The One With The Selfie For Sophie

Today has been a day of realisation for me, seriously. The past two days I have been cooped up at home with a bad chest and no voice. For me, having no voice is a tragedy. For those around me, it is a blessing I'm sure. Being stuck at home with the inability to check Facebook left me feeling sorry for myself. As a distraction I decided to read up on local news online. I would never actually read a newspaper; I get terribly anxious about the dirt they leave on your hands so I couldn't possibly, but I settled for the Echo website instead.

On there, I saw an article about a girl named Sophie Jones who recently passed away. She had been refused a smear test that could have picked up her symptoms of cervical cancer. There's me, huffing and puffing and stomping my feet over a sore throat, when someone nearby had suffered so greatly. Sometimes, a little bit of perspective works wonders for your attitude.

I then started seeing a lot about a petition that is going around to get the age for smear tests lowered. Alongside this was the concept of a 'no make up selfie' for women and a 'make up selfie' for men, to help raise awareness, with the hash tag #sophieschoice. One of my obsessions in life, maybe my main obsession, is make up. I have so many make up bags that I don't know what is in them. Proof of that came earlier when I was lovingly painting my good old dad's face for his selfie - I kept finding things I never knew I had. Even when I am at summer camp, in the boiling heat, working every day to teach my beautiful girls all about empowerment and confidence as a woman I still sneak a bit of mascara on.

The thought of a 'no make up selfie' really made me nervous. Could I deliberately post a photo of myself without make up, careful angles and good lighting? I am shameless when it comes to selfies, I really am. Coincidentally I was not wearing make up today, as I didn't leave my bed for the most part, so I decided to go for it. I took a photo along with my poor dad who was looking a little worse for wear after my attempts ("I'm not using any of my good stuff on you!") and then sat while he and my mum scrolled through some other uploads commenting how nice people looked in their photos.

This caused my second realisation of the day. Like many women, when anyone asks me to leave the house my reaction is often "Sorry, I haven't got any make up on". The response I normally get from my dad or long-suffering boyfriend is that they can't tell, I don't look any different, no one will notice and so on. I normally take this as a huge insult - essentially just an excuse to shout a lot, wave my arms around and refuse point blank to go anywhere with them. The reason behind this is that I spend so much money on buying make up, so much time on applying it, so much energy worrying about how it looks half way through the day that telling me I look fine without it really takes away from the efforts I have gone to. Vain, I know but if a woman feels confident and pretty with her make up on, being told she looks no different without it can be a real blow. So anyway, hearing my parents make such positive comments about the other posters made me realise that actually they are not insulting me. They are just telling the truth. If I decided to go up the shop without my face on, would anybody take a second look? No, because people are so busy going about their own day, worrying about their own face, shopping list, real life stresses, that they don't care if I have lippy and blusher on. I think one of the most amazing things about these selfies is that it encourages us to stop hiding ourselves. We can be confident with what we have got. As my lovely mum always says "you may as well love your body, because you aren't getting another one". She's very wise, I know.

Of course, as with anything, there is a minority of people who believe that these photos won't make a difference and people should be donating instead. My argument to that is that raising awareness is an amazing thing, instilling confidence in others is an amazing thing, showing Sophie's family what an impact she has had is an amazing thing. Besides, if people were simply talking about how much they had donated to charity this same minority of people would be complaining about how much people brag, boast and think they're awesome for having spare change. A lot of people are doing both the photo and giving money, what is the harm in that?

Whilst all this was going on, we came across a video that really hammered home everything I was already thinking. Obviously, it made me cry, because everything does. One of my afflictions in life is over-active tear ducts (self-diagnosed). If you can't see the video below, I have kindly linked you here ...yeah I'm awesome like that.

This video influenced my final realisation of the day. I need to be thankful for what I get in life, and what I have been given. If this little child can be so grateful for the fact that he was given a gift, I can be grateful for the fact that my biggest struggle today was a husky voice. I can be grateful for the fact that my biggest concern was about what people would think of me without foundation on.

I hope that I can learn to be more like Sophie, fighting for what she knew was right, and more like the little boy in the video; happy with what he has been given.

