Drumbeat Heart

#StillHere Ep. 5 - Bad Days | Drumbeat Heart

2015-11-05T22:57:00.001+00:00

New blog post, documenting some bad days I've had this week.

Fionnuala x

NEW VIDEO! The Importance of ... Channel Orange + BONUS Spotify Playlist!

2015-08-27T13:26:00.000+01:00

This video is the perfect example of why you should always script videos. Sorry if this is a little all over the place - hopefully someone understands what I was getting at!

Boys may not cry, but I certainly do over this album. Check out the bonus playlist below for some of my favourite cuts from Frank.

REVIEW: Zoeva Classic Brush Set! | Drumbeat Heart

2015-08-25T18:00:00.000+01:00

(L-R: The face brushes from the Classic Brush Set - the 125 Stippling brush, the 105 Luxe Highlight brush, the 128 Cream Cheek brush, and the 142 Concealer brush)

Hello little friends ...

It was my birthday recently, (had I mentioned that? I didn't think I had. At all. Ahem). My brush collection had become deplorably dirty, so my sister convinced me, (tough task, I assure you), to let her buy me some new ones from Zoeva.

Founded in 2008 by Zoe Boikou, Zoeva is a cosmetic line originating in Germany. The name comes from the Germany word for 'life', ('zoe'), and honours 'the first woman on earth', ('eva').

I didn't want to get a set specific for eyes or face, so I got the Classic Brush Set, which costs €60 on their website. The sets range in price from €35 to €185: all sets are cruelty free, and there are a couple of vegan-friendly sets too!

The eye brushes in the Classic Brush set

The face brushes in the Classic Brush set

The set contains four face brushes, and four eye brushes, which I will go into in more detail further on. The brushes came in a faux-leather wallet/bag/thing which I have found very convenient for travelling recently. The one thing I didn't like - only five of the brushes came with brush guards, and the ones for the eye brushes didn't even fit. It felt a little half assed, like someone gave up packaging halfway through.

Having never been in contact with the brand before, I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of positive reinforcement their products and their branding carries. It's not something you get with a lot of brands, and it feels very authentic.

But you don't want to read about the packaging, do you?

L-R: The 142 Concealer Buffer brush, 128 Cream Blush brush, 125 Stippling brush and the 105 Luxe Highlight brush

Starting with the face brushes - I was wary of the 125 Stippling brush, (I'm just wary of stippling brushes in general. How does it blend it in? Sorcery). No, but this is very good at both stippling AND buffing, and I think it will grow to replace my Real Techniques buffing brush. It applies product evenly and flawlessly, and the bristles are super soft on your skin. Be warned though - those thinner bristles will never be white again. Ever.

The 142 Concealer Buffer brush is an exact dupe for the Real Techniques Deluxe Crease brush. It is really stiff and dense (like every man I've ever encountered, amirite?) and it blends product out beautifully. I rarely applied concealer with a brush before, but I'm a convert now.

The 105 Luxe Highlight needs to be seen (and felt) to be believed. All the brushes are fairly soft but this might as well be a rabbit's tale, (it's not because that would be lousy). It is perfectly shaped for applying highlight, with the brush picking up a lot of product. It wouldn't make a bad contour brush either: the chiseled tip is perfect for creating your own chiseled cheek bones.

I'm not a blush person. Thousands of makeup tutorials later and I still can't apply the shite without resembling a whoopie cushion. It should be no surprise then that 128 Cream Blush brush was my least favourite of the set. I tried using it a couple of ways - highlight, contour and yes, blush - and the brush just wasn't effective at applying any product. The bristles are firm or dense enough, and it feels the cheapest of the lot.

Now the eyes ...

L-R: The 317 Wing Eyeliner brush, the 228 Luxe Crease brush, the 230 Luxe Pencil brush and the 227 Soft Definer brush

The 227 Soft Definer brush is your standard flat base colour brush. It's not rounded enough for blending, but that's ok. It's does its job. It's good at its job. My only crib is that I already have plenty of brushes that do that exact same job, just as well, I also found that it didn't wash very wall, and
there was some bristle fall out after.

The 228 Luxe Crease brush AKA THE PERFECT AFFORDABLE BLENDING BRUSH. This is beautifully soft and so rounded - great for softly defining the crease or buffing out harsh edges. I really really liked this product. When I washed it though, compared to the other brushes, it didn't keep its shape very well. Again, there was a tiny bit of bristle fallout after, but not enough to stop me loving it. (I am very sad).

I usually wear smokey eyes going out, and the 230 Luxe Pencil brush is going be really useful for those kind of looks. It's a good enough size that it can kinda of be used for everything - cut creases, soft creases, smoking out eyeliner, your lower lashline, highlighting your inner corners ... Multi-purpose wonderfullness!

Last but not least, the 317 Wing Liner brush is a basic angled brush. You could use this on your brows with gel or shadow, or for eyeliner - either applying or smoking out.

Eight brushes for €60, with only one dud, ain't too shabby - it roughly works out at €7.50 a brush, which is what you'd pay for most good quality ones in the pharmacy/drugstore.

Overall, I'm impressed, and I would definitely consider repurchasing again. In fact, I already have my eye on the Cocoa Blend eyeshadow palette! Pity you only have one birthday a year, huh?

Have you tried any Zoeva products before? Are you a fan?

DRUGSTORE HAUL! Sleek Makeup, W7 and NYC Cosmetics | Drumbeat Heart

2015-08-10T13:00:00.000+01:00

L-R: NYC Liquid Eyeliner in Black, W7 Prime Magic in 'Camera Ready', W7 The Fixer setting spray, Sleek Makeup Matte Me lip creams in 'Fandango Purple', 'Birthday Suit' and , W7 Absolute Lashes mascara

'Ello 'ello 'ello ...

I usually don't do posts like this because I don't want to come off like a big fat wanker. I am not a makeup artist, nor would I consider myself a 'beauty blogger', but I do absolutely love makeup. I remember discovering online makeup tutorials and I became completely obsessed, (as in if I could do my Masters in being Pixiwoo then I would).

I'm constantly picking up new stuff, and seeing as I dropped serious dollah on a DSLR, and because I'm trying to get back into blogging regularly, I thought I'd talk about some bits I picked up recently!

I bought all these products in Sam McCauley's Pharmacy in Midleton, (they were doing a 'buy one get one half price' on cosmetics, I was like a deer in headlights),

W7 Absolute Lashes mascara

First up - W7's Absolute Lashes mascara, which is basically Benefit's They're Real! for €4. Don't tell them that though, obviously. Gracey from Long Hair and Lashes (go check out her blog and fawn over her) posted about this originally so I said I'd pick it up when I got a chance. Since using up my They're Real! I've been at a loss. I did find some great ones in the mean time - Benefit's Rollerlash is fantastic, as is Bare Minerals Lash Domination - but I can't justify spending lots of money on something that I'll be throwing out in three months. Absolute Lashes is literally the EXACT same, right down to the brush, for a fraction of the price. I will be repurchasing by the dozen.

Lil brushy wush!

Next up ...

W7 Prime Magic primer in 'Camera Ready'

...W7's Prime Magic face primer! Being honest, I never usually used primer up until recently, when I got a sample of Bare Minerals Prime Time primer. It made my skin look visibly smoother when I applied my foundation, no matter how rough and ragged it was. This is the same concept, but again, for half the price (this costs €6 compared to Bare Minerals being anywhere between €22 and €26). The one thing I would say about this is that it doesn't dry as fast as the BM one, and the 'camera ready' claim is just marketing fluff.

W7 The Fixer setting spray

This was €3 which meant I had to buy it because I am attracted to things that are very very cheap. W7's The Fixer spray smells amazing, but I don't think I've used it enough to give it a fair review. It did take away a little bit of the chalkiness from my setting powder but as regards my makeup longevity, it's too early to tell.

NYC Liquid Eyeliner in 'Black'

This is one of NikkieTutorial's favourite eyeliner, and it was only €2 so I said it was worth a shout, (if you can't tell, I'm a massive cheapskate). This has definitely overtaken my old favourite. Essence Liquid Ink - the longer brush of the NYC Liquid Eyeliner is way easier to manoeuvre, and the formula is much longer-lasting. Win!

