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I had to write this down: the Caterpillar Angel

The first ever night out of second year should have been bloody fantastic. Finally back with university friends and headed to the union, we had drinks at someone’s house beforehand and then set off. Should have been fantastic: was horrendous.

It seems bizarre to me that the mere beginning of the tale is that I completely lost my debit card, ID and money (as well as the bag they were in) during the walk from pre-drinks to the union. I later realised this had happened because I put my purse in the pocket of my shorts; unfortunately for me, those shorts do not, in fact, have pockets. A grand start to a grand night.

A kind (pragmatic) friend helped retrace my steps in search of my valuables while the rest of the group went into the club, but it turns out that streets are actually quite dark when it's dark. So I instead hoped my belongings might just be at her house from earlier –  she went to the club, and I set off in the opposite direction, to her house, mortified and angry. I stropped back through the student living area of Hyde Park, grimacing over “Where are you?!” texts from friends I’d promised to meet. This is a bad omen, I couldn’t help but think as I trudged along, kicking at scraps of rubbish on the pavement in tipsy annoyance. If I’m stupid enough to do this on the first night, I’ll probably be dead before graduation. And someone’s probably going to find my cards tonight and thieve my identity and join UKIP under my name or something equally distressing.

True disaster then hit. A good fifteen minutes away from my house, and now aware of the considerable time that had elapsed since we had first left pre-drinks, I realised I needed the toilet. Quite an alarming and acute realisation, actually, and I had a desperate moment of fervently wishing I were a man just so as to deal with the situation efficiently there and then. But in this instance, #ThisGirlCannot, so I started to pick up speed a little, half trotting down the hill. Of course this only worsened the situation and so, to distract myself, I started humming quite loudly. At least their house is a lot closer than mine, I told myself. Priorities were clear at that moment: pee, then purse.

I was in physical pain and humming very loudly before I finally reached familiar streets and wound my way to the cluster of roads where pre-drinks had taken place. Dozens of my friends lived in this area, I reflected, but at the start of the year nobody had directions by heart yet. And directions are not my forte anyway. Earlier, I had in fact briefly already worried that one day I would get confused between the roads and houses entirely and turn up at the wrong one.

…And just as my bladder was about to pop like an over inflated birthday balloon (probably incurring shrieks of terror in the same way), I realised this exact fate of street-confusion had befallen me. I peered at the row of houses as if through a kaleidoscope, the same black doors and identical living room windows over and over, and blinked. Confused and stranded, I hopped around the darkened street humming louder and louder – and soon admitted to myself that I had no way of identifying where they lived. And this really wasn’t about my belongings. It was about my bladder.

Then, just when I had reached the critical moment – having to decide whether to flat-out sprint for home (would I even make it?) or literally wee on someone’s door step (ah, the bright undergraduate lives we lead) – a giant caterpillar loomed in the window directly in front of me.

It was a huge caterpillar, seemingly orange-hued although unclear in the dim streetlight, standing upright. My tuneless hum trailed off. I was not frightened, per se, but rather in awe: this caterpillar was not just big, it was giant, floor to ceiling it seemed to me, with wise eyes behind glasses. Good grief, was this possible? Could a backed up bladder provoke miraculous hallucinations? Is this the old wives’ tale I was never warned of: neglect your bathroom needs for long enough and you’ll see enormous insects in spectacles?

My mouth dropped open and I stood, transfixed on the pavement, still hopping a little from foot to foot, surveying the great, shadowy beast silhouetted up against the glass. It calmly lifted its hand, waved in slow motion and then beckoned. It appeared to be speaking. What messages did caterpillars generally have for university students who need the bathroom so badly they’re getting vision impairment? As if stuck in treacle, I took a sluggish (ha) step towards it, squinting slowly as I tried to lip read through the double-glazing –

“LOUISA!” the caterpillar said, jolting me sharply from my hazy trance by rapping its knuckles on the window. “What are you doing?”

“I REALLY really need to use your toilet,” I told him straightforwardly, ignoring that he knew my name (you can’t question miracles), and the caterpillar shuffled backwards, out of sight. After a brief panic that my guardian angel had disappeared, relief struck: the front door unlocked in front of me. Holding back my tears of pain and hoping my body wasn’t about to collapse in on itself, I focused my wearied eyes.

The human-sized caterpillar was actually my human friend Oliver. He was standing upright inside a sleeping bag. “Heating’s broken and I don’t have a duvet,” he informed me solemnly as I sprinted past him in a blur of gratitude.

Afterwards, I sat down for a nap, fell off the sofa and then finally went home, but that isn’t entirely to the point. That night made me question myself (if only it had taught me to look after my valuables too. We’re still working on that).

Why was that the door in front of which I happened to stop, desolate and convinced that my time was up? Why was Oliver in his living room trying to snatch bits of phone signal at that precise moment? Why on earth is it my instinct to trust oversized larvae in the hope that they can provide me a toilet?

One lesson learnt overall: go to the toilet before you leave pre-drinks, alright? Promise me you’ll do that. Because I was blessed, certainly – but we can’t all have gigantic pre-pubescent butterflies coming to our rescue.

Fox en France Ep.11: Poutine on the Ritz

Friday 4^th – Sunday 6^th Nov

After an anticlimactic return to work after the holidays (one hour of exam supervision then being told I was no longer needed for the day), Friday meant back to Saint-Brieuc (home-from-home here. My home-from-home-from-home?), and a night in with friends, wine and some chocolate. Reward after a long, hard, sixty minute week at work. 

Joel samples the vino

Saturday was a flurry of lesson plans and so much tea I may as well have had a keg (does that work? Is that a thing? Get in touch), before we trudged out through slippery leaf-clad pavements to a food and wine festival. This was truly something special, despite our initial doubts as we entered the building; only the first stall was in view and it was full of dubious-looking kitchen equipment. “Sorry, but… Where’s the wine?” someone whispered, worried that our plans of a delightful evening out were going to be severely trampled by three hours of surveying sub-par colanders and carving knives.

But the wine was just round the corner, it turned out, and in no limited supply. Early on it dawned on us that traditional buckets in which to pour excess drink were nowhere to be found, so our fate was sealed as soon as the liquid hit our glasses. And stall-owners, rightfully guarding the Divine Quality of their produce, completely refused to serve us at all until the smallest drops of whatever we’d previously tasted were gone, so as not to disrupt the flavour. More top quality advice: you have not been berated until you’ve been berated by a small, angry, wine-selling Frenchman with a goatee ("No, drink it all!”). The group marching round together after copious glasses of wine was enough to create a scene anyway, but shortly word somehow “got out” (we were quite the celebrity buzz, within that marquee) that we were “all foreign” and stallholders couldn’t believe (or understand why) there were eight of us from across the world here to taste their wines. Then it all got rather overwhelming as tumblers and shot glasses were thrown at us from all angles by beaming stallholders: champagne, cognac, mushroom liqueur (really), passionfruit-something-or-other, cured ham and lots of cheese. Would rate the evening highly, although the stuffed wild boar on the sausage table could be considered a little much.

