High and Low Notes

It so happens that this afternoon I was rummaging around in the depths of my room looking for my walkman (I swear, my room is a black hole- you lose something in there and A) you either aint ever gonna see it again or B) it will magically resurface, cobweb strung and dust caked, five years later). True to form, I didn’t find the walkman. I found something better- *wait for it…* *drum roll* my golden box of tape cassettes!! Seeing as I might be auditioning for Durham Chamber Choir and The Choral Society, those tape cassettes will come in mighty handy. For these aren’t just any old tape cassettes. Oh no, these are lovingly recorded singing lesson tapes, drizzled with essential singing technique tips and complete with succulent morsels of informa- oh stop it OctoberPoppy, enough of the sexy-M&S-advert-voice-over-imitation-already! (Why the Americans have a thing for saying ‘enough of ____ already’ , I do not know. Americans are obviously bizarre. I mean, they say tomaytoe; sneaker; v-I-tamin; rowte for route- what’s going on with that?? Gah *tosses mane*, like, honestly!! Any non-Brits reading this won’t have a clue as to what the M&S thing refers to-trust me dearies, you haven’t missed much at all. No, the sensual croonings of the sexy lady being drilled into your ears over the past, er, decade practically, aren’t anything special. Nor is the prancing and pouting of an over-the-hill Twiggy [if she insults overweight people, then she should jolly well be able to take it back. Not that I’m overweight…just sticking up for the principle, you know] a particular treat either). Anyway, I digress.

Did I mention I’m a singer?

Well yes, I am. Or rather was. For five years I trained at the Junior School at the RNCM, although I’d say only for the past year have I really begun to grasp the true principles and concept of singing. I am also a pianist. Those cassettes I chanced upon are funny things. While listening to brief snippets of them in trying to isolate the ones where I am working on Pamina’s Aria from The Magic Flute (if I were organised I would have them neatly filed and categorised. In my head I aspire to this, in reality I am not), a host of memories came flooding back. And with them, sadness.

It was a choice I made- Durham and academia or the fickle world of Classical music and Opera. At 18 I was, AM, not ready for the latter. I don’t have the life experience or maturity in years to deal with the turbulent roller coaster that is singing. It’s rewarding, invigorating, but uncertain and a perilous minefield of depression, unemployment and eroded confidence. I wanted to go and explore other things and then return to my singing on graduation, at 22, with renewed vigour, knowing it is really what I want. So I put OctoberPoppy, the soprano, back in her box and me, the singer, is in semi-retirement for my years at Durham. But a part of me regrets. I wonder whether I have made the right decision; whether I will lose all the technique my teacher and I have worked so hard to establish. I have done virtually no practice of either piano or voice this summer because it is too painful for me to come to terms with the key part of my life which I have lost and by avoiding it, I Haven’t had to deal with this sacrifice; the sacrifice I knew I had to make. It is so scary for me that the musical me is on hiatus. It’s still a surprise to me when I do warm up from time to time and find that yes! It IS still there; my voice; my support; the technique; the whistle register and I haven’t lost it after all. I feel confident that I made the right choice for me and that the avenue to Music Conservatoires and that dog-eat-dog competitiveness of that world is one I don’t want to be walking right now. Still, a part of me wonders where I would be going if I’d chosen that other route, if I’d chosen to strike out and navigate the formidable rocky terrain instead of the well-trodden highway.

Am I being dramatic? Probably. I tell myself that I’m only worried about my future as a singer because it’s all linked in with my fear of going to Durham tomorrow. I tell myself that when I get settled down, into a routine, my musical inspiration will return. I tell myself that if I get into a good choir I won’t lose my musical ear and I’ll be able to slip back into my musical journey after graduation. Right now though, I can only tell myself these things…and hope that this path turns out okay.

Despair

Bag + mountain of stuff= desperate cry of "Will I ever be ready"?




In one word:

Doubtful.

Tags: University Panic Packing Durham University

Christmas has come early

This is September. I am still in flip flops. I wore a light skirt today. The air is balmy. I have not yet retired my summer wardrobe. I am not even at university. It hasn't even been Halloween yet.

So tell me, please, why on earth are there boxes of mince pies and christmas cakes creeping onto the shelves of Tesco?

It gets worse.

Sauntering past the huge display window of Paperchase, my hands laden with carrier bags, I glanced idly in the window. I looked away, searching to see if a bus was about to come, when I paused. Looked back. Is that-? Could that really be-? Yes, dammit, it IS! Christmas trees in flipping SEPTEMBER! The lady selling the Big Issue eyed me oddly as a look of irritation crossed my face and my fists clenched. The artfully placed christmas trees gazed back at me, innocuous. These weren't your everyday christmas trees either. Fluorescent pink? Shocking white? I don't care whether they're featured in The Times Magazine again this year. I don't care whether everyone who's anyone gushes over them and recommends them as a 'must have'. I don't care whether I'm conservative; traditionalist; dowdy; old-fashioned. There is nothing cool or desirable about a plastic, neon yellow tree. As for the cheap looking soot black models- well. Who on earth would want a black christmas tree? Some unfortunate soul who is celebrating a funeral at the same time? A wannabe Morticia Addams who's taken their obsession a bit too far? I can just see it now: some corporate fat cat rubbing their hands in glee, before narrowing their eyes: "next year we'll roll them out even earlier".

