It is a truth universally acknowledged that a ten year old boy set to dance with an eighteen year old girl with excessive cleavage will, at some point, get an eyefull. Unfortunately the photographs are on the other side of the country.
My expectations of the evening of my cousin’s eighteenth birthday party could perhaps be summed up in the contents of my bag. A book – The Hound of the Baskervilles – a spare – Journey to the Centre of the Earth – in case the other got confiscated, extra headphones, a notebook and a handful of biros. I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to the ceilidh, so I won’t. Instead I shall describe the mind wanderings I indulged in there as much as I find interesting. This is my blog, after all.
Firstly, you may notice a change in my language and style. I can only apologise for this and my only excuse is that I have recently become obsessed with Sherlock Holmes (which will become even more evident later) and want to practise the more beautiful construction of descriptions.
I am writing this in my third different settling place in the yard of the primary school the dance is being held in. It’s around ten, the chimes sounded a few minutes (though come to think of it that could have been anywhere up to fifty nine minutes) ago, and there are screams of the Hokey Cokey leaking in to my space. Why is everyone so loud?
The reason for my constant repositioning is that upon leaving the building ‘for air’ another type of air overcame me: one of vast antisocialness. Therefore I’ve taken to avoiding everyone I can.
The party was in full swing (literally) when we arrived, with a stage holding two fiddlers, an accordion player and a thirteen year old bassist whose plucking thumped to the core of your body. Save the birthday girl and her family (and of course mine) I knew nobody there. I took the opportunity to actually get a look at some of my cousins famous friends, who I had heard much about but had only met one. He wasn’t there. That was typical.
We sat at the only table left, the one right next to the door, and I dragged my chair as far away from the dancers as I could manage. The roving mike was not going to pull me up for a demonstration.
Mum had found some college friends, Andrew had brought his DS and Dad was getting a drink, so I inevitably fell into more interesting thoughts, developing a psychological profile of the couple dancing in front of me and making them seem far more interesting than they were. You may think I’m being horrible. I probably am. But there comes a level of boredom where anything goes, and this was it.
They had a dangerous relationship and she held all the cards. Nothing could be put past her, and she was toying with him as a cat would a mouse. To his credit, he was aware of it. He was intelligent enough to refuse to dosedose with her, and clever enough to keep up the charade. Each time there was a subtle excuse: he forgot, he tripped, he bumped into the man next to him. I concluded he wasn’t comfortable with her out of his sight so close to him; perhaps she’d get him with the knife I’d already decided was kept down the front of her dress. Morbid? Me?
It is Mr Holmes’ fault, I suppose. I’m seeing suspects everywhere, even if there’s no crime.
I’m leaning against one of the darker corners of the playground as I write this, saving drafts on my phone because I’m not savvy enough to be connected to the world wide web my entire existence. I was on a bench under a helpful street lamp, but it was on the route back to the cars and some of Jess’ more rowdy and annoying friends were approaching. It’s not that I don’t want to meet them… no, no, it’s exactly that. My first impression of them was eccentric and loud. Very loud. The eccentricity faded along with the sun, and all evening they have just been people who don’t shut up and draw all attention to themselves. At the moment though, this is working well for me, as it means none of my extended family noticed my escape.
They seem to have stopped, which traps me outside, unless I want to walk through a swarm of them to the only open door. This also suits me fine; it’s an excuse to stay outside with my new hero. As long as, on their way home – if they do decide to leave – they don’t look left. I have no idea how far the light from this phone shines, but I’d be an eerie vision as the floating face of the girl nobody knows faintly illuminated in the shadows of a playground.
They called me in to say goodbye, to tell her what a good time I’d had avoiding the dance floor and deciding I wouldn’t last three minutes with her friends. Or they wouldn’t last one with me, in the cases of those who were not murderers.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Monday, 12 July 2010
Not A Freak... I Get A Longer Word Than That
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | Moderate |
| Schizoid: | Low |
| Schizotypal: | Moderate |
| Antisocial: | Low |
| Borderline: | Moderate |
| Histrionic: | Low |
| Narcissistic: | Moderate |
| Avoidant: | High |
| Dependent: | High |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | Moderate |
-- Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Information -- | |
Avoidant personality disorder is characterized by extreme social anxiety. People with this disorder often feel inadequate, avoid social situations, and seek out jobs with little contact with others. Avoidants are fearful of being rejected and worry about embarrassing themselves in front of others. They exaggerate the potential difficulties of new situations to rationalize avoiding them. Often, they will create fantasy worlds to substitute for the real one. Unlike schizoid personality disorder, avoidants yearn for social relations yet feel they are unable to obtain them. They are frequently depressed and have low self-confidence.
Good grief it seems like they've met me.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Exams. Nuff Said.
It's that time of year again, you know, the one where any sane teenager is driven insane and all the insane ones are perfectly fine.
Here, at least, I'm proven sane, as insanity has surely set upon me, especially this morning.
Here, at least, I'm proven sane, as insanity has surely set upon me, especially this morning.
"I don't care about the laws of physics, I'm late for an English exam!"
Yes, I really did say that this morning. There were a few ill-judged moments on the way to school, and I'll let you peruse them at your leisure:
So after all that fun I finally make it to the Hall and sit talking to friends. Our Head of Keystage is sending in people row by row. Apparently I'm in row E. It's a little odd, I've never been earlier than J in the alphabet seating arrangement, being an S n'all.
I realised I was right to doubt as I walked into the Hall along with K. Ebanks, A. Effendi and C. Elsey (coincidentally all on a row the same as their last name).
I approached one of the stern old ladies we only see at that special time of year when it's seen appropriate for teenagers to sit in the same seat for more than an hour.
"Uh, I don't think I'm meant to be here."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Rachel Seller."
"No, I mean what's your exam number?" I'm sorry, when did this become the Armed Forces? As if I have name, rank and serial number etched on my mind. So I do the logical thing and stare at her like she's grown an extra head, to which I get the response I wanted.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm an S."
"Oh, you're in a classroom. Go out there and wait til you're told to go."
"Right. Ta." I wander out of the Hall, painfully aware of my boots on wooden floor in total silence, and go back to my seat in the first Hall, remembering with panic the conversation with my friends I'd just had:
- [Upon seeing two people taking up the pavement with umbrellas]: I can make that.
- Bugger it's raining. Should I swap my VELVET school bag for something more waterproof? Nah...
- Those earphones will untangle.
- On average it takes me two songs to get to school. If I play Intro by the Gorillaz and Prelude 12/21 by AFI I'll get there quicker.
- That guy's made of smoke. I can walk through him.
- If I turn up the volume, the road workers won't be making such a noise. They'll disappear and I can walk my usual way.
- Cutting across a bumpy field and a wider corner will get me up the hill quicker instead of a tight paved curve.
- I see Shane. I can't be late. (N/B: Never trust Shane's punctuality)
- If I refuse to meet Miss Ram's eye, she won't try and talk to me. ('Don't you have an exam this morning?' Yes, and if you'd let me carry on I might make it there before everyone's FINISHED WOMAN!)
- [Contemplating school-run-filled main road]: I can make that.
- My locker will shut if I just stuff everything in quickly.
- That girl's made of smoke. I can walk through her.
- Kids smaller than me will get out of the way.
So after all that fun I finally make it to the Hall and sit talking to friends. Our Head of Keystage is sending in people row by row. Apparently I'm in row E. It's a little odd, I've never been earlier than J in the alphabet seating arrangement, being an S n'all.
I realised I was right to doubt as I walked into the Hall along with K. Ebanks, A. Effendi and C. Elsey (coincidentally all on a row the same as their last name).
I approached one of the stern old ladies we only see at that special time of year when it's seen appropriate for teenagers to sit in the same seat for more than an hour.
"Uh, I don't think I'm meant to be here."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Rachel Seller."
"No, I mean what's your exam number?" I'm sorry, when did this become the Armed Forces? As if I have name, rank and serial number etched on my mind. So I do the logical thing and stare at her like she's grown an extra head, to which I get the response I wanted.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm an S."
"Oh, you're in a classroom. Go out there and wait til you're told to go."
"Right. Ta." I wander out of the Hall, painfully aware of my boots on wooden floor in total silence, and go back to my seat in the first Hall, remembering with panic the conversation with my friends I'd just had:
Me: I'd hate to sit this in a classroom.
Her: I don't know, it's smaller, less pressure.
