Oh yeah, baby

My shiny, sparkly, spankingly new HP laptop arrived on Friday. We’ve had a brief adjustment period, an exhange of names, a 'getting to know you' period and now I’m ready to introduce my baby to the world. So are you ready? I mean really ready? Are you sure? Ok...Here goes…

The audience waits with bated breath, the atmosphere taut with expectation. Sumptuous red velvet curtains glide back to reveal the exquisite contours of my HP laptop. It is arranged decorously against an ebony background, spotlit to perfection, revealing its smooth lines in all their glory. The glossy screen is polished to a high lustre. The keyboard beckons invitingly. The snazzy red lights of the mouse wink seductively.

“This is not just any laptop. This is an HP Pavilion Laptop, a DV2054EA laptop.” The voice is languid, a come-hither whisper in your ear. “This is a laptop with the latest bells and whistles, with flashing blue lights and a carefully crafted shell…just. for. you.” The voice croons its magic, weaving its spell. The audience are held rapt, entangled in the seductive web, lured by the promise of a powerful Intel Duo Core processor and an array of bonus features. “This is a laptop fashioned from titanium, with white gold trimmings and jewel encrusted keys-”

Oh, all right, all right. I may be exaggerating, just a tad. But you gotta admit, it is a beauty (the picture doesn't really do it justice, unfortunately my baby just isn't photogenic). It's early days, but I'm definitely impressed- Bon Marché indeed!

My touch typing is not working. Firstly because I have been terribly naughty and FAILED to practice diligently every single day. Bad girl, OctoberPoppy! Secondly, when I do muster up the energy to do it properly (as opposed to a lacklustre effort) I can’t resist the temptation to cast sneaky looks at the keyboard, to see whether my hands are actually in the right position. (Hmm, is that really ’t’? or is it ’r’? *looks down* Oh wrong again, it’s ’r’). I should be big enough to not look at the keyboard and make mistakes, but I’m not. I’d rather be smug and be able to say I completed an exercise with 100% accuracy, even if I did cheat and look at the keys(!) Every time I load Mavis Beacon I stiffen my backbone and resolve to not look at the keyboard, but somehow, of their own accord, my eyes drift down for a brief look before snapping back to the screen in their rightful position. Thirdly, an admission even worse than my second confession, is that sometimes I am too lazy to be bothered with touchtyping and it’s easier to revert back to my old, dreadful (but trusty) method of typing with two fingers AND looking at the keyboard the entire time. This, obviously, will just not do! Somehow the days have fled by and it’s an entire two ok, three days since I last practiced. Damnit. I will, I WILL work up the motivation to become a fully fledged touch-typist!

Windermere

I had dreams of an "English Tea". Scones, slathered with decadent layers of clotted cream and strawberry jam. Piping hot tea served in a teapot with china cups. My dreams were not to be.

On arrival, the sky was an ominous iron grey, although chinks of light peeped through in places. We shrugged. "It's early, barely 10 0'clock", we dismissed. "Maybe it will brighten up later." This was optimistic, given the impossible, unpredictable nature of British weather. This was doubly optimistic given the fact that we were surrounded on all sides by hills, in the Lake District.

But it didn't rain. Not yet. Not while we were on the boat, which cruised at a leisurely pace over the serene waters of Lake Windermere. Not while we were firmly ensconced in our own compartment in a train being pulled by a genuine steam engine. Not while we pottered around the quaint, "chocolate box" shops bordering the winding roads. When, peckish, we were searching for a suitable teashop at which to plonk our weary backsides at, the first heavy drop escaped the sky's confines and splashed to a halt on the exposed skin of my lower arm. Drop. Drop. Drop-Drop. Drop-Drop-Drop-Drop. SPLUSH! The rain didn't just fall. It poured. Or better still , it gushed, as the clouds abandoned all sense of propriety and empied their bowels as the rain sheeted to the ground. So I sacrificed my dream of an English Tea and instead contented myself with the warm bottle of flat lemonade I'd been carting around the entire day and snaffled half of my Mum's Starbar.

My English Tea fantasy was, to put it gently, shot to pieces.

It's all very well wanting an "English" day out, with the quaint stone buildings, in a picturesque location. It's all very well to hanker after that so English Tea, replete with scones. However, one must make allowances for the fact that the typical English weather is not the azure skies of postcards, not the heady summer sun glinting through the trees, but is, nine times out of ten, rain.

