I feel old.

If you have an interest in fashion or blogs or teenage girls, or some kind of combination of all three, I’d put money on the fact that you've heard of Tavi, a precocious young blogger who garnered media attention for her writings on fashion. Her blog is ace and I’ve been reading it a lot recently.

Her writing seems to have moved on somewhat from fashion and more about her teenage life which I’ve found fascinating but also it has made me feel a little skeeved out. I’m twice her age... aren’t I a bit old to be reading about a teenage girl’s life? I had to check myself from commenting on one of her posts when I realised that my comment would consist of old fart reminiscing instead of the teenage joy of finding something new and exciting like the rest of the comments.

The thing is, Tavi writes about things that I still connect with. She has written extensively about My So-Called Life, a programme that defined my teenage years – I even got a bob haircut to be more like Angela Chase which looked hideous until I grew it out – and references a lot of other 90s culture that still resonates deeply with us old timers.

Shouldn’t she be blogging about dubstep and nu-rave rather than raiding the 90s culture closet and making me feel old?

Okay, okay, I always have the choice to click that little X button if I don’t like what I’m reading but the thing is, I really do like what I’m reading, that’s the problem!

I'm helpless to the instant fog of nostalgia that overcomes me when I think about stuff like this:

My so-called life OWNED MY SOUL during my teenage years. Despite being a British Asian muslim who attended a girls’ school, Angela Chase spoke to me. For reals, people. The beauty of the show was that no matter who you were, you could relate to all the trials and tribulations of Angela’s life. I felt her pain and anguish over Jordan Catalano, I wept when Rickie got thrown out his home, I laughed at Brian Krakow being all sad and pathetic.

The Romeo + Juliet soundtrack caught like wildfire at school. If you hadn't seen the film or listened to the soundtrack you were nothing! Ya hear me? NOTHING!!!

Clueless was like the Citizen Kane of teen movies. The fashion was captured brilliantly. My personal memories are of the time included the plaid. So much effin plaid. And tartan trousers. And my beloved red and black checked jacket that looked really boxy and masculine when I wore it and probably inspired my mum to buy me lots of jewellery (brooches and earrings) because only real girls sparkle!

I was completed entranced by the Twin Peaks theme tune. The actual programme, however, scared the bejesus out of me. Who killed Laura Palmer? I don't know. I couldn't get through the last episode without pissing my pants.

Now to be fair to Tavi, she mixes up her cultural references and frankly, there's no reason why she shouldn't explore the pop culture of the past. She does it so well. It just interferes with my mid-life crisis, 'tis all.

pic sources : 1. my scanned pic, 2. tumblr, 3. clueless screencaps, 4. fanpop

Ghosts of Electricity

I was going to blog about my weight today because it’s been depressing me lately but for some reason I want today’s blog entry to be blues-free.

I’m not really in a good mood. I just want to look on the bright side for once. There’s enough suffering in the world as it is and me blogging about my weight seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I mean, who gives a monkeys if I’ve put on a few pounds? There are much worse things happening elsewhere.

So what am I doing right now?

After reading an article on Andy Kershaw that was in The Sunday Times, I’ve been reading old articles on Andy and I’m listening to an obituary on Ali Farka Toure, a Malian artist that Andy - a fan of African music - helped bring to prominence.

I have vague memories of listening to Andy Kershaw on radio 1. Well, actually, I remember my brother listening to Andy Kershaw's radio 1 show, which is how you know something is cool when an older sibling is into it first. I think I was too young to really understand the world music he played, at the time I was a teenager who lived for Jo Whiley and Steve Lamacq, but only now do I appreciate Andy’s eclectic musical taste and distinctive Lancashire accent that made his shows so unique.

The newspaper article highlighted the troubled times Andy has experienced in the last few years which was sad to read but I hope he's back on track. On my wee blog in the internet wilderness, I salute you, Andy. And I hope to read your autobio 'No Off Switch' soon. (His desert island discs is available to listen here)

Glastontelly

I’ve never been to a festival.

As I type this, I’m on a post-Beyonce high much like the rest of the UK but you should know that I’ve never been a music festival.

