Caroline.

I am untalented.

Whilst reassessing my life this morning, I realised that I have no talents. And that isn't meant in the way of 'wah wah I have no talents, please someone massage my ego', because that is rather dull; I mean, if I was stuck on a desert island, I would be able to offer nothing in the way of entertainment, unless you count being the only human on earth to be able to commit every social faux pas in the space of 5 minutes as something amusing.

Rewind four glorious years, and you will encounter a prime example of the extraordinarily awkward social behaviour being used as means of entertainment by yours truly. Victoria Station Weatherspoons; approximately 11.30pm; group of loud teenagers drinking and being annoying; Joanna Ford.

This group of loud teenagers were doing their usual drunk teenager thing, drinking and telling jokes and being loud. In the midst of such group stood myself, and not knowing the group very well, I decided to arm myself with rather a lot of dutch courage. One young man dared me to swallow a penny, and not having anything better to say for myself, I did. I swallowed a dirty old 1989 penny. I proudly stuck out my tongue and showed him that it'd disappeared, to which he replied;

"You're going to have to swallow another, I didn't see you do it."

Sometimes, I am not very intelligent. I swallowed a second, with not much success. Rather awkwardly, I ended up choking and spluttering and gagging in the middle of the pub. Oh so attractive; you're SO funny - what a joker. Next thing I know, a female friend's fingers are down my throat and there's a big 'ole kerfuffle. NHS direct were not too impressed with my early morning phone call, and advised me to drink a couple of liters of coke to dissolve the metal chilling out in my stomach. What an anti-climax.

This whole shenanigan revolved around me trying to be funny, or vaguely entertaining. If I had owned a talent, in one form or another, this would never have happened. I could have broken out into all singing razzmatazz tap dancing, and stunned them all into silence. Or, I could have sang them a little ditty and made them cry with joy at my angelic tones. Oh no, I swallowed a penny and it got stuck. Fantastic.

With this in mind, I want to present you with a real talent, so you can all see what I am aiming to achieve. This time next year, I will have stopped losing passports on border control; stopped major airport security breaches; stopped swallowing pennies; and stopped re-enacting scenes from Bridget Jones' diary every time a drop of alcohol touches my lips. I will be FABULOUS, just like my friend Caroline.

She is undeniably beautiful.

It does not take a long period of time for you to fall in love with her presence; I do not know one person who has come into contact with her and has not fallen in love, but for many, if they have not been ensnared by her rather addictive personality, they are caught by her voice. Tangled in a web of silky threads that no-one really wants to struggle away from.

I'm quite happy here. These silky threads have me tightly in their grip and I can feel my eyes filling with tears, but I'm quite happy to stay here. Keep singing; I know I'm witnessing something incredible.

Real talent needs to be recognised, and Caroline, I am recognising you as someone to aspire to be like. When I sing in the shower, my darling mother knocks on the door to ask if I'm crying. (No Mum, I was actually busting out my best rendition of 'Baby Love'.)

This voice makes grown men cry:


Please watch, enjoy and cry - there will be more on Caroline's work soon.

#1

I know that in life one encounters, and always will encounter, people that piss one off.
That is a life fact, and a fact we all need to come to terms with, one way or another. My little brain, tonight, is the sad testimony to the fact that I, as of yet, have not come to terms with this fact, and let things rile me beyond all realms of belief.

I will bore you with only #1 on my list of 4000 things that make me want to poke my own eyes out.

Travel bloggers. Yes, you read correctly, travel bloggers. (Oh, no - actually blogging in general makes me want to cry; it's hedonistic self centered grammatically incorrect narrow minded poorly structured rather pointless blabbering on, actually seems to serve no other real purpose other than to massage the ego of its author. Yes, I fully count myself into this vile category.)

The worst kind of annoyance is when you know you are being hypocritical by disliking what someone else is doing, because you are indeed committing an identical crime against mankind.

