It's been a long time!

Hello blog, sorry you have been so sorely neglected. Things have been going on which I may or may not outline at some point. Until then, I'm afraid I have come down the The Scots Flu from my trip to Edinburgh. I am lain up in bed and incapable of doing very much. So, naturally, I wrote a poem about my plight. (I was wondering what people who were sick did before Tumblr, and decided this must be why Ye Olden Days poetry is so prolific.)

Fog in my brain.

I cannot think

Because there is fog in my brain.

I’ve tried a drink

But it comes right back again.

Whenever I blink

It does nought but inflame,

The sense I could sink

Into the fog in my brain. 

Look out Carol Ann Duffy. 

REASONS I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED A HOLIDAY: Part the First

Hello blogosphere! I've not even thought about blogging for ages, but now exams are over and done with, I have plenty of time to ramble at the world at large about my going's on. As such, I present the first in (probably a worryingly long) series of blogs dedicated to things I waste my holiday time on.

Today (and the inspiration for this series) I have spent an inordinately long time performing open surgery on my laptop. This means dismantling it, fiddling about with the motherboard, poking things and attempting to burrow my way towards the fan which is so clogged up with dust and grime and whatnot that it keep making the computer blackout and reboot when I am trying to waste my time in less educational pastimes like killing undead beasts on guildwars.


In the past hour I have learned why magnetic screwdrivers are the tools of the gods, that fighting a chainsaw and fending off a BBQ doesn't necessarily lead to exciting discoveries and also why I should never be let alone in a house where such things are within arm's reach.

The problem now is that I feel like a legitimate computer technician and wish to become one of those people, who pimps their laptop and upgrades their harddrive and gaming chips. Somebody help me?

Went to the doctors. Now on drugs that I have distressingly discovered are one part of the cocktail my mother has to have every day. Hopefully they will do something to help sort me out. I feel a bit sick. Spent most of the appointment marvelling what a lovely, intelligent sounding person my doctor is. He got into the profession that suits him perfectly. It takes a very avuncular chap to explain suicidal side-effects in an acceptable way. Bluntness is not in his vocabulary.

Exams in two weeks and judging by my vague attempts at revision philosophy and ethics is going to be a royal, royal disaster. I have no interest in it any more. Not religious language, at least. Need to build up some motivation to do revision and not writing, but reviewing things I already vaguely know is exceptionally dull, when I could be producing and thinking about new things.

Big, long, illuminating conversation at the pub the other night. Very odd.

Not sure where I stand on very much. Trying my best to avoid caring. Tschuss!

Never put two depressed people alone into a house. 

It's is a furnace of despair. 

Dreamtiiimes

I had a dream that was something along the lines of Wuthering Heights with pirates. There was also a bad-mouthing lobster, a child hiding under a shelf in a grocery shop to avoid being eaten and a badly behaved donkey.

Excellent.

Things I have learned about humanity.

Humanity makes my head hurt.

1. Money is the root of everything, evil or otherwise.
2. Apathy is rife in society; people prefer not to think or do anything.
3. Humanity is happy to shout things they don't understand, so long as they can do it loudly, in a group, or to music (or, indeed. all three).
4. The value of aspiration is entirely subject to luck.
5. Older only means wiser in terms of awareness (or, in some cases, acceptance and self-deception).

Most of these are heavily influenced by historical and societal progression, though I doubt things have ever been all too different.

Needless to say, I am not entirely chuffed with the world today. Not least because people in Canada have cured cancer, but because it's not profitable nobody cares. Or because God being everlasting does not imply that time has an end. Or because people can get away with lying plainly to people's faces, manipulating them with every word. Or because time is short and nobody cares. Or because sponteneity is dead.

That is all.

It's all so hateful, isn't it.

Saw Water For Elephants. It was excellent. Mainly because of this man...

He's amazing. Don't try to deny it because if you do you will be betraying the virtue of Honesty and Aristotle will not be a happy bunny. Just look at him. Then look at his acting skills. Then look at his dapper outfits. Christoph Waltz. Learn the name and weep because you're not sufficiently badass to be him.

Also, RPattz shitting himself when a lion tried to eat him; and also looking ridiculously drunk most of the time. JS.

