Airports.

I loathe airports, and so it would seem, airports loathe me too.

I may have had an eenie weenie mishap whilst trying to get back into the UK last month, which resulted in me sitting, hysterically laughing for want of not crying, in the naughty girls' immigration pen at Gatwick Airport at 11pm. Oops.

After smugly trolling off of the aeroplane and gulping down fine British air (mmmm so sooty, mmmm can you smell that Sam? Petrol!), and meandering my way to Passport control, I was presented with the horrifying knowledge that my treasured passport was, in fact, not in my bag. Nor was it anywhere to be found on my person.

Running in a manner that can only be defined as elegant and athletic, I legged it back to the aeroplane. Well, in the direction I thought the aeroplane would be in. I did make it to my required destination in break-neck speed, but this also meant that I caused a major security breach in that wing of the airport; yes, I did the unthinkable. Faced with an unopenable one-way security door, knowing that my ticket to the UK was 'undoubtably' behind, and seeing a small glass faced boxed entitled, 'Break in cases of Emergency' - I broke the glass. It was an emergency.

Cue the loudest alarms you have ever heard.

Never in my life have I run faster. Blood tearing through my body and alarms tearing through my ear drums and panic scorching my chest and tears searing my eyes, I finally made it back to Passport Control and a very angry boyfriend. Passportless, hopeless, and very nearly boyfriendless, I made my sorry way to the security guards who put me in the naughty girls' pen.

Now, I know no-one will believe me, but I am a passport fanatic. I always know where it is, even when too much gin magic has been consumed. No-one else is entrusted to the honour of holding it, let alone looking after it. So, you can well imagine my absolute desperate case whilst sitting less than 10 metres from the UK Border. The men chastising me would not believe me, 'Another bloody stupid girl', and as Sam sauntered past the border to collect our bags, I felt a little bubble of whale tear material bubble up my throat.

The worst is yet to come.

Approximately 20 minutes later, we opened Sam's bag to get a bottle of water, and my passport (the promiscuous tease) was loitering at the top of it, midst magazines and other useful items. I screamed, held it above my head as if it were a prize winning lottery ticket and let a crowd of delirious American tourists applaud my find. I think it is safe to say that they were the only ones applauding my efforts that night.

Sorry Gatwick. Sorry tired security guards. Sorry Sam.

Two Weeks.

Two weeks, otherwise known as 14 days, are a long time. For the weak-willed and faint-hearted among us, of which admittedly I am one, two weeks could stretch before you like a super marathon through the Sahara desert, ending in a casual swim through shark infested waters. Cool, I can do that.

I have two weeks left of not drinking, and it couldn't seem longer. Yet when I reflect on the weeks that have foregone these ones, I am given hope. Hope that I will not fail and drown with the sharks.

Dryathlon aside, it seems as though two little weeks have the capacity to change everything, including my fickle opinions and life-lusts, and judging by the disastrous Facebook status updates over the festive period, I do not feel that I am the only one to experience these tempestuous emotions.

A prime example; home. One and a bit months ago, it was two weeks until I could go home and gorge myself in English delights that were, until that point, only the substance of dreams. I could not contain myself. Day dreams would turn into salivation fests as I imagined Bovril on toast, and fantasised about the contents of the fridge in my parents' kitchen. Big old whale tears would fill my eyes as I thought about the disgusting distance between myself and the vats of clotted cream and brandy butter I would consume.

The day in which I would go home nearly tipped me over the edge of anticipation. Sitting on a train to Munich, I wrote the following:

"He who dares". Sitting on the train to Munich Airport, tears of anticipation glistening in our eyes, we reflect on how bloody hard the last three months have been, and envisage the imminant reunification with our darling Land of Hope and Glory. Three months, that could have been three years, a lifetime; so much has changed. But we did it. We stepped out from the crowd, put our middle finger up at mediocrity and normality, and embraced the unknown. We are the luckiest people alive to say that we gambled and won; of course it hasn't been easy and yorkshire puddings seem like a distant memory, but we're going home for two weeks, and that's all that matters.

The greatest people in life gambled. I think I speak for many when I say that the most frustrating thing is people who complain about their lives being boring, or ordinary. Do something. Do something extraordinary. Whether it is bottling tap water and claiming it's spring, or moving to another country, a little bravery is all it takes.

Who cares if you fail? Does it actually matter if all you gain is a bruised ego and scorching cheeks? If no-one ever tried, what would we ever achieve.

I am so proud. Proud of myself and everyone who does something that scares them every day; and I am so fortunate. Fortunate to be a citizen of a nation where daring could lead to extraordinary things; to adventures and experiences that others could only dream of.

Del Boy, you are my idol. "He who dares" is the best advice I have ever received.

Reading back on this, then remembering the 14 days at home which would change everything, I am filled with motivation. Two weeks is nothing. Two weeks is only this week and another week, and when you think about it like that, it's easy. I can do it, sharks or no sharks.

Whatever I try and achieve this year, I will do in two week blocks. Long enough to feel like a lifetime, yet short enough to see the tantalising end.

Two weeks; the most contradictory and confusing time span in the history of mankind.
Let these two weeks be quick.

Alcohol.

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine. Well, actually, lots of wine. So much wine that today I have the mother of all hangovers, a red wine stained hat, no money and an empty bottle collection on my bedside table that would put any hardened alcy to shame.

I think I can speak for many households in Great Britain when I say, it's the same story every year. One vat of mulled wine and several G&Ts later, Grandad is merrily chewing the ears off my sister with enthralling wartime stories; the dog has nicked Mum's chocolates and has emptied the contents of his stomach on her prized Persian rug; the boys are close to a punch-up due to dubious rule breaking in the Snooker/Darts Championship and Dad has fallen asleep, open mouthed on the sofa whilst claiming to be watching a repeat of 'Darling Buds of May'.