But, in my humble opinion, travel bloggers are the worst; I simply do not care about that wonderful little beach shack off the west coast of Thailand that NO-ONE has been to before, because you are such an intrepid traveller and really 'threw yourself' into local life. Why would I, a rather self obsessed fellow travel writer wrapped up in my own fabulous life, give a toss about what you did 6 years ago but won't stop banging on about?

Browsing through countless mind-numbing tales of adventurous excellence, I realise that it is all just one big case of dick-comparison; who's amorous escape into the unknown is more daring, took the less travelled path, or led the new-age wannabe Indiana Jones to the highest spiritual enlightenment. It is self advertising at its worst; all it serves to highlight is how pretentious you really are, and how many times you can use a thesaurus in one sentence.

In its nature, this dick-comparison is rather contradictory. Why, when you seem to have found an idyllic hidden spot on a corner of this increasingly un-secret globe, would you post your secret on the World Wide Web for all the minions to see? Why brag about how secret and untouched and virginal it is, when all you are doing is publicly deflowering it in the process? Why can't your secrets stay just that, a secret?

bajdbvndbajskjn blergh. I'm tired and annoyed and think this is all rather pointless.
Goodnight.

Trendy, Part 1.

It is becoming increasingly apparant that I am actually a fashion guru. The world might not be ready for my radical styles yet, but one day they'll see the light and the masses will be flocking to 'Joanna Ford' shops all over the world, and religiously going to lifestyle seminars run by yours truly.

I realised my hidden talents this morning, whilst compiling another outfit ENTIRELY composed of items from H&M. I am not kidding, this is the 4th day in a row I have done this. And when I say everything, I actually mean everything, which is in itself, quite an achievement.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter, Part 1. 'Get Your Look'.

In order that you may achieve my 'look', I have thrown together my 'must-have-it-list' for the upcoming Spring months. As we all know, it is essential to copy someone else's 'look' for the new season, and as imitation is the greatest form of flattery, I will let you all try out my sensational style at home.

Let's start with the socks, the absolute basis of any stunning outfit. My particular socks are from H&M, from the sock and bra section of the establishment. They are glittery in design; gold and silver thread on a background of black. A little scratchy in texture, but you soon get used to this slight discomfort when you see how absolutely STUNNING they make your final outfit look.

Next, we'll look at the trews. My particular trews are from H&M, from the Jeans and Trousers section of the establishment. They are 'Super-Skinny', so they hug your curves in all the wrong places, but really embrace this season's 'it-style'. I chose the black Super Skinnys, as they really are as versatile as you think! Team with some pumps for 'laid-back-cool', with heels for a stunning, glam evening look, or with boots when you want to get down with nature and tramp through the snow. Really girls - you need these wonderful trews.

For the upper half of the body, I am sporting several looks all combined into one fabulous fashion bonanza. Let's first look at my 'boyfriend shirt', recently purchased in H&M, in the sale section of the establishment. Blue in colour, loose in fit and made of breathable cotton fabric, this is one wardrobe essential you simply cannot live without! Team this with my pink-and-brown Seventies inspired acrylic jumper, and you have 'could be boyfriend, but could be walk of shame' chic down to a tee. Throw a replica tweed blazer over both of these items, and you have your 'I'm too cool for this office' look sorted. Both the acrylic jumper and replica jacket are warm in nature, and are ideal for the often changable spring weather. Both items can also be found in the sale section of the H&M establishment.

Now for the face and hair; your crowning glory. It is important to follow these stages carefully if you are to fully achieve the 'I couldn't give a toss' look, so favoured by myself. Wake up late. Do not shower. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. Scrape your hair back to hide the birdsnest. Put your glasses on to distract people from the spot on your forehead. And, TADAH! You have your perfect Spring outfit, teamed perfectly with matching hair and makeup.

I know you may find it a little intimidating trying to become as fashionable as I am, but don't worry fellow fashion lovers - you'll get there one day! Just keep saying 'stunning', 'I'm loving this...' and 'this looks great teamed with' and people will start believing that you too are a fashion guru. But more on how to speak next time...

