Travel Talk – Crete 2017

This is my Dad, my Mum, and my brother. In June, we went on ‘the last family holiday’.

Every time I say that phrase, it sounds very morbid. None of us are dying or are off to war or have sworn a familial hatred. I personally think this title of ‘the last family holiday’ is an abbreviation. From my parent’s view, it was ‘the last family holiday when both of the kids are sort of kids, well they aren’t kids anymore, but the last one before university and full time employment ‘, and for Joseph and I it was ‘the last family holiday where we both don’t have to pay for anything’. So, let’s just call it ‘the last family holiday’.

Crete sunset

We went to Crete to spend time together, but also to celebrate my brother’s belated eighteenth birthday, and my twenty-first. My twenty-first birthday landed right in the middle of the holiday. I’ll be honest; there was nowhere I’d rather be on my twenty-first than RUNNING AROUND PRETENDING TO BE NATHAN DRAKE IN UNCHARTED 4. (For those of you who have not played the PS4 games Uncharted 4, Nathan Drake basically drives around some hills in a warm country and climbs small, run down towers looking for treasure. I know, I make the most cultural parallels).

I will be honest; Crete has the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen (and I grew up in hilly South Wales). It is naturally untamed, flowers bursting through old stone buildings. Dusty rock faces that crumble into the sea. Twisty roads that climb into the mountains. It’s just like if the Scottish Highlands and Dubai had a baby. Goats and shrubbery and hills; Scotland. Dust and sea and heat; Dubai.

As a child, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I was in love with Ancient History; the Romans, The Incas, the Greeks. When I found we were going to Crete, I was so happy; ‘think of all the crumbling old pillars I can see! The walls! The foundations…’ I was a little disappointed when I researched the area of Crete we would be staying in, and found almost zero remains of Ancient Greek history. I was in Greece and I couldn’t even learn about the Greek Gods.  What a first world problem. Of course, I was wrong. Crete was bursting all areas of history, including hidden Greek history.

On one of our first days, we visited the ancient city of Aptera. Aptera was a Roman built city, then take over by the Greeks, until it was destroyed by an earth quake in the seventh century. A monastery of St John Theologos was built on there by the twelfth century and only shut within the last fifty years. Considering most of the city is a thousand years old and was ruined by an earthquake, much of it still stands. Nature had begun to take its course and would have definitely taken over if not for the occasional care of the Crete government. We walked through shrubbery and rocks to explore the still standing cisterns, and the caved in temples. The theatre obsessed side of me was very happy to discover they had an intact Roman theatre with usable seating bank. I imagine we would have stayed much longer if the heat hadn’t been forty-two degrees without a breeze. (Also, when researching for this post, I discovered Aptera was actually a very important place for Greek mythology! Well, sort of. The Muses and the Sirens once had a riff off there.)

Skipping forward a few hundred (quite a few hundred) years, we visited the populous Chania Old Town, and the historic Fortezza of Rethymno, both built by the Republic of Venice in their mid-millennia take over. Both places were subsequently taken over by the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century, but hey, let’s look at that in a good light; more history for us to see! Chania Old Town is made of dusty orange brick work, and is famous for the Venetian lighthouse that stands in the harbour. It is as typical as you would think of a large tourist town in Crete. Winding alleyways, open doors into homes, dogs and cats roaming the streets. Sellers trying to flog you jewellery, the warm smell of fresh bread, desolate houses next to luxury villas.

Fortezza of Rethymno was a historic sight as opposed to a historic town. We walked around, admiring the old buildings that populated the inside of the fort; the chapels, a mosque, store rooms, a random contemporary art gallery that scared me a little bit. I would advise wearing walking shoes when visiting the Fortezza; the Venetians did not cater for a sprained ankle and sandals.

I was surprised to find that the island had a strong historical presence from World War 2. The German Army attempted to invade Crete by air, but the Allied and Greek troops defended the island. All that is now left of the war are abandoned pill boxes and War Cemeteries. At the end of the holiday, we visited the Souda Bay War Cemetery, where hundreds of Allied soldiers are buried, many of them unnamed. It was a simple, beautiful, and moving place. A memorial in the centre, white gravestones fanning out across the green grass, flowers perfectly kept. It was a place of stillness.

On this ‘last family holiday’, we did more than just sightseeing. After the first two days of blistering heat, it settled to a gorgeous thirty-four degrees at midday; perfect weather for the beach. We tanned on the sand, read under the sun, and swam in the sea.

Oh, the sea. The sea in Crete was a beautiful azure colour; it looked like someone had taken the entire sea and put a saturation heavy Instagram filter on it.

When I go abroad, I like to be a cuisine connoisseur. What I mean by that is I love food and want to try and eat all of it. When it comes to food, Crete truly holds my heart. My birthday cake was a traditional Crete sweet cream pastry from a traditional street vendor. My birthday dinner consisted of wine, chicken, and the ultimate food; rice stuffed vine leave. Oh my. I felt like I had died and gone to foody heaven.


