21:53 Jazz Blackwell 2 Comments

For most, the 'New Year' season - the season for revelations, realisations and resolutions - is probably over by this point. The end of January is nigh, February is knocking on everybody's front door and Spring isn't far behind him. Already, many diets and gym memberships are long abandoned, many organisers are collecting dust and many make-your-first-million business plans have been scrapped. But still I feel within the last week, I've experienced several realisations and several revelations that have led to me making a number of resolutions. 


Cast your mind back, if you will, to the year 2002. A five year old Jazz sits, sobbing hysterically, in front of her poor, hard-working parents who are trying desperately - and failing miserably - to make her stop. Alas, there's no way they can. Why, you ask? Due solely to the reason she is so very upset. That reason? "I don't ever want to be twenty-one!!" Well , kiddo. It's fourteen years down the line and twenty-one's sneaking up on you like a curb-crawler who's van has tinted windows.

And trust me. I'm no more excited about it now than I was then. 

Now, while my sense of time sucks like a Dyson who's rent is due next week, I'm not entirely detached from the reality that the rest of the world exists in. I'm fully aware that my current age - nineteen - is in no way "old" to anybody over the age of six. Perhaps a more appropriate title for this realisation would've been adult life is terrifying and I am in no way shape or form prepared for it. 

This realisation first came to me on Boxing Day, when my best friend announced her engagement to her boyfriend of three years. For those who have not yet experienced it, let me tell you now -  there's no slap-in-the-face you're-a-grown-up-now wake up call quite like when your mates start getting married, and it's entirely legal. It was reinforced earlier this week, when I finalised my firm and insurance choices for my university applications, and it dawned on me that in eight months time I'll be living independently for the first time in my life. Now, the thought of moving away from home doesn't bother me in the slightest - I'm not at all a homebody, and I have an itch to travel all over the world. The issue for me is that I've become far too used to the company of my mother and my brother, and I am very much a creature of habit, and I borderline fear change. 

So what has this resolution led me to resolve? Well, it's quite simple really. I fully intend to chuck a Bryan Adams - that is to say, pretend I'm eighteen 'til I die. 


I'm somebody who enjoys a long romantic stroll alone at night time, and I semi-frequently meet up with my closest friend Dakota for a browse in charity shops, a coffee and a chinwag, but aside from that I don't really 'get out' too much. Now, obviously I leave the house. I have to - I go to school five days a week and work three, but I don't do an awful lot of socialising. As a result I've got this relatively creepy nature that is as socially awkward as it is uncomfortably forwards, and people tend to react in one of two ways - they find it ultimately endearing, or they stay as far the heck away from me as they can manage. I've been this way my whole life, and as such I don't notice it at all. Except when I have a certain thought and I'm struck with the thought of "Jazz, you creepy weirdo, get a freaking life!" 

This resolution most recently dawned on me just earlier today when I was innocently standing behind my till at work, and in strolls one of my favourite regular customers. He's a devilishly handsome chap,  known to the staff as 'Ponytail'. Generally, come rain or shine, he sports a very fetching green cardigan, which today he'd abandoned in favour of a dashing little grey number. Upon noticing, I turned to my friend on the next till and informed her:

"Look, Ponytail has a new cardi." 

To wish she responded with a curious look and the words: 

"It's really sad that you noticed that." 

And she was right. So what, I hear you cry, do I plan to do about this? Well, in short, the plan is to do more stuff - at least, as often I can. Between school, revision and the wonderful world of Poundstretcher, I'm not left with a heck of a lot of free time. Perhaps, then, our area manager being a colossal cock-womble and cutting everybody's hours is a blessing, rather than a curse - starting later and finishing earlier on a Saturday will mean that I can have more morning coffee-shop jaunts, host more movie nights, attend more evening-time social gatherings. Or it means I have more time to binge watch episodes of Emmerdale that I've already seen and cry because oh, Aaron you sweet precious gift to the world. 

We'll see. 


Here's a thing that's probably less than good about me; I see absolutely no problem whatsoever with swearing. As far as I'm concerned, swear words are just that - words. I don't understand why one day somebody decided that this set of words in particular is offensive, and if you use them you're uneducated and yobbish, but it really grinds my gears. Freedom of speech, stick it to the man and so on and so forth.

But, I do understand that other people - especially in school and professional settings - don't like swearing. I'm not some spoiled brat that's going to demand the rules be changed just because I think that swearing is okay. I'll respect the rules if I feel they deserve the respect. But I do slip up one or a thousand times a day, and it isn't always good. My resolution for this one? Two words: swear jar.


Around two years ago, I got hardcore into fitness. I walked everywhere, I went to boxing classes, I ate salad for lunch every day, I drank at least a litre or more of water a day, and I could run 5K in half an hour. And then I stopped, and I'm still not entirely sure why.

The walking everywhere part I blame on the fact that my friends started passing their driving tests and were so excited about having their own cars that they offered to drive everywhere. For the rest? I have no real excuse except junk food is delicious and Netflix made me lazy. Now don't get me wrong - I know that I'm not fat. At a UK size 12, I'm pretty much average for a woman my age and I'm totally okay with that. It's more the way that fat is distributed on my body (i.e. all around my tummy and waist) than how much of it there is. In just six months time, I'm jetting off to Palma Nova with five friends, and I intend of having toned legs and washboard abs so me and my bestie Ryan can get some seriously Vogue-worthy snaps on the beach.

The resolution to this problem?

Well, for a start I've drawn up two ten-minute workout plans which I intend to squeeze in somewhere everyday (alternating between the two). Myself and a mate have plans to go to the gym twice a week, and I've recently gotten back into the swing of things with the app Zombies, run! - which, by the way, I'd recommend to anyone who wants to get into running but just finds it boring. I also intend to start taking salads to school again, instead of choosing from the oh-so-tempting but relatively unhealthy options on the canteen menu. Wish me luck!!

So, those are a few of my Not-So-New Year's Resolutions. Have you guys made any? Has anybody actually stuck to any of their New Year's Resolutions? Let me know in the comments!

Happy Reading,
Jazz xo

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  1. Well I'm trying with the poem a day thing :)

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    1. Ah I should really set myself the same goal. I've fallen off the poetry wagon lately because school and work, and I miss it so. Good luck with it :)