Fear is in the eye of the beholder.

....When do you realise what it is? 

I sit up, stunned. Can it be? Please, not again. Please God, not again.

What's that noise? My body shudders, I find myself afraid even of my own raspy breath which heaves on my lungs vigorously.

Another sound? Another movement? All I know, all I'm certain of, is that I am no longer alone in this room. 

My bedlinen is tangled around me but I do not move it.  I cannot bare to make any other sounds; it may bring it closer to me.

THERE!

In the shadows, just by my dressing table, I’m sure I saw the outline of…oh God…please not tonight. I need to sleep. My body is aching, desperate for a night without this terror. I feel a single bead of sweat drip slowly down the curve of my spine. They say that they can smell fear. If they can, I bet I reek.

Wait! I’m sure I just saw….a huge black shadow has just moved across the floor. I'm sure of it. I know this time. My body convulses and I find my legs to be underneath me in a "preying mantus" position. Christ, my yoga teacher would be pleased; fear and not her nasal insistence for "deep calm breathing, Alanaaaaaaah" has finally taught me how to balance.

If I could just reach the door, I would not be alone with it. I’d be able to find someone, anyone, to help me. I know what they think of me, ‘oh that’s crazy Alanna who see’s shadows all night long’. Well I don’t care. More fool them. The shadows come after them as well you know, but they’re just asleep, asleep with their mouths wide open.

I must be brave, I must be brave. I peel my legs out of the bed, my heart racing. The door is three meters away. That mean three steps, four at the most. I can do this. I place my feet on the floor; the scratchy carpet instantly filling me with an itchy sensation that permeates my whole body and makes me shudder, as if something is crawling all over me.

One step down, I was close to the dressing table. To where it was. 

I must keep walking. Two steps down.

I am flush to the dressing table now. The third step is looming; freedom is in my grasp. I bring my foot up, pointing it as delicately as possible, as if my wide size eights would cause the terror to come out and punish me for having such un-lady like feet.

But I have to put it down, I have to leave. 

And then it appears. The object skims the floor with lightening speed - not keeping to the corners and skirting boards like it usually does, but brazenly dashes across the floor and stops before my door.

One leg, two, three, four...eight legs stood firmly still by the door, mockingly glaring at me with it’s huge beady  eyes, daring me to try and open the door, daring me to move.

"You move" it said, with it's creepy gross spider mouth, "and I will move so fast you'll shit yourself."

Stood on my one leg, with my other shaking violently in a pensive position (another yoga one actually, come to think of it, "saluting the sun" this time) the spider’s huge frame - at least the size of a jam jar lid - was like a prison guard, refusing my exit, mocking my feeble attempts at escape.

How would I ever get out? How would I ever be released from his grasp?

Suddenly, with a horrendous bang, the door opens wide, taking the spider with it. 

"What the bloody hell are you doing? I heard screaming?!"

My flatmate appears through the smog-like thickness of dark, an eye mask awkwardly pushed over her wiry hair and an unfriendly grimace on her usually smug face.

I can only point, still with one leg in the air. She sighs, and with her sleep deprived arms, she moves the door back, slowly, to reveal the squished reminent of the beast, its proud legs now not-so-proud, crinkled into the shape of the dressing table.

‘Well, that’s dealt with that then’. She said, arching her brow up. She turns and slides back into the darkness of the house. 

I put my foot down, walk three paces and get back into bed where I sleep soundly (with my mouth closed, though) all night.

Exercise - Writing on a "Spell" - short fiction

I kept walking, head down, focussing only on the tips of my Slush Puppies as they hit the cobbled streets. I could still hear them jeering behind me, mocking my maroon school blazer and clocking my feeble attempt to enter the club as the anecdote of the week. I pulled violently at my tie; an emblem of my weakness, my youth, and ripped it from my neck, stuffing it into my satchel where my homework lay, yet to be completed.

I turned right, tracing the outline of the club with my journey. My parka coat grazed along the mildewed walls. I could hear the music pounding inside and it vibrated my shivering, bitter body. This just wasn’t right, I couldn't leave. I had to see her, I couldn't leave without her.

