Fly Like A Kitefish

2009-06-21T10:34:00.001+01:00

'Marrying a woman for her beauty makes no more sense than eating a bird for its singing. But it's a common mistake nontheless.'

2009-04-29T15:27:00.000+01:00

2009-04-22T22:34:00.001+01:00

Cooooo.

2009-04-07T15:44:00.003+01:00

Man. It has been a weird day. I started trying to write something at least twice earlier on, but both times was in such an unfocussed rage that the words came out in a jumbled mess, together with an unsightly spattering of curse-words. While still incredibly frustrated, at least now I feel I can articulate my thoughts without saying fuck every other word.

Actually, that's a lie, because I don't even know what I want to articulate. Again, frustration. I think I'm going to have to give up and settle for thought-fragments here.

I'm frustrated because I'm stuck in this place for the Easter holidays, with nothing to do and no friends near by to talk to or do nothing with, while everyone else (by the looks of feverish facebook-stalking) apparently has a jam-packed agenda of cool stuff on the cards.

I'm frustrated because I know this isn't true, but moreso because this has never been such an issue before. Obviously, I've got bored and lonely during the holidays before- everyone does, right?- but I've never felt like this. I've never been so angry-frustrated. I felt like screaming, like smashing things, like stabbing myself in the eye just for the novel excitement of a noisy ambulance ride. (Plus I'd look hot with an eye-patch, right?) If I feel so crazy after just three days of being home on my own, how the Hell am I going to cope in the Summer- or the rest of my life for that matter? People can't be there all the time. I wouldn't expect, or want, people to be there all the time. Not really. So what is my problem?

I've always had a feeling of contempt towards people who don't seem to be able to cope with being on their own, and now apparently I am one of them.

I'm frustrated because I feel I may as well be thirteen years-old again. Same story of trying to work and failing. Same bus route. Same 'entertainments' in town. (Same feelings of existential angst, same feelings of self-disgust for sharing them in such a pretentious manner that, nonetheless, do little to shut me up...) I'm twenty years old, and what have I got to show for it? I haven't achieved anything worthwhile, haven't seen anything of note. But then I don't know what I expect myself to have done by now; should I have travelled the world? Set up my own multi-national business enterprise? Had a near-death experience and turned to God as a result? I really don't know.

My mum had been married for over a year by the time she was my age. What's that like- to fall in love with such force and such certainty that you get married when you're 18 years old? And, more interestingly- to me anyway- when did she realise that she'd made a mistake, how did she cope with it then, and how has she kept on coping with it way up til now?

I don't know anything at all about my parents really; very little about them as people, let alone more intimate details like how they met and married. That frustrates me.

I'm frustrated because I couldn't sleep, due to the tight knot of tension taking up my insides. Hence my writing this now at 1am.

I'm frustrated because my stupid dog ate my favourite pencil!!

There are more frustrations, but I'm getting tired now, and I feel a bit better anyway. Which is the main thing, I suppose. Hopefully I'll go to sleep near instantly, then when I wake in the morning, I'll be refreshed and ready to face life again without scowling.

If not, I think what I really need is a good smack 'round the head.

2009-02-01T22:26:00.000Z

2009-01-18T22:14:00.000Z

2009-01-12T14:24:00.002Z

(NB: content in this entry is quite probably clichéd/pretentious (because nothing else I ever write on here is clichéd or pretentious, right?). But I go by the theory that most of the time, if something is clichéd, that is because it is actually true. Also it is my birthday so I can say and do what I want.)

So today I am twenty! Those terrible, treacherous teenage years are officially behind me and, while my next birthday is considered by society as the more momentous one, I still think today is pretty important really. TWENTY YEARS. There have been times, in my angstier phases, where I honestly thought I wouldn't get this far. Luckily, seems I am in fact a pretty emotionally-balanced individual, so I have not felt that low in a very, very long time. In fact, I would say that right now is the most happy in myself that I have ever been. Not only am I surrounded by a whole bunch of fantastic friends, but I am satisfied with who I am as a person- obviously there are occasional hiccups, but I'm capable of working those out now and moving on. In the end, I believe that being able to do that for yourself, and not being dependent on other people for feelings of validation as a human being, are what make you successful. Which I would think is pretty obvious, really.

But yes, I am hugely lucky to know a lot of people who all make me happy in their own particular ways. From the best friends I have known for years, to the people I only chat to occasionally in lectures, by way of good new friends I've made over the past year and a bit- you are all fantastic, and help brighten my days. (Not knowing who actually reads this makes it easier to be so soppy, it's not my natural state...) And in light of a couple of 'recent developments', special mention must go not only to one particular boy who makes me extremely happy, but to another who has always been a brilliant friend and all-round awesome person despite what has happened between us in the past.

Really, you are all SUPER. Thank you all for existing!

2009-01-08T23:15:00.002Z

From when I was six or seven, my mum began buying me a subscription to Aquila, a magazine for bright/gifted children recommended to her by a teacher at school. Although I'd grown out of it before the recommended 8-13 years readership was up, when I was younger I loved it; I did all the puzzles (even the maths ones, sometimes), sent in my wobbly pictures and, crucially, sent an ad in to the Pen Friends Club when my mother deemed me responsible enough to send letters off to strangers. Sadly I don't know where the particular issue containing my ad is- we might not have kept it- but I know that it went something like this:

'Hello! My name is Alice and I am seven years old. I like reading, writing, drawing, swimming, playing the piano and annoying my big brother. I would like to write to a boy or a girl who is 7-9 years old.'

Apparently these 3 sentences (or ones like them) ring true for a lot of 7-9 year olds, because I got somewhere between 15-20 letters back from various kids from all over the country clamouring to be my friend. And, true to my hoarding nature, I have kept every single letter from every single kid over in one big shoebox by my bed. That's a lot of letters.

It's so weird going through them again- names I'd completely forgotten suddenly flash up again with little slivers of memory attached. Nicola H., with terribly messy handwriting and a pet dalmation (photos enclosed, DO NOT BEND). David Russell, precocious even by my standards, with his love of Limp Bizkit and happy gabble about N64 games (which I more than matched in my own letters, don't you worry.) Bethany Howell, pleasant but dull, whom I deliberately stopped writing to out of laziness- but who nevertheless sent me a Christmas card that year, with her address carefully written inside so I could be sure to write back. I'm not sure if I did or not. Jenny, Esther, Joseph, Sheree, Alice, Cressida... There really are a lot of letters. Most of them, particularly the early ones, are pretty boring to read really- 'Me and my mum and dad went on holiday to France, it was warm and we swam in the sea. I ate a pineapple, it was really nice'- but they're still strangely engrossing. It makes me wonder what I put in my own letters. I'm trying to remember what I wanted to do and to be when I was that age- a teacher, maybe? Or a writer? Something I'm definitely not on the road to doing or being now, that at least I'm sure about.

Different correspondences lasted different lengths of time; some never got beyond one or two letters, others lasted a few years, and one is still on-going after 13 years. In nearly all cases, it was they and not me who broke off the communication (sorry Bethany!), so maybe they don't wonder as much about my life as I do about theirs at this moment. Maybe they don't remember me at all- I wouldn't blame them, I doubt my letters made the most stimulating of reading material. But just in case one of you has indeed stumbled upon this, do let me know what became of you, OK? Here is what became of me:

My name is still Alice, but I am nineteen years old now (twenty on Monday). I still like reading, writing and drawing, though I no longer like swimming much (I hate the smell of chlorine) and my piano playing pretty much went tits up. I don't get to annoy my big brother as much as I used to, as he grew up and got married and got a house somewhere else with his wife, but I still do so when I can manage it. I am in my second year of studying Biomedical Science at the University of Sheffield, which is fun, but a lot of work. I don't know what I want to do with my life, and not everything is brilliant all the time, but then it never can be really, can it? Right now at least, I am safe and I am happy, and I'm not that worried about anything (although I probably should be). I hope you've been as lucky in your life as I have in mine.

2008-12-30T17:29:00.002Z

I'm not usually a big one for song lyrics. For any number of favourite songs of mine, I only know about half of the words... Surely the music is more important, else wouldn't you just read the words on a piece of paper as one would a poem? Words tend not to stay in my head, but melodies do, hence melodies win out. However, I do occasionally find lyrics that resonate, and today I am in love with this:

"With every broken heart, we should become more adventurous" -Rilo Kiley, More Adventurous

If I die tomorrow, I would like this etched on my grave please. Or spoken in chorus, or written in the sky, or planted in flowers in the centre of town.

2008-12-22T13:16:00.003Z

So. It has been a funny old month. While the good bits have far outweighed the bad, both become invisible when placed beside my rampant stupidity, demonstrated to beautiful effect yesterday when I managed to lock myself out of my house in Sheffield, with all of my belongings still in it. Seriously, I should not be at university. I shouldn't even be human- I ought to be back in the primordial ooze of pre-history, where my yet undeveloped nervous system would hopefully prevent me causing myself or others any harm. Forced to return to the South without any luggage at all, I am now lounging around my parents' house wearing innappropriate Summer clothing, hacking up my lungs every few minutes, and freely issuing snot from my red and blotchy nose. Oh, not to mention the fact that I scalded my head the other day (an attempt at washing my hair over the kitchen sink went horribly awry), so clods of ruined scalp are falling around my shoulders in the manner of extreme dandruff. I am an extremely attractive prospect right now, lads. Come and get me.

It's strange being home again. The past couple months have been the longest time I've spent away from home, as my brief family visit last month saw me staying at my brother's house rather than here. Things have changed. There is a new, colossal TV, a new computer with a colossal monitor, and (most excitingly?) a new, colossal washing machine with 2 handwash programs and the ability to take on 8kg loads. I find myself using plates and cups with wild abandon, no longer having to worry about dirty dishes multiplying across the sideboard and kitchen table. My jaw dropped as I opened the fridge and found enough food to feed a small African nation, used as I am to opening our fridge in Sheffield to find only a half-empty jar of out-of-date mayonnaise and a couple cans of Strongbow. My gay revelry under the high-pressure showerhead was short-lived, as I remembered that we have no heroic boiler here, rather a half-arsed hot water tank that likes to run out when least expected. It's all most peculiar. I feel as though I have fallen asleep in one world, and woken up in another where everything is slightly different; while the major points remain the same, the little things have changed, and those are what keep me grounded. I don't know. Could simply be that all the damned snot in my head is messing up my perception of the outside world.

I have been commissioned to decorate the Christmas tree now, so while I could confusedly ramble on for quite some time, I must locate the box of faded tinsel and baubles. I may return to this later.

...

OK. I am back. The most outrageous injustice has occurred. I'm downstairs, adorning the Christmas tree with sparkly wonders, when I notice that half of the decorations seem to be missing. Where are the magenta teardrops? Or the loveably shit things my brother and I made in nursery? Most importantly, where is the tinsel?? I demand these answers from my mother (who, by the way, just sent a British Red Cross charity worker on his way on the grounds of being 'too busy', before having a kip on the sofa), who replies nonchanantly that she threw out all of those things for being in too poor condition.

I'm sorry. What?? That was MY fucking tinsel!! I spent my own money on that crap! And this was years and years ago, before I had my own earnings/a student loan to fritter away, so money spent then was a lot more valuable than money spent now... I can't believe it's all gone. That's it, Christmas is RUINED.

(On a positive note, she said that the music I had on (Cocteau Twins- Victorialand) was pretty. So now I'm thinking, if I can get her into the ambient dream pop, I can move her on to the harder stuff; give me a few years and I'll have her rocking out at the front, ears bleeding, next time MBV decide to do the rounds.)

It's a shame really, as Christmas looked like it might actually be quite good this year. In times past, Christmas Day would see the whole of my father's side of the family converging on the household of one particular aunt, for an orgy of food and toys and presents. However, this family celebration then got moved back to Boxing Day- meaning Christmas Day became a rather sad, subdued affair spent here with just my parents, getting frustrated with the bad festive films on the telly, and trying my hardest to block out the sounds of my mother's sobs as her Christmas goose was not cooked to perfection. Last year there wasn't even a Boxing Day gathering to compensate for the rubbish day preceding it, as both aunts had recently moved house and neither was willing to host a pack of ravenous relatives. But this year, actual Christmas Day will be spent at my Aunt's new home in Norfolk, so things would have been OK. Great, even. But not any more.

Oh, my poor tinsel.

2008-11-05T22:56:00.003Z

And so starts year two! Well, it started quite a while ago really, but I haven't felt compelled to write about it earlier; in summary, it has involved lots of work, ridiculous house-arguments and a near-permanent state of exhaustion. I have entered a vicious cycle wherein I am too tired to concentrate, stay up later in order to get work done, get less sleep, am more tired as a result, am too tired to concentrate, etc. It is not good. This cycle will hopefully be unwound next week, when my bastard lab report and anatomy exam are out of the way (thanks BMS dept for setting the first two pieces of work that actually count towards my degree for the same day!) so I will be able to sleep all weekend without guilt. Except that I'll have to catch up with all the reading I haven't been able to do due to aforementioned bastard lab report and exam. Jesus Christ, it's never-bloody-ending.

I had a meeting with my personal tutor yesterday, which went pretty well. Apparently, if I can keep my exam marks up to the same standard as last year, I should make a 2:1 no problem, possibly a first. Which is pretty damn good, except of course that it is all a lot harder this year. I'll muddle along though, as I always do...

...Which leads me into today's existential rant. This is something I don't think I've ever really discussed with anyone, because I fear it would make me sound like a complete arse. I think I sound like an arse when I think it to myself. But I figure the internet has plenty bigger arses than mine floating about it, so I'm going to go for it.

I am very happy to hear that I am currently doing very well as far as grades are concerned. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that it doesn't really matter. I've always had that feeling, but more so recently. I am terribly, boringly academic, and I just wish I was good at something more interesting than school. I guess this is what I get for being into art and writing and music- it's so incredibly frustrating that I will never be able to make beautiful things for a living like all the people I really admire. Who cares if I can remember a bucket-load of genes and the proteins they code for, or the flexors and extensors of the forearm, or the mechanisms of long-term potentiation? It doesn't MEAN anything. It would if I were to become a doctor, or some other medical professional that actually made a direct difference to people's lives, but that's a no-go route. I just feel like the poster-child for mediocrity. Which is stupid, because I know really that I'm lucky to be this good at the book-learning, and there's probably lots of people out there who wish they were as good at it as me. But from a selfish point of view, I want more than this. This isn't enough as far as I am concerned, personally. I suppose what makes it worse is that I can play music a bit, and draw a bit, but not to a standard that makes me stand out- and yet those are the things I most enjoy doing, when it comes down to it. If I'm reading for a lecture, I'll get bored after ten minutes of even the most stimulating of topics; if I'm drawing or painting, I can do so for several hours without looking up once. I don't know. There's just days when I want to give up this whole university lark and just paint pictures in a cabin in the woods. As long as it has internet, obviously.

On a more positive note with regards to this, I will soon start volunteering for a local charity, Art in the Park. Basically, volunteers go to parks around Sheffield, set up creative workshops and encourage people- kids mainly, but anyone can join in- to get down and help make art. I did some volunteering at my old Middle School a couple of years ago and have to say, despite my anti-babies stance, that helping slightly older children draw and paint and make stuff is super-fun. I may not be creating anything to inspire future generations, but at least I'll hopefully make some kids smile for a bit. That's probably the best I can hope for at the moment.

2008-09-16T21:31:00.006+01:00

I went to End of the Road Festival this weekend, and it was really good! You might want to read my review of it here, and look at some photos I took of it here.

I'm going back to uni on Sunday. I am SUPER EXCITED about moving in to my house! Not so looking forward to sorting out bills, though. Ugh, proper grown-up stuff. I am not a real grown-up yet.

2008-08-20T19:59:00.004+01:00

Birdsong

I like to draw. (Flickr photostream)

2008-08-16T21:25:00.004+01:00

A level results came out on Thursday. It was strange seeing the fuss and tumble of it from the point of view of someone who has already been through it all. It made me feel terribly, bone-achingly, creaking-joints-ingly old. Which is ridiculous, really, as there's only a year in it- but going to university for the first time is just such a huge thing. I feel like I should be sitting these people down and sharing some life-determining, profound nuggets of wisdom earned in my own first year. (Something along the lines of, "don't alienate people in your first week by being a miserable fuck.") But I'm sure those people about to set forth on The Grand University Adventure have already had barrow-loads of completely unhelpful advice from a variety of assorted friends and relatives, so there's no point in boring them further. It makes me wish I too were going away for the first time, as I doubt I'll ever do anything quite as exciting ever again- short of emigrating, and I don't really want to do that.

Now that I am a bit older, the horrible issue of the rest of my life is coming up more and more frequently. Apparently, having finished my first year of university, I am obliged to have an ultimate life goal laid out before me. I don't know what I want to do with my life- I haven't come any closer to knowing that than I was at this time a year ago. To be honest, I don't want to think about it. I hate thinking about the future. It's too difficult, and scary, and it's coming closer and closer; a huge looming cloud on the horizon which, when I complete my degree in 2010, will burst overhead and shower me with RESPONSIBILITY and DECISIONS and ACTUAL REAL LIFE STUFF. No more hiding behind the education system: it will be time to step out and choose what I want to do in my life, for the first time, as a true individual.

I wish I had kept at least one of my childhood ambitions- to be a teacher, interior designer, vet, advertising copy-writer, author, whichever- just so I could have some kind of direction now. But then again, while I long for some secure-ish idea for a life plan, I can't stand the idea of anything definite and permanent. I hate forevers. When 'eternal life' is used as a reason for following a particular faith, I always think, "...but WHY is that a good thing??" If I've lived to be 70-odd or whatever, I bloody well want to have a nice quiet death afterwards, not more exhuasting life until the end of time, thank you. I've already aired my stolen feelings on love and marriage, and nothing has happened since then to make me change those views. It makes me angry when men and women are portrayed as having failed for not having found a spouse- just why is it presumed necessary? Children can be nice, yes, but I feel people should be judged on more than their ability to breed successfully. And unless I have the most interesting, diverse, stimulating job ever, I don't want to be shoe-horned into one vocation for the rest of my life. And I know that's not what the 'so what will you do with your Biomed degree?' brigade are getting at exactly, but that's still how I feel about the question. Like I should have a fully time-tabled agenda for the rest of my life, from which I never deviate, starting right now and continuing in minute detail until my scheduled time of death.

I can't do that. That's just not how I work. As long as I lead a mostly happy life- and that's under my ideas of happy, not anyone else's- I don't see why I need know now exactly how I'll get there.

Still, it would be kind of nice if I could channel half as much time and thought into even attempting to craft a life plan, as I manage when I am tearing the idea apart...

2008-05-22T21:59:00.002+01:00

I haven't written anything for a couple of months. But never fear, that drought of words is coming to an end! Unfortunately, the result is going to be rambling, directionless and largely incoherent, as this is a revision-boredom inspired post, rather than a something-to-say inspired post. Sorry.

By the way, a big thank you to those who responded with kind/don't-be-so-pathetic style words after my previous emo-whiney entry. I had had an utterly miserable evening, and while I don't usually go for things of that style (that's what LiveJournal is for...), I really could not help myself. In cheering news, I have not felt as low since that evening, so for the time being my mental state appears to be somewhat normal.