Safely rest, sweet girl.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

If you would like to make a donation you can text Beat to 70007. If you want to add your name to the Sophie's Choice e-petition to lower the age of smear testing, click here

The One Where She Answers Back

As a sufferer of gluten intolerance I am a big fan of Alex Gazzola. Us 'free from' warriors can always count on Alex to have great info, to stand up for us, to give us answers and to generally keep our Twitter timelines pretty entertaining. Today Alex tweeted an article written by Rod Liddle, the associate editor of The Spectator. The article came with a health warning. I do worry about my health, but I am nosy, and nosy beat anxious this time.

Alex was right. I was annoyed by what I read. Not upset, because it is not something I haven't heard before, but definitely annoyed, frustrated, appalled and finally, inspired to fight back. If Rod Liddle can use his words, so can I.

Rod's article was based around recent research conducted at Durham University which formed a report stating that dyslexia is "a meaningless term". He then went on to exclaim the same for ADHD. In my opinion, which I am entitled to, these are harmful and dangerous claims, regardless of the research behind it.

I get on my high horse more often than not, and I see things in black and white, more often than not. So now that I am 24 and very mature I try to take a moment to assess my situation; is my anger justified? Am I being stubborn? Am I doing my usual trick of saying someone is wrong because I disagree? Well no, today I don't think I am doing that. The reason being that I was further justified in my response when Rod decided to turn his words towards sufferers of food allergies.

Food allergies. The bane of my existence. The reason I hyperventilate if someone asks me to go out for a meal. The reason my parents' shopping bills are so high. The reason I have had so many medical procedures, invasive surgeries, hospitalisations, ambulance rides, public fainting fits. The reason I missed my final exams at university. The reason I lost so much weight that I had to sleep with pillows in between my knees because my bones were digging into my skin. The reason why my weight was then monitored so closely I had to step on my doctor's scales every nine weeks. The reason why my blood is dragged so unwillingly from my arm every few weeks. Food allergies have changed my life, and the lives of the people I love, so severely, in so many ways. So naturally, Rod, now its just personal.

Rod Liddle claims that people over a certain age won't remember children in their classes suffering with Coeliac Disease. He believes that this is not because the medical terminology did not exist. He instead believes that it is a modern problem caused by over-indulgent parents, amongst other issues. First of all, my auntie who is in this age bracket (forgive me AJ) was often very ill due to gluten intolerance, showing symptoms very similar to my own, with a medical diagnosis, so clearly it did exist. Secondly, if science has advanced so much so that we can claim dyslexia doesn't exist, could it not have advanced just as much to prove food allergies do? How do we explain babies with an intolerance to cow's milk? As far as I knew, babies do not have enough of a social and behavioural awareness to fake an intolerance. An argument I heard recently against this was that an experiment was conducted on children with nut allergies being fed small amount of the nut often so that they became immune to their allergy. There may be truth in this 'experiment' in particular, but a person with gluten intolerance who continues to eat gluten becomes more susceptible to osteoporosis, infertility, stomach cancer, bowel cancer, muscle and joint issues, hair loss, the list goes on.

My gluten intolerance was not diagnosed until I was 19 years of age. My parents did not over indulge me because they did not know that I was claiming food to be the cause of my illness. I had no idea what made me so ill as a child. One doctor used the term 'sickly' to describe me, much like I was a character out of The Secret Garden. I was struck down with migraines that left me motionless in a dark room, I was often violently sick after my packed lunch at school. I would often go into anaphylactic shock after a trip to a restaurant. I experienced violent spasms and pain in my legs after accidentally using a moisturiser that contains oats. I once ended up covered in hives and unable to breathe just from standing next to a tree-nut stall at a Christmas market, and I currently have to take a wide variety of pills just to eat a meal.  My suffering was, and still is, very real.