I kicked a stone in my anger and it bounced off something metal with a clang – another door. My heart pounded; this must have been the back entrance. I looked around desperately; no bouncers in sight. The door was strange though; it was more of a metal panel than a door in itself having no visible handles. I ran my fingers down the edges and tried to find grip. It was hopeless. The door stood still, mockingly unscathed by my slippery hands. 

“Damn it!” I shouted, kicking the door in my petulance and turning away, covering my childish face with my hands.

“What do we have here then?”

I turned around; a man in his early twenties with bloodshot eyes and a penetrating glare had opened the door.

“Calm down mate” The words slurred through his languid lips, he looked me up and down, taking in my appearance; 

‘Though…always love a rebel me.” He smiled with big shiny teeth; all the better for eating me with, “you been kicked out? Come the fuck in!”

Thanking him silently, I moved past him into the smog of the club. I’d walked into a thin corridor where a thronging crowd pushed past each other– everyone around me was like the man I’d just seen – bright eyed, staring, grinning and sweating and moved in a convulsion, like a hot dark sea. I pushed and squirmed my way through until I reached what looked like the main room. She had to be in here somewhere. There was no going back now.

I was pushed at from all directions by a crowd by smiling strangers. The smell of weed and cigarettes singed my throat and made me long for the tranquillity of home. But I persisted. I had to. Behind me, the pounding music suddenly stopped to make way for a voice over. Jolting, I wrenched myself round to face the staging area. This was it. The smooth American voice called out the name I’d had on my lips all night and the crowd roared. My heart could have burst in my chest.  The woman next to me began to cry as the emotions overwhelmed her senses.

Heels, followed by a red dress and finished with a mouth of red lipstick tapped their way onto the stage. They were right. She was effervescent; mesmerising. The woman next to me fell to the ground, unable to look at her any longer through sheer want and desire. Me? I couldn't stop looking. She turned to the crowd and dazzled us with her white, sharp teeth and my body was no longer my own.

The crowd silenced.

“Darlings” The red lips said. “Are you ready for the most magical moment of your lives?”

The noise erupted. The woman next to me remained on the floor but in a praying position, silently mouthing her desires to her hands, never taking her eyes of the red vision on stage.

The crowds glee caused the red woman’s neck to fling back and a low laugh uttered from those lips. 

Then with a whip of her hand – we were silenced again. 

...Any thoughts on what happens next? 

India

So I thought I'd share with you a couple of memories from my trip to India...

Here is the Brady Bunch ourselves...right outside the Taj Mahal. 

This place isn't just stunning and beautiful. It has soul. It's the oldest love story; Shah Jahan built it in the memory of this third and most loved wife. A true demonstration of what the loss of love can do...better than any of this Disney rubbish, right? 

Being a white blonde Western girl was pretty interesting in India. What you don't see from this photo is a row of people taking photographs of Kriti and myself whilst a Wonder of the World is right behind them. People certainly have their priorities right. 

A native can get into see the Taj Mahal or the Crown Palace for a whole 20 Rupees, about 25p, but my frustratingly white skin meant that I had to cough up 400 Rupees for the privilege. But, hell, if it had been ten times, it's still worth it, just to see that marble palace of dreams. 

In New Delhi, Kriti and I went on a trip to see India Gate; an archway which is a memoriam for a fair few wars (google it, as I'm far too lazy to list them all). But the most amazing thing about this place was the people. There were street kids washing in the lake, tourists from all over the world, police guards, beggers... And this girl really stood out. She was begging with what looked like her mother right beside the gate. She had the confidence and practised cutey-ness of an actress. And at what? Five years old? She took my breath away. And it's safe to say I'm sure her shining eyes will make you look twice.

Here we both are outside Ghandi's place of rest. See, from the offset it looks like Kriti and I are pretty chilled and cool in this pic, but TRUST ME it was like being in a furnace.

