes I've baked, my absolutely free time is non-existent. And I'm having a shedload of fun learning new things, catching up with old friends and meeting new ones.

Let's do another year!

Annihilated Knees- Part 2

It's a really twisted part of human nature to instantly want to do something that you're told you absolutely must not do. Sometimes it's not even a conscious choice.

I went for an MRI scan on my knees this morning, not really knowing what to expect apart from making sure not to wear metal before being pushed into the middle of a giant high-powered magnet. I also knew before they told me that I'd have to hold myself completely still for an extended amount of time.

No big deal- I can sit still for  long periods of time engrossed in a book or watching a film. It's the same thing, right?

Wrong.

We're always shifting, twitching, moving every so slightly. No-one's really like a statue.

Each knee took 20 minutes to be scanned, and because I wasn't used to the terrible din of the machine and the weird feeling of pressure during some of the cycles, the muscles in my legs involuntarily tensed up. Try as I might, I just couldn't get into a zen mode. Halfway through one of my legs very suddenly twitched, and the radiographer switched intercom system on. I heard him sigh a little.

"Okay, we're going to have to do that one again, you moved a little."

"Okay, sorry!"

The poor radiographer had to buzz in a few more times to remind me to keep still. It was all very well telling my brain this, but my leg muscles had other plans.

I was also given a panic button to press if I went into shock in the machine (I can see how this would happen to some people- you're very enclosed and the noises and sensations are enough to freak anyone out). Of course I knew I mustn't press it for no reason, and I certainly didn't need to- but the entire time my hands got a twitching feeling, as if to tell me "Go on, the button's right there, you know you want to!"

Steampunk Shenanigans

This weekend I attended another costumed event with a few friends, this time at Lincoln's Weekend at the Asylum Steampunk Festival, the annual largest-gathering-of-steampunks-in-Europe.

The funny thing about it was it was my first time a) attending a steampunk gathering and b) dressing up in steampunk attire at all, so I thought my Steam Powered Giraffe-inspired clockwork robot would either be too weird or too lame. I got a shock when half of my day turned into posing for photographers from various backgrounds (only one or two were a little on the creepy side- one was quite a bit more than a little creepy but I made a swift disappearing act).

I was also pretty proud that I managed to put my face on in only 15 minutes as we arrived late thanks to a sudden taxi drought. During my test-runs, my makeup usually took no less than 45 minutes. However I did have to forgo some of the shading and depth effects and stick to simple. Next time... at least whenever I smiled I looked terrifying. Job well done?

Lincoln was beautiful, made even more dream-like and surreal the amount of people dressed in period-fantasy fusion. I also love the fact that Lincoln has a street on a really long and steep hill called Steep Hill. It definitely earned its name.

Can you imagine cycling up that? Or even down it, now that would be terrifying.

Until next time, Lincoln.

Dodging Death

I was just about to switch everything off thie evening when Mum came downstairs, exclaiming how something had blown the bathroom light out upstairs. I shrugged it off- it happens. What did make me get up to investigate was ten minutes later, after Mum had gone back upstairs, when she called down saying that she could smell burning.
I went upstairs, and sure enough there was a faint smell of something burning. But not a smokey smell (which would have been bad enough)- this smelled like burning plastic.

We hunted around to the source of the smell, until I noticed that it was actually coming from Mum's room itself. Mum discovered that it was, in fact, her TV pouring out evil, invisible and silent fumes- all the while still working otherwise as normal.

We quickly switched it off, although in the short space of time we discovered the source of the smell, the fumes had gotten so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel to get close enough to fully unplug it. We threw the windows in the room open and closed the door.

Here's the kicker- normally Mum goes to bed much earlier than this, and sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV while it's still on (despite me lecturing her about doing this on many an occasion). Mum could have been gassed to death in her sleep without a sound. I would have been downstairs, completely unaware until I went upstairs, or possibly in my adjacent room, also being silently poisoned. Or, the TV would set alight. Either way, if Mum hadn't been up later than usual (ironically watching TV instead of falling asleep to it), Dad may have come home from his night shift to bodies, burning or both.

Sobering thought.

I've moved Mum downstairs to sleep on the sofa for the night while the fumes dissipate from her room. In the meantime I've been periodically checking the TV to make sure it stops fuming, which thankfully, it has now.

This is right up there with the time the ceiling collapsed in a patch right next to my bed with me in it, in terms of brushes with the grim reaper.

Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy (Part 2)

 I really wonder what on Earth is wrong with me, sometimes.

On Wednesday we were split into small groups during dance class to learn the next part of the choreography. I was hyper from dancing, as usual, and was chatting to another class member with whom I've never spoken with before. At the the end of the class...

"Well it was nice chatting to you!" they said, smiling.

"Whee!!" I skipped off at high speed.

... Told you I fail at meeting new people.

Pagliacci

Last week, it was the peak night for the Perseid meteor shower. I had just come in from three quarters of hour of stargazing, neck sore from craning up for so long. So far, I had seen nothing in the small patch of light-polluted London sky of my back garden. It was about 2:30am.

I sat down at my computer to take a short break. I saw the red banner of a breaking news story on my screen that had only been posted about ten minutes ago- Robin Williams had been found dead.

This post has been sitting in my drafts for a week now. I wanted to say something constructive and intelligent, and to express the strange and unexpected pain of losing someone I've never even met. I grew up with his on-screen shenanigans, marvelled at his talent and had heard stories of his kind nature, but I didn't know him; and yet I felt a little heartbroken. I couldn't find a way to express all of this. Thankfully, the internet, or indeed the whole world it seems, managed to convey these sentiments perfectly.

I was going to just delete this nod to Mr. Williams because I felt like I had nothing worth posting compared to everyone else, and certainly nothing as beautiful or thought-provoking as the heartfelt tributes that have gone out. However, I started to think about my own very personal dealings with the invisible but very tangible dead weight that is depression: both for myself and close friends. Then I began to think that if I can get through to just one person out there that happens to be reading this post- literally just one person in the whole world- and be able to help them just a little, then that's worth more than enough for me to post this.

There are days where you might feel like you could never be happy again. Or, just as bad, you feel like you could never feel anything ever again. There might be days where instantly when you wake up, you feel an invisible weight crushing down on you, and you wish nothing more than to just stay in bed and never get up again. There might be days where no matter what the hell you do you feel repulsive, unsuccessful and generally worthless to anyone or anything- and that either you, your loved ones, or both, would be better off if you just removed yourself from the world.

This is not the truth.