Here are the words I never thought I'd ever, EVER say in my idealistic youth: I hate Christmas. The commercial gimmicks; the ploys; the endless wandering around shops wondering what to buy people and then plumping for either the mundane and impersonal (chocolates; socks), or frittering your hard earned cash on something which seems at the time like a good idea, but turns out to be utterly unusable, which you know, just know will A) lurk at the back of their wardrobe until the end of time or B) be 'recycled' as some other unwitting soul's 'gift'. And Christmas Day? Well, that's always a let down. Someone always seems to pop round uninvited and hence the roast potatoes are overdone and the gravy goes lumpy (I sense a "just stir it Uma!" moment coming on) or there's absolutely nothing on on the telly. It's true- the telly can make or break a Christmas...and usually it's a disappointment. I'm sorry executives at the BBC, (I'm sure your hefty bonus will sweeten the pill) re-runs and repeats really don't make for good Christmas viewing. Unless you're a fan, that is, of the soaps that offer the somewhat festive and endearing tidings of explosions at Albert Square, kidnappings, shootings, wailing females' mascara running as they sob hysterically, assorted limbs being gorily blown off and yes, the piece de resistance: a well-loved character, looking pale and shocky, croaking what they vainly hope is a heartwrenching 'goodbye' from the intensive care ward (but is normally a "look! Doesn't- my- wooden- expression- and- perfectly- made- up- face- despite- the- fact- I'm- supposed- to- have- been- in- a- car- crash- perfectly- convey- my- pain??" ). Ah yes, if that's your thing then you certainly have many happy, reassuring, heart-warming soaps to gorge on, inbetween the obligatory crammed handfuls of Quality Street.

So, yeah. I'll warn you now. Don't expect a card from me when the time arrives- this year I'm not doing Christmas, daaahling... Unless, of course, some handsome suitor wishes to spirit me away for a Christmas Vacation somewhere exotic? Paris? Vienna? New Year in New York?

Thought not. Ah well, I'm sure The Queen's Speech will warm my thawed heart en lieu. You don't know what you're missing...

Tags: Christmas Paperchase Christmas Tree Television Queen's Speech

Strop

I’m throwing a strop. And I’m entitled to. I’m sick of it. Sick to the back teeth of Durham sodding University and the Freshers Week that seems like it’s NEVER going to arrive. While everyone else is enrolling on their courses, getting stuck in and enjoying their Freshers Week to the max, I’m stuck at home worrying about which backpack to buy and whether I’m going to get seats on the train next Saturday. I’m sick of making lists of “what I absolutely need to buy” (which tends to comprise of a tin of tuna, a box of cornflour and then blank. I simply can’t think of what else I might need); “the essentials”; “things that you absolutely must NOT forget” . I’m sick of worrying about whether I will be the dunce of my course; whether I’ll be the social outcast because I’ve never visited a club or a bar before and I don’t know what a shot is. I’m sick of worrying about money and debt and “have I made the right choice?” I’m sick of worrying about what shoes to take and even how the goddamn laundrette works, for christ’s sake. Endless scraps of paper with attempts at constructing a budget scrawled on them mill around , only all the budgets I’ve attempted are incomplete because as soon as it comes to Maths or anything vaguely number-related, my brain promptly screeches “Aaaarrrggghhhh!! Not the gum drop buttons numbers!!” and shuts down.

And I would make a rubbish depressed person, because already, ALREADY I’m working myself out of my black mood.

That’s always the way with me. I am rubbish at harbouring any ill feeling. My feuds and grudges really aren’t feuds and grudges at all. I always start out well: “huh, if she/he/it thinks I’M going to apologise they’ve got another think coming!” and then- “Maybe I was a tiny bit wrong, after all I was rather horrib-no! OctoberPoppy, you are NOT going to feel guilty!” and it always ends up, always, ALWAYS, that even if they’re the one in the wrong, even if they started it, even if they said something really nasty and were really spiteful to me, yes, even then, I invariably go and apologise to them first.

You see, I told you, I’m rubbish at ill feeling.

I am generally a happy person- sure, I have my moods, my tempers, my moments of being utterly cantankerous and driving EVERYONE up the wall. I have those moments where I act before I think and invariably say something very sharp and wounding, that wicked dark side of me deriving pleasure from popping peoples’ egos and making them feel small, but my only consolation is this: it always blows over very quickly. Every time. I always eat humble pie first and, despite my pride and my irrationality and my wretched perfectionism, I can always admit when I‘ve been in the wrong (even if that little demon in the back of my mind whispers “but they started it…!”). Even though I realise people will probably take advantage of this, now that I’ve admitted it, I don’t care. Because simply, I can’t live with A) a guilty conscience and B) A tension filled atmosphere.

*Ommmmmm* *Breathes deeply and calmly* *Exhales*

So, I’m sorry. I do want to go to Durham really.

I am looking forward to Freshers Week really.

I am quite sure that I’ve made the right choice in Durham and that I’ve been very lucky to get a place and I‘m sure that I will enjoy my course even if I am the dunce (which I do have a nasty suspicion I will be, seeing as I haven‘t picked up my books and done one stroke of my bugbear, French Grammar, for the entire summer).

Even if I do have to wait positively AGES for uni to finally come.

