As I get older, I seem to be getting younger.

It's true.

At 22, a busdriver asks me 'child's fare, yes?'. My pride slightly offended, and without realising this would save me half the bus fare, I stupidly corrected him on my maturity. On my 23rd birthday, a man at the ice-skating rink told me: 'you don't look a day over 18', after calling me a 'grumpy teenager'. At my boyfriend's 24th birthday, his colleague turns over to me and exclamates 'you look way too young for him', thereafter estimating my face to belong to someone around the age of 19.

Of course, at the moment I'd like nothing more but to look my age. Even more so, because I'd like my life experience (which is very extensive for someone my age, I may add) to shine through not only to acquaintances, but also to potential employers. To be frank, I'm pretty sick of being so goddamn babyfaced.

Yesterday I met a man. Not for the first time, but rather from a brand new perspective. I was surprised that the experience left me feeling grateful for my youth.

'You need to let go, you seem uptight', he said.

At first this made me uncomfortable. Myself and my partner were the only two in the room to be firstly under 30, and more importantly, not clouded up on booze and illegal substances. Let's just say it was a celebration for a family friend.

I had no intention on getting less uptight, however. After all I'd had a hellish few weeks finishing up my Master's thesis, with three other deadlines on Monday. He continued.

'You know what you're problem is, you think too much.'

Again, I had no intention on thinking any less than I already was. I was clearly witnessing a celebration of the bohemian lifestyle. A lifestyle, where rules are only there to keep you caged, rather than safe from harm, and breaking them was the only norm. Not to judge, I let them. But chose to watch from aside.

'You have a plan, don't you. You have it all figured out in your head.'

These weren't the words of a bohemian. Neither were they those of an old and wise man. No, these were the words of a broken man. What or who broke him, I will never know. What I did know, was that he was voicing his personal experience. My imagination kicked off and I was imagining what great plans he had himself once had. Was his conclusion of five decades of life-experience, that life isn't worth controlling, as disappointment is what's served anyway? I could only speculate at the dreams this man had once held. Something had clearly taken away his spirit. I felt slightly sad for him.

It suddenly felt great to be a twenty-three-year old, not knowing what lies ahead. The fact is that the fear of uncertainty is ultimately liberating. It gives you the freedom to steer the boat in which direction you like, or to simply drift with the wind and let it take you. Feeling content with this thought, the babyface retired early from the celebrations, and let those with life written all over them get lost in this moment of rapture.

I will leave you with Goldfrapp's 'Let it Take You', dedicated for those of us who choose to drift with the wind, rather than 'thinking too much'...

Oh, my angel, I'm tryin' to get through to you

Summer Camp - 'Ghost Train'

I wanted to share this song as it makes me undescribably happy. I was even more overjoyed to find out that the song can be downloaded here. Needless it's on my mp3 player on repeat reminding me that better times lie ahead. Ghost Train has that spring-vibe of optimism, that I get from sitting in the summer sun with a smile on my face. At the moment, it's a welcome uplift in times of deadlines and write-up's (yes, I was warned that a Master's was a lot of work!). Summer Camp also have that 'fresh' sound that record labels go crazy for, setting them apart from all the cr*p that charts spew out. Even the Guardian has caught on to this vital fact, so it's about time that you discover the magic too!

Just click play :)

For more of their musical material click here !

Yes, it's SUMMER soon! :)

Sentences I thought I'd never utter

'I'm sorry, but I believe my plum just rolled under your foot.'













Needless to say, it was one of those days when my bag was just so overflowing with stuff that it just voluntarily poors out without any manual manouvering involved. This time it was my lunchbox that plunged into a three-feet dive down from the tabletop as it crawled out of my gaping leather underarm companion. The cucumber made it in one piece. The tomato suffered some splittage down its invisible seams. The honey-and-avocado sandwich left some blood on the carpet. But the plum, it had had enough of life in a box and rolled away under this girl sitting at a computer in the cluster. Being a dark and discrete creature, the runaway fruit went unnoticed by the girl under her pumps. Lucky for me she didn't feel an urge to bend her knees to 90 degrees, which would have resulted in plummicide.

After some thorough rinsing, all pieces of lunch ended up victims of my hungry teeth.


