Resolutions - and how they don't always fail.

Finishing a book is a very strange, unique feeling. An oxymoronic groan in the pit of the stomach; delight in knowing the whole story, despair in having to leave the universe which, through the pages, has become three-dimensional, real in your mind. I get this a lot with books. The number of novels I finish with the decision 'I must read that again' are inumerable, and it is only very rarely that I get the time to do just that.

I promised myself, as something of an End of Year Challenge, that I would finish Year of the King before 2011 arrives, and have just managed it, with one hour and 40 minutes to spare. I am glad to say, though, that I have not rushed it - the book is compelling enough in itself - but have taken it in my own time.

This shows progress. Some time last year (that is, 2009, still) I resolutely decided to take up reading on an industrial scale. This decision wasn't as clinical and emotionless as it sounds, as I don't believe it's possible to force yourself to read things you don't want to - or, indeed, to read for the sake of reading. It was something I had considered for a while:

Having always had myself down as a very slow reader (the first proper novel I remember reading cover-to-cover, without audiobook cheating, was Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, which took me three trudging but enjoyable weeks, aged 8) there had always been little desire to read a lot, until quite recently. Of course, I did read, but I wouldn't have considered it a hobby of any kind.

At this point I met my good chum Ellie, in English and form time. Initially, she hit me with the intimidating news that, during the Summer holidays she had managed to plough through the best part of 11 books (albeit of varying sizes). Gradually, as her prodigious speedy-reading continued this grew into a little bit of a joke for us - we pride ourselves on our English-based banter (which sometimes evolves into mock abuse). It was at this point, when the holidays rolled around, that I set myself the initial challenge of putting my reading to the test, and from there it became something of an addiction (as anyone who bothers to read my rambly literary waffle may have gathered) and now, here I am.

Tomorrow, or rather, next year, I go into my second year of reading recording and booklists and such things. For Christmas I recieved a dashing Book Log (which, amusingly also abbreviates into 'blog') which I look forward to using.

Now, the final thing to do is to work out my New Year's Resolutions for this year. A New Year, a new start (as no doubt countless other bloggers will be explaining) and for me this means:
1. Taking each day as it comes. Trying not to get so stressed out about things, remembering that people have gone through much worse than I am, and putting Padre's 'philosophical' view of life into effect more thoroughly.
2. Getting back on track with A-level work. Being in a bad mood is no excuse for failing exams - but not getting stressed about it, as there will be enough of that in the post-exam period. Just keep thinking about getting your own cutlery!
3. Drawing more. NOT school work related things - carry a sketchbook.
4. Organise that commonplace book; use it.

A sensible discussion...

Dee: I never read the history plays - never really wanted to.
Rachel: Ah, but Richard III is GOOD! He basically goes around killing everyone an-
Dee: They're all just politically motivated works of fiction-
Rachel: Most things are politically motivated works of fiction.
Dee: Like your face.

There you have it. My face is a politically motivated work of fiction. Who knew?

Bottles and bottles of arachnids...

It's meant to be the tertiary text, but I have just read about twelve reviews of the Propeller Richard III I saw back in November and my eyes are beginning to go fuzzy. I'm trying to work out - because my memory has betrayed me - whose finger he bit off after killing them. It could be a couple of people (Anne? Edward?) and for each of them it would have a very different significance - and connection with The Changeling (where Deflores cuts of Piraquo's finger after killing him).

None of the reviews mention it - not even the lovely thorough ones. Some of them mention 'finger biting' but remain bloody ambiguous like an uncertain and vague bitch of research hell. Er- but yes, this Richard III business is becoming a bit of an obsession.

Also, had a moment of AHA! while reading a review on a blog. The Blog's subtitle was "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." and I had a nice little 'oh-ho, I know where you're coming from there, old laddy, old boy!" That quote's from The Go-Between by L.P. Hartley - actually, it's the first sentence, and all - and that gives me a sad sort of joy to have floating around in my head...

More cheerful having done excesses of research and also installing my SHINY new HiFi system, which is beautiful, and which involved me basically reorganising my room and shelving again... everything's always better when it's a bit fresher, I think. Have also moved the MASS of tickets and posters and notes and whatnot from my pinboard (it was becoming painfully close to collapsing everywhere) and made it all into a montage on my wall.

That's all for now - I love that I have five or so more solid days to dilly-dally and over-complicate this essay. Hurrah!

Oooh, bonus anecdote! I was faffing about in the bathroom looking for something in the cupboards and found that my uncle had left us a gift in one of them. Delightful! I hear you cry - What a nice man to do such a thing. Yes, yes, if it had been a bath bomb, or a necklace or something other than a dead, moldy mouse and its brother's skull I would have been overjoyed. Unfortunately not. You may be surprised to hear that I was not surprised by this and simply held my breath and went to inform the parentfolk. I blame tradition - a rather longstanding one which I may properly explain in another blog, at another time, when my eyes aren't eroded by Dicky 3 reviews.

Nanight, lovelies xx

Meh, life.

Christmas was alright if you exclude most of the company, and include the rather high alcohol intake. I am slowly becoming a royal alcoholic at such occasions, not sure whether to be worried or not. Have also caught some dodgy bugs from the masses of small children that were there - coughing and sniffling and feeling rather nauseas the past day or two.

After a let-down of a venison pie at Christmas Mark II yesterday, got some good books - including Year of The King by Antony Sher which I'm already about half way through, and will probably discuss in another blog some time.

Quiet morning this morning, both parents out and aforementioned Sher book in lap. Just building up a desire to write something (I really, really do need SOME productivity...) when Madre comes in and asks me to go to Tesco with her. As Padre asked me too, earlier, had to go.

It has come to the point, I think, where just seeing her face makes me instantly depressed. I find myself not bothering any more than absolutely necessary to talk to her, because it makes me want to headbutt a wall.

Results of trip to Tesco - no real desire to do either portfolio OR coursework, but there's only 6 days of holiday left, and I can't go back having done fuck all.

To curl up in bed and die, or to not curl up in bed and die, that is the question.

Probably going to give over rest of day to moping and reading the rest of YotK.

BT: The End of Mr Y

On rare occasion, you can pick up a book that you've never heard of (even in passing) before and find that it is inspiring, clever and entirely engrossing at the same time. This book (which I heartily recommend as it has prevented me doing any work for the past three days) is one of those.