So. Revision. For the time being, I appear to actually be rather on top of things, a feeling I have not experienced since my GCSE days when an afternoon or two spent glancing over a year's work was quite ample. There are a few reasons for my relatively great work ethic of late:
1. The work is more interesting. There were no necrophiliac stag beetles at GCSE level.
2. I do not wish to repeat the experience of January's exams, which saw me hardly do any work, severly underperform and thus disappoint myself, and have my first, heart-splitting panic attack. Panic attacks = not cool.
3. There really isn't that much else to do when everyone else is revising.

Of course, no matter how enthused and dedicated I am to my subject, I will always need some breaks as too much in one go drives anyone loopy. There is something incredibly depressing about being stuck in one's room all day- especially when the sun is shining, what smart guy decided to put the major exam season in the Summertime?- staring at the same four walls and breathing the same stale air. I could go to the library, only at present it is brimming over with students and I fear I would trip over several prone bodies in an attempt to find a seat. Also, one the last two occasions I have been there, there has been a couple directly in front of me on the verge of fumbling out of their jeans and having sex right there, right then on the desk. Am I alone in thinking that the libary is not a terribly erotic location, and that love-making has no place within its walls? (Fun fact: apparently the I.C. shower has had to be closed at night-time a couple of months following its opening, for precisely that reason. I know students are meant to be sex-crazed maniacs, but really. A little diginity, anyone?)

It's strange that being shut up in here bothers me so much, because at home I rarely leave my bedroom. It contains everything I need, bar a TV, food and a toilet. Here, the last item on that list of essentials is dealt with thanks to my en suite, but being shut up in here still drives me potty. I hate just having this one tiny space to call my own; at least in a flat, I would have a kitchen and living space to venture out to if I was really climbing up the walls. In hindsight, I believe I made completely the wrong decision in choosing to live in halls. Now I can see that my decision to do so was clearly influenced by university propaganda: 'In halls, I will get the thrill of the true student experience!' I thought. Which would be fine, except 'the true student experience' appears to largely be centred around drinking copious amounts of cheap alcohol, partying long and hard into the night and watching shitty teenage soaps before and after dinner. Do I, or have I ever liked any of those things? No. Oops. But of course, it has to be said that were I not living here, I would never have met some fabulous people, and my life would be poorer for that. As ever, there is a silver lining to my cloud.

That's something that has always bothered me a bit though. If I had not made certain key decisions in my life, I would never have met certain key people. But would not there have been other, equally amazing people on the flip-side to each of the choices I make? People who would be different from those I know now, of course, but people that the other me would regard as equally important as this-world's me regards those I love and care about? I'm not convinced that made complete sense, but hopefully you can see what I'm getting at. I realise that this could sound insulting- like I wouldn't mind trading people from this life for those in an alternate life- but I don't mean it personally. It's just interesting to think about. I wish I could take a peek at the lives of all the parallel-Alices and see how they're getting on.

This is the kind of thing I think about when I've mostly only had myself to talk to all day.

2008-03-14T00:32:00.005Z

I hate packing. It makes me realise how little of a person I am. Take away the CDs, the DVDs, the books, the clothes, the trinkets, the posters on the walls, the stupid words on a stupid goddamn whiny blog, and there is barely anything left of me. A scrap of half-baked thoughts and feelings. Not enough to fill a whole person, a proper person with hopes and ambitions and dreams and desires, and the strength and passion to fulfill at least some of those goals. I just don't have that strength or that passion. I've tried, but there's nothing inside myself to draw from. I'm empty. I don't know what went wrong.

I think the reason I'm scared to get close to people is because it wouldn't take them long to find out what a non-person I am, and then I'd be left all on my own and I'd just disappear completely. Sometimes this thought scares me. Sometimes it doesn't.

I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm just using up oxygen meant for real people.

But in the morning I'll get up and go out and keep pretending, because that's what I always do.

2008-01-17T22:31:00.000Z

This is my 2nd last day at home before I bugger off North again to face my doom (ie exams). Then, after a blissful week and a half of rest, it's back to the familiar routine of late nights for no reason, endless procrastination when supposedly doing work, and rushing down to lectures having slept through my alarm.

Although rushing down to lectures is not pleasant in itself, it at least affords me ten-fifteen minutes or so in which to spend quality time with my iriver.

I love my iriver. It isn't very big (4GB) but holds enough sweet music to power me down the hill and, as such devices seem adept at doing, seems to bypass the random shuffle feature in order to play exactly the right songs to suit my current state of mind. Seriously, even if the lecture is a complete waste of time, I feel it's worth it just for the journey there and back if the right song is singing in my ears.

The problem here, however, is that there are hundreds of other students all heading down to campus at the same time. Thankfully, most of these are people I don't know and can therefore happily ignore; however, there are also a good handful of people I do know, and may even be friends with, who don't understand that it's iriver and I's private time, and thus engage me in conversation. It's terrible. I'm not the friendliest person in the mornings anyway, and having to interrupt the best-song-in-the-world-ever-at-that-exact-moment does not improve my mood. It's not that I hate people- well, not all people- I just like some private time with my music. It's got to the stage where I'm actually trying to set off for lectures early, so the chances of my bumping into someone and having to talk to them are lowered. I sneak glances both ways as I leave my Halls, so if anyone I know is coming my way, I can adjust my pace and direction in order to avoid them. My people avoidance techniques, unfortunately, are only successful about 50% of the time, meaning I am frequently forced to turn my darling iriver off, swallow my angry words about intruding on a couple's alone time, and act like a normal person who enjoys regular human contact.

This is why I want a pair of Big Fuck-Off Headphones.

Any idiot and his nan can have little wimpy bud earphones, as any idiot and his nan has an ipod these days. (Case in point: my friend's younger brother has one, despite a musical collection consisting only of 'Now That's What I Call Music!' compilations, two Busted albums and charity football singles.) Big Fuck-Off Headphones are on a whole other level. They send a message out to the world that says, 'Do not bother me. I am a serious listener of music with no time for your petty concerns.' People would see me, open their mouths in order to wish me salutations, then see the Big Fuck-Off Headphones. They would then close their mouths, opting instead for a friendly wave, and thus allow me to walk swiftly on by, with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It would be amazing.

The other week I had the perfect opportunity to allow this beautiful scenario to come to frutition, as my stupid wimpy headphones decided to break. No apparent damage appeared to have befallen them; the right headphone just decided to stop working. That's the 2nd pair of dead headphones in about 6 months, which is a bit annoying, as a decent pair that actually fit on my head are hard to find. (That makes it sound like I have a massive/abnormally-shaped head; I don't, but I do have abnormally-shaped ears. The left ear, anyway: a little bit of flesh is missing such that normal bud earphones just won't stay in. My brother has the same problem and, after scrutinising the ears of our parents, we deduced that my father is the carrier of this defective ear gene. We gave him a right telling off.) I knew I should have ordered a new pair from the 'net, in order that a whole beautiful array of Big Fuck-Off Headphones would be at my fingertips, but I wanted a new pair immediately. I'm a very impatient person. Delivery takes time, and the thought of being without proper usage of my iriver for more than a day makes me twitchy. So, against my better judgement, I set out the next day to see what Oxford city centre would have to offer me.

Oxford city centre is rubbish. I didn't get my pair of Big Fuck-Off Headphones. I ended up with a pair of retarded neck-band headphones that disagree with the size of my head and therefore like to fall off it. I suppose they're slightly better than the ones I had before, but it's just not the same as what I was after. Come term-time, people will still expect me to talk to them as I walk down the hill. I lead a tragic life, and I bring it upon myself.

2007-12-14T00:44:00.000Z

Greetings blog! I'd practically forgotten all about you. Apologies to my imaginary legions of fans who were eagerly awaiting news on my initial experinces of The Great University Adventure. Well, wait no more, dear friends, as news you shall receive!

(NB: I am still on a bit of a biscuit high. Too many hob-nobs. (£1.20 for two packs in Somerfield- I have become something of a biscuit fiend in my months away. Comfort food, like.) So I'm sorry if my opening paragraphs make me sound like an eejit, my writings will likely get increasingly more depressive as the sugary goodness leaves my system.)

So yeah, uni. S'alright, I suppose. Those of you who remember my previous post (and those of you who don't, you need only scroll downwards a little to read it...), full of vigour and enthusiasm about coming here, may be sad to hear my indifference to uni in general. But really, I should have seen the disappointment coming. What was I thinking, foolishly imagining that everyone would be super-nice and friendly, and that I'd get stuck right into my course, and that I'd always be going out and being sociable and stuff? MADNESS. Well, it's like that for some people, but for others- and I have reason to believe that there are more of us than one would initially think- it's really not. It could just be the Halls I'm in, but I am quite honestly stunned by how clique-y it is here- after only a few days, people were gelling together into big amorphous blobs. While over the first couple weeks these blobs were wobbly and undefined- such that new people could join, or leave, a blob- after only a month or so these blobs became pretty solid. And although blobs probably contain a nice person or two, it's somewhat awkward and intimidating trying to penetrate its mucous-y outer layer. (Biomed student, alright?) No awards for guessing that I am blob-free. It's a good thing really, as I am not suited to blob-style living; I'd much rather spend time with a few, select people I truly like, rather than a large mob of those I'm not so keen on. And yet, it is hard to be the one on the outside, looking in; sometimes looks cosy, being a blob.

As one of my actual good friends here said, it's like year 7 all over again, but worse. Maybe other people enjoyed year 7, but I HATED it- it was filled with new and scary people I didn't know, the work was harder- or at least in a style I wasn't used to-, and I would worry about the scary tests that appeared to occur with alarming frequency. Uni is basically like that but tenfold worse, and I can no longer use the excuse of being young, foolish and inexperienced. The cliques here are more solid than they could ever have been in year 7, as members are spending their free time together, rather than their educational time. The work is not always harder than at A-level- although it frequently is- but as it mainly consists of 'Independent Learning', ie reading textbooks for hours on end, I find it extremely hard to motivate myself. No matter how many pretty diagrams you put in, some things still make you want to kill yourself as you study them. Finally, the propect of tests is TERRIFYING. While one would hope that a 40% pass mark would be piss-easy to achive, considering how little I've properly read up on for my lectures, even getting 40 bloody percent sometimes seems unlikely.

While I realise I've made it sound like I'm having a terrible time, I am actually quite liking uni at the moment. I have met some lovely people by now, and know that despite appearances, not everyone is a YEAH-WILD-PARTY-ALL-THE-TIME!!! style character. There were moments in the first few weeks when I seriously wanted to just give up and go home but, quite apart from the fear of giving my mother a heart attack were I to announce my dropping out, I think I'm fully over that now. I'm here for the long haul. I'm stubborn. Work is still not being done enough, but I'm at least improving on that and, as long as I get to grips with it properly over the Christmas holidays, I should be fine. Hopefully. By the grace of God... And there is, of course, Alex, who gives me something to look forward to every weekend, is my life-line in times of distress, and is an all-round ,potty-mouthed angel.

I realise now, almost an hour later, that there's still a lot of things I want to write about. However, as it's nearly 2am, I figure I ought to try and sleep. Late nights have generally been altogether too common a feature to my university life-style, despite my not going out a huge amount. Peculiar.

Sleepy time. I might write more in the morning if I've got time before my lecture. I might not. I realise I have not proof-read this for typos as I usually do, either, so it is probably riddled with unsightly spelling and grammar mistakes. I could not give a flying fig at present, however, as a wave of extreme tiredness has just hit me and I crave bed more than I craved biscuits earlier. That's a whole lotta craving.

2007-09-21T14:19:00.000+01:00

48 HOURS- less than- until I find myself up in the grim North, surrounded by other bewildered undergraduates of the University of Sheffield. Wide-eyed and staring, we'll all be wondering where we're meant to be, what we're meant to be doing, which of the thousands of strangers we'll meet over the following week might end up our new best friends, and which our new worst enemies. Fun times for all!

I've been in a gradual state of packing over the past week, meaning I've slowly emptied one cupboard, picked a few things in it that I'd like to take with me, then unceremoniously plonked them in the spare room. I was folding clothes earlier, but the overall amount in my wardrobe does not yet seem to be diminishing... Who knew I had so many clothes? I swear this has never happened when I've packed to go on holiday before.

I don't know. Things are all a bit weird at the moment. My CD racks have been gutted of their tastiest parts, leaving barren skeletons containing only the unpalettable dregs of my music collection. (I'm sorry, I thought Make Believe would be good! I HAD to believe it would be good!) My beautiful flat-screen monitor has been removed from its sexy wall-mount, and is currently perched upon an old Tupperware box. The lovely Monty himself, the most stylish and cute of personal computers, will probably be trapped, alone and scared, in a cardboard box by tomorrow evening. Shall I bring any posters with me? Spare food? What about all my jewellery, scattered in various trinket boxes around my room- should I jumble it all together, or keep them in their separate containers? After the stress of trying to decide on all this and other stupid matters, I'm starting to think that Freshers' Week will be a breeze. OH GOD, that's a lie though- a week of non-stop partying/socialising with complete strangers? I find a single night of partying with my best friends a bit wearisome come 3am- how am I going to cope?? At least I have the thought of seeing my Beloved come the weekend to keep me going, but there's a whole 5 days until then! ARRRGH.

Still, excitement far outstrips the terror, and the stress, and the annoyance at this point. I am SO looking forward to being in a proper big city, where things actually happen- and AMAZING things at that, take a look at Offbeat where I will surely be every other Tuesday night- as opposed to the cultural black-hole that is Aylesbury. And I am keen to meet new people and make new friends, even though I'll be missing the old ones like crazy. Most importantly, I guess, I am also eager to start my course- having bought a labcoat, and lots of big fat medical/physiology textbooks, I feel I'm ready to start being a REAL scientist. The part of me that just wants to crawl into a cupboard and hide is definitely marginalised by the rest of me that is jumping to go.

I suppose I'll find that I miss it here when I've left, but right now I can't see myself being homesick. It's my friends I'll miss most, and I'll be able to keep in touch with them easy enough by the miracle wonders of facebook etc, as I've said before. My parents... not so much. I've never been that close to them, and, although it shames me a little to admit it, have been becoming increasingly irritated by the onset of my mother's Empty Nest Syndrome. I've tried not to let it show though, I'm not that much of a horrible daughter that I'll reveal how goddamn happy I am to get away. I'll probably miss the countryside as well- no more walks through open fields, squelching through mud, avoiding steaming cow-pats and pitying the myxomatosis-riddled rabbits; but I suppose, as I'm right near the Peaks, I can always go there for a day if I really start to miss the open. And Sheffield is in fact a pretty green city anyway, despite its steely past, so I shouldn't feel like I've set off to live in a concrete wasteland.

I think I've put off further clothes-folding for long enough now. If you're leaving for uni this weekend, or in the coming ones, good luck to you! And if you're one of my most adored friends, who'll weep and weep once I have left, you'll hear from me soon enough so don't fret :) THERE IS NO ESCAPE FROM ME.

ALSO, I passed my driving test on Wednesday! First time! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Too bad I won't be able to drive until the Christmas holidays, by which time I'll probably have forgotten it all. Still, GO ME!

2007-08-24T18:32:00.000+01:00

I am currently hiding upstairs while my French grandfather, his girlfriend, my aunt and uncle chatter and chortle below. Soon I will be ousted from my position of safety, as Mysterious Cousin Sebastian will be taking over my room as soon as he arrives, which is ANY MOMENT NOW. The suspense is killing me. Here is a list of all that I know about him:

His name is Sebastian.
He has recently fathered a child. It is a girl. I do not remember her name.
He is not married, but has a long-term girlfriend. Again, I do not remember her name. (Thus, while my uncle Olivier won the competition to be a grandfather first, my mother won the competition to marry off one of her offspring first. I am unsure as to which is the more desirable competition to win.)
Him and the girlfriend live in France, somewhere in Auvergne I believe. Somewhere beginnig with A at any rate.
Whilst studying at college (in the US), Sebastian reputedly did no work whatsoever. However, as his father paid for his accomodation in a penthouse flat, he did not learn the importance of working hard to earn pretty things. (As this information comes from my mother, however, it may well be grossly exagerrated, if not completely backward.)
He worked as a barman at some point.
Apparently he is nice, and rather shy.

I hope he does not smell, as I would like my room to be in a habitable state when I return to it (Sunday night). Give me luck and strength for the long-awaited/dreaded Wedding Reception tomorrow night- crucially, I need luck to fit back into my bridesmaid dress. Stupid no-good fitted dress which disagrees with my hips...

***EDIT*** I have now met Mysterious Cousin Sebastian, and can say with all my authority that he is a very nice young fellow. The rest of the family are completely loopy over him- no one has seen him very much for the past 20 years or so owing to his living in the States. Whenever he left a room, a chorus of adulation would break out: 'Oh, he's so polite... so helpful... kind, caring...' etc etc. Which is true, but it did get a wee bit nauseating after a while. (The family's comments, not him. He seemed rather embarrassed by it.) He is also very quiet, and quite a solitary being- at quite a few points over the Reception day, I'd see him sat all on his own with a cigarette and so went to keep him company, but I suspect that he likes it that way. That's another thing- he smokes A LOT. This may have been down partly to nerves, but really, he never spent longer than 5 minutes without lighting up. Poor Seb's lungs. Despite this minor shortcoming, however, I would still say Seb is Nice and is an example of Good Cousin-hood everywhere.

2007-08-20T14:38:00.000+01:00

Something incredibly amazing and awe-inspiring has just happened to me, and I just needed someone to talk to about it. And so, as ever, that person is YOU, big-faceless-black-hole of the internet.

I have just embarked on a biltz of my room in preparation for the arrival of The French Relatives later this week; cousin Sebastian, whom I have never met, will be staying in my room while I am shunted out variously to a friend's house/cheap hotel/local crack-den. I thought the least I could do for this mysterious cousin of mine is provide him with a room which he can retire to at night without waking up under a fresh sheet of dust in the morning. (While outwardly tidy, my room is in fact FILTHY. It actually makes me feel physically sick to see how dirty and dusty everything is. When I am older and have my own house and money I am so getting a cleaner.)

And so, to cleaning. I decided to begin with the shelf above my monitor, which houses a number of CDs, DVDs, pointless ornaments and various vessles containing money. Inside one of the latter objects is where I hold my vast collection of 1ps and 2ps, which one day I intend to carefully tip, one by one, into the charity box by the till at some shop or other, holding up the queue behind me for several minutes. I need to get my fun somehow. I haven't touched this little cup for months and months so, curious as to how many copper coins I had by now amassed, I tipped its contents out upon my desk for counting.

There, buried among their darker brothers and sisters, were a number of glorious 5-pence pieces, glistening in the cool Summer light. Not just one, or two, but ONE POUND FORTY-FIVE PENCE worth. I can only conclude that some of the pennies and tupennies had been there so long, crushed under the weight of all the others, that they were forcibly transformed into their new shinier, sleeker, more valuable form.

The five-pence piece is a sedimentary coin. I'm out to go buy £1.45 worth of confectionary at the local shop and laugh as the cashier has to count all my tiddly money up.

