Monday, 30 January 2017
Monday, 23 January 2017
Friday, 20 January 2017
Sunday, 15 January 2017
Today I thought I would post my poem for my creative writing class. The task was to write a piece on an opinion, belief, experience, or feelings about something indirectly. Therefore if the poem doesn't make sense or isn't explicit the title of this post (and of the actual poem) should shed some light. Though the point of the task was to get across the subject to the reader, without directly saying it. So, hopefully I have achieved that! I hope you all enjoy c:
Saturday, 14 January 2017
Friday, 13 January 2017
Monday, 9 January 2017
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Sunday, 8 January 2017
Hello everyone! It's Shani and today I'm sharing my recent creative homework. Our task was to turn a negative subject or annoyance into something positive. Now my piece isn't meant to be serious, in fact my aim was to keep it light and humourous! I hope you enjoy.
In praise of... Loud eating
I hate Sundays. My mother has always told me that I shouldn't use the word 'hate', that it's an awful word to use and I can't possibly dislike something that much. I do though. I loathe Sundays.
Sundays, in concept, are a day of rest. Of tranquillity. My Sundays, however, are absolute hell. The day consists of an extra two hours in bed, a gulp of scalding tea just before twelve o'clock, and then an hour to hastily get ready and head to my uncle's for Sunday roast.
As tradition in the Casey household my entire family meets once a week to catch up on current affairs - or in other words to gossip and gorge ourselves on my auntie Thelma's delectable food. In a way, it's like a miniature Christmas every week... Just without the presents and the drunk dancing which Christmas brings.
Now, I used to enjoy our family gatherings. Seeing my cousins was always a treat, despite the fact that I usually sat and conversed with the adults of the family. Being the only girl in the family, and the second youngest, my emotional maturity was a great deal more developed then my all male cousins. Though this never stopped me from laughing at their stupid jokes, or running after then as they played Chase.
Sundays used to be my favourite day of the entire week. I'd often wish for the week to hurry up, eagerly awaiting for the weekend.
That was until... The inccident. That fateful Sunday that changed everything. I was blissfully chewing on a Yorkshire Pudding when my cousin, Benjamin, commented: "Shani eats really loudly, doesn't she?"
I froze. My Yorkshire Pudding falling from my fingers. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment: they had discovered my secret. Eight pairs of eyes latched onto me. The mush of my Yorkshire Pudding lay still in my mouth, I did not dare move, nor breathe. My family stared at me. Waiting. Ever so slowly, I bit down on the remains of my Yorkshire Pudding, watching in horror as my family gasped around me.
"Nicola, did you know she was a loud eater?" My aunt enquired in a shrill voice watching with wide eyes as my mother flushed in shame.
"It's like she's chewing nails!" My uncle said smugly as he sliced his chicken up.
The only word I can use to describe that situation is: mortification. Now I cannot attend our annual dinner without being given the 'side eye' or getting a full glare from my mother. They have now become the worst hours of my entire week.
It is no different this Sunday. I grace table alongside my two older brothers. We take our usual seats. Glasses of wine are poured and polite, though strained, conversation is made around the table. Soon my aunt Thelma brings out our plates stock full of Turkey, greasy roast potatoes, the usual vegetables, pigs wrapped in blankets, and golden Yorkshire Puddings. All accompanied with thick, steaming gravy.
My family digs in around me. All gobbling down the haven in front of them. I sit still though. Not daring to move. I'm ravenous, desperate for some smooth Turkey, and the crunch of stuffing. So, with trembling fingers I grasp my cutlery, and slowly cut through my dinner. Everyone around the table is gorging on their own meal, they haven't noticed me yet, totally engrossed by the food in front of them. I strike my fork down and quickly pop a piece of chicken into my mouth. I bite down, bliss twisting around my tongue, when a gasp echoes from across the table and I lock eyes with my mother.
Please, her eyes plead, please try to eat quieter. I stare at her for a few moments, then without breaking eye contact, I pluck another piece of chicken into my mouth and gnash my teeth together. My mother winces at the sound.
I chomp my way through dinner, ignoring the horror struck faces around me, the side eye glares of my cousins, and my mother's beetroot face. I am hungry, and nothing, I mean nothing, gets in the way of me and my dinner when I'm hungry.
I realise that to many people my loud eating habits must be irritating. The munching, the gobbling, the loud clack as my teeth knock together, but I see no reason to be ashamed of my loud eating. At least with me as a guest my host will know how much I truly liked their meal. The enjoyment clear through the inhaling breaths, the speed in which I devour the supper. At least I am honest with my eating habits.