Oh Lord, maybe I’m being too demanding. Maybe I should try to get attention by going out in my underwear as so many girls here do instead of taking out the garbage in my tiger-paw slippers. But then again – no, that’s not me. I do have some grace left, believe it or not (yes, even though I was quite close to proving the opposite just recently). Another option is online dating. I don’t say that this doesn’t work. Many happy couples get to know each other over the internet and not every profile is used as camouflage by some psychopathic weirdo who stores a chainsaw in their pantry or likes to have sex with their vacuum-cleaner. I tried. I had a look. But something about this “Here I am. Add me to your contacts. Send me a virtual flirt. Love me.”, puts me off.

I’m trying not to become cynical, to still appreciate some romance and cheesiness. Maybe it’s easier to like that kind of stuff when you’re in love anyway. I miss that feeling, miss the butterflies defying all sorts of fatal acids rummaging in my tummy, miss the shivers a single smile can give you. Truth is, however, that you can’t force these feelings to happen. If it happens, it’s magic. And a part of me still wants to believe that magic can happen. I might be wrong, but then again: it’s never too late to get a cat. Or two. Or three…or four… .

I’ve never been the most popular person who had a shitload of friends. In fact, if I had attended an American highschool, I’d surely never have sat in the canteen’s prom queen corner. Yet, I never felt that there was something missing because I am lucky enough to call some of the most extraordinary and admirable people I ever encountered my friends. I’m not trying to be cheesy (and if I am, I gladly offer some red wine to digest), I’m just trying to put into words what friendship means to me.

Friendship is laughing together so hard until tears whelm up in your eyes, and forgetting why you were laughing in the first place. Friendship is sensing that there’s something wrong without having to ask, and being able to comfort without saying a single word. Friendship is being genuinely interested in another person, empathising with them because they have become a part of you, which means that you feel miserable when they do, and are happy when they are. Friendship is sharing, participating, and enriching each other’s life. Friendship is staying up all night watching cartoons and eating sweets until your belly hurts. Friendship is sitting on the balcony or in the kitchen with bottles of beer or red wine and lamenting over the cruelty of life. Friendship is going to the tattoo shop together and holding each other’s hand. Friendship is spending an entire day together when all you initially planned was to meet for a coffee. Friendship is listening and revealing in equal measures. Friendship is missing each other when the other one’s not around. Friendship is a second home. Friendship is being critical and telling the truth we so often deny to ourselves. Friendship is getting back together after not speaking to each other for more than a year. Friendship is the ability to forgive, to believe and to hope. Friendship is love.

Cheesy, eh? I might be. But I don’t care because I’m being honest just as much. And I hope that all of you, my dear friends, who happen to read this know that I am talking about you. I don’t take you for granted, and even though I’m not always around, I care about you. I’m grateful for having you in my life. End of cheesy note. Red wine, anyone?

Who would have thought that opening a bank account in England could be so much hassle? I tried out several banks, but none would accept my current accommodation as valid proof of address since it’s a student hall and I am getting out of here in three week’s time (hooray!). The co-op bank reassured me that my tenancy agreement would therefore work as proof of address and even though the guy behind the counter (who btw looked like Sanjay, the Indian boy from my good old English textbook from fifth grade) didn’t really seem to know what he was doing without the constant approval of his chewing-gum torturing colleague, I was positive that everything would be sorted. Well. That was until I received a letter from the co-op bank telling me that my application was ALMOST accepted (how the fudge is that possible? Do I answer a yes/no question with almost yes/almost no?), but they’d need some more documents proving my identity. At least they didn’t expect me to drool on some cotton stick and send them my DNA with lots of love. So I went there yesterday, ready to give my fingerprint or whatever else they expected me to deliver, just to find out that my application had been declined. When I dared asking why that was the case, the co-op lady just shrugged off my comment and murmured something like “Dunno, but you can send them a letter and ask them”. Hello? I was there. In person. Like…for real, not just as a flickering blue Star Wars hologram. They could have had the courtesy to at least tell me to my face why my application had been declined.  Sanjay messed up, then. I don’t know how he managed to get that done, but he was damn lucky that he wasn’t in yesterday.

