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

The Frankly Inconceivable.

Again, blogging when I ought to be busy dashing out essays and whatever, but I have just had my world rocked by change and it's taking some coming to terms with.

My dad has just pointed out to me the horrible (and hereunto ignored-by-me) truth that, while I may be excited by the prospect of university, it's heralding a rather traumatic change within the family at large. The discussion came down to - wait for it, and try to avoid cringing! - the dreaded C word.

Christmas. Now, in order for you to appreciate the problem, let me briefly explain the Eames Christmas Scenario as it has stood until this day:

The first mention of the C word (usually at around this time each year) has always been an event so unthinkable and undesirable because of the contention it aroused. There has been a long-standing tradition that we (mutti, vati and myself) spend Christmas alternately with each of the sides of the family. One year, down south with the Eames branch, the next, up North with Clan Draper-Halliday. This has always brought me great distress as, while I love the cosy tradition and formality of the Eames Christmas with a passion, my relationships with the Northern side of the family have always been fraught. Therefore, Christmas up North is one of the least bearable experiences of the year (I am not one for sitting about, shouting at one another with the TV blaring in the background on the birthday of Big J) - made palateable only by the prospect of its sandwiching on either side by Eames joy!

Now, with my mother being as ill as she has been, last Christmas was something of a no brainer: we stayed down South. Southern Christmasses are synonymous with a fairly large and lovely gathering, intense riddle and clue-guessing over presents and a sumptuously well cooked silver-adorned dinner.

This idyllic Christmas tradition, I have recently been told, is at risk of dying out, never to return. With both of my cousins splitting Christmasses among themselves and their long-term partners, and with us hopping from place to place each year, too, the list of regular guests is dwindling considerably. I cannot quite explain the lump of horror in my throat when my Dad explained that this year (if we were to follow tradition and descend upon Liverpool) there would be only my aunt, my uncle and my granny.

It seemed disastrous, catastrophic, and as though someone had snuffed out the candle of my childhood. Moreso when he suggested that, with such a small gathering, it might be seen more apt to go out for a meal, rather than having my aunt pursue her culinary magic! Not only would the tradition of a family christmas be stifled for the Eames family, but also the tradition of a proper, home-roasted Christmas dinner would be (possibly eternally) damned into non-existence.

I wept at the prospect.

As such, I have (naturally) formulated the most logical, fair and infallible proposition of our staying here this Christmas. One, frankly horrendous tradition sacrificed for the sustenance of another, much more affable one. If I have to stay here alone (and though I've said this before, this time I mean it) I shall.

So yes; while university is the sort of change which broadens one's horizons, it is important not to allow it to become the cut off point for family. Christmas is the one day in which childhood should endure as long as possible, and the day that feeling of excitement peters out, is one I'd rather not live to see.