However, it is not just Rod that harbours these opinions about food intolerances. I am faced with bemused, confused and often downright ignorant responses about my diet and my health issues every single day. Many people see a free-from diet as a fad. As a way to look 'healthy'. As a way to lose weight (total myth...we sufferers are only thin because the food we previously ate made us throw up our guts three times a day). As a way to seek attention. So now I have a question in return. If you had to have scars re-opened to investigate pains where there should be no pains (with nothing but mild painkillers to recover with) if you had to swallow a camera that had been shoved up your nose thus causing major bleeding, if you had to get off the bus to vomit in a bin, if you had to think ahead for every single meal, every single day, if you had to cancel the majority of your social engagements with your friends because your body was so weak and your intestines were so damaged that any food you COULD eat had caused you to swell up like a balloon, so much so that people started to think you just did not want to see them...well...would you keep up the facade? No, you probably wouldn't.

I also find it rather strange that someone could claim that these intolerances are caused by 'neurotic' parents insisting every food stuff their child came into contact with had to be allergen-free, when the child would be happy to eat whatever gluten, nut or dairy riddled treat was put in front of them. I was raised on the same food as my brothers, who are both fit and healthy, I clearly loved biscuits, and my parents never entertained the thought that I could have an intolerance. My illnesses were always attributed to something else by my doctors. I may have been momentarily happy eating a brownie. I may still be momentarily happy eating a brownie. Know that soon after though, I would be screaming in pain, with a stomach to match a woman in the final stages of pregnancy, before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Now, I think, luckily for you all, my rant has come to an end. As for Rod Liddle, and any other doubters out there, please sleep soundly tonight in the knowledge that I would switch off my aversion to proper food and eat like a 'normal' person if I could. May you never know how it feels like, and may you never have to join my late-night pity party, furiously typing away against the injustice of it all, when all I really want is a Jammy Dodger.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

The One Where She Watches "The News"

When I was a child, every night without fail my dad would finish his tea and say "Right, I'm off to watch the News". I assumed that this News was on every single night after we finished our tea, regardless of whether we had it earlier or later than usual. Now that I'm older and perhaps wiser, I have realised that he just really didn't want to do the dishes. I've also realised that it is not a TV show that you can dispute. For example, if I stood up now after my tea and said "Right, I'm off to watch Teen Mom 3", I would be head first in the washing up bowl. The News is too legit to miss just to get the plates washed. People take it seriously. No one would ever question a man going to watch the News!

Anyway, I've never really been a fan myself, but now that I've given up Facebook I feel like I don't know anything that is going on in the world. I used to enjoy scrolling through my home page when I woke up in the morning, browsing like a commuter reading the Metro. I could find out what the weather was like without opening my curtains, if the trains were delayed without even sitting up in my bed, which celebrity has di...actually, no, I refuse to accept that celebrities die even if it is Facebook official. Speaking of Facebook official, you can't even expect people to believe you have a significant other these days unless it is tagged and displayed proudly for all to see.

A passing conversation in the office today about an ENTIRE PLANE THAT HAS GONE MISSING caused me to realise that I just don't know anything about the outside world. I'm cut off. I'm sure someone, somewhere on my news feed, would have posted an update about an AWOL aircraft to keep me in the loop at some point.

So, what is a girl to do? Give the News a try? What time is it on? Is the News even what the show is called? Or is it just News? Is it on different channels? Are some channels more newsy than other channels? Are Scousers allowed to be newsreaders? There is just so much I don't know. 

I decided to give it a try. It was okay. If anything, it taught me a lesson, a lesson I'm going to call SME; Social Media Exaggeration. Anything on this so called News is portrayed very differently as the same story on our Facebook timelines. 

For example, a headline today was "G7 warns Russia on annexing Crimea". At first I thought a Crimea was one of those weird foetuses (foeti??)  that used to be a twin then got all squished up to become one creepy two tone cat with blue eyes. I was wrong, obviously, but moving on... The SME version of this headline would be, 

"INSERT RACIST COMMENT HERE ABOUT DIFFERENT NATIONALITIES TAKING OUR JOBS". 

The racist comments used on Facebook always hurt my brain, because as well as being horrific, they are usually really irrelevant and the writer just needed an excuse to include it somewhere. 