Genuine shots of mushroom

SO:

Clouds: If someone is friendly and convincing enough, they can quite easily convince a group of tourists to buy two bottles of their finest passionfruit-something-or-other.

Silver linings: It tasted very, very good.

Monday 7^th – Monday 14^th Nov

An entire week seems like quite a feat to write about, but some of it is predictable and has been written thousands of times already by thousands of people so it won’t take long to read and absorb:

I watched the election results on Tuesday. I watched it with American friends, and with baited breath. I do not support Donald Trump nor his views nor his actions. He won. People handed him power. It sucked.

It really really, really sucked and seemed to slow the world down a little for the next few days. This, combined with the single hour of poor-quality sleep I managed to steal that night, and the fact that I live alone and had no one to wail at in person after Wednesday, meant the end of the week felt pretty bleak. And then – call this either bad luck, or perhaps rather a very clear cut consequence of the above circumstances – two months’ worth of escaped homesickness rushed in at once and hit me with force comparative to my kitchen cupboard the other week when I left it open and then walked into it. With lessons cancelled left, right and centre (more variation than Western politics, at least) I was beyond grateful when a couple of pals pitched up on Saturday night and we repeated our wine-chocolate-film ritual with marvelous healing effects. Who knew that living alone is actually not at all peachy when you feel like the end of the world is nigh?! Someone should note this stuff down.

The rank remains of our Democrat/Republican punch bowls. I remembered I'm allergic to ("Republican") grapefruit and my lips swelled up. Omen? 

I should have hung on, though, to the buried but significant knowledge that teaching – talking to young people – can almost always perk you up and haul you out of even the deepest, bleakest wallowing session. Today’s lessons have made me laugh out loud until I couldn’t speak as the terminale class began their “Swinging Sixties” topic. After a guessing game of sixties icons (and one absolutely unmentionable attempt at pronouncing “Quant”), and the realisation that two of them had genuinely never heard of JFK, we moved on to a “Guess who?” game. I sat on a chair in the corner – I didn’t need to hover intimidatingly; how could it go wrong? – while they took turns in guessing which ‘60s icon they had been assigned on the board behind them by a peer. I settled in comfortably, feeling smugly assured that this would be the lighthearted, calming end to the day we all needed.

…Seven minutes passed. Madness descended. Hillary Clinton had been mistakenly called a man, there seemed to be doubts that Clint Eastwood was human, Vladimir Putin had been spelt “poutine” (as in the Canadian delicacy), someone had written my name on the board… I don’t know quite when it went awry. 

The moral of the story is - be prepared. One minute there’s blank silence and tentative squeaks of, “Errrrr… I am an actor?”, and the next you’re having to request if we could possibly stop making each other fascist world leaders and/or Kardashians (the original “sixties” theme completely dropped). As an awe-inspiring finale of creativity, one girl even assigned a friend his own name – cue confusion and partial philosophical meltdown at Monday’s close: “I am human?!... Attend! Attend! I am... ME?!” Good. Grief.

SO:

Clouds: A heavy, grey cloud this time, I feel, and one I can’t ignore: I am worried about the USA. 

Silver linings: Small scale remedies in the face of world-wide tragedies: thankful for friends who are at the end of a Skype or phone call when a Trump-shaped shadow is looming, and those who drove for miles to harmonise and cry over Skylar Astin, huddled under a duvet on my sofa. Try to tell me your Saturday topped that. Plus some very successful lessons, much hilarity, and some real progress in learning the names of my 120 students. ...No longer having to shout "VALENTIN!" or "MANON!" just because it's likely there will be one in the vicinity.

Calm

Fox en France Ep.10: Stick it to Le Mans

Thursday 27^th – Sunday 30^th Oct

Les womans in Le Mans #grammar

Recovery after Spain was moderately bleak, and merged into one long house-cleaning, clothes-washing ritual of four days. Riveting stuff. 

Monday 31^st Oct – 1^st Nov

The gentle pits of despair post-Spain were getting to me, so another change of scene was required: I fled to Le Mans, a nearby(ish) town for a stay with some other university friends. Yes, more of them. Who knew I had so many? It was a random choice of location based on geographical convenience between the three of us and so we had few expectations… Apart from someone telling me to “look out for the big F1 track” (they know me well, clearly; sports facilities are always my first go-to sightseeing priority!!!).  This meant we were actively impressed on arrival – possibly because of the crisp clear blue skies and the most welcome croque monsieur I’ve ever been served – but I am yet to be bored by colossal town squares full of beautiful pale buildings and friendly cafés.

The Pinterest House

And then – and then – we checked into our last-minute AirBnB choice and realised just how fortunate the entire set up was. Vincent, possibly the friendliest man I have ever met, welcomed us into his (what can only be described as) palace. I must apologise for the lengths at which I am about to describe his rooftop apartment: an impressive array of plants tumbling off shelving units, globes and a sculptures and a large map of early London spread across a wall. We had no doubt that this man was our cup of tea (notre tasse de thé?) – from the vintage mojito recipe placard behind a stash of twenty-five special edition liquor bottles, to ‘60s records lining the walls, to Jane Birkin posters and wall hangings (tastefully) propped up behind the sofa (“she is just a goddess!” he informed us). I genuinely felt like I had stepped inside the Pinterest app itself as he showed us round the kitchen – low-hanging lightbulbs on turquoise cords, and a small yellow bus that was actually a charging station. Jars of farfalle and multi-coloured candy canes lining the glass cabinet tipped us over from “woah” to a feverish “this is a potential life goal standard of home”. Vincent, we will be returning. A* in interior design for you, Glen Coco.

A slightly disturbing cold bolognaise put a dampener on the evening meal excursion – and an even more disturbing array of costume-clad French teenagers reminded us that it was in fact Halloween and this had completely passed us by. So, for the first time since I can remember, I did not dress up for, nor celebrate, Halloween in any form. We instead drank some wine, shared our most disturbing stories from our time abroad so far (wouldn’t you like to know) and went to bed. Quite early.  