Sleek Matte Me lip creams in 'Fandango Purple', 'Birthday Suit' and 'Brink Pink'

Best 'til last! Sleek Matte Me lipcreams! *Whitney Houston's 'The Greatest Love of All' plays in the background* I became obsessed these when my friend Gracey started raving about them. If you're familiar with Limecrime Velvetines, this is them, for half the price and without the fraud, (these retail at about €6/€7). These are extremely pigmented, extremely long wearing and extremely matte - they even lasted through me eating a really oily salad the other day. Application is key though: you'll get the bet results if you apply it in thin layers, and allow it to dry between each one. Also, I HATE the doe foot applicator, it's like extended and very stiff and not easy to use at all. I usually use a separate brush to be honest. But it's a tiny price to pay I guess.

Talking about the shades - 'Fandango Purple' is a blue-toned purple. For comparison, it's slightly lighter than my MAC Lipliner in 'Currant'. 'Birthday Suit' is the the eponymous Kylie Jenner colour - dark, browney nude. And 'Brink Pink' is literally highlighter pink. Amazing.

L-R: 'Fandango Purple', 'Birthday Suit', 'Brink Pink' and the NYC Eyeliner in 'Black'

Fionnuala x

NEW VIDEO! #StillHere Ep. 3 - Defining Your Happiness | Drumbeat Heart + BONUS SPOTIFY PLAYLIST!

2015-08-08T17:53:00.003+01:00

Hello friends,

New video is hereee - talking about how we need to take control over our emotions, especially happiness.

We can make ourselves, we just need to know how!

Also, bonus Spotify playlist here on the blog! It includes some tracks that instantly put me in a good mood - there should be a lil something for everyone on it!.

Fionnuala x

#StillHere Ep. 2 - Job Stress & Social Media | Drumbeat Heart

2015-06-23T07:37:00.001+01:00

#StillHere - promoting discussions about mental health ... AND MY YOUTUBE DEBUT!

2015-05-31T01:43:00.002+01:00

DCU breeds creativity. There's not a day that goes by that someone isn't producing a cool show on the radio, or filming for a new viral video. To be quite honest, being surrounded by such creative, hard working people is intimidating, and often leads me to question my own existence. It's also a huge challenge when it comes to my anxiety.

So, I decided to do something about it.

It has taken me YEARS to pluck up the confidence to do something like this - sit in front of a camera and say what I have to say. In recent weeks, however I've found that talking to the camera has been hugely therapeutic.

And thus, Drumbeat Heart, the YouTube channel, was born, as well as the accompanying series, #StillHere.

Inspired by fellow YouTuber LittleKuriboh's decision to document his recovery from depression, #StillHere aims to promote honest, open and frank discussions about mental health, challenge my anxiety and rebuild my confidence.

Exciting, huh?

All comments, subscribers and feedback welcome! Feel free to get in touch with me on Twitter.

Check out the first episode of #StillHere below - there's more to come during the week.

Thank you all for being so patient, and I hope you enjoy!

Fionnuala x

Why the Grammys don't matter

2015-02-13T00:20:00.001+00:00

(Paul McCartney, Rihanna and Kanye West perform 'FourFiveSeconds' at the 57th Grammy Annual Awards on February 8 2015. Image - Just Jared)

For as long as I can remember, I've looked up to my brother.

Not just because he’s older and taller, mind. He has opinions, strong as himself, and speaks well, but not to the point where he is argumentative. He is extremely intelligent and well-informed, and has always challenged me to think for myself, and not what people tell me to think.

When it came to music, growing up, we rarely agreed on things. I went through the inevitable emo phase, (which I’m not sure I ever really came out of, being), and become obsessed with Fall Out Boy, much to his dismay. When he called them shit, or mocked Pete Wentz’s bass playing, I would defend them to the end.

He would never let up though. Comparing them to John Legend, (an artist we both love), he would always say, “but sure how many Grammys have they won?”

Big fat zero, that’s how many. I listed off the numerous awards they had managed to nab – MTV, Teen Choice, People’s Choice, Kerrang – but he would just laugh.

“They don’t matter!” he said. Artist after artist, he would make me question their credibility as musicians and artists.

Why is that the Grammys are held in such high esteem? What makes the number of Grammy awards a person has the best indication of quality?

Brace yourselves: it doesn't.

Now, that’s not to say that MTV awards and the like are only given to the finest of musicians – far from it. Simply put, the award has come to be nothing more than a title.

This goes without saying, but music taste is completely subjective. It would be impossible for the academy for the Grammys – or any judges board, for that matter – to compile a list that would please everyone.

Criticism of this year's ceremony has been extensive. After interrupting Beck's acceptance speech following his Album Of The Year Win, Kanye said it was all a joke, “like the Grammys themselves”. Ironic, considering he's performed for the academy countless times.

Memes have since circulated comparing Beck's 'Morning Phase' to Beyoncé's self-titled effort which attempt to undermine Kanye's comments about artistry, highlighting Beyoncé's extensive employment of song-writers. Pitting artists against each other like this only devalues the industry itself. Just because Beck arranged his album himself doesn't make it better than 'Beyoncé'. Likewise, Beyoncé's album doesn't trump 'Morning Phase' just because it's Beyoncé.

EDM giants Calvin Harris and Kaskade were also critical. At the inaugural GQ Grammy after-party, they slammed the telecast as “geriatric”, and complained that their music was unfairly represented. Most of the awards for dance categories were awarded before the main ceremony.

In 1989, rap and hip-hop communities initiated a boycott against the Recording Academy when their categories weren't televised. This year, rap and hip-hop artists were serious contenders within certain categories. This, however, has been overshadowed by the fact that this year's Grammys were 'the whitest in 35 years'.

In the past six years, Best Rap Album has gone to white male artists four times – Eminem and Macklemore. In the past four years, there were no black artists nominated for Best New Artist, Record Of The Year and Song Of The Year.

On top of that, Best Rap Album nominee rapper Iggy Azalea was a lightening rod for controversy, accused time after time of appropriating black culture and encouraging black erasure. When she lost out to Eminem's 'The Marshall Mathers LP 2', people reacted gleefully. But was she nominated for the sake of causing a stir? Was it just an attempt on the part of the Recording Academy to stay relevant?

It's not just the Grammys that have been getting a roasting. Resident crank Morrissey penned an open letter recently, criticised both the Brit Awards and the Mercury Prize for giving out awards to artists “who had not earned it”.

"The Brit Awards do not ask the public who they would like to see receive awards - for that would be to risk too much, yet the fierce insistence is that artists are rewarded for their prominence in the previous twelve months because, after all, 'it's what everybody wants'," he wrote.

"Thus, for 2015, we have MacDonna [Madonna], who had a quiet 2014 (but who is quite usefully about to release her new album!), yet here she is again promoting her frightening career on the Brit Awards even though her music has not ever said anything at all about British life."

Morrissey also wrote that awards are a cynical incentive to produce quality music. "At its most honest, the Brit Awards are unfairly given to singers who, it is hoped, might be encouraged enough by the award to actually write a good song. Just as the Mercury Prize lands like a voodoo doll in the hands of the unlucky recipient (who is usually to be found selling mattresses ten months later), a Brit Award generally goes to a lot of shriveled young souls who have not earned it, yet none are likely to ask 'are you sure I deserve it?' - possibly because they know the reply."

Comments on Morrissey's outburst varied. The most significant, however, was probably the one that read, “how can anyone get so bitter over something so insignificant?”

We are now living in age where, hopefully, people are beginning to realise that there is no correlation between the number of accolades an artist or band has garnered, and the quality of their music. People scour obscure music blogs and streaming services to find music they enjoy, and that's fine. Others rely on the charts or popular media when it comes to their listening preferences, and that's also fine.

My tastes have broadened since that conversation with my brother, (Fall Out Boy are still the one, though), and I am insatiable when it comes to my knowledge of music and culture. I'm still learning to form my opinions on things, and how not to be blinkered by mainstream media. My brother and I, we still don't agree on everything, and he still calls me out on my shit.

A couple of years ago, I posted a link to a Bruce Spingsteen song on my Facebook. I can't remember which one. I do remember, however, his comment underneath it.

“Wow, something good for once. I'm proud of you!”

Waxing lyrical

2014-12-21T14:00:00.000+00:00

I'm not one to pay attention to the Christmas creep. Well, not really anyway.

