Oops I did it again…

A week ago I (very literally) crash landed into La Rochelle airport (thanks Ryanair) to begin my working holiday in the South of France.

Yes, I really did do it again.

Whoops.

#I’mABloggerGetMeOutOfHere.

The baby poo and sleepless nights of Spain apparently just weren’t enough to deter this…err…serial…working-holiday-ist? from another summer in the sun.

Yes well done Laura excellent use of your English degree to create concise and grammatically correct sentences.

*Slow clap*

Not only have I decided to spend yet another summer hundreds of miles away from family and friends and the comforts of home, but once again I’ve managed to wind up in the middle of nowhere.

Did I miss the memo about the existence of cities?

I’m starting to think that dropping geography in year nine was a bit of a mistake.

The warning signs were early….first of all we weren’t allowed to disembark the plane because the airport was too small for two aircrafts. Then as we were driven along the long winding roads past open fields and countryside the familiarity with rural essex, the land of horse-related train delays and escapee cows, became all too obvious.

It’s so peaceful you can hear a pin drop.

I am currently ensconced in a little shared annex with a fellow student from Leeds university for the next nine weeks.

My job? A mix of cleaning work, general grounds maintenance, the odd bit of cooking, playing with the kids, and….err more cleaning work.

My foreseeable Saturdays involve deep cleaning seven houses before the new guests arrive at 4pm.

Manual labour for the win!

On the flip side the hosts are lovely, the grounds are beautiful and we have a little kitchenette to make cups of tea to wile away the time….lots of cups of tea…so much tea…

In fact I think I have to go for my 47th wee of the day.

Toodaloo!

P.S. Breaking news! I’ve just today decided to switch to Earl Grey after a dire shortage of PG tips and a brief and not-so-tasty fling with Ceylon tea (which I’m told is from Sri Lanka). Yes this is the most breaking of all the news this week. #CountryLiving.

Props and frocks…

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m the worst person ever to take to a formal social event.

Stuffy balls and formal pow wows seem to bring out my naughty side.

The euphemisms are real with this one.

Oi stop snickering behind your screens. This is a serious blog with serious…oh who am I kidding?

Our university summer ball, however, was an outdoor garden event with live music, dance tents and zorbs. Perfect for this country bumpkin.

What could go wrong?

Rain.

Much rain.

Exeter city centre became a witch hunt for reasonably priced and outfit coordinating wellie boots, and I’m afraid to say I was no Matthew Hopkins.

You know the famous Essex witch hunter?

No?

Ahhhh I’m such a history geek.

I returned home sans-Wellington boots and decided to wear my lovely new faith heels I bought for the occasion.

Well they did match my dress that I’d painstakingly searched for over the course of the summer term (no it had absolutely nothing to do with exam procrastination, how very dare you, it’s completely normal to buy and return six dresses and two pairs of shoes before a big event).

I almost got away with it.

Turns out being 5’1″ you can fit your entire body into a zorb, and so when someone runs into you and pushes you over, though you may be stuck legs akimbo for ten minutes waiting for professional help, you stay fairly mud free.

Bloody fantastic.

Add that to my CV…”doesn’t get wet in zorbs”.

Hey it’s 2014, I need all the help I can get.

In the end it was the mud pit that was once the silent disco tent and the slide (yes slide) into the dance tent that had me caked like Percy the pig.

I didn’t much care. Turns out overpriced jaëger and energy drinks both protect you from the bitter cold and reduce the general number of fucks given about anything.

That was until it was time to go home.

The Ball organisers decided it would be a wonderful idea to try to transport a thousand students back to campus on two fifty-seated coaches.

Cue a sea of very annoyed and sobering students and a general air of rioting.

I decided it was better to sit at the back and watch the drama unfold, of which there was plenty.

Turns out my jaëgerbomb coat came in very handy.

Luckily, by the early hours of the morning, we got dropped home right outside our accommodation as quite happy, if not very broke and muddy, campers.

Every cloud has a silver bus.

P.S. It rained so hard at one point that we got stuck inside the music tent with some very drunk rah’s smoking cigars. Can you get any posher? I of course added even more class to the proceedings by very attractively wolfing down a hotdog.

P.P.S. Even though I lost my shoes (well ok I managed to scrub them up but they did almost go to shoe heaven), I did not meet Prince Charming at the ball. I’ll keep you updated on that one, it’s a work in progress.

The Liebster Award

*Makes a swishy entrance in large floppy hat, kaftan, bangles and sunglasses*

Oh hello there, haven’t seen you for a while…I’ve just been busy…you know, traveling, finding myself, learning the arts of yoga, hybrid flowga and feng shui and uncovering the true meaning of life through my own self improvement and discovery.

