The One With The Post-Camp Blues

Have you ever been sat with your friends or your family, maybe at work or in a lecture when somebody says something and it triggers a reaction in you... A reaction that may be a little unusual? That may cause you to be embarrassed or to look silly in front of everyone else? You stop yourself just in time before you say or do the weird thing you were about to subject everyone around you to. In the space where your reaction should have been there is silence and the silence presses down on you until it is the loudest thing in the room and you know, you know that you just missed a moment. A moment that everyone else around you is oblivious to but leaves you feeling just that tiny bit empty, that leaves you feeling like something was left unsaid? Maybe it was a sassy comment or a chant of support, maybe you were going to do a hand clap on the table, maybe you were going to burst into song. Maybe it was just a joke that no one else would find that funny. These people around you, some of whom you may have known forever, some of whom you may love so dearly, some of whom may know every last thing about you... Despite all that you just know they would have looked at you like you had lost your mind, or rolled their eyes, or got up and walked away. If you've ever been sat with friends, or family, or colleagues and you've felt the weight of a missed moment, then you know how it feels to be a camp counselor from August until June.

I have some special, amazing people in my life who have loved me for forever. They know my fears (there are so many), they know my favourite songs (there are SO many), they know my favourite things to eat (there is nothing, nothing at all) and I can be so open with them about so many things. Yet, there is still a tiny part of me that they will never get to know; the part of me that works at camp. They will never meet the person I become for those nine weeks of the summer when I'm surrounded by kids who I've watched grow up over the years, staff who I've seen change lives and moments, moments I couldn't earn enough money to buy. It's not that I don't want to be this person year round, and it's not that I don't want to show this part of my soul to the people in my "real" life, it's just not a possibility all of the time. Yes, camp has improved me and changed me in ways that I can express in my daily life and it has enabled me to grow, mature, and take great skills home with me, but for the most part, honestly? There is a magic that only happens when you step onto that pebble path for the first time that summer, that weaves it's way into your veins and takes root in your heart. A magic that turns you into the truest version of yourself. The version of yourself that can run on an hour of sleep, the version of yourself that LOVES plain rice and ranch dressing, the version of yourself that can turn clean up into a quidditch game, a piggy back into a hike up Kilimanjaro, the version of yourself that can sit on the porch of a bunk with a child who shows you their diary because they know you can help them write the next page of their life in the most positive and incredible way. Something happens when you hear the crunch of that pebble path, or when those kids step off that bus, or when they stand on their chair and ask you to shake your booty that just doesn't happen anywhere else in the world. It is a magic that allows you to dance without a care in the world, and sing at the top of your lungs even if you're tone deaf, and wear your hair in pigtails at the age of 25, and walk around with no make up on. Something happens when this magic takes root that stops you from worrying about people's reactions and stops you from feeling like all eyes are on you, or you stick out, or maybe you're being judged.

Like any magic, I can't explain it. I can't see it. I can't even really prove its existence but I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones and I can feel it when I unzip my suitcase the day I get home and the essence of camp is still lingering on my clothes. I can feel it when I get a postcard, or a Facebook message from the other side of the world or I look at the stars on a really clear night. I can't prove it but I know it's there and I know that I can't stand up on a chair in the middle of a restaurant and sing a song to tell someone I love them because they won't get it. It won't have the same effect on them as it would on my camp friends... It won't be a moment.

It's tough to be around a camp counselor in the off season. It's tough to hear their stories for the hundredth time, it's tough to see their posts on social media about how miserable they are to be home when you spent weeks missing them and patiently waiting to see them. It must be horrible to feel left out of something that clearly means so much to them; you're happy for them but maybe you don't fully understand it, or you can't picture it the way they want you to. I'm sure sometimes it can be a little difficult to hear all about their new friends and their adventures and their plans for next summer. So I want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you feel bad for all the times I've said "oh it's a camp thing", or "you wouldn't get it" and I'm sorry for not always making a big effort to be sociable as soon as I get home and I'm sorry for thinking I still have jet lag three weeks later when really I just don't want to face the real world. I'm sorry if I'm grumpy and snappy for a while and I'm sorry if you make a joke, or spill a drink or say something funny and I freeze for a second... because it took my mind back to camp. Because I almost jumped up on my chair and sang at you. Because I almost cheered. Because I almost started clapping like a woman possessed. Because I missed a moment, and it made me miss the summer and it made me miss 243 beautiful smiling faces and it made me miss the magic that became my core and without that magic, I'm just going to feel a little bit less like myself for a while.