A rushed panic to catch my train home resulted in an inevitable but nonetheless painful moment wherein I lost any capacity to speak French under pressure (seat number confusion, obviously). To my dismay, just before I dissolved in a pool of my own sweat in the aisle, the debacle ended with an eight-year-old asking me (with remarkable complacency for someone who looked young enough to be an extra on the Teletubbies), “Oh… You’re English?” and then translating for me the confusion of which-seat-is-mine. Not fun, very embarrassing, and not okay that such a young child was so full of intimidating sass and eye-rolls. Just because you’ve clearly been conjugating verbs since the the minute you were born. In, like, 2011. No grudges held here.

Gratuitous shots of Vincent's place (thanks Anna)

There are leaves everywhere and it’s such an autumn cliché but I’m becoming fixated with them, covering all the paths and roads in a fiery red carpet. So in a moment of healthy November delirium I stopped on my way back from the station and picked one up: it was perfectly intact and about twice the size of my head (no, really). I then stood up and realised an old lady was staring at me. My reputation continues to be on point – I think “Clumsy British Leaf Girl” suits me well, personally. Does leaf-pressing work the same way as flower-pressing? If not there is a leaf inside my teaching textbooks for 100% no reason and knowing me it’ll rot and crumble and then fall out of the pages in the middle of a lesson in three months’ time. Good luck explaining your way out of that one, Future Lou xoxo

SO:

Clouds: I want Vincent’s apartment to be my own but it isn’t and never will be, I have started to stash bits of tree paraphernalia in my apartment, and I got an accidental private translator but he’s barely out of the womb and that feels demeaning.

Silver linings: Le Mans was another idyllic area I’ve been lucky enough to see, and we booked an AirBnB palace by mistake.

Fox en France Ep.9: Bah, BAR, Black Sheep

Monday 25^th – Thursday 27^th Oct

Still not sure what it is or how we found it

This week began with a four hour coach to Barcelona, sweeping us out of one old Spanish city and into another – except this city had the fun, additional layer of Catalan. My bare-minimum Spanish suddenly seemed like native fluency in comparison to my comprehension of Catalan and as we’d left the actual Spanish speakers of our group behind in Valencia, I was withered down to a state of mild hysteria and shouting “¿Qué?” at anyone who approached me. I’d love to say I get by with a little help from my friends; in fact I get by ordering cafe con leche at every single place we stop because it’s the only thing I can say and my friends like to watch me suffer. And that’s not even Catalan.

Our hostel was great, and soon we had a recovered, fresh need for Spanish nightlife (that Enrique-and-reggaeton quota is never quite full. Once you've experienced it you need it like a drug). We were soon taken in like the weak tourists we are by a man in a pink shirt on La Rambla, with alluring promises of the magical “s” word (sangria, obviously). However, before I knew it, I was given a tequila shot, a wristband and was being herded like a small, confused sheep into a tavern (one ironically named The Black Sheep). Not long after, I found myself in a drinking game with a girl from LA and her hostel, we were led to a club like more livestock, Europop and reggaeton ensued, and I watched Matt dance to Tina Turner. Quite the evening.

this big Gaudi thing

The next day brought a stroll (crawl. We were crawling) to the Sagrada Familia, and then the market on La Rambla. Both impressive. Both, you know, kind of big. One full of cured meat and coconuts. One… Not. Thanks to a stunning recommendation from a friend, we found a backstreet tapas place for one euro per tapas that evening – but not before I had managed to get everyone lost and took the group on a slightly unnerving tour of the shifty neighbourhoods of Barca. I could pretend it was a purposeful and insightful anti-tourist exploration but my nervous laughter each time we hit yet another dimly lit street gave me away. Eventually we found the tapas restaurant and nothing mattered anymore. Tapas were worth it.

I managed to lead us astray yet again on Wednesday as we headed to El Raval – the “edgy” quarter (my words, not theirs). By (my) mistake we first walked through Chinatown instead and then accidentally skirted round the edge of the place I had meant to find instead of going through it, before finally stumbling across a record store, so I knew we’d hit the #edgy goal (you can take the students out of Leeds, but…). Then someone sold me a peanut butter doughnut and nothing mattered anymore. Doughnut was worth it (no theme here).

finally understood some Spanish :)

The last evening meant a trip to the Manchester Bar (travelling with Northerners, wasn’t I) and a relatively early night which still felt too late when I had to wake up at 9:00am for my flight home. I managed, somehow, and waved goodbye to the warm air, and the nachos, the tapas and Gaudi and jugs of sangria, the churros and high-rise buildings and city fumes and palm trees, understanding just one word in an entire sentence, hostels and tourists and pickpockets, ice creams and paella and my pals. ¡¡¡Hasta luega!!! (that could literally mean anything, I’m just guessing).

The strangest thing that really hit me, though, was when I stepped off the plane in Rennes. I smelled a bakery and saw a sign for galettes and other French words everywhere, and the cold but green, green landscapes and orange-red autumn trees. And I actually almost felt like being back in Brittany was home. How’s that for a revelation?

SO:

Clouds: I had to leave Espagna; cry with me. I speak even less Catalan than I do Spanish. And the bus I needed home from the airport doesn’t run in October (fun surprise after my flight landed). 

Silver linings: I didn’t get pickpocketed, I googled the term for Spanish speakers and it’s “hispanophone”, and I have laughed an almost unbearable amount in the past week. Thank you to the girls in Valencia for showing us round, and to Matt Stew James Josh and Johnnie in various combinations for being a reliably great-but-infuriating bunch to travel with (but call me Bindi again and it’s all over). 

Fox en France Ep.8: Seafood Paella (ella, ella, eh eh eh)

Thursday 20^th – Monday 24^th Oct

This might be a British thing, but stepping off a plane and wondering whether the heat is the plane engine or the actual climate is a beautiful moment. Getting to Valencia late at night, I was too giddy with joy to see the end of my ten-hour journey even to be annoyed when we got lost immediately on the way to the hostel. The air smelt of palm trees, sangria and the promise of trying to balance great nights out/actually sightseeing (it didn’t, it smelt of European cities, so bad sewage and cigarettes). I had that travel buzz – probably because I was constantly fretting about the fact that I am, while travelling, probably one of the easiest pickpocket targets in the world. Forgetful, easily-distracted and blessed with the attention span of a newt.