I'd avoided all the Bah Humbuggers, collectively cursing the Yuletide and all things related on every social media platform possible. I'd shown equal amounts of indifference to festive manics, saying things such as, "only seven Saturdays 'til Christmas!", as if it had suddenly become appropriate to use the number of Saturdays as an appropriate measurement of time.

I think it was only towards the end of November that it got to me. We were dismantling equipment after an open mic. I did a lap of the room, plucking flames out tea lights with damp fingertips. Usually, the smell of smocking wicks incites different emotions - birthdays, sucrose saturated blood streams, extreme bashfulness due to incessant choruses of "happy birthday to you", (because what did I deserve for them to be singing for me?)

This was different. This was Christmas.

I'm very bad with candles - more specifically, candle wax. I'm a messer as it is, but candle wax is a different ball game. I blow candles out so I can play with the wax. I wiggle them around so that the pool of warm wax builds upon itself. I stick my fingers in it so that it hardens on my fingertips and I resemble some sort of half-human, half-reptilian being.

Or just a freak with a candle fetish.

One Christmas, in the run-up to, I remember my mam had been gifted a tall red Newbridge Christmas candle.It stood in silver stand, with a repeating reindeer pattern. The candle itself was made of twisted wax, with a white wick.

I think I was nine - old enough to know better - and in my eagerness, I knocked the candle off the mantle.

The sitting room looked like a crime scene - hot red wax splashed all over the timber floor. This saw me gleefully pushing my initials into the wax, before I realised that wax dries as quickly as it melts, and that my mam was going to fucking kill me.

Back to present day, approximately 250 kilometres away from my family home, I was filled with an enormous sense of longing. All of a sudden the world gets a little bigger, and so does the distance. I found myself shopping for a Christmas tree for the apartment, despite the fact that only one of my housemates would be up long enough to appreciate it. I decorated it, but it was a shadow of the one at home - sparse lights, mismatched tinsel, tiny stockings stitched in primary school.

I was ready for the annual argument over the fact we never have potato croquettes for Christmas dinner, courtesy of my sister. I was ready for a house that resembled Santa's grotto. I was ready for my mam telling me to stay away from the candles.

I was ready to come home.

5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder: A Response

2014-11-02T13:00:00.000+00:00

A couple of weeks ago, an article was brought to my attention by a friend, on the website "for masculine men", Return Of Kings. (I would hyperlink it, but I refuse to let Drumbeat Heart be responsible for any more traffic to the site). The title of the article was, '5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder'. I have refrained from responding to the article until now. My response can be read below).

Nothing screams 'ignorant shit bag', than someone who triviliases mental illness - in this case, specifically eating disorders.

In November of last year, a 'writer', (I use the title loosely), called Tuthmosis published an article on Return Of Kings, listing the five reasons why men shouldn't date women with eating disorders. Eating disorders affect up to 24 million Americans (where the website is based) and 70 million individuals worldwide, according to the The Renfrew Center Foundation for Eating Disorders. More interestingly, an estimated 10 to 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are male, according to the Review of Bulimia in Males published by the American Journal of Psychiatry - the website's target audience.

Tuthmosis claims to have dated several women with eating disorders, who displayed the traits described in his article. However, I've found a couple of flaws in his theory that girls with eating disorders make ideal girlfriends.

1. Her obsession with her body will improve her looks

Not so. Symptoms of anorexia and bulimia include pale or even grey looking skin, hair loss, blood shot eyes, bruising under the eyes and cheeks and bruised knuckles. Symptoms of binge eating disorder can even include weight gain. No self-respecting man would want their woman looking like that, would they?

2. She costs less money

Again, this is debatable. The Lois Bridges centre my friend attended last year in North Dublin cost nearly €5,000 a week. Ouch. Plus, she's a woman, so she can't be expected to pay her own way, right? Right?!

3. She's fragile and vulnerable

No, actually, I can't even think of a valid way to rip the shit out of this point because it infuriates me too much.

4. She probably has money of her own

Refer back to point two.

5. She's better in bed

Let's go back to the symptoms, shall we? Loss of sexual desire, frequent sore throats, constipation and headaches will mean that you'll end up getting even less sex than you were having before, because you're an intolerably awful chauvinistic man.

Let's leave aside the fact that this article is completely anti-feminist, (his other 'articles' include 'Girls With Short Hair Are Damaged', and, '5 Signs A Girl Has Daddy Issues'). That's another argument for another day.

Let's address the fact that when you search for the article, Google auto-completes the search with 'satire'. Since when is encouraging stigmas about mental health and eating disorders satirical or humourous? Did I miss the turning point in comedy when laughing in the face of others' adversities became socially acceptable and cool?

I am one of those people that believe there is a line when it comes to comedy. This is more than offensive. This post could be viewed as triggering to those still suffering with an eating disorder.

The definition of satire is as follows: "attacking human vice with irony, derision or wit". Maybe I'm the only one, but I do not see the irony, or the wit in this piece. I see the words of an extremely troubled, insecure man. People misunderstand satire as much as they misunderstand the nature of eating disorders, meaning people as ignorant and deluded as Tuthmosis will take what he says on board.

You can say me being offended is political correctness gone crazy, or that I shouldn't be getting so upset over something that's just a joke. But when you've been in on the 'joke' and witnessed the suffering first hand, there rarely is a funny side, is there?

Funeral sandwiches

2014-05-20T01:30:00.001+01:00

"Happiness is a drink, a fag or a shag."

Apologies if the following post comes across like a pity parade - it kind of is.

I finished my first year last week. I successfully submitted my last assignment, and I didn't even have to upload a photo to Facebook as proof. Huzzah!

To be honest, I was happy to see the back of the place. I feel like I went through a reverse emotional cycle when it came to college. I found it easy at the start, and was deliriously happy. However, I struggled towards the end. This was largely due to external factors.

I don't want to go into anything too much. Other people are involved here, and I'm not entirely sure how happy they'd be if I went into extensive detail about things that they didn't want to be discussed in the public domain.

My uncle died. It wasn't unexpected, but I don't think that makes a situation any less sad. I'd be lying if I said we were very close or we had a 'special' relationship. But he was a good man. He was always good to me growing up, and to my brother and sister. I knew he, and my aunt, would have done anything for me had I ever been in need. He felt more like a blood relative than an in-law, and it was a shame to see him go. . On the other hand, it was wonderful to see how much of a positive impact he's had on my family and beyond as we reflected on his full life.

A week later, my godfather died. This was not expected. My godfather was not a relative - I was the only one of my siblings to have a god parent that wasn't. But it made no difference.

A large part of my childhood was spent in their house. There, I would draw moustaches and devil horns on all the people in the paper. I would play with their family pet, (Ben, a beast of a dog), for hours, one slobbery tennis ball after another. His wife would give me Weetos and all the other delicious things I wasn't allowed at home, and he would tease me gently and wind me up about anything and everything.

He was good natured and good humoured: a larger-than-life character. He was well-known within the community, as a golfer, a Navy man, a good guy. I knew him as my godfather.

My mam told me before the funeral that he was delighted when my dad asked him to be my godfather. And I was delighted that it was him that was asked. He was my dad's best friend from the age of 18, and I cannot fathom how difficult it must have been to let him go.

On top of that, my dad was asked to give the eulogy. Naturally, he wrote it the morning of, (after much protest from my poor mother - he knew what he wanted to say in his head, wasn't that enough?)

He tripped up here and there - understandably - but otherwise he did a great job, and summed him up perfectly.

"If he could sing, he would have been perfect," he said.

Death and funerals are the only times when such great displays of strength are really acknowledged and appreciated. Similarly, at my uncle's funeral, my cousin - his son - gave a witty, poignant eulogy to a packed church in Dublin. I struggle to speak in public as it is, hence why I was so proud of both my dad and my cousins for giving eulogies dedicated to someone they'd loved and lost.

Death unifies us. It's the only thing that every person has in common - we're all going to die. Though its immediate repercussions are devastating and incomprehensible, death can also bring a sense of togetherness. Families following death resemble the pieces of a mosaic.

This all came to me at my uncle's removal. The way we deal with grief is so typically Irish. One branch of the family will be popping out lasagnes, sandwiches and cake like there's no tomorrow. The other battalion will sit, murmer, comment on the corpse, eat and ask you the same questions about college over and over and over.