'I'm sorry, but I believe my earring is stuck to your bum'

It was the end of our journalism workshop and as always, technology failed us. Four technical staff of the Manchester University were scratching their heads trying to figure out why the newspiece produced by the TV crew just didn't want to play. Anxious to leave and haunted by thoughts of my unfinished Master's report, I started fiddling with my silver snake earring that I'd had since I was 14. Struck by fate once again, the snake suddenly lauched toward the girl sitting in front of me in the auditorium. I was left with only the back clutch between my surprised thumb and index finger. I tried to peer down to her seat, in an attempt to find the stud behind her bum. I soon realised what I was doing probably seemed rather suspicious to people around me, not to mention inappropriate. I couldn't see the stud. Instead I noted that the girl had the most amazing hair, mainly because of its colossal size, but also because of its mesmerising princess-like waves that paved their way down her designer blazer.

The session ended. The girl leaned back on her seat and got up to leave. A silver serpentine had studded its way onto her behind. I had no choice but to tap on her shoulder and say in the politest possible of ways...

Disclaimer: Innuendos were neither wanted nor intended with this blogpost!!!!

'It was only a dog'

These words pierced through me and I could only wonder at the heartlessness of the person who uttered them.

Was it because she was completely void of empathy and regard to other people's feelings, especially those who are suffering at the time? Or was it simply because she is a cat person? I will never know, but I lost an awful lot of respect for this individual, who dared to belittle my feelings and ruthlessly express her subzero-temperatured opinion on my recently deceased canine best friend that was Tiffany the Coton de Tulear.

Of course her utterance couldnt be further from the truth. Tiffany was like the Mother Teresa of dogs. She was a friend of everyone. She made little girls conquer their dog phobias and even dried up old men cried at the news of her death. Even the vet who put her to sleep, who only knew her for her very last moments of confusion and desperation, was so touched by her kind and benevolence-radiating presence, that he shed a tear following her sleeping off to doggie heaven.

Fanny never had enemies, only countless friends. She even had two boyfriends in two different cities, both of which were called Simba, funnily enough. The Simbas have also long since passed away. At least now she's with them.

In addition to the lifelong friendship and altruism, she shared something more profound with me as well. I've always been an animal lover, and this presented itself a problem when my degree depended upon animal lab work. When I glance down at my laboratory mice about to be put into water mazes, I see the same inquisitiveness and innocence that was present in Fanny's eyes. It surprised me that their black beady eyes dared to resemble my Fanny's beautiful chocolate buttons. Perhaps it was simply that animalistic cuteness that is universal to all furry creatures. But more likely, it was a look that was meant to make me question what I'm doing, whether I have any right to experiment on animals that were born into captivity. I still haven't figured this one out, but my respect for living things has deepened. Animal testing will always be needed to get the best possible medicines, but for now, I will give it a miss as a career choice.

Most importantly, to an only child Fanny was something to look forward to when coming home from school, dragging me away from the TV screen - which more or less raised me until computers came into the picture. She was the wet nose and superspeed wagging tail that carefully and playfully woke me up on weekend mornings with her chocolate eyes peering from under the white silky fringe. Leaving her to go study in the UK always left me feeling guilty. After the first few times she started forgiving me - and instead of pretending like she didn't know who I was, she lovingly cried of joy and jumped in my lap everytime we were reunited. Im a few days, she'd trust the fact that I was back, following me around and sleeping by my feet. I always let her down and got on that plane. I always tried to explain that I'd be back, but it didn't ease the heartbreak.

Her heart couldn't take it in the end. Separation anxiety from not only myself, but my travelling mother also, undoubtedly contributed to her heart eventually giving up on her. The final scan showed that it had expanded, causing her trouble breathing. Her backlegs also had had enough, with nearly 12 years of walking in a world of long-legged creatures.

Three of Tiffany's most memorable characteristics were materialised in a cake that I made for her memory - she was white, fluffy and very sweet. Thus I made an ice-cream cake filled with strawberries and topped with oven-goldened mareng (she had a brown 'candy-stripe' on her bum which Coton's sometimes have). For Fanny, or her spirit, I laid down a bowl of carrot sticks and boiled eggwhite, her favourites. I'd like to think she appreciated the thought.

Faithful Molly, my beloved friend Fanny, I will miss you always.