(And darling Auntie, here is your honorary mention :D) "

Tags: Durham University University Freshers Week

Au Bord de la Mer + Maillot de Bain

Most people go to the seaside for the front. The sand; the sea; the hot tang of fish and chips lashed with vinegar and salt wrapped tight in paper; for the rides; for the worn glamour of the promenade. Breathing clean deep lungfuls of salty seaside air; gnawing on gummed up sticks of rock; taking a ride in the rattly old trams which ferry back and forth along the front, peering through the grime smeared windows at the gaudy arcade lights. You walk over the wooden slats of the pier, gazing down at the sea sloshing back and forth below your feet. You remember how, as a child, you would grip your mother’s reassuring hand fiercely, petrified that if you let go, even for one second, your small body would slip through the gap between the slats and plop, lost, into the murky grey tide below.

I am not most people.

This once, I did not go to the seaside for the front.

No. I went for the books.

This seaside town must have a lot of book loving, book donating residents, because the sheer amount of second hand bookstores, for its size, is phenomenal. On my last visit, I picked up an old (but fully serviceable) Harraps French Dictionary for the princely sum of £4 (AND it’s better than my modern Oxford Concise!!) along with a stack of French novels. On this visit, I added some more paperback friends, along with some weighty hardbacks, to the mountain quickly accumulating in my room. My bedroom floor is now a non-navigational minefield of stacked novels, where it is an expedition in itself just to reach my bed. When on earth I’m going to find the time to read all these titles, I just do not know, seeing as there’s only a week until I depart for university, but I’ll deal with that as I deal with most things- by leaving it until another time.

Which leads me on, not so smoothly, to the fact that I’m having an unproductive day.

And my swimming costume is broken.

Now, I love that swimming costume. It is hot pink and spotted with white, cut-as-flattering-as-a-costume-can-be, and has under wiring that supports and shapes my figure. Together with matching hot pink varnished toenails, a black plastic cap and black goggles, I (would like to believe I) look spiffy and co-ordinated (not that co-ordination has ANYTHING whatsoever to do with how quickly I can swim a lap, but a girl has to feel stylish when she’s ploughing up and down the pool, ya know). So imagine my cry of horror when, on coming to inspect my costume this morning, I found a jagged hole and a nasty sharp length of wire protruding from it. I promptly pulled the wire out and tried the swimming costume on to see exactly what the damage assessment was. It wasn’t pretty. One breast under wired, one not. The fabric of the costume, as a result, has twisted and shifted to leave me looking, for want of a better way to put it, like a lop sided Mongrel. (What a lop sided Mongrel looks like exactly, I cannot tell you, but it sounded good when I was typing this). The carefully crafted plan of swim-every-day-this-week-so-my-stomach-is-nice-and-taut-and-thus-can-take-the-junk-I’m-no-doubt- going-to-shovel-down-in-Freshers-Week is obviously a no-go. I currently ponder two things: firstly where the running tracks are in Durham and secondly, whether opting to not pay the £100+ for using the sports facilities was such a good idea after all…

(btw: the treasure trove for books is not the place featured in the picture...that remains top secret- a girl can't reveal trade secrets, you understand :p)

Tags: Seaside Front Memories Books Dictionary Swimming Costume Durham University

Strictly Ballgown

"Too sticky-out". "Too short." "Too long." "Oh- I like that! No, I love that! Let's have a look- oh. No, it's a size 6." "Too expensive". "Gorgeous- but look, there's a rip there". "Too ostentatious". "Too plain". "Don't like the colour".

Shopping for ballgowns is, frankly, exhausting.

It doesn't help that I am indecisive to say the least.

In Gibraltar once, as I shopped for perfume, the proprietor eyed me oddly. He shot me not-so- subtle glances as I went round and round the tiny shop, surveying every bottle, wondering what to purchase. I'd sprayed so much perfume on the same spot on my wrist that the combination smelt like the emissions of a toxic perfume factory and the accumulated scents lingered, despite endless scrubbing with a washcloth and soap, for nigh on a week. Finally, I made my selecion. Clutching various bottles in my hand, I made to pay when the proprietor spoke.

"Excuse me, are you married?"

WHAT?? Fighting back the urge to shoot back a caustic "why, are you proposing??", I replied:

"Um, no. I'm only 17! Why?" I shot him a quizzical look.

"You know, I've watched you going round and round for the past hour and I'll say it now- it's a good job you're not married, as you'd drive your husband absolutely MAD."

This is what I was like in TK MAXX (yeah, not the most glamorous of places to shop- drat! There goes the sophisticated illusion I've been working so hard to cultivate!- but when you're a poverty stricken student with naught but a hefty student loan to their name, who's arguing?) Customers and staff alike eyed the odd girl who wandered round and round in circles, muttering to herself under her breath and rummaged the same racks over and over again, hoping, just hoping, that she''d turn up that elusive "perfect" gown which she'd missed the first time. It was obvious that she was a mere novice in the art of clothes shopping. While, all around her, women with immaculately ironed peroxide hair and fully done makeup (leaving her feeling like a gauche, grubby little girl in comparison) ruthlessly extracted bargains with expert ease, she endlessly dithered, umming and ahhhing over garments.

Eventually, the heavy weight of various ballgowns slung over her arm, she staggered to the changing rooms, proceeded to sigh gloomily at the reflection of her scantily clad figure, which was highlighted to imperfection under the harsh, unforgiving glare of fluorescent lighting, and tried her selections on.