The sneakiest, most vicious part of depression is the way it convinces you that it's purely logical to feel this way. It's not. You have more worth than you can ever know, and are treasured more than you can ever realise. You don't deserve to be feeling like this at all, no matter what you tell yourself, and you have just as much right to be down as anyone else. Ignore people who tell you nonsense such as 'just snap out of it' or 'smile more' or 'be grateful for the life you have'. Depression is certainly not your fault, and these people are bloody idiots.

Most importantly of all, LET YOURSELF BE HELPED. You might feel like you don't want to burden others, but what good are the people on this earth if they can't support one another? Turn to the people closest to you, and sod the ones that run away- no-one needs people like that in their lives anyway, depression or no. Keep talking, and go to the doctor's to work out the best possible treatment for you. You know what? People with colds are lucky- they get streaming eyes, red noses, and sneeze and snort a lot, and they get all of the Lemsip and sympathy in the world. Depression is invisible, and more dangerously if you let it be- silent. So yes, there are people out there that will be of the "well I can't see it so it must not exist" ilk (again, these people are bloody idiots). Thankfully your doctor knows better than that. Go see them, and talk to them too.

I've been there. I nearly got lost. I'm back, and I'm stronger than ever. Sometimes it might feel like you could fall back into the pit. But once you realise the truth- that you deserve better- there will always be a safety net over the pit, and you'll never fall in again.

This is what I considered as I read the news that night, as well as how someone who has done so much good in the world can't feel of it for themselves. As for the Perseid meteor shower, I went straight back outside. I saw three little shooting stars and a great big one streak across the sky within ten minutes, this time.

Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy

"Sometimes, when I have a little left, I like to spray my hands and pretend I'm a robot." - Me talking about decorating cake with edible metallic spray about ten minutes into encountering a new human being.

I'm really bad at meeting new people.

No no, let me rephrase this: I'm really good at pretending like I know what I'm doing when I'm meeting new people at first, but I'm terrible at maintaining any sense of normality throughout the social situation. For instance, I'll start off seeming like a nice, normal person, and then only a few minutes in of talking to someone, sporadic flashes of crazy suddenly burst through the façade, like some sort of nervous reflex.

I visited a friend's house to play my first ever game of Dungeons and Dragons a few evenings ago- my character was a new addition to the campaign, and the group had already had two sessions of play. I already knew my friend of course, and I had already met her husband. It was the rest of the group I had to try to convince that I was 'cool'.

I had been talking like a nice, normal person to my friend's brother-in-law when the subject of what I'd used to make the cakes I brought silver came up (I'd sprayed them silver and gold like loot). Like a nice, normal person I explained how I'd done it. My friend's brother in law joked that he might end up looking like the tin man if he got any silver on him. And then, not at all like a nice, normal person, I cracked that remark about pretending like I'm a robot out.

At another point, we started discussing about how strictly we have to stick to our character's alliances and personality, and then ended up with a philosophical statement about how the inevitability of how our characters can and can't act could be a metaphor for life. And hastily and awkwardly added "Or not..."

During the actual game, I was absent-mindedly stacking the die up in a colourful tower. Another member of the group and pointed this out, amused. I felt a silly crooked grin appear on my face. "I like stacking things, stacking things is fun."

*Facepalm*

There were plenty of other moments like these throughout the evening, made worse by the fact that I was also trying to learn the rules of the game on the fly, stay in character and remember everyone's real and in-game names at the same time; and as the game commenced, I felt myself getting quieter and quieter. The group was fantastic- everyone was very welcoming and had the same cheeky, slightly avante-garde sense of humour as I did- but I was terrified of accidentally taking the joke too far, or stepping over the mark as the newbie. I started out being super friendly and slightly hyperactive, but by the end of the evening I must have seem very subdued, and perhaps even a little aloof in my awkwardness.

I used to be so painfully shy I wouldn't be able to talk to new people at all. Now I'm much better at pretending that I'm confident and at toning down my eccentricity to begin with, but this sort of suppression results in my eccentricity forcing its way out like water spewing from a cracking dam. Honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse.

Thankfully, the people that have stuck by me after these awkward first moments are both awesome and just as nuts to boot, so I needn't worry too much. After all, life is all about finding people with the same type of crazy as you, and those people become your friends.

Annihilated Knees

"Okay. What about if I move your knee like this?" My doctor twisted my leg this way and that way.

Cra-a-a-a-ck-k-k! My knee made a sound like a small bundle of twigs being snapped in two. The doctor looked visibly horrified.

"Yep, that one hurt," I confirmed as I lay on the examination table.

I'd been doing relatively well, fitness-wise, up until this week: running, gym-ing, dance classes, and a morning exercise routine involving press ups, tricep dips, crunches and squats. Unfortunately I decided to take on the 30 day squat challenge: a challenge in which you do a certain amount of squats almost every day, building up the number of squats each time. Squats are really bad news for knees, but I mistakenly believed that since I'm in relatively good shape, it would be okay.

What I'd forgotten about is that time during a judo session years and years ago when my sparring partner botched a throw and resulted in my left knee being twisted and crushed.

It's easy to forget about a weakness or illness when you're feeling fine, and my knee hadn't given me much trouble in a few years, even through all the exercise I've been doing. However a couple of weeks ago, two thirds of the way through the 30 day squat challenge, my knees- both of them- started to creak. And a couple of days ago, the left kneecap decided it wanted a change of scenery, which resulted in my knee locking every time I bent it for any reason (especially sitting down), and then having to endure a horrible crunching,, grinding sensation to straighten my leg.

Suspecting chondromalacia (the wearing away of the cartilage under the kneecap) and perhaps a torn ligament or two by the nasty way my kneecap was moving, I took myself to the doctor's yesterday morning, who promptly told me to put my left knee in a support for all waking hours, and sent me straight to hospital to get X-rays done on both knees.

I won't get the results back for another week or so- in the meantime my knee's bound up so I feel like I'm walking like a robot (which I'm trying but failing not to find kind of cool), and I'm taking supplement tablets designed for healthy joints, just in case it helps. Whatever's going on with my knees I know it's not good, and I certainly won't be able to do certain types of exercise for at very least a few months. If I'm unlucky, years- if I'm very unlucky, ever again. I can still do low impact exercise with my brace, and be careful when dancing- but no more squats, no more bounding up and down the stairs like a goat, and- alas- no more distance running for a while.

I'm a really active person, so it kills me not to be able to tear around like I'm use to doing. However, if I don't slow down, I risk never recovering and a lifetime of crippling pain, and I'll completely incapacitate my future self (aka Old Lady Tash). So, Old Lady Tash, I'm doing this for you.

But... Why?

We all do things that we don't agree with or want to do for the sake of our loved ones. They can be tiny things, but we all do them to keep relationships running: it's called 'compromise'.

