Those who sat the English Language GCSE papers in the UK in the mid-noughties will remember that one paper required some long-form prose based around a description, explanation or some other tosh. I think I’d kind of ‘checked out’ of school by the time I opened my exam paper* but the teen narcissist inside (and very much on the surface, actually) was hopping with glee when she saw that one of the optional tasks was to ‘Describe yourself’. I chose it without a second thought.
Pen to paper, I started scribbling down my wholly uninteresting life story with more than a pinch of storyteller’s licence. Ten minutes before the finishing bell was due to ring, I re-read it, and was devastated. It was shit. I hadn’t described myself at all. I’d basically listed out a big bunch of hilarious activities** I was getting up to with my then partner-in-crime, Lulu (spoiler alert: we’re still inseparable).
The idea of being given free reign to talk ‘about me’ has since given me a dreadful feeling. When it comes down to it, I’ve got that British curse of self-deprecation mixed with a reluctance to talk about oneself. As you can see elsewhere on this blog, I’m the first to rave about a sumptuous menu or enlightening photography exhibition, but actually talking about myself? Publicly? No. Cringe.
Alas, alack; I ought to at least give you a little insight into who I am. I’ll stick it in bullet form. It’s quicker to bash out on the keyboard, and then I can go back to writing fun, pithy blogs about exactly where I intend to travel to next.
So there you have it. A bunch of truncated sentences that ought to give you some insight into who I am, and exactly why I presume to tell the internet about every meal, country, and artwork I rate.
*I checked back in for A Levels, and absolutely smashed it with a small handful of 100%s (though I think that had less to do with my dedication to academia than it did to do with my insistence to stick it to the people who told me that moving to a less traditional school was a bad idea).
**If I wasn’t afraid of being a) disowned by my parents or b) arrested, I’d publish the full teenage diaries of Lulu Maling and Amy Smith in a heartbeat. They’re fricking hilarious. And, from 2005, I quote: “he threatened us with a samurai sword, so we responded by vomiting in and around his house”. Her words, not mine. Mum, please don’t disown me.
I imagine that awkward rambling will have made for ample scroll-bait, so if you’re just interested in what this blog is, here goes:
It’s travel, it’s art and it’s food; all with a laissez faire, luxuriant vibe.
Find me publicly on @amyjbsmith, or privately at firstname.lastname@example.org. xx