Me: Nah. Put me in an exam Hall I put my head down and work. In a classroom there's noises and doors and windows with CLOUDS on the other side of the glass...
Her: I don't know, it's smaller, less pressure.
Me: Nah. Put me in an exam Hall I put my head down and work. In a classroom there's noises and doors and windows with CLOUDS on the other side of the glass...
Fun fun fun. Exams with distractions. At least I can do English. So I sat and contemplated the impending struggle I was facing in keeping my eyes on the paper (which I lost on a couple of occasions I'll have to admit) when Head of Keystage says, in a casual passing statement meant for nobody in particular "Anyone in classrooms should not still be here."
"WHAT?!"
"Where are you meant to be?"
"I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S WHY I'M STILL HERE." (Forced calm there, I'll have you know.)
I ended up at the back of a tiny maths classroom with a wall to slouch against (wall seats are always the best). Unbeknownst to me, however, I was at the 'wheelchair table'. We don't actually have any wheelchair-using students in the school, but just in case, every pod (collective noun for set of classrooms grouped by subject) has one. And I'd been sat at this pod's one for my exam. Probably obviously, people in wheelchairs don't need to stretch their legs. So upon trying to stretch my legs in the middle of the exam instead of passing easily through air my shins came in to very painful contact with a screen of metal. I don't know why there's a screen of metal across the front the the 'wheelchair table', nor do I know why this changes it's performance to make it more suitable for wheelchair-users than ordinary tables. All I know is they hurt. And they make a very loud noise when kicked.
So when the woman supervising our room looked over at the massive BANG she probably saw the girl who had rushed in late to a gabbled sosorrydidn'tknowwhereiwasreallysorrywherethehelldoisit? biting her knuckles with her eyes screwed shut hissing 'bastard, bastard BASTARD' to herself. Fabulous.
Later on I was sitting with the friends mentioned before discussing what we wrote about in the fiction prompt section. I agreed with a friend that the best prompt had been 'Write A Story Beginning With The Line: 'Some Days Just Have To Get Better'.
But while I had written the poetic mind-wanderings of a girl fleeing her life down a rainy street until she gets herself deliberately lost, she had written about a girl believing she was pregnant, then discovering she wasn't, but had an STD.
"WHAT?!"
"Where are you meant to be?"
"I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S WHY I'M STILL HERE." (Forced calm there, I'll have you know.)
I ended up at the back of a tiny maths classroom with a wall to slouch against (wall seats are always the best). Unbeknownst to me, however, I was at the 'wheelchair table'. We don't actually have any wheelchair-using students in the school, but just in case, every pod (collective noun for set of classrooms grouped by subject) has one. And I'd been sat at this pod's one for my exam. Probably obviously, people in wheelchairs don't need to stretch their legs. So upon trying to stretch my legs in the middle of the exam instead of passing easily through air my shins came in to very painful contact with a screen of metal. I don't know why there's a screen of metal across the front the the 'wheelchair table', nor do I know why this changes it's performance to make it more suitable for wheelchair-users than ordinary tables. All I know is they hurt. And they make a very loud noise when kicked.
So when the woman supervising our room looked over at the massive BANG she probably saw the girl who had rushed in late to a gabbled sosorrydidn'tknowwhereiwasreallysorrywherethehelldoisit? biting her knuckles with her eyes screwed shut hissing 'bastard, bastard BASTARD' to herself. Fabulous.
Later on I was sitting with the friends mentioned before discussing what we wrote about in the fiction prompt section. I agreed with a friend that the best prompt had been 'Write A Story Beginning With The Line: 'Some Days Just Have To Get Better'.
But while I had written the poetic mind-wanderings of a girl fleeing her life down a rainy street until she gets herself deliberately lost, she had written about a girl believing she was pregnant, then discovering she wasn't, but had an STD.
Me: I think that's probably worse...
Her: Piling on the misery gets you marks!
Me: If you write for Eastenders
Her: Yeah, well, I thought I'd stick an STD in there.
Me: That's what he said.
Her: Piling on the misery gets you marks!
Me: If you write for Eastenders
Her: Yeah, well, I thought I'd stick an STD in there.
Me: That's what he said.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Monday, 22 February 2010
Shoes For Thought
Currently Loving: An art project that threw me back twelve years to the films I watched as a small child. I now have the soundtrack of the Swan Princess and Thumbelina to accompany Anastasia and The Silver Brumby on my MP3 Player.
Another insomnia-filled night. I suppose I'm lucky I got four hours sleep. I don't need this now, but I guess it's better than having it in exam time.
Unfortunately I doubt it's one or the other.
Backpacking. To Marks and Spencer. On a Sunday afternoon. In the snow...
With a basset hound.
Nice.
Apparently, however, this kind of behaviour is not as exclusive to the Seller family as was first thought. While I sat outside M&S in increasing YouthOfToday fashion (twisted around a trolley barricade refusing to move for anyone) tugging a embarrassingly nosey hound out of the way of cars crawling along at about two miles an hour, I saw numerous brave souls in varying degrees of personifying the phrase Death Warmed Up trudging towards the collective beacon that was the tiny shop.
Then everyone seemed to freeze. More than we already were (British Spring? Are you kidding?)
A woman in a black skirt and suit jacket was walking across the car park. Her hair was immaculate, as was her makeup and posture. What set her apart however was that, while everybody in the vicinity (including the floor staff and management) was wearing either walking boots and hiking socks or wellies protruding over layered legs, this woman was wearing golden pumps with black lace stitched around the top. There was a single intake of breath from every backpacker and weatherbraver as they stared at this lunatic prancing past with snow on her feet and no a care in the world.
Again, this says so much for our community spirit. We do not meet other eyes. We certainly don't speak to one another. But if there is a break in the norm or a particularly outspoken rebellion and were there with our hisses and our stares.
English nature at its best.
Another insomnia-filled night. I suppose I'm lucky I got four hours sleep. I don't need this now, but I guess it's better than having it in exam time.
Unfortunately I doubt it's one or the other.
Backpacking. To Marks and Spencer. On a Sunday afternoon. In the snow...
With a basset hound.
Nice.
Apparently, however, this kind of behaviour is not as exclusive to the Seller family as was first thought. While I sat outside M&S in increasing YouthOfToday fashion (twisted around a trolley barricade refusing to move for anyone) tugging a embarrassingly nosey hound out of the way of cars crawling along at about two miles an hour, I saw numerous brave souls in varying degrees of personifying the phrase Death Warmed Up trudging towards the collective beacon that was the tiny shop.
Then everyone seemed to freeze. More than we already were (British Spring? Are you kidding?)
A woman in a black skirt and suit jacket was walking across the car park. Her hair was immaculate, as was her makeup and posture. What set her apart however was that, while everybody in the vicinity (including the floor staff and management) was wearing either walking boots and hiking socks or wellies protruding over layered legs, this woman was wearing golden pumps with black lace stitched around the top. There was a single intake of breath from every backpacker and weatherbraver as they stared at this lunatic prancing past with snow on her feet and no a care in the world.
Again, this says so much for our community spirit. We do not meet other eyes. We certainly don't speak to one another. But if there is a break in the norm or a particularly outspoken rebellion and were there with our hisses and our stares.
English nature at its best.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Coming Of A Certain Number Before "Age"
Currently Loving: 20th Century Fox's "Anastasia". Just got the DVD for my birthday and I know every word after nine years since the video got thrown out.
I was sitting in History colouring in the Iron Curtain with a thick black marker when I realised I was probably obliterating cities at a time considering the scale of the countries I was bordering. The "shadow falling on the scenes" was, in effect, quite literal for those who lived right on the edge of that paper.
Yeah, lottery tickets are bitches.
I was sitting in History colouring in the Iron Curtain with a thick black marker when I realised I was probably obliterating cities at a time considering the scale of the countries I was bordering. The "shadow falling on the scenes" was, in effect, quite literal for those who lived right on the edge of that paper.
~~~
I woke up yesterday, and I was no different from the day before. At least I didn't feel different. Nobody ever does on their birthday.
But something obviously does change every time someone turns sixteen, as that's when the government decides they can trust you with - ahem - certain things. I don't really get it. Okay, so every government needs a point where they can say yes, you can do this now, but has anything really changed in that person as they shift from one age to another?