Initially, I have to admit I was sceptical. The blurb on the back is a frankly shocking representation of it so I admit to some initial internal dread. Judging a book by its cover is something we all do, but all wish we could avoid, and I'm glad, now, the book was given to me as a present, or I mightn't have picked it up at all... Additionally, upon discovering (early on) that the protagonist was a red-haired girly called Ariel, I raised my eyebrows a few times. But it is all justified eventually - and even amusing name puns here and there don't manage to ruin the feel of the book.

The End of Mr Y tells the story of a PhD student who finds herself sucked into a world of life-changing philosophy and scientific discovery through the chance finding of a book in a second-hand book store. This is simplifying it considerably - this isn't a fantasy along the lines of The Never-Ending Story. The book combines intelligent theoretical scientific and philosophical discussions within a very humanistic and down-to-Earth narrative, which makes even the hard science upon which it is based a delight to digest.

This is the sort of fiction you read and, afterwards, come out feeling as though you have not only enjoyed reading it, but you have tangibly learned a lot along the way about quantum physics, literature, philosophy, theology and, in a way, about life in general. I can't count the number of times I read things which made me think, 'Oh God, I wish so-and-so had read this' and 'Ooh, I must tell such and such' because there is such a broad spectrum of interest within it.

So yes, I recommend it wholeheartedly and have tried to extol its virtues without ruining all the juicy surprises along the way.

The Laptop Blues (A Ballad.)

Woke up this morning, cheery as can be,

Opened my laptop and it snapped off at me,

Bits of wires and metal and screws,

I need a new laptop 'n' it's giving me the blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the snaptop blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the craptop blues.

Googling on the web, looking through shops,

Tryin' to find out if anywhere sells good laptops,

Not too pricey, or cheap, this is hard to do,

Can't find a good laptop that I can afford, too-hoo-hoo

(The laptop blues)

(The craptop blues)

(It's snapped, boo-hoo)

Got me some money from the kindle I sold,

Maybe now I can get a laptop that's not old,

Huntin' for cash down the side of the bed,

Ain't enough money even to buy some bread.

Ooh-hooo!

The Laptop Blues!

Ooh-hooo!

Gonna try searchin' Yahoo's!

Well it's five days till Christmas, and I'm starting to wish,

I'd not asked for a new HiFi, or a special Poole dish,

Because I need something more in the computery vein,

Don't wanna have a HiFi and need to save up again...

Ooo-hoo!

Dell, Fuck you!

You-Do!

Need to learn to manufacture quality computers!

Ooooooooh!

(la la la)

Oooooooo-oooh!

(la la la)

I's got the laptop, snaptop, shut-your-traptop, absolutely crap-top blues!

(yeah.)

Victory, skid-marks and mint-making...

This is a photo of the first recorded snow I could find in Milton - it's also very nearly the view from my house. (1962) Yes, I'm going to do that terribly English thing, where I make a great deal out of clouds bursting - tally ho!

***

So it's been tremendously snowy the past day or so and anyone who knows my feelings about weather properly know that snow is my favourite, followed by rain and then fog and then sunshine. It makes the world all shiny and light even at nighttime. Anyhow, I do have a point to make with this - this isn't simply small talk.

Yesterday, with a lovely blizzard outside, I decided to accompany my padre to the Moreton Pinkney auction to pick up the spoils of the day. This quickly turned into an adventure of epic proportions, with the snow-level gradually rising as we drove (that area had a lot the previous day, aussi) and hilarity (and DANGER!) around every corner.

Getting there was the easy part - ambling along listening to various good tunes and discussing my increasing level of hunger - but coming back took the biscuit.

One thing you should know about the Northampton area is that there are an absurd number of canal and railway bridges compressed into a relatively small place, with a number of little 'island' typed areas where you are, quite literally, trapped between bridges. Therein lies the problem. These canal bridges seem to pride themselves on being as tall and steep and twisty as possible, and even in a rather chunky car, if you throw in the added hazard of arctic conditions, things start to get crazy.

We arrived at this canal bridge near the Marina to find the debris from some earlier collision; bits of wall, tyre marks that made no sense to a linear journey, and the perfect image of a disaster waiting to happen. But we braved it, and skidded around and about for ages with all the vigour and vanity of a mouse trying to climb up the side of its glass vivarium. Eventually we gave up and tried (in a rather beautiful ARC of skidditude) to turn around and go the other way.

Eventually we went across to another, more passable bridge, but then quickly found ourselves trapped on one of these islands, between a bridge with an impassable one behind it, or a bloody ridiculous rail bridge. However, there was an incentive! Beyond this bridge, was a pub!

Alors, in order to get to the Walnut Tree for a pint, we braved the rail bridge for the best part of a rather hilarious half-hour going forwards, backwards, sideways, diagonal-wise etc and being looked at as though we were dicks by some cocky truck and 4x4 drivers with their smug-arse four-wheel drive. They didn't have the fun that we did.

After many millennia we escaped the island and trundled over to the Walnut Tree (whose steps I had shamefully redecorated with stomach fluid a full week before) and dived in for a quick one. Christmas beer, cider and 'sizzling prawn' crisps that were wank, considering.

From there things were easier and we returned to find our house had experienced a deluge of fallen clouds. What an adventure! :D

***

Incidentally, I've just managed to sell my Kindle (which I bought for £109 when it came out) for almost double its price - the joys of e-bay, Christmas, and people's failure to read websites that say that only the upgraded version is sold out. :) HURRAH!

wisdom comes through initial foolishness

1. Never get drunk. Just don't do it.
2. Never even consider drinking Babycham then being given wine.
3. Never decide to redecorate the steps of your friend's work-place with the contents of your stomach.
4. Avoid the above, especially when you are expected to be sociable and early-rising the next day. Even more so if you have an absolute deadline for history coursework the day after that, and are going to be forced to stay awake to chop words out of it.

fml.

Wishing I had gone into school today. Being here isn't good for me, or for anyone else. Makes madre uncomfortable, makes me uncomfortable, makes the whole thing awkward.

|: Dear.

Retail Therapy

This weekend I have been feeling pretty down - this led to some rather excellent retail therapy, which in turn led to my buying a very gorgeous aviator jacket of the kind I have been drooling after for quite a while. Problem being that now I am poor, and unable to buy a matching hat. Alas.

Matching hat definitely going on my Christmas list.

Additionally, this house is very cold. Despite being all bedridden and doubly duvetted-up, my hands are getting damned cold from typing.

Also, have missed Rosie's birthday - merde and a half - will have to bring in pressies tomorrow.

Even more also, read a book about racial harmony and things. I blame Climax, but also the fact that it was about a Latin teacher. Merging of interests, nom nom nom. It was quite good, actually. Hmm...

ich bin sehr kalt.