As you can tell, I love Crete. I love its beauty, its food, its history. But there was one thing that I became particularly enamoured with, that I would request we pull over on the side of the road for.


On every road, there would be a small open-able box on the side. There were more on the mountains and on the winding roads. Some were made of metal and were rusting away, others of stone with their door hinges falling off. Some were small and made of marble; some so large they took your breath away. In each little box, there were remnants, memories of someone. There would always be a candle and a picture of a saint within, but the contents would vary beyond that. A perfume bottle, cigarette from two years ago, a medallion, a baby photo. I found out that each of these shrines are dedicated to someone who died in a crash, either on the certain part of the road, or nearby. The shrines are put up to remember those who lost their lives, the contents linked to the person and their families. Some of the shrines were much newer than others; glass doors, no dust, fresh flowers. Some were older but still cared for; you could tell this by the lit candle within.  Some were fifty, sixty, seventy years old, derelict and untouched, apart from the curious tourists. Some of the older ones had been reclaimed by nature; we opened one to find it was now a wasp’s nest, another to find that a rat had made the shrine its home. I found all of them curious and fascinating, but the one marking the entry to a small town was incomparable. There was a stone monument with steps up to the centre, where there must have been at least eight separate shrines. At the bottom of the monument there were even more. Despite my attempts at researching, I can’t find out why such a large monument is there. However, it has stayed with me as pure fascination and admiration.

It may be ‘the last family holiday’ (although I highly doubt it; we’ll always have family holidays), but I only have fond memories of my time in Crete. I turned twenty-one in our rented villa. I found out I was graduating with a 2:1 sat by the pool. I spent time with my family, something I miss now I live in Winchester and them in Wales. I learnt about the country and its history, and lots about the food and wine.

Crete is a damn beautiful island and I had a very special time there.


Talk Literary to Me

Excuse my language here, but there is no other way to say it – books are the shit. I mean that in a good way. Books are my greatest joy, apart from carbs and my dog Chewie. For three years, I studied BA English Literature & Drama at the University of Winchester; I basically did a degree in books. However, doing a degree in books means that you have to read and you more than likely don’t get a choice of what you read. When you do get a choice, you quickly learn to regret that choice (don’t pick a favourite book for a dissertation topic, it will soon no longer be a favourite, at least for your final year). Reading becomes graded and regimented, and the joy of reading can sometimes fade (especially when you look at texts through psychoanalytic lenses. Thanks for that, Freud).  However, university is now complete, I never have to look at Lacan again, and my love of reading has returned! Less sitting in a hot study room, banging my head on the table, more sitting down with a cuppa with a good book. Riding off the back of my renewed love of reading, here are my top six books (so far). Let me know in the comments below what you think of my choices, and what your favourite books are.


6. Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie, 1911

6. Peter Pan.JPG

Ah, that childhood classic. Well for me, the book was not a childhood classic. The 1953 Disney move certainly was. I remember young Rosie putting the VHS in and singing along to ‘We’re Following the Leader’, only to rewind it to sing it again. Looking back, the film was certainly not very politically correct, but young Rosie had no care for that; she just had a desire to sing and an odd crush on Peter Pan. It was when I was older, in my early teens, that I discovered Peter Pan was a book. In my early teens, I was going through an ‘elitism’ phase. I had a side fringe, a studded belt, and an attitude that shouted ‘the only real music is classic rock’. Yeah, I was one of those. That elitism seeped its way into my reading habits, and I started reading classics because ‘they are the only real literature (followed by a teenage grunt and sassy hair flick)’. I remember reading it in bed, feeling ridiculously proud of myself for ‘being cooler than the other girls’ because I was reading a classic book. However, it elicited something more. It was the first book that ever truly struck a chord with me. It pulled me back into childhood wonder and totally absorbed me into the world within its pages. I read it in one sitting, and swiftly read it again the next night. As a teenager, it brought me back to being a child. As an adult, it’s a book that makes me happy in its simplicity, something I have yet to find in another book.


5. Voyage in the Dark by Jeans Rhys, 1934

5. Voyage in the Dark.JPG

This was a book introduced to me by The Modern Age module in my second year. I had never heard of it or Jean Rhys before, nor had I ever been really invested in Modernist literature. I mean, I liked a bit, but that was all. I did something that you should never do in university (please learn from me and my mistakes), and that is read the book at 1am the night before the module. I thought I would do a little skim read, maybe check out for the book’s themes, but I became instantly invested in the text. It’s about a young woman, a chorus girl, who moves away from her home and has to support herself in rainy England. It’s a simple premise, but incredibly enticing. The text deals with taboo subjects of the time, notably female sexuality, race issues, abortion, and the crushing of the darn patriarchy. Feminist and ground breaking? Hit me up. This is the book that really turned me into reading Modernist literature, and turned me into an accidental Modernist scholar. If you like feminism, modernism, and aren’t afraid of bluntness, give this book a go.


4. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, 2005

4. Never Let Me Go.JPG

I’m not normally a dystopia kind of gal. All of the dystopian fiction I have tried to read was too violent or too regressive for my taste e.g. too many alien slave girls. That is, until I read Never Let Me Go. This books follows the character of Kathy as she grows up in a specialist English boarding school and how she deals with love, loss, and life. Very simple, very lovely. Oh, and a large group of humans are bred as clones to serve the purpose of being a donor. Ah.
I’ve managed to put my finger on two points as to why Never Let Me Go is one of my favourite books. Firstly, it’s just a good, easy, heartfelt read. I took it on holiday with me to Dubai and read it sat by the pool. It is the perfect holiday read. It’s also easy to read because the characters are easy to understand and to relate to (that is, apart from being bred as a clone). Personally, I believe these characters are the most realistically written of any book I have read so far. Secondly, it has an underlying socialist message that questions human morality and ethics. That’s right, lull the audience into a false sense of warmth and then strike them with the Orwellian messages. I have always admired books that can entertain and make you think, and this book made me question the notion of morality and identity for days. In fact, I haven’t read it in about a year and it’s still making me question what I thought I knew.


3. Ten Years in an Open Neck Shirt by John Cooper Clarke, 20143. Ten Years

A-Level English crushed my love of poetry. We seemed to only study Romanticism, Blake, Bysshe, Byron; all self-important men with whiny words that bored me to death. I decided poetry was not for me, except for good ol’ Shakespeare’s sonnets.  That’s until I discovered John Cooper Clarke. I was meandering my local Waterstones, and came upon this book in the poetry section. I loved the fantastical Rolling Stones-esque cover, opened it up to page 49 and was sold. Page 49 was a poem entitled ‘Evidently Chicken Town’ and it was like nothing I had ever read before. It was rude and rhythmic and real. It was intelligent and silly and garish and all encompassingly punk. After buying the book, I fell in love with one of the poems called ‘I Wanna Be Yours’, which was made famous by the Arctic Monkeys. For me, Ten Years, upholds everything I like about poetry. The musicality, the brashness, the honesty, the creativity. I tell you, I would pay good money to read John Cooper Clarke’s rewriting of the Romantics.


2. Just Kids by Patti Smith, 2010

2. Just Kids

My enjoyment of Patti Smith’s memoir Just Kids came as a big surprise to me. I had heard such marvellous things about the writing of the book, but I had never listen to any of Patti Smith’s music before. I just assumed she was your usual nineteen-seventies punk rocker, all loudness, sex, drugs, and rock n roll. Hand on heart, Just Kids is the most beautiful book I have ever read. It is so incredibly descriptive, you can feel her emotions dripping off the page. It documents the struggles she and others like her went through, the rise to fame, the high and the low points. What impressed me the most, is that you can hear Smith’s voice throughout. She has such a distinctive way of writing, whether that be poetry, lyrics, or her books, and she unashamedly keeps her voice. I would recommend Just Kids to anyone for the sheer beauty of it, but I would highly recommend it to my friends trying to make their way in the arts. She documents that endeavour perfectly, but also inspires.


1. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, 1963

1. The Bell Jar

This is the book that made me me. I would not be the Rosie Lewis I am today without it. I first read this book when I was about fifteen, when I knew that I wanted to study Literature. I was starved for influential female writers, so I made it my mission to read as many books by female authors as I could. When I read The Bell Jar at that young age, I could feel the importance of the book. I could tell it was ground-breaking and daring but I couldn’t really relate to it. I enjoyed it and put it back on the shelf and in the back of my mind. I re-read it again when I was eighteen, and I broke down sobbing on a train because it affected me that much. The story follows Esther Greenwood as she tries to be successful whilst struggling with mental health problems. Every theme, every interaction, every thought Esther had had felt like mine. Every struggle and joy she had, I had a variant in my life. I have read this book more than ten times in the last two years and it has gotten me through my worst depressive period. I can genuinely say what pulled me through was anti-depressants, love from my family and friends, and The Bell Jar. For a book written by Sylvia Plath about depression, treatment, and oppression, it’s a surprisingly uplifting book. Every time I read The Bell Jar, I find something new and resonant within it. It has made me, changed me, and inspired me; that is why it is my favourite ever book.


Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think of the post, and what your favourite books are in the comments. I’m all about that conversation.


Rosie, out.

Why We Need DCEU’s ‘Wonder Woman’

This is a *no spoiler* blog post, so those of you who haven’t seen ‘Wonder Woman’ or don’t want to can still enjoy.

            The perks of working in a cinema? The occasional free ticket to any film you want to see. It’s especially great as you don’t feel you’ve wasted money on a particularly naff film (here’s looking at you Pirates of The Caribbean: Salazar’s Revenge). However, there is one film this year that I would have gladly spent my money on, and I certainly will when the film comes out on DVD. That film, is DCEU’s ‘Wonder Woman’.  I’m a big, ol’ comic book movie fan, so of course I was excited to see this. As a big, ol’ feminist comic book movie fan, the excitement was doubled and met with trepidation. After watching it,  I can safely say I was right to be excited regarding this movie. It was fast-paced and meaningful and dramatic and everything you would want a good comic book movie to be.  Nevertheless, I left the cinema feeling more than entertained. I left the cinema saying ‘gosh darn, I needed that movie.’ It’s true, I did need that movie. But I also felt it wasn’t just me who needed that movie. It was the film industry and the comic book industry and the world that we live in that I felt and still feel that need this movie.