However, I still needed a bank account. I start working in like ten days and would like to receive my wage. Luckily, incompetence is not omnipresent over here. I went to see a lady from Barclay’s and (fingers crossed!) should receive debit card and stuff via post next week. Just as my NI number. And that’ll be about it for the time being regards British red tape.

But hold on, I’m going home to Germany on Sunday because I’m having so much fun annoying myself with bureaucracy that I go to another country for a refill. There, I will hopefully get unregistered, cancel some contracts and get a passport. If not, I’ll probably go all nuts, take the next plane to Venezuela and enjoy some anarchy. Oh, but what’s all this rant about? I’m a member of the EU…imagine I’d come from overseas and would need a visa. That is, matters could be a lot worse. And with this I literally dive into a rainy weekend.

I apologize – this has been a way too long rant serving as introduction, but I consider it necessary to explain my opinion first: I am not easily impressed when it comes to movies.

The more surprising it is that I spent two and a half hours of last night in absolute awe. After arriving at the cinema at 7.30 to find out that the following two showings were already sold out, leaving Greta and me waiting for two more hours to see it, and after freaking out about the fact that the stupid kid at the ticket counter mistakenly sold us tickets for Karate Kid, I finally managed to see Inception. And every single minute of extra time I had to spend was definitely worth it. I actually don’t remember the last time that I was so blown away by a movie. I think it’s not necessary to provide you with an explicit plot synopsis, imdb.com offers a quite nice one as follows,

“Dom Cobb is a skilled thief, the absolute best in the dangerous art of extraction, stealing valuable secrets from deep within the subconscious during the dream state, when the mind is at its most vulnerable. Cobb’s rare ability has made him a coveted player in this treacherous new world of corporate espionage, but it has also made him an international fugitive and cost him everything he has ever loved. Now Cobb is being offered a chance at redemption. One last job could give him his life back but only if he can accomplish the impossible-inception. Instead of the perfect heist, Cobb and his team of specialists have to pull off the reverse: their task is not to steal an idea but to plant one. If they succeed, it could be the perfect crime. But no amount of careful planning or expertise can prepare the team for the dangerous enemy that seems to predict their every move. An enemy that only Cobb could have seen coming.”

Sounds fancy, right? And it is. The cast has been chosen really carefully and is convincing throughout. Although there are movies out there that deal with the manipulation of the perception of our reality (the most prominent example may be Matrix), none actually manages to be as credible as Inception. Nolan constructed a what-if scenario that leaves you with the wildest thoughts pacing through your head while the credits roll over the screen. What if someone actually could enter your dreams to mess with your thoughts, secrets and ideas? Not in a gory Freddy Krueger manner, but in a far more frightening way?  What if you can no longer be sure that your ideas actually ARE yours in the first place? And worst of all: what if you don’t realize all of that because all of it happened while you were sleeping?

Inception is the most clever and complex brainwash in cinema history and the best thing is: it is not too far-fetched, not too abstract. It all seems possible, the perfect make-believe. When I went to bed last night, I spent two more hours thinking about the movie (and its very mean twist at the end). Believe me, that doesn’t happen very often.

Nolan managed to plant an idea in my head. Yet, I’m sure that I wasn’t dreaming all of this after all. Or was I?

The majority of the scars I’m wearing on my skin reaches back to the time of my childhood. As you progress from crawling to walking upright you’re prone to stumble and bruise as you learn that the world is not made of cotton wool. There are two incidences I still remember pretty clearly thanks to the scars they have left behind. On the one hand, there is this massive scar on my right knee that reminds me of the day I started school (and should have been a warning regarding the years of horror to follow) when I happened to step on top of a football instead of kicking it. My pretty white tights that had moons and stars on them that would glow in the dark were covered in so much blood that I easily could have starred in a B-horror movie. The y-shaped scar on my right ring finger, on the other, will always remind me of the fact that it’s a very stupid idea to get hold of snap-hooks in the attempt to turn into a human swing. Countless scars followed when I started to play volleyball at the age of 13. My “Step-onto-ball” scar enjoys pleasantly rich company ever since.

