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. :)

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

Domestic(ated) Goddess (+ Revel-ution)

I come to you fresh from doing housework (I know, I know, take a moment to get your head around this rarest and most inconceivable of concepts!) My bathroom, which had been growing increasingly grimy and shit, is now shimmering and sparkling like the porcelain palace it ought to be! Shelves now organised into nice, sensible compartments, toothpaste HQ free of congealed scum and dust evicted left-right-and-centre!

The only thing stopping the Queen taking up direct residence is the massive hole in the ceiling from the last time I tried to do something to make anywhere outside of my bedroom slightly organised. The bath remains a drop-trap for unwitting mice and spiders, but at least now they will be descending into somewhere more pleasant than the loft from whence they come!

Contrary to the impression I've already seared into this blog, scrubbing toilets has not been the most exciting part of my weekend so far. Last night was the fabulous birthday curry bash for my good chums Anna and Sunshine which involved (far too) much Indian food, peach schnapps with pineapple juice and good, old fashioned fun.

(In absolutely every photo I think I have ever been in, I look quite deranged, so I'll just try to justify this with the fact I'd just eaten something indistinguishable from vomit, am absolutely terrible at applying makeup, and lack sufficient melanin to give my eyes a camera-friendly colour... Also, that is Anna, who has eye-makeup skills which verge on godly and who despite having dashing blonde hair is queen of melanin. She is also capable of posing without looking like she is planning to kill the camera with fire...)

Highlight moments of the evening:

Ebony: Oh, but she's such a suck ass.

Georgie: (taking this quite, quite literally) ...SHE SUCKS ASS?

Anna and Emily's stirring rendition of a Flight of the Conchords Megamix (which quickly descended into 'Everything Comes Down To Poo') - actually, there was something of a turd theme. Georgie's chocolate "Vagina" pudding looked somewhat like a plop itself, and regardless what the conversation was, it always turned around to bottoms.

(Aforementioned pud - blame Anna and Emily's collective dirty mind.)

The Scary pervy men, and the banter with the waiting staff, who seemed to think that "Sterling, mate!" meant "Give me a glass, too, mate!" and who ate ALL the puddings.

My Korma was particularly grey and vomit-esque (especially with the addition of egg-fried rice) in all but flavour, the naan breads were gargantuan, and I think all of us came away feeling that we'd had enough curry to last at least four decades (possibly five).

Then, of course, going back to Sunny's mum's man's house (which he BUILT himself, something that STILL blows every braincell I have) and laughing at the ridiculousness that is 'Deep Blue' or something.

"We gave the sharks huge brains...we didn't expect them to GET SMART." "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LET ME LOVE YOU."

And also the horrible yellow-dressed badger woman who only WISHED she could sing, as well as beautiful bacon rolls (what do you get if you push a pig down a hill? &c.) for breakfast in the morning. Excellente!

So, in conclusion, you might say that cleaning the bog was actually the LEAST interesting event of the weekend so far, but you know what they say about leaving the best till last, and letting the poo float to the top. (I told you, EVERYthing comes down to poo.)

To quote Miss Sunshine, "Absolutely Sterling!" :D