The stuff of nightmares

The first forty-eight hours, honestly, are a blur of food. I don’t know how many churros I inhaled on Friday morning but I’m ready for an official certificate of congratulations – and at some point we also tackled paella, tapas, sangria, more sangria, some more sangria, and then bookended more churros in at the end. Somewhere in amidst the ongoing feast I discovered that a Spanish exam in 2012 gets you 100% nowhere in actual Spain if you haven’t spoken it since, and so I was a helpless child in the midst of my Spanish-speaking friends (I planned to be slick while writing this and use the Spanish version of Anglophones. But all I can think of is “Spanglophones”. Spanielphones. Espagnaphonia? Just sounds like a fear of Spain). Luckily gin and tonic is almost the same in both languages, and gazing at big squares, high-ceiling markets and old buildings doesn’t require much Spanish GCSE vocabulary. The only time I actually struggled was when I headed out to the modern art gallery alone, trusted Google Maps way too much, and was too incompetent to realise I was in the wrong building. Yes, an entirely different building, no, I honestly didn’t realise, yes, I am that dense, no, I didn’t walk straight back out but instead endured a full forty minute tour because I didn’t want to be impolite. Classic. It was a large and seemingly never-ending food installation which featured everything from a mundane glass case of spatulas, to a surreal exhibit with a giant seven-eyed bull-creature and the word “tapas” everywhere. I am scarred and may be suing Google and their confusing maps.

Reunited with Millie

It didn’t take us long (two nights) to accidentally sniff out a huge group of Erasmus students from Leeds and we had one of those “such a small world” conversations that are much, much more boring

when you re-tell them, or even think about them the day after, so I’ll leave that gripping tale to the imagination. Spanish clubbing was the genuine Enrique-reggaeton-fest I’d originally imagined (but also originally berated myself for stereotyping). Cue more churros for morning-after recovery.

SO:

Clouds: I cannot in any way speak Spanish, and my stupid uni nickname came back to haunt me thanks to my travel pals.

Silver linings: My appalling lack of Spanish made me realise I actually really can speak French. And churros are absolute life.

Fox en France Ep.7: J & the Giant Beach

Week 10^th October

I write this with a slightly heavy heart, having just discovered that my flat’s electricity has failed in certain rooms. I had to shower with the door open just to let some natural light in, but then had an acute panic that the maintenance staff would choose this precise moment to do their scheduled check up and let themselves in with a master key. Thank goodness no such crisis occurred but I am a little on edge as I reflect upon the week.

It has been another marvellous blur, studded with little Inevitable Louisa What Are Even You Doing Moments. Examples from the past seven days include getting my key stuck in a classroom lock (until all thirty students waiting outside fell silent to watch me struggle) – proving you haven’t been laughed at until you have been laughed at by French teens, and walking straight into a kitchen cupboard I had briefly left open. Bump on my forehead to prove it.

not bad. so-so. average.

I had a part-time flatmate this week which was lovely and while the language barrier was moderate, we still managed to have a laugh as I hurriedly tried to explain that the twelve wine bottles on my terrace were from a party I had hosted and not in fact the messy residue of a particularly heavy night in by myself. I think he believed me.

Wednesday brought an exciting change of scene as myself and three fellow assistants passed a full day in the grown-up house & home wonderland that is IKEA. Was the thrill present because we are finally proper adults who are genuinely passionate about spatulas and potpourri? Or because we are socially-stunted language assistants from remote towns wherein the biggest shops are the local bakeries? We’ll never know, but the potpourri was nevertheless on a level of Christmas-come-early excitement (unlike the packets of tinsel which were on a level of Christmas-come-early absurdity). On the late bus ride home (yes, we really did make a whole day of it), I was the only passenger, and the sun was long, long gone. I didn’t have particular qualms about walking home from the station for all of two minutes, but after a chat with the friendliest bus driver I’ve possibly ever met (and I go to university in Yorkshire so that is perhaps saying something) I was dropped off directly outside my front door! Generosity at its best, so thanks, Monsieur Le Bus Driver.

I had astonishingly few classes this week as teacher after teacher informed me that for one reason or another I wasn’t needed (are they trying to tell me something?), so instead I had lots of time to do absolutely nothing and still feel completely shattered. IKEA clearly took it out of me. Consuming at least fourteen entire baguettes per day is the only obvious solution; I need energy.

Panorama setting well-used

Early on Saturday I hopped on yet another bus to head up to St Brieuc. Sam (the one you have to be nice to because he has a car) picked up a group of us and we headed over to Le Mont Saint-Michel. History, tides, architecture, beach, abbey, island, history, monks, stone, quicksand, views, history, stairs. Lots and lots of stairs. My thighs were more efficiently toned in a few hours in Normandy than my previous two decades of existence combined. The vast landscapes and Instagram-worthy snaps were worth the leg pain, though, and soon my pals were sick of hearing about my self-appointed “photographer” title (“look guys, sorry, but seriously how arty is this?!”). After making such a concentrated effort to BE A LOCAL while in and around work, it was refreshing to permit ourselves the liberty of complete, unhindered tourism. And it was certainly at its best: overpriced food, group selfies, long queues, panorama shots of the view, backpacks, and people actually speaking to us in English rather than French… All rather exciting, really.

The evening let us sample St Brieuc’s finest (erm) nightlife as a group of us went for drinks (“We’re in the bar by the square!” “Which square?” “The one with the um… bars?”) , and while I’m still not entirely sure why, we were kindly bought a round of drinks by some locals and then were told we spoke good French. I’ll take both the wine and the compliment.

... Just another gratuitous beach shot

Another weekend leaves me feeling absolutely shattered, but thanks to St Brieuc specialist Joel, we found a place open to buy food on Sunday and soothed our slightly fragile states. On to the next week… Not entirely sure how but I appear to be off to Spain tomorrow!

SO:

Clouds: If there was any doubt, I can confirm that showers in the dark are not fun. And if a man says “you listen me I very the English good” outside a bar, you can guarantee the following conversation is going to be utterly incomprehensible.

Silver linings: There is nothing quite like the sweet feeling of a group hangover stroll to find a perfect picnic hill on which to eat a croque monsieur. Am I in a black and white film?

Fox en France Ep.6: Turn around, bright (purple) eyes

Saturday 8^th Oct

Like a bad TV drama, we return to the scene of the morning after… A sluggish group trip to the boulangerie on my street started the official weekend and eventually my assistant pals returned back to their far flung corners of the côte d’armor. I was so overtired during breakfast that when presented with teaspoons next to our pastries, I absentmindedly used it. Ever eaten a muffin with a teaspoon? I advise against it completely.

Well-deserved boulangerie trip

Muffin debacle over, I jumped (crawled) onto a bus to get to Rennes for the weekend. Unfortunately, that very fact – that it was indeed the weekend – obviously made my life a little harder as I had to journey on a completely illogical route to get there. Public transport being my obvious Number One Nemesis (to the point where I’d definitely propose a bus timetable as the next Bond villain) meant that instead of sighing with relief as my train left the station (with me on it), I was filled with a creeping panic that I was being carted off somewhere else entirely. And knowing me I’d be half way to Amsterdam before clocking that something was really off. At least I knew I was going somewhere for the weekend (it was the right train).