Temprament + Fresher's Pack

Ha! Finally, finally, AOL/Blogger (I don't know which is responsible, but as a person intimately acquainted with the tempramental nature of AOL, I rather suspect the former) is behaving and letting me post images to my blogs. For the past few days the routine has been: paste my typing in. Click 'add image'. Enter URL. Click 'post'. Ping! The screen disappears and a prompt (and irritating) 'reconnecting' message pops up. In fact, my computer is being tempramental full stop. Although we bought it four years ago, at a time when Dell was actually good, lately it revs up like it's preparing for takeoff. Chesty splutters and chokes emerge from the fan, which is whizzing at a furious pace. The crashes/ screen freezing have become more and more numerous. The poor thing, after just minimal running (we’re talking 20 minutes here), runs a temperature and demands calpol, a cold face cloth and lashings of TLC (ie: repeatedly switching it on and off throughout the day to “give it a break”). Loading complex graphics dependent programmes is frankly beyond it's addled brain (something I’m feeling keenly, as I’ve had to sacrifice my computer games for several months now). If you think this bad, you don’t want to see it in summer. Summer + heat=…well, put it this way: our computer’s almost demise. Oh dear.

Like the title to this entry suggests, my life has been contrary to the extreme at the moment. The above is just one example. Recently, I have been learning touch typing with the help of that (not so) lurverly lady, Mavis Beacon. Except, now that I have finally reached the end of 'beginners', Ms Beacon has decided (very annoyingly),in the manner of Chris Tarrant, that 'no, we don't want to give you that!' So, with no further ado, Ms Beacon pulled a strop and froze. This wasn't just once, but a grand total of five times. Every time I reloaded the program, Ms Beacon would greet me with her friendly, very very American patter, we'd get to the lesson area and...she'd remember and pull a sulk. Indeed, Ms Beacon has been SO badly behaved that I've had no option but to start another screen-name to use. Now, that isn't the behaviour we'd expect from a fully grown woman, is it?

My Fresher's Pack for The University of Durham arrived today. For a brief time, I felt a rush of joy ("Yes! This is it! It's really happening!")...until I opened the large brown A4 envelope. My heart sank as a veritable wad of documents fell out at my feet. It sunk further when I realised just how much I've got to sort out. So many forms to fill in and send off! So many decisions to make in such a short space of time! Modules! Courses! Societies! JCR info! Accommodation! Argh! My mind feels like it's going into meltdown! It's death by paper! My solution was to quietly and calmly place it all back in the envelope. Avoidance may not be a worthwhile occupation in the long term...but in the short term it works. And that's all, to be frank, I care about.

If this is the adult world...it's no wonder binge drinking is a problem in England.

Miracle? Feel free to visit here please

This is distraction. Distraction from the tube of Pringles located within arms reach. Those Pringles have my name written on them. They're shouting to me, as Marlin and Dora to Bruce in Finding Nemo. They're calling to me, waving to me, blowing kisses at me. "Just. One. BITE!" They coo, triumphant in the knowledge that with just one thin, melt-on-the-tongue potato wafer, I will be sent hurtling over the edge and consume half ok, ok, the whole tube. My belly growls "hungry, hungry. feeeeeeeed me!" My eyes wander from the computer screen to the tube of potato crisps placed tantalisingly close. "No! No!" my mind argues. "You are NOT going to ruin your diet, OctoberPoppy! You went swimming this morning! Remember how good it felt to be able to wear that pair of trousers you haven't worn for years?" A smile lights my face. So I scoff half a peach, mentally thumbing my nose at the ridiculously salty and fat laden snack. "Stuff you, pringles! Look how good I am! I'm eating fruit! Yes! I CAN resist you!" I am proud of my (uncharacterisitic) restraint.

But the Pringles still call my name.

I don't even like Pringles.

I am obviously in bad blood sugar.

The Adele Puhn 5 day diet is nothing short of miraculous. My legs are the most toned they've been for years; my face less puffy; the bloating of my stomach after eating meals has disappeared. Your skin becomes clearer, purified of toxins and more radiant. There is a spring in my step. I have more energy- I feel less sluggish. My periods are less painful. My tastebuds have come alive- instead of mindlessly shovelling my meals down, I savour them now. My collar bones are defined. I feel so confident in the swimming changing rooms that I change in the municipal area. I am no longer ashamed of my body. I feel triumphant when people eye me oddly for eating carrots and celery on the bus instead of crisps and chocolate. I feel liberated.