I also discovered that the News tells you all about the weather. I now know that tomorrow in Liverpool it will reach a high of 8°. The SME version of this would be a vast amount of selfies uploaded by people wearing shorts, people complaining about being too hot, and others announcing that summer has finally arrived so get out and enjoy it before it ends. If I had access to Facebook right now I would be at risk of waltzing out the door tomorrow in flips flops and a dress only to be caught in the fog that is also forecast. 

I do miss Facebook, I'm not going to lie. Maybe though, when Lent is over, I will take what is posted there with a pinch of salt and try to be a little more curious about what is going on in the world around me.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

P.S I was thinking of a Chimera

The One Where She Says "Thank You"

About eight years ago, back in the days of MSN, I met a guy with fluffy hair and a funny laugh. After about twenty seconds of being together we realised we were just destined to be best ever friends in the whole wide world and that was that. We were even in each other's MySpace Top 8 at one point.

This week I saw an article on Twitter. Reading it momentarily tipped my world upside down. The article was written by a man who had struggled with depression and attempted to take his own life. The signature at the end of the article was my best friend's.

My instant reaction was "Why did I not know about this?" quickly followed by "I'm such an awful friend. How did I not notice?" After re-reading and re-reading and re-reading I came back down to Earth and remembered that it was not about me. This whole situation is not about me. I didn't know about it, because my friend did not even really know about it himself. I did not notice because it would have hurt him more if I did.

I am so proud of him for speaking up about mental illness and for helping to break the stigma attached to it. I hate that some people feel they will be viewed as weak if they admit that they are struggling, when in reality, so many people can relate to it. In being candid and open about their experiences people could actually save the lives of others.

There is so much I could say about this, and to my friend in particular. So I will.

Here's to you, my best ever friend in the whole wide world. I just want to say thank you. Quite a few times actually, so you probably want to sit down. Stop rolling your eyes too.

Thank you for letting me steal your pillow the night we all slept over after a party. Thank you for not putting your glasses on the next morning and seeing me in someone's spare pyjamas and last night's make up. I'm not calling you shallow but our friendship may have ended right at that point.

Thank you for leaving the pub that night at half time and coming to pick me up so I could watch the match, even though I wasn't wearing any eye-liner.

Thank you for lying to telling my mum we wore suncream that day we sat in a beer garden and I got so burnt that I couldn't cover my shoulders for two days.

Thank you for not disowning me when I threw up in your front garden and left your birthday party before midnight. Granted I kept it a secret for several years but still. Oh and thank you for not being mad that I kept it a secret.

Thank you for taking me on my first and only picnic.

Thank you for making me a moving mask of your face. For buying me a new copy of Peter Pan. For writing week-long letters to me when I went away.

Thank you for forcing me to go to hospital on several occasions. Thanks for staying up through the night to send texts of support to my mum and to make sure I hadn't escaped. I will always be grateful that you visited me and witnessed a woman falling asleep with her hand in a mug of tea and a banana in her mouth, otherwise I would have really begun to doubt myself.

Thank you for pretending I stayed up through our all-nighter so that we could brag about it to no one at all.

Thank you for leaving a little green alien on my doorstep seven years ago. We might have ran out of things to talk about on a few occasions if you hadn't.

I can't believe I'm saying this but thank you for making me those CDs and taking me to the Beatles museum. That first summer when I got to camp and people found out I was from Liverpool a Beatles question usually followed. I could tell them my favourite song. I could tell them that George was my favourite because he liked to garden. I could even tell them what Ringo's real name was, if they really wanted to know. They never did, but I could have, because of you.

Thank you for always taking me to McFly concerts even though you reaaaaaaally don't like their music. Thanks for doing the claw dance with me. For singing in that ridiculous voice on the way home.

Thank you for not getting mad that time we got lost looking for the car park in Chester. Driving round the roundabout eleven times and laughing each time was much more fun.

Thank you for pretending (I know you are pretending) that my impressions are great. Even my Yoda one. Especially my Yoda one.

Thank you for always doing a New Year's Eve count down with me, even if it is ten hours early.