"Age is just a number." ~ Joan Collins
Exactly. People don't change over night. You can't suddenly be ready for these kinds of tings. Some people do it early, others wait for ages. This age is a number, just a number for the government to say they are exercising a certain amount of control on the few people who actually listen to them. You take a risk. You pay your part and see if it works out. Many people are left utterly disappointed, but hey, if everyone won, there'd be no risk, right?
Yeah, lottery tickets are bitches.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Amongst The Tree Wrestling (A True Story)
Last Saturday I helped out at my Grandmother's Christmas Fair.
Know what you're thinking.
Waaaaow, Rassy! How exciting!
Aaah, simple townie. You underestimate these women's cutthroat approach to Church Fundraising.
So I set foot into the small, bright FREEZING Church Hall and I'm immediately bombarded with 'hasn't she grown?'s and 'your the spit of your mother's. All's normal so far. I shouldn't and don't expect anything different from the once or twice a year I go to my mother's home town.
My Auntie and I are on a stall, and when I heard about it I thought it sounded great. Her idea was to have a Christmas Tree with numbered baubles on it. You choose a bauble, get the present with the same number on it. Simple, no? Not with these old ladies. It appears any idea that is not a) Thought up by a certain clique of old ladies or b) traditional to a Christmas Fair (tombola, bric-a-brac, bookstall) is instantly sabotaged from the inside. By my own grandmother no less. No worries, she'll never read this, I don't think she knows the Internet exists. So, instead of numbering the presents, my Grandma WRITES ON EACH ONE WHAT IT IS!!
Nyaaaaaarrgh!!
Why, Grandma?!
WHY??
So basically we got a lot of people asking what the point of it was. We had to explain unfortunately we had no idea. So that was Cloak and Dagger slightly. These old women commit Fair Attraction murder but get away with it because they pretend to be oblivious. Conniving beasts. What's annoying is they're really good actresses.
My brother was on the Name the Bear stall while my mother was helping out at toys. My brother needed a couple of fifties for change and my mum passed them over. Half an hour later she let slip she committed such a travesty, got a severe telling off from the old crone next to her and was sent to get it back. Territorial much? The cash is all going to the same place and in the end there's NO record of who got the most or suchwhat. These women just want any excuse to show off to their chums at the next Ladies Guild they single-handedly paid for the church roof.
Oh yeah, another thing. Bitchyness never dies out. It grows old with you. An argument broke out about who was on which stall. "I'll do it, Peggy!" "But where's Phillipa?" "I don't know but I'm doing it!!"
Peggy walks away and both woman's faces were mirrors. Nose crinkled up, gums showing, teeth bared. Scary scary. Remind me to keep Peggy sweet.
You also might have noticed I didn't do a currently loving up there. That's cause it's down here. There's two. First off, I was kicking myself I didn't have a camera that day, as I saw the one scene that would probably sum up Christmas Fairs all over the country. Santa, boots, beard and all, hanging round the corner out of sight of any kiddies listening intently to the announcements, raffle tickets clutched in gloved hand. Also, I'm currently ecstatic about the fact a woman my Grandma talks to on the bus has caught herself a toyboy with a boat in the Bahamas. Future me, here's to hoping.
Know what you're thinking.
Waaaaow, Rassy! How exciting!
Aaah, simple townie. You underestimate these women's cutthroat approach to Church Fundraising.
So I set foot into the small, bright FREEZING Church Hall and I'm immediately bombarded with 'hasn't she grown?'s and 'your the spit of your mother's. All's normal so far. I shouldn't and don't expect anything different from the once or twice a year I go to my mother's home town.
My Auntie and I are on a stall, and when I heard about it I thought it sounded great. Her idea was to have a Christmas Tree with numbered baubles on it. You choose a bauble, get the present with the same number on it. Simple, no? Not with these old ladies. It appears any idea that is not a) Thought up by a certain clique of old ladies or b) traditional to a Christmas Fair (tombola, bric-a-brac, bookstall) is instantly sabotaged from the inside. By my own grandmother no less. No worries, she'll never read this, I don't think she knows the Internet exists. So, instead of numbering the presents, my Grandma WRITES ON EACH ONE WHAT IT IS!!
Nyaaaaaarrgh!!
Why, Grandma?!
WHY??
So basically we got a lot of people asking what the point of it was. We had to explain unfortunately we had no idea. So that was Cloak and Dagger slightly. These old women commit Fair Attraction murder but get away with it because they pretend to be oblivious. Conniving beasts. What's annoying is they're really good actresses.
My brother was on the Name the Bear stall while my mother was helping out at toys. My brother needed a couple of fifties for change and my mum passed them over. Half an hour later she let slip she committed such a travesty, got a severe telling off from the old crone next to her and was sent to get it back. Territorial much? The cash is all going to the same place and in the end there's NO record of who got the most or suchwhat. These women just want any excuse to show off to their chums at the next Ladies Guild they single-handedly paid for the church roof.
Oh yeah, another thing. Bitchyness never dies out. It grows old with you. An argument broke out about who was on which stall. "I'll do it, Peggy!" "But where's Phillipa?" "I don't know but I'm doing it!!"
Peggy walks away and both woman's faces were mirrors. Nose crinkled up, gums showing, teeth bared. Scary scary. Remind me to keep Peggy sweet.
You also might have noticed I didn't do a currently loving up there. That's cause it's down here. There's two. First off, I was kicking myself I didn't have a camera that day, as I saw the one scene that would probably sum up Christmas Fairs all over the country. Santa, boots, beard and all, hanging round the corner out of sight of any kiddies listening intently to the announcements, raffle tickets clutched in gloved hand. Also, I'm currently ecstatic about the fact a woman my Grandma talks to on the bus has caught herself a toyboy with a boat in the Bahamas. Future me, here's to hoping.
Friday, 6 November 2009
The M Word
Currently Loving: My maths teacher's total obliviousness to the youth of today's language. Today we had to explain what LOL, ROFL and LMAO meant. He thought the latter was LAMO, as in, what a lame joke. He seemed to get that alot.
Maybe it's just cause I'm growing up. Maybe everyone thinks the world is ageing with them, that the prospect of something once so well loved is now looked upon as babyish or immature. It causes some to panic - and why shouldn't it? The idea you can never get back to when life was simple, when you took it day by day and never worried about the future. Never worried about war, politics, the environment, illness, death, the terrible things humans can do to each other.
Never worried.
These people have good reason to panic.
I don't know how I've lasted this long.
Perhaps I haven't, and I'm mad already.
Magic - pure, simple wand waving - is never used anymore. JK Rowling got it right in most aspects, and I think the reason she's so popular is that the initial idea of a school for kids with wands, broomsticks, cats and potions, is that is so darn simple nobody thought they'd get away with it. But she did. And how.
But now it's all shady, diluted magic, even those books and programmes about magic itself. Tithe and Ironside, gritty, 18-rated Faerie books, show magic as hazy and uncontrollable, best left alone.
Merlin, of all things, uses long Latin phrases the boy wizard hardly ever gets right first time.
Betwixt, by Tara Bray Smith, doesn't even bother describing the odd, instinctive magic it's characters use. A guy turns into a human Moth. What? How, why?!
Hell if I know.
Then there's the fact most things are entirely disowning magic altogether, and replacing it with it's greatest foe. Science.
Heroes is about a group of people who have certain strands of DNA that generated unique abilities.
Gone, by Michael Grant, features an unanswerable Lost-like conundrum that we know is linked to nuclear fallout.
Even one of the shows I'm the most faithful to, the fantastic Doctor Who, dismisses magic as nonexistent.
Martha: Is it real, though? I mean, witches, black magic, and all that? It’s real?
The Doctor: Course it isn’t!
Maybe it's just cause I'm growing up. Maybe everyone thinks the world is ageing with them, that the prospect of something once so well loved is now looked upon as babyish or immature. It causes some to panic - and why shouldn't it? The idea you can never get back to when life was simple, when you took it day by day and never worried about the future. Never worried about war, politics, the environment, illness, death, the terrible things humans can do to each other.
Never worried.
These people have good reason to panic.
I don't know how I've lasted this long.
Perhaps I haven't, and I'm mad already.
Magic - pure, simple wand waving - is never used anymore. JK Rowling got it right in most aspects, and I think the reason she's so popular is that the initial idea of a school for kids with wands, broomsticks, cats and potions, is that is so darn simple nobody thought they'd get away with it. But she did. And how.
But now it's all shady, diluted magic, even those books and programmes about magic itself. Tithe and Ironside, gritty, 18-rated Faerie books, show magic as hazy and uncontrollable, best left alone.