But I have had my lapses. Junk food, although I see it for the poison it is, still calls my name. When I'm really hungry (which is a lot when I've been swimming), and it feels as though my stomach is eating through my backbone, my hands still snake out of their own accord for something sugary or fatty. The 5 day Miracle diet may be the best (dietary) thing I've ever done for my body, but it's a battle all the way. I may be resisting the Pringles right now, but this craving is a sign that my willpower will probably give out sometime in the near future and I'll be at diet rock bottom once more. My cravings just won't subside. And so I fall down the slippery slope into bad blood sugar more frequently than I would like to admit. I need more than a miracle to battle my lust for salty carbs.

Damn.

Guilty as charged

My favourite place to think is in the bathtub. So this morning, as I lounged in our unfashionable avocado green bath, my curves immersed in the rapidly cooling water, my thoughts drifted…

The court room was stifling. The early summer heat formed an oppressive blanket beneath which the inhabitants of the room sweltered uncomfortably. My nervous gaze flittered over the small dark room, the flick of my pulse beating a rapid tattoo at the base of my neck. The Jury filed in one by one. With every laden footstep that clacked on the dark herringbone floor, the tension in my spine notched up in increments. This was it, then.

I was sat in the witness box, utterly exposed. I could see everyone. And in turn, everyone could see me. They scrutinised me as you would a lowly bug beneath a magnifying glass. They scrutinised my worn face, grey with fatigue (I had spent the previous night tossing and turning in my cell. My welcoming, accommodating room mate had borne in mind the fact that my trial was due to take place the following day and had informed me that if I didn’t lie still, there would be no option but to strangle me mercilessly. No, actually, that’s an embellishment. Her actual words were: if you make any more goddamned creaks on that flipping matress…her voice trailing off suggestively at the end. I’d almost expected her to add I’ll grind your bones to make my bread). They scrutinised my outfit, once smart, now clingingly limply to my skin, salty from perspiration. They scrutinised my posture, the clasped hands, white knuckled, in my lap. Yes, I was utterly exposed.

Switching off from the administrative jargon being bandied around, I contemplated my fate. “Please, please, PLEASE don’t let them find me guilty,” I pleaded with God. “I’ll do anything. ANYTHING! I’ll be good…return my library books on time…do the washing up every night…I’ll even iron my own shirts and learn how to be more tidy! It’ll be an uphill struggle, but I’ll do anything, if only I’m found not guilty!” I toyed with a lock of hair as my personality and demeanor were discussed. “They always talk about me, through me, over me, never to me”, I thought, resentfully. “What is the point of me being here? Oh, of course, to listen to my own relatives do me in.” It had astounded me how quick my family, friends and even distant relatives had been to condemn me. “Oh, yeah. She always was an odd, introverted little thing. It doesn’t surprise me one bit that she’s turned out the way she has, no siree”, one bug eyed distant “relative” had testified, eager to cash in on the attention the trial had brought. “Yeah, thanks a lot,” I had inwardly simmered. “Well, there’s another one to scratch off my Christmas card list.”

I snapped abruptly out of my reverie as a commotion erupted in the court room. “Order! ORDER!” The judge, self importantly attired in white wig and black gown, banged her gavel. The defendant and prosecutor had thrown rules, civilised behaviour and legalese jargon out of the window and had settled for good old wrestling, their hands wrapped around one anothers’ necks. Chaos ensued. The jury watched avidly, the public taking sides and cheering on their particular faction. As the prosecutor flung himself at the defendant, the pair toppled onto the bench. The two intertwined forms slid across the polished wood, sending papers and stationery alike flying, landing with a resounding “thunk” on the floor on the other side. There was a stunned silence. Then, “I’m going to gouge out your eyes for that!” The defendant growled, launching himself with renewed vigour at the prosecutor. “You actually made me break a nail!!”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” The judge shrieked, whacking her gavel ina frenzy. “Right- THAT’S IT. You’ve driven me to this! DON’T MAKE ME PUT YOU ON THE NAUGHTY STEP!” The judge threatened, a la SuperNanny. The two stopped, their faces guilty turned upwards. “You-” she pointed to the defendant “- in that corner!” “You- in the other!” Glaring balefully at one another, the two obeyed, tidying their mussed hair and attempting to straighten their once pristine, now crumpled, suits as they did so. “Lawyers…” The judge muttered under her breath.