If you've ever missed someone so much that you can't sleep or eat or concentrate...Times that by a couple hundred campers and a couple hundred staff and you know how it feels to be a camp counselor from August until June. If you've ever had to say goodbye to someone you adore and it's broken your heart, times that by a couple hundred campers and a bunch of lifelong best friends and you know how it feels to be a camp counselor as they head home from their adventure and try to get acquainted with their home life again. They will get there, they will, it may just take them a little while. Next time you're talking to someone and they zone out for a second, try to understand that maybe they just missed a moment. Try not to take it personal or be upset with them, because as tough as it is to be around a camp counselor in the off season, it's a lot tougher to be one.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

The One With The Moment Of Realisation

There are some moments in life that I will remember forever. I will always remember waking up after my first operation and begging the doctor to tell me whether or not I still had eyebrows. I will always remember my first summer at camp when the buses pulled in to the parking lot and hundreds of children started pouring out of them. I will always remember the exact moment I found out Robin Williams had died.

It started, as it so often does, with a text from my best friend. That text pretty much shaped the day from there. It sent shivers down my spine and as I clicked the link to his blog, in which he had so beautifully poured out his own feelings on the matter, I had no idea I would be writing my own a few hours later. Yet I have to put this somewhere, because, in all honesty, today has been a horrible day of realisation. It is so very sad to hear that Robin Williams has passed away, but it is just as heartbreaking to see some of the reactions to it in the wider parts of my world and writing helps me to come to terms with it.

Whilst the circumstances are not fully public knowledge just yet, conclusions have been made. One of the conclusions links to Robin's problems with depression. Many people have left tributes and comments and posts about how truly awful a situation like this is. Many people have not. The part I cannot comprehend though, is the reaction to the depression itself. If Robin Williams had died in a car accident, or an explosion, or by slipping and hitting his head, I have no doubt that I would be surrounded by words of love and positivity. Instead, you don't have to look very far to see comments such as "What the hell did he have to be depressed about?" or "He had a wife, family, grand homes and no money issues."

When are people going to realise that depression is not a choice?! IT IS NOT A CHOICE. It is an illness. It is a terrible, life-changing illness that eats away at who you are and what you know and leaves you living in a black cloud full of pain and self-doubt. Sometimes, it prevents you from getting out of bed, from getting dressed, from doing anything other than crying for hours on end. The worst part is that you don't always even know why. You don't know what to say to the people around you and you can't give them reasons. Just because someone has a job, and love, and a house, and a steady income does not mean that they cannot be depressed. Financial security does not cure or prevent it. You cannot buy your way out of depression.

We don't like to talk about it. We shy away from it. Mental illness? Its a dirty word to us. So no wonder some people cannot comprehend it. Maybe that is because of the way we use the language surrounding it. As one of my colleagues said to me today (thanks Rob) "Depression isn't the same as sadness" and I wholeheartedly agreed with him - because it is so, so much more than that. Yet, when someone else asked me how I was I said "I'm a little tired, its depressing." Really? No, no it isn't. Yet, we use it so often. We call people 'mental' if they say something out of the ordinary, we call people 'bipolar' if they are a little grumpy towards us, and we describe tiny everyday occurrences as depressing... Until someone is actually struggling, and then we question what they could possibly be depressed about? It shouldn't matter what the reason is, it just matters that they are struggling and they cannot see a way out.