Oh-bugger-the-bloody-zip-is-STUCK! she puffed and panted, attempting to master the fine art of tugging-zip- just-hard-enough-but-not so-hard-that-she-has-to-fork-out-for-an-expensive (and unwearable)-dress. In vain, she sucked her stomach in as far as she possible could. Desperately, she twisted and turned, jiggled and jumped. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. The zip refused to budge. Obviously it was made for a hipless person. "Well, excuse me for actually, you know, being a woman, with CURVES, the way you're supposed to be!" OctoberPoppy scowled, before sniffing: "I never liked that dress anyway. The delicate silver, hand crafted embroidery. The scalloped neckline. The flared skirt. The sophisticated cut. Yeah. I would NEVER lower myself to wearing THAT!" Dress number two was a clingy black number, which was practically a second skin. Gorgeous, but I suspect not so accommodating when one wanted to sit down or, in fact, perform any action other than stand mannequin-still and strike a pose... Dress number three? Defied the general rule "less is more". I don't exactly want to expose my entire cleavage to the nippy Durham air, you know.

So, did you actually buy anything?? You're probably asking.

Well, yes, actually, I did. I didn't just buy one dress. Nor two. But three. I am now in possession of a long beaded black creation, with an extremely saucy back. I am in possession of a seductively dusky pink gown, which showcases my figure to a T (I think this is the one and only time, going shopping, that I haven't cursed my generous hips and bust- without my hourglass shape, that dress is impossible to wear). I now possess a dress, which on first viewing, looked like a sack on a hanger, but when worn, morphs into a retro wrap-around cocktail dress, with dainty cap sleeves and a flared skirt.

I am also, finally, in possession of a bank account, of which the balance is somewhat dented by this recent spree. Given the fact that (the HUGELY fund-draining) Freshers Week commences in a week and a half, this is perhaps not the best of financial circumstances to be in...but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Gulp.

Tags: Shopping Ball gown Formal dress Dress Gibraltar Perfume

Catastrophe au four

Did I mention the disaster of the lemon sponge pudding? I didn't? Well now, you just sit yourself there awhile and I'll tell you all about it...

It so happens that this past week has been "cooking week"- in a fear induced frenzy, on realising that "oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-University-in-three-weeks-and-I-can't-actually-boil-an-egg", I begged (yes, begged- unheard of!) my mum to teach me how to cook.

So I set about peeling and chopping an assortment of vegetables. Several near cuts and grated fingernails later, my mum surveyed my efforts, pronounced them passable and permitted me to actually try out preparing an entire meal. Surveying her wide eyed, I wondered whether she was really being serious in letting me loose at the oven top. Seemingly, she was. And, surprisingly, I found that actually cooking isn't all that bad (or at least it's not with someone knowledgable on hand to rescue me from my various disasters- wondering why the gravy pan wasn't thickening up for 10 minutes, before Mum handily pointed out I hadn't switched the heat on; pans overflowing, making the gas flicker and hiss alarmingly; oil spitting angrily when I accidentally put water in the pan). To my delight, the food I produced was actually edible and quite tasty too, wben if I do say so myself! Yes! Result! Quesadilla- mastered that. Omelette- mastered that. Roast Chicken and Lamb dinners with gravy and vegetables- all under my belt. Bread and Butter Pudding? No problemo. Chicken Chow Mein? Sure thing. Chicken and Pineapple with Ginger? Fait accompli.

Yes, I was doing rather well...until the lemon sponge pudding.

"Disaster" is NOT the word.

The first attempt (because yes, there were two attempts and both pitiful) was inspired by a recipe that didn't seem too difficult and which was accompanied by a drool producing photograph (it's amazing, isn't it, how delicious and appetizing food appears in images, yet turns out looking NOTHING like it in practice...) So I dumped all my ingredients in a bowl, like the recipe said. I whisked the concoction vigorously, just like it said. I added my egg white, as the recipe said. I poured in half a cup of water, just like it said. The tiny (but crucial) problem was that my half cup of water was half a mug, whilst the recipe's (as mother, giggling, later pointed out) was practically a thimble's worth. And that's where it all went downhill. The margarine separated into tiny lumps which floated on the top of the watery, insipid mixture. Even after two hours of cooking (it was only supposed to need 40 mins), the soggy mixture resembled a bowl of congealed vomit. We didn't bother to sample my efforts. It was scraped (or should I say poured) into the bin.

Round number two.

I gritted my teeth. "Lemon sponge, I WILL conquer you!" I vowed. "I AM going to dazzle my contemporaries at university with my magically light self-saucing dessert!!" And so I phoned the best cook I know- my Nanna, the cooking guru. If there's anyone in my family to get a recipe from or advice concerning a pesky lemon sponge, it's Nanna. It did look better than attempt number one, I have to say. Although, to be frank, it couldn't really get much worse than attempt number one, could it?

The first sign that something was wrong was that, despite the two eggs, mountain of sugar and heaped tablespoons of margarine, it really didn't make very much.

"One ounce of flour??" Mum peered over my shoulder, incredulous. "ONE
ounce of flour and all that margarine? Are you sure you've written it down
right? That doesn't seem enough to me-"

"Yes! Of course! I have written it down right, I have! That's exactly the
quantity Nanna said!" I snapped back in retaliation.

"Ok, ok"- Mum carefully (and no doubt wisely) backed away- "You know
best..."

The second sign was the eggs. I knew the drill. "Crack the shell, split the egg, use the egg separator, voila! Yolk + egg white= separated egg!" I sang to myself. "Ok, egg number two, crack the shell, split the egg, use thOH BUGGER! Muuuuuum! My yolk's gone into the white!! What do I dooooo?" (My mother will be a lot happier-and calmer- when I've left for university).