"I mean, he looks well, doesn't he? He doesn't look ... Sick, like."

"The glasses. He's missing his glasses. I wondered what was different about him."

"And tell me, do you have exams? What are you doing for accommodation next year?

Then, all of a sudden, the two sides amalgamate. Before you know it, it's 10 o'clock, and 90% of your family are inebriated - and still scolding you for drinking vodka-laced cocktails with your aunts, (despite being 18 and all).

It'd be difficult to capture a moment like that under different circumstances. Beautiful, raw, unique and completely unconventional. Although I still can't contemplate a life without either of them, it's nice to be able to take something from it that is positive.

"If I never see another sandwich again ... " My other cousin grumbled.

When it's salad and cucumber, who could blame him?

Up in the clouds

2014-04-06T01:07:00.000+01:00

The mammy walking through the grounds of St. Philip's Cathedral, Birmingham

I hadn't realised how independent I'd become since moving to Dublin, until I went travelling with my mam recently.

I had asked her to buy me tickets to Fall Out Boy, my favourite band growing up, (reserve your judgement for someone who gives a shit), when they announced a show in Ireland for March.

Naturally, she bought tickets for their show ... In Birmingham.

"Ah sure, we'll just go to Birmingham for the weekend. Be grand."

My mam's cock-up had turned into my first holiday abroad in six years. Result.

I was unbearably excited. I wore the ears off everything talking about the trip. We were due to fly over from at 6:45 am, the night after my school awards. I had frantically prepared an extensive itinerary - we would visit Cadbury World, Birmingham Aquarium, the Jewellery Quarter, Winterbourne House & Garden ...

"Go to bed now and make sure you're up in the morning." Callista 'Two Hours Early' Jones told me.

5.45am.

Five forty five. Am.

"FIONNUALA, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO LEG IT!"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE'S IT'S QUARTER TO SIX!"

What ensued was possibly the shittest episode of 24 ever ... Teeth were brushed, blood pressures rose, clothes were thrown on as Frank 'I Don't Obey The Speed Limit It Obeys Me' Jones finally came in handy. Half an hour to get to the airport - the race was on.

We were subsequently hurled out of the car, scrambling up the escalator in departures. We joined the queue at our gate: at this stage, years had been put on to me, and I was pretty sure Callista was going to collapse. We began organising our liquids into clear plastic bags (because, naturally, we'd forgotten to do that), and I silently said prayers to whatever deity had decided to scupper our plans to let it go, just this once.

6.30am.

We plowed through baggage as an exasperated flight attendant called our names over the tannoy. Onwards to security. For whatever reason, my mam had decided to wear whatever metal objects she could find in the house. As I breezed through, she was held up for a full body pat down. There I was, surrounded by all the things I loved - tax free alcohol and cosmetics - what was I do to do?

"GO FIONNUALA! JUST TELL THEM I'M COMING!" My mam's voice carried through the duty free.

I turned and ran, hand luggage bobbing, straining for breath. Never before had I wished I'd used my DCU gym membership more than right at that moment. Breathlessly, I told the flight attendant about my situation and scurried on to the plane.

I was now on a plane, by myself, in the midst of the Malaysian airline crisis. Was this the end?

Queue Callista trundling up the aisle. Admittedly, she didn't speak for the majority of the journey, only to occasionally make delirious remarks about the reliability of her phone alarm.

"Next time make sure you set one as well." she told me as we landed.

We arrived at our hotel at quarter past 9, had a breakfast, and began tourist-ing. We headed straight to the Bullring shopping centre, where the credit cards were melted. Five hours later and 500 bags heavier, we trekked back, admiring St. Philip's Cathedral in the centre of town on the way.

Mid afternoon naps were followed by watching Ireland's glorious Six Nations' win in the comfort of our room, before dinner in All Bar One.

The following day saw a trip to The Jewellery Quarter in the sunshine, before more shopping. We watched the St. Patrick's Day parade - the biggest in Europe, would you believe - before heading back to the hotel before more naps.

That evening, I watched my favourite band for the last six years, Fall Out Boy, annihilate the stage. I suffered a punch to the face, and almost sweated my skin cells off, but it was well worth it.

And so, my 'wild' weekend away had come to an end, and the beds beckoned us before another nosebleed flight in the wee hours.

We set two alarms this time. And a wake-up call. Just in case.

Oh, and before I forget ...

Hi Jason and Maria!

For more on my trip to Birmingham, check out my Instagram and my Tumblr! Don't forget to follow me on Twitter either!

Pyjamas and monkey suits

2014-03-06T23:51:00.000+00:00

Tuesdays are my favourite days.

The week's barely begun, and already I'm off - no lectures and the freedom to lounge in my apartment. I can sit behind my laptop with a constant stream of tea, pretending to be a journalist. Bliss.

Last Tuesday, I got a text off my friend. It was Enterprise Week, and he wanted me to come with him to some talk on how to enterprise, or whatever ... It was the middle of the day and (naturally) I was still in pyjamas. I was not leaving the house for that very reason.

"It's 1pm!" Barra was baffled on the other end of the phone. My other friends expressed similar sentiments.

My response: "What is it with you and the others and wearing pyjamas after conventional hours? Free your mind!"

"It's not acceptable to wear them while attending college", he said.

Isn't it?

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm pretty much against wearing pyjamas in public unless it's a dire emergency (the walk of shame doesn't count). As I'm studying journalism, I've read endless books (cough) on the trade, and one the plus sides of being a self-employed journalist means working at home. Which means never having to leave the jammies. So really, I'm just preparing myself for what's ahead of me.

Pyjamas are wonderful things. They bring people together. There's something about onesies that just screams mutual understanding. Just the other night in college, we had a pyjama-themed open mic night. I'd never seen so many overgrown toddlers in a room in my whole life.

Clothes seem to be a big thing in college. I know one of my friends wears a suit to college ever day, as well as polishing his shoes. Me? I'm lucky if I'm dressed for my 9 o'clock starts.

I will admit that DCU has seen me one time too many times in my pyjamas. That technically wasn't my fault, however. I woke up one morning, horrifically hungover, to find a brutish cleaner at my door. It was bed bug spraying day, and, of course, I had forgotten all about it. Queue frantic tipping over of mattress, stripping of sheets and scrambling out of the room.

In my fluffy pink dressing gown (from Lidl, no less), I strutted over to my friend's apartment with more sass than Beyoncé until they were finished spraying.

It's a confidence thing more than any thing. I've been told on several occasions that the stuff I wear is completely outlandish.

"Put it this way", my best friend Val said to me, "If we hadn't been friends already, and I saw you in the street or at a party, I probably wouldn't be your friend. You dress weird."

I can't say she's wrong. I have a fetish for fur coats, and I've been known to make tops out of tights ...

Or maybe we're still conservative when it comes to clothes. Maybe in years to come, pyjamas will be less of a social phenomenon. Men will be legally obliged to wear suits at every opportunity. People won't laugh at me and call me Macklemore when I wear my fur coat in public and it swallows me whole ...

A girl can dream!

Truth

2014-02-08T01:59:00.001+00:00

It's safe to say that this week has been a struggle.

Having just typed that, I feel incredibly silly and ashamed. While I have had my own difficulties this week, nothing could compare to the struggles my friends are facing and will continue to face in the coming weeks. While health issues are plaguing one of my best friends, a young man in my year died while on a trip with a college society. I refuse to name him or go into intense details about the case: people are doing enough of that as is. I also would not claim to have ever been incredibly close to the deceased, but on any occasion I did engage with him, he always came across as a very polite, well-rounded young man.

These are hard truths we face. "God only takes the best", we are told, as hands are held and eyes are closed. We pick up our friends from the airport to greet them with smiles and warm hugs, only to be met with ashen faces and distress. Emotions run high as you realise it could have happened to any one. "Life is simple, it's just not easy" - another equally upbeat pearl of wisdom from the powers that be.

You sit and wonder why. You sit and sympathise with the family in a faraway county, who must bury their son in the most tragic of circumstances. You sit and wonder why it wasn't you. You're selfish. You cry wolf and blame anxiety for your cowardliness. You blame others for the self-inflicted panic attacks. You lay awake until five in the morning begging people to talk to you until your heart stops racing. You lie and cry after love in the dark of your room. You call others out for their selfish acts caused by their own inner conflictions. You act recklessly and irresponsibly in a desperate attempt to recapture your spirit and call yourself brave. You are no better for saying no. You are no stronger.

