Never in the right.

What do Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar and Prince William all have in common? The same thing as Ronald Regan, George Bush Senior and Bill Clinton. They are all left-handed.

In fact, the list of successful lefties is endless. Michelangelo, Rafael and da Vinci were all members of this elite club. And what of two of the best loved cartoon characters the world has ever known, Kermit the Frog and Bart Simpson? Yup, you guessed it, both lefties. Jimmi Hendrix, Judy Garland, Einstein and Maradona. Ok, so Jack the Ripper was also left-handed, but then there’s always one.

For a while I had somehow managed to escape the previous torment, mental abuse and “cack-handed” jokes from those on the right side. Until Monday morning that is. My Pandora’s Box of painful memories was once again cruelly thrown open within the first minute of my first ever shorthand class. “It does not matter in the slightest that you are left-handed,” Mr Teeline cheerily chirped. Apart from the fact that I am totally incapable of using my elbow as an “anchor” whilst my forearm elegantly and effortlessly glides across the page, I moodily muttered. It was like being in Circle Time all over again, contorting my torso into ridiculous positions whilst sat at a right-sided tablet arm chair.

Unlike myself (left-handed just for writing) my sister is an unequivocal, unshakeable, unyielding purist of the leftie variety. Coming from a family where we were the only two left out, I would like to think that she copied me when it came to the handwriting. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the sense to make things a hell of a lot easier for herself by switching from the Dark Side for the rest of life’s tiresome little tasks. I used to giggle as she tried to cut out paper chains, cackle as she tried to peel a carrot and chuckle as she repeatedly smudged her inky letters (I curl my arm right around the world in order not to.)

But jokes aside, it seems that the world just simply isn’t built for us. Think scissors, fountain pens, doors, knives and my personal bugbears as a student, computer mice and highlighters. Oh, and did I mention the fact that according to scientists we are apparently at greater risk of developing breast cancer and psychotic mental illnesses such as schizophrenia. Magic.

But then I wouldn’t have it any other way. Parents thought, and in some places still think that they are doing their children a favour by forcing their innocent left-handed kiddies to use the right hand. This infuriates me beyond belief and could, I think, be potentially very damaging. Would you take little Jonny’s brain out of his head and switch the two hemispheres over? Didn’t think so.

Luckily, slowly but surely the world is becoming increasingly aware of the needs and rights of left-handed people. In his article Left Out, Mark King of The Guardian proudly declares that he has created his own “lefty zone” at work and schools are finally doing more to provide necessary versions of tools. So I urge all you southpaws out there to stand up and shout “I shall not be left in the corner.” Ultimately, we may be frustrated, ridiculed, accident-prone, ink-smudged, RSI afflicted individuals, but our heart is in the left place.

Incredulity, infections and ignorance.

When I was a sweet little 17 year old, three of my classmates had babies, another 2 had abortions and goodness knows how many contracted STI’s.

Whilst on my year abroad in Spain, I was utterly horrified to discover that I was handed the contraceptive pill over the counter of a chemist without the flap of a prescription or the formality of an examination. My incredulity was exacerbated still further on discovering that my foreign friends thought that the pill protected you from STI’s. It reached a climax when I was confidently and candidly told that, regardless of sexual history, everyone practised the truly senseless method of “marcha atras,” Spanish for “slip it into reverse.”
“Why on earth?” I cried. “Well, it’s better for him,” I was told.

Unbelievable. Not usually a pioneer for sexual health, I immediately raised alarm bells, leaping aghast onto my soap box to orate about the alarmingly growing rate of STI’s amongst today’s youngsters. I was met with the equally blunt response, “Oh, we don’t have those over here.”

Solution? Well in England it appears to be to throw free condoms from rooftops or offer them as alternative pic’n’mix in schools. As part of Freshers’ Week here at the University of Westminster, Smoke Radio has joined forces with Sexual Health Group Plc on a crusade to convert irresponsible imbeciles into safe-sex specialists by offering the chance to win a years supply of Condomania condoms.

