Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining. Even the ones my delayed plane ran through.

Several children patted their teddy bears as they passed through the airport. One tiny girl had a luggage just big enough for her to sit on and have her tired mother pull it along. Her mother didn't mind. You could tell with the excitement in her voice when she said, 'We're going on holiday.' I suppose with her children being exceptionally young, their family could probably manage holidays during term time, taking advantage of cheaper fares.

Me on the other hand, I was returning from a final term of University. In fact, the final moment of University. Strictly speaking I'm still a student until the end of my Graduation ceremony. But it's one thing to think of the sorrow I'm feeling at saying good bye to my times at University.

The airport wouldn't allow me to dwell on sorrow. Instead they'll give me much more frightening things to worry about. Such as the excess baggage charge which has increased doubly since I last was charged. Should I cry? No. We don't want the security staff thinking that I've been crying because I've been saying goodbye to some strange relative who I've finally come to understand.

Overpriced food - the airport was easily cashing in on the those who've skipped breakfast to make it to the only flight available on a Saturday. There's a sceptical streak in me thinking that this is where all the money is made.

So I'm much lighter in my account. Around me the screens in the airport are telling me that my flight has been delayed, I whip out my laptop to listen to music. Battery power goes down. I must resort to reading. But being up since 4.30am ensures that my concentration levels are not there. Imagine how much of an idiot I looked when going to the rear of the plane and the door was closed. Despite being told twice by low cost airline staff that I'm to use the rear entrance.

The cinnamon biscuit was a delight though. The airport is the only place on Earth I've found them. Is that alone worth catching a plane every once in a while?

Should I shed a tear?

Due to excessive research into the job market, my conclusion has been to return to my native Belfast a month earlier. So this has been my last Saturday in Leicester with my time at De Montfort University. As I type, my mind is trying to throw all those images and memories of laughter, disappointment, anger, fun, sentimentality and whatever else I experienced here.

Now I've had one drink at around 8.00pm. So maybe that's hitting my head. But it's past midnight now. And these thoughts have been with me throughout my stay here. Questions of what could have happened and did I take every opportunity are playing. Of course I didn't monopolise every chance I could have had. And what happened did work out for the best.

However I know I always did what I thought was the right thing. That at least keeps me content, knowing I can at least do that. Some people would consider that nobility and pride-swallowing are signs of weakness. To a degree, they're right. However, do they have the strength to do it? And do they get the same results that I do? Where hatred isn't kept and a chance for looking at my life is more important. Not too sure how relevant, but as Roosevelt said, 'It's better to light a candle than to curse the darkness'.

There are things I wish I had. A relationship at times would be nice, knowing that they are in the realms of possibility for others. Why not me? I'm a good person, I'm smart, caring, loving, hard working...I could rhyme off all my good traits, and bad, and it still won't get me closer to what I believe I deserve. Terry Pratchett wrote words to this effect; that people don't get what they want, or what they deserve; they get what they're given.

I could place this train of thought on the fact that it's my last week in Leicester. I've learnt a lot here. My interest and skills in writing have improved and I'm a lot more aware of people's surroundings, knowing that different backgrounds and personalities face all sorts of things.

So if I shed a tear, don't be surprised. I've had a lot go on. And I've stayed true to myself. In a world where being the most beautiful person around, having a steady relationship, being successful in your job and finances seem to account for nearly everything, it's the comforting thoughts that I have to ensure I know I have a degree of value in the world.

Outdoor Reading

As one who desires to read all material around him, one who wishes to own a suitable book collection, one who wants to rhyme authors and titles of by heart, you would think that running to park areas to read would be a constant activity in my life.

Yet it's only twice I've ran to a park to do so. Once in May 2008 when I had a copy of Philip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass to finish. It was the third time I had gone through it and the first time I properly absorbed it.

My second time in a park was today. Along with Genevieve, we sat on a grassy area that no one else in Leicester seemed to know about. I had Bertolt Brecht and Charles Baudelaire. Both of them translations. Like novels, translations feel a lot more appealing to the 'intellect vibe' readers wish to harness. Maybe the notion of words in a different language will make the subject matter more exciting. A translation supposedly transports this lyrical or aesthetic way of writing to our own language so that we can all admire the work. This probably works doubly so with poetry.

Onward with my point. Normally I'd be reading a novel. Only this week I finished Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair. Being somewhat a Terry Pratchett fan, I thought this would be perfect. It's much better than most of the Pratchett copy-cats. In fact if anything, it's wonderful. Funny, fast, inventive, colourful...even the cover matched the clothing and Pepsi tins I drink. Maybe my only problem was that I was writing two essays for the past two weeks and I haven't read Jane Eyre. Some jokes may have been lost on me.