Beautiful plot, too, but then book adaptations tend to have that going for them more than general films.

Not seen it yet? GO.

Also Ellie needs a mention for nearly destroying her Dad's car with her masterful parking skills, and also for taking me on a lovely picnic in an industrial park. We spotted the wild Sainsbury's trucks breaking free, spreading their wings and leaving the depot. We also entertained the people in the McDonald's drive through with some poker-straight parking. It was beautiful. :)

Stressed.

I am stressed.
Why are you stressed, Rachel? You might very validly ask.
I am stressed because a) I've had three weeks of holidays and then within two days of being back seem to have run myself into the ground, although I ought to be able to deal.

b) I feel like a fail, because I am a disorganised leader in a disorganised cub group, who don't tell me where they need me to be except in vague notes, and who aren't there when I turn up (late, although I arrived the first time this evening at the hall early... but had to rearrange my plans).

c) Every time I think I have a handle on something, some serious shit goes down.

d) At which point my father takes it upon himself to point out how shit I am at organisation, how I should be working and how I don't really have any right to not be able to deal.

e) I haven't got the balls (or the physical stamina and motivation) to walk over to the town hall and have a face-to-face discussion with Mike about wanting to drop scouts and just do cubs, even though I know doing both is too much for me, and I am knackered. I am going to take the cowards way out and write him an upstanding formal British e-mail relaying my reasons.

f) I wish hibernation was a human deal, and not just for chubby animals.

e) My bedroom is a festering pile of shit. As is every piece of technology I own. I cannot afford anything new at all.

ARGH.

Some people were married today...

and it was absolutely lovely and adorable.

This is proof.

I know a lot of people don't (which I personally think is ridiculous) like the Royal family at all, but I love them. I'm the sort of person who feels the need to stand to attention when the National Anthem comes on and knows more than just the first verse. They're an important part of what little culture we still have in this country, so I make no apologies for being pretty traditional about this.

However, a key thought (beyond enjoying the service generally, actually) was this:

I love days like this though, generally. :3 It's pretty rare that anything genuinely happy and nice goes on, so let's make the most of it.

Also, karaoke tonight - Milton Girls' Choir reunited? 8)

Quite possibly am the only person who celebrates having no more exams by hoovering.
Am feeling like the skirting boards need a wash too.

Also, thanks to the bastard boiler men, half of my wall is coming apart. Bastards. Weren't even wearing boiler suits. That's just unprofessional.

The emptiness of revision.

It is not working.
I have tried, I have failed, and now my head is little more than a sieve with holes just big enough for anything useful to slip through into the land of the infuriatingly forgotten.
Philosophy and Ethics is impossible. There are too many names. There are too many topics. There is too little clarity and distinction between them.

I have tried explaining aloud, reading, making charts, making posters, typing things up, typing things at Alison in MSN, but none of it is going through.

Anyone have any ideas how to make names and ideas stick coherently, or do I need to get down to B&Q for some superglue?

An episode...

Looking for a phone charger.

[Russian Accents]
Me: Is NOKIA?
Dee: Look somewhere else then?
Me: NO, IS NOKIA?
Dee: It's not here?
Me: NOKIA. [waves nokia charger]
Dee: IS HERE!
[dissolve into lolz]

Banter.

BERTIE BOO: AN ODE.

Mainly posting this here so it is not lost among the comments, but also because Bertie doesn't get the appreciation she deserves.

BERTIE BOO: AN ODE.

O! BERTIE, WITH YOUR FUR SO SOFT,
WITH COBWEBS. YOUR FEET, WITH PAWS,
SO PRIM AND TIDY THAT YOUR LACK OF TAIL,
DOES NOT LOOK CONSPICUOUS.

O! BERTIE, SITTING IN A BOX,
WITH EYES O' FAUN RIMM'D WITH DUSK,
SUCH THAT MODELS TURN DEEPEST EMERALD PURE,
WITH MOST CARDINAL OF SIN.

O! BERTIE, BEWEBBÉD, AND JEW'LL'D,
FINE SPECIMEN OF FELINE,
EVEN BASTET WOULD BLUSH AT THE SIGHT OF YOUR
GODLY FORM. BERTIE CONSIDINE.