A friend challenged me the other day about one everyday compromise I make. It's a cultural/ religious dietary rule I follow without believing with it or really agreeing with it, but I follow it because 1) it's very important to my immediate close family and would deeply upset them if I don't follow it and 2) it doesn't harm myself or anyone else around me. My friend challenged me because I admitted that I wished I could eat some stuff, being a natural foodie, but I had long ago decided to respect my family's wishes. The conversation more or less went like this:

"But why?"

"Because it would really upset my family if I didn't do it."

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters because I don't want to hurt my family."

"Why are you willing to compromise your own beliefs?"

"I'm not as such, just keeping one of the precious few things that link my identity to my family's."

"But why do you need to follow someone else's way of identifying themselves for your own identity?"

This is one of the reasons I really respect my friend, who's not afraid to ask the tough questions. However I was also annoyed- the question 'why' can be used an infinite amount of times and a final root answer never found. And besides, why did I have to justify my actions, anyway? My friend was satisfied in my lack a sensible or logical answer to the final question. I did have a response in my mind though: how do we identify ourselves without other people to identify with? But I didn't carry on the debate,not wanting to answer a question with rhetoric that would lead to even more debate. Also, my friend is religious and I am not- a huge difference in mindset that puts all similar debates about the human condition at a stalemate.

It's a good practice to have though, if ever you are in a personal bind. Ask yourself why, and what your motives are. Or better yet, find a friend who isn't afraid to ask the tough questions. Just be sure that you're ready to face them!

Just Dance

In a fit of whimsical madness, I decided to try K-pop dancing this week.

I stumbled across the dance group searching for a C-pop band I usually listen to, who also happen to have a K-pop incarnation. The dance group have been learning one of this band's routines this month, and since you can just drop in on any session to learn a section of the routine at a time, I thought, 'why not?'

I'm not a natural dancer. You'd think being a musician would make me good at dancing by default since I'm at home with beat, rhythm, coordination and the like, but you'd be mistaken. Sure, like almost anything else, if I set my mind to it I could be reasonable at it, but it's definitely not one of my natural talents like making music or cake or crafts. I know I'm never going to be a dancer. Hell, I even know I'll never have the time to go to regular classes to teach my arms and legs to work together in harmony. So why bother at all?

Well, what a sad world would it be, if we didn't try things just because we weren't instantly good at them?

I've often been been called for doing things that are a 'waste of my time'. After some debate with people with this view (usually well-meaning family members), I've realised that that the concept of something being a 'waste of time' to these people translates roughly as 'doing something that doesn't better yourself in a way that will allow you to further your career, earn more money and be more successful in life.'

What an even sadder world it would be without personal enrichment.

Really, this calls into question what 'success' really means, as a life value. In today's society, I suppose it means to have lots of money, own your own two-bedroom property and car and to go on lots of holidays abroad. If this is all that's important in life, than surely you must spend every waking moment assuring you are doing everything in your power to achieve these things?

There's a problem with this mentality, though. The most obvious one is all work and no play makes Jack a crazy axe-wielding psychopath (or maybe that's only when you work in a haunted hotel). The big one- the big, scary one that everyone tries their best to ignore- is the fact that you can't take it all with you when you die. At least, it doesn't seem that way. For all I know when you die little ghost versions of all of your life's belongings follows you to the afterlife, but for now I'm guessing now.

In your final moments of earthly awareness, as you contemplate the series of events that became your life, are you going to regret not spending more hours at the computer on that Excel spreadsheet? Or will you regret never getting round to doing that thing you always wanted to do because you were always at your computer on that Excel spreadsheet?

Money can help to buy happiness, but if you don't take the time to find out reflect inwardly on what makes you happy, then you're pretty much screwed. Other people can't make you happy either, really (although they certainly help a huge amount!) The only thing that can truly make you happy is yourself- and that, in itself, can take quiet a bit of work. Without working on yourself as a person rather than yourself as a commodity, you could have all the money in the world and feel empty, and be surrounded by as many people as possible and still feel lonely.

I am a writer by day, but in between working hours I sing and play musical instruments, bake and decorate cakes, learn languages, meet with friends all over the place, run, create cute cuddly things out of felt and wool, knit, and now apparently I try to dance. Why? Because all of these things make me happy, as well as finding new challenges and experiences in itself. Maybe K-pop dancing won't be one that sticks quite like all of the others, but for now, I'm happy with it being one of the things I remember on my death bed and think, 'Haha! That was pretty crazy but fun, huh?'

Surrounded by Weirdos

On the train. Where else?

Reading quietly in my carriage, on my way back home from my Wednesday evening Mandarin class, I distantly noticed that a man had gotten up from his seat opposite me to sit next to me. I didn't really question why he had decided to switch seats mid-journey, engrossed in my book as I was. What I did question though was the increasing cramped conditions due to his arm sneaking further and further from the arm rest (which he had taken firm command of), and over into my space. I kept shifting sideways, hoping he'd just stop, but he kept shifting even more so our bare arms were touching (being a hot summer's day, everyone was wearing short sleeves).

I considered asking him to budge up- I'm not usually one for demurring- but since incidences of violence from such 'challenges' as that have been on the up and this guy looked like the type to look for a challenge, I decided just to hold firm. It's not fair to judge on appearances, I know, but I wasn't feeling lucky.

As I became increasingly irritated at someone else's (very hairy) arm trying to get to know mine better and venturing into my ribs, the train stopped to let on another flow of people. In the now empty spot opposite me now sat a wiry, twitchy guy with very curly hair, who promptly got out an entire pre-packed pasta salad and a bottle of Mountain Dew and proceeded to have his dinner on the train.

I didn't really mind too much: perhaps it had been a long day at work and this was his only chance to grab a bite. What did start to become a bother though was when he started belching loudly and wiping his mouth ostentatiously. Bother became slight worry when he put his now-empty salad pack back in his rucksack, chucked the bottle behind his seat and began to sway a little. Was he feeling unwell?

I considered asking if he was alright, but suddenly he began to twitch and shake ever so slightly, like he was trying to shake off invisible flies. I decided to stay put. I became very glad for my decision not to interfere, because soon every so often he'd bend over, head between knees, shake his head and mumble something, before emerging with wild eyes.

Two stops later and the hairy-armed guy, to my vast relief, got off. I wasn't completely at ease though: twitchy guy was still opposite me. At least there was only one strange person to worry about, though.

That is, until a lady on her mobile phone took the place of hairy-armed guy by my side.

I didn't really pay attention to her at first. Slowly, however, I began to pick up patterns in whatever she was saying over the phone. I couldn't understand the language, but whatever she was saying sounded a little like "I'll make you soup." Slowly, I realised that she was saying this over and over again. "I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup."