Although, I kind of want to.

As a head-scarfed muslimah, it’s never going to be a possibility. My way of dress stands for modesty and piety which doesn’t fit with the bohemian, free love ethos of Glastonbury. It would be like turning up at Glasto in a three piece suit and bowler hat. Also, the toilet situation looks pretty grim. The cleanliness demanded to pray 5 times a day would not mesh well with the lack of hygiene experienced at Glastonbury.

But still, I kind of want to go.

I watched Glasto on the telly which is almost as good as being there. When it was chucking it down on Friday, I was curled up in my duvet, rain lashing against my window, watching the rain-sodden coverage on TV. I must admit to a perverse pleasure in seeing festival goers knee deep in mud while I was at home in the warmth.

But then it got very sunny and bright and suddenly I got very jealous. The tables had turned and now I was the loser cooped up at home while the festival audience was soaking up the rays and leisurely taking in the music.

Pfffffft.

I think it’s a case of ‘the grass is always greener’ to assume things might be more fun on the other side of my TV screen.

As it is, I’ll stick with my telly (we’re seriously bonding) and hit up the iplayer to re-watch Elbow’s wonderful performance. They are seriously tempting for a buttoned-up muslimah like me to want to see live.

I dream a lot but I'll try not to talk about it.

I’m a dreamer.

Perhaps too much of a dreamer but unfortunately it’s an ingrained trait of my character. I am spectacularly self-absorbed. Or I as prefer to call it, introspective. Yes, I am very introspective.

It took me a long while to realise that when you talk about your dreams at length, chances are most people won’t be listening. It’s the verbal equivalent of picking the fluff out of your belly button. Insightful and informative for you – boring and possibly rather gross for everyone else.

However, in my blog, I want you, dear reader, to get to know me. This means you’re going to have get acquainted with my subconsciousness. Sorry, but them’s the breaks.

Anyway, aren’t dreams (in a general sense) genuinely fascinating? As a psychology graduate, studying the science of sleep was par for the course and one of the most popular modules. No one really knows why we sleep. All we know is that we need to sleep regularly because Sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations, impaired cognitive functioning and even death (in experiments with lab animals, aaw). The same goes for dreams. Sure, there are plenty of theories bouncing around but we don’t really know why we dream.

I dream a lot. They tend to be very obvious by-products of my consciousness. Anxiety, fear and worries crop up now and again depending on my mood.

Being muslim throws in another dimension. Bad dreams come from shaytan (devil) and conversely good dreams come from Allah SWT. Nightmares should not be spoken of for the 3 days afterwards lest something bad happen to you. They are not to be dwelled upon but rather forgotten. I’ve certainly had my fair share of them but what of the good dreams?

Here is last night’s dream. It was the usual choppy editing of my brain and I remember traipsing around some building. I was trying to apply for something. This isn’t surprising to me because it reflects my consciousness pretty clearly. However, what I remember clearly was being in my room. My window was open.

I have double glazing in real life but in my dream it was a single window pane that I used to have. The wind was blowing and a flurry of snow was blowing through my window and settling in my room like I was inside a snowglobe.

Heaps of beautiful, crisp white snow.

I was barefoot and couldn’t feel the cold (that’s how I knew I was dreaming, y’all!) but I attempted to shut my window as the flakes of snow continued to blow in.

As dreams go it was breathtakingly beautiful. It also reminded me of something.

Taylor Swift – Back to December

Does this mean, somewhere Taylor is having a dream about me?

If she is, I apologise in advance for my boring, humdrum existence. It is sadly lacking in cute boys and I left highschool a looooooooong while ago.

My dream was also reminiscent of the scene of The Little Princess but my wonderful, fluttering dream didn't seem to be have any meaning. Was it just a little nugget of beauty meant only to enchant me or was there a message behind it? (we're digging deep into the navel folks). Should I buy a snowglobe? Is it my destiny to travel to colder climes? Do I need to appreciate my doubled glazed windows for keeping the snow out?

Sadly, it seems to be a just a dream.

A trinket of my imagination that left me with a smile.

But it was such a nice dream...