Old Delhi here and in a bit of it called Parawthe Gulley - where they make the world's best parawthe. Cooked in pure Gee, it's pretty damn bad for you, but goodgod it tastes amazing. This place was just writhing with insanity; the wires, the stores, the people all looked like they were out of a movie and not in one of the famous areas of Delhi. However, although it may look a bit rough-and-ready, it was quite something to walk through.

This is the restaurant in which we had a parawthe. The guys make them in those massive pans you see at the bottom and the man in this picture is making up some more, as well as some chutneys.

Man oh man was this stuff a little teeny bit bizarre, but cool nonetheless. This guy here is selling Pan. If you go to India, in most lift corners/street corners/anywhere outside you will see splashes of red - and that is because of men and women spitting the Pan out after eating it. You'll see it everywhere; most people's teeth are stained with the colouring. So what exactly is it? Well, Pan is a very sweet and perfumed (usually with rose water) sugary treat which is then wrapped up in a palm leaf. Not to my taste but definitely worth a try. 

Such an awesome snapshot. Kriti and I were staying at her uncle's house who owned the only petrol station in the tiny village. Wherever you drive in India you see people bustling for room in trucks and cars with heads, arms and even whole bodies resting on the outsides of speeding vehicles. This tractor was taking some village people out and was so amazingly colourful and such an interesting site that I couldn't help taking a shot of it.

We went to a crocodile national park in Akaltara, here is the sign to the park.

A lady and her grandson selling candies outside the crocodile park.

What an experience this was! Kriti and I got the opportunity to teach students at a local school. They were so responsive and loved our talk about English life, finding it so funny and gross that we ate a big joint of beef for our Sunday Roast and that our movies didn't have singing and dancing in them.

So here are some of the school kids practicing for Independence Day celebrations.

This is Kriti's auntie. Here, we were at an arranged marriage Engagement Ceremony. We were all dressed in our finery and met up with the couple; the prospective wife having to sit at the front of the room and be questioned by all of her future husband's family. Then, both families arrange talks to see whether the union would work. And after a few hours, the engagement was announced!

Frustratingly, I cannot work out how to change this picture around! But this is a woman that I met on a bike ride around the villages.

On this bike ride, we stopped off at a local shop for a Thumbs Up! Check out my henna....!!!

Beautiful scene of village women going to bathe. The lake was already teaming with buffalo and men washing together, and the women were about to go in and bathe themselves. Awesome colours.

Our final stop off and I spotted these two ladies staring at me on the bike. I couldn't help but stare back!

Being rudely awoken at 7pm after my Indian siesta, Kriti shook me and said 'Hannah, Hannah, get out of your PJs and we're going to a family meal. Apparently they've made quite a fuss out of us'.
So, with a muggy head, I put a shirt on, not even bothering to brush my hair; Kriti slicked back her hair and donned her glasses over a makeup-less face and we headed off to this 'family meal'.
But, here comes the embarrassment. Instead of a family house, we were taken to the only hotel in the village where at the front door was a sign that said 'Welcome to the Singhania family'.

We walked in tentatively and could hear the familiar sound of Kriti's dad, Govind, chatting away. But not to any old person, to a room of over 200 people. We were pushed into the room by an exictable member of the hotel staff who couldn't stop looking at the 'white girl' and asked to sit at the top table.  Massive gulp.

Govind was chatting away in Hindi but Kriti was translating. The event was a welcome to the Singhania's and the 'Foreign visitor' who had come all this way to see Akatara. Govind was talking about his life in England; he was the first person from the village to move out of Akaltara, let alone go all the way to the golden streets of England...

Then a young boy came onto the stage and chatted, he was going to America as he had won a scholarship at an Ivy league University. They were talking and congratulating him when the boy said something and Govind stared and me; everyone went silent. The lad, who was a ridiculous super-genius, wanted to shake hands with ME, little blonde odd me, because he was 'blessed' to have a foreignor in his village. A boy who had won a scholarship to one of the most presitigious universities in the world wanted to shake hands with me because I was, well, blonde and foreign. That was the most awkward handshake of my life. He said in English: 'Thank you so much for coming, you have made us all very happy'. Um, erh...wow.

