Pieces of my world

It's All Chinese To Me...

2007-04-19T10:18:00.000+01:00

“OctoberPoppy.”

Oh dear.

I surrepticiously flick through the brightly coloured pages of the textbook before me in anticipation. And promptly choke, as a cloud of dust, accumulated over months of neglect on my shelf, is disturbed.

I go for what, in my head, is a super-confident, 100 mega watt, Hollywood smile, to mask the panicked fluttering in my stomach. In reality, the image I project translates to a nervous baring of teeth, accompanied by a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Attractive.

“How do we say ‘I want to buy a return ticket from Durham to London’?”

“Umm- Wo…yao…yi…zhong- errr -lai…hui piao…”

The agonizingly stilted tirade stops mid-flow as the dreaded blankness strikes.

What’s the word for “from”? What is it? What is it? Think OctoberPoppy, think! I know your brain has been taxed immeasurably through lolling around on the sofa all day watching back-to-back episodes of “Lassie”, but come on! Think!

I glance down at the jumble of notes scrawled illegibly over several tattered pieces of paper. At the dull grey surface of the desk, as though the answer will suddenly be revealed. The expectant silence from both teacher and class yawns unbearably. The tension is notching up steadily on my spine. This is painful, it really is. But then, just as I’m beginning to despair…

“Cong!”

“Cong…Dulun…dao…Lundun!”

It is Thursday evening, and it’s just gone half past six, which means that I’m at my weekly Mandarin class at the Language Centre. Like many other Freshers-to-be, over the summer I was inundated with a sizeable wadge of glossy pamphlets and pieces of paper advocating all the exciting, novel things I could get involved with at university. And so I rolled up in October, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to get involved with anything and everything. Choir? Sure. French society? Great. Debating? Ok. Beginner’s Mandarin? Why not? After all, surely it would just be learning the basics- greetings; what I like to eat for breakfast; the numbers from 1 to 10; describing the characteristics of Fido, my utterly fictional dog…generally, the Mandarin equivalent of Year Seven French.

I could not have been more wrong.

The lessons are two hours in duration, decidedly intense and swiftly paced, moving from familiarising oneself with the four tones to constructing full sentences in a matter of weeks. In short, anything but basic. After a day full of lectures, it can be a real effort to sustain concentration and remain sufficiently on the ball to untangle a language which displays very little correspondence whatsoever to ours: the syntax, vocabulary and even thought process are completely different. When you consider that we’re learning Hanyu Pinyin (the romanized version of Mandarin) and haven’t yet progressed onto learning characters, the mountain that we face to attaining fluency seems almost insurmountable. Every week, a collective sigh of relief is exhaled from the class as the teacher pronounces midway through the lesson “xiu xi”- break. We have watched as people have successively dropped out and the class number has steadily dwindled over the weeks. One thing is certain: the class is a real challenge. Priced at over £100 for two terms the course doesn’t come cheap, either. So has it been worth it?

In an age where a degree is no longer enough and prospective employers are looking for something distinctive from their applicants, Mandarin could just give you the edge. I’m sure there’s no need to mention that, with the rapid relocation of industry to the Orient, an economy which is already the fourth largest in the world and showing no sign of stopping and a phenomenal population of over 1,300 000 000 Chinese, a qualification in Mandarin could well prove to be a very useful asset. It was only the other month that The Times featured a week of China- themed supplements, highlighting the growing need for a Western comprehension of the East. The lessons are well organised and you truly get what you pay for: two hours of direct interaction and communication- something which you can’t just teach yourself from a book or CD. The lessons are not only useful, but, moreover, they are rewarding, with an unrivalled sense of personal satisfaction at finally getting something difficult right. It’s not easy; the classes can be frustrating and demanding, requiring dedication and perseverance.

Will I be signing up next year?

Definitely.

Brunch

2007-03-24T15:36:00.000Z

"Mummmmy!!" The strident wail rings resoundingly. "B-B-But daddy's CANCELLED my Harvey Nicks card!!!"

It is 11.14 AM. We are sat in St Cuthbert's Society dining hall . The cold winter sun glints through the panes of glass, illuminating the long cafeteria-style dining tables. I blink the sleep out of my eyes, take a long gulp of piping hot coffee- my newfound aid to get me through a hard night of last minute essay crisis, Brokeback Mountain, positively unhealthy amounts of Pro Plus and a grand total of 4 and a half hours sleep. It's a tough life, being a student.

But it was all worth it.

For before us, out trays are loaded with steaming plates of freshly cooked, succulent Brunch. Scrambled eggs lie cheek by jowl a glistening rasher of bacon, inviting pool of baked beans and a fatly inviting pork sausage. The hash brown is golden and crisp on the outside, begging, just begging, to be cut into, like a good hash brown should be. It is Saturday, lectures a far distant memory and I could do nothing all day except watch episodes of Friends and Deal or No Deal back to back if I so choose (not that I would- me be slovenly?! Pah, never!)

I swallow the guilt of being an impostor (we have not paid for this; merely snuck in, the lure of a free meal being a temptation too hard to pass up) and instead eye a buttery croissant. Temptation gets the better of me. I reach out, break the flaky, buttery pastry in one smooth motion and am about to raise it to my mouth when I am interrupted from my chain of food-orientated thought.

"But Mummy, it's a tragedy!! I mean, Gawd, life without Harvey Nicks??! What will I doooo?"

Tara Darling Plonkington-Smith, ear still glued to her mobile phone, announces her pain and trauma (oh, how we feel for you) in foghorn voice to the entire dining room.

I stare at her. At the aviator sunglasses (in early March- why???) perched on top of her barnet. At the natty, gnarled tresses dyed a barbie-like hue of platinum blonde piled into what resembles a haystack on top of her head. At the padded Michelin-Man-like gilet over a stained "Durham University" hoodie, in turn thrown on over a tiny tiny creased skirt which barely covers her posterior. At the worn, battered ugg boots which adorn her feet- they are so old that the left sole has come unglued from the boot, while a gaping hole in the right reveals Tara Darling Plonkington-Smith's chipped frosty-pink nail varnish on her toenails.

Poor girl, I whisper to Phillidia. All that money and her parents have never taught her the meaning of the word "grooming" beyond looking like one has performed a spontaneous "supermarket sweep" of the Salvation Army, coupled with the double misfortune of being dragged through a hedge backwards.

I long to console her for this tragic upbringing.

There, there dear. We feel your Harvey-Nichols-orientated pain.

Unfortunately, we don't very much care, either.

The frightening thing is that Tara Darling Plonkington-Smith is not alone in her hideousness. For she of the foghorn voice floated into the dining room moments, literally moments, after Hugh Barnarby Weathering-Jones was kicked out after throwing a wobbly and bawling at the kitchen staff for refusing to serve him because he was attired in only a baby-pink dressing gown, flipflops and a conveniently placed towel.