All this cold weather, without PROPER snow is clearly not good for anyone's health. Example: weeks of blizzards last year, I was healthy, fluless and cheerful. Now, however, I am sofa-ridden with flu, knackered and generally worse for wear.

Duvet days all round.

Stranded at school

I am stranded at school. "Why?" you may ask with great concern, to which I would eloquently reply, "Because I am being cultural."

Tonight I am going to the theatre to see Translations, a piece about Gaelic signposting or some such excitement. In order for this to happen, however, I have to hang around at school - supposedly doing work - until the bus arrives. Joy of eternal joys.

Good thing there are bookshelves, I think.

Eugh, you're such a shower.

Me: What a douchebag.

Dee: What does that actually mean?

Me: Well, it's like a dick, isn't it? Let me google it.

Here is what wikipedia informed me:

Douche usually refers to vaginal irrigation, the rinsing of the vagina, but it can also refer to the rinsing of any body cavity. A douche bagis a piece of equipment for douching—a bag for holding the fluid used in douching. To avoid transferring intestinal bacteria into the vagina, the same bag must not be used for an enema and a vaginal douche.

Cheerful stuff, I hear you cry. It goes on to explain that:

Slang uses

Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s.^[5] The term usually refers to a person, usually male, with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

This, I read out with gusto. And, as my father agreed, it was 'suitably edifying'. We had a good lol at 'a variety of negative qualities'. Gotta love Wikipedia's wording.

So now you know, as I know, that being a Douchebag is quite similar to being a dick in its use, and therefore, to avoid the awkwardness of ever discussing this again, I declare 'like a dick, isn't it?' to be the official definition.

What do you get when you combine a Catholic, a procrastinator and a book shelf?

Abridged conversations are all the rage, so here's another one between myself and Miss Considine. The below is not for those of a weak, homophobic or tasteful constitution. A rude-imentary understanding of Harry Potter is also handy. Let's go!

Rachel: I need to pick a new book to read. mhmhm.

Anna: Read this book, it's well deep, by some bint call Rolling, it's about a child called HP, who's gay, and he has to adjust to a straight world.

Rachel: “You're a wizard, harry.” “I know, I know, I like wands, okay? Just take it. Get over it, Hagrid, God. Eugh.”

[flounces out]

Anna: Harry... they took my wand off meh. Snapped it in half.

Rachel: D: ... holy shitting fuck, Hagrid. I knew you were only half-man, but this isn't what I thought you meant.

***

"No, Harry... I'll set my house on fire if we do."

"Better setting the roof on fire than your pubes!!!!!! Dobby just wanted to be helpful, Harry Potter, Sir. Dobby just wanted to make sure Harry Potter was safe." [gives Condom]

"Where did you get this, Dobby? You're not allowed clothes!"

"You gave me a sock, sir."

"That wasn't a sock, Dobby! Waitup, Do house elves even have pubes?"

***

Anna: Dobby only wishes to keep Harry Potter SAFE sir! An evil is lurking at Hogwarts! It lurked and killed 50 years ago sir... Ever wondered why it's called Slytherin sir?! It is named after its greaters weapon sir... Syphillis....

Rachel: [gasp] Holy Hufflepuff Turd, Dobby!

Anna: So you see, HARRY POTTER MUST GO HOME!

Rachel: Is this true? You mean... that's what happened to Voldemort's face? DDDD8

But... But... Dobby - I can't miss the Halloween Orgy. It's the greatest opportunity to carve pumpkins naked for miles around. Last year, Ronny Babes had a squash instead of a pumpkin, and he decided to store his wand in it, all night long. Great times, Dobby, GREAT FRICKIN TIMES. I must go to Hogwarts.

Anna :Oh BUT SIR you are too GREAT, too GOOD to be hunted so sir! You are famous... the whole wizarding knows your name and wants to touch your wand sir!

Rachel: And with good reason, Dobby. Who am I to deny the people what they want? It would be cruel, Dobby. CRUEL. You saw what it did to Quirrell. He could barely say 'fellatio' after a year with me. No, I just can't do it to them.

***

"Do you think the werewolves were a metaphor for AIDs?"

The story of Wizard AIDs or How It Was All Kreacher’s Fault.

Once upon a time, in a land where wizards gallivanted about and lived in invisible houses with grotesque creatures who, in their pillow-case garms (rep your creps, kids, rep your creps!) inspired no other name but Kreacher, there was a Moste Ancient and Noble House of Black. That is not racist, kids, it’s their surname. Don’t be racist. Ever.

The Regular Black Child had ‘one lonely, unprotected night’ with the household slave (aforementioned elf with a bedding fetish) which he was to regret forever. Little did he know that elves are the main carriers of Wizard Aids, a disease which only presents real symptoms in half-bloods – this is the real reason pureblood is the Dolce and Goblin-Armour of the wizarding world. Unknowingly, Regulus had contracted the disease in Kreacher’s kitchen cupboard bed.

The next day, just before lunch, Regulus was chopping beets in order to prepare a salad for his rather more serious brother. Sirius was a greedy little doglet, and decided nothing could beat some stolen beets so he made to grab for Regulus’ big, reddish fruit. Naturally, this took him by surprise, causing Regulus to slip and cut himself with the culinary light saber, and began to bleed profusely.

Sirius knew this was serious. A spurt of blood caught him in the face before he could dodge, and sure enough, the Wizard AIDs virus crept into his eye. After much arguing, it was decided that they should never speak again, especially when Kreacher began to tend to the wound in an overfriendly manner. Sirius took bestiality seriously – seriously. He later told his mother about his discovery, starting a lifelong fuel which eventually resulted in a very pissed off portrait.

Later, Sirius decided that Beastiality and School had nothing in common – the only thing he could take seriously was his feelings for a particular Penis Lupin. Even his name wreaked of manliness and enigmagnetism. One night, after a particularly steamy Halloween Orgy, things got steamy in the dorm room.

The result of this was that poor old Penis managed to catch Wizard AIDs and, being a half-blood, was forced to face the long-awaited consequences of that cold night back in Grimmauld Place many years before. (Kreacher was later to put it down to Stockholm Syndrome, when Dobby liberated him by burning his pillowcase and gifting him a bra.) From then on, Penis Lupin was a werewolf.

Gives a whole new perspective to Fenrear Gayback...

***

And I leave you with one final, harrowing thought.

Arthur Weasley – he just loves plugs.

'Snow joke.

I am not amused. Firstly, I missed the time when snow was actually happening, thanks to sleeping. Secondly, the amount of snow is frankly not up to par. We're talking a sprinkling. I could have done that with a sieve and icing sugar.