LOL

Actually I’m sat at my uni kitchen table in a blanket hanging like a wet jumper on a washing line.

JÄEGERBOMBS ARE POISON.

I really don’t have an excuse as to why I have failed to blog for over a month..or two (shhhhhhh).

I will accept my punishment.

Not that type of punishment you filthy beggars, put down the Fifty Shades of Grey…yes that’s it…now step away slowly…you can do it…no stop it…stop…put your hands away…in your pockets…well done.

Did you miss me?

Not even a little?

On my grand return to the blogosphere, I discovered that the lovely Bella, fellow blogger, Exeter lass and all around girl about town (I don’t know this for sure, I’ve never met her but she has a very lovely blog so one must make assumptions…go check her out, that’s an order) has nominated me for a Liebster award, so sit back and listen to me waffle on about myself.

Vain?

Me?

Nooooo

Here are the rules:

  • Share 11 facts about yourself
  • Answer the 10 questions set to you
  • Come up with 10 more questions
  • Nominate some other bloggers to take part!

 

  1. I hate talking about myself. Really…you don’t believe me? And this doesn’t count as a fact? Ok fine I’ll do another number one.
  2. I LOVE watching movies…I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every rom-com since the turn of the noughties. I’m currently taking a film class which means I can put this hobby to actual use.
  3. I stand at the grand old height of 5’1. Yes, I maybe pint sized but I’m hella powerful…I can totally lift like 3, 4 pounds…on a good day.
  4. I am a walking furnace. I radiate heat like the depths of hell. If the ice age ever returns, you have permission to grab me for life saving warmth.
  5. Despite this fact I adore summer, even though I “glow” like the north star. Nothing better than lying in the sun for a good couple of hours…or 20. Oh how I miss the luxury of holidays…oh the tan, oh the cocktails *le sigh*
  6. I am famous in my student flat for my undying love for the Taco who doesn’t love tomato-ey beef in a crispy shell covered with cheese *foodgasm*.
  7. And on that Mexican note…Tequila is my kryptonite.
  8. I am also addicted to crisps, to the extent where my mum even sent me an article on the fact that its the crunch of the crisp that I’m actually hooked on. Probable one of the most unhealthy addictions you can have. Please tell me there’s a crisp addiction clinic…do any of you know hypnosis?
  9. My biggest movie crush is probably Jude Law in The Holiday *drools*.
  10. At the grand old age of 19, I still have a little bit of a Sims addiction. Freeplay anyone? I know, I know, I’m just that cool right?
  11. I am the modern day Imelda Marcos, I am a self proclaimed shoe-aholic. I have too many pairs to count…don’t ask, my GCSE maths doesn’t stretch to those kind of figures.
  12. I don’t play any musical instruments…or any sports. Tried piano once, couldn’t move one hand separately to the other #epicfail.
And here are the answers to the questions Bella set me:
  1. What did you want to be when you were little? A teacher, a dancer, a mummy, a princess…ohh the fun I had dressing up my brother and cousins.
  2. Was there a particular blog that got you into blogging? What was it? Not in particular, but I started off reading fashion blogs from my favourite YouTubers.
  3. Where is somewhere in the UK you would love to visit but haven’t yet? I have always wanted to go to Ireland. This has absolutely nothing to do with the Irish accent. Nothing at all.
  4. What’s your biggest guilty pleasure? *Cough* food *cough*. If you hadn’t already noticed from the above.
  5. If you could only listen to 1 song for the rest of time, what would it be? My Baby Just Cares for Me by Nina Simone. Oh the times I pranced and trotted along to this tune.
  6. Where was the first place you went on holiday? My first holiday was to Disneyland. I was too young. I remember nothing. I will never forgive my parents.
  7. What’s your favourite month? September, the month of birthday presents, Indian summers and golden leaves.
  8. What’s your favourite book? Probably Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
  9. Describe your dream house (briefly!) It has a jacuzzi and an indoor swing. The rest is negligible.
  10. What’s your supermarket of choice? ASDA all the way *slaps bum to advert theme tune*. Cheap? Who me?
My questions are:
  1. Where do you want to travel to?
  2. Tell us a funny story.
  3. What is your dream job?
  4. Why did you decide to start blogging?
  5. Who would play you in a movie about your life?
  6. Do you have any secret skills/party tricks?
  7. What is your favourite film?
  8. What would your super power be?
  9. Tell us your favourite/worst chat up line.
  10. If  you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

I tag Kate, Zooey, Alex, Pretty Vacant Pirate, Drown in Melancholy and Seb, (should they wish to answer my terrible questions) and anyone else who wants to join in!

 Ready, set, GO!