Tarah Darling Plonkington-Smith snaps her phone shut with an exasperated expression, before throwing herself into a chair and glaring moodily at a glass of no added sugar fruit juice.

Around us, the comforting chink of knife-and-fork-on-plate, hum of conversation and occasional crumple of an Independent page being folded reigns supreme once more.

I take a bite of my buttery, calorie-loaded croissant and my thoughts re-align.

Where do I begin?

2007-02-20T16:53:00.000Z

Long time, no post.

When I started this blog, I envisaged that I would avidly write. I had a concept of what uni was like. I thought I knew where I was going; where I was heading; who I was going to become.

In some ways some of my expectations have been fulfilled.

But mostly it's like living on an intense rollercoaster. Everyday seems to churn up the unexpected. And I constantly surprise myself: in my reactions, my outlook on life, who I am turning into.

I don't know myself anymore.

This of course, is not necessarily a bad thing. If I was the same person as the naive girl who first came to university in late September then I really wouldn't have got much out of the experience at all. I was counting up in my head all the experiences I have had and boy, are there a lot of firsts. First time living away from home; first time I've been to a nightclub; first alcoholic drinks; first attempts at cuisine; first kiss; first boyfriend; first time I'm going to New York; first time I'm going on tour; first lease I've signed on a house for next year; first time I've thrown a party; first time I've had proper friendships; first formal; first Valentines day; first time I've been sent roses, first- well, I could go on, but trust me in this: there are a lot of firsts.

I am confident that this is only the beginning. There is an awful lot more out there and by no means have I experienced everything that university has to offer, but I still have three more years of university ahead of me, so there's plenty of time to get more involved on the society side of it- in terms of thinking of jobs and practicalities etc. This year has been about growing up; finding my feet; making the transition from dependent to independent. Basically, about life experiences.

Admittedly, I have not been wholly happy. It's had it's (many many) ups and downs. Lots of it, particularly this term, has been characterised by anguish and indecision. In making way for the new, I have had to let go of some of the much-loved old.

As for the future? I don't just know.

As for the present?

I rest optimistic.

Near miss

2007-01-18T10:17:00.000Z

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Oh My God I'm Going to Die!"

My life flashes before my eyes as the car accelerates towards me before screeching to a halt just as the bumper touches my knees.

"Oh My God!! What do you think you're DOING?" I shout at the driver of the Vauxhall Astra. He has opened the door, surveying me with a stunned expression on his face. I am shaking with shock at how close I came to being knocked over. "I'm on the bloody ZEBRA CROSSING!"

"Sorry, the sun was in my eyes- I couldn't see you" he mutters.

He didn't even have his visor down.

"Yeah, well, if you'd have been going any faster you wouldn't have been able to stop in time. You could have killed me! Do you get that? Killed me! Jesus!"

He slams the door and drives away.

I lurch up the road, still stunned. That Zebra Crossing is clearly marked and worse, put there for a reason: there is a school next to it. That Zebra Crossing is not there for students (although we all use it to get to the uni library); it's there for the kids. If that had been a kid crossing when that stupid man driving was there they wouldn't have stood a chance.

I have dark purple bruises beneath my knees this morning and it didn't even knock me over; the bumper just touched me. In a fight between a pedestrian and a car it is no contest as to who will win.

Idiot drivers.

Popcorn

2007-01-17T12:27:00.000Z

Pop. Pop. Pop-Pop. Pop-Pop-Pop-PoBANG!

“Was it supposed to do that?”

We peered into the pan anxiously. “Well. It seems alriWaaahhhh!” We screeched as the oil in the bottom of the saucepan spat unexpectedly.

The popcorn making was obviously not going to plan. The remains of two horribly disastrous popcorn making attempts had carefully been secreted beneath a bush in the garden, the pan (somebody else’s) was blackened permanently on the bottom and we had poured so much burnt oil into the potted plant in the corner of the kitchen that it was already visibly beginning to wilt.

“I don’t remember this being so difficult,” I frowned. “What on earth are we doing wrong? Oil? Check. Popcorn kernels? Check. Medium heat- not too high, not too low? Check."

"Maybe if we put more oil in?" Phillidia suggested.

The result was better, but still not up to form, what with half the popcorn kernels refusing to pop and those that did pop staying hard, crunchy and somewhat indigestion inducing. Not even Paul, who is literally a walking stomach and will eat anything, wanted that popcorn.

We surveyed our efforts dolefully.

"Maybe we should get Adrian from upstairs?"

We looked at the charred bottom of the (borrowed!) saucepan. At the now much depleted reserves of popcorn kernels. At the plant which was not only wilting at terrifying speed, but whose leaves were turning brown.

I nodded. "I'll go and get him."

And so we looked on in disbelief as Adrian, in one attempt, not only produced double the quantity of popcorn in half the kernels we used, but produced popcorn that was perfect- fluffy, hot and satisfyingly edible. The popcorn was, unlike our dismal attempts, wolfed down in a couple of minutes, with requests for more.

Maybe I'll just stick with the microwave-in-a-bag failsafe popcorn in the future...

Denial

2007-01-03T22:55:00.000Z

My mind is chocked full of questions. Uncertainties. Dilemmas. Who am I? Am I losing myself? Am I getting the most out of uni? What do I want? Should I take a year abroad in the 3rd year? Who are my friends? What, or who, do I most value? Am I ready for a relationship right now? Am I turning into a shallow person? What is love? What is attraction?

I hoped that this break would clarify the confusing tangle of- well, I was going to say relationships (friendship and romantic) at uni, but I think it's just uni in general.

Instead I've thought and thought about it until it has become an obscure, indistinct mess in my mind.

I don't know which way to turn.

I just don't know.

I feel like putting my fingers in my ears, singing loudly and blocking it out. But I can't. Because the problems aren't external: they're in my head- the problem is, fundamentally, me.

It's been a huge transition. Everything in my world has changed. Nothing is constant. I've been transplanted from one world to another. All my friends are different; the course is completely different; I'm in a strange new part of the country; I'm having to fend for myself without any parental support; I've met more people in the shortest time than I ever have done before in my entire life. And it's good- much as I love home and it's been really great to see my family, I'm champing at the bit to get back. I'm independent now; I'm an adult. So it's not surprising that things internally have changed.

But I'm concerned. Concerned that I've changed too much. And I'm desperately clinging onto the last vestiges of the old OctoberPoppy that remained. There's not much left of me. I still don't feel like the uni self is me. I don't feel like a woman although, at almost 19 (on the 16th) and self-sufficient, I know that I am. I'm a woman. No longer a girl. The change in terminology is minute. The implications are enormous. With one last act and the old, innocent, OctoberP is completely gone. A memory. Eradicated. Part of me feels ready for the leap. But part of me is panicking. That part of me doesn't want to go back to uni; doesn't want a boyfriend; doesn't want to have to be self-reliant and grown up.

Why can't I just trust?