Any other time I've been telling myself to sit up in bed, sit on a steady seat in the kitchen, run to the library and all manner of places and ways of sitting to get through monster novels. I've not tried doing it on my head yet.

Today I read poetry. Originally I was going to spend some time writing poetry, but it's difficult. The pleasure of it for me seems to be in the reading. And the darker, the better. For being a Marilyn Manson fan, I imagine him singing it (in his late 90's voice, not his current voice) with heavy metal music in the background. If not him, Ville Valo. It is my belief that Edgar Allen Poe realised how powerful a force love is and is now channelling this through Valo.

For the short time I'm left in Leicester, this somewhat private area should be consulted for reading the three novels I've got to get through. With no classes, no essays and no money, this reading activity may become the main source of entertainment. When you consider for the majority of the past three years, it's been the main source of research, influence and late nights.

So around us were a couple of squirrels we tried to entice, a sun beating pleasurably on our backs, an All-American Boy with straight white teeth who I drooled over (before remembering the pretty ones are the worst) and someone else reading a huge book. I tried to decipher it.

When I passed him, the book didn't have a dust cover. It did have illustrations inside which I saw from a distance.

"He's reading Sherlock Holmes," I said, recognising the black and white copies of the original etchings. There was a small spark of pride in me, knowing I spend a lot of time with books.

Not enough time however.

The Extraordinary is my Hope

All through Roald Dahl's books I get this overwhelming sense that children aren't to blame. At the same time, regardless if it's the adults who are to blame, the by-product of their children then becomes a problem for the world at large.

There were various clips of the adaptations of Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory going through my head. The noble of the children I relate with. Charlie is set in a position where not much happens - a poor family equals that he has to stick to his morals to make it through, knowing that they may actually be worth more than money could ever be. Matilda, getting all that time to read makes me envious, thinking; Why didn't I do that? at that age.

On a walk home from the Leicester town area, my head ran with thoughts of when my life actually began. From the moment I turned eighteen years old my life has had a significant pattern. And for me it's a case of trying to realise that the time where I flourish in whatever talents I have, whatever traits are held within me and whatever personality I've built, will come in use for a period that's not my childhood.

Admittedly my childhood wasn't supreme with fun. Looking back it was around 13% fighting with my brother, 28% walking around the house with nothing to do, 30% watching films and the rest dreaming of stories that I could tell...where I'd be the hero at such a young age. Lined throughout all this was a belief in God. I've not stopped believing, but I do notice it was easier to believe in Him then compared to now. Or at least, believe the way He operates.

Telling myself that I'm extraordinary, in whatever sense, is probably a starting point. Actually doing something extraordinary is much more useful. How you define extraordinary I don't know. Whether it be writing a short story where each word counts perfectly, whether it's walking down the street and seeing the world in a positive light, or maybe it's reading as much as you possibly can, treasuring all those stories (which naturally include Dahl's) to set in motion the idea that the extraordinary can happen. And be realised.

How do you get the world to seem extraordinary?

Thank the Lord of the Devil's Music

After two hours of Robert Downey Jr. making his return as Tony Stark in Iron Man 2, the audience were treated to AC (lightening bolt) DC's trademark song Highway to Hell. Behind me was a boy of around five or seven singing along. The row in front had two boys of similar age bouncing a lot. A smile was on their father's face. I could read his mind.

I've got kids who rock he was thinking.

My heavy metal days are well over. And even when they were in practise it was limited to Marilyn Manson and Ozzy Osbourne. The latter I soon realised that most of his songs sounded the same. Normally to do with looking at reflections on the other side and how mad it's driving the singer. When really all he had to do was live with his family.

I love Ozzy really. Only recently I've found repeats of The Osbournes and now see how funny they were.

Kerrang no longer exists for my family at home since my father aborted many channels. When Sky was installed, channels galore started blooping up. Kerrang was not one of them. Scuzz was. So my only connection with the Heavy Metal world is now low. Around early last year I ended up watching Metallers: A Head Banger's Journey and to be honest, didn't learn much from it. All I can really say is that I now believe Heavy Metal is worth it. I imagine a great number of Heavy Metal artists are influenced by Gothic fiction and poetry. Which worries me that in twenty years time will Meyer's frustrating Twilight series be the subject of hard rock music with lyrics that go against all what metal is about?

I guess I'm just standing up for Heavy Metal every once in a while. My brother's extremely well versed in the genre. With such emotion and, let's face it, catchy tunes, Heavy Metal must exist.

Just getting the vibe of the kids around me getting excited about heading to the Underworld was enough to have this, 'Aww, how cute,' feeling. Where maybe The X Factor garbage spewed out isn't corrupting all our young with its promise of dreams being fulfilled when everyone knows your name for one Christmas.