katie writes stuff

"Exciting changes": Dear Flickr, I don't think that word means what you think it means.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Tue, 21 May 2013 19:43:36 GMT

Cynical brain: so that's how Yahoo are financing Tumblr - by screwing over photographers.

Rational brain: so before, I paid $25/year for unlimited space with no advertising. Now (because my pro account lapsed without sufficient warning) I get to pay double for less space, and as an added bonus, the pleasure of providing Yahoo with an advertising platform. Forgive me if I don't understand which bit I'm meant to be impressed by?

I guess the time has come for me to finally redevelop thisiskatie.co.uk as a portfolio website rather than a photoblog. (In the copious spare time I have between exam revision, doing a full-time work placement, helping to run a conference and getting enough sleep, of course.)

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ERMAGHERD! IM A FLYINSKIRRUL!!

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 19 May 2013 19:35:36 GMT

In October last year, a skydiver called Felix Baumgartner leapt out of a helium ballon and did a 4 minute 20 second freefall through space, before parachuting to Earth. In a genius marketing ploy, indoor skydiving company Airkix offered the equivalent amount of time in one of their windtunnels for £42. (I don't recall seeing a reference to the life, the universe and everything in the publicity - either I missed it, or they missed a trick. Anyway.)

Yesterday, I finally got round to cashing in my voucher for some flight time, and it was truly amazing :D they broke my voucher down into two lots of 1'15" and one super long 1'50" flight (the third one being almost the equivalent to a tandem skydive) - and on the last one, I was given the chance to spiral to the top of the tunnel with the instructor, and then freefall to the bottom again. It was AMAZING.

Also, FLYINSKIRRUL!

maznu is now talking about us doing a bungee jump over Salford Quays :)

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Depression and a Half

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 12 May 2013 10:48:07 GMT

So there's that post, Depression Part Two, that explains so perfectly what depression is for anyone who's not felt it. It was haunting reading it, thinking back to the worst of it - four years ago now, somehow.

"And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything."

This, this is exactly what I felt, almost constantly for 2 or 3 years. I can't believe how perfectly this encompasses how depression was for me, the lack of hope and emotion and feeling.

And in my case, the antidepressants made it worse, because they just highlighted the emptiness. When I had no downs, it was just constant NOTHING. No sadness, no happiness, no excitement, no hope, no joy. Apathy might even be too descriptive, because apathy suggests feeling nothing, and... I didn't choose to feel nothing. I just woke up each day, and there was no life in me at all. I stopped taking the pills so that I could cry again.

And this:

"I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing."

I never actually wanted to die, but I couldn't see the point in breathing anymore. I found it hilariously ironic that the only reason I was holding on to physiological 'life' was the knowledge that my friends and family didn't realise how dead I was inside, and when I thought about that, about how my friends wanted 'me' around, even though I had become little more than a shell who just happened to get the facial expressions right most of the time... it wasn't me at all, and when I realised, I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't even crack a smile.

I didn't have a piece of corn to show me hope.

I told my doctor that I didn't want to take any more antidepressants, and I started to cry again. Then, crying made me want to actually deal with the awfulness in my head, so I asked for therapy, and when they said "how about counselling?" I said no, because I was past the point where talking was any good: when you have that kind of depression, and someone asks you what's wrong, the only honest answer is that there is nothing, that you don't know. How do you talk about that? So I asked for CBT, and I got lucky.

It's getting on for 2 years since I had my last therapy session, and I'm not going to tell you that life is brilliant now, because depression like the depression I had doesn't just up and go away overnight. What therapy did for me was teach me how to challenge the negative thoughts, and how to have the confidence so that when the negativity in my head was telling me that the world hated me, I could ask the world if it was true, which is scary as all hell sometimes, but it turns out the world doesn't hate me nearly half as much as the blackness would have me think it does.

Cognitive behavioural therapy isn't a miracle piece of corn hiding under the fridge. It's a lifetime of work, hard work. You go to the sessions and you learn how to do it but when the sessions are over, if you don't keep it up, then the negativity comes back. And it's hard to get the motivation to ask for that help when all you feel is blackness, but as cliché as the phrase has become, it gets better.

A few months ago, with the help of those friends who wanted that empty shell to keep on breathing, to fill back up with life and hope and enjoyment, I learnt how to laugh again.

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No such thing as society.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 15:43:23 GMT

Today, instead of pocketing my change, I put it into a charity box for the Railway Children, and I helped a woman struggling with her child's pushchair on the steps of the university railway station. I went to lectures on empathy and ethics, and I smiled at people who caught my eye. I held the door open for the person who was a few steps behind me as they came down the stairs, and I made my next appointment to give blood.