Leap off the bridge, eyes shut, dive in, have faith that it will all turn out ok?

Why can't I trust in the fact that I've done the hard bit- I've got through the first term at university and now it should all be downhill?

Why am I still in denial?

Why do I still feel like a scared little girl and not an adult?

Moreover, when the transition is complete and I emerge, fully fledged woman, how will I know?

Resolve

2006-12-28T22:15:00.000Z

I normally never bother with New Years Resolutions. They have always been a case of made today, broken tomorrow. There was the "I am going to keep a personal, private diary for an entire year"...which lasted the grand total of a week and a half. There was the "I am going to do 50 stomach crunches every single night before I go to sleep until I get a washboard stomach!" That lasted two nights before the excuses rolled in...and was ultimately abandoned. There was the "I am going to learn how to knit!" Then I discovered how time consuming it was and how costly wool is and thought again. The "I am going to walk an extra mile a day to school and lose that excess"- which, to give me credit, I did for the remainder of my college days...only I ate more at breakfast and break to compensate and so the positive effects were, sadly, ruined.

But no more.

I am, this year, going to make small but significant resolutions and stick to them, like

1) I am going to sleep properly, instead of surviving on 4-5 hours sleep a night at uni (going to bed at 2 and getting up at 7 everyday cannot be healthy, I am sure). I am going to stop being an insomniac at uni (I've slept normally ie: very deeply, like the dead, at home- it's just at uni that I CANNOT seem to get to sleep and, even though I'm desperately tired, cannot switch my brain off).

2) I am going to be brave and actually cook with eggs! (I have been too scared of poisoning myself and giving myself salmonella...even with lyon brand eggs- ridiculous I know)

3) I am NOT going to let the fact that I am now in a relationship (with my very first ever boyfriend at the grand age of 18 almost 19) wreck my degree- I AM going to focus on my studies and not think about him all day!

4) I MUST do more work this semester and spend two hours per day at the least in the uni library.

5) I must make an effort to a) phone home b) email home c) update blog regularly

6) I must must must do more Mandarin (sadly neglected)

7) I AM going to join some more societies and pack my days as full as is humanely possible to get the most out of my experience.

That is all. I think that's achievable... no problem...

Primark

2006-12-23T14:45:00.000Z

Yesterday I fought my way through the annual Christmas-Panic hordes in Primark (not the most glamorous place to shop, true, but on a student budget of £25 per week for food socialising and everything Primark is the only place within my reach and who can argue with white shirts for £2.50 and jeans at £6?) Seriously, take a sane person, plonk them in the middle of a hot, packed Primark store, simmer for 30 minutes and voila! A recipe for insanity. Seriously, Primark on a Friday afternoon is not a place you want to be. Trust me on this. The people in there are vultures. Pop a garment back on the rails for two seconds and POOF! It's gone. A suspiciously powdered-to-the-point-of-looking-like-a-tangerine woman was so eager to have the floaty black sequined top I'd picked up off the sale rack and I was so scared of her razor sharp, two inch fake bright pink nails (at least I think they were fake) that I just gave it her out of my basket.

The queues for the changing rooms were horrendous.

But the queues to pay were worse.

The queue had spilled over beyond the barriers and had snaked across the shop floor. It wasn't even that the line was really long: the real problem was that the vast majority were in possession of two or even three basket crammed full of crumpled up garments, PVC shopping bags and plastic shoes. I surveyed in disbelief as one woman, a panicky look in her eyes, grappled with a trolley in which two bundled up children looked extremely flushed and uncomfortable, two baskets brimming to the max AND a pile of additional garments which she'd stacked on top of the pram.

I have never witnessed such a scene.

An hour and a half later, I emerged from the store with my purchases (two pairs of jeans, some shirts and some socks- measly in comparison with everyone elses' bulging five bags) vowing never to return until well after the post-Christmas sales rush.

Maybe I don't miss Primark when I'm in Durham so much after all.

Unmotivated

2006-12-22T20:15:00.000Z

It's quarter past eight!

I still haven't had a bath!

I haven't packed my suitcase!

I haven't organised my reading!

I haven't tidied my room!

I haven't organised the rubble of papers, library books, music and unwrapped gifts for various people which have unceremoniously been dumped on top of my piano!

I've been home a week and have yet to tackle the mountain of work that needs to be done for uni!

So what HAVE I been doing?

Um.

Sleeping (very important, you understand- I'm making up for all those times at uni where I subsisted on 4-5 hours sleep a night...shocking!)

Accompanying old college friends on quests for bright blonde wigs at Affleck's Palace (don't ask).

Drunk an awful lot of coffee. Chatted an awful lot to people who weren't really awfully interested about "the state of my life".

Wandered aimlessly around the shops under the guise of "christmas shopping" and instead ended up treating myself (lavishly) instead.

Spent a worrying amount of time thinking about a certain person and mooning over my mobile phone, willing a certain person to text me.

Played the piano for the first time in 11 weeks (God, how I've missed my piano)

Fully cultivated the art of being lazy.

Debated whether to have a Bond Party or not for my birthday on the 16th Jan (guys in suits and bowties, girls in glitzy dresses, martinis, canapes, bond themed music...my Mum even bought me a mini roulette table for the occasion)

In short, not much of what I SHOULD be doing.

The plan was to work furiously, to read my way through the stack of novels to be read, to practice my piano diligently, to experiment with new and exciting dishes and become a cooking GENIUS, ready to dazzle my friends with my new found accomplishments when I return to uni.

It hasn't happened yet.

But give me time...next week. Next week I'm going to get my nose down to the grindstone, you'll see. I will. Honest, I will.

But for now it's half eight...and I have a suitcase to pack.

A bath to have.

Reading to organise.

A room to tidy.

A student's work is obviously never done...

Forgive me

2006-12-06T13:45:00.000Z

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

It has been too long since my last ~~confession~~ blog post.

What has happened?

In short: lots.

I am part of St Chad's choir now, as well as in St Cuth's and it's AMAZING. It really is. I'm having so much fun- we get through a phenomenal amount of music. On Monday Cuth's choir performed in Durham Cathedral, which was truly awe inspiring. So we got dressed in formal clothes- complete with gowns! - to give the service (St Cuths is a non-gown wearing college so it's rather special when we wear gowns for choir performances). Normally, we practice in Castle chapel (University College chapel- for those of you who don't know, University College is located within an actual castle) which is very pretty, but doesn't compare to the splendour of the cathedral. Afterwards, we were invited to the home of the Principal of St Cuthbert's Society, Roy Boyne, for a glass of wine before we proceded on to Emilio's restaurant to have a meal together. I think that was one of the best nights of my time here in Durham so far. Tonight is Cuths Christmas Formal, so I'm getting all dressed up this evening, wearing a pretty dress and I'm quite excited, as this will be my first ever Formal and I will be singing midway through with the choir too. Tomorrow night is Mandarin and Chad's choir, then Friday is carol service in St Margaret's Church and we're singing in the cathedral again on Sunday. I have been out dancing for the first time in my life, I have made lots of friends in Durham since my time here and feel like I'm bonding with people now, I have had lots of late night intellectual discussions, I have trophied my very first wine glass (!) I have spoken to more people in the shortest amount of time than I ever have before, I have really enjoyed the debating society and I am loving Mandarin (even though it IS really difficult!!) I have met so many interesting people and had so many experiences, even if I really haven't done as much work as I should have done!