Next Time... I will be dealing with those all-important lifestyle choices which will really make you look cool.

Watch out fashion bloggers; I'm stealing your glory.

Gunther.

There are many stages to learning a language, all of which are complex, confusing, emotional, frustrating and often heart-wrenching. For those who do not follow this perplexing lifestyle, it may often seem mad to watch those who do, put themselves through the things they do. You may not understand linguistics, but what you will probably understand is love.

Learning a language is like a tempestuous love affair.

I have two relationships which dominate my life; my real, tangible one in the form of a male human, and my hidden, sordid one with German. Let's call German, Gunther.

Gunther has been the focus of my life for ten years now. It all started as an innocent, brief flirtation which excited and exhilarated me. I would lie awake at night remembering the things he had taught me that day, and look forward to our weekly meetings. I let Gunther woo me away from the charms and allures of Francois, his French counterpart, and by-and-by; he wheedled his way to the forefront of my amusements.

By the age of 15, I had spent hours of my life obsessively memorising long love speeches to Gunther, describing where I came from, my name and hobbies, what my parents did for a living, how many bedrooms my house had, and whether I walked or took the bus to school in the morning. It was all very twee. I had to learn my declarations by heart, as in his presence my mind went completely blank, my pulse throbbed in my neck, I felt sick and my knees were weak. Years later, at 18, I was still doing the same. I was still terrified of looking a fool whilst explaining to the object of my obsessions my heartfelt opinions on abortion law and recycling policies.

Gunther had made me ill; the colder he got, the more I wanted him.

Fast forward four more years, we are still battling at our relationship. We argue more often than not; I swear to never speak to him again after bitter arguments about his fundamental rules and regulations. Yet the morning comes, and with it I find myself spending another hour of my life in a 9am Syntax lesson.

I hate him. I do not understand him. I wish I had never met him. He fills me with rage and makes me want to eradicate him from the planet, yet despite this, I cannot stop loving him and going back for more.

Gunther tells me on a regular basis that I am not good enough; that I will never be good enough. He makes me feel stupid and ignorant, but on the rare occasion that we get along, the feeling is so magnificent I instantly forget every bad thing that has ever passed between us. Yes, I have sleepless nights pondering the reasons I do not understand his complex character; yes, I have sacrificed many things in my life in order that I can further pursue him; yes, he humiliates me and alienates me; but in those short five minutes of beautiful clarity that pass between us when he says something I understand, and I utter something legible in response, there is no better feeling in the world. Pure ecstasy.

My friends do not care for Gunther; they are tired of my relentless whinging about his faults. 'Leave him', they say. 'If he makes you unhappy, leave him'. Logical, yes. Realistic, no.

I am tired of my relationship with Gunther being continually on the rocks, so I will work to extremes until we are in a more comfortable place. I do not mind that the effort is a little one sided, he can offer me things that nothing else can.

I will change.
I will watch his favourite TV programmes, excitedly hold hands with him in the cinema, eat in his local restaurants, read the books he has recommended to me, sing and dance along to the songs he has recorded (no matter how terrible they sound to my untrained ears), befriend all of his friends and strut around in his fashions.

Surely, this will seal the deal.

Take Heart.

This post is for everyone planning their year abroad, or anticipating an upcoming adventure which will take them to unknown realms, in every way possible. Change is on the horizon and you have every reason to be excited, although at present you may be terrified.

This time last year, I did not think about my impending move to Germany, land of the sausage, too much. I pushed it to the back of my mind and was neither excited, nor scared. It was something I had to do as part of my course, and was not too fussed about it.

Be fussed.

Because I was not bothered by the whole event until it was too late, I did not cash into the unlimited chances to brag about what I was doing with my life. With this in mind, I have written a list of must do things for the months before you leave. Yes, there may be 7 or 8 months left in your home country, but that is no reason not to show off.