And then I realised we were still underground, with no possible phone signal.

"I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup."

Twitchy guy strode jerkily off the train a few stops after, but I was alone with the lady on her phone next to me for the remainder of the journey.

I had 15 minutes of "I'll make you soup." before my final stop at the end of the line. As the train pulled into my station, I got up, and so did the lady on her phone.

"I'll make you soup. Okay, bye."

I stared after her in disbelief as she strode off.

~End~

And the Ukelele Makes Ten

I made my peace with music, recently.

We've always had quite an intense, turbulent relationship. I started playing the piano at the age of four, going on to complete a professional diploma in performance before I'd started university as well as Grade 8 in flute within four years of taking it up, and then earning Grade 8 singing within two years of taking proper lessons. I even ended up learning and taking a performance exam for the mbira at university. By the end of my musical education, I could play:

-Piano
-Flute
-Voice
-Guitar
-Lever harp
-Mbira
-Djembe
-Marimba
-Recorder/ tin whistle (beyond primary school level, that is)

I'd performed on each of these either as a solo or as part of a group at various and endless concerts and shows, and although the relationship was time-consuming and stressful (as many long-term relationships with anything can be), I thought the love would last forever.

Until the end of university, when I burned out.

The first sign was when my new piano tutor at university began to put pressure on me to work towards a second diploma. The way the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music works is this: you have Grades 1-8 (which everyone knows about), but afterwards there are three further levels of professional qualification: Diploma, Licentiate and Fellowship. It's not particularly for someone as young as I was to reach the diploma stage. So of course when I began my music course at university, my new tutor was eager to push me even further.

The problem was, though, that I was just so very tired of relentless examination. Playing the piano had always been a source of joy and escape for me at school, even at times of high pressure. At university, despite being used to pressure, it just stopped being fun. It started to just be all about Impressing People. Even worse, my new tutor was slightly dismissive rather than encouraging, telling me 'You won't be able to play that', or 'Oh, but everyone knows how to play that' (the latter after I learned a certainly-not-easy piece completely by heart in a week). I stopped feeling like the piano was my instrument, and started feeling like a delusional child.

I made the decision, much to my tutor's disgruntlement, not to continue to Licentiate level, and to focus on other areas of music.

The course I enrolled on was very 21st century music-orientated, which at first I thought would be interesting, but I very rapidly learned just wasn't my cup of tea. Having to write experimental abstract music felt like Monet might feel if someone dragged him to the Tate Modern and told him to be more like the artists there.

I clung to every unexamined performance, savouring every gig with my medieval band, taking in every moment with my African drumming group, revelling in every rebellious piece of music I played on the piano that wasn't what I was due to play in the next exam. Slowly, though, people in the groups I was in drifted away either graduating before me and moving elsewhere in the country or losing interest in playing themselves. The day the music proverbially died for me, though, was the day I handed in my last ethnomusicology assignment in my final year.

I loved ethnomusicology. I swear I was a stone's throw away from dreading my hair, wearing tie-dye and travelling the world in the name of music because of ethnomusicology (only I've always been too disgustingly middle class for that to ever happen. Although isn't travelling the world to spiritually find yourself a middle class thing?) Anyway, when it ended, so did my enthusiasm for music. All music thereafter was  purely academic, and since music had always formerly been connected to my emotions, I became detached from it. After graduation the piano lid closed, the flute remained in pieces and my voice went back into hiding. My loving eighteen-year relationship with music had died.

Mourning was difficult. Everyone who had known me as an accomplished musician kept reminding me of that amazing concerto I performed in, or that time I sang a solo part for BBC youth choir of the year, or that gig where I only had a few days to learn twenty popular songs on the piano by heart, etc. etc. etc.

It felt a bit like the heartbreak of splitting up with your partner, but with everyone reminding you how great you were together. I tried to salvage the relationship, I really did. I tried going back to why I loved music, playing only music I enjoyed listening to. It didn't work: I put my fingers to the piano keys, and I dutifully played the notes, but that spark just wasn't there any more. Even worse, it felt too much like I was trying to reclaim my 'glory days'. I told myself that I knew from the very beginning that I'd never be a professional musician, and I admitted to myself that I'd never be the admired musician that I once was: those days were behind me. I moved on.

My creative nature, however, was still very much alive. Eventually I discovered my knack with words, and writing became my career. I started baking and decorating cakes as a hobby, discovered felting, started going to the gym and took up Mandarin evening lessons after work. Five years on, I've made good way in finding out who I am without music, having previously believed that music was all that there was to me.

I thought that the story had ended happily enough, until relatively recently.

I began to stumble across musicians and artists who reminded me that music can be fun- for example Pentatonix, who have successfully proved to the world that a capella can be awesome, and Steam Powered Giraffe, who perform as steampunk-style robots. I rediscovered old idols, from Imogen Heap to The Beatles. I started properly listening to music again. I started to sing along.

A few weeks ago, a friend posted on Facebook about a taster ukelele workshop, and something went 'ding' in my mind. I signed myself up, roped another friend in and went to the workshop last week. By the end of it I was smiling so much my face hurt. Yesterday I went to a ukelele shop, tried out a few, and bought one. I also signed myself up to regular group lessons, so I can play music with other people again.

Since since adopting my ukelele yesterday, the only times I've put it down are to bake and update my blogs (and you know, to sleep etc).

After all this time, I think my romance with music may have been rekindled.

A Friendly DFL in Brighton

I spent the day in Brighton yesterday visiting my friend Vicky (the same Vicky I visited in Berlin during her time teaching there). The subject of what Brighton thinks of London came up when I mentioned that I liked how many of the streets shared the same name as famous streets and places in London (Bond Street, Trafalgar Street, Kensington Street etc).

DFL. Down From London. It's not generally something that's said in a positive light when uttered by Brightonians- wealthy, rude, arrogant Londoners buy up holiday homes and drive property prices up, make an almighty mess during raucous hen parties and stag nights, and generally clutter up the streets as clueless tourists during weekends. However, since I fit into none of those categories- especially not the 'wealthy' part- I'd classify myself as Mostly Harmless, like the entry on humans in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I love Brighton. I love London as my home and territory and have no illusions of leaving, but I love Brighton as its own separate entity, with its own separate personality. It's something I never felt about Birmingham for example, despite having lived there for five years. It does have some similarities to Central London (particularly Camden Town in some areas, and Camden Town is one of my favourite places in the entire world), in terms of diversity and wonderful quirkiness. However it embraces these sides much more heartily than London rather than being politely embarrassed by them. As for the atmosphere, it's simply more pleasant. People joke about having to be a certain kind of person to be able to bear London: big, bustling, hectic, shiny, dangerous, brilliant London. Well, it's true: you do have to be a certain type of person to survive my city. I say this with a unique and exquisite mix of pride and shame.