American assistant Meghan (musical theatre graduate, a.k.a the dream), hosted me and uni friend Alistair for the weekend – an impromptu arrangement so I really can’t say how grateful I was for that – and an absolute highlight was their new kitten Whiskey. He was so small that I often lost sight of him completely, and there came an awful moment where I crossed my legs and heard an odd squeak as the little thing flew from under my chair. A sentence you never want to say is: “Oh my god I’m so sorry, I think I just kicked your cat!” Makin’ friends for life across France.

A trip to the ever-famous rue de la soif (literally speaking, ‘Thirsty Street’) ended a brilliant Saturday, and Meghan told me she was going to find me a “hashtag winabew”. And if you correctly guess what that means, I’ll get you one too.

SO:

Clouds: I am officially made of evil kitten-kicking atoms, and I ruined my own muffin experience by overdoing cutlery. Tragic, I know, lesson learned.

Silver linings: Kind strangers made wonderful hosts, I’ve had a taste of the French nightlife here, and I’ve heard that my wifi box has arrived and awaits me in the post office. Sweet.

Sunday 9^th Oct

Beautiful streets in Rennes (shame about the crane)

Another empty French Sunday sweeps past – helped a bit by the fact that I was still in Rennes. The MacDonalds drive through was the only thing open (what a country, what a culture) and it was a cold, cold day so the whole thing kind of blurred in one, long, semi-rank, semi-great McFeast until Alistair and I realised we should probably head back to our one-horse towns (and there’s not even a horse in mine).

Transport was non-existent so I booked a car share online to trek back; I can’t pretend I was at ease, per se, with going against every lesson I was ever taught as a child (strangers’ cars etc.) but I was delighted to find my car hosts were an incredibly friendly woman and her three year old daughter. The other paying passenger sat in the front so I spent an hour in the backseat practising a completely new French dialect: child speak. The little girl was so infectiously bonkers I was giggling with slight delirium whether I knew what she was saying or not (“Your French is good, don’t worry, she just makes up a lot of words”, her mother told me).

There was something deliciously surreal about driving through acres of countryside sunset, while it was explained to me, gently but gravely, that “the little pony’s name is Annalise and her eyes are bright pink and purple because she has met her husband”.

Once home I thought I might collapse on the spot from the lack of sleep, but my colleague Nadine invited me to have dinner with her family, and to be honest, cider, yet more crêpes and good company were potentially the only things that could have perked me up at that point. So in the end I started and ended the weekend the same way: happy, grateful and very well-fed.

Then, as four mammoth, juicy (albeit metaphorical) cherries-on-top, Nadine told me, while kindly driving me home, that she had a bike I could borrow, and gave me some traditional Réunion cooking from her daughter’s boyfriend’s mother (comically tenuous but so appreciated). Meanwhile, my stove has been fixed (haaaallelujah) and so has my kitchen light. I would have spent more time squealing ecstatically about everything if I hadn’t instantaneously dropped dead asleep.

SO:

Clouds: I kind of wish I had bright purple eyes too.

Silver linings: I have a potential bike, lovely neighbours and colleagues, I had live entertainment during the hour long car journey, and you can tell by the ridiculous nature of my ‘clouds’ that this weekend has been brilliant.

Fox en France Ep.5: I'm a crêpe, I'm a weirdo

Wednesday 5^th Oct

Enough choice for you?

It strikes me as odd that my day off has been so eventful but clearly I am making a good go at behaving like a local, as an elderly woman stopped me in the supermarket and requested I help her find the organic lemons (?). Unfortunately the poor old thing didn’t know what she was letting herself into – organic lemons were only the beginning of my cluelessness. I had to politely tell her I wasn’t the best person to ask. Frankly, I’m shocked that she hadn’t already clocked me walking in circles around the giant Intermarché, completely lost and unable to find anything I needed. Stick an indecisive person in Leeds’ Sainsbury’s Local and you’ve got a headache and a difficult job, but stick an indecisive person in a colossal French supermarket and that’s half the afternoon gone. And while I didn’t have time to verify it I would estimate that there were roughly seven or eight million varieties of wine, and about the same of cheese. I’d walked in so many circles I was worried I looked like a suspicious shoplifter type. Or perhaps like I was saving on the gym membership and getting my workout up and down the aisles instead.

I was quite the flustered mess once I hit the bakery, and turned round so quickly when leaving that I almost walked into the glass sliding door because it was really clean and I couldn’t tell which part was open. True highlight and will definitely help with my town reputation.  

SO:

Clouds: I lost at least two decades of my life in a supermarket; 40th birthday party invite to come.

Silver linings: Camouflaging with my surroundings well enough to be mistaken for a shop assistant.

Thursday 6^th Oct

"What can you do in Winter?"

The gold moments keep on coming, as this morning saw me briefly get attached to the whiteboard by my dungarees as I corrected a piece of homework. Luck was on my side, though, as they were all staring intently at their books instead of at me.

I particularly enjoyed helping to police a debate about Pokémon Go and Call of Duty (waste of time? Which is better? Is gaming really a sport?) – proving that should you find a subject that the students care about, you’re sorted. The same rule applied in my two seconde classes. Ask them about how many daughters the Wilson family has and you’re not too popular, but carve out some time to ask about music and you’ve got a fair bit of conversation about US rap flowing. …Obviously, I wasn’t a big part of this conversation.

SO:

Clouds: I keep getting attached to parts of the school by my clothing.

Silver linings: Still alive, the students are really nice (so far).

Friday 7^th Oct

Within half an hour of my third official lesson I must have subconsciously become bored of saying “well done” to every student, and so to my surprise I was asked, “Madame, what is ‘nailed it’?” Ha, ha, oh, it means you have done well, but it’s very informal and please don’t use it in your essays. (I can imagine a colleague approaching me in the staffroom: “Nicolas has written that XXX Historical Figure ‘nailed’ that war… You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”)

I then rushed home like a child to get my apartment ready for my guests. This involved doing precisely nothing except for finding all the glassware I could, and preparing to tell some of them that they were going to have to drink from empty jam jars. Classy. 

Paul Hollywood on a mad one (no, that's just sugar)

No one seemed to mind too much and taking into account some very intense conversations about Trump on the balcony (the conversations were on the balcony, not Donald himself), an impromptu round of crêpe-making in the early hours of the morning and more bottles of wine than I would ever openly reveal, I like to think it was a success. Everyone who came along – thank you for being part of a real-life textbook maths question (if you have eight language assistants and three spare bedrooms, how many single beds are in Bedroom B if three people had to sleep together in Bedroom A?). And no, sorry, I can’t pay for the medical bills of those of you on the floor, who now presumably have severe back problems.