I've spoken briefly before about my anxiety. It's something that's stuck around, and tends to rear its head when I'm alone. Anxiety and loneliness are lovers. I've moved back to Dublin following my Christmas break, and was living in the apartment by myself while all my friends were away. I told my mam, who reassured me I could come home whenever I wanted to. But I turned her down. I saw coming at the weekend as a sign of weakness. I felt like I had something to prove. Going home would be allowing my emotions to win.

My brain became more wound up as cabin fever set in. My sheets were sweaty and I felt like I'd seen everything the internet had to offer me. So, that night, I went out by myself, in a city I am still growing accustomed to. I got drunk, and, in hindsight, put myself in a potentially dangerous position. What I had thought to be a courageous act had been hideously stupid in light of what had happened.

You have your darkest days in exchange for the brightest of nights. Often, the pieces of yourself will feel broken or shift out of place. That doesn't make you weak. Neither does asking for help. Comparing your problems to others' don't make your problems any lesser or any greater. They are still your fears, and they will feel just as real, no matter what the context. I encourage any one with the saddest of burdens to reach out their hand in the dark and take the first step. Despite how small you feel, you will always be the largest part of someone's eye, the plug in the hole in someone's heart. You'd don't go any where alone, and you don't let any one go any where alone.

You'll still over think. You will still cry yourself to sleep worrying about your future in the hands of demi-gods. Bad things will still happen. But not a day will go by when you won't be shining. You are as bright as the day you were born - for always, forever.

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Living is a problem

2014-01-27T23:32:00.002+00:00

"Nadine?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do we have two mop buckets?"

My Christmas break was over. I was back in my apartment in north Dublin, ready to face the struggles of semester two and a laughable 10 hour week. My four house mates had moved back up earlier than I had, and I had arrived back to a pretty unclean apartment.

I overlooked this - until I noticed a second mop bucket sitting in the corner of the room, half full with dirty water. It looked as if it had been sitting there for days. The other mop bucket was on the opposite side of the room, sporting mysterious white stains on the inside.

Nadine laughed. "That's not a mop bucket - that's the bin."

I paused. "Why ... Why was the bin used as a mop bucket?"

"Well", she replied, still laughing, "I had used the mop bucket to bleach my shoes in. It was in my room, and I think Jun wanted to mop the floor, so he used the bin." Queue more laughter. (Jun is our Japanese house mate who doesn't speak to us much, mainly because he can't).

Incidents like this were becoming all too familar. In semester one alone, we had been through a kettle, two toasters and vacuum cleaner. (We had broken the vacuum cleaner as a result of using it to try and hoover up a flood in Nadine's room - it's a miracle we made it to college in the first place).

College teaches you a lot of things. It is slowly teaching me how to live amicably with people that aren't blood relatives.

Your days of reaching into the cupboard knowing they are overflowing with food are gone. I returned knowing that my meals would have to be made up of three ingredients - porridge, pasta and rice. Delicious.

"We HAVE to go food shopping", I said to Brid, who temporarily moved in with me last week.

(This resulted in us not going food shopping and eating at the college bar almost every night. Or just not eating).

We don't have a dishwasher apartment, nor do we have a mother that miraculously swoops in every time you leave a tea-stained cup on the draining board. Slowly, the washing builds up, forming a budget Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I mean, sure, every one was great for cleaning at the start. I even went the extra mile - I went from not lifting a finger at home to taking out the bins, doing the wash-up, hoovering and mopping the floor (this was prior to the Bin-As-Mop-Bucket saga). Old habits die hard, however. Jun, who used to do all of the wash-up even when the delph wasn't his, soon realised that we had no intention of ever touching a dirty plate again as it was assumed he would clean it. I'm pretty sure this was the point when the entire house broke down.

We had a house inspection a couple of weeks ago. Tired and well-worn from college, naturally, we'd left all cleaning until the night before. The house was hoovered hourly, I used bleach for the very first time and cleaned all surfaces without baby wipes. Defrosting the freezer turned into a bizarre house-bonding exercise, as we all tried to remove it from the wall, unsuccessfully. Jun and I must have looked a sight, hacking away at the ice with whatever clean cutlery was about.

Living with strangers teaches tolerance ... Or lack thereof. Dealing with my house mate's girlfriend has proven unbearable. She doesn't clean up after herself - and then precedes to make snide comments about the state of the apartment. (Hey, I know where it's clean - your own apartment!)

She's also quick to apprehend us when we're being 'too loud' and when we 'keep her' up. (I mean, that's cute and all, but I'm pretty sure you don't live here).

I'm one to talk though really: I regularly have people over (not like that, refrain from making jibes please) and I'm usually the one that has parties. This was no exception during exam time - much to my house mates dismay. They usually put up with it, without much complaint. However, this week, things came to ahead.

Living with other people will teach you how to deal with conflict within your house. A discussion I had initiated over cleaning and the starting of a cleaning rota resulted in a full-blown argument and tension between my house mates and I. I had come back, and after, seeing the state of the house, begged and pleaded for something to be done about the Great Wall of Washing-Up. I left notes, which got responses of, "I didn't use these dishes, I'm not cleaning them."

Relations were poorer than America and Russia's. I was in despair. I'd ruined our fantastic house dynamic by playing tyrant and by allowing my innate housekeeper instincts to overrule me á la Macbeth. Then, a letter from campus residence came in the door.

Each of my house mate's was to be fined €50 because I smuggled Brid into the apartment during exam time. If I came forward, a €100 fine would apply to me and only me.

Well, shit.

I hid the letter from my other house mates, fearful that they would drive me out of DCU after being fined through no fault of their own. I decided I would own up in the morning, and sit down with house mates and apologise about the cleaning issue.

I sat down with Nollaig the following morning, wishing to clear everything up. It was agreed that a cleaning rota would be drawn up to avoid confrontations.

"You know the fines?" Nollaig said. "Well, they're fake. They're not real. We made them up to get back at you."

I stood there, baffled and speechless. No wonder they'd been barely speaking to me! They'd been plotting against me! For asking them to hoover the kitchen! How had I even fallen for it? They'd pull it off immaculately - the sheets bore the college's logo and all of the college's contact details. Imagine I had gone down and admitted that Brid had been staying with me - they would have laughed in my face AND I would have been out of 100 quid, for no good reason.

Initially, I was angry: fuming, even. But then I realised that really no harm had come of it, (and I was acting like Queen Bitch). I had four lifelong friends in my very wonderful house mates - all gorgeously funny people who successfully managed to pull the wool over my eyes.

Plus, I got my cleaning rota. Dishes on Tuesday, anyone?

Resolute

2013-12-25T23:04:00.001+00:00

Yes - believe it or not, it is that time of year again.

Christmas isn't long again, and already we are being bombarded with messages of detoxing, resolution making and self improvement for the new year. .

This Christmas, I've been particularly reflective. Last Christmas (refrain from singing Wham, I beg of you), my life was very different. Very different indeed. It's been hard for me to discern whether my life is different now because of luck, fate or simply my bad actions.

Like most other people, I've lost a lot this year. On the more insignificant end of the spectrum, I'm now single. On the other end, I lost my wonderful grandmother. It was one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, and it affects me more daily than I could have ever imagined. She had an incredible impact on my life, as well as everyone else's. Her presence was sorely missed at our dinner table this Christmas.

I've been through two jobs this year. I'm aware that people are in much tighter situations than me when it comes to my finances (shout out to my parents, my own personal bailout fund), I find it extremely difficult not having a safety blanket. I went from living relatively cheaply working a well paid job, to scraping by in Dublin. I don't like the fact that my parents are under pressure when it comes to housing and feeding me during college, especially when they have a stack of other bills on top of that.

It's a pity that amongst all this loss, I couldn't manage to lose a few stone.