Personal Goal: Drink less wine.

KEIN WINE IS FINE.

Secret Passages.

One of the benefits of living in a 17th Century cottage is the surprises that come with the territory. Whether that be falling through the ceiling, realising that though your walls are 3 feet thick, they aren't insulated or, today, something altogether more Enid Blyton-worthy.

We've had a new boiler put in and in the process discovered a NEW ROOM! Or rather, a new area of the house which is like something from a Famous Five novel. What we assumed was only an airing cupboard is actually large enough to be a walk-in wardrobe and has an extra level built into it as though it was part of a tree-house. Hopefully we're going to get a proper floor put into it at some point, as its potential as a cubbyhole/den is exceptional!

Built from the wine up...

This week has been absurd. In a bad way. The bad sort of absurd which makes you want to ram your face into a wall untill it bleeds.

First off, I was pretty darned ill. By this I mean I was forced to take more than one day out of sixth form because I could not think straight or breathe. The middle day was spent trying to navigate my drugged up and unsightly way around Birmingham city and university alone, getting quite flustered but being too proud to show it. Things I saw on that little adventure:

• Razor points in the train toilets. Bloody ridiculous: anyone attempting some facial topiary on a train is asking for trouble and is lucky to leave with their nose still attached.
• A full grown man reading Eclipse ashamedly on the train. He was not remotely young. He was on Eclipse which sickeningly means he'd endured the first two books (and probably in an equally public manner) - shocking.
• Smiling at dashing sandwich dispensory staff gets you a sandwich - at standard price.
• Nobody at Birmingham knows where the English department is; apart from myself, and I found it as a fluke.

The morning was (as I attempted to text my dad) 'a hotbed of disaster', until I orientated myself, was given a cup of tea for free, and drowned my sorrows with a bit of shopping (new coloured pencils - score!)

The afternoon was lovely however, with a spicy-spicy mexican burrito and an outline of a gorgeous and enticing looking course. Also having somehow found time to chat to the Head of Admissions and encouraged him to reconsider the A-Level I already have, which he'd overlooked. Score Two!

Came home and went straight from the station to another station: the Fire Station. Learned about weapons of torture hitherto undescribable. Anything that fires iron filings and water so fast they can cut through a man is something to be avoided I say. Came home, crashed out, wept a little, dragged myself into the next day.

Was ill until I decided I couldn't afford to miss today so went into school to find myself faced with a number of prospects:

• Interview at Warwick which I still have yet to have any real feelings either dreadful or delighted about. Later discovered today was the deadline for the coursework and faced the pressure by churning out a commentary in two hours, sending Mr Anderson a mildly freaked out e-mail entitled 'PAINFULLY URGENT' and posting the bloody thing.
• Art that is 'unmarkable' because frankly there's not enough of it.
• The need to summon up some form of title and inspiration for History Coursework.
• Chasing the world about changing the date of my exams because of aforementioned interview which, for some reason involved talking to no less than 5 people about it.
• Nobody seeming to know anything about an essay we were most definitely set.
• Latin certificate - yay!

This evening was a delerious haze of writing frantically, arranging, posting and drinking a nice amount of wine. Decisory factor here: wine makes my life.  ALSO, acquired Radiohead's new album and was grateful to be able to zone out to it after sending off the portfolio from hell. Every cloud, eh?

As to the situation now, I am sitting slightly drunk in full-body bunnyrabbit pajamas, lazing about and listening to Radiohead. Awesome.

The moment you find out you have to write a commentary for Warwick in 2 hours...

Ye Olde V Day.

I find Valentine's day eminently amusing. Not only is it a commercial reason for people to avoid romance the rest of the year round (because how else would such a day remain special?) but it also allows me to amuse myself with various Scrooge-esque activities. An example of this is sitting listening to music very loudly and being entertained by the number of songs which fit today perfectly. For example, Eros' Entropic Tundra by Of Montreal which I have just spammed my dash with. :)

It also gives me something to complain about - being British this is an essential ingredient of my life blood, along with tea, rubbish public transport and emotional repression etc - which is excellent. For example, the fact my padre marched into my room this morning with brazen cheerfulness and announced "I am taking your mother out for a curry later. Have fun on your own." or that, as I was given 3 roses by my chum Esther, a girl gasping at the sight of them and going "She's got three roses!" as though the extra pound spent on three instead of one meant I was quietly cheating the system.

I love what a big deal people make of today, but for all the wrong reasons. I have never been a romantic person, and so taking a holiday like this ironically is probably more fun than any other approach I could take. This view culminated in a Soppy Romantic Tale of Sop which I wrote for Ellie. It was one of those stories which is so sticky and sickly that you might wish to vomit just looking at the title (soppy is not repeated for no reason!) and told the tale of how Ellie got together with Mr Collins from Pride & Prejudice as they wept over Lady Catherine's jugs. There were rose petals, hair touching, tears, gasping and lots of pretentious imagery. Or at least, there was until it was cut off in its prime by the end of lesson bell. Gutting.

So with that, I shall leave you and return to my soon-to-be-free house, where I shall be happily tucking into chocolate, television and a romantic dinner for one, cooked by my own fair hand.

To approach the end of this blog in the style of my friend Anna: what are your views on this corruption of the martyrdom of a Christian chap? How have you spent your day? Tell, tell!

And I shall leave you with some nice, fitting tunes for you to enjoy ironically. :)

This evening...

has been quite honestly one of the most hilarious of my life thus-far. Death by choking on laughter nearly occurred. That is how amused I was. I am giggling at the mere memory of it.  Anna came over for a delayed Pub Therapy Sans Pub, and we had a great time being silly. Here are some quotes to illustrate:

"Milo is the son of Gelamen's sex-mayor."
*
"I am in shock, look I have a boner - I MEAN BLANKET."
*
"Ezra's voice gives me weird hand cramp..."
*
"Saving your Boo."
"If I was ghetto, I would say get off my woman."
"But we're not ghetto, we're fucking ETON."
*
"WHY WON'T IT LOAD?"
"OHHHH GOOOOOOD, I'M AAAAAAAAAAGING."
*
"Roland! You bastard! Stop putting your cock in that socket, my friend. You are in some serious trouble."

That is not half of it.

The Weekend (and all it entails).

Sooo, it's the weekend. Everyone's favourite piece of time outside of the week. A veritable haven between the exhaustion of Friday and the feet-dragging toil that is Monday morning. This weekend, I have been productive, but not in the way I ought.
Apart from experimenting with new hairstyles vis-a-Val Denton and Diana from The Years between, I have been a busy, busy thing:

This morning I had an interview with the District Commissioner and various official people about being a Scout Leader which was possibly one final check that I wasn't a paedophile. It went well, and I got a free bacon roll and cup of tea out of it. Not bad for Saturday morning.

Also went to gather materials and shiny new pens from Hobbycraft which, other than being a rip off, is the magical place where all stationary and craft materials go once they've sold out to The Man. Needed a sketchbook, and fast, so there was no real choice.

Then found out through that wonderful gossip machine, Facebook, that there was a Jumble Sale on in Blissworth. Being a sufferer of Boot Sale withdrawal, myself, I was up in arms about going. So we went, and I swear I have bought a poor-man's wardrobe in clothes, along with some books, a DVD, a bowl, some free tupperware from a woman who insisted that being a student equates to needing charity aaaand a pipe which makes me feel like Sherlock Holmes. Also some pressies for my Padre, whose birthday is on Wednesday. :)  ALL of this, I add, for under £3. Mind. Blown. Milo would definitely be proud.


Thanks, Worley.

So, as far as other plans go. Tonight is set to be an excellent Stay-In-Day-Late-Pub Therapy session, with added amusement and DVDs and Annas. Which makes me unreasonably excited, but I think I'm still riding the high of feeling like an utter thief for paying only 10/20p a piece for clothes. I love living in a village.

That is all for now, darlings, over and out, a bien tot!

Milo Minderbinder, in all his odd-eyed, money-spinning, ginger glory!

Leisurely re-read of Catch-22. Milo's just appeared for the first time. I love this book more than the words used to write it. Unf.

Also, The Years Between by Daphne De Maurier this evening at the Royal: I am rarely impressed by actresses, but the darling playing Diana was quite, quite spectacular. As was the ever ebulient Ernest, and the vertically priveledged Richard. Gorgeous.

For those who know, I have found a probable solution to what has become known as The Elf Dilemma. Thank Moses.

Everything I have to say this picture says for me.

Civilised conversation.

This evening the parentfolk and I went to see The King's Speech (which was excellent, as we knew it would be) and afterwards went for a chinese. Over a feast, some malibu and coke and beer and cider we had some quite interesting turns of conversation, I can tell you.

One classic example took place between courses, when I had found a pen and was explaining the layout of NBs, with diagrams. Afterwards, I did some doodling of Rolly, which included the BEST sketch of him, on a napkin, I have done so far. HP, being an insensitive fool threw out a few insults about him, and this conversation happened. Let me just take a moment to remind you we were in a rather packed restaurant and talking quite loudly.

HP: His nose looks like a penis.
ME: Oi, don't say that. [speech about how noses are an excellent and important part of the anatomy] IDK what sort of penis you have, but -
HP: Well, you know...half of you came through it.
ME: ...wtf...why...what...who would SAY THAT?! [flailnej]
MADRE: What's that?
HP: Rachel's just insulting my penis.
MADRE: ._. Don't SHOUT.

:) Cheerful, cheerful times.

THE SEXeter.

Guess who just offered me a place? Without an interview or having to travel 300 more miles? Exeter, that's who! Exeter whose library is gloriously devoid of Austen's juvenilia, and which has a glorious hill-view of the city and one of the most prisonlike and amusing halls I have ever visited! Exeter who are beautiful. Exeter who are coasterly and have many tempting looking charity shops and a Sainsbury's with a café that doesn't sell food.

I am excite. :)

Haggis, to rhyme with 'tongue'

I went to my chum Esther's Community Haus this evening, and we had haggis. It was one of the most amusing meals of my life, from failing to serve sensible portions of 'tatties, to innumerating the possible, mostly fictional, ingredients of haggis to Esther who didn't know anything about them.

Good times, good times. Happy belated Burns Night. :)

Just saw someone write 'atlast' instead of 'alas' ... little sick in my throat.

A few formal complaints.

Evolution - what the fuck are period pains about? Seriously? If I wanted to feel as though I was having blades twisted through my spine, I would go to war with Troy. I fail to see the biological purpose of this. Do eggs go off? If so: why? Surely that is a fucking waste? What's more, I don't see the need for a tiny, less-than-a-milimetre failure of a zygote to be such an attention seeking bitch when it's making it's exit. Face it, egg, you failed in your purpose, but don't take it out on me. Maybe it is as padre says - periods are an incentive to pregnancy. This entails more pain and also life-stopping baby influx; I think not. [collapses in a corner]
--------------------------------------------------------------
God - Eve screwed up, get over it already. She nommed a bit of fruit. I would have stuck to grapes and chicken legs and things. It seems really unfair that a grudge you held for a woman who wound up forced to do her own sons or let the species die should still be on your mind now. You don't automatically give people called Noah free wood, or Egyptians weekly plagues. Omnibenevolent? Really? Also, thought you'd had a change of heart when you became a dad? Turn the other cheek? Please, God, if you've any logic or anything, you'll see this torture's utterly unnecessary. I didn't even swear here, just for you. Please sort it. [collapses in opposite corner]

CRESSTION MARK?

I have just spent the past hour herding small children in creative gardening. One might expect that Scouts would be able to grasp the shapely application of seeds to a bit of soggy cloth - no cigar!

My design, The Cresstion Mark? represents my confusion during cubs, an hour before in which these gems of conversation occurred:

Arguing with 7 to 11 year olds about whether Latin a) exists and b) is a language.

"It's the language of dead things!"

and also a stunner while making flags:

"I'm going to do Fail-land!"

"That's Thailand, dear."

Revelation~

In the past week or so, physics has repeatedly blown my mind. It's been like a massive, sudden destiny-driven speight of learning facilitated by a combination of a gift, a purchase, a brainwave and a moment's coincidental scanning of the Sky TV listings.

At risk of going on about how 2011 is a year of change in my life, not simply because of inevitabilities such as Uni, but also because of my determination to approach things from a Zen perspective, this year has already given me so much more reason for positivity than last year.

My good chum Anna (who I mention a lot, and who is possibly my lone reader) and I had a (mildly pissed) discussion about how, at this age, things start making sense, and I can say from experience of the past month or so, that this truly is the case.

Time (the relativity of which I have recently got my head around) makes more sense - I am becoming more organised. Writing and language (which my wrestle with my portfolio has increasingly unveiled) is logical and sensible and not at all as complicated as I have, until recently, tried to make it. And all the weird and wonderful mysteries of the universe are much more exciting, as though my brain has been in an eight-year car-wash and now emerged sparkling, fresh and raring to go.

The past month (though it is not the end of the month, so I oughtn't to be summarising) has seen me forcing improved public confidence, exploring new philosophical ideas, meeting new people, embracing adultular responsibilities and somehow coming to terms with the fact that, actually, maths isn't as bad as all that. I have, however, had little success in doing mornings (but let's not run before we can walk, eh?)

I have a mug which explains, in the words of Oscar Wilde: 'Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.' This is entirely true - but does not count if breakfast is taken after 11am.

I have just had a phonecall from my Granny and, despite knowing she wasn't actually calling to talk to me, we had a good chat about how exciting the world is, and how yes, I can borrow her books about atomic theory. Just when I thought it was impossible to be more of a nerd, it's snuck up on me like a hungry bear.

And you cannot understand how hard it was not to allude to Shakespeare there; such urges prove my point.

In any case, life is an exciting ball of quarks, gluons and bits of invisible fluff, and long may it remain so!

The Cress Dilemma

I am dying; quite literally dying. I have not laughed so much in such a long time.
I just received an e-mail which said, and I quote:

Graham’s doing navigation, I’m doing sharpening tools and we’ve got growing cress for you. The idea is to sow cress seeds onto paper plates through a cut-out paper mask – in a shape.

It tickled me so much. Firstly because the other chaps are doing something vaguely constructive while I have been delegated the position of Head Gardener, but also because of the way it's worded all imperatively, and the way 'in a shape' is tacked on the end like an added challenge.

As Nat says: "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to grow cress. IN A SHAPE."

I am up for the challenge, I accept the mission, and if I do not return, please make my funeral wreath out of cress (in a shape).

If God was food...

it would be bacon.

"BORED."

LEMONY SNICKET

...is my dad, I'm not even joking.

No, my dad is called Joe. Joseph, to be precise. You see, I'm Anna, making a guest appearance on Rachel's blog. You can see some of my fine appearances in the world here, here and also here.

Enjoy.

No, there is a point to this. The point of this post is to say that Rachel just handed me a photo of a naked woman and I was totally okay with it and that is as good a metaphor for the fine kind of friendship we share than any I can think of.

Love und kisses.
Anna. You can find me here too.

What if the universe is alive?

SAW...in more ways than one.

It has struck me how much we trust people in doctorly professions.

I have just come back from one of the most physically traumatic experiences of my life: a contact-lens consultation. In the past hour I allowed a complete stranger to assault my eyes with shards of glass which felt like being stabbed in the face. I even allowed him to do this repeatedly, even after it hurt the first time. I also allowed him to dab my eyes with yellow stuff, that was probably iodine, but could just as easily have been bottled piss.

It's a very strange social convention, allowing perfect strangers to do things like this under the assumption that they have training sufficient to do it. You don't walk into a doctors and demand to see their certificates; you don't go demanding credentials from a man in an optician's outfit, no matter how like a Saw movie the scenario winds up. It's completely unnatural, surely, to allow a stranger to do things to you that you wouldn't so much as let your parents think about doing.

And yet we do it every day.
Freaky.

Il pleure dans mon coeur

Comme il pleut sur la ville.

Quelle est cette langeur

Qui pénetre mon coeur?

Il pleure sans raison

Dans le coeur qui s'ecoeure

Quoi! nulle trahison?

Ce deuil est sans raison.

Londres, Mon Amour.

Went to London with the Padre yesterday; it was one of the best days I can remember. Bobbling along roads, sharing decent tunes, being harassed by Chinese Food Saleswomen at Camden Lock, winding up in a Cyber-age sex shop...


But let me explain. We were planning to go to the Tate Modern to see the Gauguin exhibition before it closes (which is next week, I believe), but the first time we could get in was 19:00. What better excuse could there be to make a day of it?

If you don't know Gauguin, he's a French post-impressionist artist from the late 19th Century and here is one of my favourites of his...

Now, we originally planned to hit The Globe and have a bit of a Shakespeare sesh, but inevitably the pull of Camden's beautiful markets got the better of us and what was meant to be a brief rummage turned into a Journey-To-The-Centre-Of-The-Earth Style foray into the bowels of the Locks and different markets around there. My favourite of these had to be the Horse Tunnel Market which was like something from Lord of the Rings crossed with Dickens. Here I found a rather dashing RAF rain-jacket and shamelessly broke my jacket embargo, and the Padre showed off his masterful haggling skills.



I also bought another hat (don't look like that, this one is spectacular!) I have wanted a cloche for ages, and I found the perfect one, so am vaaaaairy chuffed. HP bought some badminton shorts, too!

There were lots of stalls with people very eager to give us free food, and after a spot of mulled wine we were very grateful until they tried to force us to buy a whole pot of peppered chicken right after we'd had lunch. Not being hungry is, apparently, not an excuse. Our excuse earned us some abuse (rhyme intended).

Eventually it got dark, and as we wandered hither and thither (which Fry's English Delight tells me is the oldest cliché and was coined in 702) the atmosphere bloomed. Pretty lights, shadows and neon signs everywhere. There was also one of the most amazing and mind blowing shops in the world, which had a queue to get in and out called CyberDog; this was basically a giant, imposing, music-pumping cyber-fashion shop.

At first it looks (and sounds) like a club - but at 5pm this wasn't really likely. You go in and there are robotic bodies lining the walls and some shelves offering things like Astronaut Food and Stuffed Toy Microbes (Black Death was my favourite, but not worth £15). There are also people dancing like robots on balconies.


Then you descend into the abyss down an escalator into the main shop which is awash with neon and science-fiction inspired awesomeness, including bags made of floppy-disks, skin-tight clothes and cyborg shutter shades. People are also paid to walk around in various cyber gear looking like they are androids.


Naturally, we were having a great time, and ambled around, down some more steps, only to be confronted with BONDAGE TAPE! and a pole dancer and various electronic sexy things. Did NOT see that coming. Quite amusing though. Haha! (And thus, an anecdote was born.)


After this, we pottered about for a bit before deciding we ought to get a wiggle on and didn't want any more pepper chicken (until our later SFC on the way home) and we needed to traverse London to the good old Tate (or rather the good Modern Tate...) So we hopped back on the tube to Waterloo.

At this point (it being night and all) my sense of direction let us down and we went for a mile or so in the wrong direction down the Thames! We did, however, get some spectacular touristly views (see above.) This meant that, at 5 to 7 we had to make a mad dash of it to get to the gallery. Then commenced a conversation about Ai Wei Wei's Sunflower Seeds :


Me: Look over there - we discussed those at school.


Dee: It just looks like grit.


Me: Hey, it's conceptual. *ramble about society*


Dee: -also, the artists name is I wee-wee. Hehehe.


Me: *sigh*




The Gauguin exhibition was pretty good. I wasn't much of a fan of the work of his I had seen before, but it has always been Herr Padre's favourite, so it couldn't be missed. However, I found a lot of the stuff there useful and interesting, especially the sketchoodles which he would no doubt have abhorred anybody but himself seeing. Poor chap, died of syphillis.




Slightly let down that they had moved Bacon's Tryptich for the Base of a Crucifixion (above, one of my all-time Tate Modern faves) as that was one I was really looking forward to seeing again. They did, however, have a few others there instead, including the tryptich he did for his lover chap who committed suicide. Properly sad and emotive and excellent, his work is. And also proof that my taste in art is really morbid compared to Padre's enjoyment of quaint French villagers and rolling hills and Tahitian lounging women...



Finally, the bastards closed the gift shop before I could spend the remainder of my worldly cash. Being told no by an aristocratic sounding woman not good for your cultural street cred (especially when she is in 6-inch stillettos to your flat-heeled Dr Martens). Left brusquely in a bristling bustle of cloche, swishy coat and frilly brolly.