SO:

Clouds: Post-2am-crêpe-situation my kitchen looks like the site of a heated argument between Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood (thanks a bunch, Joel). 

Silver linings: There was a 2am crêpe situation (no but seriously, thank you Joel), my balcony has been christened by heated political conversation (as all good balconies should be, no?), and everyone sneaked their cheese leftovers into my fridge. Angels.

Fox en France Ep.4: Breakfast at Tiphaine's

Monday 3^rd Oct

The first full day was, predictably, twice as mad as the half day last week (my body may be weak but my mathematics is still shipshape), as I finished yet more paperwork and attended five hours of lessons. A new tidal wave of Mannons and Julies and Melvins and Tiphaines (so many Tiphaines, all spelt differently) asking me about my favourite French city, favourite colour, favourite food and whether or not I know French music (sorry, no… Still no).

"Pride and Prejudice" chapter suggestions!

Overwhelmed, I sneaked home between the last two lessons and had a huge cup of tea in the sun on my balcony to calm my nerves before heading back into the wilderness of the terminales class, which was no less intimidating than I expected. Thirty students around my own age stared blankly at me, maintaining a whole ‘nother level of cool-and-unbothered as they told their teacher they couldn’t think of any questions.  The silence ached and it even made me wish briefly that I was back with the fifteen-year-olds, having details of my love life excruciatingly wheedled out of me (kidding, nothing was as bad as that). The pain was made up for later in a literature class, when a group of ten students acted out a page from Pride and Prejudice and had to give their own English titles to the chapter – briefly back in my comfort zone.

I soon returned to my standard state of utterly baffled in an international politics lesson – taught all in English – as the teens were asked about the US elections. “I vote for Trump because,” started one boy, “he want to build a wall for Mexico, and I want to catching Mexicans!” Needless to say my jaw promptly unhinged and fell to the floor, but after two seconds of utter silence and baited breath, the whole class burst into laughter as the boy cried, “No no, it’s a joke! It’s just a joke! Donald Trump is…” (cue the entire room making an array of rehearsed negative gestures, ranging from thumbs down to elaborately mimed gagging). Panic over. Not teaching Trump supporters.

SO:

Clouds: A group of French eighteen year olds have a better analytical understanding of Jane Austen than I ever will, and (had to happen) one teacher has blown my I-Don’t-Speak-French act.

Silver linings: Tea tastes better on a balcony, my students aren’t racist, and I made a kebab joke to a class and they actually laughed. …Okay, so you had to be there.

Tuesday 4^th Oct

While walking through town

Big day. Big, scary day as I headed on the bus for an hour to my training/induction day. After a slight (major) malfunction on one (all) of my bus routes, including a near miss involving a school bus heading in the opposite direction to my destination, I made it to the training centre… And met other people who are also assistants in small towns. Absolutely joyous. Almost on par with receiving my attestation.

We were taught some exercises to use with students (useful, definitely will employ) and given too much free coffee (not useful, buzzing and eye-twitching followed). One exercise involved making up a story to surround a song lyric – and don’t ask me how and it definitely was not my fault at all but ours ended up being about parallel universes, plagues and magical boats. The training leader told me I had “a child’s mind” but she was half smiling so I think it was a compliment about my ability to relate to students. Actually it might have been a grimace at my peculiarity but let’s just pretend it was a matter of cultural misunderstanding.

All the chat about Donald Trump in the politics class yesterday made me think about how much I hate cultural stereotypes about countries’ traditions. ... In other news, ahem, I may be hosting a wine and cheese night soon for all the other assistants I met today to celebrate our first week in France.

Party time! Just a mildly colossal shame that I’ve remembered I live directly above one of my fellow teachers.

SO:

Clouds: Abysmally late to training day: Lou fails at transport again, cheese/wine rave may lose me a colleague and friend, frightening (but comforting/necessary) terrorism drill at the college during training (Europeans panic significantly, Americans shrug and know what to do).

Silver linings: There are others out there like me! (profound), I may be living remotely but “at least it’s in the pretty countryside” (thanks for that suggestion Sam, this week’s Opinion Box is now open if anybody would like to make a cloud/silver lining contribution), and I have made comfortable peace with my lack of oven.

Fox en France Ep.3: Boulevard of Broken English

Friday 30th

PANIQUE! I am immediately eating my words – never should I have sneered at the idea of pretending I only speak English. For the sake of their English skills, it was requested I tell the students I am completely unable to speak French, and it turns out that thinking that would be easy was a silly, silly mistake.

have you ever realised how weird the word "pigeonhole" is?

Do you know how hard it is to pretend you understand nothing going on around you, after years of French lessons telling you to listen and understand and reply? When a girl asked me, “You don’t even speak one word?” I laughed and said a tentative, “Bonjour” and she fell into fits of giggles, saying to her friends in French: “Oh she’s so cute! Oh it’s too cute! Listen to her saying ‘bonjour’!” as if I were back in Year 2 in my first French lesson. And I have to smile blankly and pretend I can’t hear a thing. 

Later, a boy said in French, “Can you understand what I’m saying?” and I had to bite my tongue to keep from replying. His friends laughed, saying, “She doesn’t understand French so you can’t ask her in French if she understands French, you idiot.” The pinnacle of banter. Not to mention the: “You can ask her some questions about herself and England.” The selection of questions was as follows:

• -          “You like what star?” (Not the Kardashians) “Ian Somerhalder?” (Er, sure)
• -          “You watch Game of Thrones?” (Sorry, no…)
• -          “What music do you listen to?” (Anything... Probably more indie music than I naturally would because I do this thing called student radio? Because we have this playlist thing and oh my god there is way too much technical vocabulary in this answer so I’ll just say I like Beyoncé)
• -          “What do you study at university?” (I can’t say French or they’ll realise I can speak it – instead I say English)
• -          “So why are you in France?” (Very good question)

Very very hectic first day.

SO:
Clouds: I should have watched Game of Thrones, and I have no bowls in my cupboards.
Silver linings: The school food is incredible and I get it for cheaps, win.

Saturday 1st Oct

Celebratory croissant

NEVER in my life would I have thought that a slip of paper saying "attestation" could bring quite so much joy but such is French life - the magical signed form that lets me get a bank account. And a bank account means, admin-wise, that I can get wifi and a phone contract. I could have sworn angels appeared and started singing as the Headmaster's secretary handed me the file.

Navigation skills around town are improving a little. A.k.a I know where to buy bread (200m) and how to get to work (20m) so that's impressive from me.

First actual day working tomorrow...

SO:

Clouds: Still no oven, but you can’t have everything. I bid farewell to my father (sob, sob).