Christmastime, Mistletoe and Jäeger…

That’s the lyrics, right?

Good old Cliff, the cheeky minx.

And so this post (more than) officially concludes my first term at uni…I clearly have an A* in timekeeping, I actually came home on the 12th.

*Slow clap*

We most definitely ended the year on a bang.

All of my flatmates and I headed to our local-est of local haunts and had the weirdest night ever….we’re convinced we all fell into some kind of Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole.

Think ecstasy without the…err ecstasy.

In my case, after one too many Jäegerbombs (bought by a very nice guy at the bar…did drunk Laura stay and thank him? Nope…she drank two, handed the rest to her friends and strutted off into a door..yes, into #nailedit….I digress) I decided to go for an “epic” adventure.

Aka I tottered off alone to a bench outside our flat to “get some air”.

Seems I have a little bit of a penchant for the outdoors when I’m tipsy (pissed)…I once made my flatmate lap a very drunk me around our uni accommodation eight times because I was “enjoying the breeze”.

There are no words.

(Thanks babe.)

Whilst there a very *handsy* arse decides to try and hit on me…I shoved him off, got up to leave and fell smack bang onto my chin.

It was the heels.

I swear.

It wasn’t.

I lied.

How-to-test-if-Youre-drunk-meme-cat-kitty-kitten

It hurt.

And I didn’t get a kiss under the mistletoe.

Turns out I then decided this was a reasonable enough trigger to get home and full on ugly cry, only to find most of my other female flatmates in tears too.

what-the-fuck-is-this

No one will ever truly know what went down that night.

Oh, hang on…

…maybe it was just that creepy bartender…

…you know…

…the one pouring our drinks.

original

All in all we had a great last night out though, and a great term. I miss them all already!

cover

And so, in the words of my spirit animal, Bridget Jones…

December 16th, year-end summary:

Prison stays, none.
Alcohol poisonings, two.
Lesbian kisses (don’t ask), three (minds OUT of gutters).
Pounds lost, minus one (okay minus seven).
Boyfriends lost but then regained following major diplomatic incident, none #forveralone.
Marriage proposals, see above.
Boys kissed, you guys are such pervs, honestly.
New friends made, six (I hope).

An excellent year’s progress.

Overpacked and Underpaid has most definitely not cocked things up for the very last time.

Pinkie promise.

😉

The Illest MF Alive…

Oh yeah, the title of this post is totally a Kanye West reference…told you I was gangsta.

*Tumbleweed*

In all seriousness though, once again some sneaky bastard has infected me with their pathogens…I’ve only just managed to surface from the depths of my bed fort to write this.

Not only do I have a hacking cough, a fever, a sore throat and nausea, but I’m also sporting a fucking sexy nose whistle.

Thank god I’m a girl…the sheer amount of tissues overflowing my litter bin would have raised a few eyebrows by now.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “sneaky bastard” I do kind of know the reason I’m sick.

Ok fine, I know exactly why…

I went out with my friends the other day to my favourite club and had a bit of a “moment”.

There I was boogieing the night away when a cute guy came up to dance with me…

*Cue slow motion turn around, eyes meeting, seductive smile*

Pfft, yeah right.

Come on guys, this is me we’re talking about.

I, in fact, didn’t notice him and carried on dancing, flailing my arms around and by accident punched him on the nose.

TWICE.

Of course I turned around and apologised profusely, he lifted me off the ground in a hug and said it was all fine.

We danced together.

Ten minutes later, I look down and notice I have blood on my arm.

Turns out I hit him so hard he got a nosebleed.

…I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…How much better do you feel about your life right now?

Uh huh.

Anyway he ran off to go and get cleaned up and I legged it to the bathroom and met back up with my friends, not expecting to see him again.

A little while later I turn around and there he was so we dance together for a while until the DJ says “in ten seconds I wanna see everyone jump”.

On one he picks me up in front of the whole club and kisses me.

THIS.

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I DIED.

Then he did it again.

We sat down for a bit and exchanged numbers, and I had to resist his advances with the whole ‘wrong time of the month’ excuse, which I can inform you, is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to say to another person in my entire life.

Praise the lord for vodka.

Don’t you just love mother nature?

When I got up to leave, instead of a sexy sashay away,  I managed to walk straight into a bar stool and almost stacked it in my heels…

FAIL, Laura, FAIL.

And yet for some unknown reason I arrived home to a goodnight text.

I handed to my more experienced flatmate to deal with.

Bad idea.

Rather than the mysterious allure I was going for, it resulted more in a bit too much obvious flirtation and way too many winky faces for my liking.

Then the alcohol buzz wore off and now everything is just very awkward.