ALSO: I have just decided on a whim to put the address for this up on my facebook, so possibly some actual real people I know may end up reading this. If that sounds like you, hello there! Don't be shy! Leave a note saying how much you've enjoyed my astounding prose/am amazed by my incredible self-absorption. I thought doing this would be a good idea if people from my humble school-days have any deeper interest in what I'm getting up to, apart from what goes up on that hungry-cesspit of a website. Does that sound like a good idea to you? I do hope so.

2007-08-16T13:12:00.000+01:00

YAY YAY YAY :D

2 As and 2 Bs

In Biology and History (how the HELL did I manage that??), and Chemistry and Critical Thinking, respectively.

So the University of Sheffield it is!

To everyone in receipt of pleasing results today:

2007-08-09T15:24:00.000+01:00

I'm not going insane, right? Milo Ventimiglia (Peter Petrelli from Heroes aka the actual hottest man on television right now and possibly ever) and Conor Oberst (he of the whiney off-key singing of Bright Eyes) do look really similar.

Not that it matters. It was just an Interesting Observation. And in no way just an excuse for me to scroll through many photos of them both.

2007-08-04T22:33:00.000+01:00

It's been two Summers since I started this blog. I'm impressed I've managed it for so long, though maybe I shouldn't congratulate myself before I manage to update a little more frequently than every three months or so... Still, it's longer than I've managed any other kind of diary/journal type thing. If I'm honest, I guess that's down to vanity more than anything else; there's a little thrill from the thought that some complete stranger could be reading my personal thoughts and become fascinated with the little nothings that make up my life. I'm aware that it's incredibly creepy for me to get excited at this but hey, we all need to get our kicks somehow. Some choose drink, some choose drugs, I choose reverse voyeurism.

Anyway. Lots of stuff has already happened this Summer, namely my big brother getting married on the distant, sunny shore of Cuba. While it was absolutely amazing, I've already talked about it to so many of my friends that I can't actually face a full-on discussion of it now. I'll just let it be said that mojitos are gods among drinks, and I am so getting married abroad in a luxury all-inclusive hotel. Really, it was just beautiful. It's not like I could get married in a church even if I wanted to, being an unbaptised heathen. The only wedding scenario which could possibly better that of Jo and Fliss is one mentioned by some lady at dinner named Linda: that is, the groom parachuting from the sky at the feet of his lady and their getting married on the beach. I love the idea of my true love falling gently from the sky. Except, does that mean he gets married in a jumpsuit? I don't think that would be such a good look for the wedding photos.

The other big thing happening this Summer are the A Level results. Despite agonising over my performance when existing my exams, I'm now feeling pretty confident that I'll get my grades and be moving North to Sheffield. (Which will make it even worse if I have fucked it up...) I'm not as scared about uni as I was previously, having talked about it more with various people who are equally as anxious and nervous about being dunked into a vat full of strangers, as well as my good friend Flora who's just finished her first year at Oxford. So yes, although I shouldn't be excited before I actually get my results, little shoots of anticipation and impatience to just be GONE from this place have started and are increasing in both frequency and power. I have already decided on a list of people I shall make friends with:

someone who can cook (to share a house with in 2nd + 3rd year)
someone who shares my taste in music (to attend all manner of gigs with, starting with the Decemberists in October and the ARCADE FIRE in November, OH MY GOD)
someone with admirable nerdy/techy prowess (to heal my computer should it decide to die at any point)
someone incredibly rich (so they can buy me nice gifts and invite me to stay at their beautiful mansion over the holidays)

I guess it would be pretty good to make friends with general people that I like and get on with too but you know, I shouldn't be greedy.

I hope to keep writing in this when I've gone. Maybe I'll be too busy getting drunk, having it off with strangers and sleeping through lectures as the first-year student is traditionally wont to do, but I've never really enjoyed those things so far in my life and see no real reason why I should change my habits now. I like to write. And, while obviously I will continue to contact my school-friends via email (ALWAYS, Nish, ALWAYS) or facebook as appropriate, maybe I could start to use this as a proper means of communication.

It is now pretty late, and I'm pretty tired. I'm going to bed. I aim to re-read the whole of Harry Potter from start to finish over the Summer (neglecting the mound of books purchased from charity shops that I had previously intended to work my way through, oops) and I am only half way through Chamber of Secrets right now. I need to get a move on. x

2007-08-03T22:45:00.000+01:00

(Copied from the last.fm journal, what else?)

of Montreal, 2nd August at the Scala

Going to see of Montreal was less like going to see a band play, and more like going to see some bizarre circus with musical accompaniment. Which is, of course, no bad thing.

The first support, the Wave Machines, gave a gentle introduction to the visual oddity we were to experience later in the evening by wearing masks of themselves. They sounded pretty good to me, and appeared far more interesting live than the tracks on their myspace would have me believe. Unfortunately, the vocals ended up sounding very muddy down to a dodgy mic I guess, something which would be a problem throughout the rest of the night.

The second support, Pull Tiger Tail, were unfortunately a run-of-the-mill indie-schmindie guitar band, even if they did have a number of rather fetching tiger masks to throw out to the crowd, and two rather fetching guitarists at the front. Still, I was there to see weird and delightful things, not bland and attractive things, so was glad when their set came to and end.

From our prime position right at the front on stage-right, directly in front of keyboard lady when she appeared, we could quite easily read the setlist, and so were wondering what the song 'Verdi' could possibly be (I only got into of Montreal from Hissing Fauna and thus am mostly clueless when it comes to songs from their back catalogue). Turns out that Verdi was not an of Montreal song but was, in fact, a piece of opera- presumably by Verdi, someone name me what it was exactly?- which came soaring out of the speakers as the first sequin-masked putty man took to the stage. This being was soon joined by what looked a bit like a be-winged Elvis impersonator on guitar and the rest of the band, Kevin Barnes resplendant in skinny pink and white jeans, a red shirt with flouncy flower-petal collar, and plenty of glitter.

I can't think of much better jobs than being a player in the of Montreal travelling pantomime; on top of a whole troupe of the sequin-masked putty men, who had an onstage punch-up between themselves as well as a confrontation with Barnes, there was a man with a giant lobster claw (as seen in the Heimdalsgate video), a quiet newspaper-reading businessman whose sole job was to go absolutely ape during the chorus of She's A Rejector, and a reject from a 70s sci-fi show who generously ladled out what looked like red paint into plastic glasses for the eager crowd. At some point during the spectacle, Kevin Barnes chaned into teeny-tiny, very tight blue shorts with matching ankle boots and fishnet tights and continued to command the stage. (As with Rufus Wainwright, I found myself cursing him for having better legs than me- I really need to stop seeing pretty, cross-dressing men, it's bad for my self esteem.)

The music was great as well, of course, even though I did feel it was rather secondary to the antics of the characters on stage; The Past is a Grotesque Animal sounded brilliant live and held my attention for all of its 12 minutes, something which it struggles to do on record. The woozy feel of Oslo in the Summertime was ramped right up by playing it at about half the speed and with head-buzzing distortion. While the balance of the vocals bugged me a bit, I couldn't help just grinning like an idiot at everything, especially when one of the putty men burst a number of glitter-filled balloons over the crowd. When the last song ended, the whole cast came out to bow to the crowd, including the vision of cuteness that is Alabee. Unfortunately we had to leave before the encore, so I don't know what other songs and bizarre happenings we missed out on, but I'd already seen more than enough to make me happy.

While not the best show I've seen musically, this was definitely the funniest and the oddest, which are two equally important things. So, FANTASTIC. I wish Kevin Barnes were my dad.

(And thank you so much Arabella for coming with me despite the grating effect of Hissing Fauna on your ears!)

I didn't get to see this song as it was part of the encore, but the video alone makes me smile inanely.

2007-05-23T19:06:00.000+01:00

I realised something terribly profound whilst on the bus home today. That is: diets and religion follow the same principles.

The way I see it, the main goal of most religions is to make you a better person, so that you can move on after the end of your sorry earth existence into some sparkling and wonderful afterlife. And the main goal of a diet is, of course, to make you a better person physically, so that you can move on from the end of your sorry, fatter existence into some sparkling and wonderful, thinner life.

Take any diet to the extreme, and you're just going to do damage to yourself, by way of nutiritional deficiencies if not the results common to anorexia nervosa, for example osteroporosis and growth difficulties. Likewise, one over-zealous in their religion is likely to damage themselves- I don't know any fancy terms, but I can imagine at least their interpersonal relationships would suffer, ie they'd piss people off by trying to convert them. A diet or a religion in moderation, however, is going to do you good- you'll feel better even if you haven't lost weight, and personally you will (hopefully) feel closer to salvation.

However, there are so many diets, and so many religions, all mutually exclusive, all claiming to achieve the same overall goal- so which one to choose? What if you pick team Jesus, then Allah goes and smites the Earth? Bugger, it's Hell for you, no matter how good a Christian you were. You pick Atkins, only to find that all that fat you are eating is in fact turning your heart into a lump of lard and now damn, you're fat AND with a heart condition.

But if you remember the original goal, do you really need to choose a religion or a diet in the first place? Forget all the faddy celeb stuff, common sense shows that to lose weight, all you really need to do is eat less and exercise more. So, to be a better person and get to wherever it is you want to when you die, shouldn't you just do good things and be nice to people? Shouldn't that be enough?

I don't want to take the risk and pick one of the myriad diets available, in case it's a load of bullshit that'll do me more harm than good. Likewise, I don't want to pick one of the myriad religions available, in case I'm proved wrong at the end of my world. I feel I know how to lose weight, and how to be a good person, without following someone else's prescribed method of doing so. If you want to choose a way, fine, and I'm sure for most people it will get them where they want to go- I just don't think it's worth it when you think of all those that get lost along the way.

What this thought quite had to do with my bus journey, I have no idea.

2007-04-09T19:26:00.000+01:00

An exciting Easter adventure*

*exciting by the standards of my life ie not really exciting at all

As part of my half-hearted attempt to lose weight in time for the Leavers' Ball and, more importantly, my brother's wedding, I have endeavoured to go for a brisk half-hour walk on any day I can. Walking may not be the most exciting of physical activities, but seeing as the only sports I don't hate require vast amounts of snow or a trampoline, walking seemed the most cost-effective and least bothersome exercise option. Besides, it's not actually that bad; I'm a brisk walker naturally so it's hardly strenuous, and it's an opportunity to get a lit of thinking done.

After a week of non-eventful circuits of the village, Sunday morning I decided to do something a little more adventurous. Heading away from civilisation, I decided to taks a right at the little farm road I'd often passed, but never been down before. The possibilities of what I might discover there were vivid and enticing in my mind: an incredible natural beauty spot, perhaps? A mysterious shack buried amidst the trees? A burned-out car-husk, at the very least.

Of course, what I actually discovered was nothing at all, not even the tiniest shred of some half-forgotten mystery or secret or scandal but, unfazed, I decided to continue my wander down the road in the hope that eventually something interesting would turn up. I emerged, blinking, on to a deserted A-road, with rolling fields in every direction and the only buildings on the distant horizon. Knowing near enough where I was (on the A418), I decided to turn right, and keep on walking until I saw a turning into the village- however long that would take.

The sun was mercilessly bright for an early April day, and I had not taken any provisisions with me. I walked along the shade-less roadside for what felt like days, sweat dripping off me, always praying to see a friendly road sign pointing to Haddenham around the next bend- but to no avail. I was sun-dazed, disorientated, and a little peeved at the number of times I had nearly been shmushed flat by passing cars, for A-roads have no pavements for weary travellers to walk along.

After many more mental hours of trudging, I finally spied a sign in the distance; not the road-sign as I had hoped for, but a tiny, mud-caked affair declaring 'public footpath'. I scrutinised the way it pointed to: a rusty overgrown gate, with a tiny gap between its two sides. It did not look promising. However, at the rate at which I was going, it looked like several years would be necessary to reach the crossroads I so longed for. This dubious footpath appeared to be my only salvation. So, squeezing through the ageing metal and brutal plants, I stumbled on.

The supposed public footpath instantly vanished. I was now in some stranger's field in the middle of nowhere, with only my house key to protect myself. I imagined a trench-coated farmer with a black-toothed, slack-jawed mouth and antique shotgun bellowing that I get off his damn property, firing rounds after me as I struggled to get away. I had to get out of this field, fast. I walked along parallel to the hedge, as far away as possible from the grim-looking huts on the other side of the field. However, upon reaching a boundary, I was forced to turn and walk deeper into the field of my doom- and on the wind came the sound of men, talking and laughing.

I had to keep on going; turn back on to the road, and I may have ended up staying on it forever. I braced myself and marched towards the male voices, my hand shaking as it grasped the key in my pocket for whatever little comfort it bestowed. I could see them now- about five of them, one with a large straw hat, all stood in a line and staring at the sky. As they became aware of me, I could see them turn to stare. The leader, Fat-straw-hat, approached.

'Hello there!' he called. 'Have you come to see the gliders, or are you just out for a walk?'

They were not scary occultists or some kind of sinister society, but a bunch of gliding enthusiasts out on Haddenham airfield, enjoying their favourite hobby in the brilliant Easter sunshine. I explained my predicament and Fat-straw-hat explained how I could get home, one of his minions even offering to give me a lift. (I declined; just because one man had seemd genuinely kind and friendly didn't mean I'd suddenly start jumping in strange men's cars.) So, with a cheerful wave, I followed the man's instructions and ended up in Haddenham business park. Five minutes later, a sight I had oft dreamed about in these desperate times greeted me: my road!

I power-walked the last stretch home, and burst through the front door, hot, sweaty and tired. One hour and fifteen minutes later, my exciting adventure had reached its end, just in time for lunch. As I tucked into my salmon, I thanked the heavens above for protecting me on my perilous journey, and beseeched them to be similarly caring on whatever future quests I should find myself upon.

2007-03-31T10:39:00.000+01:00

I made my university choices the other day. After weeks of fretting over it, I finally sat down with the prospectuses for Sheffield and Cardiff (who both vied for the position of no.1 choice- that Southampton would be my insurance choice was pretty much always a dead cert), read them through, and picked Sheffield. Not for any rational reason really- they were pretty much equal in terms of course and ranking and such- but I just liked the feel of Sheffield more when I went there to visit, and all that I read reinforced that better feeling. I am still slightly afraid that this may have been because I was in a better mood overall when I went to Sheffield, as that was at the beginning of The Great Uni-Choosing Adventure, rather than towards the end when I was tempted to say Sod it, I'll just work full-time in Woolworths for the rest of my life. Still, I'm happy with my decision, even if Sheffield is a frighteningly vertical city. And now that I've made it, I'm stuck with it anyway, so there's no point in me stressing.

That's one thing that did really bug me about the whole UCAS final-decision-making process. Rather than go through the successful offers slowly, one by one and make a written reply to each, or some other such safe system, we have only to choose 'Firm', 'Insurance' or 'Decline' from a drop-down menu for each. And once you've submitted those choices, whoosh- off flies your future into the deepest depths of cyberspace, with no going back. Well, apparently UCAS send you a letter saying you've got 14 days to change your mind, but I am yet to receive one and have already got my 'welcome!' letter from Sheffield through the post, so I am not holding out for one. What the hell do you do if you accidentally select the wrong university? It's easy enough to do on a drop-down menu like that; it's the kind of thing I do all the time.

I imagine myself, rather than simply (ha) choosing my university, choosing an option from the drop-down menu of Life. My cursor hesitates over 'Outwardly Happy And Successful Career Woman, Who In Fact Uses Vast Income And Business Connections To Disguise Terrible And Aching Loneliness', to finally settle on 'Dead End Job, Lazy Brutish Partner And Three Ungrateful Children- But At Least Has A Nice Cat'... but alas! Someone jogs my arm and 'Destitute Junkie Whore' gets selected instead, and next thing I know, it's ten years later and I'm lying dead in an alley, with even the rats staying clear of my toxin-riddled body. Bummer.

The idea that a few little clicks made now could determine the entire course of my life is both terrifying and somewhat awe-inspiring. Mostly the former. I am indecisive by nature, and hate making even the smallest decisions; choosing something from a restaurant is tricky enough, let alone deciding where I'm going to live and study for the next three years of my life. I know I should be grateful that I get to make these decisions for myself- and I am really, enormously so. Just, sometimes, I wish I could crawl into my bed and stay there, allowing everyone else to make the difficult choices for me. Maybe I could come out to choose what flavour hot chocolate I want, but that's it.

ALSO:
The past week has seen me become a little obsessed with this song. It was huge in its native Australia last year, so I'm not the only one who loves it. Don't bother watching the video, it's boring, but maybe you'd like to just listen to it while you do something else?

Augie March- One Crowded Hour

'And if love is a bolt from the blue, then what is that bolt but a glorifed screw'- best song lyric ever?

2007-03-09T18:40:00.000Z

A happy post :)

(because apparently these are too melancholy most of the time)

Things I have to be happy about:
1. My History Individual Assignment is OVER. OK, so it really was not brilliant and I know I could have performed a lot better had I actually done some more proper work for it, but at least now it is done. Never again will I have to read about Gandhi, or Nehru, or the fall of British Imperialism, or the myriad other things I still don't really understand about the Indian Independence. Hooray!

2. I am going to see Air next week. The new album has mixed reviews (D+ in Stylus, 4 stars in the Guardian) but I like the new single, like nearly everything they've done in the past and critics are usually a load of bollocks anyway. Fantastic!

3. I got the grade I wanted for my Biology module, and at a surprisgly high mark- I'd thought the exam had gone a little bit pear-shaped at the time. But no, all was apparently good. Marvellous!

4. I am going to eat at a Mexican restaurant tomorrow, and Mexican food is delicious. Super!

5. It is Dear's birthday party the weekend after that. There will be a bouncy castle. Amazing!

6. I am going to visit to visit Cardiff university on Wednesday, and from all I have seen and read so far about it, it seems perfect. Accomodation close to Campus and stupidly cheap, campus really close to city centre, interesting course... Splendid!

7. I can't actually think of any more. But that's still a lot more happy than you gentle-readers usually get, so be grateful for that :) Any ideas for further happiness, anyone?

2007-02-25T19:46:00.000Z

Duke Special- Zodiac, Feb 22nd

(copied from my last.fm journal, as ever...)

***ADDITIONAL NOTE*** I would have had a number of excellent photos from this gig, if it had not taken me an hour to work out that to take photos of moving people, you put the camera in 'moving people' mode, (I thought night-time mode would be more appropriate, seeing as it was very dark, but no...) and if the camera had not run out if batteries two minutes after this realisation. Consequently, I have two. But they are reasonably good, and give a pretty good impression of how close to the front we were.

Duke Special is surprisingly short. What with the raggedy dreadlocks, and the eyeliner that even the most tragic emo-girl might find excessive, I'd imagined him as being tall and imposing in order to complete his completely misleading, scary appearance. But no, he's a midget, and is all the more adorable for that. I wouldn't have thought that I'd ever describe someone with his choice of hair and make-up as cute, but he's an exception. But that's besides the point- much more importantly, he is FANTASTIC live.

The support, Stephanie Dosen, was also lovely to hear as well as entertaining, even though her wackiness did seem a little forced. (But then, maybe she really is naturally that strange, I'm not one to judge...) I'd never have suspected that such an insane potty mouth lurked behind her music- all gently rippling guitar, soft and sweet vocals, with a delicate string accompaniment. Still, her songs were more than good enough to make up for the slight grating that her in-between song ramblings inspired. And she was pretty funny as well- dead orphan jokes always raise a smile, right?