Merlin, of all things, uses long Latin phrases the boy wizard hardly ever gets right first time.
Betwixt, by Tara Bray Smith, doesn't even bother describing the odd, instinctive magic it's characters use. A guy turns into a human Moth. What? How, why?!
Hell if I know.
Then there's the fact most things are entirely disowning magic altogether, and replacing it with it's greatest foe. Science.
Heroes is about a group of people who have certain strands of DNA that generated unique abilities.
Gone, by Michael Grant, features an unanswerable Lost-like conundrum that we know is linked to nuclear fallout.
Even one of the shows I'm the most faithful to, the fantastic Doctor Who, dismisses magic as nonexistent.
Martha: Is it real, though? I mean, witches, black magic, and all that? It’s real?
The Doctor: Course it isn’t!
Dudes. What's wrong with a couple of choruses of Abracadabra?
Thursday, 29 October 2009
By The Power Of Three Let Them See
Currently Loving: Why Should I Worry? from Oliver and Company (it's Billy Joel!! SQUEE!!)
Megan Fox, Keira Knightley, Emma Watson, Beyonce Knowles... the list goes on and on. All these girls are considered the height of everything. They're successful, they're rich and they're beautiful.
Or, as some may say, these girls are glamorous.
glam⋅our /ˈglæmər/ [glam-er] –noun
1. the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting, esp. by a combination of charm and good looks.
2. excitement, adventure, and unusual activity: the glamour of being an explorer.
3. magic or enchantment; spell; witchery.
Yeah, see that last one? A glamour is one of the primal forms of magic, dating back to the beginning of mythology. Essentially, it changes your appearance to anyone looking at you, although some can cast glamours on things around them. It's not particularly offencive in magical battle (what some I know would call "flashy stuff" (I know no Wiccans, unforunately)) but looks a lot of fun if it exists.
Thing is.
Glamour.
Glamourous.
Fake?
Something to show you what some glamours are like, although you'll have to skip to the end, I couldn't cut it, sorry:
Or, as some may say, these girls are glamorous.
glam⋅our /ˈglæmər/ [glam-er] –noun
1. the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting, esp. by a combination of charm and good looks.
2. excitement, adventure, and unusual activity: the glamour of being an explorer.
3. magic or enchantment; spell; witchery.
Yeah, see that last one? A glamour is one of the primal forms of magic, dating back to the beginning of mythology. Essentially, it changes your appearance to anyone looking at you, although some can cast glamours on things around them. It's not particularly offencive in magical battle (what some I know would call "flashy stuff" (I know no Wiccans, unforunately)) but looks a lot of fun if it exists.
Thing is.
Glamour.
Glamourous.
Fake?
Something to show you what some glamours are like, although you'll have to skip to the end, I couldn't cut it, sorry:
Thursday, 8 October 2009
It's Happening Again...
Currently Loving: Gone and Hunger by Michael Grant
The phone rang, and Michael Grant reached over to answer the inevitable call he'd been waiting for since that morning.
"Michael!" The publisher's voice boomed through the receiver. "It's time for an update! What have you got for us?"
"Well..." Michael picked up and Biro and began twirling it restlessly, glancing nervously at the bookshelves. "I had this... one idea.."
"Go on!" Once again, Michael held the phone away from his ear in response to the bellow coming from his publisher's throat that was probably setting off earthquakes in Japan.
"Uh, okay. Well, what if I have a load of child characters, all under the age of fifteen, say, and all the adults in their world suddenly disappear and they're forced to fend for themselves?"
"You have read Lord of the Flies, right?"
"Um...?"
"Next!" Michael began speaking before he'd brought the phone back to his mouth and had to repeat the first sentence. "Well, next I thought- I said next I thought of people suddenly discovering these weird weird powers, like supermen, without any explanation. There'd be Healers and people who can run super fast and shoot fire-"
"Have you been keeping up with Heroes? I hear they're showing it across the pond now."
"Yeah, but these would be kids-" Michael was cut off by a cough.
"Xmen."
"Well... wait! Wait!" Michael grasped his desk, an amazing, inexplicable and frankly brilliant idea forming in his mind. "What about all those things... together?"
A silence.
"I like it!"
Okay, so the entire conversation above is fictional (and far too dialogue heavy, I apologise) but you get the jist. The fact that this book has elements from other books, films and television is blown away by the sheer awesome (I use that and actually mean Awe-some. Not just my usual slang, ladies and gentlemen, no way!) quality of these books. Forget all your Wolverines and Peter Patrellis, there's a new hero in town now. Sam Temple is a quiet and reserved surfer going to school in small town Perdido Beach. Then, in the middle of third period history class, his teacher poofs. No. Not poofs.
The phone rang, and Michael Grant reached over to answer the inevitable call he'd been waiting for since that morning.
"Michael!" The publisher's voice boomed through the receiver. "It's time for an update! What have you got for us?"
"Well..." Michael picked up and Biro and began twirling it restlessly, glancing nervously at the bookshelves. "I had this... one idea.."
"Go on!" Once again, Michael held the phone away from his ear in response to the bellow coming from his publisher's throat that was probably setting off earthquakes in Japan.
"Uh, okay. Well, what if I have a load of child characters, all under the age of fifteen, say, and all the adults in their world suddenly disappear and they're forced to fend for themselves?"
"You have read Lord of the Flies, right?"
"Um...?"
"Next!" Michael began speaking before he'd brought the phone back to his mouth and had to repeat the first sentence. "Well, next I thought- I said next I thought of people suddenly discovering these weird weird powers, like supermen, without any explanation. There'd be Healers and people who can run super fast and shoot fire-"
"Have you been keeping up with Heroes? I hear they're showing it across the pond now."
"Yeah, but these would be kids-" Michael was cut off by a cough.
"Xmen."
"Well... wait! Wait!" Michael grasped his desk, an amazing, inexplicable and frankly brilliant idea forming in his mind. "What about all those things... together?"
A silence.
"I like it!"
Okay, so the entire conversation above is fictional (and far too dialogue heavy, I apologise) but you get the jist. The fact that this book has elements from other books, films and television is blown away by the sheer awesome (I use that and actually mean Awe-some. Not just my usual slang, ladies and gentlemen, no way!) quality of these books. Forget all your Wolverines and Peter Patrellis, there's a new hero in town now. Sam Temple is a quiet and reserved surfer going to school in small town Perdido Beach. Then, in the middle of third period history class, his teacher poofs. No. Not poofs.
"One minute, the teacher was talking about the Civil War.
And the next he was gone.
There.
Gone.
No "poof". No flash of light. No explosion."
At first dumbstruck, the full horror of Sam and his friend's predicament soon overwhelms them. Every single person over the age of fifteen has disappeared. No parents, no siblings, no teachers. Great, eh?
Maybe not. No police. No doctors. No pizza delivery guys. The children of Perdido Beach find themselves alone, leaderless, and hemmed in by a strange barrier that burns to the touch. All they have is the town, a small segment of sea and surrounding hills, including a nuclear plant, a hotel, a large portion of forest... and a boarding school; Coates Academy.
Now the book sounds a little less shallow, but just think about these ten things before you write it off as your usual teen flick:
1) The babies and toddlers are still there. Who is going to sacrifice their time to look after all them?
2) Food's going to run out soon, but who has the balls to tell people what to do, what to eat and when?
3)People are beginning to get hurt, who's going to look after them?
4)Cars, guns, drugs, smokes, they're all now available to anyone man enough to claim them.
5) Not everyone likes everyone else. Bullies are ruling the streets. Are kids capable of murder?
6) What are the Coates kids doing up on the hill?
7) Why are some kids noticing strange differences about themselves? "I'm sure I couldn't fly before the FAYZ..." (that's the Fallout Alley Youth Zone; a universal name for the goldfish bowl everyone's found themselves trapped in (and no, that's not a quote from the book))
8) A talking coyote? A flying snake? How come that book just walked away?
9) Kids always quarrel, right? Well now they have guns, powers and desperation. Who's going to sort out the fights?
10) What's that voice...?
Unfortunately, I have history coursework for tomorrow. Sound familiar?
Sunday, 20 September 2009
No A!! There is no A to speak of!!
Currently Loving: DERREN BROWN, DERREN BROWN and DERREN BROWN!!