Now that I was in the limelight, Govind took this opportunity to seemingly make me want to murder him. Again he chatted away in Hindi and again the room went silent. But this time the microphone was shoved in my face. Kriti quickly said 'They want you to make a speech and then sing, go on they're waiting'. I could see her face desperately wanting to crease into a massive smile. I've only ever sung infront of her in the car and even then she abruptly turns the music up so she can't hear me.

HUH?!

So, through an urge to run for the hills and a minor murderous rage toward Kriti and her joy at my embarrassment, I chatted away (whilst Govind translated) about how happy I was to be there, turning a fantastic shade of BRIGHT, INSANELY BRIGHT RED BEETROOT at the same time.

And then as the crowd grew ansy, I was forced by no fault of my own to demonstrate how utterly untalented this so called 'foreign movie star Hannah from England' was.

Luckily, well, I say luckily, Kriti's cousin Tuktuk had taught me an Indian dance to a song which goes 'hush hush baby, I'm too sexy for you' the night before. Yes, after I did it she pronounced me 'rubbish' in her Indian accent and then shoved and pushed my legs and arms until I did it 'ok - ish' and yes, she is a five year old girl and yes, the song was the epitome of innappropriateness.  But, on that fateful night, I found myself dancing mock-sexily to a group of 200 admiring Indians, all waiting to see what the white girl could do.

And d'yknow what? They clapped. And then the kids all lined up to shake my hand.

Wow.  
Oh, and that picture was one of the many I had with some of the kids that turned up on that fateful night. Myself and Kriti were papped all night, as well as asked for our autographs, facebook accounts and telephone numbers.

So, as part of Hindu tradition, old statues are given to the sea as a gift to the gods. Here is one which was washed up on Mumbai beach.

A dancing monkey on the beaches of Mumbai

A homeless chap who seems to be posing here after begging for money.

A temple in Mumbai

And some more...

Oh, I've been very busy here at OK! Online! Here are some more pieces that I have written....

http://www.ok.co.uk/fashion/view/38810/One-Day-premiere-Anne-Hathaway-and-Jim-Sturgess-set-the-nude-and-black-theme/

http://www.ok.co.uk/beauty/view/38827/

http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38740/

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-archive/gallery/787/14526/V-Festival-2011

http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38641/Daniel-Radcliffe-s-mystery-lady-friend-has-FINALLY-been-revealed

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/view/38663/

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/view/38659/

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/view/38889/Prince-Harry-goes-out-we-perv-on-pictures-of-him/

http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38891/?

Internship at OK! Online

Sooo here are the links to a few of the pieces that I have done for OK! Online and The Daily Express:

25th August:
http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/view/38866/Check-a-load-of-Cheryl-Cole-s-snaps-for-her-new-2012-calendar/

http://www.ok.co.uk/bigbrother/view/38871/Big-Brother-2011-Amy-Childs-weds-Jedward-s-John-Grimes-/

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/view/38865/The-Overtones-have-a-new-single-and-a-fab-50-s-video/


http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38868/Celebrity-Big-Brother-2011-Jedward-eat-cold-baked-beans-in-the-sauna-to-heat-them-up

24th August: 

http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38737/Big-Brother-2011-Darryn-Lyons-has-a-winge-about-Jedward-s-hygiene

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-archive/gallery/347/14569/Selena-Gomez

http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/266757/Celebrity-Big-Brother-2011-Cracks-form-between-BB-housemates

http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/266925/Anne-Hathaway-opts-for-lace-to-grace-the-pink-carpet-at-the-One-Day-premiere-



22nd August:

http://www.ok.co.uk/posts/view/38723/V-Festival-2011-So-who-wants-to-see-The-Wanted-s-Jay-McGuiness-in-the-shower-

Cafe Blend

OK, so last week I had the task of becoming a barista for the day for an article for Culinary Pursuits Magazine at the gorgeous coffee house... Cafe Blend, Birmingham.

Not just your bog standard cafe, Cafe Blend opens for open mic nights, coffee cocktails and liqueurs, a whole range of different coffees and actually has staff there who blend to taste.