This, obviously, is a disaster.

Egg white with yolk in it= egg whites that won''t "whip until stiff"=supposedly light sponge acquires demeanor of a lead pancake. Brilliant.

The third sign that my sponge, meant to be fluffy and melt-on-the-tongue, had the consistency of creme brulée. This is obviously not good.

The fourth and final sign that your dessert is beyond rescue is when it takes more like lemon scented washing up liquid and your (oh so kind) mother takes a mouthful, coughs, splutters, grimaces, croaks "I'm sorry OctoberPoppy", refuses to swallow even one mouthful and promptly spits it into the bin.

I obviously was not destined to become a chef...

Perfectionism

"Why, why, why?? Why can't you do this? Why can't you type perfectly? Everyone else can, so why can't you??"

I howl at the computer screen, willing my fingers to obey the commands my brain is sending them. They skitter nervously over the keys. My mind becoming a frantic blank, I guess randomly where 'u' might be and stab at one of the keys. I jump as my (incorrect) guess flashes up as a blazing crimson error on an otherwise perfectly typed dictation exercise. The errors produced from my fingers, which are now sweaty with nervousness, double, triple in quantity. My mother winces as I turn the air blue with curses and threats of how I am going to cut off my hands, yes, I'm talking to you two, and attach hands and fingers which actually OBEY my instructions to type correctly!!. (Scratch the "Pieces of My World", this journal should be renamed "Diary of an insane completely loopy madwoman".) When the typing casualty list progresses into double figures, that's it, I've had enough. Jaw clenched, snorting with all the vigour of a bull faced with matador and red flag, I jerk to my feet and flounce out of the room, declaring dramatically:

"It's offical: Mavis Beacon and OctoberPoppy ARE THROUGH! That's it! It's over! It's the culmination of a not-so-happy relationship and you know what? I'm filing for divorce. I'll teach you, Mavis Beacon! I'm going to take you for every penny- that's what you get for making OctoberPoppy feel inadequate!"

Now would be a good time to explain that I am an impossible perfectionist. It's my biggest personality flaw- when the perfectionist in me is unleashed, you don't want to be around. The normally jovial, happy-go-lucky OctoberPoppy is quickly transformed into an obsessive, nit-picky, insanely jealous, driven and determined (ie: dog-with-a-bone mentality), quivering mass of energy. I am insanely self critical and intolerant when I'm in one of these moods. With just that look on my face, people rapidly scarper to a five-mile radius. I'm being serious- that side of me, the side that's not content with anything less than straight As and near perfection, is not pretty. I fear for my future kids, I really do. I'm the type that will say to darling sprog or sprogette: "oh, wow! 95% in your science test! That's marvellous-" and then growl "-but why didn't you get 100%??!" God, I can see it already: the poor kid will be off at 100mph the instant they turn 16, eager to escape the clutches of the utter crackpot of a mother who made their childhood years such a misery.

I'd love to think I was liberal, tolerant and accepting, I really would. I'd love to think I wasn't a judgemental, unforgiving person, truly I would. But the truth is, I'm just not. Don't ask me why-nobody else in my family gives a toss about how "successful" I am, as long as I'm happy. My mum is one of the most liberal, sympathetic people I know (in comparison, I'm "Matilda's" Miss Trunchbull). As for being on my back academically...the fact that my mother hasn't been to a single parents evening since I was 11 and in Y7 rather says it all, really. No, I've just been lumbered with a rogue gene. It's me and my own bizarre temprament that has determined that it's just not acceptable to be anything less than "the best".

Do they offer counselling for people who had a perfectly happy, golden childhood, but have rogue perfectionist streaks?

9/11

Yes, it was a horrible way to die. Yes, it has impacted on countless families who have lost beloved relatives. Yes, it was shocking and horrific. But please, let's stop the dramatics.

2973 are confirmed to have died in the attack on the World Trade Centre.

Between 41860 and 46537 are estimated to have died in Iraq.

Where are the countless blogs dedicated to them? Where is the wealth of emotion for the innocent civilians who have been bombed? Where is the solution for the Iraqis innocent of charge? Who remembers them?

Organised is my new middle name

The disorganised, maladroit, always-on-the-last-minute-for-everything OctoberPoppy has been erased. Obliterated. Permanently.

I am feeling rather smug because for once, I have taken charge, determined that no, I will NOT be rushing round like a headless chicken hurriedly trying to pack the night before going to uni. I will NOT be forgetful and leave vital items at home (NHS medical card; laptop; mobile phone charger; emergency stack of 'calming nerves + butterflies in stomach' chocolate bars). I will NOT try to cram as much stuff as possible into a tiny suitcase, realise that no, it won't all go in and then break down in a screeching fit, whilst trying frantically to discard unnecessary items ('frying pan? Who needs that? Like I'm actually going to cook!')

No. I am going to be calm. Leisurely. Take it all in my stride. Nothing, I repeat NOTHING can frazzle OctoberPoppy's new found ability to be organised and efficient. Even though it is three weeks until I venture off to University, I am going to heed my mother's advice (for once) and prepare well in advance.