Okay, so this guy is awesome!! In case you're wondering, yes, I did get glued to my chair on Friday night! Woo hoo! I was so happy!! Though a couple of weird things happened.
My dad didn't get stuck, for one. This makes me think that whether or not you were kept in your seat had something to do with how much you "believe" in Derren (Tasha got stuck too!! Yaaaay!!)
Secondly, after the spell, trance, effect, WHATEVER wore off on me and I was able to stand up, I got an amazing load of shivers. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chattering and I couldn't stay in one place too long!
Lastly - and this is the only effect that is still to wear off - I became absolutely hysterical while the hypnosis (or whatever you want to call it). There were tears rolling down my face and I couldn't breathe properly. There was nothing funny about it - for those who didn't see it it was a white background with grey parallel lines spinning round on it. And I was shaking with giggles. I haven't laughed that hard that long for years... and it wasn't even a joke! The reason I say it's still with me is whenever I think back to that film, for some reason I can't help smiling...
Hurrm (yep, Watchmen, sorry ;D) I've just realised that some people may not have a clue what I'm speaking of. Deary me. What deprived people you are.
So if that is soo... seriously, you need to watch it...though the moment has kinda passed. Derren Brown, master mentalist, illusionist and showman, attempted a stunt live on television that, if successful, would glue at least half the population to their chairs. He played a hypnotic film at (apparently) exactly the right pitch and frequency to... I dunno, make the body incredibly heavy or forget it can move. Whatever. It worked on a few people, about two thirds of his live audience which, apparently, got it stronger as they had the film on one whole wall and were all "in the moment" (my words, not his. Derren talks better than me :D).
If you're new to him, I suggest you 4OD some of Derren's stuff (or, if you're like me, 4OD ALL of Derren's stuff). Everyone has their favourites, but they're better spoken about than typed. Go check him out.
Go now.
Why are you still here?
Okay, so this guy is awesome!! In case you're wondering, yes, I did get glued to my chair on Friday night! Woo hoo! I was so happy!! Though a couple of weird things happened.
My dad didn't get stuck, for one. This makes me think that whether or not you were kept in your seat had something to do with how much you "believe" in Derren (Tasha got stuck too!! Yaaaay!!)
Secondly, after the spell, trance, effect, WHATEVER wore off on me and I was able to stand up, I got an amazing load of shivers. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chattering and I couldn't stay in one place too long!
Lastly - and this is the only effect that is still to wear off - I became absolutely hysterical while the hypnosis (or whatever you want to call it). There were tears rolling down my face and I couldn't breathe properly. There was nothing funny about it - for those who didn't see it it was a white background with grey parallel lines spinning round on it. And I was shaking with giggles. I haven't laughed that hard that long for years... and it wasn't even a joke! The reason I say it's still with me is whenever I think back to that film, for some reason I can't help smiling...
Hurrm (yep, Watchmen, sorry ;D) I've just realised that some people may not have a clue what I'm speaking of. Deary me. What deprived people you are.
So if that is soo... seriously, you need to watch it...though the moment has kinda passed. Derren Brown, master mentalist, illusionist and showman, attempted a stunt live on television that, if successful, would glue at least half the population to their chairs. He played a hypnotic film at (apparently) exactly the right pitch and frequency to... I dunno, make the body incredibly heavy or forget it can move. Whatever. It worked on a few people, about two thirds of his live audience which, apparently, got it stronger as they had the film on one whole wall and were all "in the moment" (my words, not his. Derren talks better than me :D).
If you're new to him, I suggest you 4OD some of Derren's stuff (or, if you're like me, 4OD ALL of Derren's stuff). Everyone has their favourites, but they're better spoken about than typed. Go check him out.
Go now.
Why are you still here?
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Don't Let You Mind Wander... It's Far Too Small To Be Let Out On Its Own
Currently Loving: Bradley James, M79 and The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre
"I've been having these... weird thoughts lately."
(First words in Kingdom Hearts video game)
To call them dreams would be a lie and to call them thoughts would suggest I understood why they were in my head, but for some reason whenever I let it slip my mind wanders back to the same scene.
In this scene I betray someone. I don't know who he is, and his face changes every time I go back there. His horror struck expression doesn't though.
We can be in different places, though the most common is a dark stage. There are three of us, standing in a triangle; me and two boys. There seems to have been a standoff and it appears we have won. Two on one, we have the other boy cornered. But then he smiles and I turn.
I tell the boy I'm sorry, using his name, which also changes a lot. Jed, Brian, Arthur, doesn't matter. This part's always the same; the apology.
I don't mean it. In this particular situation, I show no remorse nor mercy. Sometimes it's a gun at his head, others a long blade to the throat. Either way the boy I once helped now has a lethal weapon pointed at him.
I've never seen what happens next save once, when I actually fired a shot. Time slowed down and I saw him being blasted off his feet. We were at school in that version. I think it's the fact now I've seen it so many times I distract my mind by asking myself why I'm even watching this happen.
And every time it draws a blank. I haven't seen this moment in any recent TV, films or books. I certainly don't wish I could shoot anyone and I usually know in my head (in my head o_O) that the real person I should be shooting is the boy with the sudden smile who we appeared to overpower.
But it won't go away. Truth be told it's just plain WEIRD... but what more do you expect of me?
Friday, 21 August 2009
From Vigilantes To Creators To... Disney
"The accumulation of their filth will foam up around their waists, and all the whores and politicians will look up as shout, 'SAVE US!' and I'll look down and whisper, 'no.'"
Can you blame him?
Whether you're a disgusted vigilante with no concept of moral greyness, a girl sitting at a computer wondering what to write or God Almighty Himself, you have to admit there is something wrong with our reception of those who help us.
In the graphic novel The Watchmen (from which the quote above is from) there is evidence of our non-existent gratitude to do-gooders. The fictional Keene Act passed in the book's year 1977 forbids any "costumed adventuring" from taking place independently (though two men who worked for the Government were conveniently excepted). All those people were doing were rescuing families from house fires, chasing muggers and rapists and occasionally taking bullets for innocents.
And though the message the above speaker left the makers of the Keene Act was pinned to the corpse of a multiple rapist ("NEVER!"), he was still chased by police for years before being brought down with all the force at their disposal.
Even Disney have touched upon our tendency to hate those who strive to help us. At the beginning of the Pixar film The Incredibles, we see how people suddenly decided they didn't need heroes anymore, and those who fought crime were forced to step down or have people make them. A message so strong as to puncture a children's film, however briefly, should be noticed more often as a major flaw of the human race.
I have no idea what the people responsible for these works believe. It could be they are noting the same similarities of the symbolism as other people, or that they truly didn't see the connection, but the foundations to this human behaviour seem to me to be rooted in religion. Well, there's a surprise; isn't everything?
In a world where political correctness has gone mad, where we have refrained from speaking of beliefs in case they "offend" somebody...
...in a world where we have dismissed God...
In short, we live in a time when we have told God to bugger off.
We can no longer read Bibles in schools, sing hymns where anyone but believers can hear them or (in some cases) wear crosses to work. We hesitate before admitting our beliefs... and we use the word "admitting" as we speak of them.
And then we have people (no names time, but if you've caught me in a ranting mood, you might know to whom I am referring) who, on hearing you are a Christian, turn around and say: "Well where was He on September the 11th, or July the 7th? Where was He when the first troops were sent into the Middle East? Where is He NOW?!"
And amongst things like "Screw you, bitch," I managed to finally say, "did you ever ask Him to do anything about all those things?"
"Of course not, I don't believe in Him."
If you don't believe in Him, how can you expect to see any results by Him?
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Confessions Of A Teenage Insomniac
"You've made your bed, so sleep in it..."
Yeah, I bloody wish.
So, here I am, bright eyed and bushy tailed after my first insomnia-related all-nighter: went to bed at 12, gave up and got up at 6:30. Not a wink of sleep between those hours.
It's been getting notably worse since the return from Slovenia; a sleeplessness (real word? Don't know) that used to get me, say, every other- or third- night has now been every singe day I go to bed. Usually it's just a few hours, I end up dead to the world anyway. Not last night.
So I'd been to my mum's friend's boyfriend's (still with me?) party. It wasn't the liveliest of dos and the worst thing I managed was being pressed to try a mouthful of flat Gin and Tonic (simply spontaneous, right?)
Cept that night I go to bed and lie awake for six and a half hours, occasionally breaking the boredom with a chapter of the phenomenal graphic novel The Watchmen (read it.)
