I've travelled to Sweden to visit my family two or three times a year since I was 5, and have thus developed a sentimental loyalty to the country; the kind that has led me to defend the bad football team and try to appreciate questionable Swedish music. My history makes my attachment to Sweden more than a idle fancy; having been born and spent the first 4 years of my life there, I harbour a nostalgic sense of curiosity as to what my life would have been like if I had never left. With a Swedish Dad and an English Mum, my comparison of (quite literally) the Fatherland and Motherland, has constructed the notion that England is my house, whilst Sweden is the garden playhouse that entices me with holiday freedom and the buzz of fond recreations. This allure certainly captured my childhood; but as I skip back and forth along the garden path of Heathrow airport, I realise that despite my Swedish passport, my UK eBay shipping address dictates my true home. Having gone through school, college, and now university in the UK, I have become a cog in it's mechanism; and as I prep myself for a toke of life in the big smoke, I see my life here branch out whilst each trip to Sweden is a replay of the last. True that she has provided me with slopes to ski down, fjords to bathe in, and ABBA... but I have exhausted the sale section of this IKEA catalogue, and am not yet prepared to bring my career here and pay the full price.
Without injuring the thrill of adventure: when you explore a new country and get traveller-napped by its awe, it is only when you land your feet back on well-trodden carpet that you remember the comfort of familiarity. Much like the family you can't choose: England's accomplishments, habits and failings have given her a satirical, humorous character that other countries just don't offer us Brits. So, in an accessible world where 'up North' is up the road and 'Down Under' is around the corner... I know that whichever flag adorns my address; I will look to England as my home, my house, and my delivery drop off.
It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon and I’ve just sat down at gate F61 with my newly bought (extortionately priced) writing pad, pen, bottle of water and yesterdays copy of The Times. I intend for these things to entertain me for the duration of the two and a half hour flight. My plan is to write down my thoughts (which fortunately I’ve got many of); otherwise my planned entertainment would be finished before this queue to the plane got moving. That’s the thing about airports- all the rush and hassle to get here two hours in advance, to then just sit and wait in departures, awkwardly catching the bored stares of an opposite stranger.
“Rushing to wait” seems to be fairly topical of my life’s current situation. Having just completed 14 years of school life, I feel I’ve constantly been rushing: rushing to meet homework deadlines, hurrying last minute exam revision, rushing to class. Woosh! Now I find myself embarking on a gap year where the full stop to my chapter of schooling has opened wide like a black pool of questions and doubts- what to do now? In the current climate of the Olympics, it is becoming clear to me that amazing things can be achieved as a result of hard work, determination and perhaps most importantly a clear goal... exactly what I lack. I’ve never had a solid vision of what I’ve been working towards; by narrowing my avenues, I’m scared of cutting out alternatives and limiting myself. Even now that I’m focused on journalism, yet another pool of questions opens: radio, TV, paper? What I really need is what I fear, one choice. At least that way I would have a little Olympic run of my own: narrow and focused. But surely life’s not as simple as an Olympic race- there are detours and shortcuts and departure lounges. Why should life be a race anyway? I’m not suggesting that this British cyclist Bradley Wiggins should put his bike down after 100 metres for an en route Starbucks, but it would be comforting to know that while I sit back on this Sunday afternoon to ponder my future, I wasn’t being disqualified from a career for time-wasting.
My Dad’s “get rich quick” theory of getting out of University as fast as I can and getting a job doesn’t appeal to me. He tells me I’m going to be one of those people who make a career out of studying, but (whilst I’d love to reap the benefits of permanent student discount) I don’t want to be the class mate who starts conversations with: “In my day…” So as this IS “my day”, I plan to milk education and work-experience and learning until I feel ready to jump aboard the first train carriage of my career- hoping of course to avoid a train wreck. His three points of worldly wisdom were given to me as we ascended the escalator two hours ago. Point one: “In life: always do what you want to do.” Point two: “Always take advice from people that you trust.” Point number three climaxed the trilogy of pocket-sized guidelines: “Never do something just because it is expected of you”. I reflected on this comment again as I paid for yesterdays Times, and curiously explored the notion that my Dad may have hit on something. Grandad reads The Times, therefore I sometimes do. But is this a result of doing what has become expected of me (Dad’s point number three), or taking advice from people I trust? (Dads point number two).
Having now settled on the plane, I may be closer to untangling the questions in my black pool. Even at 18 I’m still mentally a world away from my official “adult” title, so I do intend to heed advice from those older and wiser than myself. However, whatever choices I make, I will feel comfortable that I myself have made them. This of course will entail making my own mistakes too- but surely that’s better than making someone else’s? With regards to the “wiser”ness of adulthood, mine will be gained through life experience- not transferred to me from other people’s wishes, interests and values. Personally, I think I’ll soon be on the way to turning the black pool of questions into a golden pool of insight to share with others. My point number one: Don’t rush to the queue at departures; it won’t get you home sooner than me.