So, rubbing my hands in a fit of vigour, I eyed the mountains of junk piled on top of my wardrobe, clambered onto a chair and set about unearthing my trusty suitcase. Now, I know it's up here somewhere...I muttered to myself, before grunting under my breath 'If I can-just-pull away-this-pile-of-heavy-A Level files...WAAAAAHHHH!' A pile of papers dating back to the Iron Age (specifically Year 7, term 1-it's surprising how big and ungainly my handwriting was and how could I really have thought it was attractive to dot my 'i's with tiny hearts??!!) tilted precariously before beginning a rapidly accelerating landslide off the top of the wardrobe. I narrowly dodged the raining tide of CDs which had decided to join in the fun and followed suit. Unfortunately, I was too slow to avoid the heavy laptop box which, dislodged, landed with a resounding clonk on my head, before continuing its descent to the carpeted floor. Sighing, I turned back to my task, my eyes lighting up as I spied the suitcase, flattened by the accumulated weight of the junk piled on top. I recovered my bounty and, safely on the ground again, I brushed away the dust and cobwebs- fancy that, I dusted up there recently as well (three months ago).

It is then when it hits me. Hauling my gear on a train from Manchester to Durham is not going to be quite the piece of cake I though it would be.

So far, I have packed my stack of (ton weight) books, a rolled up pillow, tossed in some pairs of jeans for good measure and...my bloody suitcase is already half full! Where on earth am I going to put my cooking utensils (well, actually I haven't bought them yet)? My hairdryer (haven't bought that either)? My stationery and files (nor them)? What about all the other stuff- the alarm clock; the towel; the lemsips; the canary yellow (and oh-so-stylish) Marigolds; the bulky laptop; the hat and gloves and scarf; the bed linen? Never mind clothing- at the moment it looks like I'm going to be taking the grand total of two outfits and visiting the laundrette. A lot. So I got down to business, calmed the panicky fluttering of my heart and grimly surveyed the mountain of stuff before me and the (relatively) tiny confines of my suitcase. Right, OctoberPoppy, you're going to have to be strict with yourself and divide your junk into 'strictly necessary' and 'frivolous'. Being the newly organised me, I complied...and found that everything, bar my wall hangings, came under 'strictly necessary'. According to this, I am screwed I will be laden like a pack horse and have a uni room like a tomb. It's never been more obvious that I need to invest some shiny pennies in a backpack.

The only silver lining to this (very grey, depressing) cloud is that boy am I glad I'm not confronting these issues at 1AM, the night before I go to uni.

Questions, Questions, Always Questions.

I warn you now: I'm in a strange mood today. The second warning: this is going to be a long post, because I'm in the mood to ramble.

Part of it is induced by the onset of illness -shaking hands; freezing cold, even though I'm attired in a thick winter jumper and my cheeks, conversely, are burning up. I had to struggle to drain my only tall mug of cappuccino this morning. The blueberry cheesecake I ate sits in a hard undigested lump in the bottom of my stomach and I can't face cobbling together some sort of lunch (so in avoidance I've come on here instead). My throat feels like sandpaper and the breath rattles in my chest. I'm currently brewing up an echinacea to try and stave off these worrying symptoms. Last time I felt like this (back in February), I was afflicted with a bout of flu that had me in bed for the majority of the week. Even when I had relatively recovered, my hacking cough caused pedestrians to shoot me worried looks and quickly move to the other side of the road. When I sat in Katsouris (delicious Greek Deli- if any Mancunians read this who haven't visited, you're missing out!) a "magic ring" formed around me, where nobody dared to sit- even though it was the lunch rush hour and the place was crammed with workers. I seem to have an unfortunate prospensity for catching colds and flu. I just have to look at someone with a sniffle and I'm struck with a particularly virulent virus. As a result, my attendance record at school and college has always fell well short of even the "poor" mark.

The other cause of my strange mood is the fact that I've just finished reading "The Opposite of Fate" by Amy Tan. I'd read "The Bonesetter's Daughter" and loved it: it struck a sympathetic chord in me, so I thought I'd try this title seeing as it was on The Times special offer of buy a paper, get a book for £1. At first "The Opposite of Fate" seemed pretentious; contrived. Her life seemed depressing, a harsh unveiling of my previous thought of "oh, writing a book is easy. Being a novelist? Piece of cake." However, then certain phrases and sentences began to jump out at me. That's true- the ending paragraph or line really does change your overall impression of the novel as a whole. Her analysis of why she chooses to read particular books and stories (for their narrative qualities) caused me to think how do I choose the titles I read? Her endless questioning of literature, of how writers (whether minority or mainstream) are bracketed; pigeonholed; expected to conform to an ideal made me think. When Tan spoke of how, when writing an assignment on Hemingway she was berated for giving her own ideas and opinions, but praised when she rewrote the piece, giving the standard responses, that struck a chord in me. That's true- all those times we were explicitly told in English Literature classes not to write in examinations an original response: that the examiner was marking at speed and you would be more likely to score higher marks by writing a prescriptive essay. All those times I got essays back with marks deducted for 'original insight' and with a sea of red comments- "I don't agree with this"- scrawled in the margins. Isn't literature all about individual interpretation? If there's a lecturer at Durham who marks me down because I write things that don't agree with their ideas what do I sacrifice? My marks, by staying true to myself, or my originality; my ability to come to my own conclusions? Do I have the strength to stick to my own convictions when they're challenged?

My head hurts now. But still, that's good- isn't the mark of a truly good book one that alters your perception; that makes you think? The "Cherry" [Mary Karr] that I recommended earlier was a favourite because of the beauty and weight of its language. "The Opposite of Fate" is a recommendation in a different way- in that it signifies parts of my own mindset and that Tan asks so many of the same questions that buzz around in my own brain, unable to find release.