The pros of going to the mysterious NewcastleU are stacking up right now.

Der Hund ist harmlos! Die Wirtin liebst den Kuche...

are both examples of my increasing, but still mediocre German. But that is not why I am here, I am here to explain to you something of the banter I share with my padre, as it gives me immense amusement, always.

Let us take, for example, yesterday night at Parent's Evening. Even talking about that makes me feel stupidly young and foolish, 'Parent's Evening' is something children have and, though I have been free of the concept (forever!) for about 24 hours, I already feel liberated and mature. In any case, enjoy this conversation:

The following is a rough paraphrasing of what occurred, as my memory isn't spectacular. Waiting for an appointment with the spectacularly verbose presence of Mr Anderson stand two parentfolk and their singular spawn (let's call her Rachel to avoid her being confused with tadpoles):

Rachel: Hey, Dee, I like your jumper, how much was it?

Dee: Not a lot.

Rachel: I bet you were fleeced.

Dee: [sideways looking] Don't be sheepish.

Rachel: After this, can we go to a bar?

Dee: Don't take this further afield.

Rachel: Best to keep it out of farm's way. What's the time? [whips out the old pocket watch to check]

Dee: Now you're just winding me up.

Rachel: That was bad, I can't even face you.

Dee: Well, that's handy.

Rachel: Don't try and fob me off with that.

Dee: I think we ought to break this chain, now...

Mim: What..?

:) Great times.

Whats-more, it's due to snow some time in the near future - hurrah!

If you look at people's faces long enough, they start to look very strange. A bit like saying the same word over and over again, it eventually becomes a meaningless alienoid sound.

Top notch procrastination going on here. Absolutely top.

I am currently waiting for my provisional driving license to arrive and free me from the final shackles of childhood. I am like a tame dog whose cage someone has forgotten to open, only a little bit more inclined to run around barking loudly if I am let out.

Right... Ethics... Hmm...

The last few days have been, quite frankly, shit.
Medicating with ridiculous dubstep music, loudspeakers and salt & vinegar crisps. I am what they call "hardcore".

Also brazenly handing in an Ethics essay late. Rebel.

I'M A

REAL BOY

MATURE PERSON NOW.

What A Week (Part the Second) + The Brink of Adulthood

The brink of Adulthood is where I am speaking to you from right this very moment. It is the strange sensation of feeling both old and desperately young at the same time. This week I have built up my transition to being an adult proper through embracing the opportunities given to me, first, becoming a cub leader, and now taking up my new vocation at Delapré Abbey.

I had my first day at the latter today and needless to say, it was a little bit daunting. At the same time, it was, however, hilarious. Let me tell you why:

Imagine a crisp November morning. A young (but also almost old) lady arrives at an old (but also very new to her) ex-nunnery-cum-stables-cum-wartime-base-cum-tea-room. She sees the door is closed and that no signs are out and therefore assumes she is the first to be there. Commence knocking on door, stepping back, peering through windows ad nauseum. After making a lengthy dick (ooer) of herself, she tries the door and finds it is in fact open and everything is GOING ON inside.

Rachel: 0, World: 1

Later on, after a delightful tour of the building and an introduction to the other staff (further details below) she takes her first order, serves up some darned good looking carrot cake and, feeling superb, suddenly freezes with horror. She's put the bell-jar-lid on another and it is now stuck there as though someone has glued it. After much flailing and (slightly too) loud wrenching, she is forced to concede and request help. Rookie mistake.

Rachel: 0, World: 2

The staff consisted on this particular day (I am informed it fluctuates) of two mid-twenties chaps and two mid-early-forties ladies. The chaps are named Ben and Alex. Now, I know what you must be thinking. Oh God, Rachel, your track record with people named Alex is shocking, keep back! But it was not Alex who was the issue. Benjamin (as I would never call him to his face) is lovely, I'm sure, but also has the quite annoying habit of explaining anecdotes with sound effects, which seems to be a marked trait of Northamptonian chaps who try to chat me up. (This being what he did, in a rather suave and charming, but also, parce que les sound effects, slightly grating fashion). Now, I'm not used to getting chatted up to begin with - on a normal day, this simply does not occur, and as such, it was difficult to know how to respond in the appropriate fashion without looking a) like a dick or b) like I was particularly interested. However, the interest proves that, somewhere, I have some form of feminine charm. Hurrah!

Rachel: 1, World: 2

I also discovered that the tearoom bookshelf is a swap-shop-free-for-all, with optional donations. Score!

Rachel: 2, World: 3

However, I also showed the reason for my dropping maths like a hot-potato after GCSE by proving my inadequate addition-under-pressure skills. What's more, Ben turns out to be something of a mathematical genius. This meant that I had to refer to him for quick-fire addition. He also makes a damned good tea (and for some reason was dubbed by me, in a moment of clear insanity the King of Beverages).

Rachel: 2, World: 4

However, there were comments made about my ability to bring in customers (hopefully not simply my status as a "free and single" young child-soontobe-woman) and I mastered the inclusion of sugar (and dog biscuits!) to outside table orders.

Rachel: 3, World: 4

And finally, I was invited back, and am soon to bash through the glass ceiling of childhood into adulthood, whether my maths and demure-womanly skills are up to par or not!

Rachel: 4, World: 4

It's a draw. Can't take me out THAT easily, world. Bahahaa.

Er, yes, composure.

Anyhow, I am very much looking forward to a lovely dinner with the girls in town, which we will be descending upon in a few hours in various states of dress! I'm sure it will be smashing!

All for now, ttfn.

What A Week (Part 1)

So first Leeds turn around and hate on me, then Newcastle want me to answer questions and then Birmingham offer me a place. It's crazy! But really damned exciting.

Not so gutted about Leeds as they were a plain English course, and because the best thing about them, really, was their lecture hall architecture.

Biiiirmingham, Birmingham, how I love thee. But also, a bit freaked out that they've not taken Film Studies into consideration with my offer, so I have to get 3 As THIS year, or they aren't interested.

This offer is subject to you obtaining

GCE A level
Grade A in English Literature
and Grades AA in any 2 of
Art and Design -Fine Art
History
Religious Studies

Definitely doable, but definitely means I am likely to run around in hysterics with multiple nervous breakdowns in the limbo time between exams and results. Scheisse!

Bloody excited, though, because this means I have two viable places - a proper and a back-up. Thank sweet Mary Jesus and Joseph (and their donkey).