The Duke himself set the mood for a magical evening when the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed and 'The Teddy Bear's Picnic' floated through the speakers. He was spell-binding the whole evening through, from the opening song (don't ask me what that was, I can't remember) right through to the supposed finale, Salvation Tambourine. His band mates were fantastic as well- clarinet is incredibly underused in modern pop music I reckon. Unfortunately, our position in the room meant we could only see percussionist Chip Bailey with craned necks, but at intervals we could still see him wield his whisk with pride, and bash his drums with all the precision and grace of a crazed clockwork robot. I would have loved to have seen the incredible stumpf fiddle action- reserved for the very end of the show- more clearly, and his assault on a cheese grater (Chip Bailey-approved grater and whisk available to purchase, only £4!) more clearly, but I don't know if it would have been worth giving up our excellent view of the Duke himself, at just the right angle to see his hands skitter and pound across the piano.

I was surprised by just how much better Duke Special's music sounded live than on record. I like Songs from the Deep Forest and all, but had always thought it was a little too glossy, much preferring live performances gleaned from YouTube; seeing for myself that gloss stripped away, the songs played organically, lifted them from being just pretty orchestral pop songs to something completely unique. He managed to make the covers he performed sound completely his own- the only one i knew was Baby Britain (Elliott Smith), but if I hadn't known it, I would have thought it was his own song. The Duke was a proper showman as well, and really seemed to be loving it on stage- an enthusiasm and appreciation which shined back from the audience. And he said 'thank you' between each song, which always makes me happy- I like politeness.

The encore saw Stephanie Dosen back on stage and singing a hymn as a duet with the Duke, which was absolutely gorgeous, followed by I Let You Down (like a tonne weight). Then, finally, on their way from the stage to out the door, the Duke and his band set up in the middle of the audience for an acoustic sing-along of John Lennon Love. (This was the only point when his height was a problem, as I couldn't see him through the mass of taller people stood in a circle around him- he's not the only midget.) Then, after a tip-off from a Duke Specialist at the merchandise table, we hung around afterwards to get our posters signed by the man himself, our gratitude towards him completely reciprocated. He's just such a lovely man, whose music completely matches said loveliness.

I'm going to allow myself a really cheesy conclusion, because I think he deserves it. 'Angels make their music, and give my spirit wings...' Duke Special, you are one of those angels- thank you.

2007-02-14T10:29:00.000Z

A special day in memory of the great and noble St. Boysarerubbish, Boys Are RUBBISH day should ideally be spent in the company of several good female friends, lots of ice cream and good movies (but not rom-coms). Also, as I'm sure the good saint would agree, alcohol isn't such a good idea as the happiness it brings can oh-so-easily turn to exagerrated sorrow and weeping and dwelling on unsavoury things, as I'm sure you are all aware.

I don't know what you do if you're a boy on this day. I'd suggest there may be a St. Allgirlsaretwats for you to venerate, but of course that isn't true.

Seriously though, I'm not bitter- we all know how Valentine's Day is a load of commercialised rubbish anyway. I'd offer my own thoughts about love and the sordid like, but I think I can do better in offering you the wisest, most true words I've ever heard on the subject. That they come from the mouth of a fictional, bi-sexual Dutchman is not important- I honestly think this passage, and in fact the entire book, has had the biggest effect on my way I think about life in general out of everything I've ever read.

I'm probably breaching copyright by doing this, but I'm sure the author would understand. I'd just type out the lines I think are most important, but they wouldn't make sense out of context... so you're getting the whole lot. (Trust me, it's good though.) The most important bits are in bold. Also, this is not me coming out, or saying I want an open relationship, or that I don't believe in marriage, or anything like that. I don't agree with all that he says, but he does have a fair point. It rings true, which I think is important at any time- and especially today, when so much of the suppose love we see is false.

--From 'Postcards from No Man's Land', by Aiden Chambers

"Daan put his fork down. 'You want the lecture?' He took a drink of wine. 'Okay, here's the lecture. Then it's enough maybe. Yes? Agreed?'
Jacob said, 'Dunno what I'm going to hear yet.'
'No, but it will be enough. Then the ice cream. That's the bargain.'
'What a dictator you are. Thank heaven you're not a politician.'
'Or a husband,' Ton said.
'You want it or not?' Daan said.
'Okay, yes,' Jacob said.
Daan wiped his mouth with his napkin. 'You've heard all the arguments. You'd have to be brain dead not to. Marriage belongs to an out-of-date social system, a different way of life from now. There's nothing absoluut about it. It's only a way of controlling the population. It's about property and land rights. [To Ton] overerving-?'
'Inheritance,' Ton said.
'Inheritance. The purity of the... shit!- [to Ton] geslacht?'
'Let me think... [to Jacob] lineage?'
'Line,' Jacob said. 'The family line.'
'Yes,' Daan said, 'the family line. Only if the woman was pure when the man married her and she became his possession was he sure his children were his. And only if he was the only one who fucked her could he still call her his. Marriage is about the protection of the genes and about ownership. You've heard all this before. Yes? Well, it doesn't mater now. It's of no importance. Except to a few dinosaurs, like royal families and monomaniacal multi-millionaires, and to people with a vested interest, like priests and lawyers and politicians.'
'And not to them any more, to judge by their actions,' Ton said. 'Look at your British royals. What a mess, eh? What a hypocrisy!'
They laughed.
Daan went on, 'As for eternal love, loving the same person for ever, living with the same person for ever. Can you think of anything which is more obviously untrue? It's an illusion.'
'Sarah and Geertrui don't think so,' Jacob said.
'Ha!' Daan mocked. 'And look at them. What are they in love with, our two grootmoeders? Not who. What. You think our English grandfather was so wonderful as they both say? You think he was so perfect? You think he was this big romantic hero Geertrui makes him? No no. Of course not. Come real, Jakob.'
'Get real is what you mean. Another gormless phrase.'
'Gormless?' Ton said.
'I dunno,' Jacob said irritably. 'Stupid, naff, silly.'
'Come real, get real, who cares!' Daan said. 'Geertrui's Jacob is an illusion. Verbeelding. Fantasy.'
Jacob was rattled. 'I don't believe you. Maybe she sees him through rosy spectacles now, after all these years. Sarah too. But something big happened between them then. Something true. Something existed which wasn't a fantasy. They haven't made it up. You can't deny that.'
'Yes. Then. For how long. A few weeks? But if he had lived...?'
'That's an if. Nobody can know.'
'Great! Okay! That's how it was. For both of them, a big love. And Jacob a great guy. Well, he must have been. We're his grandsons and we're great guts, yes?'
They laughed.
Daan went on, 'And yes, nobody knows how it would be between them now. That's my point. You're agreeing with me. Nobody knows, because what we know is that it was more likely not to be a big thing between them any longer after all these years. There's no absoluut. No for ever. So don't pretend there is. Don't make rules about it. Or laws based on it. If people want to say for ever to each other, okay, let them. It's up to them. But for me, no. Just like there are no rules about love. Who you love. How many people you can love. Like love is some kind of commodity in... [to Ton] eindig?'
'Eindig, eindig...'
'Shit! This is so boring to do in English. Why don't you speak Dutch, little brother?'
Ton had got up and gone to the bookshelves. Daan poured more wine. Ton came back, flipping the pages of a Dutch/English dictionary.
'Eindig,' he said, reading. 'Finite.'
'Finite?' Daan said. 'Okay, finite... What the hell was I saying?'
Jacob said, 'Love is not finite.'
'Right. Yes. Love is not finite. It is not that we each have a limited supply of it that we can only give to one person at a time. Or that we have one kind of love that can only be given to one person in the whole of our lives. It's a ridiculous thing to think so. I love Ton. I sleep with him when we both want it. Or when one of us needs it, even if the other doesn't want it then. I love Simone-'
'Simone?' Jacob said.
'She was here the other morning when you left. She called out to you. She lives two streets away. Ton and Simone know each other. They were friends before I met them. We've talked about it. Ton never sleeps with women. That's the way he is. Simone only sleeps with me. That's the way she is. I sleep with them both. That's the way I am. They both want to sleep with me. That's how we are. That's how we want it. If we didn't, or if any one of us didn't, then, okay, that's it. All the stuff about gender. Male, female, queer, bi, feminist, new man, whatever- it's meaningless. As out of date as marriage for ever. I'm tired of hearing about it. We're beyond that now.'
'You are, maybe,' Jacob said. 'Not all of us, though. Not most of us probably. Not where I come from anyway.'
'No, well, nothing ever changes completely at once, does it. That's why revolutions always fail. You can't do anything big with people all at once. But that doesn't mean you have to stay with the ones who belong to the old ways, if you don't. Nothing would ever change if people did that. And me, like I say, I'm tired of discussing it. Let people go on the way they want to in the old way if they can't live up to the new way. But I'm not going to be stopped. I'm not going to be held back. I'm not going to live the kind of lie that keeps the old system going.'
Jacob said, 'I dunno. Doesn't seem to me to be as clear cut as you make out.'
'Yes it is,' Daan said. 'I love who I love. I sleep with who I love if we both want it. Nothing to do with male or female. Nothing is secret. If it ends between us, it ends. That's life. The pain is part of it. Without it, we'd be dead. All that really matters to me is the people I love. How we live together. How we keep each other alive.'
Daan sat back in his seat and rapped the table with his knuckles.
'There,' he said, grinning. 'Over. Finished. Ice cream now. Yes?'"

2007-02-07T23:20:00.000Z

Patrick Wolf- Zodiac, 6th Feb

(Copied from my last.fm journal)

LESSONS LEARNED
(in chronological order)

1. Nice people from last.fm may in fact turn out to be nice people in real life.

2. Never, ever trust the Zodiac to start a gig at anything approaching a reasonable hour. Having the support act on one hour fifteen minutes after the doors open, so the main act is on an hour after that, is fine by them. They do not care that some patrons may have to leave at a certain hour in order to get public transport home, and thus miss half the gig. They have no souls.

3. No Bra is impossible to describe politely.

4. The Zodiac staff are still doing their best to protect the innocent, by soon stopping No Bra from proving his/her own name. (Yes, I know there were breasts, but I refuse to accept that he/she is an actual woman.)

5. Never feed drugs to ginger midgets. You will risk being taken out by their wildly flailing, wee little limbs.

6. Patrick Wolf is a very, very pretty man. Okay, so I already knew that, but he is especially pretty when dressed in sideways hair, a swoosh of glitter over one eye and an amazing electric blue military-style-buttoned tailcoat thing.

7. Patrick Wolf is still an amazing virtuoso violinist, and Overture is a brilliant opener.

8. Virginals are far nicer sounding than harpsichords, and Mr Wolf can play one as nicely as he does the piano. And Bluebells sounds especially brilliant on it.

9. Theramins are fun. I want one.

10. The ukelele on Augustine is still incredibly menacing in the most awesome way imaginable.

11. Patrick Wolf has a friend named Craig who looks like a woman but whose name suggests otherwise (my ability to guess people's genders has been messed with after witnessing No Bra). When drunk, Craig can be persuaded to get on stage with Patrick and sing Larrkin's part on Accident and Emergency.

12. Leaving after only 45 minutes of Patrick Wolf, and hearing Tristan booming from upstairs whilst leaving the building, is very saddening indeed.

Songs we did see, in as much of an order as I can remember, are:
Overture
Let's Get Lost
To the Lighthouse
Bluebells
Jacob's Ladder
Augustine
Don't Say No
Accident & Emergency

What we saw was fantastic, but I'm still really, really annoyed that we only got to see half. Maybe there were technical difficulties or something- we only got there at eight, so we don't know. I'm particularly upset that we didn't see Bloodbeat or A Boy Like Me, as those were probably my favourites from last time.

Anyone care to fill me in on what we missed?

***EDIT*** I love YouTube. The Wolf plays Overture:

2007-02-06T17:23:00.000Z

A short update:
After the splurge of pain and moaning of my previous entry, I am now feeling pretty much fine; not perfect, but I am now confident that everything will work out for the best. Maybe I'm reading too much into things, but I now see the vomit incident as symbolic: an act of cleansing, with the expulsion of all the horrible poison of the previous week in order to move on with my life. There may still be a little nausea and tiredness from time to time, but ultimately I will be a better person for it, my immune system stronger for having combated the bacterial invasion. (Who can tell I had biology today...)

Patrick Wolf in a few hours! I'm excited :)

2007-02-04T17:16:00.000Z

And so the worst week of my life ends in a spectacular blaze of vomit.

The past seven days have seen:

Me send away the only boy who has ever meant anything to me;
One of my best friends, who is already more prone to death than most other people, admit she's been (unwillingly) helping that potential early death along;
Me realise that the chances of me failing, or at least dramatically under-achieving in, History are very high;
The gigs I've been looking forward to for months be slashed in number, and the ones I am still attending be tainted, due to point #1.

At the moment I am just a big ball of numb, so I'm not feeling that bad. Sometimes, I've even felt something resembling contentment, because at least I, nor anyone else, is lying any more. But most of the time I've been feeling shit, shit, shit, and I find it so hard to talk to anyone about it because I don't like to make a fuss and besides, I get the impression that most people don't really want to know. We're all just bloody islands.

The one thought that got me through the day today was that soon I would see my future sister-in-law, who has been the biggest help to me recently. Without something positive to focus on, I honestly don't know if I could have got through another four hours sat at the front till at Woolworths, directing silly people to the batteries, glaring at the Valentine's Day sign and hating myself. I had to miss a family engagement- the 2nd birthday of my baby cousin Leo- to go to work, which didn't bother me that much to be honest. The prospect of spending an afternoon with my joy-filled family and having to say no, I'm not going out with whas-his-face anymore, was hardly a cheering prospect, and I'd be seeing Fliss afterwards anyway.

Unfortunately, when I leave work (ten minutes late because yet again there are some stupid fuckers who decide to enter the shop one minute before closing time, then spend the next ten debating exactly what sweets to buy) and see my father waiting outside for me, he informs me that my mother has been sick, so the car smells a bit. I HATE vomit. I can't stand it. I know there's hardly going to be someone who says well, actually, I love it, but really, I think I might hate it more than most people. I get in the car and it reeks. There are huge orangey chunks spattered on the dashboard, down my mother's face and all over her clothes. I find out later that she had in fact fainted before she threw up, which is why there is no trace of control in her sick patterns.

Turns out that some soup at the family party was left unrefrigerated, and everyone who ate some (apart from my father mysteriously, so far at least) had got very violent food poisoning. Fliss was sick before my parents evern left to pick me up, so of course I won't be seeing her this evening, and instead spent some time sponging vomit off of my mother's very expensive leather handbag (I left my father to deal with the car.) She's fine now, though, apparently, so hopefully the rest of my family are feeling better now they've got it all out of their stomachs. I'm so glad that I couldn't go, in the end. In a way, I see it like a sign from a greater power- it's like the cosmos knows I've had a rough enough week already, and so orchestrated it so at least I wouldn't be spending my evening chucking up. It would have seemed appropriate, though.

Sorry for not being full of sunshine at the moment. It'll get better with time, or at least that's what people keep telling me. And although I might not ask for you to listen, or for your support, that's just because I'm just not emotionally mature enough to do that. Believe me, I need all the help and support I can get.

2007-02-01T15:12:00.000Z

Watching these makes me smile and feel a bit better about life, even when I'm finding that especially hard. I hope they make you smile, too.

(In the second one, I love the idea that there are people in the audience who have never seen the original OK Go video, so are just thinking 'what the hell?')

2007-01-19T22:37:00.000Z

So, average evening- trying and failing to do some work, listening to music, chatting online- when I receive the best text message of my entire life.

'Oh my God!My stomach just spoke to me!I know tht sounds weird but it made a noise EXACTLY like a little voice going 'warning'.A little worrying...X'

Emily, I love you.

2006-12-24T18:20:00.000Z

In the dining room at Woolworths, we've got a certificate from those two moronic creatures congratulating us for getting 100% in a store assessment. To Woolworths Head Office: I am not six years old anymore- nor is anyone working in your stores, unless you have secret child labour camps- so please don't try and make our lives working for you more pleasant by having stuffed animals reward us with bits of paper. Thank you.

I've just got back from working there for six hours and am now completely shattered. Who goes out shopping on Christmas Eve anyway? Even when the front lights were turned off and we're clearly trying to usher all errant customers out of the store, people just kept coming in. I know it can be hard to remember to buy everyone's presents if you've got a large family but really, by late afternoon on Christmas Eve if you still haven't got everything, I say tough. You'll just have to calmly explain to your beloveds next morning, 'Sorry honey, daddy was a twat and couldn't be bothered to get himself sorted for Christmas in time, so you're just not getting any presents this year.' There may be tears, but I think important lessons will be learned on both sides.

The two and a half hours or so after the shop closed was spent sorting stuff out for the New Year's sale, which basically involved me trying to find something useful to do (or else do a good impression of it), management stressing out when they can't find the stuff they're meant to be putting out on shelves, and the rest of the staff getting increasingly pissed off with one another and the whole thing. I think it was designed to remove any clinging shreds of Christmas spirit from our souls which had just about survived the barrage of constant Christmas songs over the past fortnight.

Despite how annoying it has been working there over the Christmas period- especially the issue where I got told off (or rather guilt tripped/disappointed at) for not checking the schedule I was never told existed, which informed me I would be working all day both Saturday and Sunday that particular weekend, and subsequent ones up to Christmas- I think I'm going to stay once my temporary contract has ended. I doubt I'll find somewhere better, and it's not actually that bad when there aren't huge queues of grumpy customers trailing back into the aisles. They're always especially grumpy if they've been queueing for five minutes or so already, and you have to inform them that they have to go to the Entertainment Desk to get their DVDs because sorry, we just don't have magic invisible drawers filled with discs to fill their empty cases up at the front tills. IDIOTS. But there are definitely worse places to work- at least Woolies isn't demanding and there are a load of actually quite nice people my own age to talk to. Maybe I'll get my own locker and name badge (I've been Ellie for the past six weeks) if I keep on there; a girl can dream...

And MERRY CHRISTMAS for tomorrow everybody! Hope you have a great day involving the opening of wonderful presents, stuffing yourselves stupid and falling asleep in front of the TV. Love and hugs to all xxxxx

2006-12-18T16:28:00.000Z

I feel like a sack of shit. Well, specifically (because creatively describing how rubbish I feel will help, honest), I feel as though some horrible little demon has sneaked into my head through my right ear canal and has drained it of all emotion, all energy and all the other little things which help make me human. Next, they have replaced this precious headstuff with cotton wool soaked in Negative Thoughts, such that I barely have the will to exist- but trying to achieve sleep would take too much effort, so I'm stuck here in a merry Hell. Dragging myself to this computer took a considerable amount of effort and was only achieved, I suspect, because after having gone to the toilet, this here desk chair is closer to my door than my bed is.

It's not surprising that I'm ill though, considering that my parents spent Friday through to Sunday lolling around on the sofa and the big leather ofice chair, respectively, swathed in blankets and duvets, croaking feebly. But the main reason it's not surprising is because I was working all day Saturday and all day Sunday at Woolworths, and got very little sleep on either of those two nights despite being shattered. Sitting at a till all day, being permanently polite and smiley and helpful, and in constant terror that something will go wrong and when I push the button no one will answer my shrill call for help and the entire queue of customers will get angry and start shouting at me is surprisingly tiring. But I did get paid by a dog yesterday, which almost makes up for it all.