Many exciting developments to be sure.

I am returning to Manchester next Thursday, when I will be going back to college to pick up my A Level certificates and catching up with everyone. I will have spent 11 weeks here (almost 3 months, I can't quite believe it). My University experience as a whole is better than I thought it would be.

I never thought I'd say it, but all the anguish of last year, the A Level stress, the Uni applications, the Oxford rejection, the worry over where I was going to end up, all of it... It was all worth it after all.

Regrets? Many. Would I change it? No.

Roll on the 07

2006-11-18T19:22:00.000Z

Sometimes I feel I have changed beyond recognition. My life has changed beyond recognition. There is a big difference in the posts that I wrote early in this blog and the posts I'm posting now.

I guess it's because now I'm an adult.

Now I'm alone, with no support.

Things have gone wrong and I realise truly, for the first time, that no-one gives a toss. You're out there on your own. You can't rely on anybody. The only person who will see you through is yourself.

The majority of people, basically, underneath their nicey-nice exterior, that facade they present to the world, are basically shits.

Computer Woes

2006-11-17T15:36:00.000Z

The laptop is NOT fixed.

Yesterday's euphoria "yes! It works! I can have it on for half an hour without it crashing!" has burst; It has crashed well over 5 times today alone.

Only yesterday it worked fine, but today it is throwing a tantrum.

The problem is worse than ever; there are messages popping up that Systamec, bluetooth, word, webcam, Quicktime and numerous applications I'm not even running and have never run have encountered problems and must shut down. It cannot possibly be a virus; my entire computer was wiped only two days ago and I haven't connected to Broadband since. I am not connected to the internet; I have not uploaded any software; the bloody thing was restored to factory settings only yesterday.

The messages that pop up concern "total memory failure" "driver errors" and other jargon that I cannot possibly comprehend.

All I have done is played DVDs and gone on Works Suite to write an essay.

I have left three messages at John Lewis, spoken to three separate people since 9AM through to 3PM requesting that someone please call me back to help solve this problem.

There has been no response.

Would it be completely out of line that I return the computer to John Lewis and request either A) a replacement model or B) a total refund?

It's terrible that I have to resort to this, but the fault is so pronounced that I can't use my laptop without it crashing every 5 minutes and seing as it's doing it even in Safe Mode AND with full factory restore I hardly think it's something that I've done.

It is RIDICULOUS that I have spent £800 (two years worth of savings) on a laptop for this to happen after two months and no-one is helping me. I SPECIFICALLY bought a good laptop; I did weeks of research; bought it from a reputable shop which offered two years warranty. As for John Lewis turning round, telling me that they "couldn't get it to crash; we've run a full system scan; there's nothing wrong with your computer; the only option available to you is factory restore"...well, that's just plain bollocks.

How do I get them to believe me?

At the minute I feel like I am beating my head against a brick wall...while time marches on and I still don't have a (usable) laptop.

Teamwork

2006-11-16T13:01:00.000Z

I know that, in the far distant future, this will be a big problem for me. I know that I'm going to get turned down from that dream job because of it. I know that I am an intolerant, moody, harsh, judgemental *Insert noun of your choice here*

But I simply cannot do teamwork.

At highschool, when the teacher announced that we had to work in groups, I would pray that there would be an odd number in the class so that I would have a legitimate excuse to work by myself and I wouldn't have to be paired with someone else.

At primary school out would come the plaintive cry: "I want to write- Becky's writing so slowly- Here! Give it to me! I can do it better!"

Yeah. I'm glad my parents didn't name me "Patience" or "Harmony" or "Melody" or any of those other sickly-sweet girly names, because boy would that have been a misjudgement of my character. Most of the time I can keep a lid on my intolerance, but those odd little times, when we're asked to work in groups or complete an assignment using teamwork, those times, you know what I mean, then uh-oh. Out creep the sarcastic little comments, "Oh wow, making our science project electric game out of copper, which would, hmm, I don't know, electrocute the customer, is such a good idea!!" or the "Oh-My-God-I-Can't-Believe-I've-Been-Stuck-With-Such-A-Bunch-Of-Losers" expression crosses my face and I sit there, arms folded, defiantly refusing to accept their (frankly stupid!) ideas. It's not even limited to teamwork- similar thoughts pop into my mind at my flamates' idiocity: God, who on earth keeps lurpack in the CUPBOARD for five weeks after purchase and still uses it?? Or Yes, generally if a pack of clingfilm says "do not heat" on the side, then it's hardly a surprise that it's melted and burnt all over your chilli beans in the oven is it??"

It's not pretty.

I told you at the start: this is going to get me into trouble.

So this wasn't a good thing when we had to work in groups on my Poetry Lecture yesterday to pen a Sonnet. Not a good thing at all. The start of the poem was "If men were mice..." which, let's give us credit, was not a particularly easy opening to base a Shakespearean Sonnet on. Anyhow, "we" (or should I say them) after 15 minutes debate finally reached the conclusion of the line, ending with "but men are lions". Then the tricky part. What rhymes with lions? "Irons!" One bright spark proferred forth. "Yeah! Wow! That's Amazing! I like it!" bottle blonde nodded enthusiastically, while chomping like a cow on a wad of gum. "Ok...how can we get irons in?" I had tired of the entire premise and by this time was at the eye-rolling, when-will-this-torture-end??!! stage. "Irons is completely ridiculous," I drawled laconically (well, that's what it sounded like in my head, but probably sounded nothing like it) "and doesn't fit with the premise AT ALL. How about we change the word 'lions' as nothing will fit with that on the ABAB rhyme scheme."

My compatriots, gaping, looked at me like I was from outer space (which I very well may be, at times like this I seem to feel like it).

"No way! Lions and Irons is just so-so inspirational!!" The bottle blonde gushed. The other members shot me dirty looks before turning back to the poem to contemplate their next nonsensical line.

Which is how I came to end up working by myself, as usual.

Dilemma

2006-11-15T07:40:00.000Z

I need some advice:

The "one and only, biggest Cuth's event of the year" Epiphany Ball.

OR

£50 remain in my pocket and I use it (towards) going inter-railing/ travelling abroad/ Going to France to help with my French studies at some later date in the year.

What do you think?

Bearing in mind that I've already got a swish gown (two in fact!) BUT £50 is the equivalent of my budget for two weeks.