I think you do have to have a small, bitter, hardened kernel at the centre of your heart to stand a city where millions of people are crammed into one small place, always in a rush and not allowed to look each other in the eye- or worse, smile at each other. I am definitely a Londoner: I can phase seamlessly through a solid wall of bodies on Oxford Street, mentally shut myself out on a Spam-packed tube carriage and never feel safe while feeling like it's normal to never feel safe. However, I also notice strangers that need a hand and help them, chat to sales assistants like they're human beings and, horror of horrors, smile. I think this small, alien part of me belongs in Brighton, even though the rest of me is and always will be organically Londoner. I'm not saying Brighton is without its own problems, but in any case, it's nice to know that that little part of me has somewhere to feel at home in for a while when it feels like an outsider the rest of the time.

Also, you can see the sea!!

Quasi-Multilingual Adventures

My status update from Facebook, 31st May 2014 (last week):

Brussels Chinatown = speaking French AND Mandarin today. 'Bonjour, 早上好!' Chinglish. Franglais. Franglese. Ow my brain.

It's awesome to know other languages, even if only a little. I can't understand three types of people: people who don't like animals, people who don't like music and people who don't believe in learning a little about another country's language before visiting.

You can't learn a language fluently just like that, but you'd be surprised at how just learning a few words and phrases can do, and how that in turn makes you familiar with the structure of another language, making you instantly feel a little less like an alien on someone else's planet.

Last week, I went on the trip to Brussels I won from the Godiva Chocolate Challenge (you can read all about the trip and all the lovely things I ate on my blog Tashcakes!) and I got to exercise some of my language skills. I was nervously looking forward to dusting off my rusty French, having done well at it at school up to GCSE level, after which I dropped it to take sciences instead (a regretful decision in hindsight, but you can't go back in time). Even so, although all I could only remember basic conversational French, I felt secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to know how to converse with someone about something like politics or global warming.

As a result, I was able to visit restaurants that the locals like, and experience more warmth and smiles from strangers (after all,  people do in general appreciate if you try to speak their language even a little). In fact, I ended up barely speaking English at all to anyone aside from my non French-speaking mum (my travel companion for the trip) and occasionally the hotel staff.

What I wasn't expecting was getting the opportunity to put the Mandarin Chinese I've been learning into practise.

I've been taking evening Mandarin language classes once a week for nearly a year now, having decided that it's high time I learn how to converse in the common language of one half of my heritage. It's been going well- I impressed my Chinese family when I went to Malaysia earlier on this year (okay, more like entertained, but at least I was understandable when I spoke), and my fellow classmates often tease me for being the 'teacher's pet'. However I've only been able to practise in 'safe' environments- up until last week.

We ended up stumbling into Brussels' unofficial Chinatown on the second day of the trip, and to my delight the common language of the community was Mandarin. London's Chinatown seems to have more Cantonese speakers, my Chinese friends are all Cantonese speakers and my Chinese family primarily speak Hakka and only a little Mandarin, so I don't often get to practise with others outside of the classroom.

So, I went to a Chinese supermarket and spoke a little to the cashier in Mandarin, who to my relief understood me through my surely glaring Western accent. Best of all, mum and I decided to test our Mandarin skills at a little Chinese restaurant, where they literally only spoke Mandarin and a bit of French (at one point I asked our waiter- in Mandarin of course- if he spoke any English. He said no, and looked a little panicked, but relaxed when we continued in Mandarin). Both my mum's and my own Mandarin skills are a bit basic, but between us we were able to order, ask if they had Chinese tea, ask for extra utensils to share one dish and handle the bill.

It's a unique, amazing feeling to be able to speak to someone in a language other than the one you grew up with, and an even more amazing feeling to do so in another country. To many English people and Americans believe that they don't have to try learning another language before going on holiday because 'they'll probably all speak English there anyway'. I've even known some people who believe that everyone should know English when you go to another country. I believe this is just arrogance and laziness. Maybe I only believe this because I'm a linguaphile, and I find the variety of languages on this planet beautiful and interesting. Even so, people often forget that English itself is a patchwork mishmash of other languages that has been developed over a very, very long time.

Besides: when you go to a friend's house, you respect the fact that they have a different way of doing things, don't you?

Small Acts of Defiance

I'm a pretty straight-laced kind of gal. Okay, I'm a rather kooky straight-laced kind of gal, but I'm no firestarter or rebel. The wildest thing I've ever done is break into a park at 2am with a couple of friends, a picnic blanket and some snacks and fruit juice to watch a meteorite shower (we crawled through a wall of bushes to get in, all the while worrying about angry badgers).

However, every once in a while, I'll demonstrate my disdain for society's more silly unspoken rules, in my own small way. Breaking into a park on a Saturday night to watch the stars and have a non-alcoholic picnic instead of going clubbing was definitely one of those times (I still believe that secretly no-one actually enjoys clubbing). I had another of those moments yesterday on the way to London Comicon.

I've been looking forward to this year's Comicon for ages, because it's only the second time I would have gone in full cosplay- wig and all. I'm pretty proud of my costume: it took a lot of time and effort to put it together. Originally I was going to go with a group of people, also in costume. However, at the last minute, it transpired that I would now be the only in costume, as a result of either people dropping out or others not finishing their costumes in time.

It also meant I'd be meeting my remaining friends at the venue, and that I'd be travelling alone in costume.

On public transport.

To hell with it. I did it anyway.

Of course, since this is England, no-one made eye contact with me- instead there was a lot of surreptitious setting of smartphones to camera mode around me. And of course, no-one will sit next to you if you look like this:

(Especially if you put on a creeper face).

But to be honest, this is London: there are far stranger folk on the London Underground than a girl dressed as an anime character (Homura Akemi from Madoka Magica, for the record). As I got closer and closer to the venue, I ceased to become the only person in costume on my carriage, anyway.

Still, it does take a bit of guts to do what I did: I did have to remind myself just to have fun since I wasn't hurting anyone, and not to care about people thinking I was weird. Okay, they may be right, but I'm not bad-type weird.

This is an age of of self-image, where you can filter your life to look however you want it to look on the likes of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. However, it takes a lot more effort to actually *be* the person you want to be in real life, with no filters or editing. The person I want to be isn't afraid to do something just because others might raise a judgemental eyebrow. Sometimes, to be the person you want to be, you just have to stick your tongue out at quirked eyebrows and do it your way.

Like a boss.