Also, first impression time being a Scout Leader Proper in the village troop tonight. A little bit anxious, but I'm sure it will be fine, providing I don't start swearing among the little kiddies. :D

I have decided to force a massive confidence boost from now through my 18th year on Earth, by forcing myself into situations I would usually crap myself at, and dealing with it.

That is all,

Tata,

Rachel

Remember, Remember...

What a brilliant weekend.

On Friday were the annual fireworks at the Compass. For a few months beforehand the pub had a big jar on the bar for donations towards the fund, and the amount people were giving was amazing - there were more than a few notes in there - so, naturally, the display itself was excellent. Anna came along, which made it the best kind of ridiculous as we showed the village how loudly we could 'ooh' and 'ahhh' at even the tiniest little sparkles.

It was raining the sort of spit that meant you couldn't tell how wet you were until you went somewhere dry, and we faced the dilemma of trying to look into the sky, but being pelted in the eyes with water, leaving us both looking as though we had been crying ourselves into next week. (Thus lending a whole new level of literalism to the Flight of the Conchords: "I'm not crying - it's just been raining on my face...")

Afterwards, and after only one drink each, we came home because the pub was all kinds of crowded (not all of them the good kinds...) and somehow managed to go from philosophical conversation to drugless drug-style raving with improvised moves based on daily activities. We also jammed to a rousing rendition of the Joseph Megamix. I'm not sure I have ever laughed so much in my life; I headbutted a wall.

From the evening THIS plus a great number of ridiculous Facebook messages, including the Subliminal Penis Inclusion (when one attempts to penis include the word penis for male genetalia within sentences as one penis talks, with the aim of confusing the penis hell out of whoever's listening, additionally fun when typing, to draw attention to the penis best places for it to be placed.)

My favourite quote of the evening has to be: "So can you do that, just talk to me and put a little dick in?" Thanks Anna, and yes, yes I can.

***

Very few things epitomise ridiculous so perfectly as yesterday morning. There are days when one wakes up, full of the headaches of oversleeping and with all the honest intentions of ploughing out many and numerous Nobel Prize-winning essays and annotations of art work, only to have the opportunity snatched away from you on the cusp of personal fulfillment. Yesterday - Oh deplorable bastardery! - was one of those days.

Having woken up and found that I was in something resembling the 'working mood', I was promptly encumbered by the need to do admin. Most of the day was stolen by Santander's phone line and WH Smith's Customer Enquiry Services. If I ever get put on hold again, memories of yesterday will flood back to me, and the assistant will find me, when I am put through, weeping into my phone book.

Not a single sentence was written that morning, and the rest of the day was given over to watching Coupling and getting ready for the evening...

***

The evening. There was a bonfire the size of my house, a house the size of twelve of my houses, and a cabin with its own bar, a projector and a bloody sauna. But let me explain...

I met this chap Paul at the pub and, not knowing that he was practically God on the residential scale, greeted him with cheer and publy chatter while I was there. It later transpired that he had invited us out to his own bonfire party, which was held at his house - a gargantuan PALACE at the edge of the village. From personal observation, this dear chap Paul was not exactly the sort you would peg down as having a house the size of Toulouse.

So, when we arrived, I spent a few moments attempting to get my head around the luxury of the somehow Upper-Middleclasses (Experience, Anna! Closer already!) and then bumped into a couple of people that we knew, and all was fine and gosh darned dandy. Now, I had told my parents expressly that last night was for socialising, and I expected to see them both talk to at least ONE stranger at some point. (I have installed myself as something of a Relationship Manager, as per IT Crowd, for my parentfolk, who are simply some of the least socially adventurous people I have ever met. Our house is a fort, so are their social preferences.)

So, there were many schnapps and satay things and general noms, but these all came after the excitement that was the bonfire. I haven't ever been to a bonfire where there was an actual Guy - I had passed these off as a slightly violent and human-sacrificial tradition that people these days could generally not be bothered with - but there was one, and he was magnificent. His death was like something out of the Wicker Man. If he wasn't already an unconscious pile of stuffed fabric through smoke inhalation, there are no worries that the fire didn't burn him to a cinder. Often when I talk about fire, I am simply getting a little bit excited about matches and the mutant candle I ruin play with in my bedroom, but this was something else entirely. The fireworks, too, were spectacular!

Later in the evening, somebody broke out the guitar hero and singstar. First off, I cannot begin to play guitar (or even the easy level of bass) without getting very frustrated and growling as the song progresses. I can, however, sing to an alright enough standard, so I tried as much as possible to stick to that. It was great fun - the best score, I think, being 99% of Evanescence's Bring Me To Life. Oh so reminiscent, that song. My Padre did a stonking rendition of Tokyo Girl by Deep Purple, and sabotaged my (third) attempt at King Crimson's 21st Century Schizoid Man - I literally rofl'd.

They also made me sing the Barbie part of Aqua's Barbie Girl at least five times. So many times.

We stumbled our way back, quite loudly, at half two, taking revenge for all the times people have unsubtly gone home from the The Compass outside my window.

It is now twenty-to-one, and I think my parents are STILL asleep.

"The Saddest Music I KNOW."

*with a sad music background (The SADDEST MUSIC SOMEONE KNOWS)* "I've just remembered that knitwear happened... and I can't wear knitwear because... AHM ALLERGIC TO NITS."

I've just remembered that in winter you get rough round the lips... like carpet.
You get CARPET LIIIIPS.

And I've just remembered... that when you cut your nails... it feels FUNNY.

Oh...oh God.

And also, a memory what has just struck me... is that steel gives you STATIC ELECTRICIYY SHOCKS and it makes you feel ,like... someone's poked you... with skewer on elbows. OH GOD. WHY THE ELBOWS. WHY THE MOTHERFOKIN ELBOWS...?!?!?!?!?!

and...also... your bladder...

IT'S GOT NO GOLD IN, YOUR BLADDER.

and that's the saddest thing of ALL.

Hurrah!

No news is good news. This statement is no longer applicable to any situation I can think of. In a war, no news could as easily mean your platoon have been taken hostage and their lines of communication cut as that they're fighting away happy as Larry. In a political election, no news simply means that people are shit at counting, or voting, or both.

When it comes to university offers, no news is simply galling and leads to nout but constant anguish and self-doubt. In this, as with all these, news, of any kind is handy.

Today, not only was the fact I got news good, but the news itself was good. Doubleplusgood. SOMEONE doesn't think I am a layabout fraud! Newcastle want me and so, regardless whether they are practically in the arctic, are completely beyond my experience (I haven't visited them) and are my back up offer, there's a lovely glimmer of rekindled self-worth in my life again. Hurrah (and also Huzzah!)