Cheap day return to Newcastle please

2006-11-14T17:04:00.000Z

I sat on Durham station, attired in my thick black winter coat, magenta scarf and stripy matching gloves. My laptop bag was strung over my shoulder, a pristine envelope wrapped tuna subway melt occupying one hand, ready and waiting to be enjoyed on the train. It was two o'clock and, breakfast naught but a distant memory, while the banana I'd hastily scoffed inbetween rushing from Lang Power to a History Seminar had long been digested, my stomach grumbled in anticipation.

It was a tricky decision, but one that had to be made. Should I unwrap the sandwich, take one bite and then the train arrive, leaving me to haul two heavy bags and a half-eaten sub (not easy) on the train? Or should I starve a little longer and wait to enjoy on the train?

Difficult.

Bt the decision was taken out of my hands when my phone, currently lost in the depths of my coat pockets, vibrated violently, announcing that I had a text. Sandwich dilemma forgotten, I rooted around in my left pocket for the offending thing. It's amazing what lost treasures I unearthed in that pocket.

Keys to door, flat and entire accommodation building...(could be useful)...One balled up mitten...(red and two sizes too small, definitely not mine, don't ask me why it was in my pocket)...one fluff coated half-eaten cookie from a week ago (an unexpected tasty treat, I no longer have many compunctions about what I eat- a cookie is a cookie after all)...a plethora of Iceland receipts...oh and that's where my photocopying card went! The mobile was finally located and I was poring over the text when the train arrived.

I glanced up, briefly. Edinburgh Waverly...nah, not mine...it's going to Edinburgh...funny, I could have sworn a minute ago the announcement for platform 2 was Newcastle...hang on a minute...

Damn it!

That is my train!

Enter girl running faster than she's possibly ever ran before across platform, laden like a pack horse to get on train while doors are beeping, just before (literally!) the doors slide shut.

--------

So why was I going to Newcastle laden like a packhorse with a laptop and a subway melt on Friday at two o'clock? You may ask.

The answer is, simply:

My bloody HP laptop. (Insert multitude of curse words here).

That laptop is the BANE of my life. It's not because of the blue screen of death.

It's not because of the frequent crashes.

It's not because I had two (TWO!!) comp sci students look at it and neither could offer me a solution and suggested taking it back to John Lewis'.

Oh no. It's because that laptop is tempramental. It's sneaky that laptop is. It can't be trusted.

You know what it did?

I'm going to tell you what it did.

It, while crashing non-stop for me, decided to behave for the John Lewis tech people servicing it, and didn't . crash . once . I got a voicemail yesterday informing me that "there's nothing wrong whatsoever with my laptop".

Why? Why??? Whhhhyyyy???? I thought we were friends laptop!!! I thought you liked me!!! Why have you betrayed me like this???!!!!! Why, oh why couldn't you show your pretty bright blue messages of "Windows has been shut down to prevent serious error being sustained to your computer" or "THREAD_STUCK_IN_DEVICE_DRIVER" or "PAGE_FAULT_IN_NON_PAGED_AREA" and reams of codes to the kind people at John Lewis who could actually SOLVE these problems??? Do you hate me??? Do you want to punish me???

I am bereft.

I loved that laptop, really I did.

My confidence has been betrayed.

Lets just hope the full Windows wipe and restore to factory conditions will fix the horrid-blue-screen problem.

In the meantime we're on a trial period, the laptop and I.

I just don't know whether we can continue from here...

Home sweet home

2006-11-04T13:18:00.000Z

"Mmmm, God that's great," I mumble to nobody in particular in between wolfing down forkfuls of cheese loaded tortilla with lumps of ham, peppers, onions and tomato, spiced with tomato salsa.

"That's only because you haven't had to cook it," Mum cocks a sardonic eyebrow.

"True...but a proper lunch is damned good- better than the toast and peanut butter that I've been surviving on every lunchtime, anyway," I concede.

I came back to Manchester yesterday. The train was 45 minutes late, I'm gnashing my teeth over the poor dial up internet connection (Uni is spiffy quicker than quick Broadband) and I had to tote home a bunch of work for a test on Monday...but boy, being home is damned good.

*Stretches languously, knowing she doesn't have to cook or wash up for the near future...well for the next two days anyway...*

Behind the times

2006-11-01T12:31:00.000Z

"Ok, take out your Donne Holy Sonnets," the lecturer boomed. Red faced, still flushed and panting slightly from the exertion of rushing from Elvet Riverside all the way up the hill to the Science Site, I stared at him incomprehensibly. Holy Sonnets? What Holy Sonnets?

Out of my peripheral vision I saw the person sitting next to me smugly pull out several weighty volumes, together with a sheaf of print-outs.

"I'm sorry, are there handouts?" I whisper, concerned to her. "I seem to have missed them."

She shoots me a distainful look, before tossing her long perfectly ironed tresses smugly. (Don't ask me how it is possible to toss hair smugly, but believe me, this was definitely smug hair tossing).

"Oh no, these are the lecture slides which I found on DUO and printed out this morning in preparation", she enlightens me, with a mega-watt whiter than white smile.

I glance into my bag, hoping, just hoping that I may have sleepwalked, accessed DUO (Durham University Online for anyone wondering at this curious abbreviation) and printed off a whole sheaf of notes too, but to no avail. Zilch. Yeah, it was an ambitious hope, seeing as I haven't even discovered where to download lecture slides from while I'm conscious, but a girl can hope, can't she?

I slump down into my chair, wishing I had ran a bit faster across town and hadn't been five minutes late into a crowded lecture theatre and had to take the only vacant seat- a seat on the very first row, right beneath the beady eye of the lecturer, sans Holy Sonnets, while resolving to catch up on the lecture in the afternoon and throroughly acquaint myself with Donne's poetry.

This pattern is ever so slightly worrying. Worrying because this isn't the first time it's happened. At pratically every poetry lecture, new terms are bandied around and, while fellow students nod sagely, I glance aorund bewildered, the only thought crossing my mind being "What's going on? Have I missed something? Has there been an extra lecture that I've not attended?" I feel like I'm behind pace, even though I am working- really I am. I'm trying, and fitting in study hours, library hours, language centre hours throughout the day, but for the first time in my life, working isn't enough. I'm not achieving enough. My reading, even though I've read two books on Donne already, never seems to be enough or, more importantly, on the right topics. In my History Seminar last week, I searched on the internet for several hours for two consecutive days, as well as reading three books on Tecumseh and Prophet, only to find that my reading was literally blown away and my arguments and thoughts demolished by fellow history students, who were better informed, more eloquent and more confident than me. Whereas I had visions of being able to speak confidently in the tutorials and get the most out of them, now I find the words sticking in my throat and I am reluctant to profer forth any of my ideas for fear of people thinking I'm an uninformed idiot.