You know, the other day, someone criticised me; criticised this as being "intimidating". That evening, I wondered whether it is- whether the fact that I leapfrog around from topic to topic is off-putting. I mulled it over and gradually the sting of criticism (and initial "how they dare they-!") faded to do you really care? Simultaneously, I wondered who I write this for. The original idea was that I set this Blog up for family and friends to read about my exploits at univerisity. To save me sending out email after email updating countless people about the same old events. But really, even though I want them to see what I'm up to too, I fundamentally write for myself. I like the catharcism of sending my feelings out into "the cosmic void" (line stolen from "You've Got Mail" haha), whether people read and judge or not. It gives me a place to stick my musings down. I came to the conclusion that I could never write on solely one topic and by flitting from one subject to another, I am giving a better insight into my mind- I never run on one thought. I could never just limit myself to one subject (which is why I did 5 A Levels and am doing English, French and History at degree level instead of the -sensible- one straight subject that most students normally read). This is, after all, Pieces of my World.

I want to think; I want to learn; I want to know; I want to live. I want experiences; I want to get out there and see the world; open my mind up to as many opportunities as possible, so that I can make an educated evaluation of what it is that I really want. Yet at the same time, I hesitate; teeter on the brink. Whilst wanting to explore, an inner part of me holds me back. As Armitage so aptly coined, I am faced with my "wide blue yonder", but can only wonder whether I will "fall or fly".

La Mouche

"There's a fly stuck in the icing of your currant bun", I point out helpfully.

"What? Where?" She abruptly snaps out of her reverie.

"There." I point at the offending creature, which is currently gorging itself stupid on her lunch.

She slowly gets to her feet, uncoiling to her full height. Eyes narrowed, brandishing a wad of papers, she is poised, alert. THWACK! The currant bun deflates at the blow, while the fly, unharmed, buzzes off in pursuit of another meal.

"Ohhhh, darn it, now I've got sticky icing all over my work," she moans. While she attempts to wipe away the mess, I giggle helplessly, knowing it's dangerous, given the mood she's in, but unable to help myself. "And if that appears on your blog, I'll smack your face," she threatens. I shoot her an innocently virtuous, butter-wouldn't-melt look.

So I've posted this up just to see what she'll do.

Hehehehehe

Reading

By my bed, on the desk, beneath my (dust caked, little used) desk lamp, quite a stack of books are accumulating. My bookshelves have overflowed and, having stuffed paperbacks into practically every nook and cranny, are fit to burst. My trouble is that I love bookshops (especially second hand) and books too much. On entering a bookshop, my eyes light up like those of a looter put before Aladdin's cave, while I suddenly acquire the demeanor of a wide eyed child faced with a dizzying array of sweet treats. My other trouble is that where books are concerned, I am insatiable- I never feel as though I've got enough; as though I've read enough (this inadequacy is helped by Mastermind and University Challenge, where my knowledge banks are well and truly put to shame).

So, sighing, I cast a critical eye over this ever growing stack of books, which were beginning to teeter precariously, and forced myself to be harsh. Right, OctoberPoppy. Which ones are you going to keep, and which ones are you going to send to the local charity shop? It happened that the first book I picked up was "Cherry" by Mary Karr. Oh, no dispute, that'll definitely be going to the charity shop, I judged in a flash. With a name like "Cherry", it's bound to be some trashy novel. I'll quickly skim through it and pack it off to Oxfam.

I should tell you now, I'm prone to these flash, instantaneous first judgements- and invariably being wrong.

Whaddya know? I was wrong. Terribly, shamefully, horifically wrong. Granted, it's about getting high, but what I suspected to be pulp fiction, written in shoddy language, turned out to be one of the best reads I've had in a while. Better than "Wide Sargasso Sea" [Jean Rhys]. Better than "Lady Chatterley's Lover" [DH Lawrence]. Better, even, than "A Pound of Paper" [John Baxter]- which I've resolved to read again. Karr delicately constructs an image web through words, adroitly transporting the reader into her mindset and her girlhood world. The autobiography is unique, innovative, its descriptions strikingly poetic. For instance:

"The refinery gases pumped into the atmosphere left us manufactured psychedelic sunsets: the sun was a Day-Glo ball in the poisoned sky."

Isn't that fantastic? Well, I like it. No, actually, scratch that, I love that. Her writing is so evocative, conjuring up long forgotten memories of my own childhood (most of which are somewhat embarrassing and cringeworthy, perhaps explaining why they have remained so deeply buried for these years). This is a book which receives the (dubious) pleasure of having my name and the date scrawled in the front page (with which I stamp every book I'm going to hoard for the future years to come) and a place on my bookshelf (well, it would get a place if I had the space on those buckling shelves). So. Order it now and READ.

(P.S while we're on the topic of reading, check this out- I almost killed myself laughing...)

The Rodent Returns

The mouse poked its furry little head out of the hole under the fireplace, darted out onto the rug in one lithe motion, twitched its whiskers and proceeded to clean itself.

"Are you ready?" Mum whispered furtively. I nodded, silently communicating my assent. We stood still, suspended, hardly daring to breathe, willing the floorboards beneath us not to creak. We were deadly intent on our mission. The rodent was obviously happy to be the floorshow, continuing to leisurely tend to itself beneath our fixed gaze. An exhibionist, that's for sure.

However, we weren't fooled by its casual air.