However, it wasn't as fun as you might think. In fact it was pretty shit.
There comes a time when you realise, four hours into your reluctant all-nighter, that if you don't fall asleep now you will feel this way for the rest of the day ahead. Feel like what? you ask.
Like you are totally and blissfully asleep every time your eyes shut to blink. Then, as they open again, you're utterly and frustratingly wide awake.
Another terrible stage is when your brain splits. Not literally of course, although by this time of the night you're doing very well not to have a headache of some kind. But I do not know whether it's a human reaction to the solitude, or simply proof that I personally am insane. However, the brain starts talking back to itself.
"Don't be soft," part of your mind says. "You're obviously not tired or you'd be asleep. Logical, no?"
"But I AM tired," another bit of your brain argues. "If you'd just shut up, maybe we'd get some rest."
A third part of your consciousness is wondering vaguely how this is even possible; the brain is one organ designed to control, help (and hinder) it's host body. It shouldn't be sniping at itself and referring to itself in the first person.
A still further bit of the mind is ignoring the other three all together, caught up in a desperate personal struggle to dispel the highly annoying (and insanely catchy) voice of the lead singer of the All American Rejects from looping over and over to only it's tortured ears... while simultaneously wondering if said singer is really Kermit the frog (listen to Her Name Rhymes With Mindy, then listen to the green Muppet’s voice: IDENTICAL).
Later on in the night/morning, you don't know whether it's from the hours and hours you have spend staring into darkness, or the fact the sky is finally beginning to lighten, but forms of you familiar things start to take shape. Then, every time you blink, as well as being ridiculously disappointed when your eyes open, you are somehow always surprised that the room you are in is lighter than the inside of your eyelids.
You think about a lot of things in a tiny amount of time when you're in the same place for hours at a time. A couple of the things flashing through my mind were:
● My Year 11 Media Project ● The difference of the words Glamour and Glamorous ● The fact the Cullen's aren't actually real vampires ● The fact I really need to post a blog soon ● What the bloody hell time is it? ● Oh, only five minutes past the last time I checked ●
Friday, 14 August 2009
Stand Back, Hold Your Breath and Close Your Eyes
Yes, that's right, I'm blowing the dust off this poor little blog.
I really am sorry... but summer holidays don't generally inspire any fantastical mind-wanderings or outspoken ideas.
It was only after somebody I didn't even know read this said in passing (in a trans-British Live Messenger conversation)... "You haven't blogged in a while..."
In truth I'd forgotten other people read this - a dangerous thing to do, if I begin mentioning names - so I've decided to post something up, even if its just an explanation of why I haven't been around.
I hate busy summers.I'm going/have been (depends on when you're reading this) away from home three times this summer. Okay, I love a summer holiday away as much as the next person, and I really enjoyed this year's one (Slovenia - nope, nobody's heard of it, you're not alone. Its a tiny country just to the right of Italy).
But then there's a week in Liverpool with my Grandma, who I love but who never lets me sleep in (what are holidays for?!)
And then five days in some CentreParcs place with only a couple of people I know and a bunch of people I don't. No doubt it will be a lot of fun, but the chances of slowing down and (again) messing up my sleeping pattern, are fairly slim.
And then it's school again. And yet another summer gone. Sorry if that sounds depressing, it wasn't meant to be. I generally don't mind school, and I am looking forward (kind of... a little bit) to seeing this multi-million new school building we're being blessed with.
Unfortunately it comes with a compulsory stripy new uniform. Stripy. Will I ever live it down to people outside my own school?
No, I don't think so either.
I really am sorry... but summer holidays don't generally inspire any fantastical mind-wanderings or outspoken ideas.
It was only after somebody I didn't even know read this said in passing (in a trans-British Live Messenger conversation)... "You haven't blogged in a while..."
In truth I'd forgotten other people read this - a dangerous thing to do, if I begin mentioning names - so I've decided to post something up, even if its just an explanation of why I haven't been around.
I hate busy summers.I'm going/have been (depends on when you're reading this) away from home three times this summer. Okay, I love a summer holiday away as much as the next person, and I really enjoyed this year's one (Slovenia - nope, nobody's heard of it, you're not alone. Its a tiny country just to the right of Italy).
But then there's a week in Liverpool with my Grandma, who I love but who never lets me sleep in (what are holidays for?!)
And then five days in some CentreParcs place with only a couple of people I know and a bunch of people I don't. No doubt it will be a lot of fun, but the chances of slowing down and (again) messing up my sleeping pattern, are fairly slim.
And then it's school again. And yet another summer gone. Sorry if that sounds depressing, it wasn't meant to be. I generally don't mind school, and I am looking forward (kind of... a little bit) to seeing this multi-million new school building we're being blessed with.
Unfortunately it comes with a compulsory stripy new uniform. Stripy. Will I ever live it down to people outside my own school?
No, I don't think so either.
Monday, 22 June 2009
A Rant On Tossers, Pretty Girls And A Dangerous Touch On Glasgow
It probably says something about you when, on bursting into your maths classroom yelling "You wanker!" at literally the top of your voice, nobody even raises from their own conversations to take notice. But then again why should they? They all know it's me.
So I wear a choker.
For any "goth-phobes" (oh, how I hate that word), anti-jewellery protesters or simply if you're a BOY, this is a close-fitting necklace that is worn high on the neck. Hear that? A piece of jewellery. Not an accessory for your dog.
So for about the fifth time this month I get a call after me: "Why you stealin' your dog's collar?!" Spinning around I see one of the world's champion tossers (ask anyone in my year - even his friends) standing laughing his head off. Anyone within a ten mile radius can hear his laughter's fake. He has, in fact, asked me this question so many times in the last year I can't decide whether to be flattered or freaked by his continual interest in how I decorate my neck.
Next to him, a girl I have never spoken to but looks at me like I'm a piece of shit on her "genuine Uggs!" is also laughing, gazing at me and wondering whether or not I'm going to react. No doubt she's heard a rumour I'm a depressed alcoholic who stabbed her father (there's been worse said about me, trust me there ^^). However the only reason I know her name is the rumours circulating about her, and they're nowhere near as far fetched as mine (so very probably true).
What really pisses me off about this girl, however, is how darn gorgeous she is. WHY IS EVERYONE I DISLIKE PRETTY?????
It's so cliché it's unbearable.
I'm not saying all beautiful people are bitches. No way. But everyone who I have expressed dislike on any level, and vice versa has - with a couple of exceptions - been irritatingly good looking.
Totally unfair.
If the bitch was any taller then her puny 4'10" I'd truly love to try out a Glasgow Kiss (for anyone living south of Northumberland, that's a headbutt) and wipe the lip-linered smirk of her perfectly toned face.
So I wear a choker.
For any "goth-phobes" (oh, how I hate that word), anti-jewellery protesters or simply if you're a BOY, this is a close-fitting necklace that is worn high on the neck. Hear that? A piece of jewellery. Not an accessory for your dog.
So for about the fifth time this month I get a call after me: "Why you stealin' your dog's collar?!" Spinning around I see one of the world's champion tossers (ask anyone in my year - even his friends) standing laughing his head off. Anyone within a ten mile radius can hear his laughter's fake. He has, in fact, asked me this question so many times in the last year I can't decide whether to be flattered or freaked by his continual interest in how I decorate my neck.
Next to him, a girl I have never spoken to but looks at me like I'm a piece of shit on her "genuine Uggs!" is also laughing, gazing at me and wondering whether or not I'm going to react. No doubt she's heard a rumour I'm a depressed alcoholic who stabbed her father (there's been worse said about me, trust me there ^^). However the only reason I know her name is the rumours circulating about her, and they're nowhere near as far fetched as mine (so very probably true).
What really pisses me off about this girl, however, is how darn gorgeous she is. WHY IS EVERYONE I DISLIKE PRETTY?????
It's so cliché it's unbearable.
I'm not saying all beautiful people are bitches. No way. But everyone who I have expressed dislike on any level, and vice versa has - with a couple of exceptions - been irritatingly good looking.
Totally unfair.
If the bitch was any taller then her puny 4'10" I'd truly love to try out a Glasgow Kiss (for anyone living south of Northumberland, that's a headbutt) and wipe the lip-linered smirk of her perfectly toned face.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
UGWW (United Gardens of Wet Washing)
The first mention of washing was this morning. I was slumped in bed, half asleep, eyes tight against the dim (but still cruel) daylight (if you can call the light a cloudy British morning emits "day") Mum had let into my room by viciously yanking my blinds up further than I knew they were capable of.
