The Girl with the Draggin Poo

I was sitting on the 45-minute train ride from home to uni, perusing through my readings, pink highlighter in hand. The muffled voice of the train driver announced that our next stop will be Wynyard. I looked out my lower-level window and watched the suits file out onto the platform to my right. This was when it hit. An aggressive blow of urgency pressed onto my bladder. I squeezed my thighs together and bounced up and down on my seat, trying hard to convince myself that 'I don't really need to go that badly...'

The train-trip crawled along, and after what felt like an eon, we pulled up at my stop. I barged through the crowd of fellow commuters and burst into the first free cubicle I laid my eyes on, sliding my uni reader atop the bathroom's hand-dryer before unbuttoning. As I went to squat down, I ran my eyes over the toilet bowl and saw a wet turd the size of a small hamster, clinging to the side of the bowl. I began to dry-gag, but it was far too late, my pants were already on their way down, and my bladder had sensed imminent release - there was no way back. 

Two minutes later, and 1kg lighter, I stepped out of the cubicle...power-walking away from the scene. Maybe twenty-metres away from the cubicle, I noticed my hands were a lot freer than earlier on. I looked in my bag, checking to see if I had put anything I may have previously been holding in there. 

Nothing. Then I realised. And a pang struck the pit of my stomach. 

The hand-dryer.

I turned back around, retracing my speedy steps to that damned cubicle. I prayed it would be empty. It wasn't. 

In the minute or so I waited for whoever occupied the loo, I ran a long list of lines through my head. 'Hey, was there a book in that bathroom? It was gross in there hey?'

'Were you just in that disgusting bathroom? Yuck ay? Um, was there a book in there?'

Eventually a petite asian girl walked out. She saw me waiting outside and approached me saying, 'Was that your book in there?' 

I laughed, too loudly, 'Oh yeah! I thought I'd left it on the train!'

She just looked at me, straight-faced. 

I could feel her judging me, thinking, 'You are fucking foul.'

I desperately wanted to justify the situation to her. But there was no use; there was no way I could change her mind. To her, I will forever be the girl with the draggin' poo. 

 

He Ain't all that and a Bag of Coffee Beans.

Cafe owner: Didn't you like my soup? You didn't finish it.

Frankie: No, I did. It was great, just really filling.

Cafe owner: What? You should be able to handle that (looks Frankie up and down) You're a good eater.

Frankie mentally punches cafe owner in the face.

***

I've been thinking about all the different things I could say about my little encounter with Mr. Cafe owner over there. I could go on a rant about how offensive his words were. I could talk about how upset he made me, and how a couple hours later I was at the gym counting the calories I'd burnt. I could say stuff him, I'm fabulous and curves are in fact the new black. I could talk about how he vaugely resembles Mr. Mole in Thumbelina, and how he ain't exactly a 30-inch waist himself.

But none of that really makes a difference to my afternoon. 

Or to whoever may be reading this.

 ...So, I won't

 

Let's try this one more time.

Hello...

Is there anybody out there?

*blows dust off from blog*

Yes, I have once again been consumed by the evil thing that is third year university. And as a result, my poor, poor blog has suffered immensly. I'm sure it has looked around at all the other blogs that have been filled with witty prose and brightly coloured images, wondering, 'why can't I have all that?'
'Why must I sit here, alone, unnoticed and unchanging?' Before letting out a deep and lenghty sigh.

But cheer up ol' blogzy, you're faithful friend is back!

And you can hopefully find solace in my decision to give you a little bit of a face-lift. Well, not so much a face-lift... more a botox injection (i'm not snipping off anything, just ironing out the crinkles).

Some how it is now June and my trip over the the Motherland is fast approaching. And i've decided that I will try, if internet-cafe's permit, to document as much of it as I can on here. Frankie Speak is going travel.

I'm going to be travelling about the UK, as well as popping into a handful of European cities, with my fabulous, feline-loving friend *Relly Rose.

We're going to be running amuck for 7 weeks, trying to do as much as we can without running out of money. So, expect this space to be crammed with stories on two 20-something year old girls getting lost (both figuratively, and literally, i'm sure) in the loaded streets of Europa in summer.

Everything is sexier when it's foreign.

Watch this space ;)


xx Frankie

Sweet Treats

At the close of the night I find little more comforting than to sit, warm and complacent, with a Mint Slice in one hand and a Jam Fancy in the other. An indulgence such as this can seldom be compared.

Baby Geniuses

I couldn't face this Monday. I was totally unprepared for its arrival, and so decided to turn my back, and avoid it all together. So now, I am staring at the screen of my laptop, listening to Eric Clapton's Running on Faith, while trying to convince my brain to tell my hand to push the keys on the keyboard, and write the essay I have due tomorrow. Instead, my brain told my hand to click on the internet shortcut and log into blogger. 


I'll just treat this as my warm up for what I'm actually meant to be doing. 


So, for a uni assessment (no, not the one due tomorrow) I'm writing an article on being a kid in the digital age. It's something I'm pretty interested in, having worked in a daycare centre for the past 2 years. I've spent some time observing the young kids I encounter and have noticed quite a significant difference in how they act compared to how my sister/cousins/friends and I acted at the same age. Now maybe I'm basing this on a biased opinion on 90s kids compared to millennium bubs, but I really don't think I am. 


Kids today are smarter, they break down information faster - but they also grow tired of things quicker. They're exposed to things earlier - sometimes too early - and consequential to this explosion of stimulation and knowledge, their patience is close to non-existent, and their ability to entertain themselves with a simple game of Mummies and Daddies is lacking. 


I was taught how to use a Nintendo DS last weekend by a 5 year old. She let me play on her brother's console. He is three. This little girl was putting together puzzles on the little interactive, LCD screen. When I asked her if she liked playing with real puzzles, she said, "Nah, I like playing with them on here."


Tell me you don't think something is not right here.

Auburn afternoons

I have to say, I feel bad for not having written on here in a little while. I feel badly for robbing myself of my weekly therapy session, and so, do believe I deserve a slap to the wrist.

So, autumn has crept up on us, and I've just decided that it is my favourite season. It's just so pretty - yes my decision will be solely based on aesthetics. I find autumn distracts me; I get drawn in by its charm and begin envisioning romantic scenes. The colours of autumn are seductive; they make me want to stop and lie under some huge deciduous tree, forever. Possibly with a book in hand and Bloc Party's Blue Light playing softly in the background, or something...

Love is...on the train?

I witnessed a reunion the other day. And it was probably one of the most effecting moments i've seen.

I had just stepped off a train and was walking out of the station onto the street. There was a girl walking ahead of me, heading down the steps at the station's exit. She would have been close to me in age - somewhere between 21 and 24. She was fairly short, and she was wearing a loosely-fitted black dress. As she stepped off the last step and onto level ground, a tall, thin man donning green cargo pants, a backpack and a full beard ran to her side and reached out to touch her arm. The girl was startled by the touch felt; she gasped and jumped to face him. Her face changed as she recognised who he was - she was trying to hold back tears. Then she burried her face into his chest, and stayed there a long while. He spoke no words, but just held her tight and ran his fingers through the back of her hair. He then took her hand, and walked her home.

Although a relatively insignificant happening, seeing this seems to have (momentarily) dissolved all my cynicisms about love. There it was: plain, real, and beautiful. And there, standing amongst the other nameless commuters, I was comforted by the realisation that this is what it's all about - finding someone we know will run to our side, hold our hand, and bring us home.