Let me tell you why I think we need DC’s ‘Wonder Woman’.

            Firstly, ‘Wonder Woman’ made it happened. The big thing. The long, overdue haul. The thing the majority of us have been waiting for. We now have a solo female superhero. Oh, do you know how good that makes me feel to write that? In the early to mid noughties, Marvel and DC started their cinematic universes and it’s taken over ten years to give us, their audience, a solo female superhero (even though 46% of comic fans identify as female[1]). Alright, I know what some of you are thinking; ‘what about DC’s ‘Catwoman’ in 2004?’ There are thirteen years in-between ‘Catwoman’ and ‘Wonder Woman’; a whole different generation has sprouted since then, the world has changed drastically. That’s two solo female superheroes across thirteen years, as opposed to about one hundred male based solo superhero movies we’ve been given. I am also very aware that there are female superheroes in the movies, such as Marvel’s Scarlet Witch and Black Widow, but they are not the stars of their own movies. They are supporting characters at most. ‘Wonder Woman’ gives the female audience what they so desperately need; a female counterpart, an equal counterpart that’s not just the romantic lead. This is the first female solo feature length superhero movie in all of the Marvel Cinematic Universe so far and in the last decade of DC’s movies. That’s why ‘Wonder Woman’ and Diana Prince are so important, so needed. Wonder Woman certainly doesn’t solve that gender gap in comic book movies, not by a long stretch. It’s as Michelle Wolf from ‘The Daily Show[2]’ says; ‘You know when we’ll feel like women are equal at the box office? When we get to make a bad superhero movie an then immediately make another one. Men get chance after chance to make superhero movies.’ ‘Wonder Woman’ doesn’t instantly fix that inequality issue, nor will it make the box office equal in any way, shape, or form. However, ‘Wonder Woman’ is a well needed step in the right direction, into having not just male superheroes. That’s why it’s important.

            Another reason why ‘Wonder Woman’ is so needed? The sexualisation of women is almost non-existent. That’s a damn breath of fresh air, I tell you. For a start, Diana’s armour, is actually armour. When playing video games or watching movies, I spend a large amount of time saying things such as ‘that’s not armour, that’s lingerie’, ‘her boobs would definitely pop out of that chest guard’, and ‘bless her, that just looks uncomfortable’. During the film, I found my inner grandmother coming out, thinking ‘she must be cold in that outfit’, but I never once did think ‘gosh, her midriff is out, that’s not suitable for battle’. Diana’s Wonder Woman outfit, you know the famous one, is short but is moveable and protective and badass. Gal Gadot certainly rocked the metal breastplate and leather skirt, but it was amazing to see a costume designer actually think of the practicalities of a fighting outfit, not just ‘does this cover the naughty bits but accentuate the rounder bits’. Not only that, the romance in the movie isn’t sexualised. Can you believe that? I couldn’t, at first. Still no spoilers, no worries. I thought there must be a useless sex scene amongst the flirting and nuances, but no. Both characters involved with the romance were treated with the same, utmost respect. I’m still a little bit frazzled by that. A man and a woman, in a superhero movie, not participating in sex in which there is a gender bias? Unfeasible (Yes, that was sarcasm, thank you very much). During the movie, I didn’t once feel uncomfortable regarding over-sexualisation; this rarely happens to me in box office action movies. I am sure I’m not the only person who finds over sexualisation reductive and outdated. ‘Wonder Woman’ shows that you can have a wildly successful superhero movie without the sexualisation of women; that’s why ‘Wonder Woman’ is so needed.

            Another reason why ‘Wonder Woman’ is a needed, boss-ass movie? Representation my dear friends. A strong female lead who is intelligent, strong, and powerful? Check. A large number of women in the cast with speaking roles? Check. A little Rosie fact – when I saw all of the women in Themyscira, Diana’s homeland, I started to cry. I had genuinely, never seen that amount of women treated neutrally or positively on screen before. I think I may have wept every time I saw Diana too, but let’s not tell anyone about that. A racially diverse cast? Check. Well, it may not be as diverse as it should be, but it certainly is a step in the right direction. I was prepared for a completely white-washed main cast, but when I saw a large amount of women of colour in Themyscira, I punched my partner’s arm in happiness. Two of the main male characters are Moroccan and Native American respectively. Again, I wasn’t expecting this at all. The box office is no way near as racially diverse as it should be, but ‘Wonder Woman’s small step in the right direction shows how important a diverse and fair film industry is. A female director? Check. A lead actor who is a good role model for younger audiences? Check. Not only that, Gal Gadot is Israeli, smashing that white-washing, and she also doesn’t fall into the Hollywood trope of slight, breakable women; have you seen the muscles on that woman? She’s strong and fit, and is not afraid to show that. ‘Wonder Woman’ is needed because it offers what we need; we need that representation.