A Foodie's Living Nightmare

I am a foodie. That's pretty obvious, given the time I dedicate to other two blogs Tashcakes! and Where I Like to Eat. I love looking at food, smelling food and tasting food. Well, almost all food. Show me a raw tomato or an aubergine in any shape or form and I'll run in the opposite direction, I have a very mild phobia of mushrooms and avocado makes me so sick I hallucinate; but in general, food is fun.

For the last couple of weeks I've been ill. So ill, in fact, I didn't notice what was gradually happening to me until a couple of days ago, when I began to feel more like a human being again. There were a few clues, although I didn't realise at the time.

The first clue was a most obscure one: my mood was flat. Not bad, just flat: walking to different places or putting something delicious in the oven or hanging out the washing triggered no emotional response from me. I put it down to just being run down from being ill.

The second clue was when I snapped off a square of dark chocolate to celebrate being able to breathe through my nose again, but somehow still feeling flat. Again, it did nothing.

The second clue was at work again when I decided to treat myself to a carrot muffin for breakfast at work. My colleague noticed me poking at it forlornly with a fork and smiled.

"Well? How is it?"

"It's got the perfect texture: light, moist and with just enough bite. But it tastes of nothing."

My colleague looked surprised, saying that our other colleague had eaten one too and had thought it was perfect, but then again I did make cakes every week so I'd be the most qualified to comment. We all shrugged it off- I can usually pick out obscure notes and flavours in things no-one else can when it comes to food, so we all assumed I was just being a tad critical. I finished my carrot muffin dejectedly, bemoaning the waste of calories that I could have spent on something tastier.

The final clue- the clue that made the awful penny drop- was yesterday evening when I was cooking beef rendang (a highly aromatic Malay curry) and baking vanilla cupcakes at the same time. My mum came home, and commented on what a wonderful smell it was.

"Which one?" I asked, beaming, and then I froze.

It hit me at once: I couldn't tell which smell was which.

In fact, I couldn't smell anything at all.

I panicked, and went to my cooking chocolate stash to snap off another square of dark chocolate. I popped it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. My worst fears were confirmed: I had also completely lost my sense of taste. Even worse: the loss of my senses of smell and taste had also bizarrely robbed me of the memory of smell and taste. Everything was just... nothing. Nothing at all.

Have you ever been in a silent room, minding your own business, when suddenly everything just goes *silent* silent? You realise that the room was never silent to begin with, you just didn't notice the noise of the boiler, or the fan, or whatever droning noise there was in the background until it stopped? Well, losing your sense of smell is exactly like this.

What was I going to do? I knew of people who had, like me, gotten a severe cold, lost their sense of smell and taste, and then had literally never gotten those senses back again, even years after. I'm a baker, for pity's sake! How the hell am I going to experiment with new flavours when I can't taste what the frig those flavours are?

After dinner yesterday evening, my family trouped down to vote for the elections. Like always, the voting was held at my old primary school down the road. How I missed being able to smell the rubber smell of plimsolls and the sweetly acrid smell of wood polish in the gym, and all the old smells of when I was five years old. I've always been aware of the power of smell and how evocative it can be: certain smells can give me very strong flashbacks. However with my sense of smell gone, I was even more acutely aware of what I had lost.

The worst thing about it though is how disconnected to the world you become. No familiar smell of home when you walk through the door after a long day of work. No smell of damp leaves when it stops raining and the sun comes out. No smell of freshly cut grass, of people, of fresh baking or cooking, or more seriously gas leaks or burning.

My experience has so far been met with mixed reactions, mainly of those who can't imagine what it's like and understand how terrible it actually is- and those who can't imagine what it's like and think it's really no big deal.

IT'S A BIG DEAL.

Of the things I've eaten so far, the only way I know what I'm eating is through texture. I have the vague sense of if something is sweet or non-sweet (not even savoury), but it's more like an echo of sweetness rather than actually tasting sweetness. The lovely fragrant curry I made may as well have been textured cardboard. The chocolate I ate may as well have been pleasantly melting plastic.

However, there is hope: despite realising I've been like this for the past week without noticing and fearing I might be like this for a while, if not indefinitely, I noticed a faint scent of flowers a couple of hours ago when I put some hand cream on. It was there and gone again in a few seconds, but at least it gives me hope that my sense of smell and taste have only temporarily gone on holiday!

Not Afraid of Children

Well, maybe a little bit. But not enough to run away from one.

There I was in Centre Point, one of Kota Kinabalu's most popular shopping centres, eagerly clutching a syrupy iced drink. I heard a happy little sound next to me, and looked down to see a small child beaming up at me: he must have been about two years old, judging by the confident mixture of Bahasa Malaysia and toddler-babble he was burbling.

Smiling absent mindedly, I made to jab my straw through the plastic film that sealed the cup. The next few things happened all at once.

The moment the straw hit the film the little boy made towards me at top speed. A brightly coloured sugary fountain spurted out from the pierced film of my drinking cup, and scooted backwards to avoid getting syrup on someone else's child in a mosquito-filled land. As I scooted back the child chased after me, and I ran backwards even faster trying to staunch the flow of palm sugar and coconut milk. I heard the kid's family laughing in the background as I ran backwards, myself covered in syrup, as the child gleefully chased after me with outstretched hands.

Eventually the father came and scooped up the giggling child, and the family started off. Feeling the need to explain myself, I called after them in English:

"I didn't want to get him all dirty!"

All of a sudden, the family fell silent and stared at me icily, smiles all gone. They turned around in silence, the little boy still reaching out towards me from over his dad's shoulder.

What.

At first I thought they didn't understand me and were a bit wary of me as a foreigner, but I realised shortly afterwards it's sort of worse than that: they were treating me as a harmless (hapless) passer-by at first because I sort of look like I could come from Malaysia, in the right environment (especially around my family). I think I shocked them when I instinctively spoke English, 'revealing' my true origins. Ah well. At least the little nipper didn't seem to mind. Even if I did nearly accidentally turn him into mosquito bait.

Humans are Humans Wherever you Go

"Would you like a bread roll miss?"

"No, thank you." I smiled politely at the air steward proffering me the bread with a pair of tongs.

"It's nice and warm fresh from the oven." He jabbed the roll at me.

"Er... no, thanks, I'm good." My smile faultered.

"Here." He leaned over.

"No really, I'm-"

The air steward scowled and dumped the rejected bread roll on my tray and stalked onward with the meal trolley.

That was during the journey back from Kota Kinabalu to England. I suppose it was only fitting my trip ended with an awkward encounter.

Taking My Weirdmagnet With Me

Well I was going to allow myself a break since I'm on holiday in Malaysia visiting family, but then I realised I hadn't mentioned my two-week absence. I'm already halfway through my holiday, Sorry! I mentioned it on my baking blog Tashcakes! But somehow overlooked Wacky World.