Someone told me I was perfect today- rather, they muttered it under their breath, an accusation. I've been trying to figure out why things that should be compliments can end up hurting so much, even if it's a joke. I've figured it triggers the exact same response as people judging you in a nasty way- the anger that someone feels they know enough about you to make a blanket statement. And yes, I know I do this too, so don't point out that I'm a hypocrite because I know it full well and it kills me. I judge people all the time- on how they look, the way they talk, the things they say- and it's unfair, but I think that's just the way we are as people, especially a girl in an all-girls' school. I remember some scientific study which found that people are more likely to make friendships based on what they both dislike, rather than what they like and have in common. While usually this doesn't bother me, sometimes it just makes me think that our entire race is based on contempt and bitterness and spite rather than love and kindness or any of those silly things, and I'm right in there with everyone else, being a bitch and enjoying it. And I'm scared that, given time, I won't be able to remember the nice stuff. I complain because I can't think of anything else to say.

In short, I'm far from bloody perfect- I'm stubborn, I'm cowardly, I can be incredibly selfish and half the time I feel I'm faking some aspect of my life, so that sooner or later a God I don't believe in is going to bring his wrath down in me because He doesn't like fakers. And yeah, sometimes I wish this would happen sooner rather than later because I get sick of pretending- even if honesty would hurt even more.

Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go loll around on my bed, swathe myself in my duvet and croak feebly.

2006-12-02T10:03:00.000Z

The Dr Who Milk Chocolate Advent Calendar (Updated daily)

***EDIT*** Okay, this is ridiculous. Some of these answers you'd only know if you'd seen each episode at least three times, carefully memorising the names of each individual alien species, planet and other tit-bits of information, then had a weekly test on it to ensure it remained in your memory. I don't think that's a healthy initiative to install in the minds of the British youth. Yes, I am just sore that I don't know all the answers.

Day 2
Question: Which city did Margaret Slitheen plan to destroy using a nuclear reactor?

Day 3
Question: Which alien race took part in The Christmas Invasion?

Day 4
Question: Which silver creatures were originally human but replaced their bodies with machinery?

Day 5
Question: Which small blue alien was a guest at The End Of The World?

Day 6
Question: On which planet do the dogs have no noses?

Day 7
Question: What is Rose's surname?

Day 8
Question: What is the name of Rose's boyfriend?

Day 9
Question: Which creature controlled the shop window dummies that tried to conquer Earth?

Day 10
Question: What happened to the Doctor when he absorbed the time vortex?

Day 11
Question: What is the name of the robot dog that used to travel with the Doctor?

Day 12
Question: Which famous author did the Doctor & Rose meet in Cardiff in 1869?

Day 13
Question: Which century is Captain Jack from?

Day 14
Question: What is the name of the device that allows the TARDIS to look like a Police Box?

Day 15
What is the name of Rose's father?

Day 16
What race does the Doctor belong to?

Day 17
What does TARDIS stand for?

Day 18
Who is the last survivor of the human race?

Day 19
What message did Rose send throughout time?

Day 20
What did the Editor call the Mighty Jagrafess of the Holy Hadrojassic Maxarodenfoe?

Day 21
Which evil creatures fought against the Time Lords in the Time War?

Day 22
Where do the Slitheen come from?

Day 23
What is the name of Rose's mother?

Day 24
Who became Prime Minister after helping to defeat the Slitheen invasion?

2006-12-01T20:20:00.000Z

Happy advent everybody! I can't remember what advent was originally about (something to do with people going to visit the soon-to-be baby Jesus maybe? I'm really not sure...) but now, of course, what advent really means is chocolate advent calendars. For the three years preceeding this one, my father has bought me the same Mars advent calendar which, while containing tasty chocolate, had gotten rather boring after the first two years of it. Also, the standards have gone down: where before there were three fun-sized Mars bars to enjoy over the run-down to the big day, lately this number has diminished to a mere one fun-sized Mars bar on Christmas eve.

So, naturally, I complained a little when my father produced exactly the same stupid calendar this year as I had had for so many others. Except this time, he actually listened to my moaning, and behold the results!

My advent calendar is SO MUCH better than yours.

Maybe it's not the same for all days, but today I got a Doctor Who related question on the back of the door, with the answer hidden underneath the question. I have decided that on each day that I get one, I will type out the Doctor Who related question for the joy of someone to answer in the Comments. This one is ridiculously easy, and I suspect they all are, so no excuses for not getting them correct.

Doctor Who Milk Chocolate Advent Calendar, Day 1
Question: Which captain did the Doctor & Rose meet in World War 2?

If enough people bother to play, I'll give a prize to the person who, at the end of advent, has been the first to post the correct answer most times. I'd also be curious to hear what advent calendar you have, what shaped chocolate you got and any other advent calendar related news you'd like to share.

In other, rather sadder news, I believe my desk lamp is broken. Thinking the bulb had died last week, I replaced it with a new and shiny bulb; however, the light continues to flicker occasionally with a 'FZZZZZZUP' noise, occasionally winking out altogether, requiring the lamp to be switched off then back on again in order to revive it. This is not the normal behaviour of a brand new bulb. It must therefore be concluded that the lamp itself is at fault. It is not a particularly pretty lamp, but I have had it a long while, and it has an 'AKIRA?' sticker on it, so it has sentimental value. While it may be replaced with a new, better, more stylish lamp, this old black lamp will always hold a special place in my heart.

2006-11-10T19:44:00.000Z

I love the brain.

Look at it! Look how big and squishy and complicated it is! And now I know things about it, actual proper things; I know how I understand what I see, how I understand what I hear, how I formulate words in my mind and transfer them to the shiny computer screen. It's amazing.

It feels so good to be really, really enthusiastic about something I'm learning in school. Biology better stay this good, all the way through to university, and then I might start looking forward to it more as opposed to a feeling of impending chaos, doom and despair. Hooray!

I have now heard back from all six of the unis I applied to, which will have me if I achieve as follows:

Nottingham- AAB
Sheffield- ABB
Cardiff- ABB
Southampton- BBB
Leeds- BBB
Royal Holloway- need to interview

Royal Holloway are actually my favourites from their letter, as theirs was the only one I have received to be signed by hand and indicates that they actually bothered to read what I wrote in my personal statement. (It may have all been crap, but it was time-consuming crap.) I know that they must have just copied and pasted a standard letter after the initial heart-warming paragraph of 'thank you for your application, I am delighted that you understand the research that goes into allowing doctors to do their jobs etc', but that still shows more effort than any others. Especially Southampton, whose admissions officer it seems could not be bothered even to write a signature out to be photocopied, so I just have Sue typed in Lucida Handwriting at the bottom of my letter. If I 'signed' official documents with my first name typed in Lucida Handwriting, I'm sure I wouldn't get away with it so easily.

Also, I now have employment again! Starting Sunday, I will be working 4 hours on both Saturday and Sunday as a dead proud Woolworths temporary Christmas-time employee. Well worth it.

2006-10-27T12:41:00.000+01:00

I don't think I've ever forgiven myself for not getting into Hogwarts. I know probably every eleven year-old child who had read Harry Potter desperately wanted to go there, but I always felt that I wanted it that little bit more. While I was quiet and polite, and excelled in my work, for the most part I hated middle school; I know I must have enjoyed it sometimes, but I've always been better at remembering the bad parts of anything. As much time was spent daydreaming a million dramatic showdowns where I got up and shouted at my teacher and classmates just what I thought of them before either running out of the classroom and never going back, or stabbing myself in the neck with scissors/ a very sharp pencil and collapsing in a pool of blood over my spellings (depending on my mood that day), as actually doing the work. I don't understand why. It's not like I had any real reason to hate school- I was never bullied, I had some really good friends, I didn't find the work too difficult- and yet I never felt I fitted in, and that made me loathe it. Getting that letter from McGonagall wouldn't just have meant I was headed to a magical place, to learn magical things among magical people- it would give me a reason for not having fitted in, one other than just being a freak, a weirdo or whatever else people called me whenever my back was turned.

Of course, September came and no pieces of yellowish parchment had landed on my doormat; although quietly devastated, I just about convinced myself that this was because Hogwarts doesn't actually exist, not because I wasn't special enough. Year 7 began where middle school had left off, but things slowly got better and, year by year, I found myself enjoying it more and more. Now I'm in my last year there, and for the most part I love it. Despite a sometimes monstrous workload, what I'm learning has never been more interesting and I'm supported by a group of lovely friends and the most incredible boy I've ever met. Sometimes my tender self-confidence fails and it's like I'm back in middle school, so even when I'm spending an evening with my best friends it feels like everyone is either laughing at me or wishing I wasn't there. But the vast majority of the time it's good, and I'm good.

This is why I'm terrified about going to university. I'm scared that it'll be like starting secondary school again, and I don't know how I'll cope the second time around with the people who have kept me sane the past few years scattered across the country. I'm scared that I won't fit in, that I'll hate it, that I'll drop out and waste my days 'til I die. I'm scared that, just as I wasn't special enough for Hogwarts, I won't be special enough for university. And with everyone else I know seemingly being really excited about it, or being there already and loving it, I'm scared that feeling all this is proof that I'm a freak or a weirdo.

I wrote this because it has been plaguing my thoughts for the past couple of months, and there's no way I could say it aloud. I don't like talking about how I feel; at least when I'm writing, I can take the time to make it a little more elegant than whatever stumbling rubbish would fall out of my mouth otherwise. And while I usually get annoyed when someone posts song lyrics in a blog- get some of your own opinions, why can't you?- I'm going to relish in my own hypocrisy and do it myself, because sometimes a song can sum up your own feelings better than you yourself ever could.

'I get the feeling I'm just not cut out for this
all strategies, hidden agendas and politics
But if we can stand before legions of enemy, just you and I
then I'd gladly put up with this shit 'til the day that I die'

--Easyworld, 'Til the Day

2006-10-21T14:59:00.000+01:00

Elliott Smith (1969-2003)

On this day some years in the future, I will be at this wall to pay my respects properly. For the time being, I can only say how much he is loved and missed. XO

2006-10-03T18:45:00.000+01:00

***EDIT: all photos of the Wolf at the Zodiac are taken by the kindly mynameistalula, click here for the full set***

Not only is Patrick Wolf a GOD when performing live, but he is well-skilled in the art of knitting.

SWOON.

More information on the Cast Off Knitting Club for Boys and Girls is a simple click away. Their fabulous wares include kits for making knitted cigarettes, knitted first-aid kits and knitted penises, 'with realistic head and veins!' What more could you ask for?

The following live review is copied from my Last.fm journal, so apologies if you've already read it.

Patrick Wolf- 1st October, Oxford Zodiac

I am sat here in my oversized Accident and Emergency T-shirt and still dancing in my chair from memories of last night. I expect I will be for about the next month or so, it was THAT GOOD.

Apologies for the haziness of the following piece of writing; I've only heard odd songs off Lycanthropy, and WitW all the way through once, so I won't be able to give a setlist as I don't actually know the songs well enough. I'm sure in a few days/weeks you'll be able to find a competent review somewhere :)

I think the staff at the Zodiac think it's really funny to put the doors opening time on their website as half an hour before the actual doors opening time. Yesterday was the 3rd time we arrived half an hour late only to see a giant line of people snaking round into the distance, still waiting to be let in. A portion of chips, a pinbadge for joining the mailing list and a further half an hour later and we finally got inside to find the support, Danielle Stechhomsy, already up and running. Plucking daintily at a ukelele in a medieval-looking cowl dress and floaty vocals, she might have been a great performer in the right environment- say, a new-age gathering at Stonehenge- but in a slightly grubby venue, with people swigging beer and talking loudly, she passed pretty much unnoticed. She was helping sell T-shirts at the end though, so she did have some use...

Another half an hour wait, and a hush falls over the room as the lights fade. Three people get onto the stage: a chubby girl with a violin, a boy with a cello and bizarre one-pigtailed hair, and a girl in a maid's outfit, who takes up her station at the back with the laptop, keyboard and other miscellaneous electronic things. The string section starts playing and our lanky, red-haired hero, resplendent in stegosarus trousers, gold-sparkly hoodie and glitter smeared over his eyes, sits down at the piano and starts playing. We can't take our eyes off him, and he holds our attention for the rest of the night.

I don't know what that first song was. Songs I do know he played before the encore, in a vague attempt at the correct order, are:
To the Lighthouse
The Railway House
New Song
Teignmouth
Bloodbeat
New Song (Bluebell?)
The Childcatcher
Tristan
New Song
Demolition
New Song- The Magic Position

I hadn't previously realised quite how good a pianist he is, but he's as good on that as he is anything else. He spent maybe a third of the songs on the piano, and other than stopping midsong to complain that the peddle didn't work- the fault of Elton John having stomped on them with his great, fat feet, apparently- it was absolutely gorgeous. Other instruments we saw him play were the violin, of course, his beloved ukelele (which he managed to make sound sinister on one of the new songs) and a bizarre, plinkety thing which turns out to be an autoharp. Laptop girl- who turned out to have an amazing voice when she sang back-up vocals- kept the beats coming on the electronic tracks while Patrick danced, leapt, and bounded 'round the stage, singing, snarling and shrieking in just the right amounts. He was magnetic: dramatic, over-the-top and constantly engaging. You could see cello-man was loving it, head-banging whilst he wasn't playing, and both girls going all giggly whenever he came close to play a moment with them. Nevermind the stegosaurus trousers, every person in the audience, regardless of stated sexual preference, wanted him.

I don't see the point of encores in general- we know they're just faking going away, they know we know they're just faking going away. He hadn't even played the single the tour was promoting yet, so it was hardly a surprise when he comes back onstage again. What was surprising, other than the costume change (including different stegosaurus trousers, he must have a pair in every colour) was when the first person to get on stage is not him. In my crazed state I think, oh my God, Patrick Wolf is actually so incredibly, jaw-droppingly awesome he has magicked the real Ron Weasly into being, just to sing on stage with him. But of course it was not Ron Weasly, but the guy from Larrikin Love (an easy mistake to make), who proceeded to sing with Patrick on A&E, the two of them playfighting and boucing off one another the whole way through. While it was cute, it made me wonder- was Larrikin just sitting around backstage the entire night, waiting for his moment to appear? Was he watching from the back? Is he going to follow Patrick round on the entire tour? Answers to one or more of these questions would be appreciated.

A Boy Like Me brings the night to a close. It's already stunning enough when, rather than the usual reaching down to the audience so they can touch their god business, he actually drags two random girls from the front row up on stage with him. The security man at the edge of the stage starts forward, but doesn't quite dare to interfere. Patrick gives the girls a second mike, the three of them dancing and singing all the while (TWO DOGS, TWO CATS, A BIG KITCHEN AND A WELCOME MAAAAT), and it's not 'til he drags a third girl on stage that security man snaps. He reaches out to grab the hand of the third girl, only for Patrick to swiftly dance over and swat his hand away. This happens three of four more times for the duration of the song, security man looking increasingly murderous each time, 'til it finally ends, each of the three get a big hug and he sends them, and us, on our merry way.
Now I'm just worried that no future gig will ever match up to that. FANTASTIC.

2006-09-21T17:53:00.000+01:00

'Do you ever get the feeling that people don't really like you, but are just pretending to like you because they feel sorry for you?'

'Yeah, I get that.'

'I do actually like you, you know.'

'Thanks. I actually like you too.'

I wish everything could be that simple.

2006-09-06T19:47:00.001+01:00

Flipping through the dictionary, whilst hunting down a definition for history, I spotted the entry 'love-lies-bleeding'. This turns out to mean 'n. any of several amaranthaceous plants of the genus Amaranthus, esp. A. caudatus, having drooping spikes of small red flowers.'

And I thought: why is this not the name of some terrible whiny emo band? Surely it would be perfect!

A google search later, and I found my answer: Love Lies Bleeding is the name of an Elton John song, and naming oneselves after a song by Elton John (intentionally or otherwise) may well damage the credibility of a terrible whiny emo band.

Mystery solved!

2006-08-31T14:34:00.000+01:00

I have been to Florence, and returned with not a whole great deal more knowledge than before, except that I now fully realise that I really never want to go on holiday solely with my parents ever, ever again. Unfortunately I do not get a choice in the matter, so we will see how sane I am after our supposed two-week jaunt in Cuba next year to attend my brother's wedding.

The wedding itself I am really looking forward to. I have never been to a wedding before, so my only experiences of them are from sugar-coated Richard Curtis films, and from my friends' accounts which feature excruciatingly embarrasing incidents involving drunken relatives. And as a bridesmaid, I will be ideally placed to witness any such occurences. I cannot wait. While I know both the former and the latter wedding ideals will be unlikely due to the exotic location, I know it will still be pretty amazing- at least if the dear couple have not been driven to murder by his mother-in-law's attempts to hijack it and make it her wedding. Aren't families fun?

We (my brother, bride-to-be and I) went on a mission to London to uncover what kind of styles and prices we could expect from wedding attire. We did all the department stores on Oxford St (John Lewis wins the prize for being the worst designed store ever), with mixed results. Wedding dress designers, it seems, currently have a predilection for huge amounts of diamante and/or ruffles, neither of which Fliss and I are great fans of. While this was rather disheartening, we also trekked out to Oriental City- a giant warehouse filled with various shops selling Asian stuff- to check out the cheongsams which Fliss had spotted online and was rather fond of. Though dubious at first, I soon fell in sweet, cheongsam love.

LOOK, LOOK HOW PRETTY IT IS. And, very rarely for a dress, it actually fits me as well as it does the mannequin. I want it. Even if Fliss's mother forbids something as horribly untraditional as a cheongsam to be worn at a wedding, I may well be forced to buy it for myself anyway. Such is the way with pretty things.

Speaking of, only a month 'til I see Patrick Wolf live!

In no way am I excited for any reason other than the brilliant and extraordinary music he creates. No way at all.

2006-08-04T11:45:00.000+01:00

I'm going to Florence tomorrow. It will be a week of soaking in art and culture and sun, to return home, dazzling in my bronzed and beknowledged brilliance.

Or, it could rain all week and I could get horribly bored. There's only so much renaissance art and architecture I can take, after all. Who knows?

It better be sunny, at any rate, after the hardship of trying to buy a suitable piece of swimwear for wearing on the poolside. Here follows a story with an important lesson to be learned.

Foolish and naive as I am, I hadn't worried about buying a bikini up until my holiday was less than a week away. It would be something I could just nip into a shop for, I thought; something I would pick up with no trouble, a simple matter of handing-over some money before being on my merry way.

What I hadn't realised is that by the end of July, it is in fact well into the season and there is NOTHING left in the shops- none of those in Aylesbury, at least- unless you are a size 18+. I went from shop to shop, all over town, desperately trying to find something that fit me. But everywhere I went, there seemed only one solution: get really, really fat, really, really quickly.

Finding something in my size wasn't the only obstacle I had. If at all possible I wanted something that was just a bit tasteful, which counted out the rainbow-striped and gold lamé bikinis in New Look, as well as the slithery green ones in Bay Trading Co. With my field of choice already substantially narrowed by these two factors, the next would leave me practically optionless: I needed a bikini that would protect my modesty. The pretty little triangle top ones, which might look great on lollipop-people from the OC and suchlike, cannot cope with a curvy woman. Wearing one of those, I would be in extreme danger of falling out at any moment. I would look like I am basing my look on Jordan. Please no one find that an attractive prospect because it is NOT happening.