All the recipes are based around Sophie, the owner's, travelling experiences of coffee. You can tell the cafe has been made from the heart; her passion is in every cup of coffee sold there.

I will be posting my final article up here shortly!

Check out Cafe Blend:
http://www.cafeblend.co.uk/Cafe_Blend/Welcome.html

Culinary Pursuits Magazine:

http://www.culinarypursuits.co.uk/

Article for Culinary Pursuits Magazine, April 2011

To tip or not to tip, that is the question.

After casually ordering my food at a local restaurant, I was confronted with a tip jar saying: ‘Fear Change! Leave it here!’ and another oh-so-comical jar which read: ‘Phil the Tip Jar’. It is truly incredible how a few exclamation marks made me physically afraid of my change, fearing my coppers would pounce out of my purse and kamikaze into the jar if I did not put them in willingly. This mad, needless urge to throw my money into a jam jar with anger issues got me thinking about tipping.

I don’t know one person, young or old, rich or poor, who does not find tipping a painfully awkward situation.  From being on both sides of the coin (I have spent many years as a barmaid and waitress) tipping has proved to be somewhat of an ambiguously positive and negative experience in restaurants. After all, haven’t we all been in the dreaded situation of running out post-paying before our waiter discovers he has been left tip-less, never to return again just in case your food has certain added bodily fluids in it next time? Or, on the other hand, idly going through old receipts to find out that the pesky restaurant has put a service charge on the table and you have also left a tip?

So, what is the tipping rule exactly? The general consensus for table service at a restaurant is to tip around 12.5 percent of your bill amount, and speaking as a former waitress, that is a more than generous percentage. But what if your bill comes to hundreds of pounds? Trust me, the waitresses will be rubbing their hands together with glee whilst you hand over double their daily wage as a tip. If your bill is large then presumably your server has had to work extra hard in order to maintain a high level of service. However, if your bill is mostly made up of expensive bottles of wine this can lead to a tipping conundrum.

Saying that, I believe that good service deserves reward, however much you think that reward should be. You must remember that your waiting staffs are there to do their job, but their friendliness, etiquette and manner are all individual, so if you have exceptional service it is usually down a dash of good training and a dousing of excellent waiting skills. No one will tip the grumpy waiter who chucks your scalding food at you and glares at you as he asks the dreaded question: ‘do you want to leave a tip?’ Without sounding like a tacky self-help book, have the power to say ‘No!’. Waiting is about customer service; the restaurant’s image is held by their staff and if this is not up to scratch, tipping should be cautionary. If you feel, as a customer, that you have been treated in a hostile manner because your waiting staffs were ‘on the lash’ last night, you should not feel obligated to tip.

All in all, tipping is an entirely personal process. Don’t be frightened to ask if a service charge has been added to your bill and do not feel obliged to tip if you have been given poor service. After all, calculating 12.5 percent of the bill after a few glasses of wine can lead to a whole lot of slurry difficulty (and, more than likely, a GCSE student correcting your maths). My advice? Round down to 10 percent or up to 15 percent depending on service and sit back and relax knowing that the ‘awkward tipping-bit’ has been dealt with.

Waitressing Tips for Tips

Sometimes wonder why you have given such a huge tip? Here are a few of the subtle waiting techniques that leave you reaching for your wallet every time!

·         Touching Customers:  Studies show that tips increased from 11.8 percent to just under 15 percent when waiting staff touched their customers on the shoulder. And before you ask, it was not just the blonde bombshell waitresses brushing against the middle aged men that pumped up the tips- both sexes increased their tips from this subtle action.

·         ­Squatting: Waiters that squat next to your table also get extra tips, according to Cornell Hospitality Research Centre. The close interaction and eye contact sent tips soaring!

·         Giving Sweets: So, all those After Eight’s are there for a reason! Studies show that giving sweets with a bill increasing tipping up to 2.5 percent. A very sweet increase.

·         Sunshine: Temple University psychologist Bruce Rind found that sunny days call for sunny-spending. He said: "When the server told guests that it was raining, tips averaged 19 percent of the bill. But describing sunny skies sent the gratuity rate soaring to 24 percent”.