Despite this, it's obviously that I've gained more this year. I've mentioned my Leaving Cert in previous posts, so I'll resist from going on about now. I've also written about getting into college, of which the experience has been a dream. I've gained an incredible new set of friends from all across the country, who laugh at my jokes and make me feel like the world isn't as heavy on my back. I was short-listed in this year's Hot Press Write Touch competition, in which I was featured in the magazine, as well as my piece being published on their website. I've gained invaluable PR experience, and earned a press internship at 9 Crow Street as a result. I have had a fabulous Christmas, and I look forward to going to Birmingham in March with my gorgeous mother to see one of my favourite bands in the entire world.

It's not all about gain and loss, mind. What about what we still have? Often, that's what's overlooked. I still have my family here in Cobh, my school friends, my childhood friends and a roof over my head.

Some people haven't been as lucky or worked as hard as I have this year. Sometimes, I forget that. It's easy to lose perspective.

This year, I decided to do the Christmas Day swim with my sister to raise money for the hospital where my nan stayed in her final weeks It was extremely important that I did this. My sister and I considered dropping out as struggled to open the frozen doors of my dad's car. But we couldn't. We wouldn't let ourselves.

The swim was easily the most painful experience of my entire life. The steam rose as an assembly of clothed bodies descended into the waters of Cuskinny. My body felt like it had been set alight; my internal organs like they were being weighed down. I managed to stay in the water for half an hour thought, and I was proud of myself.

This year has allowed me to grow as a person in so many ways. I've made poor decisions, but I can safely say, I've learned from them all. Last new year's, I did something pretty horrific and cruel. I took this decision out on people who didn't deserve it. But now is not the time for self-loathing. Now is not the time for wishing things were different, or that I'd tried harder or that I was a better person. It's time to move forward - without regret and without anger.

Things have happened. Things will always happen. No matter how many resolutions you make, you stick to or otherwise. Now is the time to realise that are great - you deserve your life, and this year is yours.

Your gains. Your losses. Your happiness.

Finding balance

2013-11-17T01:14:00.000+00:00

"Hold still", the doctor said. "This won't be painful at all. I'll just be pumping water in to your ear".

A machine gurgled and hummed behind me as I held a dish up to my ear. I had been dreading this for the past day. The words 'ear syringing' had me conjuring images of oversized hypodermic needles being shoved in to each ear, before they slowly drained me of my life.

In reality, it was similar to a wet willy crossed with a very small tropical storm.

I was suffering - two infected ears, resulting in an infected throat. The last few weeks had been intense. As previously mentioned, I started college at the end of September, considerably later than my fellow classmates. Life before college involved ... Well, not preparing for college, that's for sure. I was diving head first in to a course I had wanted since I was a nipper, and a city I'd hoped to live in for as long as I can remember. So incredibly idyllic ... What could possibly go wrong?

College has been incredibly difficult so far. I completely underestimated just how monumental a change it is. I was going from a quiet country home with just my parents, to sharing an apartment with four strangers in the city. My first night had involved making awkward small talk in the hopes of convincing my house mates that I was a decent person - you could have smelled the desperation off me. By half 10, I was in bed watching kids TV shows on Netflix, wondering whether I was cut out for three years of this. I was uncomfortable and anxious and my fears were mounting.

I had always liked school. My mam told me that, even as a young child, it was just in me to study and to work. I never needed much encouragement. I thrived on doing well and succeeding - praise was the icing on the academic cake. I wanted to make my teachers and my family proud, (even now, I still feel like my intelligence is my only redeeming quality). Before college, I had never failed an exam. Starting college, I failed my first three or four assignments. Concentrating in certain modules was impossible. I would leave the lecture hall dazed and confused as to what I had just sat through. When I eventually started passing them, I only just passed. I felt like the rug had been pulled from under me. I wondered whether my old school would take me back, and keep me as a permanent fixture in the school.

Why was I complaining? I had made it to college! I had gotten my first choice! My parents had paid x amount of money to get me there and house me! I felt like grabbing myself by the scruff of the neck and giving myself a good shake. I had my mam on the phone constantly telling me that if I was finding it too hard, or wasn't enjoying the course, that I should tell her sooner rather than later.

But that wasn't it. I liked my course. It was hard, but I still can't imagine myself doing anything else other than journalism.

And another thing - why was I being such a moody sod to my friends about staying in contact, seeing as I was struggling myself to return calls and reply to text messages to myself? Why was I so surprised when they were busy themselves? Their lives didn't revolve around me, as much I wanted to believe that they did. To top it all off, I was constantly getting thick with my mam on the phone, as she tried to extract information from me about how college was going and how I was. Drawing blood from a stone doesn't even cover it, let me tell you.

It was during my reading week (essentially a week off), that things came to a head. Before and during my exams, I experienced very mild anxiety. I would get incredibly sad and anxious for no real reason, and this would be brought on by stress. I couldn't control my breathing, and it felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. Because I was doing little else but sleeping, watching TV and staying inside, my anxiety started to affect me again. I felt hopeless, alone and began agonising over things. I felt like I was swamped with work, when the reality of the situation I had finished all my assignments. I was painfully lonely, as my friends attended school or college.

When my mam found out (through Twitter, I might add - I am a horrible child), she was worried. But to be honest, she was my saving grace. I had found no solace in anything else. And then I spoke to her, and it felt like coming up for air. I didn't feel stupid talking about it. She brought me out, took me shopping and talked and talked and talked so I wouldn't have to. All my concern seemed to dissipate, my self loathing eased.

College has opened my mind to a lot of things. You can't assume any thing about any one. You don't know where they've come from or their walk of life. You will face challenges and struggles - some explainable, some not at all - but everything can be overcome. My mam's favourite expression is, "there's no such thing as a big problem; just a serious of little problems".

I lost my balance for a bit. But I think I've got it back. Being to able to spend time with my friends at home has been hugely important, and reaffirmed that I must have done something right to have them as comrades. My room mates have turned out to be fantastic people, and there's even talk of living together next year. The people on my course are like-minded and seek the same things as I do.

It's satisfying to know that I'm back on track. I'm terrified of what's ahead. I still think about whether or not I'm cut out for this; whether or not I'll be good enough. But every one falls down at some stage - be sure that you're the person that gets back up again.

"Wow!" the doctor exclaimed., "would you believe, that was my fastest ear syringe ever! Sometimes you can be hours at it trying to get the stuff out".

"I'm honoured", I smirked.

Read more from me at studenthandbookblog.wordpress.com

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Hot Press Presents - The Write Touch with Alcatel One Touch - VOTE FOR ME!

2013-11-08T14:48:00.001+00:00

http://www.hotpress.com/writetouch/collegefemale.html

Exciting news! I've been short-listed in this year's Hot Press - The Write Touch competition. I am going head-to-head with 40 other students, both second and third-level, for the chance to win an internship with Hot Press this summer!

For those who aren't aware - Hot Press is Ireland's leading music publication, and it would be an absolute honour to intern there.

However, I won't make it there, unless people vote for me! It's based on half public vote, half panel vote. So, what I'm trying to say is ... I would seriously appreciate a vote! All you have to do is click the link at the beginning of this post and click my little icon (Fionnuala Jones) and I'm good to go!

Thank you in advance! Cross your fingers and toes and intestines for me.

Fionnuala

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Definitely maybe

2013-10-22T02:21:00.000+01:00

"Everything happens for a reason".

That's my typical response when something goes wrong in my life, or someone else's. "One door closes, another one opens ... " I'm some woman for clichés, especially when they're the last things you need to hear. Up until quite recently, I believed it all.

But what about the doors that don't close? What about the ones we leave ajar?

I feel like nothing's certain any more. Recently, I've been second guessing myself on decisions I made months ago; on thoughts I believed I couldn't be more set on. Now, I feel like someone's yanked the rug from under me.

I've always been level-headed. I've always relied on logic, and have never been spontaneous. I'm cautious - perhaps overly so - and indecisive. I'm not brave. I'm scared of my own shadow, and even more so of the unknown.

Open doors bother me. What I don't know bothers me. I need certainty and clarity in my life and right now I don't have that. I need someone to come out from behind the door and tell me whether I made the right decision or not.

But that's not going to happen: not now, not ever. It's just a matter of waiting to see how curious I get before I coax the monsters of my past out from open doors. I just want to know ...

... What if?

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Eighteen going on extinct

2013-08-21T00:40:00.002+01:00

"I know my place/It's nowhere you should roam ... "

It finally happened. On the August 8 2013, I turned 18 years old. I could now legally do the things I'd been doing since I turned 16 - not to mention the fact that I could now buy scratch cards and enter all those RTÉ competitions I'd been missing out on.