1. Let the anticipation keep you awake at night and spend hours Googling the place you will live, imagining yourself in that environment..."And here's where I will buy icecream on sunny days, and here's where I'll be all bohemian and hip and smoke French cigarettes and drink expensive coffee whilst pretending to write my diary but actually just doodle pictures of cats, and here's the bar I'll call my local but never embarrass myself in...". This hobby is ideal for May, when you should be revising. Hours worth of procrastination.

2. Annoy everyone you meet with reports about how brave and proactive you are. "Yes, I do speak German. No, I do not want to be a teacher. Yes, I study the language for the sheer purpose of being a better and more interesting human. Yes, I will be living alone. No, I do not know anyone in the area I am moving to." There is nothing more annoying than a smug 20-something year old who's doing something useful with their life. Once you are here, you will realise that there are a lot more interesting and brave people in the world, so pre-move is your only chance to utilise this.

3. Plan your time wisely. Use the summer to earn a ton of cash, because it will evaporate into the magical money vortex before you can whisper 'Guten Tag'. You are living abroad for a year, you do not want to be scrimping and saving and worrying about whether you can afford to go on that wicked trip to the Alps next weekend. Remember, you are here so you can upload one million photos to Facebook, and be the envy of all your friends at home. Photos require a certain amount of capital, unless you steal them from someone else's travel blog and claim them as your own.

4. Remind everyone on a daily basis that, "this time next year..." you will be doing something that sounds WAY more fun than what you are all doing at that point. Make them realise they will miss you by pointing out that although this year's Christmas preparations were really fun, next year you will be trolling round Christmas markets to the dulcet tones of German choir boys singing 'Oh Tannenbaum', off your rocker on too much Glühwein. Guaranteed to tug at the heart-strings of every family member and close friend.

5. Unleash your inner, hidden hipster. In all honesty, what on earth could be more hip or arty than moving to another country?! All you have to do is look back in history to see that all the best arty types sodded off to the Continent when life got too hard in old Blighty. Take inspiration; buy a beret or bowler hat, invest in a moleskin sketchbook or journal, and do not leave the house without a small volume of Romantic poetry. Just these items alone will up your art-output by 74%.

Take heart adventurers - your move will be revolutionary.

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.

Bovril.

To someone who hasn't lived in a foreign country for a considerable amount of time before, Bovril cravings sound bizarre at best, and moronic at worst. I can assure you, as can every expat dotted across our beautiful globe, Bovril cravings (or whatever wonderfully British condiment you choose) are real and painfully poignant.

Imagine, it is a bitterly cold day in your foreign country of choice, you've got dew drops hanging from your rosy nose and you need something to warm your old cockles up. Hot Bovril is your only solution, yet you cannot get hold of this prized possession for love nor money because this fabulous European land has never heard of the sticky brown magic. Genuine whale tears fill my poor eyes just thinking of this horrid predicament.

Imagine, you wake up, fuzzy headed and blurry eyed from a night on the town with the natives, drinking booze brewed from home grown potatoes in someone's grandma's kitchen. You need toast. Toast and Bovril will save the day. You know exactly what you need and you need it pretty urgently because you might end up redecorating your bedroom otherwise, but then the fatal reality dawns on you. No Bovril. No toast.

Now, fast forward a couple of months.

Imagine, home. England. Land of dreams. Sitting in your kitchen, your stomach rumbles; you're not hungry, only peckish. What to eat? Currywurst? Brotchen? The list continues with mundane options, then with jaw dropping breath taking astounding magical phenomenal exhilarating wondrous realisation, you remember that Bovril is in the cupboard and Best-of-Both is in the bread bin. No words can describe that moment. Nothing in the world has ever tasted that good.

With panging emotions that come flooding with the beefy goodness, you remember your Grandad, cockling, long dog walks, fighting with your siblings, Norfolk, hangovers at Woolly D, Nan's gravy, Sunday lunch, midnight feasts, smoky pubs, rainy summer picnics, school dinners. Memories all over the shop with one delicious message:

you are home.youarehome.YOU. ARE. HOME.

Bovril, you are the meaning of home and I love you.

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