Deleting cancer genes

Scientists are constantly on the lookout for genes that cause cancer, the killer disease of our times that is estimated to affect one in three people. Research conducted at the Wellcome Trust Sanger Institute in Cambridge has revealed a new twist to the story of how cancer develops. Instead of focusing on which genes are implicated, the question seems to rather be where the genes are located.

The current study was led by Professor Michael Stratton, the co-leader of the Cancer Genome Project. In fact, it was only last December that the Stratton group was in headlines previously, with the report that they had managed to crack the ‘entire genetic code’ of the two most common types of cancer. Our current understanding of how cancers develop involves the deletion or mutation of genes, so that cells cannot maintain normal functions. Stratton’s group have found that in skin and lung cancers, in fact a whopping 20-30 000 genes are mutated.

The most recent study, published just two weeks ago, aimed to investigate “unexplained” gene deletions that have been observed in cancers. It was found that these genes are located in inherently weak regions of DNA. The DNA molecule consists of an intertwined double helix which is itself looped around proteins called histones. Because of all the twisting and turning going on, it’s easy to see how the molecule might get a bit worn out in some bends. In fact, in ‘weak’ locations, breakages of the DNA molecule can occur, and now researchers suggest that this is the reason why there are so many different genes implicated in cancer.

The problem is that such ‘weak’ bits of DNA, is where we often find genes that protect the cell from becoming cancerous. When these regions with protective genes are broken, the cell tries to ‘tidy up’ the damaged DNA by snipping out these essential regions, and the disease develops.

The researchers also found that cancer cells are much more resilient than we thought, compared to healthy cells. Deletion of a whole 11 percent of its genes went unnoticed by the cancer cells, while in healthy cells, anything over 2 percent results in cell death. The fact that cancer cells are so resistant to gene deletion contributes to the difficulty in designing treatments that target and kill these cells.

By focusing future cancer genomics research into such vulnerable regions of DNA, we can gain invaluable insights into how cancer develops.

This article was published in Student Direct on the 1st of March 2010, and can be viewed at www.student-direct.co.uk here.

Winter Olympics: With Glowing Hearts

I'm not a big friend of sports, and I can never get excited about the olympics. But I have to say, the Vancouver Winter Olympics have surprised me - it must be the ice and snow that lures me in! Just as they're coming to an end, I'm trying to reap the last fruits of the competition.

It's not only because snow and ice bring both aesthetical value and an added adrenaline kick to sports. Winter Olympics are just cool to watch. Well, not every type of winter sport. I mean the curling isn't even a sport, it can really only be described as a housewives or witches' sport, after all it consists of people waving a broom on the floor. Bobsledging and luge are more a thrill ride than they are a sport (they must be going 'wheeeeeEEEEE!' in their heads while they plummet down that icy tube) - although I shouldn't say this for respect to the recently deceased Nodar Kumaritashvili, may he rest in peace. As for skeleton - let's all admit it's a sport for those of us who wish they were superheroes, but because of the sad fact of laws of physics, can't!

By 'cool' sports I mean something like freestyle aerial skiing. Imagine it, 'Hi, I'm Jack, and yes, I get paid to flip and turn in the air like a clown'. It's kind of like gymnastics with skiis on their feet, which is very inventive of the sportsmen! I had to wonder how you train for aerial skiing, does it not end in a heap of broken bones and cracked skulls bobbing upside-down a few metres above air? I found the answer on the Olympics website, and I recommend you watch it here (trampolines and water are involved!).

Skicross also belongs to the 'cool' category. It's the newest winter sport added to the Olympics. I get a massive kick from watching people fly effortlessly down mountains, with a quartet of skiiers all racing to the goal. This is again being thanks to my mirror neurones, given that I'm myself sat on my behind on my home sofa.

The snowboarding version of skicross is even cooler, of course. Simply because it's snowboarding, which is always going to be cooler than skiing. This is the reason why I'll never be cool, namely because I can not master boarding. I've tried a few times in my life in Norway and Germany, but even with lessons I constantly end up with hip bruises and a wet bum. Which would be fine, if there would be even the slightest hint of improvement. But there never is, so I have given up and stick to good old, boring skiing, where your feet are free to move, as opposed to being glued to a weird piece of plastic. You can see why I respect snowboarders so much - they can do something I can't!