“Right. Jury- verdict please!” The doom laden words hung in a pregnant atmosphere. “Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty,” I prayed fervently. My palms sweaty with fear, I vainly tried to swallow past the lump congealed in my throat.

“Guilty.”

I was stunned; frozen; numb. “Then I hereby find you guilty of grievously spending too much time on the computer. You are sentenced to five years at a correctional institute for techno related crimes.” I was informed. “Do you have anything to add?” For a moment, I was speechless. Then the words tumbled out of my mouth in a flood. “Why? How can this be happening to me? I didn’t do anything! Sure, I went on the internet…played games…visited message boards, but-but- well, everyone does that!”

“You have no concept of the extent of your crimes!” The Judge reprimanded heavily. “You have prevented your own family from having full access to the computer! You have sacrificed homework for the lures of the blue screen! If you cannot show restraint, then we have no option but to restrain you!” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw two guards approaching. One on either side, they grabbed hold of my upper arms, while I, like a reticent toddler attempting to avoid the confines of their trolley, dug my heels in. “Noooo! No!” I cawed. “You can’t DO this!” As I twisted against the burly guards’ iron grip, the judge frowned at me disapprovingly. The public muttered among themselves “fancy that, she doesn’t even think she’s done anything worng…” But worse was the hostile stare of my family and friends. “You deprived us. While we wanted to research family history…watch Harry Potter…play our own games, you denied us, O’ wretched computer hogger!” With their eyes they accused me. And so, led to the maximum security prison van by the scruff of my neck, I was left to contemplate the dismal prospect of five years stretching before me, as if for all eternity, without the internet. How could it possibly get worse?

I’m sure that most people, sinking into their bathtubs, have fantasies of tanned hunky masseurs. Of love gods soaping them down. That they’re not actually floating in bathwater, but in their mind are outstretched in the Caribbean sea, the warm clear tide lapping at their tanned skin. Instead, I transported myself to the realms of courtrooms, “justice” and a scene akin to those broadcast on “Law and Order”. My mother never needed more proof that I am, indeed, a truly weird child.

Outcome to August 17th.

AAAA(a) (a)- English Lang, English Lit, History, French, Music, RE respectively.
Looks like I'm going to Durham...

Breaking News

Is hectic an adequate description? Exciting? Nerve racking? Certainly, this has been a day of firsts. This afternoon, as part of Sky Festival taking place in Manchester, I went to AMC cinema to watch a free movie- I chose Un long dimanche de fiançailles, for the reasons that watching a french film is beneficial to my studies and I liked Amélie (the two being directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet). It was very good and, having studied WWI literature for A level English Literature, it had significance for me. Anyway, I digress.

Basically, I was scurrying down Deansgate to catch the bus back home, when I noticed some rather bizarre looking clouds peeping over the tops of the buildings which lined the road. "Hmm", I thought. "That's a bit strange, seeing as the rest of the sky is light grey and these particular clouds are pitch black. Oh well, it must be going to rain. Thank God I've got my umbrella." No more attention was paid to the curious phenomenon of these soot black clouds. Until, sat on the bus, which sped down the road towards my destination, there was a sudden commotion among the passengers.

Now, I don't find the bus ride particularly engrossing, having travelled it pretty much every day for seven years going to school/college/JRNCM/HYC and so, as usual, I had my head stuck in a book. Therefore, I was not looking out of the window. When, however, I DID look up, I saw a monstrous plume of black smoke billowing into the air, over behind Peel Park...towards where our house is. What's happened? Where is it? Is it a torched car? Is it the university? Is it houses that have gone up? Has an arsonist targetted the local high school? We knew nothing. By this time, the bus was stuck in a jam, as policemen had decided to close certain roads. Bidding my neighbouring traveller, with whom I'd debated these questions, farewell, I jumped off the bus, deciding it would be quicker to walk home. My gaze avidly fixed on the source of this smoke which rose to fill practically the entire horizon, it seemed that it was coming from the foam factory, not from directly where my home is. Additionally, the direction of the wind was causing the smoke to blow in the opposite direction to the street where I live. Well, that was something. I was not the only one who was transfixed. People were out in their hundreds, mouths gawping, fingers busy at their mobile phones, taking pictures.