            I came out of the screen with my ears ringing with the message of the last thirty minutes of the film. The message is simple; hatred and fear is not going to help anything, love and hope are what we need to believe in. This message is seriously needed right now. Trump is pushing hatred, Trident is dealing in fear, terrorists are trying to break us. It’s so simple, but that message in ‘Wonder Woman’ grounded me, it reminded me that love and hope are good, and we shouldn’t buy into the fear and hatred that is pushed upon us. I didn’t expect to be so deeply affect by a superhero movie about a magical rope.

‘Wonder Woman’ is certainly not a perfect movie. It’s a good movie, a fair movie, but it has its flaws. However, it is a damn good push in the right direction. That’s why we need ‘Wonder Woman’.


If you’ve seen ‘Wonder Woman’, let me know what you think of the movie and if you agree with what I’ve got to say. I love I good conversation. Thanks for reading!




(Originally posted on June 3rd 2017 @

Rosie Lewis, the unhealthy potato

Last week, my nightmares came true. I had to run for the bus.

It was time to take the eleven year old boy I childmind to his oboe lesson, and we were going to be late to the bus stop. So I picked up my pace to a quick walk, the one that you tend to see Londoners doing. Look, the only thing I’ll run for is gig tickets, a puppy, or free pizza. I continued down the road at this quick pace. He turned around to see where I was, his face fell. He shouted ‘the bus is behind you, we’ve got to run!’ and he started sprinting.

Balls. It was behind me.

I began to run. It wasn’t so bad at first. Well, for the first ten seconds. Then, it hit me. ‘Bloody hell I am unfit’. I could feel my asthma beginning to kick off, my whole body screaming ‘what the hell are you doing? This is not a pleasant stroll’, and my knees were creaking like the ropes of a pirate ship. I went back to a quick walk, red faced in more ways than one as the bus drove past me.

Whilst listening to the screeching sounds of Grade 5 oboe, I had an epiphany. I am gosh darned unfit. I ran for ten seconds and felt like I was going to die. My joints click and muscles ache from under use. I’ve lived in Winchester for three years and I still need a lie down when I get to the top of Romsey Road. I sprained my ankle tripping over some water for Heaven’s sake. To the sounds of squealing Bach I realised, I have to get fit.

There are so many reasons for this, not just because I got out run by a 5 mph city bus. I see so many people on social media going rock climbing and doing yoga; I look at them and go ‘wow, I want to do that!’ The thing is, when I try to do that, it doesn’t go well. My arms can’t support the weight of my body when rock climbing, so I end up lumped on the floor like a sack of potatoes. In yoga, I can manage that really difficult pose I’ve been admiring for weeks, but then my muscles start to spasm and I’m reduced to a sack of potatoes yet again. I feel like a potato. And not a French fry, or a croquette; I feel like a potato that’s been left in the back of the cupboard for weeks that has gone slightly green and is a little mushy. I don’t want to feel like that. I want to be strong. I want to feel like a hash brown. I always run in head first when it comes to exercise, and then I get upset that I can’t do things as well as other people. The truth is, I’ve got to start at the very beginning. It is a very good place to start.

I’m also Queen of the Asthmatics. My doctors have told me that my asthma will get better if I exercise a bit more. I always say ‘oh yes, of course I will’ but we all know I never do that. Plus, my hormones and brain chemicals are all kinds of messed up. If you exercise, positive endorphins are emitted and can have a positive impact on mental health. But no, I always retreat under the covers instead of donning my trainers.* Furthermore, my boyfriend is fit, and I don’t just mean in appearance. He’s on the Ultimate Frisbee team, he finds joy in playing football, and he can run up St Catherine’s Hill. I can barely walk up St Catherine’s Hill. I want to be able to keep up with him. Well, I could never play Ultimate Frisbee because I have the hand-eye co-ordination of a new born deer, and I just don’t enjoy playing the same kind of football he does. I like a bit of a kick around, not eleven player, 4-2-3-1, score or die football; that intimidates me. However, I love it when we go jogging together. I want us both to be able to push ourselves and enjoy it, not him saying ‘come on love, you can do this’ whilst we are only five minutes down the road, and me thinking ‘I hate him so much, how dare he be stronger and faster than me’. That is how most of our jogging sessions go. I also love physical theatre (that’s the sort that’s a bit arty farty and a little bit dance-y, for those people who don’t know), but I always feel restricted by the fitness level of my body. If I get fitter, I can create even more theatre. And maybe my knees won’t click when I perform. It’s very loud and distracting.

And now, here’s the section that I’ve been nervous about writing. I also want to get fit so I can lose weight. I know there will be the influx of ‘why though? What? Don’t be silly’ etc from some of you readers. Wait wait wait, everything shall be addressed.