Depression has played a huge part in my life to date. It plays a part in the lives of so many people and we won't be able to help those people unless we start learning about it, understanding it and accepting it as an illness. As a disease. As something that ruins, and takes, lives. So, if Robin Williams had died in a car accident today, we would not have asked "How could he have died in a car crash? He has so much money!" and if he had died in an explosion we would not say "But he had such a nice house" and if Robin Williams had died from slipping and hitting his head, we would not have said "What the hell did he have unsteady feet for?"...so why do we do it now? Whilst we do not know the full circumstances of his death yet, what we do know is that he battled many problems. One of those problems was depression, and the more people condemn the so-called causes for that, the more people condemn those around them that are too afraid to speak up and say "Look at me, I'm depressed, and I'm struggling". Sometimes, people can hide it well. Many people are shocked to hear the extent of Robin's struggles because he was so funny in his films. That just goes to show how good he was at his job though - his job was to act, and if we, as an audience, could not tell the true demons he was facing, then he was doing a fantastic job at acting. He was putting on his mask and taking on the life of a character, so seamlessly, that we could not see the real man underneath it. Just because someone comes across as cheerful, or they are having a good day, or they are pushing through to try and live a normal life, it does not mean that they are not ill, or suffering, or finding things pretty damn hard on the inside.

Depression does not care if you are rich or poor, if you are employed or unemployed, if you own ten cars or you don't own any. Depression does not always show itself, outwardly, in the ways that other illnesses do. It cannot be switched off; depression is all-consuming, over-whelming, physically painful. Depression does not discriminate.

So no matter what stories come out about Robin Williams and the cause of his death and the reasons behind his actions, don't let it take away from the fact that his illness is a very real problem. Really mean it next time you ask someone how they are. They just might need you to listen.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

The One With The Hardest Goodbye

Today I had my heart broken. I'm lucky that my heart has been fully intact for as long as it has; a little bumped and bruised along the way, but never broken. Today all that changed when I said goodbye to the kindest soul in my life.

Throughout my teenage years I was struck with some health problems. Not a major illness, but I was majorly ill. It made, and still makes, life very difficult for me. I lost touch with a lot of friends due to my inability to leave the house. I lost the opportunity to move away for university. I lost the ability to live daily life without medication, the thought of which terrified me more than anything. I lost my sparkle. I lost a lot. The day I kissed my dreams of moving away goodbye, my dad made me a deal - I stay at home, I get a dog. I have been afraid of dogs for a long time, but my family were so excited by the idea and I was going to be at home alone a lot (an even bigger fear than dogs). It seemed like a good plan.

Sam-I-Am (the artist formerly known as Harry) picked us as soon as we stepped into the kennels. He just straight up told us he was coming home with us. We tried to explain to him that he had to pass the 'cat test' first (7 year old me to thank for that). He couldn't care less about cats, apparently. A+. Off we go. Job done, dog's your uncle.

I've heard it said that dogs become like their owners over the years but us? We were instantaneous. Could we have picked a dog that I could relate to any more than Sammy?! Ginger hair? Check. Serious social anxiety? Check. Prone to over-excitement? Check. Fear of dogs? Check. There could never have been a more perfect match. We were inseparable. Every night I would climb into bed and then scoot over so that he could get near the radiator. Every afternoon we would sit on the back step and mull over big life events. Every evening...we wouldn't go for walks. I won't lie. We tried once or twice. It just wasn't for us.

That dog meant more to me than I could ever put into words. He gave me back my sparkle. He, quite literally, gave me a reason to get out of bed every morning, even when I felt like moving would finish me off for good. Even when I had been awake all night screaming in pain. He would jump, dance, slobber and sometimes actually push me out of my duvet-cave to land on the floor.

On the days I did manage to get out the house to go to lectures it was a painful parting. On the days when I would get to the end of the street and then have to turn around and go back home he would act like we had been apart for months. The nights when the ambulance would come he would sit right beside me until the very last minute.

It might seem that you cannot communicate with animals but I see it very differently. Sam would laugh with us, he would squeeze up close to us if we were sad, his winks were the funniest things I have ever witnessed, always so well-timed! He would be downright depressed if one of us went away.

Today, I know how he feels. I stayed with him in his last moments, my lovely ginger-turned-grey pooch, and I hugged him and I thanked him for being my best friend. I thanked him for being my own personal foot-warmer. I thanked him for eating all the food I really didn't want (sorry Mum, truth is out!). I thanked him for staying with me through those poorly days and poorly nights, for getting me out of bed when nothing else could. I thanked him for saving me.