Meanwhile, Korean figureskater Kim Yu Na always makes me cry, mainly because she cries and my mirror neurones go berserk and empathy kicks in. But also because she simply is the most graceful and elegant performer on ice I've ever seen. She lives in her movements and perfects every twirl and landing like she was born on skates. Although I know that figure skaters get technical points for their lutzes and quadruple jumps, but honestly, isn't ice skating more of an artform than a sport? The judging can't avoid subjectivity, surely.

I'm going to end this blog on a sad point - no, nobody died (had enough of those lately) - except for perhaps a smudge of my national pride. Finland got beaten by the Americans 6-1 in the ice hockey semifinals last night. It was painful to watch. On the first goal I let out a disappointed sigh. At 2-0 it was just annoying. The third one was significantly embarrasing. 4-0 was a moment of despair. Five down I wanted to cry. And by the sixth, my mind had gone blank - it was pure disbelief. I was hoping the Lions (the Finnish national emblem is a golden lion) would score just one pity goal, so they wouldn't get quite so drunk tonight when drowning their sorrows. This they managed, thank God. Tomorrow I'll be watching the bronze match against the Slovakians, who funnily enough have a player called Satan in their team.

Alas, in 2010, I can't take pride in my athletic kinsmen, who stem from the land of snow, yet fail to impress when moved a few thousand kilometres westward. So instead I turn to my cultural kinsmen, the Norwegians - who are currently at 4th place in the competition, overall. Heia, Norge! After all, it's sometimes better for your self-esteem to cheer for the winners, than the losers.

It doesn't a l w a y s need to be 'fine'.

Warning; this blog entry contains analyses of human behaviour and emotion.

I recently wrote a pretty steep critique on with Katherine Heigl as the leading lady. As much as I loathed the film there's something about her girl-next-door-y cinematic aura that made me want to watch The Ugly Truth27 Dresses again on my sickday at home. And while the latter film is heaps cuter, there's one thing that majorly bothers me in it. Not because they decided to put it in the film, but because countless teenage girls will watch this film, and subconsciously decide that the way Heigl is acting in it, is the way society expects us to act.

But let's get to the point here. The character played by Heigl, Jane, is remarkably bad at speaking her mind. Even to the people closest to her. Even when the people closest to her are making her hurt more than ever. Even when she loses the guy she has been madly in love with for years, to her sister. Even when her father gives her deceased mother's wedding dress to her sister, who is to marry her dream man.

Yet, in all these situations, a forced smile stretching from New York to Calcutta is observable on her baby-skinned face, and the words "I'm fine" and "that's great" are repeated as if she'd just had an orgasm (albeit a fake one). Why, oh WHY? As someone raised to have a mind of her own, this fact baffles me no end.

I can get behind the tying her boss' tie, doing his laundry etc, as this is clearly just an attempt to be close to, and needed by him. What I can't seem to answer is whether this really is accepted, normal - or even worse - expected, behaviour? Then I thought that probably is the case, in the United States, or the States of Smiles and Sunshine, where everything always IS f***ing fantastic! I can't say I have lived in the States since I was the age of a Kindergardener, but if this kind of behaviour is the reality over there - I can't say I particularly want to in the future, either.

I've seen hints of this in England, where mostly everything is meant to be 'alright'. In fact this word is so ingrained in the culture over here, that people exchange this word as a question itself - supplemented with a 'y', short for 'you' in the form of 'y'alright?' Luckily, the Britons have a commonplace reply to this which is much better than simply lying and saying 'good, and yourself?'. This being namely 'not too bad'. This very expression nearly comes close to the bleak expression of the Germanians and Scandinavians 'it's going', which leaves the questioner neutral for an answer, after all things can't ever really be so great that you'd want to brag about them to your fellow human being!

OK so we have slightly moved off topic here, but I truly think that the 'everything is fine, always, and if it isn't - don't freckin' show it'-mentality is unhealthy. And no, I'm not saying this because my boyfriend is a psychologist and has brainwashed me to think so. I honestly belive that if you can't tell your own sister that she's just stolen the man of your dreams and that she's walking all over your heart in the process - then there will be serious consequences to your mental health. More importantly, it's probably a sign of you not having very much self-respect.

So to all the Jane's out there: speak up or move to Northern Europe for a while to learn a thing or two about a beautiful thing called honesty.