It was pay day, a good one at that, so I meandered into New Look for a browse. Well, a little shop. I saw some ripped black jeans in the sale, they were in my size, so I went and bought them. Simple. How happy was I, walking home, thinking of how indie I would look the next day. Alas, the time came to pull them on. I was very happy I didn’t ruin them by putting my foot through one of the artful rips. I wasn’t very happy when it came to doing them up. No matter how much I struggled, breathed in, hoisted to my waist, the button would not do up. I checked the size; size 12, my regular New Look trouser size. I grabbed my old pair of New Look jeans and tried them on. Balls. They didn’t fit either. Then ensued an hour of me trying on pieces of clothing and noticing that the majority did not fit or sat oddly on my body. Many things went through my mind. Many negative thoughts. However, the overriding thought was ‘I can’t afford to buy any new clothes! I’m a student!’ So, in losing weight, I am saving myself a fortune in avoiding buying a new wardrobe.

It’s all fun and games laughing with me at wanting to be strong, at my foolish behaviour, at me falling over, at me not fitting into my jeans. But here’s the truth; I am unhealthy. I am overweight, according to the doctors. I am not happy with my body.  When sorting out my bedroom, I found a diary from seven years ago, from when I was thirteen. It was a food and exercise log. I have been trying to lose weight for seven years. I’ve struggled with body image for at least seven years. I know a lot of my negative thoughts are bred from society and are engrained in my mind; the desire to be skinny and perfect and all that jazz. But I’m trying to block that out. I know they are stupid thoughts. To be honest, I have no desire to be skinny; I have large childbearing hips, there’s no way they’ll ever be skinny. I just want to be fit and healthy and happy. I know I am beautiful; I have the shoulders of a Greek goddess, a bum to die for, eyes the colour of the sea, thighs strong enough to kill a man. But, I want to be able to look at my arms and belly and hips and back and the bits I don’t like and say ‘damn girl, you are strong and beautiful’. This is not about being skinny. This is about being strong and healthy. This is about being the best Rosie I can be. This is about my body, my rules.

Now, that’s all well and good, but I can imagine a lot of people saying ‘why the hell is she writing about this?’ Well, it’s a few reasons really. Firstly, I’ve got to keep this blog alive with some quality content. Secondly, I am fickle, I hate letting people down, and I care what people think of me. Oh so healthy, right? If I tell myself I’m going to get fit, there’s a high chance that I’ll go ‘I’ll start tomorrow’ and do that for the rest of eternity whilst getting stuck to my sofa. If I tell other people, I’ll have no choice to do it or they’ll think of me as a lazy loser who lies around lying. (Essentially guilt tripping myself.) Look, if it works for me, it works for me. Finally, I know a lot of people are going through the same problems as I am; struggling with body image, finding it difficult to get up and going, people who are not healthy but really want to be. You’re not alone. I can guarantee millions of people are feeling the same as you, including this little wheezy woman here. But we can do this. We can. It may be bloody difficult and painful, but we can do this; and my oh my, won’t it be worth it?

So, hold me to it world. Watch my self-esteem and strength go from slightly off four week old potato to MacDonald’s hash brown. I’m excited. I’m also nervous and sad because I hate running. But excited.

*I know exercise does not solve depression and other mental health problems. Oh hell, I know. But, it does make me feel better for a little while.

(Originally posted on April 11th 207 @

What to do when Life kicks you in the balls…

Excuse my French here, but life can be shit. And when it is shit, it doesn’t do it by half. Life rains down upon you like hellfire and brimstone, throwing debt and morality at you like an absurdist cricket game, taunting you with every negativity you can think of. I’ll admit, life has not been an easy, breezy walk in the park for me in the last seven or so months. Instead of moping about it (which I am very good at doing), I‘ve decided to take a different approach this time. Here, I’ve collected my top tried and tested tips on how to alleviate Life’s horrible antics and ways to come to terms with her mean ways. I’m not saying these will work for everyone, I’m not even saying they work for me all of the time, but they have been successful in the past. So, this is for those who have been bullied by Life, whether that be through grief, relationship stress, money troubles, or Life has just beaten you up in loads of different ways and now you find it hard to get up. I hope you get something worthwhile out of reading this, whether that be you feel better, you are amused, or you find my writing so atrocious that it makes you feel better about yourself. Let’s begin.

1. Don’t dwell on the situation

Ah yes, a lovely easy one to start off the list. Not. When Life has decided to kick you in the balls, it is all you can think about. It plays on your mind non-stop, and ignoring it is nigh on impossible. However, don’t forcibly think of the situation. Don’t force it to the surface constantly. Allow yourself to be distracted, don’t feel guilty for that. If Life is going to keep hitting you with reminders every hour, there’s no point wasting the other 59 minutes stewing in sadness.

2. Have a hot bath

Or a shower, both would work. I wouldn’t recommend having a shower and a bath at the same time though; no-one likes a flooded bathroom. As Sylvia Plath says ‘there must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.’ Man, this is my mantra. By having a hot bath, I find myself relaxed and unable to focus on anything else other than my book and my glasses steaming up. Just make sure the bath isn’t too hot; you don’t need second degree burns making Life an even more difficult task.