"We're all going out today, so you can do some revision." (Shameless hint. I don't even think it deserves the name "hint")
"Riiight."
"The dog needs walking."
"Okay."
"And keep an eye on the weather, the washing's out."
"You got it."
Two hours later, I was still in bed, Dad and Andrew rattling around downstairs. The phone bleeped, (it not being like any other phone; ringing is nowhere near annoying enough to motivate us to pick it up). Bleep. Bleeeep. BLEEEEEP!!
Someone pick up the -very bad language- phone!! I begged mentally, squashing myself further into the pillows and duvet. It was only when Dad began to climb the stairs my eyes snapped open for the first time that morning.
Bugger. It was for me. And I'm not even going to give you three guesses as to who was on the other end.
"Are you up yet?"
"No, Mum."
"Up. NOW. Walk the dog, do some work and keep an eye on the-"
"Weather, I know. The washings out."
Hanging up, I thought it was probably advisable I did roll out of bed now, for if I followed the lazy thoughts back down to the pillow, the chances are I wouldn't get up till three in the afternoon.
Upon getting downstairs and dragging a brush that has given up crying for mercy through my bird's nest of hair, I met Dad.
"When are you going out?"
"Any minute," which in Dad-speak means sometime in the next two hours. "You need to do some revision."
"I know."
"And keep an eye-"
"I KNOW!!"
It seemed everyone in my family had written me off as a hopeless case, in the way of Washing Collecting, anyway. I junked out in front of the PC for ten minutes, working myself up for the day ahead of Biology, Chemistry and Physics (maybe some English coursework if I was lucky).
Paddy the dog was sitting watching me with his huge accusing stare. That dog is the definition of reproachful** when he's in a mood.
"Okay, okay. I'm eating, getting dressed, then we'll go out."
"..."
"Don't use that tone with me."
It was obvious he didn't believe me.
Sighing, I downed 2 crumpets and hurtled upstairs to get away from my basset's eyes. After pulling on a shirt I certainly wouldn't dream of wearing to church and a pair of black jeans, I began to gallomp (my blog, my word) down the stairs.
Half way down the stairs is a window, leading out to the back garden. Our amazingly odd pond, made out of railway sleepers and currently green from lack of cleaning (we have tadpoles) was moving.
I blinked. No...
Ripples.
Rain drops.
I can't remember if I screamed out loud, maybe it was just in my head. And I want some credit here. I did not dash down the stairs in slow motion yelling: "NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!"
Instead it went something rather more like this:
"FuckshitbollocksshitfuckinghellcrapshitbollocksBALLS!"
If I had stopped to look at Paddy's face, it was probably either astounded at my moving so quickly so early in the morning or totally impassive as he hears that kind of thing every day.
Hopping round on one foot and trying to pull on a Converse boot that has seen many better days but no worse ones, I crashed into the kitchen sink which brought on the cursing again. I did look at Paddy then, and his expression could be summed up something like... "0_0" with his amazingly expressive tan eyebrows high over his head.
Scrambling out of the back door, I didn't bother looking for the washing box I knew I'd never find. Instead I grabbed about five garments and pulled, cursing yet again as the rain somehow got into my eyes and pegs flew everywhere.
All around me I could hear the other residents of neighbouring houses acting the same way, though a couple stopped to laugh as I dashed across my back garden for about the eighth time and was only half done (my back garden's dominantly stones; my steps were much louder than everyone else’s). It wasn't until I was safely back inside (Paddy lying on the sopping grass, looking hilariously sober in the downpour) that I realised that was probably the closest our lot have ever been to a sense of community spirit.
How very incredibly British.
**1: an expression of rebuke or disapproval
2: the act or action of reproaching or disapproving
3 a: a cause or occasion of blame, discredit, or disgrace b: discredit, disgrace 4 obsolete : one subjected to censure or scorn
"We're all going out today, so you can do some revision." (Shameless hint. I don't even think it deserves the name "hint")
"Riiight."
"The dog needs walking."
"Okay."
"And keep an eye on the weather, the washing's out."
"You got it."
Two hours later, I was still in bed, Dad and Andrew rattling around downstairs. The phone bleeped, (it not being like any other phone; ringing is nowhere near annoying enough to motivate us to pick it up). Bleep. Bleeeep. BLEEEEEP!!
Someone pick up the -very bad language- phone!! I begged mentally, squashing myself further into the pillows and duvet. It was only when Dad began to climb the stairs my eyes snapped open for the first time that morning.
Bugger. It was for me. And I'm not even going to give you three guesses as to who was on the other end.
"Are you up yet?"
"No, Mum."
"Up. NOW. Walk the dog, do some work and keep an eye on the-"
"Weather, I know. The washings out."
Hanging up, I thought it was probably advisable I did roll out of bed now, for if I followed the lazy thoughts back down to the pillow, the chances are I wouldn't get up till three in the afternoon.
Upon getting downstairs and dragging a brush that has given up crying for mercy through my bird's nest of hair, I met Dad.
"When are you going out?"
"Any minute," which in Dad-speak means sometime in the next two hours. "You need to do some revision."
"I know."
"And keep an eye-"
"I KNOW!!"
It seemed everyone in my family had written me off as a hopeless case, in the way of Washing Collecting, anyway. I junked out in front of the PC for ten minutes, working myself up for the day ahead of Biology, Chemistry and Physics (maybe some English coursework if I was lucky).
Paddy the dog was sitting watching me with his huge accusing stare. That dog is the definition of reproachful** when he's in a mood.
"Okay, okay. I'm eating, getting dressed, then we'll go out."
"..."
"Don't use that tone with me."
It was obvious he didn't believe me.
Sighing, I downed 2 crumpets and hurtled upstairs to get away from my basset's eyes. After pulling on a shirt I certainly wouldn't dream of wearing to church and a pair of black jeans, I began to gallomp (my blog, my word) down the stairs.
Half way down the stairs is a window, leading out to the back garden. Our amazingly odd pond, made out of railway sleepers and currently green from lack of cleaning (we have tadpoles) was moving.
I blinked. No...
Ripples.
Rain drops.
I can't remember if I screamed out loud, maybe it was just in my head. And I want some credit here. I did not dash down the stairs in slow motion yelling: "NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!"
Instead it went something rather more like this:
"FuckshitbollocksshitfuckinghellcrapshitbollocksBALLS!"
If I had stopped to look at Paddy's face, it was probably either astounded at my moving so quickly so early in the morning or totally impassive as he hears that kind of thing every day.
Hopping round on one foot and trying to pull on a Converse boot that has seen many better days but no worse ones, I crashed into the kitchen sink which brought on the cursing again. I did look at Paddy then, and his expression could be summed up something like... "0_0" with his amazingly expressive tan eyebrows high over his head.
Scrambling out of the back door, I didn't bother looking for the washing box I knew I'd never find. Instead I grabbed about five garments and pulled, cursing yet again as the rain somehow got into my eyes and pegs flew everywhere.
All around me I could hear the other residents of neighbouring houses acting the same way, though a couple stopped to laugh as I dashed across my back garden for about the eighth time and was only half done (my back garden's dominantly stones; my steps were much louder than everyone else’s). It wasn't until I was safely back inside (Paddy lying on the sopping grass, looking hilariously sober in the downpour) that I realised that was probably the closest our lot have ever been to a sense of community spirit.
How very incredibly British.
**1: an expression of rebuke or disapproval
2: the act or action of reproaching or disapproving
3 a: a cause or occasion of blame, discredit, or disgrace b: discredit, disgrace 4 obsolete : one subjected to censure or scorn
Friday, 19 June 2009
Not What You'd Call Historically Accurate
History classes rarely go the way they're meant to.
Our history teacher says we all have strong opinions and original ideas.
Know what that means?
We yell at each other.
The question on the board was "What do the Government do for us?" (well I saw the Life Of Brian reference) as a 5 minute starter to think about and then lead on to 1930's Americans choosing Democrats over Republicans.
Thirty minutes later we were all bellowing about the Iraqi war and the chances of terrorism in the UK.
One boy comes up with the statistic that London has the more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. I have no idea if that's true and I'm also totally certain nobody else did either. But we grasped at it for another debate, I myself getting into a furious quickfire match with another girl on whether or not we needed those cameras. (I was arguing for the cameras. Did that surprise you? It certainly did me.)