Whilst revising for my A-level exams, I often found myself in a moment of combined panic and frustration. I would consequently fantasize about shredding the thick folders of notes that- to my Mums despair- were multiplying around the study. The thought of soon being able to do that dramatic relieving act, provided much motivation throughout my exams; so I was quietly amazed at my reluctance this week when I approached my desk with two hungry bin-liners. I started to feel nostalgic about the work that I have done these last two years. I fingered through my countless essays and could mostly remember where and when I wrote them and roughly how long each one took. I proceeded to search every back page for my mark, and on seeing many a red-circled A, remembered the bounteous enjoyment of achievement. I began to follow a pattern: open a folder, fish out only my highly marked work, and feed the rest to the bin-liner. This highly selective process made me judge my mentality- am I obsessed with success? By only salvaging my perfect work, am I demonstrating a denial of my shortcomings? I allow myself the benefit of the doubt that when I look back on my school days I want to be reminded of my accomplishments rather than my disappointments. It may be selective memory, but I perceive that we are all guilty of something I like to call “Fraudulent remembrance”.
The other day, Nanny played us all a tape that she had recorded from the radio many years ago. We eagerly listened to the host sing aloud some lyrics that Nanny had composed to the tune of “That’s Entertainment” and sent to the show. After the 4th time playing it, the kitchen was filled with a loving applause and Nanny, basking in her now recycled fame, replaced the tape in its case –ready, I expected- to return to a draw full of her proudest achievements. This was Nanny’s equivalent of A grade essays and possibly my Mum’s equivalent of old photographs of when she was tanned and slim. We seem to place undue affection on the things we are good at, often ignoring the relevance of our failures in creating a good balance. This can best be explained by drawing on a driving lesson experience. A couple of days ago, I emerged at a T-junction, and seeing that it was clear to the left, accelerated, before having to suddenly break hard as a mini whizzed past from the right. The incident doubled my concentration for the remainder of the lesson, and as a result, I have gained a far more cautious awareness of the dangers of the road. Was my needing to stop, a photo of mum as a chubby teenager that gave her the motivation to slim down in her twenties? We could never prove it- which either completely invalidates my theory or supports it.
We block out from our memories or physically throw away the bad experiences that have perversely inspired us to excel. We subconsciously trade-in short comings for achievements- and I’m afraid to say that until now, I have gladly left all my B and C-grade essays on the other side of the shop counter. In future, I will value the role that my failures have had in providing me with the stepping-stones to my successes. I have learned that when driving on the good vs. bad road of life, it is crucial to look both ways.
I have a love/ hate relationship with trains. On one hand, they make me feel somewhat vulnerable; the duotone rhythm in the woman’s voice announcing the scheduled stops is said with a degree of both impatience and command. Having- in my best time-keeping efforts- boarded the train 20 minutes early, I heard her message regulated 4 times before we jolted on our way. Train stations are also foreboding; a reminder of the moving world outside my bubble, and I am met with the harsh fact that even if I stop- the wheels, clogs and announcements around me wont.
I am, however, wooed by the romance associated with trains, as they bring together people from all walks of life. I enjoy recognising familiar characters; the ‘collected businessman’ for example will be reading the paper, his subtle reactions expressed through empathetic nods or disapproving pursed lips. His latter expression may not be so subtle if he were sat next to the track-suited Russian, currently across the aisle from me, who has singlehandedly turned the quiet coach into a mobile disco through the drum and bass pumping through his headphones. On the most part however, strangers appear to get on in harmony and we use the train together, as both a literal vehicle and one by which we will progress to the next level- or should I say, platform- in life. I just politely asked the Russian if he could lower the volume in his headphones but- forecasted by his reluctant nod- little improvement has been made. Ironic- perhaps- that he heard my “excuse me” above that racket, and yet his hearing isn’t sensitive enough to be satisfied by a moderate volume.
It is as though... Vladimir... is trying to enforce the fact that not only will this machine of movement not stop if I do, but it wouldn’t even turn its head to my running up and down the aisle screaming “Noise pollution!”. You get too many strange types on trains to get noticed anyway. Specifically requesting a seat facing forward, I didn’t initially welcome my allocated 15B, which could have stood for ‘Backwards’, or more fitting to my state of mind- ‘Bloody nuisance’. Nausea crept in as the platform ahead of me floated away, so I flung my bag to the seat opposite; apparently, if the train is going to move around for me, then I’ve got to do some leg work. In which case, I guess my ‘Train as a pathway of life’ analogy reaches some solidarity. Returning now from a visit to a potential University, I am reminded that I can only reap what I have sewn: that the University can only help me if I choose to help myself. For the moment, I am happy in my new forward-facing position; looking where I’m going, rather than where I have been.