Now don't get me wrong, I love this course. I LOVE this course. Apart from poetry, which is the module I feel the most "at sea" in, I'm convinced I've chosen the right thing and I'm at the right institution. Sound Text and Image (basically History of Art) is SO interesting, in that it ties together everything I've been doing. I'm being challenged in French; the lectures for English are organised and provocative, encouraging independent thought; I'm interested in what we're doing in History and the lecturer is really good. Even with poetry at least I haven't resorted to skipping lectures in avoidance or breaking down in tears due to feeling inadequate, like some contemporaries have done. I may be being premature, we're only four weeks in, there's still time to change this worrying pattern. What worries me though is the fact that it isn't going to get better: with essay deadlines already looming at the start of December for FIVE modules out of the six I'm taking, it's only going to get worse.

Never have I felt more more lacking or more in need of a Superhuman ability to demolish books.

My new mantra is: work, work, work and organisation, organisation, organisation!

On a positive note: it looks like I will be joining another choir: St Chad's, which will hopefully give me the additional singing practice I need and maybe help me to feel that I'm not losing my music entirely.

Snowed Under

2006-10-31T11:14:00.000Z

I have been neglecting my journal. Bad OctoberPoppy.

The reason is simple:

Inbetween rehearsals at Cuths Choir, Mandarin Class, Debating Society, French Society, trying to find inspiration to write something (anything!) for the uni newspaper, the mountains of reading I have to do, the piano practice I'm supposed to be doing, washing laundry, ironing, shopping, cooking, washing up, lectures, seminars and tutorials, socialising (networking is very important - the friend of a friend of Timothy's daddy with an indoor pool, flat in Knightsbridge and second country home may just be my future employer one day)- oh and doing the work I'm set every week for the degree I'm reading (and English, French and History is a pretty hefty work load) and finding time to sleep, my day isn't exactly packed with available slots to sit down and write a journal.

See that picture? See that picture? See that? Do you see it? THAT'S how I'm feeling right now.

No longer do I have time to watch the television or surf the web (I log on, check my emails maybe twice a day for five minutes and then log off). But I think this is a good thing. Not so good is the fact that ALL my reading is now 'literary criticism', 'Native Americans in Revolution', 'A Longman History of the United States' and a plethora of weighty French Grammar textbooks. I haven't read a SINGLE novel since I got here. I haven't done a piano practice in two weeks and I haven't warmed up or done any singing practice other than what I do in choir since I got here (!)

Despite my neglect in certain departments though, I'm enjoying myself. I'm going to a Halloween Party tonight at 24 North Bailey Club, complete in my witchy ensemble of extremely big pointy witch hat, all black and red vamp lipstick. *Cackles* Seriously, here I find you can just about wear anything and no-one will stare. On Saturday I went to Cuths Halloween Night at the bar, thinking I was being daring and 'out there', only to find no-one batted an eyelid at my admittedly outrageously over-the-top makeup (I think I was outdone by the person who went as Spongebob Squarepants in a room full of people brandishing plastic axes, wearing pretend fangs and dripping with fake blood, or maybe it was the guy wearing a tiny red tanktop, red tights that revealed everything and flashing red devil horns. Yeah, that's pretty much Cuths). We did admittedly get a few stares when we ventured into DSU (Durham Students Union) and our oddly dressed ensemble (it was only Halloween Night in Cuths, so everywhere else= dressed 'normally') proceeded to play pool and scoff chips and tartare sauce complete in hooded capes and Darth Maul rubber masks (although to scoff said chips masks obviously had to be removed- attempting to eat chips with masks on would just be plain silly *tosses mane with distain*).

Well anyhow. I have the thrilling topic of 'Gothic revival' to research (no really, actually- it IS thrilling, or at least I think so; while everyone around me snores gently and drools onto the desk I seem to scribble away). I am also going to go and make myself a peanut butter sandwich before my stomach ravenously eats its way throught my spine (or at least that's what it feels like) and who can argue with peanut butter?

Ni hao ma? Wo hen hao

2006-10-19T20:50:00.000+01:00

Returned from Mandarin class. It's two hours straight, rushes along at breakneck speed and boy does it kill my head. My mind aches from the onslaught of information. Conversely I'm enjoying this fast speed too. It's a challenge. It's bringing back memories of my start in French though. Now I just take it for granted. It's an offhand "oh yeah, I'm studying French at university". I take it for granted that I can speak full sentences or that sometimes I don't even have to translate in my mind- I just think and speak French before I even think of English; when I look at an object and see 'le feu' instead of 'fire'; 'la glace' instead of 'mirror'; 'le bureau' instead of 'desk' (that doesn't happen that often, but it's a real confidence booster when it does). I'd forgotten, though, how long it took me to accomplish this semi-fluent stage (I say semi-fluent because I haven't lived out in France...yet, give me two years and I should be out there on my year abroad!!) Learning Mandarin has taken me back to the days where instead of proferring forth suggestions in French and being able to fully understand the tutor, I used to look down at the desk, my guts churning, hoping, really hoping that I wouldn't be asked a question. When I had to speak, I would be tongue tied, watching the clock, willing the fifty minutes by until the lesson ended, and I would be out of there like a rocket, breathing a sigh of relief that the ordeal was over. If you'd asked me then, I would have said "Do a degree in French? No WAY!! I'm dropping it as soon as I can!" I looked at my teachers and thought Gosh you must be mad to like grammar and verbs and to have put yourself through such torment. Are you a masochist??? Then I don't know what happened. Something just 'clicked' and I discovered that I did have a capacity for languages after all. (I've never learned to like grammar but) French actually interests me. I like the sheer poetry and metaphorical sentences; the way the lines run; the way the words feel on my tongue. I like the drama of the language (unrestrained in a way tha English is not) and, if I'm honest, being able to brag to people that I am a linguist and speak French at them in a way that makes them go 'wow' and satisfy my (wretched, often terribly inflated) ego.

Mandarin though is different. I don't cringe inwardly as I did with French. Maybe this is because I have been through the language thing once before and this time I understand that it isn't going to be easy in the beginning, but when it 'clicks' and I start to think fluently in the language it's all worth it. On Durham University Open Day I went along to an Arabic taster session, because I've been thinking of picking up a third language for a while (Italian was my other choice, but as my mother rightly pointed out, I can teach myself that so why not go for something more exotic, more challenging?) And I hated it. Hated. I felt like I did at the start of my French quest, all over again. Looked down at the desk, praying the teacher would pass me over. Watched the clock and the minutes tick excrutiatingly by. So I thought again. Signed up for classes at the Language Centre (ie: extra, not part of my degree of English French and History). I thought of Mandarin as a 'go along and see what's it like', but I think, even though it's only been two lessons, that I'm in it for the long haul...

Whether I will be saying that in a couple of weeks when the fun really starts and I'm collapsing from information overload (we're already onto full sentences: "Is this a female toilet? Where can I find a female toilet?" (Don't ask me to put that into Pinyin) Already! Sentences! In the SECOND lesson!!) is another matter...