"Mum, Mum!" I called eagerly as she yanked open the door. "There's something going on at the factory!"
"I know- get inside! The electricity's gone off!" It was true. No lights. No television. Computer. Fridge. Microwave. This was serious. Outside, people chattered eagerly, seemingly unconcerned about breathing the acrid smoke fumes in. Piercing house alarms shrieked angrily at the cut in power, while children shouted whilst playing, taking full advantage of adults' distraction.
"Will we have no electricity for the rest of the evening?"
"I don't know. We'd better get some candles...I'd better put the meat from the fridge in the oven to cook- it'll be going off: it's half an hour since the electricity went off."
As it turned out, we didn't need the candles. The electricity supply reappeared.
"It's okay now", I remarked. "And look- the smoke isn't black any more...it's dying down."

It wasn't okay.

Three sharp (and authoratitive) raps sounded at the door.
"Ma'am, we must ask you to evacuate- as a precaution for an explosion", the burly policeman informed us.
"Evacuate??! Well, for how long? Where do we go? What do we need to take- will we be out all night?"
We were instructed to take warm clothing, something waterproof in case it rained and that we were all to be held at the end of the road. We obeyed. Outside, ambulances whizzed past. Reassuring. If we die in an explosion, at least they're there to cart us away (!) Several fire engines were crammed together down the neighboruing road, outside Vita Industrial Polymers Limited- the foam factory where the incident had occurred. Various roads were cordonned off with police tape, while officers strutted about in their black shiny boots and fluorescent jackets, self importantly. We waited 45 minutes. What was going on?
"We don't know anything at the minute, ma'am", they shrugged. We shivered in the cold, the biting wind penetrating our thin garments and nipping the skin beneath into goosepimples. People were getting impatient, some edging under the barrier and making their way back to their homes.

We watched as the police men bawled at women and children the wrong side of the plastic barrier, whilst allowing men on their bikes to ride down the road with no complaints. We watched as an elderly disabled woman was forced to leave her home. We watched as a local, who had tired of the hullaballoo and retired back to his home, was pulled out and frogmarched down the road. We watched as the flashing police cars, ambulances and fire engines dissipated and traffic was once more allowed down the road. We watched as the huddles of people evacuated from neighbouring streets thought 'enough was enough' and returned to their homes. We watched, unknowing whether it was safe to return, as the policemen all disappeared. When the rain began to pour, we decided we'd had enough too. We were held for over an hour, uninformed. Nobody told us what the danger levels were, where to go, what to do. Nobody made provision for the elderly people being chilled by the sharp wind, their faces grey with worry, fatigue and cold. It's nice to know that if a TRUE crisis happened, we have that reliable force who would protect us, keep us informed and make provision for us- keep our wellbeing in mind. It's bizarre though: how people kind of 'pull together' when something happens. Normally, you'd never dream of talking to complete strangers on the bus or unknown neighbours (well I wouldn't, anyway), but I did both today.

Today has been a thoroughly weird day. I'll blame it on it being the thirteenth.

Beginning to see the light

Ok. A week ago, we went to Haworth. My record was seven trains in one day. Scratch that: today was EIGHT trains in one day (eight!!) Oddly enough, an entire day spent on trains was one of the most enjoyable I’ve had in a long time.

Wales is beautiful in ways I’d never imagined. The sweep of the silver coast under an iron grey sky. The myriad sea washing over a pebbled shore, foaming around wooden breakers which protrude from the water like the stumps of a child’s first lower teeth. The patchwork quilt of landscape, from the rolling hills, dotted with sheep, to the barren mountainside, at the crests flowered with purple bloom. Our tiny train traversed the U shaped valleys, cosseted between sheer ravine, down which the pure water trickles then gallops over ridged rock in small, but beautiful waterfalls. We skirted the dried up river bed, scalloped from the force of the water. In the distance, Conway Castle loomed, a stone beacon in a landscape awash with raw beauty. The sky overhead was Payne’s Grey, but as we inched further in, it relented to show peeps of cornflower blue, the fierce beat of the sun illuminating a landscape wild and abundant in foliage. If I had to coin a phrase to describe the glint of the sun on the fronds of grass, on the dense thicket, I would choose ‘Sheer Emerald’ or 'Dream in Green'. The billowing steam train to Portmadog propelled us past hillsides piled high with slate from the mines. We saw that the sheer mountainside, so barren to a distant viewer, actually harbours a whole plethora of plant life. As we inched higher and higher, we swept beside the ancient trees which graced the hillside. We were eyelevel with the very tops which danced in the breeze. So this, I thought, is a bird’s perspective. Below us, the river’s silver-grey ribbon coiled and meandered along the valley floor, hemmed with toy town houses and tiny tarmac strips of road, along which cars crawled with the demeanor of beetles.