So, not only would I have to become the miracle weight-gain woman, I would also somehow have to lose all but a hint of boobs whilst doing so. Nice.

I couldn't bear to do it. Also, I don't think it's possible in the space of a few hours. I ended up in Boots, which in fact has a nice selection of holiday swimwear; unfortunately, they don't have changing rooms. I bought one bikini and was forced to scuttle over to Next to try it on, only to bring it back a few minutes later. I then found a tankini top that would do, as I was clearly not in luck bikini-wise that day, but I could not be bothered to repeat the whole buying-it-then-possibly-bringing-it-back process. So, checking that nobody was looking, I scurried down a seemingly little-used corridor and up a short flight of stairs into a photo booth, stripped to the waist and shoved it over my head, all the while fearful that either a member of staff would throw back the curtain to accuse me of shop-lifting, or else someone who really wanted a photo done would peek 'round to see why I was taking so long.

It had to do. Although it was hard to judge properly what it looked like by my reflection in the glass-pannelled screen of the booth, I was too drained of energy to find anything better. Unfortunately, as the bottoms to match it had a very high cut leg that brought to mind various lycra creations from the 80s, I was forced to buy a lower piece from BHS. This means my tankini does not match. They are both nice, and the colours are the same, but the outfit as a whole still, quite clearly, is not meant to be.

To a celebrated city of great art and culture, I will be bringing great shame :(

So, what can this tragic tale teach us? Don't leave it 'til the last minute to go bikini shopping and, if by a horrible chance you do, for the love of God don't do it in Aylesbury. Unless you are very fat.

Stupid boys who don't have to go through such trials...

2006-07-18T19:13:00.000+01:00

I think my mother has OCD.

Everyone loves a bargain, right? I know I do. I find that buying lots of cheap things is an instant remedy for a multitude of bad feelings. And again, I know well that my mother's own penchance to buy lots of cheap things has always been a little extensive compared to that of other people. Consider my bathroom cupboard for example; 8 bottles of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, 11 of conditioner and 14 of shower gel is probably a bit more than any regular person. But still, I put it down to eccentricity and competitiveness mixed with a little common sense- after all, if you really need those things then why not stock up while they're on special offer?

However, I was a wee bit more alarmed today when I opened a compartment of the freezer in an attempt to find something interesting for lunch (an endeavour that failed I'm sorry to say), only to find no less than SEVENTEEN packets of Waitrose mini lemon and raisin pancakes. Six per packet, that's ONE-HUNDRED AND TWO of the sodding things. That is not a normal figure.

I'm not sure what I can do for the moment. I guess I shall just have to carefully monitor quantities inside all cupboard-like structures. If I can build up the courage.

2006-07-17T20:58:00.000+01:00

Dear _______,

Please could you stop showing off your love bites to your friends at every available opportunity. As I share a form room with you, I cannot help but see them too and I really, really do not wish to do so. I know that my personal associates (and quite more people besides) agree. While I'm all for everyone finding love and happiness with another living soul, I do not want to see the evidence of it. Especially as my stupid over-active imagination likes to take an idea and run away with it, no matter how much I try to supress it.

Oh! the mental scarring!

I hope you know that this is not a personal attack; I speak in your best interests, as I would hate to see someone finally lose patience and scream at you 'GODAMMIT, FOR THE SAKE OF US ALL, PUT IT AWAY!!' Please, I beg of you, seriously consider taking this request on board. Or else, get your boyfriend to have a decent meal before he sees you.

Best wishes,
Alice

2006-07-14T20:25:00.000+01:00

I feel the need to post a journal entry as my usual time-wasting spot, Last.fm, has just been revamped and is consequently being very, very slow. I hate it when sites redesign. Largely not because I dislike the changes (though it's quite possible I do), but because I hate people's negative reactions to the new look. They may have good points to make, but the least they could do is be polite about it. When your friend goes and gets a haircut, and it looks a bit odd/crap, you don't say so to their face, do you? You say something constructive. (Except if that friend is Jenny, in which case the lesbian jokes are expected by now, poor girl.)

Over the last month I've been on a University visiting binge, which I have somehow returned from without going insane. As well as the stress of the visits in themselves, which left me with a very strong feeling of 'oh my God I'm actually going to leave all my friends to study with a bunch of complete strangers somewhere weird ARRGH', I also had to cope with having both of my parents with me on half of the trips. Although the cloud of dissaproval resulting from my not even considering Oxbridge had dissolved by the times of the visits, my parents (and let's be honest, by that I mean my mother) are still somehow able to inspire in me a unique feeling of complete, utter despair. Music and Tom go a long way in averting the otherwise inevitable parenticide, however :)

Anyway, here are some brief notes on each university because it might actually prove useful to me, and who knows, of interest to you:

The University of Sheffield- Hills. Not a campus, but the SU is directly opposite the Biomedical Sciences building so it would still mostly be all together in a convenient clump. 3 mins walk from the SU up a hill to the big, leafy park and 5 mins walk down the hill to the town. Catered halls nice enough, 20 mins walk up the hill. Good public transport, including trams. Apparently the cheapest and safest city in the UK.

The University of Birmingham- Took an immediate dislike to, but that may be because I went to visit it with the school, and it's worryingly close to home. And they don't have the course I want. They do get points for giving me a free Univeristy of Birmingham frisbee though.

The University of Leeds- GORGEOUS campus, I'd never leave, and fantastic SU (which was playing Radiohead- Idioteque when I walked through the cafe, which further proves their good taste). But the course didn't look immediately as good as the others-only Biology OR Chemistry A level was a requirement, not both, so the 1st year is apparently mainly focused on bringing everyone up to the same level, which could be yawnsome to people who did do both eg me. And the labs looked old-fashioned compared to all the others I saw.

The University of Nottingham- Campus not as pretty as Leeds imo, but bigger and with big rolling fields in the middle of it which is nice. Bit cut off from the town for my liking, though there is a frequent bus service. Brilliant Biochemistry and Genetics course, with superfantastic labs. Shiny SU, but it seemed a little... sterile.

The University of Bristol- again not a campus, but the chemistry dept. where I'd be based seemed pretty self-sufficient so not a problem. Lovely little park (uni owned I think) right in the middle of it. 5-10 min walk into town. No biomedical science degree, but physiology there looks good and the labs were impressive. Unfortunately, the accomodation is 45 mins walk away, UP A HILL, and the buses are reportedly rubbish. And the SU reminded me of Haddenham youth centre- it tries, yet fails, to look welcoming and has a funny smell.

The University of Southampton- where my brother went, so I already knew this one a bit. VERY nice accomodation that I saw (with a circular, soundproof music-room on stilts!) only 3 mins walk away from Biosciences. Good course, didn't get to see any labs though. SU seemed good, with helpful (and attractive) student at info point to tell me things about it. And FREE BUS PASS when living in Halls!

Current thoughts are Sheffield 1st choice, Soton as insurance, though this depends on things such as grades and where my gentleman friend thinks he may go.

And, on a completely unrelated note, less than a year 'til I get to be a bridesmaid wearing a very pretty dress at my brother's wedding! :)

2006-07-08T13:37:00.000+01:00

It is sad when a brilliant TV show is cancelled; however, there is a time when all good things must come to an end. You might shed a few tears, get some friends together to have a marathon of the show, and watch the final episode with a mixture of delight and grief as years' worth of quality entertainment goes out on a high.

What you shouldn't do is ship it off to Japan so it can be resurrected as a very scary anime.

'Demashita! Powerpuff Girls Z (出ましたっ！パワパフガールズZ, roughly "And They're Off! Powerpuff Girls Z") is the name for a Japanese anime loosely inspired by the American animated television series The Powerpuff Girls. It is of the magical girl genre of anime.

The show being made by Cartoon Network, Toei Animation, and Aniplex; with Sam Register, Hiromi Seki, and Hideo Katsumata producing; Hiroyuki Kakudou directing; and character design by Miho Shimogasa of Sailor Moon fame. Craig McCracken, the original creator of The Powerpuff Girls, is not involved in this project.

Toei Animation's anime reimagining of Cartoon Network's Powerpuff Girls, entitled Powerpuff Girls Z, debuted in Japan on July 1, 2006 on TV Tokyo, replacing Sugar Sugar Rune in its time slot. The initial order is for about 50 to 52 episodes at 30 minutes each, with more possible depending on how successful the show turns out to be. As of this writing, it is unknown when, or if there will be a U.S. release, and even if so, whether or not it would feature the original actors who voiced the American show.

Since the cartoon was first revealed around April 1 at the Tokyo International Anime Fair 2005, it was believed by many to be an April Fool's joke which started at the animation news web site Toon Zone.' (Wikipedia)

If only.

You can watch the first episode here on YouTube (the provider won't allow embedding). I won't even begin to descibe it myself.

The Powerpuff Girls Z make the REAL Bubbles cross.

2006-05-23T15:58:00.000+01:00

I was in quite a good mood earlier today. Not ecstatic, but a step up from my normal- just a bit more relaxed, smiley and at peace with the world.

Then, something happened to break this mood. Not so much break it as sever, smash and splinter it into a million tiny pieces of lost hope and joy. I went to the orthodontist.

I've already documented how much I hate going to the orthodonist. And I know it's not all the fault of the man himself; orthodontistry by nature is not the most pleasant of things to force upon someone. But (foolishly) I thought I was beyond the biggest horrors of my orthodontistry adventure. I'd had my train tracks for 4 long years, and two weeks ago they were removed. Never before had my teeth felt so free, released from their metal restraints and allowed to shine in all their smooth, straight glory.

But no longer is that the case, for today Mr Keene introduced my teeth to a new cage- perhaps even more frustrating than the last.

Introducing: THE BEAST.

It takes up the whole roof of my mouth, and while it doesn't hurt, it feels hugely uncomfortable and disgusting. I'm meant to wear it at all times, other than for meals, for at least a year. And it makes me talk like, well, like I've got a huge lump of plastic and metal shoved in my mouth, ie like a retard. (Too angry to think of a PC word, sorry.)

Hopefully I will adjust to it a little over the next week. Until then, I plan on staying in and refusing to talk to anyone lest they a) laugh at me or, perhaps more annoyingly, b) are sympathetic to a piss-taking extent. For now, I can only ask myself- what did I do to so offend the gods of orthodontistry?

2006-05-22T11:16:00.000+01:00

I LOVE THIS BAND.

Went to see The Decemberists on Saturday night, and it was ABSOLUTELY AMAZING. In my opinion pop music, or in fact life in general, is lacking in accordions. And melodicas. And upright basses, banjos, glockenspiels, 12-string electric mandolin things...

Other brilliant things that come to mind:

Signs on the doors when we got to the Zodiac, saying 'NO SMOKING AT THE ARTISTS REQUEST'. Hooray, a gig where I'd actually be able to breathe properly and not come home smelling like I've been rolling around in a giant ashtray. Or, as at Bedouin Soundclash, a giant bong.
The fire alarm went off before the show started, which wasn't so good, but did mean we got to walk on the roof of the Zodiac which I don't think many people can claim to have done. Also, apparently Dodge, Tom and I have memorable faces as the staff waved us back in after the alarm saying they recognised us. I think that's a good thing anyway...
The support band, Howling Bells were impressive, and their frontwoman has quite possibly the sexiest female voice I've ever heard (sorry Shirley). She wasn't exactly bad-looking either, and was in possession of fantastic red cowboy boots which were the envy of us all. I really regret not buying their album at the end of the show, but as I'd already bought a Decemberists shirt I thought it might be excessive to buy something else. I am foolish.

Colin Meloy mocking us for our Oxford accents, saying he couldn't understand unless we spoke in American, which led to him prompting everyone in the venue to yell 'LET'S GO TO THE BARRRRRR!'

Bassist and guitarist cocking their guitars like guns as the persussion demanded during This Soldiering Life

Tambourine fight between Colin and Jenny. She throws a tambourine to him which sails past his outreached hand and has to be handed to him by the bassist. He then advances on her, brandishing the tambourine, and they start hitting one another's tambourine with their own until his own bejangled weapon falls apart and shiny pieces fall on the heads of the crowd below. Unfortunately I was on the other side of the hall so I have no jingly keepsake of my own, but as our posistions were AWESOME I won't complain.

ACCORDION SOLO!!
The freakout in the Bagman's Gambit which consists of all the band members making as much noise as they can for about 30 seconds before Meloy's voice comes floating in over the top. I think my ears broke a bit during that, but it was worth it.

Also in The Bagman's Gambit, where the tune shifts between two notes before moving on to another chord, then on with the song. In the recorded version, this lasts about 16 beats in total. When they played it live, they held out on those two notes for as long as they could, until people were calling out for them to move on. With a serene little smile, Meloy indicates that he's about to move on, wait for it, wait for it... before moving to the next chord and lingering on that for just as long.

A big thanks to Dodge, both for bodyguard duties and for taking up the extra ticket without knowing what was in store- though I trust he was not disappointed. And thanks to Tom for spotting the tickets on sale in the first place, and for generally making my life FANTASTIC.

:)

2006-05-17T13:53:00.000+01:00

Study leave has rolled around again, meaning endless days of pretending to revise, panicking the night before exams due to said non-revision, and somewhere between the two a little exercise, in the meagre hope that it will help prepare me for supposed bikini wearing on holiday.

I'm pretty sure I complained about it last year, but after today's experience I felt compelled to compile the following:

TOP 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT GOING SWIMMING*

*other than the actual swimming itself, which is a given

1. Swimming costumes
I am not the most physically confident of people. Although this situation has improved hugely over the past six months or so, there is still a very large part of me that does not want my barely-concealed body on show, the lycra clinging unforgivably to every curve and contour. I think in the 1800s or something, when families went to stay in a hut at the seaside for the weekend for their grand Summer holiday, women used to just roll up their bloomers when dabbling in the sea; it may not help from a streamlining point of view, but sometimes I wish we could just go back to that.

2. Necessary body maintenance for wearing said swimming costume
Does this require an explanation? No, no it doesn't.

3. The lockers
The scrabbling around in one's pocket in the hope of finding a pound coin, only to discover you left it at home that morning and therefore have to beg your mother to borrow one of hers. The attempts to find a locker whose key is firmly attached to the wristband, so it doesn't wriggle free in the pool and inadvertently stab the person in front. Finding a wristband that remains tight around one's wrist, so it doesn't come undone halfway along the pool, leading to an embarrassing dive to the murky depths in order to retrieve it.

4. The lifeguard
Who does he think he is, sitting in his Chair of Glory? Sitting smug in his lofty position, surveying his watery kingdom with a smug, mocking smile... I say his, because never in my recollection has there been a girl in that almighty position. He never has to do anything, because generally people who choose to swim in lanes for an hour are fairly assured of not drowning. Linking back to complaint No.1, I'm pretty sure that all that he can do to pass the time is watch the various swimmers in the pool and rate their bodies out of ten. Because I know that's what I'd do if I were him. I'm a bad person.

5. The frequently shitty music
OK, that may be a little harsh. While some of the music they play may not be shitty as such, it just isn't appropriate for exercise. I'm not asking for some club dance remixes, but I want music which is at least pretending to be lively; something to help get the adrenaline going and hopefully distract me from the horror I am inflicting on myself. Damien Rice: pleasant enough, but when swimming I'd prefer something a little less catatonic.

6. The pool water
Because God knows how many other people have been in the pool already that morning, and whether they meant to or not, spat in it, snotted in it and probably pissed in it.

7. Chlorine: the smell
As soon as one walks into the sports centre, one is engulfed by the choking stench of it. And it doesn't stop there; I shower as soon as I get home from the pool, and yet up to three showers later I can still smell the bloody stuff all over me. Even when using Boots 'The Spa' shower gel, which contains microcapsules apparently bursting with fragrance and skin-cleansing goodness, the smell of chlorine lingers forever on.

8. Chlorine: the burning
Some may consider it cheating to mention chlorine twice. I, however, feel that as the chemical is probably the product of none other than Satan himself, it deserves all the abuse I can throw at it. I don't know whether the chlorine concentration in the pool I use is particularly strong, or whether my eyes are just rubbish, but whenever I go swimming there, my eyes feel like they're on fire for the rest of the day. Last year this happened in one of two ways: firstly, without eye drops, my eyes would be blurry the whole time and every 15mins or so they'd start streaming, accompanied by intense pain. Secondly, with eyedrops, my eyes would clear but the pain would be dull and inisistent. Right now, I just have blurry eyes with mild stinging, but I'm sure after subsequent sessions I will be howling.

9. The other swimmers
I hate the middle-aged men and women that can swim faster and better than me. I hate the girls there my own age (who, granted, are very few and far between) whose perfectly muscled and toned bodies laugh at my own wobbly one. I hate having to share a lane with too many people, as I have to time when to kick off the side so as to avoid either accidentally molesting the person in front, or else being molested by the person behind me. I hate the fear of seeing someone I once knew and would rather forget, such as my English teacher from Year 5. I hate it when my mother sees someone she once knew and then conducts a shouted conversation with them across the lane so everyone in the whole pool can hear. My mother has no boundaries, and as my ears are underwater most of the time I am in no position to check what she is saying; therefore, when I surface for a quick breath and all I hear is 'that's Alice over there!' my brain immediately goes into overdrive, imagining what excruciating detail about me she has felt fit to inform everyone in the room.

10. The location
The sports centre is conveniently found on the same site as the sixth form of the local upper school. So, stumbling out of the double doors, hair soaked and bedraggled, nose and eyes streaming, still struggling for breath, there's a large gathering of boys and girls on their lunchbreak to watch me fall sideways into the car. What a wonderful end to an hour of pain and hardship.

So if I seem a little grumpy after an hour at the pool, now you know why.

2006-04-29T21:26:00.000+01:00

'Describe and explain how water moves through the trunk of a tree to the leaves'

Actually, I'd rather not. I don't care how water moves through the trunk of a tree to the leaves. In fact, I can't think of many things I care less about. I care more about what my boss ate for breakfast this morning. But then I do have a passion for breakfast cereals, so this is probably not such a good example to illustrate how little the movement of water through the trunk of a tree to its leaves interests me.

There is a reason why I have a passion for breakfast cereals. In my house, I am the sole consumer of these precious foodstuffs. My dad just has coffee, and I think at the moment my mum has these weird little lemon and raisin pancakes from Waitrose that were on special offer about 6 months ago, and have been languishing in the freezer until now, when apparently the time is right for them to be eaten. Does the taste of Waitrose weird little lemon and raisin pancakes increase with time spent in the freezer? I doubt it.

Anyway, as the only cerealphile in the house, I am not allowed to have many boxes open at a time as they take up vital cupboard space that could be used for, say, unfrozen Waitrose weird little lemon and raisin pancakes. And by not many boxes, I mean no more than one. One solitary box of cereal, to eat every single day until it is empty, when another identical box of cereal will appear.

IT DRIVES ME INSANE.