The thing is, the press hardly ever print the full story, and that was the pivot the argument was teetering on. Yes, I know they said that MI5 were given information to do with the 7/7 bombings in London... well done, you've found another hole to pick at in the spectacle that is Britain. But what on earth makes the press think they know everything??!!
The Secret Services are meant to be just that - SECRET. For all we or the press know, there was an attempted terrorist attack in... I dunno... Cardiff yesterday (ooft, careful, Rachel. English and Welsh relationships do not need your input).
WOULD WE KNOW??
Just think about how often your life or that of someone you love has been saved without any inkling on your part. We like to think we wouldn't judge someone before we knew about them, yet that is exactly what we're doing in saying anything at all about the MIs (5, 6, they're both under scruitiny). The cameras are clearly there for a reason, as people in Government are (though it may surprise a few people) kind of like us. What's to stop a conspiracy theorist getting into politics, or a young rebel joining the police force?
Therefore there WILL be people higher up who have questioned the surveillance of the people not just of London but almost every city in the world have come under - and clearly they ARE helping. With the economy as it is now, would the Government really still be financing unneeded and expensive to maintain toys nobody uses?
At which point our history teacher dragged us back to the present... no, wait... the past.
Our history teacher says we all have strong opinions and original ideas.
Know what that means?
We yell at each other.
The question on the board was "What do the Government do for us?" (well I saw the Life Of Brian reference) as a 5 minute starter to think about and then lead on to 1930's Americans choosing Democrats over Republicans.
Thirty minutes later we were all bellowing about the Iraqi war and the chances of terrorism in the UK.
One boy comes up with the statistic that London has the more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. I have no idea if that's true and I'm also totally certain nobody else did either. But we grasped at it for another debate, I myself getting into a furious quickfire match with another girl on whether or not we needed those cameras. (I was arguing for the cameras. Did that surprise you? It certainly did me.)
The thing is, the press hardly ever print the full story, and that was the pivot the argument was teetering on. Yes, I know they said that MI5 were given information to do with the 7/7 bombings in London... well done, you've found another hole to pick at in the spectacle that is Britain. But what on earth makes the press think they know everything??!!
The Secret Services are meant to be just that - SECRET. For all we or the press know, there was an attempted terrorist attack in... I dunno... Cardiff yesterday (ooft, careful, Rachel. English and Welsh relationships do not need your input).
WOULD WE KNOW??
Just think about how often your life or that of someone you love has been saved without any inkling on your part. We like to think we wouldn't judge someone before we knew about them, yet that is exactly what we're doing in saying anything at all about the MIs (5, 6, they're both under scruitiny). The cameras are clearly there for a reason, as people in Government are (though it may surprise a few people) kind of like us. What's to stop a conspiracy theorist getting into politics, or a young rebel joining the police force?
Therefore there WILL be people higher up who have questioned the surveillance of the people not just of London but almost every city in the world have come under - and clearly they ARE helping. With the economy as it is now, would the Government really still be financing unneeded and expensive to maintain toys nobody uses?
At which point our history teacher dragged us back to the present... no, wait... the past.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Fiction Hangover: My version of Depression
So lately I've been reading too much.
But Rachel, you say, how can you read TOO MUCH? Surely it's better than loosing your brains in TV or PS2 games (*cough* guilty).
Yeah, well, some of your brains may turn to cottage cheese when you stare at a screen, but printed paper does that to me.
So I'm reading about 150 - 180 pages a day. Naturally, I start having favourite characters among the ones I'm meant to like equally, taking sides in fights that get resolved on the next page and actually getting pissed when my character gets overruled at tribunals even when there's a happy ending.
Now as I think I've said before, I'm studying William Blake at school. I have an essay (thanks, Teach) to hand in next Monday (as this week's work experience week - joy!) and I'm about half way through it.
This is where my reading habits are getting dangerous.
I keep thinking... bollocks... essay... write it... oh, never mind, this isn't real anyway.
I then have to mentally punch myself and yell "FOOL!" over and over again until I realise I don't belong in the caves/castle/seedy bar I had been reading about, and that my life is not the dream but the reality.
And the reality of my life at the moment is:
If I don't write about the flea-whispering son of a b*tch I'm in deep sh*t a week tomorrow.
But Rachel, you say, how can you read TOO MUCH? Surely it's better than loosing your brains in TV or PS2 games (*cough* guilty).
Yeah, well, some of your brains may turn to cottage cheese when you stare at a screen, but printed paper does that to me.
So I'm reading about 150 - 180 pages a day. Naturally, I start having favourite characters among the ones I'm meant to like equally, taking sides in fights that get resolved on the next page and actually getting pissed when my character gets overruled at tribunals even when there's a happy ending.
Now as I think I've said before, I'm studying William Blake at school. I have an essay (thanks, Teach) to hand in next Monday (as this week's work experience week - joy!) and I'm about half way through it.
This is where my reading habits are getting dangerous.
I keep thinking... bollocks... essay... write it... oh, never mind, this isn't real anyway.
I then have to mentally punch myself and yell "FOOL!" over and over again until I realise I don't belong in the caves/castle/seedy bar I had been reading about, and that my life is not the dream but the reality.
And the reality of my life at the moment is:
If I don't write about the flea-whispering son of a b*tch I'm in deep sh*t a week tomorrow.
Books I've gotten lost in recently:
Friday, 29 May 2009
Crying-Girl-Fans : The definition of piss takes
A trip to the cinema rarely inspires me to write a poem, but after being DRAGGED to see the 'Jonas Brothers 3D Concert Experience' today (don't ask - my friends... yeah, they're suckers for Disney, but they're taking me to Coraline 3D to make up for it :D) well, I couldn't help it.
So after 1.5 hours of staring blankly at sobbing girls and colourful, homemade signs sporting slogans such as "JOE: WILL YOU MARRY ME?" I came home and wrote.
Here's the result.
(N.B: This is not anything to do with the Jonas Brothers. They look pretty nice guys, it's the fans I'm against)
Wear your dress like a belt
And your hair like a ruler
His heart’s gonna melt
And you’ve never been surer
You’ll stand out in the crowd
And draw your babe’s eyes
Say his name loud
And be heard over the cries
Of course he will marry you
Though you’ve never met
You'll give him a view
He won’t ever forget
Wake up, little girl
You’re no different at all
From the thousands who twirl
To his music and fall
Head over heels
For a pretty pin up
Don’t care what he feels
You’re not giving up
Be fair on the boy
What’s he gonna do?
Choose the prettiest toy
Until that’s broken too
Free sex and great praise
From a girl who don’t care
That she’s just a phase
Like some new shoes to wear
He’s not god upon high
Just human, you see
And just think while you cry
How cruel they can be
So excuse him for running
And not stopping to chat
Using all of his cunning
To avoid ‘all of that’
For the truth in my mind
Is that he is a saint
For leaving you girls behind
And putting up with complaint
He don’t want to hurt you
But you’re making it hard
Not to have a one-night screw
With the most easy girl-fan retard
So after 1.5 hours of staring blankly at sobbing girls and colourful, homemade signs sporting slogans such as "JOE: WILL YOU MARRY ME?" I came home and wrote.
Here's the result.
(N.B: This is not anything to do with the Jonas Brothers. They look pretty nice guys, it's the fans I'm against)
Wear your dress like a belt
And your hair like a ruler
His heart’s gonna melt
And you’ve never been surer
You’ll stand out in the crowd
And draw your babe’s eyes
Say his name loud
And be heard over the cries
Of course he will marry you
Though you’ve never met
You'll give him a view
He won’t ever forget
Wake up, little girl
You’re no different at all
From the thousands who twirl
To his music and fall
Head over heels
For a pretty pin up
Don’t care what he feels
You’re not giving up
Be fair on the boy
What’s he gonna do?
Choose the prettiest toy
Until that’s broken too
Free sex and great praise
From a girl who don’t care
That she’s just a phase
Like some new shoes to wear
He’s not god upon high
Just human, you see
And just think while you cry
How cruel they can be
So excuse him for running
And not stopping to chat
Using all of his cunning
To avoid ‘all of that’
For the truth in my mind
Is that he is a saint
For leaving you girls behind
And putting up with complaint
He don’t want to hurt you
But you’re making it hard
Not to have a one-night screw
With the most easy girl-fan retard
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