Today, it was Margaret Thatcher's funeral. In the year I was born, she stated "there is no such thing as society". I believe we should be excellent to each other all the time - but I did these things today particularly because unlike her, I believe in society - and I can think of no better way to overcome the legacy of a leader who did not.

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Phlebotomisation and stupidity

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 22:15:08 GMT

Favourite moment of university so far is my anatomy lecturer's scathing criticism of vampires seen on a TV documentary:

"These self-described vampires, they use anti-clotting agents when they phlebotomise their mates, so that they don't end up like flat-cap wearing Lancashire blokes chowing down on a black pudding... the mix of intelligence and sheer stupidity is astounding."

Student life continues to be excellent. The workload is intense but manageable, I'm maintaining a social life both in and out of uni, and I'm utterly knackered but still very excited.

Tomorrow I find out where my first placement will be, which means that although I'm on a self-directed study day, I will probably be awake at an ungodly hour so that I can ~~type up last week's lecture notes~~ continuously hit refresh on the Blackboard site.

Huzzah!

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and she puffed, and she puffed, and she blew the fire out.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 18:06:24 GMT

Last night, I was cooking something, and suddenly, it caught my attention that a bunsen burner over the stove had set fire to a salt pot on the shelf above.

I calmly commented to my mum that a pepper pot was on fire, and she said "no it isn't", to which I replied "no, you're right, it's the salt pot", and then I started trying to blow the salt pot fire out. Of course, as soon as I extinguished the salt pot, the bunsen burner beneath it started the fire once again. I'm not sure why, looking back, I didn't think to remove the fuel source from the bunsen burner - instead, I just kept blowing. And blowing. And blowing.

Unfortunately for poor maznu, it was the early hours of the morning, and moments earlier he had been sleeping peacefully next to me, but in my unconscious state, I thought his face was the fire, and he was brutally woken by the full force of my lung capacity.

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8%

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 18:21:58 GMT

So, I found out today that Salford received 783 applications to the mental health branch this year, and they only conducted 150 interviews. Of the candidates interviewed, 60 students got a place. I'm one of 8% of applicants to be studying this course this year.

I feel pretty fucking awesome right now.

PS, being a nursing student is ace!

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so it goes.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 13:24:19 GMT

"The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist."
Kurt Vonnegut - Slaughterhouse-Five

I had this tattooed today, the fifth anniversary of my stepfather's death, as a memento of him and his time in my life. The words "so it goes" appear in the book 106 times, whenever death or the unexplainable are touched upon, and are such incredibly powerful words, a reminder that life will always go on even after our bodies have expired, in the hearts and minds of everyone we touch; a reminder that we are infinitesimal and yet everything to those we love.

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RIP Granddad

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 12:24:52 GMT

My granddad died quite suddenly at some point in the last few days. He was found by his neighbour yesterday, who went to check on him because he was feeling "a bit funny" last week, and we got a phonecall this morning giving us the news.

We used to be close, but since he emigrated, he's been a distant part of our lives in more ways than one - and because of a petty family feud in 2007, I can't even remember when it was I last saw him, or talked even. (I told him where to stick his bullshit claims that homeopathy and ionised water would cure my terminally ill stepfather, and my mum refused to tell me off for it. He spent 2½ weeks ignoring us before finally going back to Spain and has hardly spoken to mum or I since.)

It came as something of a surprise - as far as we knew he was fit and healthy - but the general feeling is that a cantankerous 80 year old man who survived two heart attacks (including one from the top of a ladder) and 60 odd years of smoking had a pretty good run at life, and we're just glad this didn't follow a long drawn-out illness. It was time to give up, so he did.

RIP Norbert Michael Lynham, 1932-2013.

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stop.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 11:13:48 GMT

This is heartbreaking, and yet beautiful.

I don't look back on school with terribly fond memories. Kids are mean, meaner than anyone can imagine, unless they've experienced it themselves. Teachers seem to forget how downright horrible they were when they were at school and few can see past the innocent faces with just a hint of a sly grin, few realise the jibes and cruel comments flying when their back is turned. I didn't have visible bruises, so they told me I was just too sensitive.

My school life was 12 years of constant reminders that I was not worth friendship or love because I was smart, because I wear glasses, because I wore a size 14, because I did my homework, because I worked hard. I was laughed at because, at 15, I had not yet had a boyfriend, and I was told I would never have a boyfriend, because I was ugly and nobody wanted girls who liked books more than people anyway.

It was depressing. There is no other word for it.

I helped in the library so that I didn't have to go outside at break and lunch. The librarians let me break the no food rule as long as I didn't tell anyone. I buried myself in the books, because I think a tiny part of me knew that nothing I could do would make the bullies like me, and that even if I could, I didn't want their friendship anyway.