It's not that I don't like the cereal I get- I chose it, and Special K is tasty, especially with a chopped banana (preferably just a little unripe). And it needn't even be Special K- if I wrote something else down on the shopping list, I would get that something else. But that's not the point. I crave variation in my morning diet. I long to wake up in the morning with a little thrill, not yet knowing what I'll eat for breakfast that day. I dream of opening the kitchen cupboard to reveal a dazzling selection of breakfast cereals, surprising (perhaps even a little vulgar) in their variety and scope. I shiver with delight to imagine a few moments spent thinking, 'Should I have Special K today? Or Coco Pops? Cinnamon Grahams? MAYBE even- God willing- ALL THREE TOGETHER!!'

But no. That pleasure is denied me. Each morning I must munch morosely through another bowl of what I had yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and so on and so forth until my soul withers away into nothing and I am left a bitter empty husk of a human being.

:(

When I grow up I am going to have one of every single cereal I like in the kitchen cupboard at once and have a different one every morning and it will be GOOD and my soul will be HEALED. And if this means I cannot afford to buy other foods, or clothes, or furniture, then so be it.

2006-01-12T16:25:00.000Z

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY

And it has been FANTASTIC. It has involved a surprise party, hideous photos, a beaver, non-dieting and a very special chemistry presentation to name just a few marvellous things...

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH I LOVE YOU ALL

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2006-01-01T19:08:00.000Z

Happy new year to you all. Except I've just thought of an upsetting new year problem. Like probably most of the Western world, a resolution of mine for 2006 is to lose weight. Not a lot mind you, just enough for the theory outlined below to work its magic:

Loss of weight
I
Increased 'body confidence'
I
Increased confidence in general
I
More relaxed and friendly attitude
I
Increased ability to cope with difficult situations and relate to people
I
Eternal happiness.

(Yes I know I am missing some things out before the last step, but this is a simplified version of events.)

Another goal of 2006 is, of course, to spend all my money in the January sales. AND THEREIN THE PROBLEM LIES.

I'm not going to lose a lot of weight overnight, or a week, or even a few weeks. I've seen quite enough examples on how trying to do that is a very bad thing. But the January sales do not last forever; they last as long as January does, one should think, which is just 31 precious days- and one of those is already gone. So, when buying clothing in the sales, should I anticipate weight loss and buy things that I cannot currently fit into? What if I don't lose enough weight, and end up having spent all my money on things that will probably never fit me and will just languish in my wardrobe, an everlasting reminder of my failure? But if I buy things that fit me now, if all does go according to plan, they would actually only last a few months before becoming sack-like and unattractive on my newly thinner frame.

The mind BOGGLES. What are you meant to do in this situation?

:(

In other news, The Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal is probably my actual favourite cloned corpse in the whole wide world. In fact, I love them so much that I wrote a short poem in their honour.

The Cloned Corpse of Marcus Tal
is my newest undead pal.
Gracing my blog with kind comments
the mighty Tal is simply immense.

I just hope that 'Tal' does rhyme with 'pal' as I thought, else it will just sound dumb.

2005-12-28T16:32:00.000Z

A short note, but by no means an unimportant one:

Out of all the super people I know, Alex (aka Scage) is one of the very most superest. Let us all take a moment to revere her for her formula-one loving, 5-star breast having, sparkly-shoe wearing ways.

2005-12-27T11:00:00.000Z

I know I haven't written for ages, so I ought to post something extra long to make up for that. But firstly, I don't think anyone would be bothered to read it, and secondly, it's not like I can be bothered to write it. So I won't. There is one noble fragment of information however, that I feel obliged to share with you.

Trivial Pursuit is the work of SATAN.

I had always suspected as much, but yesterday I was convinced beyond all doubt. Everything, EVERYTHING about it is designed to drive people towards a murderous rampage. The obscenely obscure questions that require about 5 minutes of furious conferring among a team, to eventually settle on the wrong answer. The way it takes on minimum about 4 bloody hours to finish because your little cousin insists on rolling the dice for everybody, shakes it for 10 seconds before doing so each time, then loses it under the dog so the whole sorry process has to be repeated over and over. Even the shape of the sodding counters is designed to anger, aggravate and annoy - cheese, as I'm sure you all know, gives you NIGHTMARES. Like that of a neverending game of Trivial Pursuit. In the slightly sozzled state most people fall under around this time of year, murdering one's friends and family may seem preferable to such a hideous situation. Unless Hasbro has branched out into funeral directing without my notice, and are in need of more business, it seems clear that the game is simply a vehicle of Beelzebub to gain more wicked followers.

To further prove my point in the hope of saving my readers from a horrible TP induced fate, I braved the official trivial pursuit website to find further proof of their evil ways. Behold! Irrefutable evidence, straight from the horse's mouth:

'Since its official introduction in 1982, this phenomenally successful board game has been testing game players' wits to the limit.'

That may sound innocent enough - they wish only to challenge us intellectually, not to send us looking for kitchen knives, surely... BUT NO. If one looks up the word 'wits' in a trusty dictionary, one will immediately see that 'wits' can also mean 'Sound mental faculties; sanity'. So, the devils admit it themselves- they fully intend to drive us so crazy that death is preferable to playing their game of hate any longer. FIENDS.

One further fact: the holiday season is well-known to have higher numbers of suicides than any other time of year. And Trivial Pursuit is played when families gather together, ie the holiday season. Coincedence? I think not.

I therefore implore you, beloved readers, to stay away from this game of depravity for the good of yourselves and others.

Hope you had a merry Christmas, and a Trivial Pursuit-free new year to you all.

2005-11-04T21:15:00.000Z

So, I could write a hilarious dissertation on my life of the past 2/3 weeks... but frankly the above is far more interesting. At the top is comedy GENIUS Bill Bailey. Below is Frederick III, Elector of Saxony (1463-1525). Are they not the same?? SPOOKY.

2005-10-23T10:15:00.000+01:00

I know this is a couple days late, but really it's something that can be said whenever:

I'm never gonna know you now, but I'm gonna love you anyhow

Love you Elliott

XO

P.s If you don't know who I'm talking about, go look.

2005-10-22T20:53:00.000+01:00

Jeez. I've started writing this particular post, then deleted it, about five times in the past hour and I'm getting increasingly annoyed each time I do so. It's because I'm rubbish at talking about things that actually matter, rather than the meaningless trivialities that make up my own life. The truth is, important things fucking terrify me. If I can't make some lame joke about it, I don't want to think about it.

But, at the risk of sounding like the cliched moral at the end of some crappy TV programme, sometimes something happens that forces you to think about the really important things. And consequently you realise that what you may have thought was important, (eg bad test results, missing out on seeing your boyfriend, whether that boy will finally gets round to asking that girl out, etc,) REALLY ISN'T. I know that this is pretty standard knowledge, but I sometimes get so bloody self-involved that I forget this simple fact and end up stressing about nothing. And I'm so, so sorry for doing that, because I know that compared to so many million billion other people, my problems don't even begin to register. I'm not saying that I'll stop worrying too much, because that would be a foolish, unkeepable promise due to my fallible human nature, but I'll at least try my hardest to keep things in perspective.

Well, that was embarrassingly earnest. Sorry. But I felt it should be said. I don't really want to write about what's been going on the past two weeks of my life now, nor do I want to write about what made me be so embarrassingly earnest to start with. Instead, I'll suggest that you go find someone you love, be it friend or family member or partner, and give them a hug so big they'll think you'll never let go. Because you should never, ever have to.

2005-10-06T21:01:00.000+01:00

Usually I like coincedences. I like the feeling that things all slot neatly together in some kind of huge cosmic jigsaw puzzle. If I believed in God, I'd take it as irrefutable evidence that He exists. However, if I were to use coincedences as proof of the Almighty, then judging by the incredible RUBBISHNESS of the one He set up for tomorrow, He has a rather warped sense of humour and I wouldn't want Him to be the Lord of all creation anyway.

In short: tomorrow is the first opportunity I have had to go out with fabulous new boyfriend Tom. 'Hooray!' I think, 'How fantastic and wonderful!' Then, half way through looking at cinema times, I remember that tomorrow it's my mother's sodding birthday.

While this is usually something I could talk to her about and work around, unfortunately she is not in the country. She is in Singapore, as of last Saturday, and will be for the next two weeks, and I promised her that I'd phone her on her birthday. And due to time differences, I have to do so immediately when I get home from school, else phone in the middle of the night. Which means no going out after school, which leads to feelings of guilt for disappointing Tom, guilt for forgetting my mum's birthday and then being angry at her for having it tomorrow, and of course intense sadness on my own behalf.

If you're up there, God, screw you.

2005-10-01T21:16:00.000+01:00

I have decided that despite its minimal readership (ie 1-2 people), my much neglected blog deserves some loving. So here is an entry. It won't be very long, nor exciting, but at least it's here at all godammit.

The last month of my life has been OK I suppose. I may get so much work in 6th form it makes me want to cry, but there are good things about it as well, such as free periods, coffee machines and very nice people to talk to. We'll have to see whether those things are enough to get me through the year.

Shit. I'd write more, but now I'm too concerned about the chemistry I haven't done yet so shall do that instead, at the risk of angering/ concerning my father who thinks I am working too hard. This is not true. It is not a case of working too hard, it is a case of pissing my time up the wall, so I have to work late to make up for it.

Incase you weren't aware (you should be), The Pixies are spiffy. Thanks Tom :)

2005-08-29T21:00:00.000+01:00

There is a giant fly in my room. In all my years I have never seen a fly so big. It is more like an airborne rat, a flying blob of death and disease. It makes me shudder and scratch at myself just to look at it.

But how can I rid my room of this hateful beast? I have tried turning all the lights out and waiting til it goes away- no result. I have tried to catch it with a cup-like vessel and a piece of paper (AS exam results), but again, to no avail.

The only option left seems to be to shmush it with my bare fist, or whatever club-like object comes to hand. But then there will be a great dark smur of fly innards on my beautiful fish-swimming wallpaper.

It seems the fly and I will just have to learn to accept one another and co-habitate in peace. Or at least maintain a healthy distance from one another. But if I wake up tomorrow with pustules erupting all over my face, shivery and frail, you know why.

The fly did it.

2005-08-26T20:54:00.000+01:00

New Franz Ferdinand single... so... goddamn... FUNKY...

I want to go to a piss-up with the Franz at an art gallery. PLEASE.

Right, must go wash now as Leila has promised a Reading update somewhere in the region of 9.30pm, and I'd rather not be in the shower when she does so.

2005-08-25T17:42:00.000+01:00

Exam results = :) x5

Same with my friends, so we are all so smug and self satisfied someone should really slap us.

Well done if you got happy-making results! And if you hear some arse saying GCSEs are getting easier and it's so much easier to get As these days and blah blah blah, do me a favour and smack them in the head for me.

2005-08-19T15:23:00.000+01:00

What's in your Ipod at the moment?
A bunch of pretentious indie bands.

How'd they get in there?
We squashed them.

Hahahaha my sense of humour is lame. http://www.sayhitoyourmom.com/faq.htm for similar such faqs, from a pretty good band.

I haven't updated for so long because, to be quite honest, I can't be bothered.

I hope your Summer is good, anyway. I might tell you my GCSE results next week. If they're good, and if you're nice.

2005-08-03T15:50:00.000+01:00

There are few things in life more distressing than painful orthodontics treatment. Except for stuff like terrorist attacks, starvation in Niger, kidnappings etc, but I was talking about things that are personally distressing to me.

Today's orthodontics treatment ranks highly on the list of Bad Things. Oh, the pain. I can't drink water without it hurting. I had to forego an extremely tasty lunch in favour of soup, as anything more solid would cause me to scream, loudly.

Anyway, he changed the wire, tightened it, cleaned a couple of brackets with a drill that simultaneously hurt my teeth and my ears, and then said:

'Ah. There's a problem.'

WHAAAT? You ARSEHOLE, if the last 10 minutes of PAIN were a WASTE then I will fucking KILL YOU, I think.

'What is it?' I say.

Turns out that the structure of my jaw is wrong, so that the only way I will ever have perfect teeth is if I have corrective surgery. Like, no way.

So despite the 3 or 4 years I have suffered already with this goddamn metal in my mouth, let alone any future ones, I will never have a presentable smile.

Lame-o-rama.

On a happier note, the new ok go video nearly made me piss myself laughing. Please enjoy.

2005-07-27T19:34:00.000+01:00

I
AM
SO
BORED.

Today, and yesterday in fact, I didn't do anything except sit on my fat arse all day and lament my non interesting life. I would have gone swimming, but I'm still peeling in a most disgusting manner from the sunburn I acquired on holiday. And something about peeling skin really creeps me out. I know it doesn't hurt to 'clean it up', as my mother puts it, but I still just don't like the though of it. Which explains why I snapped at her when she started trying to pull away big dead chunks of my flesh, which led to her giving me the condescending my-daughter-is-just-such-a-hormonal-teenager smile and saying, 'You know, you've been a bit grumpy recently.'

Which of course made me angrier, so I had to retire to my room to calm damn before I smacked her right in her silly face.

Grr.

I'm feeling better now at least, having spent the afternoon writing a nonsensical letter to Leila, who is camping in the ridiculous location of the Hebrides. Also, playing pokemon, though I should really keep that quiet.

Hopefully I'll be able to go swimming tomorrow, which will fill up a nice lump of the day. Why is it that I look so forward to the holiday only to wallow in boredom?

2005-07-26T09:42:00.000+01:00

Welcome all to another boring day. I may have said that I'm glad to be back from holiday, but I take that back as the Summer tedium begins to set in and I spend days at a time doing nowt but spinning round and round on my wheely chair.

On Saturday was my very first day at work, and a right sorry affair it was too. Actually, it was pretty much what I expected. There were only two other members of staff present besides the manager, Richard, who spent all his time in the office anyway so it's not worth mentioning him: Freda, a kindly old lady who took me under her wing, and Eric, a cantankerous old gentleman who smokes a pipe and calls everyone pet names.

Richard made it clear that he didn't expect any miracles from me, so I spent most of the day cowering behind Freda trying to learn the extensive lore behind male formalwear. I never knew it was so complicated. I also completed a number of menial jobs such as fetching bags from outback and sorting out piles of hangers.

And I also learnt how to use the till, which was good, except for the time I messed it up and almost scewed up the accounts of the shop.

Overall, it was a thoughourly boring experience, which should hopefully become less so when I learn more and have the courage to actually help customers.

There was one good thing, however: in the back room where we take tea breaks, there is a pile of magazines of varying degrees of tackiness, which meant I was able to read a fascinating story of a woman who married a transvestite. It was heartbreaking, it really was, especially when she says she feels 'Betty' is more attractive than her, but she still loves him/ her, and would never leave him/ her, unless he got the operation done.

Behold the power of love.

And yesterday I went into town with my good pal Flora, before going to the cinema avec parents to see Fantastic Four, which was good. If slighty unconvincing. My father, who knows about these things as he used to read the original Marvel comics, (yes, he's that old,) says it was very faithful to the original story. I just find it slightly strange that the fella made out of rocks, who is nice really despite being a hideous monster now, still manages to pull a ridiculously attractive woman.

You may be blind, hun, but you don't need to be that unpicky!

2005-07-22T11:11:00.000+01:00

OH MY GOD I just finished Harry Potter. Was that good or what? Seriously, I don't know how it will stand up to repeated reads, but for the moment Half-Blood Prince has overtaken Chamber of Secrets as my favourite.

I won't go on and on about it incase you haven't read it yet (and if not, why not?), but rest assured that I found it exceedingly excellent.

LAUGH! at the (contrived) love lives of our three noble heroes!
GASP! as thrilling secrets are finally revealed!
CRY! as a beloved character is sent to a chilling end!
etc. etc.

Only problem is, now what am I going to do? I now have that hollow feeling one gets having finished a really good book, and knowing that nothing else I do all day will come anywhere close. Oh well. I still have to catch up on the TV I missed while on holiday, which includes The OC season finale. God bless melodrama.

2005-07-21T17:00:00.000+01:00

Back from Sri Lanka! And despite the greatness of that holiday, it is still lovely to be home, though new terrorist attacks wasn't exactly the homecoming present I had expected. Jesus, can't they leave us alone? I've got BBC News up, and at the moment they say it's a 'serious incident' yet the casualties are low, so there's a small mercy. The transport system has been ballsed up, obviously, so there's still going to be a load of worried people with friends/relatives stranded in the capital.

Anyway, it'll take more than terrorist attacks to make me shut up about how FANTASTIC the last eleven days were. Starting on 10th July, with our little trek down to Cardiff to see REM.

Actually, that was a quite a while ago now, so I don't really recall it too well as any clear thoughts have been shunted aside by the word AMAZING in large and sparkly letters. I'll put what I remember.

Preconcert happiness- as we pulled into the Park & Ride, (those huge LED signs on the motorway were advertising the park & ride for the stadium as soon as we crossed the border... I would have been so bitter at the constant reminder had I not been attending...) my CD (Elliott Smith, XO) just finished, was was great as I hate interrupting mid song. Upon removing the CD, Radio 2 came on and I instantly recognised the opening strummings of Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, which both me and my father love. So we stayed in the car a few minutes to wait that one out. Something of a good omen, I feel.

This was followed by being dropped off in Cardiff to try and find the Ticket Office to collect the tickets. This was extremely unpleassnt, as it was a SCORCHING day and I needed to piss most urgently. However, the tickets were found, the facilities in McDonalds were used, and we made our way to the stadium and to our seats, buying a programme full of lovely photos of Stipe and co en route.

Yes, so our seats were crappy, but we had been expecting that. Peering down at the tiny speck of Johnathan Rice on stage took rather more effort than I was willing to expend, so most of his set was spent trying to make the camera work in the dark. (Despite Night-time mode, all pictures taken were shite so I shall not trouble you with them.)

Next came Idlewild, who I am fond of as they are Scottish and I own their third album and think it's rather good. The frontman was sporting a monster of a mullet that frightened me a wee bit, but it didn't lessen my enjoyment of them. At one point Mike Mills came onstage to join then in singing Sweet Home Alabama; they explained why, but with slightly dodgy sound and a thick Scottish accent I didn't hear. No matter, it was good anyhow.

Then were The Zutons, who I was a little apprehensive of as Leila said that they were not exactly sparkly when she saw them supporting Muse. Well, as I have previously suspected, Leila talks crap, as they were great. And my dad enjoyed them too, which is surprising as he doesn't usually put up with this modern rubbish.

Then, after a rather long break, came the legends themselves, and they did not disappoint. They stormed onstage with Bad Day, and to be honest from then on it's a bit of a blur as I was too busy being happy in the moment. The best bits I do remember are Everybody Hurts, which they dedicated to those who had suffered in the London attacks. Surprisingly, I managed not to cry, but I very much resented not having a lighter. I think I shall have to buy one specifically for waving at gigs.

Actually, all manner of wonderful stuff happened, that you can read in much more competent depth and detail, with setlist, here.

Though I don't think this review has gone into enough detail on how wonderfully they racked up the suspense before the encore; when they left the stage, the giant screens either side flashed through the names of every single place they've played in since October, (and blimey, that's a lot,) before slowing down and ending with CARDIFF in shiny colours.

And Stipe is as lovely, charming and engaging a performer as I expected- he should be, he's been doing this for so long. Second best gig I've been to yet. The first being Rufus Wainwright, obviously. I doubt that will ever be topped.