NOM. NOM. NOM. :D

Today was very exciting in that it was the first day I released some of my creative writing into the wild. That is, let anybody read it who wasn't directly involved in its genesis. This was an intimidating prospect as I have always had a horrid, underlying sense of doubt as to whether it was any good. When you write something for yourself, and know it inside out, it's very easy for your mind to fill in the gaps and turn something mediocre into an absolute Odyssey of emotion and depth and what-not.

So naturally when I asked my dad to read the first (very tiny) bit of it last night, it was with a great deal of apprehension, and apology. Since then, various people have read and commented on it, and I am feeling a smidge more confident.

Aside from that, however, it is as though an entire new vista of excitement has opened up in that now I am able to share these characters and things which have been very close to my heart, but locked away in the realm of unspoken things, with people. It gave me a definite rush, which possibly contributed to my excessive hyperactivity this afternoon after a lesson with Mr Anderson where we discussed the thing for an hour solid.

I cannot recall ever being so naturally excited about anything as I am my writing - it's strange because for ages I was so sure that I wanted to pursue art, and now I can barely bring myself to dash out coursework pieces. I just want to write and write and read and do a bit more writing... Also, when I don't write for a few days I get horrid pangs of needing to, which is bloody disastrous.

It's part addiction, part obsession and 100% exciting. :D

---------------

In other news, Mr Anderson has been hiding the fact he has been in possession of a copy of Burgess' 1985 for as long as I have known him! This makes me one third annoyed, as I have been searching ad frustra for a copy for as long as I can remember, one third delighted, as it means my search is over and one third as though my day could not get much better.

All thought of coursework deadlines? Kaput.

Drowning in Paper (The Maws of Doom)

Half term, though good as far as doing exciting things and resting goes, has left me in a bit of a pickle.

I have a 3 A1 board deadline in three days, which I have almost absolutely no work for, I have coursework preparation coming out of my ears, am in the middle of reading three books which I would like to get through before my birthday when a new year's reading-list starts and, of course, my creative writing portfolio, which is an extract of 25PP.

Aforementioned portfolio is turning into a project worthy of a capital letter. It is supposed to be a sixteen page Portfolio of creative writing, with a two page commentary, and it is meant to be not shit.

Presently, my Portfolio is THIRTY-TWO pages long, lacks any form of commentary, and is very, very rough. It needs the largest amount of slicing and chopping and rearranging known to man. These pages are size 10 font.

Typically, the time when I really ought to be focusing on art deadlines, I haven't a painting bone in my body and just want to hack away at the giant redwood that is my Portfolio. So, I am sitting on my bed with a page full of 'TO-DO' list, absurd, loose pages of continuous prose and a cup of cold tea.

Let the carnage begin - I'll see you on the other side, providing I don't die in a bloodied mass of paper cuts and misfired staples, or have my pen run out half-way. xxx

History is too much fun...

These are some quotes which still kill me, from a conversation I had with Nat while we were reading up on Nazi generals one evening. All concern real people, and real facts - though Johan and Dicky are characters of ours. x)

"Kluge frequently rode in an airplane to inspect the divisions under his command and sometimes relieved his boredom during the flights by hunting foxes from the air—a decidedly non-traditional method." – “Decidedly non-traditional. I can imagine Dicky doing that” – “Waving a Winchester around”

“JOHAN alternative states "Women in uniforms are to be shot, unless they take them off."

“WHAT is this like CENTER OF FAIL NAMES or wtf is going on here -- Cäsar von Hofacker”

"As a leader who lectured his soldiers about the honor of dying for the German Fatherland, he was nicknamed "Der Sterber" (literally, "The Die-er")"

“this must be a piss take seriously BOCK also has: “He quickly earned the nickname “Holy Fire of Küstrin””

“Hofacker was later forced to betray him, under Gestapo torture, forcing Rommel to take his own life.” – “THAT HOFACKER” -- “Goodbye desertfox plz - Kluge would not join, despite Hofacker's exhortations. (Kluge later committed suicide, believing that he had been implicated). He's like a walking suicide machine. Also - he tried to kill Hitler, failed, and Hitler killed himself.” – “everyone around him kills themselves

"He possesses the Lance of Longinus (or "Holy Lance”) Johan possessed a Lance of Longinus too”

"Funk was held at Spandau Prison along with other senior Nazis. "

"Hitler is a dancing dervish. He must be shot down." – “dancing <__<>

“Stop, Hammerstein.”

“Because of the attack, he was removed from office and was reduced to his permanent two-star rank of rear admiral.”

A Sticky Situation, A Victory and a Discovery

Madre was going to park the car somewhere that wasn't the drive. I had not been out of the house today, so I decided "Hey, I'm going to go on a minimal road trip!" Only problem? I'd just got out the bath, and was wandering about in my bath robe, slightly soggy.

So, I looked out of the gate - the coast was clear and so I pegged it to the car. It soon transpired that, for whatever reason, Milton Malsor is THE PLACE TO PARK tonight, and there were no good places on our road. So we drove around the block which was all well and good until we found a place just around the corner from the house.

Sod's Law is a bastard indeed. At some point between my getting into the car and us parking, a congregated MASS of Trick or Treaters and their parentfolk had gathered outside my house and were talking to the people across the road. So, naturally I hid behind the wall and hissed at my madre to remain equally out of sight. What does she do? Does she take up the opportunity of some impromptu espionage? Never fear! She marches out, brazen as anything and says hello to them, leaving me no choice but to make swiftly for the house. As decoys go, it was nothing less than disastrous.

I think I managed to pull off the bright-red-bath-robe ghost look quite well, all things considered.

Thank Moses for Halloween - the only night you can safely be a prat without facing life-long harassment from the neighbours.

***

In other news, my padre won the Mensa Scrabble Championships for the first time today! He has entered the tournament for the past few years and always came second, so I'm really proud, even if he did do it by playing words without knowing their definitions...

Well done, Daddio!

***

Also watched Walk The Line today and loved it a little too much - it seems that Joaquin is meant to be pronounced wah-keen, though that makes kein sense whatsoever - and it has caused me to download a fairly absurd amount of Johnny Cash music. :)

Who you gonna call?!

Last night was The Compass' annual Ghost Hunt and it was spectacular. Apart from serving 'Venom' and 'B-positive' (green and red beer respectively) at the bar, there were masses of decoration, including a witch's grotto in the outhouse and much dressing-up revelry! And despite being one of the last teams to register, and therefore having to wait an hour and a half before leaving, we all had a bloody good time, pun intended.