I don't think anyone actually looks forward to this tried and tested formula for Christmas day, it's all a bit too stressful. The festive spirit is just a bit too much for us to handle, so alcohol is used liberally to lubricate everyone's moods so we can maybe start to resemble a happy, 'normal', functioning family. Or maybe just get us so blotto we don't care that Grandad's telling us for the 500th time that he liberated Jersey from the Germans, or that his false teeth keep falling out when he talks.

Pondering on this Christmas' alcohol abuse, and being fully motivated by a tequila-gin-wine-Guinness cocktail hangover, I have decided to give it all up for a month in aid of a charity that strives to help and transform lives, Cancer Research UK. It's all a bit silly really when you think about it; most of the population getting drunk because we can't handle familial awkwardness, while others are fighting with everything they've got for the chance to argue about the rules of Monopoly next year. Perspective, in this situation, is very sorely needed.

So, I'm going to do it. Friends, family, strangers; this girl is going to be G&T free for the entirety of January. This may sound like a walk in the park, but for me - this is huge. How am I going to survive a day at school without the promise of some Amber Nectar when I get home? £5 or £50, I don't care how much I raise, as long as it goes to help someone that needs it more than me.

Christ knows how well this is going to go.
Wish me luck.

http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-joanna-ford

Grumpy Sod.

With only ten days 'til the long awaited return home to my wonderful Heimat, England - aka magical-place-of-dreams, fifteen days 'til Christmas and twenty one days 'til the End of the World (depending on which rumour you listen to), it is all too easy to lose touch with reality and become caught up in a whirlwind of self inflicted moroseness.

It is a commonly known fact that I am a whinger - as are 99.9% of the British population. Nothing is ever 'alright', even though we insist on a daily basis that it is. It's snowing on Christmas Day for the first time in fifty years, "Bloody freezing"; it's a blazing hot day, the cricket's on and the Pimms is flowing from magical pop up springs, "Too bloody hot for my liking..."; it's raining after a four week midsummer drought, "This country is bloody awful - always bloody raining." Christmas is a prime example of just how whiney and ridiculous we all are, and I will put myself forward as the chief candidate for Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome.

Let's be perfectly honest, my life is fabulous, yet I fail to see on a daily basis the utter virtues of the lifestyle I lead.

Reasons my life is wicked:

1. My family are healthy, happyish, and I love them. We throw strops over monopoly, and it's cool. They are the never ever ending link between my past and future.
2. My friends are healthy, happyish and I love them. We do not argue (apart from whether sand in Fuetaventura is imported from the Saraha or not) and they are always armed with buckets loads of gin&tonic formed support.
3. I live the dream; it's snowing, there's a Christmas market at the end of my road, I live in Germany, every weekend is an adventure.
4. It's Christmas.
5. I go to University and have unbounded chances in life.
6. I am young and can get away with doing ridiculous things, such as locking myself in a toilet cubicle for 20 minutes 'cause I'm too drunk, without it having a serious effect on anyone. (Sorry and thank-you to Sam for rescuing me and paying my wine bill...)

Reasons my life is pants:

1. I miss my family.
2. I miss my friends.
3. I'm dreaming of England and Bovril and bramley apple sausages and chicken pie and Walkers crisps and salted butter and custard creams and Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and crumpets and Wispa bars...
4. I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet.
5. I have so much Uni work to do I feel like I could jump into a pool of it and have a little swim around.
6. I am 22 in less than a month, which renders it valid for me to be affectionately called 'Granny Joanney', 'Gran Attack' and 'Joan' by my friends.

As we can see from this clear layout of 'Wicked vs. Pants', wicked wins every time, yet I seem to only ever mention the negative. Is this a British psyche? Or am I just miserable?

As I look out of my little window to the torrents of snow cascading from the sky, listening to the sounds of teenage boys lobbing lumps of snow at squealing gaggles of teenage girls, my immediate thoughts are of disgust and despair at the prospect of having to venture into the icy nightmare and negotiate my way through the hoards of hormonal snowball fights. But why? Whilst reassessing this situation, I scald myself for being such a bore and grumpy guts. What would the seven year old Joanna make of my current opinions? Surely it is clear as gin that snow is perfectly beautiful; virgin white, dousing everything with untouchable silence and reverence, and that the high pitched screams are just as pure; sounds of utter delight and excitement and potential love. Shaking my head, I dismiss these thoughts as vile; snow serves one decent observation - how many people actually piss up the side of trees.

I am not sure how we tackle this Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome - it seems too deep rooted in our mindsets. As we hustle and bustle and jostle our way through the shops in the dying days before the day of all days, it seems that all we can think about is the immediate and impending stress of it all. In this one rare moment of mental clarity during a horrific snowstorm tucked in a remote corner of SW Germany no-one at home even cares to know exists, I think of all the people hustling and bustling and jostling for a bargain, and want to cry.

Christmas is about love - every advert and television programme and film rams that point down our throats - but what does that actually mean? I highly doubt that it is practically slapping the woman next to us in contest for the last pair of cashmere gloves in the John Lewis sale. So why do we forget? Why can't we all just wake up on Christmas morning and appreciate the loved ones we have neglected for the rest of the year? Is it so hard to forget the presents, and the money, and the food, and the stress, and see the bliss in the eye of a stranger when we do something kind for them?

There are no conclusions to my observations, only vague and distant hopes.

I hope to forget my adult cynicism and dissatisfaction. I hope to love more and moan less. I hope to one day fully enjoy the beauty of snow. I hope that everyone this Christmas forgets their made up and imagined problems, remembers everything good that has ever happened to them and has a bloody good time.

Merry Christmas you grumpy sods - Jo x