Fear not, for there are stories to be told when I return: for example, getting chased against my will by a small child at the shopping centre today.

Until next week!

Wounded at the Gym

I flicked the fluff of baby hairs away from my face irritably as I ran on the treadmill- my baby hairs always spring out at the slightest bit of movement, no matter how neatly I tie my hair back. I accidentally scratched my right temple as I did so, which stung a little but not much- I was too busy focusing on trying to outdo my personal best to mind.

During my two hours at the gym this evening I noticed that quite a few people were glancing in my direction, and some were openly staring. I'm used to people occasionally taking a peek at the monitor of whichever machine I'm on to compare against how they themselves are doing, but the sheer amount of people passing and peering at me today was quite annoying. Still, I kept focused, not letting anyone distract me out of my 'zone'.

When I got home, I passed a mirror and discovered why I was the apparent centre of attention: an impressive flow of blood had made its way all the way down my face from my scratched temple, paired with a comically dramatic smear of blood across my forehead from a routine sweat-wipe.


Edit:

One of my friends Tisa pointed out that it was typical British behaviour how no-one actually asked if I was okay: I didn't even think of that! Although I'm not surprised- I did fall down the stairs of a double-decker bus once when the driver braked (broke?) too violently, and no-one checked if I was okay. Huh.

Chocolate Adventures: Godiva Challenge Finals 2014

Dare I say? I rather enjoyed the energetic chaos of baking under a time limit while hundreds of well-dressed people milled about, watching and chatting. In fact I'd love to do it again!

Heather, Danny, Victoria and I cooked up five lots of our dishes- one for each judge and one for the photographer- during the finals on Thursday, and I think we all did brilliantly. Ultimately, Heather was victorious with her intricate and amazing 'Conference of Chocolate' (it included poached conference pears, awesome pun setup!) All three were a lovely bunch to bake with, and the people of Godiva and Luxx PR were incredible.

There were a few frustrating times where us contestants were battling against the very swish but slightly puzzling equipment of the kitchen showroom we were working in. At one point I set my first batch of caramel on legitimate fire because my hob would only operate at too hot or too cold before switching itself off (resulting in me hovering my pan just over the hob for a good half hour to get a good caramel!) Heather's sorbet almost didn't freeze at all because the freezer was playing up, and one of the tempering machines Victoria was using didn't actually temper the chocolate.

Despite these little setbacks, all of us produced some pretty kick-ass desserts. I think best of all, I got some very invaluable feedback on ingredient balance and technique. My aim is always to improve, and getting a few tips from Godiva's head chocolatier was just brilliant.

I hope Godiva Chocolates repeats their Chocolate Challenge next year: I look forward to entering something new and original. At least next time around I'll be aware of the competition and have more than a few hours to come up with a recipe, make it and enter!

For my recipe that made it to the final, check out my blog Tashcakes! to see how my Praline Mousse Coeur is done.

In Which my Baking Pays Off

Almost two years ago, I promised myself I would bake something new at least once a week, and write something new once a week: and so, Wacky World and Tashcakes! were born. I've been diligently writing and baking ever since, and becoming more and more proficient at both. My writing has slowly gained me more and more recognition at work, but my baking remained a more personal love, shared with the people closest to me (and of course, I suppose, the anonymous faceless body called the Internet).

Yesterday, I found out that I had gotten though to the finals of Godiva's Chocolate Challenge competition with my praline mousse coeur.

I and four other finalists were chosen over a shortlist of 10, which were chosen from over a hundred entries. All four of us win an expenses-paid 5* trip to Brussels, and this Thursday we'll be put through our paces in Godiva's kitchens in London to bake our chocolate creations for a panel of four Big Name judges for the top prize: a visit to Godiva's chocolate Atelier, and our creation on the menu of Hix Soho for a week. There will also be a few hundred people watching, and apparently the odd journalist. I'm also up against a big name in the food blogging and writing world, a professional baker and a budding chocolatier... making me feel like a bit of a weird outcast wildcard.

I still think I'm having a crazy and weirdly elaborate dream.

Words cannot describe how I'm feeling... and I'm a professional writer. So far the closest I've come is 'excarded' (scared/ excited). Well, I am pretty darn excarded!!

Pinch me.

Ow.

More Portioned Up than a Children's Birthday Cake

"Wow that's... really unusual for you. A whole weekend free! It'll be nice for you to actually relax for once."

"Yeah... you and I both know it won't last."

"Probably not, no."

This was a conversation I had with my friend Siu Yen a couple of nights ago, when she asked me what I'd be doing next weekend: we were also planning when out next meeting would be.

 My diary is often more or less totally booked out for two months into the future. Every weekend I'm doing at least one thing: meeting up with these friends, seeing a movie with those friends, baking a cake for these guys, having lunch with those guys, and so on. Sometimes I'll have more than one thing going on in the same day, and have to limit my time with one group of people before meeting up with the second group of people (I call this 'speed friending': this doesn't happen often though as it doesn't make for quality get-together times). Now it's started to bleed into my evenings after work, not to mention I have my evening Mandarin classes on Wednesday nights. This pretty much makes me constantly exhausted.

It also makes me very happy.

Back in my school days, I was quite the loner. I was always awkward, quiet, nerdy- just not really able to fit in. When I did have friends, it was only one or two close ones at a time, which were sometimes intense and destructive (as is common when insecure people become too focused and reliant on each other). However, as time went on I got better at the whole making friends thing, and gradually discovered more and more amazing people that I cared about and wanted to keep in my life. The only things that changed were my attitude to myself and life in general.

This fast-paced lifestyle I've gained from hyper-socialising also seems to mean I've gained a weird, restless energy. This weekend one of the things I did was to visit my friend Vicky in Brighton (a fellow efficiently busy person), and at one point she tried to make me sit back into my chair instead of perching on the end of it. I physically managed it, but my efforts only made my friend laugh because apparently I still looked really stiff and awkward. In fact I felt really relaxed in Brighton, away from the shoving elbows and selfishness of London- but apparently my muscles were still tensed for immediate action.

Still, I wouldn't have it any other way. I remember what it's like to feel isolated, and now that I'm lucky enough to know so many amazing people, I'm more than happy to make the effort to give as many people as much of my time as I can. For some people it's not as much as I'd like, but then again there are only so many hours in the day!

A bit of wisdom from Brighton

 I came back from Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium at around half past midnight last night, having visited for the first time as a guest rather than a volunteer since it's official opening on Saturday (it is, by the way, amazing). Once I'd finished posting a few pictures on Facebook, I was just about to go to bed when a message popped up from a friend I haven't seen in a while.