The prize for dressing up goes to Georgie, who dressed up as a devil-blood-and-talcum-vampire creature (see the dashing and utterly terrifying photograph below)...

We played a quite fail game of Uno, followed by a few very fun rounds of Articulate, with some very bizarre and hilarious answers and explanations emerging. (eg. "You eat it and it grows on trees..." "LEAVES!" "NUTS!" "BERRIES!" "CABBAGE!") After which, we returned to The Compass to begin the Ghost Hunting proper.

If you want an accurate image of the scene, think of a bunch of disastrously unsubtle, torch-wielding, fox-barking and slightly overenthusiastic female types wandering about down dark alleys and being jumped out at by randomers in ghostly garb. Apart from answering questions (which I think we managed quite well, considering) we also had to find various items on our travels, including a walnut, a bottle top, sweet wrappers etc. Excellent, as Anna and I had already compared the detritus in the bottom of our bags - pegs, lip gloss, pen lids - as essential ghost hunting equipment.

Afterwards we wandered back for drinks at the pub and to wait for the results. While we did not win - I think we won in terms of catching the ghosts before they caught us, and also a gold star for enthusiasm. :D It was at this point that my good chum Sunshine bought her first ROUND of adulthood which, as we know, is like being christened, just with more Southern Comfort and Cider than holy water.

Hurrah! :D

Y'reight there, duck?

It is amazing how you can drive a few miles up the road from your home and feel almost as though you are in a different country. Yesterday I went on a work outing with my padre to Stoke which, though not very far away, seemed almost to be the heart of the North.

One attribute of the North, as I know it, is the openness of the people - by this, I mean strangers - in talking to people they don't know. As I wandered about through Hanley town centre, pulling together a few birthday gifts for chums, I was accosted by an absurd number of people about various aspects of their lives. Trapped in a lift, a woman began talking to me about retirement, and her ex-husband, another woman entered herself into a chat with me about the sun, and various others made comments so vaguely that I couldn't be sure of whether they were talking to me, or simply keeping themselves company.

While I was taking on the Great Northern Populus, Vati was sitting in a deep, underground cavern of a room, bidding in an auction and buying most of the place. I came back to a delighted, sun-faced father grinning about how cheap he was getting things for, and having entirely forgotten the size of the car we had to fit everything into. I thought I had overspent in town, but he took the entire cake drawer by spending over two grand! However, he assured me he could sell everything for more money.

A very nice lady outbid us on a lot which included (among rather more valuable things) a wade china tea caddy and which, after a short discussion of my tea obsession, she decided to gift to me. :D

Needless to say, getting things into the car was like playing tetris with rather valuable and fragile boxes of china, but we managed, eventually.

After all this, we were on the verge of driving back when:

Dee: Hey, I thought we could go back through Buxton, and see the peaks!

Me: Hey, that's a great idea padre! Let's do it!

Dee: It's a bit dark, we probably won't see anything...

Me: Yeah, let's go! We can imagine the scenery!

Dee: We could do that at home, though.

Me: We wouldn't have the same altitude ambiance!

And so we took a many-hour detour through the winding hills of the Peak District, to Buxton which was on a whole new page of the map, with great music playing and hills occurring in the sunset. It was bloody marvellous!

When we came to Buxton, there was chaos on the roads and police people everywhere, which made it doubly exciting and adventurous, and we decided to pootle on down through Ashbourne, where we stopped at a pie shop. This shop was beautiful and tucked away down some steps in a little alcove of the town, and played host to a very cheerful Eastern European chap, who made a joke about charging us £27 for a double order of our nation's famous dish!

There was also a rather rotund chap who came in after us, all Northern-like, and ordered a double order of fish with a large chips and peas which I couldn't help but suspect were just for him. I could have fit inside him, easily, three times over - and I am not a stick-figure of a woman myself!

On the way home we discussed everything from how brilliant our Desert Island Disks combos were, to religion, politics and the state of the universe ("very large", we concluded). :D

Needless to say, us phoning from Ashbourne in the dead of night to say "Hey, we took an extremely scenic route, madre!" wasn't taken very well, but all in all a smashing day!

Hair is some advice...

This is a fable - that means you should learn from it - told from my experiences of this week. This is what occurred:

On Friday night, after a long and pretty dashed busy week, I was naturally very tired. I was also rather grimey. So, what did I decide to do? Naturally, I didn't want to soil my bed by taking to it before I was clean, so I dived in the bath. It was the perfect excuse to mess about with the cranberry bath bombs from the Quiz victory.

Now, it was all fine and dandy - they worked a treat, and I came out about 3/4 of an hour later practically sparkling (Twishite style) with cleanliness.

THIS, is where things went wrong. Dried myself in a rather hasty and half-asleep fashion, then fell into pajamas and bed. What I didn't take into account, however, was the state of my hair.

My hair is of the consistency that, if left to dry naturally without being thrown about on a pillow through restless sleep as it dries comes out in ringletty curly things, which is all fine and dandy. Indeed, quite recently it had been behaving itself very well indeed. Until now.

Having gone to bed with damp hair, I woke up looking very much like this:

I even had that expression the moment I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

Well, I know what you must be thinking - It's OKAY! You can slather it with serum and brush it into submission. You are gravely mistaken. The addition of a hairbrush turned it into more of an 80s big hair disaster.

I think we can all agree that this is only remotely dashing IN the 80s and not in the 201's when frizz is practically the devil.

No amount of serum, nor mousse, nor hairspray can tame my hiroshima-fuzz hair when it goes this way. Not even washing it again. I am a walking stick of candyfloss.

And this is why, kids, you should never let sleep take you while your hair is still on-the-dry. Avoid it at all costs!

"Cocker was involved in an incident in which he had to fight a bear."

I have had an increasing urge over the past few hours to share with you my love for this man, right here! This (as though anyone couldn't know!) is Jarvis Cocker, who is a long-term love of mine. Why, you ask? Well, to begin with, he has a voice which could melt polar icecaps - it is deep and resonant and lovely. He was also in a fabulous band called Pulp, which I love very much. You're most likely to know their song Common People, which is played tout le temps, tout les places!

Additionally, he appeared (and made worth enduring) the Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire film as Kirley Duke of the Weird Sisters, and is who I am listening to right now on his radio programme The Sunday Service on Radio 6. I would also like to point out that he is very lovely, and makes me laugh at his silly humour, and is also quite humble, compared to many radio presenting folk. Though he did do a little raunchy introduction to a song when my mother was in the room which, while I am not complaining, was slightly awkward considering.