Wales has a primitive beauty. Wales is inspiring. I am inspired. Who needs to go abroad when amazing landscapes are but a short train’s journey away?






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My life over the last two years of college has been so full, what with doing 5 A levels and all of them weighty subjects, my music studies at the JRNCM and being part of the Hallé Youth Choir. Even last summer, I was constantly on the go: we visited Italy; we went to Scotland for a week; visited South France (Cannes; Nice; Villefrance) & Ajaccio, Corsica; there was the HYC Summer Residential Course at Stonyhurst and performing at the Royal Albert Hall as part of the BBC Proms (Elgar's The Dream of Gerontius). All this has been great- I've had unmissable experiences. But. It hasn't come without sacrifices- you can't have everything, right? That's what I realised today- I've missed it. I've missed spending time with my family. Last year, we didn't go out anywhere- how could I when I was studying/practicing music 7 days a week? So these outings now are doubly special. I'm seeing more of Britain, whilst bonding with my mum and brother. I'd forgotten what it is to relax: for two years I haven't stopped (except possibly for Christmas Day), due to self pressure and my (loathed) perfectionism. I hope that *if* I go to university, I can marry the two more: work intensely, but find time to relax and explore my own identity too. I feel in a way that during the course of these two years I haven't had time to sit back and reflect: I've been too occupied in keeping up with the mad carousel of my life. It was a lot to juggle and I've come close to snapping at times (particularly this year, which has been hard in numerous ways). I've got to try and seek better ways of dealing with it all *if* I pursue my studies further.
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“Light is the language of photography, the soul of the world. There is no light without shadow, just as there is no happiness without pain.” [Isabel Allende- Portrait in Sepia]

I am currently reading two books: ‘Portrait in Sepia’ (which is utterly, fabulously MARVELOUS- if you haven’t read it, you are DEPRIVED. Go out and buy it RIGHT NOW), and ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.

I confess: ‘Ulysses’ is lost on me. I have toiled through the grand total of seventy pages, by which time I would expect to have ‘eased into’ the author’s style. Apart from a few observant quotations which I like, I’m having difficulty keeping my mind on the page. I must admit, I’m not a huge fan of ‘Stream of Consciousness’- I had to read ‘To the Lighthouse’ twice before I began to appreciate its beauty. I don’t even know who the main characters in ‘Ulysses’ are and that, after seventy odd pages, is frankly not condonable. How it can be ‘one of the supreme masterpieces’ is, at the minute, lost on me. I am bewildered by Joyce’s ‘leap frog’ approach, his descent into made up gibberish and lack of conventional punctuation.
Am I missing something?

Anyway, to go about things in typical topsy-turvy fashion, the title of this journal is significant in many ways:
1) Photography. The frames above are my first ever attempts at landscape photography, borrowing my brother's camera. I didn't think they turned out too bad, especially as they were taken from a moving train- motion is, to be frank, a bugger, not only for focussing, but getting the right shot, as foliage, pylons and other obstructions hinder the 'perfect shot'.
2) Reading the quote (above) in ‘Portrait in Sepia’ I was struck by a flash of inspiration and I just had to share it somewhere. Coincidentally it deals with light (I guess fate is just handing me a theme today…)
3) The title is one of my favourite tracks from ‘The Velvet Underground’.
4) Today has been enlightening in a number of ways, most importantly that it was the first time in a decade I’ve been to Wales. Not only this, but I realised that people and friends will let you down, but family is the most important thing in the world. My family is the most important thing in my world.

Exiting the technological "dark age"

Ok. Let's get this straight. I am not particularly techno savvy. Way back in the dark shadowy depths of time, I once had a livejournal. Which, needless to say, died a sudden death. Frustrated by my ability to only master the most basic of templates and produce images consisting of tiny squares and red crosses, whilst my contemporaries changed their backgrounds every week and had image after image in their posts, I swiftly moved on. Whilst my friends have upgraded to digital cameras, I still use my battered old Olympus film camera- which came free with my mobile phone. My friends can all take pictures and video with their mobile phones. They even have colour screens! I, however, have not progressed beyond the familiar comforts of my old dinosaur, the Nokia 3310. Ipod? I just got a Discman (old hat) this christmas gone (and yes, I'm actually being serious!) Now, this is not to say that I'm being ungrateful- far from it. My functional 'technology' from the dark ages suits me just fine- after all, I am a girl who doesn't even know how hyperlink, to lock her own phone or touch type.