3. Do what boosts your endorphins!

Now for some people this involves waking up super early, and jogging out in the forest for hours on end. For others, this involves shoving a tonne of chocolate and red wine into their body. Find what boosts your endorphins, find what gives you that little lift, and do a bit of it each day. PSA: this is not me saying it is fine to drink a bottle of wine a day. It may fix some problems, but I can assure you that they’ll be worse in the morning.

4. Drown your soul in Netflix and YouTube

I, for one, recently drowned my soul and sorrows in ‘The People VS OJ Simpson’ and the Amanda Knox documentary. Now, they may seem a little hard hitting, especially if you’ve got Life running after you with a machete, but I found them really good as a distraction. Why? Because my problems do not involve a celebrity murder case, John Travolta, and a five day murderous romance in Italy. I could get completely sucked in and focus solely on storyline without anything reminding me of my own problems. I’m sure, watching Zoolander and Louis Theroux could also alleviate some symptoms of Life.

5. Make sure you eat and drink

Easy-peasy, but you don’t think to do it when your mind is elsewhere. Eat your veggies to make sure you don’t get a cold. Drink so water so you stay hydrated. Treat yo’ self because you deserve it.

6. Accept that you are in a world of pain

Your heart is hurting. Your chest is pounding. Your head is swimming. And that’s fine. Life is beating you up with a hammer, you are allowed to feel pain. You may not have any control over the situation you are in, or the feelings you are having. It is only when you stop fighting the pain you are in, that it can begin to get better. Accept that you are in a world of pain. You can survive it, I promise.

7. Venture outside

Oh man, I hate this tip, I never want to do it. When Life hates me, I hate Life and I just want to sit down and not get up. Unfortunately, going outside does work. Walk the dog, look at the flowers in the garden, stand in your door way looking out at the horrible rain and then go back inside. Feel the air on your face, move from the house a little bit, and know that the world is still turning outside.

8. Get on with it

This is a little bit harsh but it’s true. Life may be kicking you in the balls and you may be smothered in pain, but get on with it. Get on with living as you were. It may be difficult as you’ve got one more thing to worry about, but the world will not stop for you. It won’t. So, you’ve got to continuing moving on and loving those that you love and doing what you need to do. Get on with it for the sake of your friends and family and for yourself. It’s harsh but true. Getting on with life as normal may help you forget the pain, or even alleviate it. Try it, it may help.

9. Cry

This is my favourite tip. Let it all out. Howl. Scream and punch pillows. Cry to your loved ones. Sob until you can’t sob anymore. Get red in the face and have blood shot eyes and have a runny nose and cry and cry and cry. Let out all of the pain and the anger. Bottling it up certainly won’t work; we’re like a shaken bottle of Coke, bottling it up will just make a mess.

10. Know you are good

Know that even if you have messed up to the highest degree, if your world is ending, if you are confused to the heavens, if you feel jilted, if you are alone, if you have failed – there is good in you. Life may want to beat you down and that may make you feel weak and useless. Just remember, you still have good in you. You may not see it now, but you do.

Life may be kicking you in the balls, but in the immortal words of the eternal Samwise Gamgee, ‘in the end it’s only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass.’ Life will eventually top hitting you and will move on to someone else. You’ve just got to keep going while it happens.


(Originally posted on March 21st 2017 @

New Year, New Me?

‘Twas the night before New Year, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

Apart from Rosie Lewis who was having an extestential crisis.

It was in early December that I remembered the year 2017 would be arriving shortly, and there would be an influx of people on Facebook saying ‘New Year, New Me’, people bettering themselves, and asking me, ‘what are your New Year’s resolutions?’ Cue panic regarding New Year’s Resolutions.

‘It’s a New Year, there must be a new me!’ I worried. ‘Everyone else is doing it!’ (As my mum says, if your friends jumped off the pier, would you jump too? But, alas, I forgot about that saying for a while…)

I sat down to gather my thoughts and my possibilities. 2016 Rosie was a massive jumble of anxiety, Shakespeare, confusion, and gin. Who could 2017 Rosie be?


I could be an intrepid traveller, running off to different parts of the country to ‘find myself’. I could explore the world, meet new people, learn about new cultures!

Then I remembered that I have no money, I can’t stand up straight the majority of the time, and I don’t really have a desire to go travelling on my own.

I could be a full-time, dedicated worker. Like Dolly Parton, 9-5. Working all day, every day, to make that dolla dolla.

Then I remembered, I’m not all about the money. I need money to survive and I want to have a good life but I don’t want to work myself into the ground. What a way to make a living.

I could become a fitness guru! Green smoothies, 5am starts, getting those gains, Tuesday leg day, shaping my body to be the epitome of the human form.

Then I remembered, definitely not. I love being healthy but I’m not concerned about muscles or BMI. Sure, I’m concerned about my health and my looks, but not to the extent of waking up at 5am for it. I don’t think there’s anything on earth worth waking up at 5am for…

I could go home and take a year (or a few years) out; recover from my health problems, work down the mines, return to my Welsh roots.

Then I remembered, I’ve settled down in Winchester. I have my work and creativity and love and friendship up there. Wales is home but Winchester is where I live and thrive.