Besides these involuntary mutilations there is of course also my slightly masochistic addiction to the deliberate production of scar tissue. No, I’m not cutting myself, I just occasionally prefer to have needles stuck into my body like a human voodoo doll. Funnily enough, in the case of tattoos, scarring your body is not considered an imperfection, but piece of body art. If I were an alien in a fictional George Lucas universe, I’d probably come from Tat(t)ooine: at the moment there are seven of them more or less visible on my body, and in contrast to accidental scars, we can actually decide what story they are supposed to tell. Since tattoos have become fashionable in the recent decades, their looks have gained greater importance than their actual meanings (if there are any, for that matter). However, I can still claim that every single tattoo of mine does tell a personal story, reflects on memories of the time when I got them and/or symbolizes something for me.

Scars tell stories about the battles we fought, lost or won, and they are among the most interesting, frightening or fascinating features a person can have. Of course it’s up to us whether we want to share the stories behind the scar or whether we bend the truth with their assistance (as the famous example of Heath Ledger’s Joker illustrates). Whatever we decide to do, we should accept that we have them and not necessarily feel the need to cover them up or hide them (of course depending on how traumatizing the circumstances were in which we received them). After all, we should be aware that even a beautifying plastic surgery will leave its scar(r)y marks.

Well, ok, at least regarding the last part of how I pictured my future is not yet entirely out of touch: I’m not yet 25. In fact, I got almost 11 months left to get married, pregnant with twins and a mortgage on a house. Thinking about all of this, I find it strange to see that my childhood dreams didn’t work out so far. Of course, I have to admit that my aims and ideals changed quite a bit throughout the last 19 years, but when I look at people my age who went to school with me and move in with their boyfriends, are getting married (or ARE even married for a couple of years already), have a decent job or even kids, I wonder whether I’m still lagging behind and missed to jump onto the grown-up train.

Physically, I’m perfectly grown up. In fact, I guess I’m close to reaching the age in which one starts shrinking again. Mentally, however, the issue is clearly debatable. I do  live my life on my own, am finally going to earn my own money and do all the grown-up stuff that’s connected to it. At the same time, however, I’m wearing tiger-paw slippers and pyjama-pants while stuffing myself with ice-cream and watching a Disney movie on TV. I am grown-up, but at the same time I don’t feel like I am. Maybe I’m stuck in some kind of transition, some sort of second puberty (yet without pimples and greasy skin) kicking in late.

But then again I wonder whether we grow up entirely at all. Why is it that people fall victim to mid-life crises and try to regain their long gone youth? Why did my friend’s (mentally absolutely healthy) grandfather wish for a Lego toy for his 80th birthday? Truth is that people expect you to act and behave reasonable as soon as you reach a certain age, which is, after all, not much fun. Society sets the parameters for adulthood and maturity – some cling to it, some don’t. I just feel that one shouldn’t forget about their childhood dreams – however utopistic they have been. It’s good to have dreams because – and I’m sure most of you will agree with me on that matter – reality stinks occasionally.

Even though I will now pull my tiger-paw slippers off my feet to get down on daily business, I already look forward to wearing them again tonight. After all, the child inside needs to be fed.

I don’t intend to be particularly witty or come up with super-creative blog posts. Neither do I wish to bother you with details regarding the ingredients of my breakfast. It’s just my very (yet not fairy!) tale how to live life away from home, full of every-day anecdotes, curiosities, thoughts and impressions of Manchester and the people who live here.

I am not special, not famous, not extraordinarily talented, I have flaws and nasty habits, and I assure you that you’ll soon come to this conclusion yourself. That is, if you’re brave enough to follow my yet insecure footsteps on Mancunian ground.

That should suffice as a short welcome note.