We watched as it watched us, the glittering dark eyes alert. Adrenaline coursed through our veins as we contemplated our plan of action. Then it happened. Mum made a dart with the plastic container with which we planned to trap it in. Instantly, the mouse fled, a small grey flash moving at lightning speed in my peripheral vision. "Aaaaaahhhh!!!" Mum shrieked. "Quick, where is it? Where's it gone? Oh, look, look, there it is!" We trained our not-so-expert eye on the small fur ball as it shot over the rug, beating a rapid retreat beneath the wooden hearth. "Oh my God it's gone in there! Quick-" Mum grabbed a handful of plastic bags, moving swiftly to block the hole in which the mouse had disappeared. Together we fashioned a temporary prison for our furry little friend. Our pulses high, breathing raised, excitement dilating our pupils, we subsided onto the sofa to watch the rest of Law and Order: SVU (yes, the TV dominates this household), while we contemplated our next move.

So what's all the commotion about? you're probably thinking. It's just a little mouse. Harmless. Oh, no. You see, this thing is cunning. Crafty. Possibly dangerous (after all, who knows which electrical leads its been gnawing through??) It's not shy either. For nights on end we've watched as it's been in and out of the hole beneath the fireplace, in the full glare of the living room light, in front of our disbelieving gaze. It's pretty plucky, I'll give it that. Frightened is obviously not a word in its vocabulary.

"Right, here's what we're going to do. We're going to surround the hearth (there's no way we could pick it up as it's large and heavy) and then take one of the plastic bags out of the hole, let it free and then we can see where it is and catch it in a container. After all, we can't leave it there all night, it'll chew a hole in my best rug!" My younger brother, J, was enlisted as we surrounded the hearth with an assortment of objects. "Ok, here goes..." The hole in the hearth was unplugged. The creature instantly broke free, speeding around the pen we'd created. "Jesus, that thing moves at the speed of light!" It was true. It moved so fast that individual features were unidentifiable and it was nothing but a grey blur. Round and round it went until suddenly it shot out of the confined space we'd devoted so much time to creating, hurtled across the living room floor and sped beneath the sofa. "Oh, bugger! How did it get out?? We'll never get it out from under the sofa!" I exclaimed, whilst inspecting the pen for possible gaps. There were none. No spaces whatsoever. So how on earth did it get out? The mystery still remains unsolved. Mum, me and J surrounded the sofa, armed with containers with which to trap it. Together, we moved the sofa from its position. No mouse. Where is it? We scratched our heads. We scoured beneath, poking into the shadows, anywhere where it may be lurking. It was nowhere to be seen. The mouse had obviously escaped. "We'll have to give it up, I think," Mum sighed. "Don't ask me how, but I bet, I just bet it's managed to get back to the hole beneath the fireplace." So we reluctantly cleared the disarray and restored the living room back to order.

Later on, we heard (triumphant) scuffles and squeaks from beneath the fireplace. Two grown women, (well, one grown and the other almost) defeated by a small mouse. I can almost hear it squeak, in the manner of a mousey version of Arnold Schwarnegger, "I'll be back..." And so the battle continues...

Panic

What can I wear? What can I wear? I survey my battered old wardrobe, stuffed, jam packed with clothing. The shelves heave under the piled weight of garments. The rubble of bags and shoes accumulated at the bottom threatens to spill out. I have so much junk that piles of clothes are looped over the back of my chair, heaped on my desk. Dresses are precariously hung on the back of the door, accumulating dust. Ohhhh, I have NOTHING to wear! This dress? No, it makes me look like I’ve gained ten pounds. What about this cute striped top? Too winterish. What about your summer wardrobe staple, the hot pink flared skirt? No, no, no, it’s all wrong. I finally settle for casual black trousers, a striped roll neck with a dress layered over the top and some funky jewellery. I make it as far as downstairs, when my mother’s grimace says it all. Trying too hard. Ok, back to the drawing board, I inwardly sigh. I carefully extract my favourite brown jacket from a bulging shelf. Right. What goes with dark brown? Pink? The orange top? Oh I know-

“OctoberPoppy!” Mum calls up the stairs. (Except she uses my real name, of course.) “What on EARTH are you doing? Come on! You’ve got five minutes and then we’re going without you!” she threatens. I panic, jolted into action. So I throw on whatever’s close to hand- comfort wins the day and it’s a pair of worn jeans and a comfortable hooded top. I am obviously inept when it comes to being a glamour puss.


It’s a month to go. I’m starting to panic. Those sly, insidious thoughts, “Oh my God, what have I let myself in for?” are starting to filter into my brain. They are snickering, horned, devilish thoughts, the type that slowly erode your confidence until it is well and truly in shreds. This all began when, idly, I thumbed through a dusty volume from my bookshelf. “Oh! It’s my trusty French Grammar Book!” The surprised delight I felt (yeah, I’m a weirdo, I know- getting excited over French Grammar…honestly…) didn’t last long. “Hmm don’t know that. Hmm, don’t know that either…(turns page)…nor that…oh, or that!” Then, the subvertive little thought: “Well, what do you know, OctoberPoppy?” Apparently not much. It gets worse. This book is aimed at GCSE. GCSE!!! Been there, got the t-shirt (strangely I don’t feel so proud now). I’m supposedly an A standard A-Level candidate. The funny thing is, when it comes to higher level stuff I’m not too bad. Seems like all that subjunctive jargon has caused my basic structures to become more than a little rusty.

I’m going to be absolutely shamed at uni.