Worked into a lather

2006-10-17T12:02:00.000+01:00

It had been two weeks. I hadn't done any washing. I surveyed my drawer. Two and a half pairs of socks. Two and a half pairs of socks?? Is that IT?? Well obviously it was. I am used to socks 'magically' just appearing at home, as a magic fairy* washes and dries them for me. The thought crossed my mind, briefly, that it might just be time to locate the campus laundrette. But then I remembered the mile long list of things I have to do and pushed this impending crisis to the back of my mind. "I'll worry about it later..." I resolved.

Three days later. Confronted with the remainder of one sock and absolutely no clean clothes (the best being a crumpled sweatshirt, no-so-white shirt and a pair of muddy jeans), I realised that it was futile to resist: even though I'd been dreading this moment since arrival, I was going to have to face my worst fears and figure out, for the first time in my life, how a washing machine works.

DUM DUM DUUUUUMMMM!!!

So, armed with my washing powder, clothes carefully stowed away in a Waitrose bag-for-life, which I'd purchased earlier that morning (ha, I can relish in my Blue Peter moment- see my moment of triumph, that's forward planning!) I picked my way past the rubble on my bedroom floor down to the laundrette. The laundrette is at once a comforting and horrifying place. Comforting because it is the one college room which is even messier than my study-bedroom: you have to navigate your way through piles of crumpled garments that have been chucked out of washing machines so they can be used by other people, while three broken beds are randomly stacked against one wall. Horrifying because, well, the machines are so complicated. They're snazzy! And have flashing buttons! And a million options- Delicates! Whites! Lingerie! Spin! Hot! Cold! Warm! I pressed 'warm' tentatively, because I had vague recollections of Mum telling me that's how you wash jeans, and you know what? The machine beeped at me! Beeped!! I asn't expecting a response!

So anyway. I managed to load my clothes into the drum without any problem. I managed to press the right options. I managed to shut the door without issue. I had remembered my washing powder and my fabric softener. I was starting to feel a little more confident about washing my own clothes by my very own self. Thoughts of "Yes, OctoberPoppy, you can DO this!" began to chase through my mind.

And so I got over-confident.

I was liberally shaking some powder into the powder drawer, when a guy ran over, arms flailing, gesticulating wildly.

"Nooooooooo!!" He cried. "What are you doing??? You DO NOT put washing powder in there! It's clearly labelled rinsing agent!!" I dumbly followed the jabbing of his accusing finger and read the sign at snail pace. It did indeed say 'rinsing agent' (remind me again why I can comprehend the finer aspects of romanesque architectural features, but not operate something so simple as a washing machine?) This was not the worst however. After the debacle of pouring washing powder in the rinsing agent drawer, I carefully positioned my bottle of fabric softener on top of the washing machine, to read the instructions. "Full load...cap....pour one caps worth of Comfort...ok...I can do that" I muttered to myself. Confident of my ability to pour the fabric softener in the right partition (I checked this was the right drawer this time), I reached over.

That's when it happened.

My arm somehow caught the bottle and sent it flying, a pool of fabric softener wooshing out of the bottle...straight into my face and down my front.

I have never been so grateful that I wear glasses. With some lens wipes, my specs were quickly saved. Had it contacted my eyes, which it surely would have had it not been for my wearing glasses, I may very well have been blinded. I stood there, in a pool of comfort, my favourite aqua green jumper rapidly absorbing the half bottle of fabric softener which I'd just spilled. I stood shock still (I think we've already established the fact that I was having a somewhat "thick" day) before it occurred to me that I couldn't very well leave the comfort to completely ruin the garment and that I had no option but to whip off my jumper and stick it into the machine.

If you are reading this, are at Durham University, and have recently been traumatised by the vision of a girl running back to her room attired in nothing but a pair of jeans and bra, I sincerely apologise.

The jumper washed fine, by the way. People have remarked though, on the rather strong flowery smell that my aqua green jumper is imbued with. I don't tell them it's the result of tipping half a bottle of Comfort on it.

*ahem, Mum

Freshers Flu

2006-10-17T08:34:00.000+01:00

"Oh my God, you sound terrible!" My mother exclaimed as she came to Durham to visit on Saturday.

It's true: I do.

Fresher's Flu

Has left me feeling

Decidedly blue.

So the mad frantic whirl of socialising, drinking and trying to memorise as many names as humanely possible has been put on hiatus. For practically the two whole weeks I've been here, early nights (I'm talking like 9PM here- the horror!!) have been on the cards, as have comforting hot drinks and sensible evening activities, such as sitting in front of the TV all evening.

No wild parties here. No drunken games of Twister here. No eating jelly out of a glass because every other piece of crockery is stacked by the fridge waiting to be washed up. Nope, not here. Although, saying that, I have joined Cuths Choir, started Mandarin (which is worryingly more interesting than my degree, although God does my head hurt), been to a church service and actually ENJOYED the sermons, joined the debating society, have French society and conversation tomorrow and participated in a film marathon (5 films back to back replete with an entire box of cherry liquers).

So excuse me for not posting here. I think the hacking, chesty cough, sandpaper-sore throat, raging fever and headache justifiably excuses my relative non-activity.

Stayed tuned...

Torn

2006-10-10T06:55:00.000+01:00

I think...university is like living in a bubble, where everything is more intense than "real life".

I feel like...I haven't quite landed yet.

This seems like...being on a carousel that I can't get off, but am not sure whether I want to get off anyway, or stay on for the ride.

I wonder...why ALL the good choirs hold their rehearsals on Monday evening.

I feel happy that...my course looks great- I can't wait to get my teeth into my modules (I won't be saying that when it's 5AM and I've been up all night frantically writing an essay).

I feel sad that...I've let my music go and the music side of Durham is not as good as I thought it would be (or is it just that the JRNCM and the Hallé Youth Choir are hard to live up to??)

I worry that...I'm going to lose my musical identity.

I want...to discover a new side of me, the side that is tough and resilient and can talk to anyone. The side that is up for anything. The side that accepts 'oh well, that's life' when I don't get something I want, instead of feeling that every rejection is a personal blow from which I'll never recover (typical Perfectionist trait). The side that is going to study Mandarin; the side that socialises without restraint or embarrassment; the side that will push for writing an article for the student newspaper; the side that enables me to enter a crowded room alone and still make conversation with anybody. Yet, I feel anguish that this discovery and unfurling of a new aspect of my personality means that I as a whole am changing. I want to go forward, but I clutch at my old, comfortable, familiar personality as a child does with a comfort blanket.

Overall, I feel...like Durham was a good choice, but why is evolving and growing as a person so overwhelming?

A Life in the day of a Fresher

2006-10-07T10:10:00.000+01:00

“Unnnngggg” a pyjama clad arm emerges from beneath the huddle of bedclothes. The snooze button is located; the piercing drill of the alarm clock ceases; she sinks back into the comforting blanket of sleep. All is well again in her world.

Until five minutes later, that is.