In the coming months, I hope to see Garbage, David Ford and Nada Surf, as they are releasing/ have just released new stuff and are touring the UK/ are promising to tour soon. Huzzah! (Want to come? As long as I know you and you are willing to pay for yourself, you can join me for any of these...)

While we're on the topic, lovely new Nada Surf song can be downloaded here.

And so, the next morning, tired but cheerful, we set out for the airport and Sri Lanka. Unfortunately, not such a good start, we arrived at Heathrow to find that Virgin hadn't notifed Sri Lankan Airlines that we were on the flight, so rather than enjoying the delights of Terminal 4 we had to hang around by the ticket office, on standby, for 3 hours.

Eventually we managed to get on the flight, which as usual reduced me to a green shivery lump by the end of it. I really don't travel well, even if there is Monsters Inc to watch.

The first four days we did a little tour of the country, with our own private driver and guide, Rahni (sp?), who turned out to be the fountain of all knowledge, and really nice as well. Due to political demonstrations we couldn't do the tour of Colombo properly, which actually suited me pretty well as I was exhasted and wanted nothing more but sleep.

We visited the Elephant Orphanage, which was the cutest thing ever, followed by these ancient temples at a place called Dumballa. They were all filled with lifesize statues of Buddha, which was a little creepy but beautiful nonetheless. The next day started early with an elephant ride, one of the most amazing things I've ever done; I was sat on the elephant's neck, feeding her bananas, as she was guided on a leisurely stroll around a lake (and through it at one stage), wildlife spotting and enjoying the gorgeous sunshine.

We climbed to the top of Sigiriya, one of the seven ancient wonders of the world, a mountainous palace thing. It was Hell, especially for my dad who suffers numerous back problems and such, but eventually we made it to the very top of the 1000+ steps, and the view and the feeling of achievement were worth the climb.

We went to some other ancient temples, which I was not terribly impressed by, and several craftshops where we were explained exactly how it was all made. At a jewellery shop we made the purchase of a sapphire ring, which is to be my mum's joint Christmas and Birthday present from my dad, and a teardop-shaped Moonstone pendant which I chose as a Christmas present for myself.

Oh yes, and we saw firewalkers, which were entertaining if a little disturbing. Plus there was a girl sat the seat in front of me whose face looked almost EXACTLY like that of my good pal Kerrie. I spotted her on the flight home as well. The resemblance was eerie.

When the tour was over, we spent 4 nights at a beach hotel, which was alright but not brilliant- the hotels we stayed in on the tour were 4 star and this one was 5 star, but it was the worst of the lot. The room was tiny, especially with my bed shoved in the corner, the food wasn't as nice and the service generally wasn't as good. Still, the pool area was fantastic, which is were I spent most of my time so I wasn't too bothered. It did, however, contribute to me suffering now with sunburnt shoulders.

Most of that time at the hotel was spent swimming, sunbathing and reading by the pool. The beach was just the other side of a fence, but there was an army of touts prowling just the other side, waving cigarettes and other junk if you ventured anywhere near; we decided it wasn't worth the bother. There were activities organised throughout the day, so my mum and I took part in the water aerobics which was surprisingly fun. OK, so maybe the slim, toned instructor had something to do with that.

We also attended a cookery demonstration, sari draping thingy which I was forced into trying on depite being soaking wet from the pool, and yoga, with an impossibly bendy instructor. There was also a wedding of an English couple which was lovely to watch as they had dancers and an elephant. I also made use of the gift voucher we were given to get a free back and spine massage, which was bliss, apart from when she made contact with my sunburn.

The journey back was uneventful, with no more mishaps at the airport. Got back home at about 10pm, to see my brother, who had proposed to his girlfriend while we were away, so I will soon get to be a bridesmaid for the first time!

And jetlag meant I woke up this morning at 5:40am, but I am in a good mood nonetheless.

Christ, I think I've written enough for the time being. If you're wondering how I can stand to write so much, it is because my mother and I are reading the new Harry Potter in shifts and it is currently her turn. I'm almost halfway through it so far, and so far I am enjoying it immensely- far better than Order of the Phoenix.

First day of work on Saturday. Wish me luck. It does mean, however, that I can't attend the GRK gig on the Friday night, but I think they've taken enough of my money already.

2005-07-09T18:06:00.000+01:00

Don't you just hate packing? It is, by far, the worst part about going on holiday. Apart maybe from unpacking, which is also crappy, though it has the advantage that you can chuck all your clothes in the laundry bin and thus they become someone else's problem.

Anyway, I thought that writing this would be a considerably more interesting and productive thing to do than to moon about my room, pretending to pack. You are lucky, imaginary audience.

So right now my room looks like it was just attacked by rampaging dogs on the hunt for food, with assorted clothes/ contents of washbag/ other holiday junk strewn across the carpet. This is usually very stressful for me as I am known for being something of a tidy freak when it comes to my room (Scage claims I have OCD when it comes to tidiness of my room; she is, of course, exaggerating.) But after a short sleep that comes from watching Dog Soldiers last night (which was good, if a little too gory), getting up early to help my dad go shopping and going out this afternoon on an emergency knickers buying mission, I am tired and really don't care. Lord knows how tired I'll be on Monday after getting back from Cardiff at 1am and getting the plane at 2pm. I'll have to sleep on the plane, only they have some great movies to watch (Monsters Inc, Freaky Friday, Hitch, the list is endless...) and I am loathe to miss them. We'll see how it goes.

So, you may have remarked that I was at Science Camp from Tuesday to Thursday. Its actual name was 'Science Masterclass', and it was at Pembroke College at Cambridge. Basically, a place for nerdy science kids to meet and blossom without getting beaten up. Well, not really. From what I saw and heard, most people there were as cynical as me towards the whole event, so it wasn't too bad. Actually, the divisions between the kids was much the same as those at school- there was a cliquey bunch of cool kids who wouldn't talk to anyone else, lots of normals and a few enthusiasts who were mostly avoided.

The best thing about it was my room, which I managed to get randomly, which was a whole big suite thing. Minus bathroom, sadly, but there was a wee kitchenette, living room and bedroom, all for little me. It took a great effort to not be unbearably smug about it when talking to less fortunate comrades. Actually, the Aylesbury Crew spent most of their free time in Rachel's room as she had 2 sofas (until they were carted away for being fire hazards) and pear drops. She also found a carton of Orange Juice in her fridge, which I think was new as it tasted fine. No one else would drink any though, funnily enough.

I don't think I learnt anything and it has, in fact, made me much less keen to study Science for a degree. We had some students come talk to us about the whole Cambridge experience- including a beautifully accented Scottish boy- and the ones doing science said that they had to attend about 10 lectures a week. 10 BLOODY LECTURES A WEEK?? I barely managed to sit through one without falling comatose. Not that flourine isn't a very exceiting element, as far as elements go, but I have a short attention span and I find it hard to listen attentively to someone talking solidly for 10 minutes, let alone a whole hour.

So I think the people who organised it failed in convincing me to attend. Not that I'd get the grades anyway. 2 As and a B maybe, but 3 As? Not likely.

I might put up some lovely photos of the formal evening if my good friend Priya provides me with them.

This may be my last entry before departing for Sri Lanka, in which case: so long, and I hope your next few weeks are filled with happiness.

P.S. This time tomorrow I will be 2 1/2 hours away from seeing Stipey and co. Yay!

**UPDATE**

A few of the better photos, as promised

2005-07-07T19:41:00.000+01:00

Hello. Back from science camp.

I hope that anyone with friends and famililes in London has heard that they are safe and sound.

I know it's really stupid and selfish to complain about this, but the bombs mean that the REM gig on Saturday has been postponed til next week, so I miss it as I am on holiday.

I was so looking forward to it :( though obviously it's a necessary precaution to take.

I'll write about my adventures at science camp when I'm feeling happier.

Al xx

**UPDATE**

Going to see REM after all!

Albeit, the experience will not be as good and I am missing out on the support from Feeder which I was looking forward to, but I WILL STILL SEE THEM GOD DAMMIT!

My father decided that despite going on holiday the very next day, we should drive to Cardiff and see them at the Millennium Stadium on Sunday. All the standing tickets are gone, so we are left with rather craptacular seats, but it's the only chance we have so we are going for it.

:)

2005-07-04T20:42:00.000+01:00

I HAVE THE JOB!

...that is all.

2005-07-03T19:44:00.000+01:00

I hope everybody enjoyed Live 8 yesterday, especially if you were watching it from the comfort of your own front room- or the front room of a friend, as the case may be. And hopefully you weren't as bitter as me and my friends were. Seriously, half the time I swear the crowd was barely moving, so we were screaming at the TV, 'Look! You lucky sods are witnessing the biggest live music event EVER- you can bloody well PRETEND to enjoy all of it! Well, maybe except for UB40.' Actually, there were comments made concerning the Scissor Sisters and Gwyneth Paltrow being the victims of some tragic bombing incident, but I'm sure that was just the bitterness talking.

(In no way was I affiliated with this discussion. I love the Scissor Sisters. Gwynnie, on the other hand...)

What was good, however, about watching Live 8 through the TV was the ability to flick over to the tennis when something boring came on. I'm not usually a tennis fan, but really, that final was TENSE. Maybe I'll watch it properly next year. Yay for Venus.

Plus the BBC were a little annoying with their little interviews. I usually like 'star' chats, but when the camera switches from REM to Fearne Cotton talking to Ronan Bloody Keating, I am not best pleased. And what was with the Killers only playing one song? I know they're newcomers and all, but Joss Stone was allowed three- why weren't they? What happened? I may find Brandon Flowers to be a personality-free knobhead in the interviews I've seen, but he's damn attractive- especially with a little eyeliner- and the songs aren't bad either.

Cor Blimey.

And today was my own musical extravaganza- the AMC Summer Event!

...

There's really nothing of interest to say about it.

So now, for lack of anything better to do, I'll waste time until Four Weddings comes on, because everyone loves Richard Curtis really.

Job interview tomorrow. Gulp.

2005-07-01T18:27:00.000+01:00

I HAVE AN INTERVIEW!

OK, so it's at the menswear shop which wasn't exactly at the top of my list, and I haven't even filled an application form in or anything, but still, RESULT. The manager sounded nice on the phone as well, which should help put me at ease in the interview so I don't screw it up. Of course, he may just be doing it out of the course of politeness, or give me one look and think yeah, perhaps not. At least something came out of that tedious morning of traipsing around Thame.

Of course, it hasn't escaped my notice that my being not a man may not be very useful for a menswear shop. Also, as presumably lots of men visit it, if I were to be one of few women there there's a possibility of me being perved at. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. If the pay's good. Hell, I'm just stunned that he bothered to contact me in the first place. I don't yet know if 'Fiano' had any such luck.

So, as it's on Monday, I'm going to spend all weekend thinking up possible answers to possible questions and practising being helpful and enthusiastic. I'm a good liar, so I should be alright...

The past few days have been spent at my '6th form induction course' ie 'big waste of time'. Yesterday wasn't too bad, as it was doing teambuilding exercises out on the field and I didn't mind my alloted team. Today, however, was one of the most boring days of my life ever, which is saying something as remember, I used to have to do Physics once a week.

(That's a lie, actually. Physics was usually quite entertaining thanks to the company I kept- though I could have done without Mr Cullen's pet smell. Really, what is it with male science tachers? Every one that I can remember has had either really bad BO or a strange musky scent, like wet badger.)

We had people come talk to us about study skills, motivation, and other such stuff that I knew about already and didn't want to spend two precious hours of my life pretending to care about. Then in the afternoon, we had a bunch of teachers tell us that we had to work really, really hard or else fall flat on our arses, be thrown out of school and enjoy a life of floor sweeping at McDonalds. Well, that's what I read between the lines anyway.

Oh, and I have homework to do. Had I known that taking history AS would involve holiday homework, maybe I wouldn't have chosen it. Still, a 1000 word essay isn't too hard, right?

Maybe I'll be too busy working at the Menswear shop to do the essay. That'll be a good excuse.

2005-06-29T19:51:00.000+01:00

Last night, to the delight of my parents, I received a phone call from a friend asking if I'd like to go out to Thame, scouting out jobs. I twitched and said yes, like the good little girl I am, whilst simultaneously thinking, Huzzah! Money! and God no, WORK.

Not that our search proved very fruitful. We wandered up and down the streets of Thame, which actually has a surprising amount of shops- I usually mentally block out the ones I'm not interested in, ie most of them. But no, we discovered many jewellers, fancy ladies' clothing shops and some nice art galleries. Unfortunately, none of those were very interested in two experience-free 16 year olds. Having decided to both apply for the same jobs, so at least one of us would end up with money, we ended up applying for housekeeping in a hotel (me? cleaning? whaaaaaat?) and, joy of joys, a meswear shop. But as the lady at the desk raised her eyebrow in a derogatory fashion as we said we were both interested, and remarked that they'd already seen a number of applicants, I don't think that will be happening. Still, she did take down our names and numbers, so that's something. Except she wrote 'Fiano' as opposed to Fiona, which we decided was actually a pretty cool name.

I came back with an application for Martins, the Newsagents, which thinking about it I probably won't bother with as it's just a Saturday job, and like my mum pointed out, I may as well go for Waitrose if i want to work Saturdays as they're better employers. I'm sure her saying that had nothing to do with the discount she'd scab from me for the John Lewis Partnership.

So, it's looking like I'll have a quick glance round the shops in Aylesbury before giving up my dignity and applying for a job as shelf filling monkey in Waitrose.

Rubbish.

2005-06-28T22:28:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was a fun day. I don't think I'm going to get too many more of those in the near future, so i should savour it as much as possible.

It was the 16th birthday of my dear pal Lor, so rather than hanging around the shithole that is Aylesbury we (we being Jen, Dear, Fairbs, Griff, Nisha and I,) took her on a surprise visit to London. I don't think the other rail passengers were too happy with our balloons, hooty things, banner and confetti, but they all looked like grumpy buggers anyway.

So we got off the train and after everyone bar me insists that they're children to the suspicious guy at the gate at Marelybone- including Lor with a huge '16 today!' badge attatched to the back of her bag- we headed for Oxford Street.

We managed to visit about 5 shops in total I think, with most time spent in the giant Topshop and everyone buying something pretty except for me. Tragic. Then again, shopping with Griff does make any normal person feel considerably fatter than usual- 'I can't find a size 6 anywhere!'- so I wasn't really in the mood too much anyway.

But I did pick up Elliott Smith- Either/ Or for £4.99 while still in the shithole, so that made me happy.

Coming back, we got even more filthy looks from fellow rail passengers for reading Heat aloud between us. You'd think they'd be grateful for the free entertainment.

Then we went back to Lor's, had tasty Chinese, tasty wine and tasty champagne, and watched Starsky & Hutch with tasty Owen Wilson. Mmmmmmmm.

The only bad thing was when we watched 'Tarrant on TV' after, as we thought it would just be a lighthearted mocking of other countries adverts. Instead it appeared to be filled with masochistic American freaks, including the guy who attatched mouse traps to his penis and the guy who pumped saltwater into the front of his head to form a giant lump. And then invited random people on the street to touch it.

WHY? Jesus Christ.

And today I really didn't do a lot, so I'm not going to bother writing about it. Plus I'm going to watch TV in a minute.

If you are someone who attatches mousetraps to your penis for kicks, please, never talk to me. Ever.

2005-06-26T18:58:00.000+01:00

So, my bright idea was to start a blog this Summer so I wouldn't
a) become a puddle of molten boredom
b) forget how to write
which i figure is quite sensible thinking, really.

Of course, somewhere along this brilliant train of thought i forgot that i'm actually meant to have something interesting to write. And as I'm bored enough to be doing this, that makes it pretty clear that I have nothing to do, thus nothing to write about. Bummer.

Cos as much as a day doing nothing more than reading, watching TV and playing on the Xbox is fun to live through, it doesn't exactly make for prize winning blog material.

So what can I do? I could make stuff up, but I don't think that's the point. I could invest myself in some dazzling new hobby, except I'm not really too great at the whole hobby thing. So what I figure will actually happen is I write rambling crap about nothing at all until I collapse over the keyboard, my nose squashed down on the n key, having exhausted the small amount of brain power I have left after the exams.

Exams. Now there's an exciting topic! Actually, I managed to keep surprisingly calm over them which is really surprising for me, as I get very worked up over tiny things usually, and my voice reaches an alarming pitch that makes those surrounding me turn and give me an odd look. (Weezer gig, June 13th- as it was Rivers' birthday, some fabulous fan brought balloons which were keeping the crowd happily entertained during the long wait. Except some callous fiend in front of me grabbed a balloon and burst it, WITH HIS BARE HANDS. Those balloons were the sole thing keeping me from dying on my feet from impatience and the lack of oxygen. So squeaking indignantly, 'why would you DO that??' seemed a perfectly justified thing to do, tho judging by the half a dozen or so people who turned and stared at me, it probably didn't seem so to them. And as everyone surrounding us appeared to be over 6 foot and liberally swigging beer, pissing them off really wasn't something I had planned on doing. Oh well.)

Anyway. So, having not really mustered up much concern for possibly the most important exams I'll do in my life, they drifted by quite easily. Now I'm just fearing results day, and the possible humiliation of doing worse than I did in my mocks after the teachers say that grades usually go up by at least half from the mocks to the real thing.

Rubbish.

But I am glad that they're over now, so now I don't have the thought of revision niggling away at the back of my brain when I'm trying to do something more productive like play video games. Bit disappointed by the lack of party that I went to, but take-away and cheesy film at Emma's was probably a far more enjoyable thing to do if I think rationally. Every time I go to a party, which admittedly isn't very often, I think, 'this time I will have fun.' And, of course, I don't, because I am a stupid moron incapable of making normal conversation with people I don't know very well, which at parties, tends to be most people. The logic behind it, if I pretend for a moment that it's planned and not due to social retardism, is that when I'm nervous I talk a lot of crap- so saying nothing is safer all round. Better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you're an idiot, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. I read that in an Animorph book. God, I miss those. How did it end? I never found out. I'm going to have to order a whole bunch from the library now.

So, like I said, now I have the whole Summer in which to do nowt. Well, I should get a job really, and I do want one looking at my bank balance which is shrinking at an alarming rate, but I really hate the whole process of application and rejection and such. Plus I'm lazy. I must FIGHT this laziness! A job might possibly lead to a whole load of amusing anecdotes to tell in this thing. But for this weekend at least, I am quite content to just sit around doing my nothing things. Plus, there's the Glastonbury coverage to watch, except watching that makes me very jealous. And also not, because I'm a little anal over personal hygiene and lordy, there is so much mud. But still. Rufus Wainwright later today, who I am currently enjoying the pleasure of listening to. And Abi will be there in that tent watching him in the flesh, while I can only gaze longingly at him thru the TV screen. Still, I saw rather a lot of flesh when I saw him at the Oxford New Theatre. How can I still find him unbelievably hot when he's wearing stockings, stilettos, fairy wings and a tiara? I need help.

I should go now, as I've already written an alarming amount of nothing at all, and your brains are probably trying to make an emergency getaway via your ears.

Going to London tomorrow for Laura's surprise 16th birthday present. That'll be something to write about. Actually, as alcopops will probably be involved at some point, I may not want to...

Oh, and if you do have any wildly excting ideas of something interesting I can do this summer, do let me know.