I was compelled to consider the significance of it all. I'm not aware of any country that takes turning 18 quite as seriously as Ireland. Mammoth preparation had gone into organising my party, to the point where I was considering who to invite a year in advance. Honestly, My Super Sweet 16 had nothing on me.

"What if nobody comes?" I considered this terrifying scenario. Surrounded solely by my family and a miserable cake, social suicide beckoning ...

"I'll laugh", my best friend Valerie, reassuring as ever.

So, after that little inconvenience that was the Leaving Cert was put to bed, Operation 18 was put into full effect. I created the Facebook event with precision and great detail - I sold the party with an hilarious description, referring to light up runners and the frivolity of youth. After that, I invited pretty much anyone I'd ever spoken to, and their neighbours.

"My parents are going to murder me", I grimaced as the number of people attending continued to rack up.

Being a career woman, I was able to purchase a stupidly expensive playsuit (and matching lipstick) to wear to the party, to ensure that I looked the most dashing. I was determined to look so darn good that I wouldn't have to untag myself from any pictures of the night - no mean feat, I can assure you.

"18 EURO FOR A LIPSTICK?!" My mam yelped.

"I told you not to look at the receipt for your own good!"

The days went on, the numbers continued to pile up, as did the number of people declining. Excitement was building, as was my immense nervous terror. I had full-blown nightmares of hoards of my drunken, messy friends terrorising Ballymore one naggin at a time. I would wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of vomit in my house, my parents reaction, broken limbs ... Amongst other things.

The big night arrived. I frantically set the house up, (and by that I mean Mama and Papa put up the gazebo and decorations for me while I got my hair done and pretended I was Kim Kardashian for two hours). Party time arrived, and the same nervous terror began eating away at me once again, fearing that no one would turn up, and, on the other hand, that everyone would.

By half 8, the majority of my friends were wasted before anyone else had arrived. By half 10, one of my friends had passed out in her own puke, and another had face-planted in the garden and took a battering to the knee. By 12, the music had stopped, and my parents were frantically urging my guests - who now resembled Bambi wearing rollerskates on ice - to 'come inside and stop drinking'. Meanwhile, I ran around like a headless chicken playing 'hostess-with-the-most-ess', telling everyone for the seventh time that there was food on the way and drink in the fridge. By 2 o'clock, everyone had left, I was tucked up in bed after a solid one Jaegerbomb, while my parents were left to clean up the mess. The joys of adulthood, eh?

"The guards weren't called and I didn't have to call a doctor", my mam remarked following the party, "so all and all, it was very successful".

Being an adult is strange. Telling people how old you are is stranger still. As someone who relies a lot on other people, to now be, pretty much, solely responsible for myself is sickening. Independence? Overrated - give me my blankie and my mammy any day of the week.

I don't think it had really hit home until the last two weeks. Last Wednesday, I received my Leaving Cert results, and achieved enough points to do Journalism in Dublin City University - my dream course and career path. Yesterday, I accepted my place. On September 23, I will be moving to Dublin, away from my family and friends, (my second family), to start an entirely new and terrifying life. I will have to cook, clean and learn to live for myself, (and possibly how to use a washing machine).

I have never been more scared or more excited in my entire life. Despite the fact that I'm still very young, I feel I have already made enough mistakes for a lifetime, and I am more than happy to leave them behind. However, leaving my friends as they face exams themselves, and my family, will probably be a bigger challenge than the Leaving Cert itself.

Without a doubt though, this is something I absolutely must do, and something that I have wanted since I was 12 years old. It gives me great satisfaction to know how proud everyone is of me already, so the least I can do is stick this out and hopefully, carve a bright new path for myself.

So I have to ask myself again - has turning 18 affected who I am? Yes and no. My teenage years are slipping by, and I feel caught between wanting to make the most of my youth and finally growing up and getting my shit together. This is my fresh new start that I've longed for as I've wished away my summer nights and drank away all my perspective..

All I know is, I'm about to change the world: the world's not going to change me.

(Well, maybe after I watch some Pokémon or something).

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My life in pictures #3 - Year of the gig

2013-07-26T13:37:00.001+01:00

Following the exams, my sister and I joked that the summer and the remainder of the year would be referred to as the 'year of the gig'. In July, I saw The Killers, Haim, Two Door Cinema Club and Frank Ocean, as well as Bell X1 in Cork. Here's some horrendously poor qualities of both gigs, which were fantastic (unlike the camera quality). Enjoy!

Bell X1 @ Live At The Marquee, Cork, July 4th

The Killers, Frank Ocean, Two Door Cinema Club, Haim @ Phoenix Park, Dublin, July 13th

L

2013-07-19T23:07:00.001+01:00

I'm never good at something when I try it for the first time. It's just a rule.
This rule, (more commonly referred to as 'Fionnuala's Law'), also applies to me driving.

Yes, after years of fleecing my mother, father and siblings for lifts , I have finally started to learn how to drive.

(Let's not get ahead of ourselves now, I've had two lessons - still more Spongebob than Jensen Button, unfortunately).

It's difficult though, isn't it? Well, maybe not difficult ... Just not as easy as I had initially anticipated. The first lesson was a breeze - ambling around country lanes, Christy Moore yodelling in my ears, cruisin' at 20 miles per hour.

All that being said, where I live can't exactly be described as a built-up area - Narnia's a stone's throw away from it, so when you're the only car on the road, it's bound to be easier, isn't it?

It's all well and good being able to drive when there's no traffic on the roads, but it's entirely practical, especially with college coming up.

So, naturally, lesson two involved driving on a main road. All of a sudden things got that tad bit trickier.With roundabouts, T-junctions and drivers with road rage thrown into the equation, I was a nervous wreck. As I grappled with the steering wheel, I imagined I resembled an octopus lathered in Vaseline attempting to juggle.

(Of course, while I was imagining this, I almost crashed the car - apparently, you have to pay attention while driving?)

Road positioning's another kettle of fish altogether. "Let the white line be your guide", my driving instructor repeated, like some sort of ominous shaman chant. I was half expecting him to whip out some crystal meth and dream-catchers, but apparently that's frowned upon while driving.

You'd think it'd be easy - the lines are there for you to follow on the road. Essentially, it's Painting By Numbers. In a moving vehicle. Which can injure people.

And is there anything more shameful than that moment when the car stalls? Well, imagine doing that three times. On a roundabout. See, the truth is, I actually stalled on purpose. I was simply just stopping, momentarily, in order to embrace the roundabout and all its circular complexities. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Lesson three will involve lots of steering and positioning practice, and we'll be heading in to town. The downside of this is that, potentially, people I know will see me make a twat of myself. No pressure, eh?

So, if you see a little red learner car occasionally stalling to take in the scenery, don't angrily indicate or shake your fist because there is a strong possibility that I will cry.

This is not a test

2013-07-05T17:31:00.004+01:00

"Graduation?" My mam snorted incredulously. "You graduate from college, not secondary school!"

For me, however, I felt the only way to describe this incredibly melodramatic transition from student to mere mortal as a 'graduation'. As we all sat in the dining assembly crying our eyes out, (No? Just me? It's not news to ye that I'm a massive loser anyway), I found it difficult to envision life beyond the classrooms, the teachers, the students and the school that had, essentially, made me who I am. Afterwards, I joked about asking if I could stay on permanently, hidden away in a supply cupboard, content with my life as a good student.

My graduation marked the end of an incredibly challenging year for myself and my fellow Leaving Cert students. It also marked the beginning of the exams themselves. From January onwards, the stress of school, as well as other factors, built up enormously. As someone who is renowned for putting herself under a great deal of pressure when it comes to tests, the Leaving Cert just didn't seem like something I would, in the end, be physically able to do. Months of exam papers, predictions, rants, oral examinations, practicals and scouring for universities would all boil down to a week's worth of exams for me. "These are the exams that will define you and decide your future!" they told us.

I'm sorry, but that is bullshit.