Also, if I remember rightly, he is a master of crazy dance moves. :D Also, he wears very nineties glasses, and has done since long before David Perham decided to bastardise them.

My only critique is that he now has a beard, which he definitely needs to get rid of. Definitely, definitely.

Have some more pictures of Him:

Here he is back in the nineties with Pulp. :)

And here he decided to dye his eyebrows and beard blue. As y'do...

Finally, when he was touring *in the nineties* he walked into a bear. I'll let him tell you the story...

"I turned a corner and there he was, just staring at me. I knew right then what was going to happen, that it was just me and him, mano y bearo. So I grabbed a gazebo pole from the ground and managed to halt his beary advances by swiping at his face. When he took a few steps back I ran to the bus."

And there you have it. Jarvis is a bear-defeating, pop-singing, sexy-talking, rather amusing chap, who is (as they all seem to be) old enough to be my padre...

In which I say boo to a goose...

Last night I slept a ridiculous amount - 7:30 right through the night - and, as I could have expected, I woke up with a splitting headache. I also woke up early, which meant I managed to blitz most of my recorded telly and some tidying before ten, at which point I began to get a little bored.

So I proposed to mein vati that we all go on a little jaunt down to Delapre Abbey, as I recently sent off an application to volunteer in their delightful little tea room.

The place itself is lovely; sweeping fields, gorgeous wizened old trees and a lake which, unlike that near Six Fields, is as clear as molten glass.

We wandered around the grounds and gardens for the best part of the afternoon, wading through the autumn mud, and being boggled at the burnt-up fishing tent we found by the lakeside before heading over to check out the tea room (where I saw a sneaky Robert Harris book which I covetted but which was not a BookCrossing book, so I could not has). It was small, but cheerful, though they spelled fruit 'friut' on the sign, which we had a little giggle at.

After this, and deciding that our stomachs were much too empty to be sated by potatoes or soup, we meandered over to the Toby Carvery on the way home and had some rather scrummy roasts and cherry bakewells with custard.

Interestingly, got asked for ID on ordering some cider. Now, I was, and have been since I started ordering alcohol with meals in pubs, under the impression that, at 16, you are allowed a glass of cider or wine if under supervision and with a meal. This seems to have changed recently as people have been asking for ID here, there and everywhere when they hadn't been before. Ironic, really, as I am older now than I ever have been, and yet am being ID'd more and more. Boo! Roll on adulthood, I say, roll it on!

We are the stars' tennis balls...

Thursday saw the trip to see the Duchess of Malfi at the Royal with schulefolk. This involved a combination of new experiences, several of which I shall elaborate on, here:

The first of these was being driven by Jess. Jess being the sort of person who, now she has the ability to drive, wants to drive all the time, almost as though simply to prove she can, has been offering lifts left, right and centre over the past few months, but this was the first time I had taken her up on the offer. Luckily she was also picking Ellie up, so the hurdle of her finding her way to my house was easily jumped. Getting to the theatre itself, however, was another kettle of fish.

Now, not being a qualified driver myself, it is probably not my place to say, but I don't think I've ever been driven by someone so inclined to shouting while driving. Some drivers shout abuse from their windows, others tell their passengers to pipe down, some even shout at the radio as they drive, but Jess, Jess shouted at her car, or herself, or both. Though her driving itself was impeccable (this coming from a girl who thought she had broken the thing after stalling twice in as many minutes) the scenario itself was pretty amusing.

The second new occurrence, which made me feel (rightly) like one on the cusp of adulthood, was the opportunity of sidling up to the bar and asking, suave as you like, whether I could please order some drinks to be delivered at the interval. Sure, I didn't request champagne on ice, or a half-crate of cordon blanc, but it felt dashed professional getting a reciept and later coming out of a packed theatre to find my coke, ice and lemon-slice awaiting me. :D

The play itself was pretty darned good. Very religious, very symbolic and quite dramatic to boot! There were bits of Caravaggio painting here and there, and a little group of singers chucking madrigals left right and centre - my favourite of which was the counter-tenor (i.e. practically castrati man) who could sing higher than I've ever seen a man sing in my life. The chaps playing Bosola and Ferdinand were fairly dashing, and ridiculously tall, and the acting was superb, even if they did fluff the occasional like (*cough*Duchess*cough*)

Overall, though, beautiful - I have had Morro Lasso in my head ever since, and now have the really amusing image of Georgie dressed as the pope, as per her plan for my birthday shindig.

Universally Challenged...

This and the next few posts shall summarise the events of the past week.

On Wednesday was the Milton Malsor Quiz and Chips annual event shindig to raise money for the village scout troop. As none of my chums could come along, les parents and I decided to mosey down anyway and head our own team for what lolz it would bring. So we marched on down and settled ourselves at the table, at which point I noticed most of Clan Considine across the room at another table and said hello. :)

Now this whole business was something of an event as, prior to this, we had - all but for the weekly pootle down to The Compass - been mostly strangers to the social world of the Village, shut up in Fort Eames sans front doors and all. This was our (almost) first foray into this world and, without a team of people we knew beside us, it was all a little bit awkward at first. However, the chap who runs the historical society, John, came to join our team and, despite a few awkward moments, things went quite swimmingly.

The highlight, as far as straight questions went was that there was a question concerning a quote I had only read once, a few hours before; I got a bit excited over the coincidence. Also, the dingbats were ridiculous, but fun, although John was trying to work them out very literally, and so failed quite a bit, though we didn't have the heart to tell him.

So, when it came to chips, and they read out the half-way scores, things began to get heated! We were running joint-third with Chez Considine, partly because I had decided to completely forget anything Mr Lomax had ever told me about Native American tribes. D: The fish and chips were lovely (and well needed, after all this!) and we managed to win a couple of cranberry bath-bombs in the raffle. I have since used one, and found it wasn't as bad as the packaging would have us believe!

Many fraught and exciting questions later, it transpired that, far from sticking at third place, we had (somehow...God knows how...) managed to win the thing. :D I may have cheered a little too enthusiastically, and knocked over an almost-empty coke glass.

However, with victory comes great responsibility. We discovered after all the cheerful chocolate giving and things that we now have the job of preparing next years quiz questions. Should be interesting!

Afterwards, being by this time so used to the social situation that I was practically a village socialite, I approached Mike, the question-waller-cum-scout leader and asked if he needed any help organising and running the village cubs and scouts. To my delight, he said something about biting my hand off, and so my return to scouting is now in the works! Intensely excited about this, as I have missed doing it so much since leaving Luton and the slightly-pants Roade explorers. Hurrah, Hurrah!