But maybe there is hope. Perhaps there's a glimmer of light at the end of my (long, pitchblack) tunnel of technological accomplishments.

Yesterday we upgraded to digital TV! Yes, we are now the proud-er-viewers of Film Four (which is what we bought it for). Furthermore, I actually set it up! Or rather, I helped to set it up. But that's not important- it's just semantics. In fact, I was feeling so proud of myself that today I went one step further: I actually used a digital camera! To be precise, it is my younger brother's digital camera, which I have not laid a single finger on in the entire year he's had it, for fear that I wipe the memory card or cause the (admittedly flimsy looking) lens to fall off. What if I pressed the wrong button or scratched the LCD screen? Just thinking of the (astronomical, I'm sure) bill if I damaged it was deterrent enough. But. I decided it was time. Armed with my new found technical prowess (yes, that might be just a bit of hyperbole), head held high, heart full of the certainty that yes, I can DO this, I decided it was time to vanquish (one of) my technical fears and face up to the possibilities of digital cameras. Finally, I don't have to woefully admit "sorry I don't have a picture, due my technical incompetence!" This is a big thing for me, you must understand.

As for the ipod nano I've been thinking of buying...well, let's not get too ambitious, shall we?

Paris + Jeeeemmy

Just under two weeks ago, I returned from a weekend break to Paris (for 4 days). Let's just say: it's official. I'm in love. In my mind, I'm already planning my second date with this impossibly beautiful and captivating city. Sounds cliché, but will this be a life-long obsession?

I certainly learnt a whole string of lessons in Paris:
1) That seats outside cafés and restaurants cost a lot more. I mean, a LOT more.
2) Carting a bag packed with fruit and cereal bars (just in case all we can find are escargots and cuisses de grenouille and "starve") is completely un-necessary. (In fact both Nanna and myself gorged ourselves stupid on creme brulee, croissants, profiteroles, tartes aux fraises and many other sweet treats).
3) To be careful when washing hair in a bathtub with no shower curtain- water will, mysteriously, run over the shiny tiled floor and thoroughly soak the carpet in the adjoining room.
4) When, on finding a cracked glass table top on arrival at the hotel room, it's best to report it straight away in order to avoid accusation that you did it.
5) Parisians (and especially serveurs) are not as bad as they are made out to be- if you at least attempt to communicate in French, that is. In fact, I think the French were more stand-offish in the south (Cannes/Nice).
6) I have learnt that I look younger than my years. On the Eurostar and at this restaurant in Paris we asked for wine and on both occasions the serveur only brought wine for Nanna and not for me- Nanna actually had to ask on my behalf (!)

Nanna, being a typical Brit, launched into several impromptu quests for tea, which habitually led to quite a few disasters. Never mind the fact that tea isn't exactly a French thing or Nanna can't speak a word of French (her idea of speaking a foreign language is to gesticulate wildly, speak English slower and louder and occasionally, when her tried and tested tactics fail, to resort to me, resident translator/ interpreter). Well anyway. Aside from the fact that it cost us 11E for one cup of tea and a can of Sprite in a café, close to Notre Dame/Rue de St Germain/The Latin Quarter, we stumbled across this café down a narrow road PACKED with restaurants. So this waiter, tall, dark and lusciously handsome (ok, ok, tall dark and average) greeted us. Cue our two vital questions:
1) Do you serve tea?
2) Avez vous une toilette?
This being, of course, because there are absolutely NO public toilets in Paris. Well, that's an embellishment, but there certainly aren't many. So anyway, after an excursion to the dodgy, possibly never cleaned toilet, we proceeded to have a cup of lemon tea, exorted for oh, a measly six (SIX!) E, while Jimmy (or should I say Jeeeeemmy) proceeded to engage in shameless flirting.

Anyway, here is a brief resumé of my visit:
Day 1
Went to London
Took Eurostar from Waterloo to Gare Du Nord
Went to Hotel
Explored Porte de St Cloud [where we stayed]

Day 2
Stopgap Tour of Paris
Trip to Versailles
Returned to hotel; went on Métro to Champs Elysées and Galeries Lafayette
Ate at 'Chez Michel'
Night tour of Paris

Day 3
Went to Montmatre (visited the Sacre Coeur + Place de Tertre)
Went on "Bateaux Mouches" along Seine
Took Métro (Charles de Gaulle Etoile to Royal)- the line that goes overground by the Tour Eiffel and has fab views.
Went to Latin Quarter; saw Notre Dame
Bought books d'occasion <>

Day 4
Explored local patisseries (must get our priorities right, you understand ;D )
Saw Georges Pompidou centre
Took Eurostar back to London
Train from LKC to Nanna's home.

