The Rose in the Lily Pond

Right that’s it, my liver is shouting at me, enough is enough! My friends are starting to joke that I should leave my “mates” at home, you know, 10 decibels louder Rose. Arrogant Rose. Dead to the world the day after a hard night Rose. Mostly though, mostly the reason that I want to be sober during the month of June is to prove that I can do it. To prove to myself that I do not need a drink, that I’m not addicted, and can give it up if I needed to. Since my awkward teenage years where we’d drink cheap n nasty Kristov vodka and orange juice and end up puking in the rose bushes, I can’t recall a week that I’ve gone without a drink. It’s so ingrained in my way of life, that I feel awkward when I’m in a social situation and I do not have a drink in my hand. When I was younger this would be at a party, however as I’ve gotten older this extends to going out to dinner. It’s not only that I feel awkward, but it’s also that I enjoy a glass of wine with my meal. I also enjoy shedding the layers

Furious film making alright. 48 hours to write, shoot, and edit a film is not an easy task, and just as you try to weave conflict and turning points into your script, art imitates life and problems arises as 10 amateurs battle to just finish. I’ve only met my team members once. I rock up at Patrick’s flat to start scriptwriting, and I’m greeted by one of Patrick’s flatmates. He leads me to the lounge where a group of people are eating burger fuel, I sit down and engage in playful banter, getting to know my fellow team mates. It isn’t until 5 minutes later I click that this actually isn’t my 48 hour team, and I’ve just sat talking to a group of random people! Slightly embarrassed, I laugh, “I wondered why you guys were so relaxed.” and go find Patrick. Our genre is superhero, the character is an ex bully named Bobby Young, the line of dialog is “What have you got”, and the prop is bent wire. We start to brainstorm. Two girls show up with large bottles of champagne, good to get the crea

There’s no place like home. At times, when we travel loneliness can gnaw into our core. It can worm it’s way around our bones and plant clichÈs like “home sweet home”. All of a sudden we have an irrational desire for marmite on Vogel’s toast and pineapple lumps. Even if we never ate pineapple lumps in our lives. Loneliness has us blasting Katchifire on our ipods, and dreaming of rugged coastline. It has us calling our mums and old friends instead of exploring our surroundings and making new friends. Yet what happens when we actually get home? After the novelty of eating a mince and cheese pie, washed down by L&P wears off we are left with confusion. When we travel for so long we start to question where exactly home is anymore. Two expressions come to mind: Home is where you hang your hat. An oldie but a goodie and a true travellers philosophy. Home is wherever you are in space and time. Home is where the heart is. Space in time does not matter. We could be on the other side of the