You know what he did? He sat down, he looked me straight in the eye...and he winked at me. I couldn't ask for more than that.

The One Where She Conquered Lent

I did it! I survived Lent. I surpassed all expectations and made it to the end in one piece. Just in time too, as I was starting to become embroiled in a turf war between Facebook and Twitter. Facebook must have figured out that I was coming to the end of my journey and sent me several emails. The emails ranged from "Someone is waiting for you to see their post on your timeline" to "Your friends miss you!" (blatant guilt trip by the way). The final email I received really got my hopes up. I was desperate to log in. It said that I had recently been tagged in 798 photos. Seven-hundred-and-ninety-eight photos. I don't think I even know 798 people. I've definitely only been out once or twice recently with cameras around, so where did these photos come from? Were they ugly? Was it on my good side? How did my hair look??? HAVE I BEEN PAPPED AS THE GIRL WHO GAVE UP FACEBOOK FOR LENT? The possibilities of these 798 photos were beginning to make me light-headed but I didn't crack YESSSSS EGG PUN!. I refused. If the Easter Bunny could go 40 days and 40 nights in the desert without chocolate and only a volleyball named Wilson for company then I could last the final 48 hours.

In the midst of all this, Twitter began emailing me. It was like they knew! They sensed my weakness; I needed social media in my life, so they decided to strike. They emailed me to tell me how popular my latest tweet was (not very), how many people had looked at it (not many) and how many interesting responses it had generated (none). They asked me to come back and continue interacting. Who with? I guess I'll never know but there I had it, my one and only experience of being in the middle of a turf war. Granted, I was sat in my giraffe onesie eating Minstrels but it still felt really intense and just like a scene out of West Side Story.

This morning finally rolled around and I logged into Facebook the minute I opened my eyes. I had been tagged in maybe five photos, I had a couple of wall posts and any notifications I received before the 12th April had been swallowed up. Where were my 798 photos? That could have generated at least 798 likes (all from my mum but a like is a like), I could have spent the whole day scrolling through and gleefully untagging any that had the dreaded red-eye and cropping any that showed my arms at a bad angle.

Instead I found that Facebook has a new feature. A new awful, frightening feature. Facebook in all its power and glory has decided to invent a feature that groups all of your yearly activity into a lovely bundle of photos. So just incase you wanted a reminder of your bad hair days, drunken selfies you thought were long gone or baby photos that some wise guy posted after coming round for tea and snooping around your house...there they are, right there on your profile. For everyone to see. Thanks Facebook, I struggled through the whole of Lent just to wake up on Easter Sunday to photo evidence of my puppy fat years and some really classy snaps from 2009 when every outfit I wore showcased my bra.

Despite the initial disappointment though, I realised how worthwhile this little challenge has been. First of all, I realised that I actually have willpower. I set myself a goal and I achieved it. Secondly, I tried something new; exercise. Sure, if I had been to the gym as often as I would normally have refreshed my home page I would be a body-builder but at least I discovered something new that I actually really enjoy. Thirdly, I improved the life span of my thumbs. Repetitive strain injury is something my generation will battle for years to come if we keep texting/tweeting/updating like we do now.

Finally, I improved my social skills. When people tried to speak to me, either in the lunch room at work, at home, in the car, even at the checkout in the shops, I was actually able to make eye contact. I heard what they were saying. I responded. Before, I would have been scrolling through my newsfeed, reading through the same old updates and wondering how I even knew half of these people, only half-listening and often forgetting to respond to the person in front of me. I was more wrapped up in the updates of people I do not even speak to, to converse with real-time people standing before my very eyes. I'm sorry for that and it made me ask myself a question. How much do we miss out on every day when we are glued to our phone screens, so wrapped up in how we are perceived virtually? Does it affect how we are perceived in every-day life? I say no more to that. No more lunch hours spent refusing to tear my eyes away from my timeline. No more half-hearted attempts at a conversation while I am flicking through random posts on a page I accidentally liked once upon a time. From now on, I will be living in the present moment and I will be enjoying it.

There will still be plenty of carefully-angled, well-lit selfies though, I haven't changed that much.

As ever,

Becca Biscuit

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