Excursion to Haworth

I have set a new record today. 7 (yes, 7!!) trains in ONE day. We gallavanted up to Haworth in Yorkshire for the express purpose of puffing and panting up (an extremely) steep, cobbled hill to see the Brontë home. Now I don't know about you, but cobbles, steep hills and a pair of flimsy, not-particularly-designed- for-walking-even-down-the-block shoes from Zara aren't exactly a match made in heaven. Flippant remarks aside, it was very enlightening. Normally I'm not a museum person. I'm the type that conceals a yawn and makes a beeline for the nearest seat, while my more intelligent and cultured companions pore over the exhibits. I admit it freely- I am a philistine. These things normally pass me by, so the fact that I actually enjoyed the visit is something of a first. Having read 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Agnes Grey' and being in the middle of 'Jane Eyre', it was both interesting and valuable to get an insight into their life; their inspiration; how their works were influenced by their own surroundings. The first thing that struck me is how small everything is. The furniture; rooms; clothing...even the crockery seems thimble-like or 'child's tea set'-like in comparison to just an ordinary size coffee mug of today. Likewise, travelling along the Worth Valley preserved railway (where 'The Railway Children' was filmed) I was struck by this detail. The platforms and seats are all fashioned for people smaller in stature than ourselves.

My second observation is that Haworth really is so quaint and beautiful. Living in the midst of a large city, I forget that English countryside and small villages really do have this 'chocolate box', picturesque element to them. It was lovely for once to get away from the concrete jungle and glass and steel monoliths that dominate the Mancunian skyline, not to mention the respite from the hundreds of cars belching out fumes. I love living in a city for various reasons, but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate somewhere more traditionally 'English'. That was something I really noticed when we visited Aviemore in Scotland last summer: the air literally tastes different. You don't realise just how oppressive the atmosphere, muggy with pollution, is in cities until you actually get away.

New Starts + Le Rongeur

This is it. A new screenname; email account; blog. In short, a fresh start. I have finally got settled with this new name after two hours of glaring at my (admittedly rather grubby) monitor and, simultaneously, cursing. The cursing was largely at two things:

1) AOL (hurling insults at AOL is nothing new, I may add) and the 'screen name is already taken' messages that popped up incessantly at my every idea.
2) My lack of imagination in coming up with a screen name which is reasonably accessible, doesn’t have a string of numbers following it and personal to me.

I didn't fully appreciate just how strange this would be- to create an entirely new account. My favourites list comprises of one thing- stark emptiness. When I type a letter into the browser it doesn't instantly come up with the address, ie: i for imdb.com. I have nobody on my buddylist to IM. Hmm. My account feels quite...lonely. Ah well. That's why it's called a settling in period...right? I will soon have this SN absolutely chocka with the same old junk cluttering up my other accounts, I'm sure.

Which brings me er, not so smoothly, onto le rongeur. Rodent. We currently have visitors, and not in the conventional sense. It happened that a few weeks ago, I heard in the front room a curious scraping in the walls, rather like a small being filing its nails or gnawing on something hard and (I'm sure) tasty. I thought nothing of it- it was just the water in my ears from going swimming that morning. That is, until yesterday. I've been having one of those stressful times when every night I have terrible nightmares. The night before last I'd had a particularly frightening one (involving a meat loving KingKong and a university campus loaded with students- don't ask) (well, ok, it was frightening at the time) so I was reluctant to go to sleep. After tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, trying to settle, I thought better of it and joined my mum downstairs. It transpired that I was sat at the computer, reading l'Etranger and watching a film, when, shortly after 2 in the morning it made an appearance. It was just a flash of grey in my peripheral vision, so dismissing it as "bloody hell, that's a pretty big moth", I was just about to turn around and resume my activities when I saw it.

Two feet, a small ball of grey fur and a spiny tail were rapidly disappearing into the venting hole beneath the fire in the fire place.

Yes, we have a mouse. Or possibly mice. Of course, being a typical girl, I squealed at the sight of it. Mum merely giggled. I remember having a mouse living in the wall when I was small- I was around 6 I think, but until now we were free. I hope we're not infested with a nest of them. Oh well, it could be worse I suppose. It could be a rat.