"Are you still in London? It'd be great to meet up again."

And some of my friends still wonder why I try to arrange things so far in advance.

The Phone Call that Made My Month

I was always a little afraid of what my reaction would be the first time I received this sort of news from a close friend. I mean my real, inside reaction: I knew that my outer reaction would always be one of genuine joy, but I've always been scared that, inside, a selfish part of me would feel sad that an era has come to an end and that everything would be about to drastically changed- and maybe even a little jealous that I'm nowhere near that point in my life. I think I was the most afraid of feeling jealous, because I honestly didn't know if those sorts of feelings were brewing in me and I'd been ignoring them- as we sometimes do when we don't want to think about things.

So this evening when one pair of my friends told me they were expecting a baby, I was very pleasantly taken aback by how astonishingly FULL OF GLEE I was, both inside and out. In fact I felt so warm and fuzzy and happy I failed to stop myself from actually physically jumping around the room!

I'm so happy! Yes things will change, but things are always constantly changing anyway- we are no longer the children, the teenagers or even the youths we once were. Plus I can't wait to be Auntie Tash and help my friends out wherever I can and make a fuss over the baby.

What amazing news to receive at the end of winter, when the days are growing longer and the weather warms up. I wish both of my friends health and that everything goes smoothly. In the meantime, I'll keep my baking skills finely honed and start looking at tiny clothes for tiny people... and start wondering if I'll be the cool aunt or the weird aunt!

Best Valentine's Day Ever

"Geeeek!" A girl called out, pointing dramatically at the guy who had answered a particularly tough question correctly. The rest of the room laughed raucously. It was the right place for it: after all, it was Geek Quiz Night.

I have never done anything in particular for Valentine's day, even when I was in a relationship. I don't have anything particularly against it, but I don't see the point of it either- why do we need one official day to tell a special someone we love them, much less throw money at heart-shaped tat? Needless to say, my casual stance on the whole thing has me both celebrating neither the original Valentine's day nor anti-Valentine's day nor even 'singles awareness day'.

This year, in the spirit of embracing my new more sociable self and also to cheer up one of my friends who's special someone is serving in the force at the moment, three of us ventured out into Central London to grab food and see the new Lego movie.

After dinner, we still had almost two hours to go until the movie, so I dragged my two friends to MADD, a hipster geek-chic dessert bar that styles itself on serving its desserts with fresh mango while offering retro arcade games, newer Playstation and Xbox games and a huge selection of card and board games to play with- not to mention a great variety of retro video game-themed cocktails. The three of us being pretty geeky, we felt right at home.

A large group had gathered in the middle of the room, and we caught snippets of conversation about a geek quiz being held. That sounded awesome! Just as my friends and I were debating on asking if we could join in, the organiser stopped by our table and asked if we'd like to join in. Yes please!

The Lego movie now abandoned for some spontaneous geekery, we ended up having a slightly bonkers and entirely great fun night. During the charity raffle in the middle of the quiz one of my friends won a homemade nail polish, and I won a big, gorgeous copy of The Adventures and Memoires of Sherlock Holmes, which I spent the remaining duration of the quiz hugging (and which I am now currently devouring at terrifying speed).

What a great group of people it was, too: sometimes I'm wary about proclaiming myself to be a geek, especially as a girl, because sometimes people can get quite competitive and weirdly aggressive about it. The room last night was full of TV geeks, film geeks, book geeks, gamer geeks, baking geeks- all different kinds.

The night was full of good food, good experiences and good company, and out of all of the Valentine's days that have snuck past me, this one was definitely my favourite so far.

It's Never Like it Is in the Commercials

I walked the streets of East London, only vaguely aware that I was in a daze. My feet seemed to know what they were doing, and since the rest of me was tired out from from being on a ladder for the last four and a half hours, my slightly addled brain reckoned that trusting my feet was logical.

As I walked along, the chilly wind began to clear my fogged brain. Surely Old Street Station wasn't this far from Bethnal Green when I walked earlier? I blinked and looked around me.

I had somehow wandered all the way to London Bridge.

Today, I painted a ceiling in Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium. So far my contributions to the widely anticipated cat cafe have largely been in the digital world, helping to SEO and write things up for the website. This weekend was the first I was free at the same time as the Emporium needing some DIY work done, so I volunteered to help do some painting.

After a few minutes of making a fuss of the cats, I found myself in a boiler suit with a paint roller in my hand and a tall step ladder under my feet, ready to paint the room that would become the cat's quiet room. I throught of those adverts with smug middle class people painting their own homes. How hard could it be?

A few minutes in and I'd already given up on keeping my hands clean of paint, both now as white as the ceiling was to become, and there was already paint on my face and in my hair.

I say a few minutes in- I'm not entirely sure how long it took for me to give up on keeping myself clean. I'd left my watch upstairs with my belongings to protect them from getting painted. In fact, the combination of being watchless while concentrating on my work messed my internal clock up so much that, when I finally got round to asking Lauren what the time was on one of her trips through the room, the hour I thought had passed was actually three.

'Just a little bit more, and then I'm done,' I thought. I finished the ceiling, and did a bit of work on the walls for a few minutes. My legs had gotten a little wobbly, but I put this down to the weird position you have to put yourself in when painting on a ladder.

When I was done, another helper popped through and I asked him what the time was. My 'few minutes' was actually an hour and a half! At least I'd finished the ceiling, and done some of the walls too. I was feeling a bit light-headed though... maybe I should call it a day. I shrugged off my boiler suit, scrubbed up and went to tell Lauren that I was heading home. Lauren looked at me and her brows furrowed.

"Tash, are you feeling okay? You look a bit... out of it."

"Well, I do feel a bit weird," I said. Suddenly I realised that I had been so focused on my work, so unaware of the time, I'd not left the room once in the four and a half hours I was painting. I hadn't even opened the door.

"Er.. I think you might be wired on paint fumes," Lauren said, looking both concerned and amused. I may have smiled a goofy smile.

After assuring Lauren I was fine and wasn't going to pass out, I headed out with the intention of getting to Old Street station- just a ten minute walk away from the cafe.

...Of course, now we know I ended up walking from East London to the south side of the Thames without even noticing.

Adventures in Iceland: Notes from the Nose

The organist hammered out the final chord and let go with a flourish. We visitors sat in spellbound silence as the notes ascended and then evaporated into the arches of Hallgrímskirkja. All was still.

The moment was shattered when my friend Siu Yen suddenly convulsed violently and let out an explosive sneeze. The sneeze bounced joyfully off of the church pillars and upwards, as if chasing the last notes of the organ. A second, heavier silence.

“Well... that was embarrassing.” My friend muttered.