In fact I walked past him on the way back from the Co-Op the other day and had to resist the urge to throw myself sideways into a hedge.

*Cringe-fest*

And I wonder why I’m still single.

Oh, did I mention he had a “cold”?

So now I’m both sick and sad.

All care packages to my bedroom please.

Stop it, minds out of gutters.

What am I going to do with you guys.

*Smh*

I’m an adult…

So if you read my Quarter Life Crisis post, where I had a mini mental breakdown, you’ll know that I was really hating the course that I was on an my uni wasn’t letting me transfer…

Well I’ve spent the majority of my waking hours over the past two weeks running around campus like a crazed psychopath trying to persuade *cough* beg *cough* the department to allow just one more person onto the history course.

I was getting nowhere and I eventually reached the point where I wanted to simultaneously cry, punch someone, stuff my face with chocolate and not get out of bed….so I did the thing that every intelligent, adult, independent woman would do…

…I called my mummy…

Uuughh I know, I know.

But guess who’s now going to be doing English and History with Spanish?!

*Party poppers* *Fireworks*

*Tumbleweed*

No?

Right…I’ll just be in the corner celebrating….alone…

Actually I don’t know why I’m even writing this post…after all the insane running about I’ve done, I’ve had to sit and wait for the last three days for the head of the department to come back and sign my form… only then can I ‘officially’ transfer…I’ve probably just jinxed it…

Oh jesus.

P.S. I’m really hoping I’m going to love history after all of this, keep your fingers crossed for me people! If I don’t I may as well just give up now.

P.P.S. I feel like I haven’t done one of these for ages…I’ve had anti-postsciptitis…it’s the stress…

P.P.P.S. Hello, hi, hola, how are you? Thank you to all you lovely new people who have followed/liked/commented on my blog, If you read this please leave me a comment or ask a question/request something, I love interacting with you guys!

Out on the Push…

Now you may have heard the turn of phrase “out on the pull” but sometimes when your milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, you kind of don’t want it to…

Bridget Jones

Being at university has been my first “proper” taste of the clubbing lifestyle, and can I just say, I’ve had my arse grabbed more in these last two weeks than I have in my entire life…but I digress…

As you may have picked up on my previous posts I’m a little more traditional *cough* boring *cough* when it comes to meeting guys, and I’d much rather meet them in a daytime setting and be able to have a proper conversation with them…mainly so I can find out sooner rather than later if they’re a complete weirdo, axe murderer or rapist.

Take for example the guy I met last night. Tall, good looking, third year, bad/awkward dancer…always a bad sign.

I danced with him because my flatmate was getting off with his friend. He asked me if I wanted to make out with him. I said no. He kept asking me whether I was sure I didn’t want to go and sit down. I said no. He asked me again. I finally relented.

We sat down and proceeded to have the most awkward shouty conversation (clubs aren’t meant for talking, I couldn’t hear a bloody word he was saying…*smile and wave boys smile and wave*). He told me he was a geography student and then proceeded to ask me a tonne of questions about the exact location of my halls.

*RUN AWAY* *RUN AWAY*

Now it probably was just the fact that he was into mapping, because we’d both made it extremely clear that nothing was going to happen but I still felt like something was off…

…who the hell wants to sit down and have a stilted conversation with a stranger at a club?

Not me…I’ll be the one breaking it down on the dance floor…

*Shakes it like Beyonce*

*Slut drops*

*Re-dislocates knee*

Overpacked is jam packed…

Into a mini…

…with all her university stuff…

So I probably should have posted this before the “I’m at uni” post but you know #YOLO and all that…

Turns out actually getting to uni was going to be much harder than I originally thought.

I packed everything into boxes and suitcases and put them out into the hall ready to be put into the car and it was only then I realised I deserved to have my own segment on “Hoarders”.

I just have so much stuff.

My mum came home from work and blew her top when she saw how much we had to fit in the car, but that only fueled the burning fire in my stomach…I was determined that I’d fit it all in…mainly so she wouldn’t be right…*cough cough*

It was like a giant game of Tetris where I packed each box in with scientific precision based on volume and weight…

Yeah right…actually turns out that I’ve inherited a particularly potent version of the “bunger” gene, which runs through the female line of my family. (See below)

bunger1 [bun-ger] adjective, verb: to bung
Person with uncanny ability to shove lots of crap into a small space where it otherwise wouldn’t fit
Origin:
1830–2013;  origin uncertain

I managed to “bung” my entire life, plus kitchen essentials, into the back seat and boot of an ’03 Mini Cooper.

Like a boss.

Seriously though, I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable, it was the longest six hours of my life.

I’m still in the process of regaining sensation in my butt.