By the time I left school, I'd made a couple of friends - other "misfits" - but we fell out of touch again when we moved onto other things, and the last I heard, one of them was working in Japan, and the other was raising wolves in Romania.

When I went to sixth form, the bullies did other things, but I still didn't know how to be friends with people, and that continued through three years of further education until I went to university. It was only when I started spending weekends in London during my first year that I really began to make friends, and yet I don't have a cover photo for Facebook of me and my peers laughing and throwing graduation caps into the air. Maybe next time.

I'm getting the hang of it now, the friendship thing, but I still wonder, sometimes, when I'm lying in bed with the arms of someone I love wrapped around me, just what I've done to deserve them, and, ten years after I left that wretched school, I still ask myself if I'm worth it, if I'm good enough, and if all these thoughts will ever just...

stop.

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Kidney trouble

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 18:53:13 GMT

Because of my mum's cancer last year, I've been referred to the local family history clinic, and I'm now in the process of filling in an exceedingly long form about the various things that have ailed and killed family members up to great grandparents, aunts and uncles.

I've just had a chat with my aunt on my dad's side, who told me that my great aunt died of kidney failure. This isn't such a big deal in itself, except it turns out that her doctor's attitude was apparently "people can survive with one wonky kidney so we're not going to put you forward for transplant".

This attitude probably wouldn't have ultimately caused her death if her doctors had found out before the post-mortem examination that she only was only born with one kidney...

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A fishy tale.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 12:57:01 GMT

My houseguest just walked into the kitchen and said “Katie, can you think of a good reason why there might be a dead fish in your toilet?”

I replied, "Well, it wouldn't be the first time. I assume whoever put it there intended to flush it away, so I would just... go about your business, and flush, and..."

...and then I couldn't continue talking, because we were both laughing too much.

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Picture the scene...

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 15:19:38 GMT

It is August 11th 1999.

You're in Cornwall to see the solar eclipse, and as the time of totality approaches, people around you begin to notice that the sun itself won't be visible from the beach that you're on because of a tall rocky outcrop.

Unfortunately, you broke your ankle during a trampolining lesson two weeks beforehand, and whilst every other person on the beach wades out to sea for a better vantage point, you are left sitting on your beach chair, alone, with a black binbag tied around your left leg to protect the cast from sea water. It's frustrating, but it does make for an amusing story to tell for the rest of your life - that day you sat alone on a beach watching the world walk out to sea.

In fact, 13½ years later, you are sitting in a teashop in Manchester, relating this story to the best friend of one of your closest friends but whom you've never met before. Halfway through your story, she puts down her teacup and listens intently, and then exclaims: "Oh my god, you're Bag Girl!"

thatbloodywoman was on that beach that day, and remembers me clear as if it were yesterday. As you would, of course, if you saw somebody sat alone on a beach wearing a binbag around one leg, but seriously, what are the chances?

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53d

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 11:16:22 GMT

My application to study BSc (Hons) Mental Health Nursing at University of Salford has been accepted, subject to producing original GCSE and degree certificates, usual health and police checks and the NHS bursary. I start on March 18th.

SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW OMG!

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Highway Code: now dispensing sex advice.

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 23:45:17 GMT

Find the nearest book to you, turn to page 45, and read the first sentence: this describes your sex life in 2013.

"When one approaches do not panic."

Marginally better than 2012. I really ought to find a more appropriate book for next year, though.

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Yay bandwagons! #upgoerfive

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 02:02:00 GMT

I don't work at the moment, but I can write about the last job I did, and the job I want to do next.

My last job was to do fun things with children who were away from home for a few days with other children and maybe their teachers or some other grown-up they know. The fun things they did with me were things like firing guns, working out hard problems and climbing up walls. I watched the children do the fun things and helped to keep them safe.

I am asking people to give me a job where I can do things like clean and dress people who are sick, give them food, help them to move about and use the bathroom and make their beds. I will also have to check things like how hot or cold they are, how much their heart is beating, how many breaths they take and how heavy they are.

One day, I want to go back to school so I can learn how to do this job even better.

What I do for work, as written in the Splasho Up-Goer Five editor.

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I'll be okay

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 20:47:48 GMT

Related: you can cope.

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hello mojo

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 00:38:58 GMT

I said last night that I'd had better ideas than shooting outdoors at night at ISO100 without a flash.

I was wrong.

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Doctors and nurses

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 14:45:23 GMT

Conversation with a three year old girl my mum looks after just now:

M: what's this? (holding up the apron of a nurse uniform from the fancy dress box)
Katie: it's a nurse's apron. Would you like to put it on and be a nurse?
M: (thinks) no. I'm too good to be a nurse. I'm going to be a doctor.