Thank you for understanding my fears, my worries, my inability to eat at a restaurant, for pushing me when I need to be pushed, for reminding me that my dreams won't just land in my lap because I want them to, for always bringing me a gift back from holiday, and most of all, thank you for sticking around. I cannot imagine my life without you in it. There would be a lot more rain and a lot less laughter.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end of this, even though it is ridiculously long and more than a little mushy.

Please also note that if you ever write a script for a movie and cast me as the leading lady I will be reusing this post when I win my Oscar. I will be much too busy being famous and adored to write a speech so just bear this in mind at the time.

Seriously Googs, for a fluffy-haired guy, you're alright.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

The One With All The Sobbing

Yesterday was a bad day. It stopped being Friday and turned into Cryday at about 8:25 in the morning when I stepped into a puddle Vicar of Dibley style. It all went downhill from there. The day ended on a seriously low note when I watched an old episode of Smallville; it was from season 2 and Clark wears the red meteor rock ring and hurts everyone who cares about him. I couldn't bear to watch it - I didn't know Clark Kent could be so cruel. I bawled for a good two hours after that and fell asleep still sobbing.

Usually, after Cryday comes Faturday. I make up for the tears and dehydration by eating everything in sight and sitting in the garden telling my rabbit Paul about my woes. Not today though. I challenged Faturday in an attempt to claim back my weekend. Paul got a break and I went to the gym again. It was a very weird experience. It smelt less like public transport this time, which was great, but I felt very intimidated by the woman on the treadmill next to me who was dance-running. Like, literally dancing while she ran. Is that a thing? I don't know. Should I have been doing it? I don't know. I ditched the treadmill for fear that I had been using it wrong and went to do some sit ups. I did two. Then I cried. Then I shouted at my personal trainer (dad) to just let me lie on the floor and be chubby. I saw a guy on a nearby rower laughing at me out of the corner of my eye and I decided it was time to go home. He was laughing at me?? He was rowing, on land, in a poor excuse for a boat and HE was laughing at ME? Maybe Faturday was winning. Until...

A thought struck me. I don't have to eat junk all day and unburden my soul to a hare who may or may not be listening, just to make myself feel better. It doesn't work. In fact, there is no rejection quite like Paul hopping away right in the middle of my monologue. So instead, I left him outside and decide to write a list of things to be happy about. I came up with a really unique title for said list, as you can see.

Becca Biscuit's List of Things to Be Happy About

1. I am not Prince Harry's ex-girlfriend. Whilst I know deep down that we are destined to be together, it hasn't happened just yet. However, I am now seeing this as a wonderful thing. If there is anything worse than not being Prince Harry's girlfriend it has to be being Prince Harry's ex girlfriend. Imagine the sheer joy you would feel if that glorious ginger Prince loved you. Then imagine that joy being taken away and replaced with nothing but ginger-induced pain and horror if he stopped. The longer it is before I meet him, the longer it is until he dumps me.

2. People like Chris, Simpsons Artist exist. I don't know about anybody else, but I love living on a planet inhabited by this guy. I ordered one of his posters for my best friend's birthday and he included a free drawing of a heart with my name spelt incorrectly inside it. Today he is standing outside his local Tesco giving massages to women to "make them feel less stressed about being a woman". One of the things I miss most about Facebook is his posts.

3. Somebody invented dry shampoo. An essential item to get through daily life. Just incase I didn't mention it enough already, I joined a gym. I have since learnt that using my arms for anything other than lifting food to my mouth makes hair-washing a major chore. Some absolute genius invented dry shampoo, possibly for this exact reason, but who even cares why? What matters is that I get an extra hour in bed thanks to this bad boy.

4. Puppies. Just puppies.

5. Women who dance on treadmills. No matter how red my face turns, or how slow I run, or how many sit ups I can't do, or how messy my hair gets, or how much I lay on the floor and cry, if a woman dances on a treadmill people will always be looking at her. If people are looking at her, they won't even notice me plodding along at the end of the row, slightly offbeat because One Direction ballads are not the best to run to.

Next time Cryday comes along, I will be so prepared I can't even stand it.