As much as the SEC, your teachers and the Department of Education wants you to believe that the world is going to spontaneously stop the day you and 1 get our results - it won't. Life doesn't begin after the Leaving Cert. It never has, and it never will. In that week in August, if it turns out that I have indeed fail Maths, there is no doubt that I will be exceptionally disappointed. But I know that life will go on, and in my final hours it won't be remembered that I failed Maths in my Leaving Cert. Sure, if you can tell me all the characteristics of a desert biome, I'm thrilled for you. But the Leaving Cert doesn't measure human qualities - how funny, nice, selfless or determined you are.

I am now at a point in my life where I believe I am facing an even bigger test than the Leaving Cert itself. I am approximately half a month into my summer break, and I have found myself teetering in the middle of some kind of emotional see-saw. I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen over the next few weeks. Summer is always given such an air of importance among people my age - between its temporary nature, the good weather and the freedom, it is truly a unique time where anything is possible. For the most part, my life is now limitless - no restraints such as exams, study or school work to hold me back. What am I going to make of myself? What am I going to become?

Scary prospect, isn't it?

I'm not asking much of this summer. I want to enjoy myself, after what can only be defined as 6 months of torture. I want to spend as much time with my friends as possible, as I will going to college in Dublin and they will be facing into exams themselves. I want to drink copious amounts and inevitably puke on myself - again. I wish to attend every concert under the sun, and travel: the thoughts of spending my summer in this small (and equally small-minded) shithole feels me with dread. I will work, and, in turn, ~~waste~~ spend all my money on frivolous items. I am not a person who buys into the idea of having 'no regrets'. My whole life is basically a tidy collection of regrets big and small. I can only hope that I won't add too many more to my list this summer. I want to laugh loudly and not have to be sorry about it. I want this summer to teach me more about the world and myself than 5 years of education ever could.

This summer will be the ultimate learning curve. As a 17 year old with a seven year old mind with a fantastic memory, but lacking in 'street smarts', I need to learn my place, and ultimately, make better decisions, in order to succeed in college and beyond.

Not entirely sure how I'm supposed to study for that, mind ...

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Doubt

2013-04-20T19:02:00.001+01:00

(For the sake of those who don't speak Irish - see translations at the end)

I still find it funny that there are three words for 'doubt' in Irish - 'amhras', 'agó' and - wait for it - 'dabht'. It's almost as if us Irish ourselves doubted that one word would suffice. Clearly, we as a nation are indecisive to the point where we need a choice of three words in order to say one.

A few days ago, I had my Irish oral exam, which consists of a 15 minute conversation as Gaeilge* in order to gain 40% of the overall mark for my Irish for my Leaving Cert. Piece of cake!

I started getting Irish orals grinds from September onward, in order to build up my confidence. By the time the mock Irish oral came around, I wasn't a bit worried and entirely convinced that I would walk out of the mock feeling like the founding father of the language itself.

How wrong was I, eh?

The examiner grilled me on topics such as how to download music and the plot of The Hunger Games, (I don't think I will ever forget the word 'íoslodáil'** for as long as I live). Let me just reiterate that I had to say all of this AS GAEILGE*** . Picture the scene: a stammering, bumbling mess sweating in her chair like a priest in an orphanage. For once in my life, I was speechless.

"I'm glad it happened to you", she told me when we were críocnaithe****.

I couldn't say I was thrilled myself to be honest.

From then on, bhí mé an-neirbhíseach ar fad*****. Rigorous preparation for the real deal ensued. I learned off an entire paragraph explaining how to download music, as well as the plot of The Hunger Games. I knew the modh coinniollach****** better than I knew myself. I prepared for every worst case scenario, every sticky question she could throw at me.

The day came, and I was due to be examined at half 2 in the afternoon. I stood outside the room with the guy before me, waiting for him to be called. People who had been examined before me had been asked questions ranging from the Pope, to their opinion on the colour green. Our teachers had frantically given us vocabulary to cover both topics before we were due to be examined. Now, there was no more we could do.

"Sure it's just reading a poem, talking about a picture, bit of a chat", he said.

"Yeah, just a bit of a chat", I said, trying to drown out the voice in mind manically reciting every word of Irish I've ever heard.

Soon, he was called, and then it was just me in the hall, facing the longest 15 minute wait in my life.

"Verbal diarrhea", I thought of my teacher's advice, "just go in and regurgitate everything".

My friend came out of the exam, awash with relief.

"You have nothing to worry about. It's fine. Honestly".

As he went to class, I hovered outside the room for a few minutes, braced myself, and went in.

She was a tiny woman, the examiner: blonde, and sitting adjacent to a tape recorder that sounded like it ran on diesel. We greeted each other, I signed my name on the roll, and sat down.

I read my poem and picture so as to move on to the general conversation as quickly as possible. It all just started pouring out of me - I was running high on adrenaline and a single Kalms tablet my friend had given me before I went in, (don't do drugs - not even over-the-counter anti-anxiety tablets made of sugar and little else).

We got on to the topic of music. I informed her I could not live without it, that I had seen The Maine and All Time Low live last year, and after the Leaving Cert, I would be seeing Rihanna and The Killers respectively.

"Agus cad a cheapann tú faoi Rihanna?"******* she asked me, "cén saghas cailín í?"********

I sat, gobsmacked. What did I think of Rihanna?! What kind of person was she?! I scrambled for the information - abusive boyfriend, drug abuse, fashion icon, not particularly partial to wearing clothes ...

"Is ... cailín deas dathúil í?" ********* I replied, "Eh ... Caitheann sí eadaí ... Eh ... Cool ... " **********

The examiner laughed, at which point I realised that not only had I cocked up my answer, but the examiner now thought I was a lesbian. Great. At least now I might have grounds to appeal my result. Can you imagine? "She failed me because I fancy ladies!"

Before I knew it, it was over. I floated out of the room, as relief flooded my body and left me incapable of saying anything other than - "It went grand!"

I drifted through the hall and sat on the window, stalling before class, content in the thought that I would never have to speak Irish again, unless by choice. Phew!

My result? Irrelevant. I got through it without puking into my examiner's lap - that's achievement enough for me.

* - In Irish

** - Download

*** - In Irish

**** - Finished

***** - I was very nervous

****** - The conditional tense

******* - "What do you think of Rihanna?"

******** - "What kind of girl is she?"

********* - "She is a nice beautiful girl".

********** - "She wears a lot of cool clothes".

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Growing up won't bring us down

2013-04-14T01:57:00.002+01:00

"His name's Tulani".

I corrected my nan on the name of one of her South African care-workers - she'd mistakenly referred to him as 'Carrigtwohill'.

"That's it!" She said, pointing and shaking her hand in his direction, as if she'd figured it out on her own. "I knew it had a T in it. I've gone terrible deaf Fionnuala girl".

My nan was now in hospital permanently - sound of mind, frail of heart and body, eyes as blue as a porcelain doll's. The same, however, could not be said about her fellow patients.

"Get out ... Get out ... Get out ... GET OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" A pleasant old 'dear' had greeted us as we entered. Away with the fairies. "She's probably better off", my mam remarked. "Madame Butterfly", my selectively deaf grandmother had called her.

As I sat on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, I allowed myself to take in fully this new environment. Shelves filled with adult nappies, assistance bells at the bedside, jellies on the table, the able patients' knitwork lining the walls ... Is this what awaits me? Is this what we wait for with bated breath? Is this really what I wish for when I complain about my life and long to be older?

In that moment, I felt like I had been wishing my life away. About the way I look, the people I spend my time with and where I spend it ... Yeah, growing is hard. Really hard at times. My secrets had spread faster than glandular fever at a GAA disco. Stress inevitably got the better of me at one stage or another. I was rejected, and in return, I rejected people. My whole landscape of friends had changed radically, to the point where I know longer acknowledge people who I previously invested all of my time into. I had complained previously about 'those people', 'this town', 'that night' ... All for what? For me to get old old and go loopy?

I sat amongst my family, in what was, essentially, an adult crèche and came to my conclusion: if growing old is hard, imagine how bloody hard being old is. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for crappy school, drunken mistakes and horrible people who deserve to have their ears pierced with rusty nails. I have what my nan doesn't - spontaneity and diversity. I made a decision then and there to prolong monotony for as long as possible. Lord knows I can't stop the ageing process but, so help me, I'm going to slow the bastard down before I become my own Madame Butterfly.

"Are you working tonight?" My nan asked.

"Yeah I am".

"Sure God help us!" she said, shaking her head.

God help us indeed.

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