Silver linings: Temporary wifi situation SORTED, as well as a bank (Monsieur at the Bank you are the absolute dream & so helpful), and got bus tickets sorted for my induction day on Tuesday... Travel plans for October holidays may be underway.

Fox en France Ep.2: Rennes, Forrest, Rennes!

Wednesday 28th Sept

During the day time when we’re exploring nearby towns and sorting out paperwork or when I’m with my colleagues and being shown round the school, I feel almost calm and like this year is going to be weird, different, but really cool and quite special.

Brittany cider ain't bad

But then I get home... And I still have no oven, the kitchen light doesn’t work and I potentially may never have housemates – and after Leeds, which had one of the former and eight of the latter, this is taking some serious adaptation already. My solution is to get a radio hooked up ASAP and find the French equivalent of Capital. Or something.

The paperwork continues to be on top of me and I may in fact purchase an avalanche alarm for when the ever-growing pile inevitably topples over and buries me for days.

Shockingly, the language barrier is actually the easiest part of the culture shock so far, and as of this moment I’ve only once needed to actively stop someone talking and tell them I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

SO:

Clouds: Kitchen lighting iffy, public transport a mystery, am potentially only 20 year old in Brittany, will have “ADMIN OVERLOAD” on gravestone.

Silver linings: Saw a beaut medieval town, am breathing, I found out my official address and I literally live on a “boulevard”. How’s that for a classy French year abroad?

Thursday 29th Sept

Place de la République, Rennes

Good day: drove over to Rennes (making the most of my dad’s car…) to meet a Leeds friend who goes to university there. It’s a gorgeous town with lots of old buildings and pretty streets, great shops and three/four universities so loads of young people (nearly fell over at the sight of people my age). It was great meeting some of the uni students there and knowing that I have people to see if I ever manage to sort transport from this little place.

The wifi/SIM card debacle ceases to end and I have now more confusing options, a SIM I may or may not be able to use, and dying hope for the future. Just kidding, that’s a bit pessimistic. My hope is not dying but rather just pretty seriously ill. Comatose. Very, dormant, like a volcano you let tourists potter around on because it hasn’t surfaced for literal millennia. Anyway.

I am trying to listen to French radio to feel all French and like a properly dedicated language student immersing herself in the target language but I’m very certain the station I found this morning just made a horrific joke about Syrian child refugees using a remix of the “Bear Necessities” from the Jungle Book. So I think I need a different station.

....Aaaand the song that just played on the new station is one I’ve already heard twice yesterday. I feel like French pop is even more limited than I thought.

SO:

Clouds: iii-soooo-laaaaa-tion, noticing the echoes in my apartment, French radio is like being submitted to a 24/7 special of Eurovision.

Silver linings: Rennes is lovely, my colleagues are so kind, and my balcony gets loads of sun during the day.

Fox en France Ep 1: It's Brittany, bitch.

Right well, here I am, overtired and baffled, sitting along in a big, big flat somewhere in France. It is a ridiculously big flat and I’m still a bit confused as to if/where other flatmates might appear from but at least it’s very very nice and brand new. Clothes away, diffuser out (rooms that smell good are A*) and I even have a microwave (this morning I had pretty much zero furniture). I even have two irons and a big sofa, a desk in my room and lots of chairs. Lots of chairs. I hope I make some friends to sit in them or I’ll be going all Marius-in-Les-Mis (“Empty Chairs at Empty Tables”, for those less in the know).

I met some of the other English teaching staff today, and had lunch with them – they all seem lovely. Some are even kind enough to speak to me in English a bit. Nadine said she could drive me to the shops every week, so she’s currently top of the bae list. They have also told me I am not allowed to speak French to any of the students, nor tell them I can speak French at all (ha - oh no, how terribly difficult that will be). 

Meanwhile, others only spoke French to me and I actually kept up (surprised). They chatted a lot about previous-assistant-Brian, who was American. He, and I quote, “had a very kamikaze approach. Oh he was such good fun! Didn’t speak a word of French”. This means I have such a lot, but also so very little, to live up to there – so thank you, Elusive Brian.

They all admit that public transport is genuinely a bit of an issue here, but a lot of them commute to other towns so hopefully I can nab a few rides. There was a bit of grimacing when I said I didn’t have a car (great) so that bodes well.

So I am here. Bit scared but hopefully tomorrow’s big admin day will help sort my main questions (am I seriously living alone in an apartment that the Von Trapps could comfortably inhabit? Where’s that pesky oven at? Etc)

Bring on da cheese.

Sobbing to my dentist & talking to cats

“Ooh, a year abroad! How exciting,” smiles the dental hygienist, putting on plastic gloves. “Where are you going?” 

There is a moment where I almost say Sydney. Toronto. Los Angeles. Heck, I almost say Melbourne, I even almost say Paris. Because then at least I haven’t lied about the country.

I swallow. “Brittany.” Silence. Does she need clarification? “Northern France.”

She is polite, and if surprised, she hides it well. “Lovely! You study French?” she coos, getting out the mini-mirror. I nod but say nothing. Mostly because there’s a mirror now wedged in my mouth.
“That must be beautiful! By the coast?” And it’s tempting to just murmur "mmmhmm" or some sort of affirmative, and be done with it. Because if I say no, she’ll look confused, and I’ll want to explain, and I’m worried it’ll all come out in one gushing torrent (tears and all) and she won’t be able to stop me even with a local anesthetic and dental drill:

No, not by the coast. Central Brittany – in what seems to be the only non-coastal town – and a tiny town at that. Smaller than Leeds by about six hundred thousand people, smaller than Guildford by about fifty thousand people. Tiny. An hour and a half from the capital city of Brittany. But you can get there by train? No, no train. But by bus? Nope. Two hours, sure, by getting a train north for an hour then southeast for an hour. The two longer sides of an isosceles. You see?! I'm so wound up and nervy I've managed to remember the word "isosceles"!

Didn't you pick where you were going? Only by vague region. But… there
will be another assistant, right? At your school? Apparently not. But there’ll be stuff going on in the town, right? All French towns have things going on! Well, a terrifying night using Google street view promised a few restaurants, a couple of banks and a MacDonalds. The height of French culture and cuisine, clearly. That night ended in sniffles, some hyperventilation and snapping my laptop shut so quickly in frustration I almost cracked the screen.

So all in all, it takes four hours to travel anywhere of note, I have hundreds of free hours per week but nothing to do with them, and am scared I’ll have fewer friends than when I was four years and old and went to nursery in Switzerland and everyone spoke French but me. Haha, oh wait, it's France, so it’s exactly like that time I went to nursery in Switzerland and everyone spoke French but me.