As ever

Becca Biscuit 

The One With The Endorphin

Well, I did it. I survived a whole day without Facebook and I went to the gym. I have picked up my phone to check Facebook more times than I can count today but luckily I deleted it from said phone so that I wouldn't cave. It made me realise how many times I feel the need to post something that has no real impact on life. I'm slightly ashamed of how many times updating my status crossed my mind. However, it didn't flit through my brain once whilst I was at the gym, so maybe I'm on to something here.

The gym was really not that bad. At first, it was a little weird because it was full of men with tiny legs and massive shoulders. So many that I actually began to wonder if my body is on upside down and my parents never told me because there is no cure. Anyway, the first two minutes were quite awful. I turn red very easily as it is but apparently when I exercise I sport the lobster look to the extreme. At one point I thought the guy next to me was really concerned about it but then I realised he was just looking at me funny because although I was running with my headphones in, my music was actually playing out loud. Note to self: plug them in. Then a really crazy thing happened. I started to enjoy it. I was running and everything. I knew I had the ability to run after Kevin the cat chased me home from the bus stop the other night but I actually really liked the treadmill. I think I got an endorphin. I can't be sure but it was like an amped up version of how I felt when I ate a whole Easter egg for lunch earlier, without the guilt that followed. Amazing.

After I got bored of running without getting anywhere my personal trainer took me to try out some weights. I say personal trainer; it was my dad, but whatever. He showed me how to lift without dropping the weights on my face and he kept saying really supportive things like "Don't kill yourself!" and "Stop worrying about your boobs".

The plan was to go again tomorrow but I just washed my hair and I hate to waste a blow-dry so we will have to see. On a side note, washing my hair was extremely difficult as I couldn't really lift my arms. I took that as an indication that I'm muscly now so I probably could grant myself a rest day after all.

So there we have it. I swapped my favourite activity for my least favourite activity and I feel a lot better because of it. I don't know if this means I'm a gym person now. I mean, I don't even have an ab yet. I might have an ab by the end of the week though, if I give up the Easter eggs for lunch.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

The One Where She Joins A Gym

So I'm back in the blogging world with a big announcement. I have said goodbye to Facebook...for Lent. Who knows, maybe forever! (For Lent)

My Facebook addiction has reached extreme levels. Not only do I post every mundane element of my life on there but I spend the rest of my time scrolling through the mundane posts of others, refusing to 'like' them because their lives are slightly more Facebook-worthy than mine. My thumbs feel mildly arthritic and my already appalling social skills are suffering. It really takes the biscuit. So I'm done. For forty days.

I knew I needed a replacement activity though. My first thought was eating. My second thought was that I can't afford a bigger pair of jeans. So I did the unthinkable. I joined the gym. Yes, I joined the gym. Me. The person who is repulsed by exercise, eats Peanut M and M's for breakfast and refuses to walk home from the train station that is ONE STREET OVER from my own. 

The reaction I have received so far is: 70% absolute shock, 20% disbelief and 10% enthusiastic high fives. I hate high fives because I am really bad at them. My connecting 'five' is always very weak and a little embarrassing. Perhaps the gym can help with this?

Anyway, I digress. I joined a gym. I was getting along just fine with the paperwork when the girl behind the desk offered me a sweet from a huge basket of Maoams and Wham Bars. I normally love a good Wham Bar, except for when one of the fizzy crystals lodges itself in a back tooth and appears an hour later with the same jolting effect caused by licking a battery. I have never licked a battery (one of my many fears in life) but I imagine it feels very similar. I had no idea you were allowed sweets at the gym, if I had I would have joined much sooner, but this time I politely declined with a "no ta" and explained that too many sweets is why I was signing up for the gym in the first place. She really didn't need the Facebook story. I felt like I had passed my first fitness challenge. Go me! Amazing! So what if I celebrated with a fry up and two lemon and sugar pancakes when I got home?

Tomorrow is supposed to be my first evening at the gym. Exercising. If I survive, I will be sure to post my victory on here. After all, if I cannot update my status every five minutes with a witty life reflection and a screw-faced selfie, I may as well vent in a blog. I miss Facebook already.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit