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