Being ostentatiously cultural this way is a real drain to one's alcohol reserves - and after this, what could possibly be more cultural than a visit to an excellent pub? Nothing, I hear you cry, with joy and apprehension as to whether we did or didn't manage this at about 11pm in Waterloo. (We did.)
We went to THIS charming little alery, The Hole In The Wall. The story goes that when my father and his school chums used to go on trips to London in Sixth Form, their teachers brought them to this very watering hole for a post-play pint; naturally, it was an unavoidable pilgrimmage. Situated as it is in a hole in the wall under a railway bridge, the bar was barrel-shaped, wood pannelled and rumbled occasionally with the noise of trains going over. They also served TEA BEER. Beer brewed with tea. It was gorgeous. Here is some modelled by a paternal relation of mine.

Overall the trip was astronomically good in all manner of ways, despite us arriving home at about 2am (dirty stop-outs) and my having to be up at an unearthly hour of the morning for a First Aid course. Jolly gosh darned spiffing and dashed good, it was!

Coincidences...

Freaky, freaky things are afoot. Anyone who follows me on Facebook will know that I got a bit excited about Thomas Ruggles Pynchon the other day after he was mentioned to me. Because I've wanted to start to get back into online writing bits, this evening I started up a bio for a Head of Science chappy called Roland James Pynchon (because the name was too good to not use) which is fine and dandy.

Following this, however, I was rummaging through shuffle and got absolutely freaked out when THIS song came on:



The lyrics of which include:
'Poor professor Pynchon had only good intentions when he
Put all his bunsen burners away'

Serious business, and also freaky as I could have sworn I'd never heard the name before Don mentioned it in English the other day. Freaky Deaky!
(Incidentally, Andrew Bird is a winner, and you should listen to him. (Y))

Don't judge a box by it's card-board.

Padre bought a box of books in the Woburn Auction (the auction is made up of boxes of odds and ends) for just £5. In this box, we have two copies of Mein Kampf. One of them is an original German edition from 1938. A similar one of these sold on e-bay for about £150. The other is an English edition from the following year (e-bay reckons about £50!) The rest of the books are an array of very interesting Nazi Germany related books including one by Goerring. And they're all pretty good condition, too.

My mind is blown. Am going to offer to pay Padre for the box of books (he wouldn't have bought it if I wasn't interested in such things), or steal the MK's away to fund my increasingly expensive life.

The weird, weird scenario of Hitler directly contributing to my education fees may be on the horizon.

Mind. Blown.

Grabbing adulthood by the horns.

Today, thus far, has been one of my newly established 'admin days'. This, I believe, is a very important part of adult behaviour which I have never really had to face much before.

In the past few weeks, I have had e-mails coming out of my ears demanding my presence here, here and here. My dad also bought an unprecedented amount of tickets to shows and functions and things for Christmas presents, so already my calendar is overflowing.

Anyone who knows me will probably know this is very odd - I tend to be the one with little going on, who can say very quickly off-hand whether she's free one day or another. No more, apparently.

So I have spent a while organising my calendar, sorting it out with a diary, and filling in forms and e-mailing people about things. It's freaky, and I've had to put on a tweed blazer just to put me in the right mind-set.

I have also, as part of The Month of No Procrastination (i.e. January) FINALLY sent off my Driving License application, with the right money, with the right photos, documents and various approvals of people who, worryingly, consider me mature enough to drive. To drive, maybe - to fill in a simple form, throw it in an envelope with some cash and sufficient proof of my existence, not so much. Haha.

But the pressure of having to ask for lifts to absolutely every one of my sudden callings took its toll, and I have finally bitten the bullet.

Look out, kids. In about two weeks time, I cannot guarantee your safety on Her Majesty's roads. (The queen owns the roads, surely? Or is it the government? A debate for another, less busy day.)

Tata for now!

Getting back into doing my portfolio. Forgot how much I love and miss writing Basil. Baw.

HAPPY NEW YEAR CHASPS.

HAPPY NUDE YEAR.

merry 2011 from Deeeeeeeeeeeeee