In addition, the University Health Clinic also offer free Chlamydia testing for those who did not adhere to the “prevention, not cure” maxim. Hooray! Yet what is the use of all this complimentary sexual paraphernalia and testing if the user is totally ignorant as to how to put the damn thing on?

In a recent online survey published by the Terrance Higgins Trust and the National Union of Students, 23% of the 2200 students questioned did not know that condoms are the only form of contraception that stops STI’s as well as swimmers. Perhaps I should not have been so harsh on my Iberian amigos. And what is the use of offering free STI testing on campus when teenagers have no interest in going or are embarrassed at the prospect of a social meeting in the waiting room? I am very proud to say that last year I resolutely frogmarched my bewildered English flatmates to the GUM Clinic. But what if I hadn’t?

So how to quell this ignorance before it even begins? As always, catch them when they’re young. A massive increase in Sex Ed in schools is indispensable. Hands on, practical advice on wrapping-up would kill those playground rumours once and for all. And rather than becoming yet another infected statistic, teenagers might finally choose to play safe.

Colonising the Costas.

Three quarters of a million Brits now live in Spain. Perhaps, for a collection of Spaniards, a figure three quarters of a million too high.

Brian Hanrahan’s report on Growing Old in Spain for the BBC Six O’Clock News yesterday evening succinctly summed up the problems faced by the generation who fled to paellas new a decade or two ago. Now, forced to face the inevitable but without the necessary care, family support or linguistic know-how, the Brits abroad are considering returning home.

Why the surprise? Did these people really think that the magical Iberian mix of sun, sea and sand, or perhaps more accurately sangria, socks n’ sandals would render them invincible to the natural decline of their own unforgiving biological clock?

Age Concern have been sending nursing care across the water to the land of bull fights and boleros in order to “warn” the brotherhood of Brits Abroad of the problems of growing old. As shown in the documentary, bizarrely enough, they are exactly the same as those faced in good ol’ England. Well click my castanets and call me Manolo.

So how do our continental compadres cope? The fact of the matter is that the family unit in Spain is numero uno. For a Spaniard, it is incomprehensible that bread-winning offspring would contribute to the weekly bill whilst living at home. It is inconceivable that the whole extended family would not assemble daily for a two hour lunch that can only be described as a gastronomical assault of astronomical proportions. It is above all inexplicable that a granny with a dodgy hip replacement be callously tossed into a care home.

However, for all their effusive hospitality and gregarious presence, the Spaniards are unlikely to welcome an ageing Anglo-Saxon into the heart of their home. There is only so far the phrase “mi casa tu casa” will stretch. Spaniards naturally assume their own sproglets would come up trumps when the need arises. The sad reality is that the community of elderly ex-pats is thus forced to rely on itself to avoid paying for private nursing.

So, the moral of the story? Think long and hard before you fly, buy and cry out “where is my Carers’ Allowance, my benefits entitlement and my State help?” The Spanish people are beginning to realise that the financial burden of supporting a community of ex-pat Brits is not their responsibility. The British people, faced with incomparable medical care and financial aid from the Spanish State, and without their own family support, are beginning to consider migrating. Growing old is not always graceful, and no amount of sunshine or sangria can solve that.

It's raining hacks and blogs.

To blog. I blog. I blogged. I have blogged. I, Mia, WILL blog, however much it goes against everything I stand for, live by and dream of.

Initially, the very prospect of having my deepest and darkest secrets exposed brashly on the Web was not only terrifying, but considerably narcissistic.

However, here at the University of Westminster encouraged, or perhaps forcibly coaxed by a tutor whose mantra is the unquestionable, indestructable "no blog, no job," I have taken heed of my father's somewhat more enlightening and considerably less frightening motto, "don't just do it, do it with a smile."

I guess, if I want to become a member of the "respectable journalists clan," then I shall just have to get my head down and type, type, type away. Can I hack it?