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RIP Cheeks

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 23:21:58 GMT

Cheeks was one of the happiest, friendliest little animals I've known. He was a wanderer, and always getting into mischief - usually being found under someone's bed or behind the sofa, although the funniest hiding place he found was definitely inside the kitchen ceiling. We never worked out how he got up there.

We'll miss you, little scamp.

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In case you hadn't noticed what Brits do best yet...

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 22:30:33 GMT

It turns out we're very good at taking the piss out of ourselves, and generally doing utterly crazy things that nobody will ever forget, from the Olympics opening ceremony, to the finale of the Tour of Britain's second stage:

"The race then turns for a very fast run back toward the Safari Park, which first opened in 1971.
Entering the grounds via the main gate with just over a kilometre of racing to go the race heads past the entrance to the Safari Drive for a very fast final kilometre, including a swooping final corner past the elephant enclosure. As riders hit the final few hundred metres of the stage, they’ll sprint alongside the giraffe enclosure, providing a unique and spectacular background to The Tour of Britain.
Home to over 700 exotic animals from all around the world, the day-to-day residents of Knowsley Safari Park will be joined by 100 of the world’s top cyclists on Monday 10th September, so no matter your preference, whether fluffy, feathered, ferocious or lycra, you’ll go wild at Knowsley."

WE CAN'T STOP HERE. THIS IS ELEPHANT COUNTRY!

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Cycling in the Dark

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sat, 18 Aug 2012 23:28:10 GMT

Cycling in the dark, alone, is a unique experience. I've done overnight before, with damerell on the London to Brighton night ride, but going it alone is a whole different kettle of fish. I've also ridden in the city at night - well, 10pm or so - but that again is different to the countryside.

Riding alone, there's nobody to talk to, and I felt so infinitesimal. Every sound was magnified, from the wind rippling past my jacket to the owls hooting in the trees. I saw bats, and rabbits, and foxes, but no humans - none at all, for 35 minutes zipping through the night.

In the country, all the roads look the same. Single track, lined with hedges; they go on for miles and miles. None of the landmarks I had doing the route in daylight earlier in the day (twice) existed once the sun set; the cottages and the passing places and the funny looking trees all blended into the darkness.

Even with a headlight chosen specifically for this kind of cycling, I could only see 20 feet ahead of me, and I was riding in the centre of the road to get the best possible vantage of the tarmac ahead. Signposts appeared, sticking out of the the hedgerow, for less than a second, gone before I could read the lettering.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins right now is intense.

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Quarter century

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Sat, 04 Aug 2012 18:25:02 GMT

Achievement Unlocked: a quarter century on this planet. Go me!

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On the subject of "Road Tax"

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 14:39:24 GMT

Because I'm tired of getting into altercations with people who object to the presence of cyclists on the road on the basis that "they don't pay road tax", I thought I'd clear a few things up.

First: nobody pays road tax. Road tax doesn't even exist. The payment commonly known as road tax is actually called Vehicle Excise Duty, or VED, and it's a tax on the vehicle. It is paid as a license to drive or park a vehicle on public roads, and the amount paid usually depends on the emissions of the vehicle. So, as it happens, a bicycle rider pays the appropriate amount for their zero-emission vehicle!

Historically, the Road Fund (and its predecessor - the RF came into being in 1920, but taxes for vehicles were introduced in 1888) existed to pay for road construction and maintenance, but it was very heavily subsidised by local and general taxation, because RF wasn't enough to cover the costs, and eventually, in 1937, the government stopped ring-fencing the Road Fund and it all went into a big pot along with income tax and council tax, and it is this pot which pays for the upkeep of roads today.

It's also worth noting here that the original VED was introduced because the roads were intended for use by horses and cyclists, and the tax upon drivers was implemented to give them permission to use the roads. At risk of sounding like a small child: "we were here first!"

Amusingly, Winston Churchill once predicted the future in a speech opposing the Road Fund, saying: "It will be only a step from this for them to claim in a few years the moral ownership of the roads their contributions have created". Well, quite.

Cambridge Cycle Campaign also came out with a gem, suggesting that those who believe cyclists should be banned from the road for not paying this mythical "road tax" should also be in favour of smokers getting priority medical care, as non-smokers don't pay a "hospital tax".

This also led me to think about some of the vehicles that are exempt from Vehicle Excise Duty: fire engines, police cars, ambulances and other healthcare vehicles. Would those arguing that cyclists should be banned from the roads also ban the vehicles of the emergency services, I wonder?

(There are others too - vintage cars, army vehicles, vehicles imported by members of foreign armed forces, etc. and I wouldn't object to the argument that owners of these vehicles should pay VED.)

In short, this "cyclists don't pay road tax" argument is old, and boring, and so very very wrong.

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Just hangin' around

tajasel@dreamwidth.org — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 07:32:04 GMT

Here's a photo of me chilling out after work one evening a few weeks ago:

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