I could become a mother.


I could drop everything and join the circus.

Then I remembered, I have no discernible talent that could contribute to a circus in anyway. Apart from maybe falling over? Hmm. No.

I could go and work in a Greek taverna and escape it all.

Then I remembered, I don’t want to escape it all.


This internal dialogue continued up until December 31st, New Year’s Eve.

Here’s an example of the brain mush that was going on at this time – perhaps an SNL cast member, it’s not too late to take up a sport, maybe I could be a professional musician, perhaps if I gave up reading classics, I’ve always enjoyed interior design etc. etc. etc.


And then it hit me. ‘New Year, New Me’.

I don’t even know who ‘me’ is. I know I’m Rosie Lewis, but I don’t know how I would go about making myself new because I don’t even know who I am.

I am confused and fidgety and Welsh and in love. I know I like Shakespeare and hate Jonson. I love lemon curd and hate Marmite. I like dogs and cats but I’m not too fussed on hamsters. I have mental health problems and I’m fighting through them. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing after university but I know it’ll creative and theatre based. I like Sylvia Plath but I never got into Rupi Kaur. I love to watch the rain but I thrive in the sun.

These are all parts that make up ‘me’ and I don’t mind these parts. In fact, I quite like them. Although they make up ‘me’, I still don’t really know who I am yet. I’m 20 for Heaven’s sake! I’m just starting to like myself, I don’t want to change that! Just because some people want to renew themselves and be different people, it doesn’t mean that I have to.


New Year, Same Me. Panic over.

Just hopefully dealing better with my finances and washing my hair a bit more…


(Originally posted on January 1st 2016 @

Mr Stanford Swimmer

You see him leaving the building. His shirt is ironed, his hair combed, but his face looks gaunt. He walks through the crowd of vicious reporters, each trying to get an exclusive or a response. The guards around him guide him into a car, and he slips away, back into the world. This shouldn’t be happening to him. He’s only twenty one. This shouldn’t happen, not yet.

No. He should still be locked up.

I am, of course, talking about Brock Turner. For those who do not know, Turner sexually assaulted an unconscious woman with intent of rape, and was stopped when he was tackled by passers-by. The twenty-one year old was given a sentence of six months prison time, and has just been released; three months early. His recommended prison time was a minimum of six years. There are people serving more time in prison for possession of small amounts of marijuana. Good going America.

I don’t want to talk about the trial or the incident or whether his race, class, and gender had anything to do with his reduced sentence (I most certainly think it did); I want to talk about what his reduced sentence means. What it means to me, to the victim, to hundreds of thousands of women across the world.

I must ask, do you like walking in the dark? I used to love it. Holding onto my parent’s hands, looking at the stars, feeling the quietness settle around me. Then, I learnt to watch the news, I heard stories, I grew up. It all changed. I hate walking at night. I despise it. I learnt to walk with my keys in-between my fingers claws, just in case. I hold back tears as the drunk man crosses the road ahead of me, because I fear the worst. I call my boyfriend or my parents or anyone, as women are less likely to be attacked if they are talking to someone. I waste away my hard earned cash on a taxi from work as I can’t trust the darkness or the drunken louts that hide there.

Let me ask another question; do you enjoy partying? I do. I mean, most of the time. There are some downsides to it. You buy a drink that you don’t really like because it’s more difficult to spike a bottle than a glass. You move as a pack, everywhere you go, so one of you is not alone; it’s unsafe to be alone in an environment like that. You just want to let go and drink and relax, but you can’t help that the worst might happen if you do. If it happened to a friend, on your ‘watch’, you would feel like it was your fault they were hurt.

We are so full of fear and yet we are so immune to the cause. Think of the men across the street shouting what they would like to do to you – you think, ‘it’s just a cat call, it could be a lot worse’. That unsolicited grope on the dance floor – ‘I mean, I was wearing a short skirt’. Your friend tells you when they were pushed in an alley and assaulted – ‘oh yeah, the same thing happened to my friend at home’.

Do you know why we are so used to it and yet so, so scared? Do you know why I walk home from work praying I won’t be seen? Do you know why most girls think it is inevitable they will be sexually assaulted? It’s because people are still getting away with it. Turner is a disgusting and prime example. His sentence was reduced as it might ‘ruin his chances of a good life’. Then he gets out three months earlier. People make excuses for him. ‘He made a mistake’. ‘He was drunk’. ‘Hey, we all make mistakes when we are drunk’. Sure, I’ve made mistakes when I was drunk, but I’ve never taken an unconscious girl around the back of a dumpster and assaulted her. Being drunk is not a crime. Sexual assault is. Turner is free to walk around and live his life again, almost free of charge. He’s got to do community service and is on the register, but that is not enough. Mr Stanford Swimmer. A Promising Student. Mistaken Young Man. Let’s just call him what he is – a Sex Offender. And it’s him, people like him, that make the rest of us scared.

Maybe if people were correctly punished for rape and sexual assault, I wouldn’t have to fear for my life when I walk home alone…

(Originally posted on September 3rd 2016 @