I can’t help but think it’s just another smidge of proof that if my life were transformed into a script and popped on Channel 4, it’d be the new farcical, Miranda-esque show for Britain to laugh at. "Rural" doesn’t even cover what’s happening to me. Come on, guys, show’s over, time to reveal the cameras. Nice prank! Where am I really going on my picturesque, romantic, chic French year abroad eh?
No?
For real?
Okay.

I'm worried I may devolve into a socially inept creature who scuttles around on all fours and speaks to cats. Or something. I’ll be rooting through people’s bins by fourth year!!! Look out, the Menace of Hyde Park strikes again!

That said, I know it's only daunting because it's a mystery. Certainly a mystery, but I’m sure I’ll live. It’ll be fun and great and I just need to have a lot of faith and hold tight, etc. etc. etc., thank you all for your advice and support. Expecting the worst means it must be better in comparison. It’ll be so different from anything else and today’s shudder-inducing nightmare is tomorrow’s hilarious blog post and so on. Yas yas.

...At the end of the day, in that dentist’s chair, I do just smile and nod ambiguously. Suuuure, it’s by the coast, why not? The woman isn’t a therapist so she doesn’t need me bursting into tears and sobbing until I choke to death on her dental implements. That’s not a fun day out for anybody.

I am so intrigued – perhaps almost excited? – to see how this year pans out. Expect blogs, maybe lots of them. Apart from that, expect absolutely nothing. Because I really, really don’t know what to expect myself.

Growing up with NCS

Brief silence. A hand shoots up. “Social enterprise is, like, when Jamie Oliver teaches homeless people to cook, right? Social enterprise is a charity business.” A small pause as she recalls the second question I’ve asked her. “Oh, and I want to work in events management.” And so another year as Summer Staff at NCS with the Challenge is well underway. I’m lost for words as I look at my team of Young People. Although they have already impressed me last week with rock climbing, hiking and canoeing, showing fearsome team support and bonding as soon as Day One, today already seems to be topping even that.

Next. “I want to work in artificial intelligence.” “Um, graphic design.” “I’d quite like to… Be Prime Minister.” Oh right – nothing too difficult, then. Was I this sorted when I was sixteen? Surely not. This lot are incredible.

Although, after five summers at NCS with the Challenge, I should have learned: they always are. A fact completely unanticipated in July 2012 when, a week before the London Olympics began, I sobbed in the car, begging my mum to take me back home. “I don’t want to go! It’s going to be… Weird!” the sixteen-year-old me whimpered. “I won't like anybody!”

Yet four years later, and the Rio Olympics in the limelight, I'm still coming back for more, and not one year of my journey with NCS has failed to impress or amaze me. Starting with my own 2012 experience as a participant after my GCSEs, completing two years of volunteering as an Associate Mentor then Senior Associate Mentor, and then beginning my journey as a Senior Mentor in 2015, I truly have seen the ins and outs of the entire programme and feel lucky to know both sides of the process. How I respected my Senior Mentor four years ago continues to inspire me as I work with my own team now, and my own memories of my time on NCS with The Challenge give me absolute faith that with the right encouragement and empowerment, every single young person we work with has the potential to achieve incredible things.

(Clockwise from top left) Me as a participant in 2012; me as a member of staff 2016: during the talent show, Dragons Den day, dressed as a "Roadman" by my team

Hiking on the Isle of Wight, 2015

I used to think, in fact, that NCS attracted the best of the best (how else would team after team after team succeed so perfectly and be so motivated, intelligent and hard-working? How else would I see so many original campaigns and inspiring speeches?) – young people who were without fail driven, kind, supportive, eager to be creative and willing to volunteer. The stars of their school, the rare gems of their community. I was astounded that whatever the challenge, they managed to take responsibility, think for themselves and make a difference. However, I was wrong. NCS does not simply bring in a specific streamlined breed of young people who are all automatically equipped to inspire and destined to change the world. Instead, the NCS programme has the ability to include and involve any single young person in the country, and then coax out that inevitable, dazzling talent within them – regardless of who they are. That’s right – watch out, world. They are all capable.

And when it comes to raw material to work with, we are ready for, and actively welcoming of, anything. The entire programme is about social mixing and inclusivity – any background or past is welcome and an astonishing number of tailored staff roles are at hand to cater for any severity of anything from a physical disability, to a mental illness, to a learning difficulty. Rest assured that you will be on a learning curve, no matter the part you play, but the challenges faced become the glue between a staff team, the bond between young people, and ultimately the most valuable lessons each participant takes with them for life. ‘Challenge yourself’ is on our code of conduct, and with good reason.

It has been a joy to watch NCS with The Challenge develop since I first became involved: only six years after the initial pilot of the programme, the ball is well and truly rolling, and I have faith that the momentum won’t be lost any time soon. NCS does not simply tell the young people of today to go into their communities and change what isn’t good enough; it shows them how to do so, and then encourages them to do it themselves. If ‘teaching a man to fish lets him eat for life’, then NCS is the equivalent of teaching a person the necessary skills to fish sustainably, to create a fishing business and then to divide produce amongst those unable to fish themselves… With some guidance on campaigning for endangered fish in their free time.

So… Why do NCS with The Challenge? Why work with us? Why participate?

I've been to Sussex. Durham. Isle of Wight. Devon. I’ve visited countless charities, businesses and local high streets. I've managed teams, made films, organised talent shows, directed workshops, been moved to tears, been confided in, and been utterly humbled. I’ve had Total Eclipse of the Heart sung to me while frozen with fear at the top of a high ropes course. I’ve had my hand grabbed as I jump, shrieking, into the sea. I’ve campaigned about social media and mental illness in teens, given speeches on the dangers of stereotyping, visited Make-A-Wish foundation, listened to stories about the Second World War from people who were there. Now, years later and a member of staff, I’ve performed S Club 7 tributes, been dressed up as a “roadman” (twice), witnessed the most seemingly unlikely friendships grow time and time again until I have come to expect them, dealt with complex situations I never thought I would, learnt to cherish the unexpected, held myself and others together (and in turn been held together too), watched fundraisers and performances of a lifetime, been made to laugh until I was in pain – and it’s my job. Is it any wonder that four years on, I still consider NCS an essential part of my summer?

I genuinely believe that NCS with The Challenge is the beginnings of the revolution of thought we so badly need in this society and across the globe. Social mixing, acceptance, respect, team-building and communication are being instilled from the ground up, from the generations that will form our future leaders and communities. NCS with The Challenge is encouraging, year by year, the foundations of the change our messy society is thirsting for, through a committed ethos of inspiration and social action.

Current affairs may seem bleak, but have faith: there are good things coming… And while they may be only sixteen years old today, just you wait. They could well change the world.