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!

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. :)

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!

What A Week (Part 1)

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

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

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

This offer is subject to you obtaining

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

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

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

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

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

That is all,

Tata,

Rachel

Remember, Remember...

What a brilliant weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hurrah!

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

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

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

NOM. NOM. NOM. :D

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All thought of coursework deadlines? Kaput.

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!

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!

Getting back into writing so heavily is clearly having a detrimental effect on my work-ethic. But frankly, Mr Shankly, so long as I get the work done on time by SOME means, the writing is more important, and better for my soul.

There is something excellent about being so involved in a plot, knowing the characters reactions better than you know how you, yourself, would react in such a scenario, that the ideas just keep flowing. Nomnomnom.

That said, I do have a painfully expanding mound of artistic expectation piled at the end of my bed awaiting annotation...

I have also downloaded far too many musical soundtracks in the past 24 hours, it is slowly turning my masculine side gay, I am certain.

Joy Unbounded!

Assam tea is basically crack in liquid form. I swear, I am almost in pain with how hyper I am and how excellent everything in my life is right now. It's the weekend, I've just spent the evening writing a couple of really exciting 25PP passages, revisited another old character, Basil, who is one of my utmost favourites, and pranced about in my Lance Corporal jacket saluting various people in my house.

No pub tonight, because my dad's out badmintoning, but I am pretty darned cheerful all the same.

Tally ho! Let there be loud music, more tea and good, old-fashioned revelry! Aha!