“Where is it? I- oh all right, all right, I hear you, goddamit!” I sigh, exasperated, as the incessant beep of the alarm clock doubles in frequency. (Never mind the trill of “Psycho”, the sound of the alarm clock is enough to send shivers of dread down my spine). The prospect of sleep is now well and truly shot. I cast a baleful glare at the innocuous LCD face of the alarm clock, which so efficiently destroyed my peaceful reverie, before glancing away. Looked back. Is that-? Could that really be-? “NINE O’CLOCK???!!” Yes, dammit, it IS! The planned peaceful and leisurely breakfast quickly descends into a panicked flurry of activity, before I hastily grab my thick winter coat (scoffed at in Manchester, necessary if you want to avoid frostbite here) and exit, only to return 5 minutes later. “Where are my keys? Where are my keys? WHERE ARE MY KEYS?? oh. They’re in my pocket, after all.” After taking a deep, calming breath, I ascertain where exactly it is that I’m going (Durham is not exactly a large place, but it’s amazing the number of times I’ve managed to get myself lost) and re-exit. “Great start to the day, OctoberPoppy”, I mutter grimly to myself as I stride down the cobbled hill. “What a fantastic way to head off to your very first lecture. Oh yes, you’re going to make a marvellous first impression aren’t yoWAAAHHH!!”

Wet slippery cobbles + Impractical shoes + Not watching where one is going = falling flat on one’s face straight into the mud and slush of the cobbles.

Red faced, I pick myself up, desperately avoiding the stares of several glamorous, perfectly made up, pashmina attired students that look like they’ve just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. I stare fixedly at the ground as I walk away, fighting to swallow my humiliated tears, whilst trying to avoid looking at the huge splodge of mud that mars my once immaculate coat. In a daze, I arrive at Elvet Riverside (sounds more like the name of a magical creature from “Lord of the Rings” than a grey concrete monolith in Durham, but there you go), and make my way through the labyrinth of stairwells and corridors to the room where my French induction is being held. To my relief, something is actually going to go well with this day- surprisingly I am not late after all, and I join the back of the queue with something like relief (after the two and a half hours spent queuing the previous day for a campus card- in the presence of chandeliers and carpet in a white tent, oddly enough- you would never think that I’d actually be grateful to see a queue, but there you have it). What a shame this was actually the Spanish queue, not the French one, but I somehow still managed to realise my mistake in time and not be late.

After my lecture (which I enjoyed, shock horror), I journeyed up the hill to Dunelm House for Freshers’ Fair. Oh my dear Lord. Now, now, faced with the swarming crowds, the somewhat flustered appearance of a fellow student who I’d met on the way makes sense. Cattle market is not the word. I manage to battle my way through the hordes and the first stall I make my way to is “LGBTA”. Hmmm, sounds interesting, I thought. Wonder what that stands for? Dumbly, I accept a flyer from the woman at the stall who seems unhealthily eager to prise the money for a life membership from my hand. That’s when it hits- lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender association. “Oh, but you don’t understand-” I cut through the woman’s spiel about how I can feel at ease and comfortable and free to be who I am. “I’m not a lesbian!” “Oh well, if you’re sure-” The woman’s look is disbelieving, ‘ha, she’s clearly in denial’, being stamped firmly all over it. “No, truly! I didn’t realise what you stand for-” I back away as hurriedly as possible and retreat down the stairs, into L’enfer. It’s hot, disorientating, cramped…I quickly lose the will to say “no” and accumulate sheafs of paper, weighty booklets and other paraphernalia. As my arms begin to ache, I realise that a bag is sorely needed. I stop, look around- ah, BSM has plastic carrier bags on their stall! That will do! Purposefully, I stride over and accost the salesman (funny, normally it’s them harassing me) and ask him outright what I have to do to get a bag. Safely signed up for driving lessons I don’t want, with a made-up email address (learn that trick and use it!) I stuff my collection of assorted leaflets into my newly acquired bag, complete with a rather nifty ‘tri-highlighter’ and BSM plastic key ring. (I like the way they say it’s only £20 for a solitary driving lesson- as though it’s somehow not the equivalent of an entire weekly budget for food shopping).

Speaking of food shopping, I remember after the ‘fun’ of Freshers Fair, that the cupboards are empty, the fridge contains nothing edible and it’s reached that marvellous time- shopping (Unless you are able to concoct an evening meal consisting solely of Worcester Sauce, Pineapple and a battered can of Chopped Tomatoes- if so, you are obviously a better cook than myself). I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated home as much as I do now. I have learnt that it really isn’t the best move to throw things in your shopping cart, get to the checkout, panic and hope desperately that you have enough money. I have also learnt that saving money on Supermarket own brand goods isn’t always preferable to spending more but getting a superior product: Tesco Value stick-in-your-throat, consistency-of-glue, Peanut Butter doesn’t really cut it for me. I have learnt that the teabags which just “appear” at home actually cost money (shock horror!) and that, when self-catering, it is sometimes necessary to weigh up “Do I spend my last pennies on another pint of Snakebite in the college Bar, or do I actually eat tomorrow??” The final, and perhaps most important, thing I have learnt is that it is all too easy to fill your shopping trolley in the supermarket with “essentials” (hey, I desperately needed those Andrex toilet rolls and kilo bag of pasta twirls!) but lugging home six heavy shopping bags is no easy feat (and trust me, when you puff and pant home, laden like a pack horse, red in the face, feeling the necessity of stopping for a break every 10 steps, you WILL get odd looks).

After shopping and my culinary efforts in producing dinner (which involve the highly strenuous task of cracking open a frozen pizza box), I hurriedly retreat to my bedroom to begin the (very important, you understand) task of choosing what to wear to the bar this evening. I have to say, I am regretting my decision to leave the LBD (girls, you know what I mean) out of the suitcase and am instead left with the choice of a lowcut polka dot dress (no thanks, I don’t want to expose my entire cleavage to the nippy Durham air, thankyou very much), jeans and a top that isn’t actually stained with the residue of my attempts to concoct Sweet and Sour stir fry (a burnt, congealed mess that ended up being chucked to the bottom of the rubbish bin- you can see now why I stick with the frozen pizza) or- well actually, those are my only two options. As I stand before this veritable plethora of choice, the thought strikes me, delicately…for Christ’s Sake, OctoberPoppy, it’s only a drink in a dimly lit, smoky bar! Who’s going to be looking at you? (Who said I had high self-esteem??) So I opt for the sensible option of jeans and top- the going out, having a drink and socially mingling is more important than wearing a pretty dress which I am sure to contract Pneumonia in. After all, after a day like today, I think the drink is sorely needed…

Update

2006-10-03T11:05:00.000+01:00

Well I arrived here safe and sound. To contrary belief, going to university wasn't the trial of the century, or akin to climbing Mount Everest after all. I don't know why I was so stressed at all. My train was on time (I feared I'd miss it- I took a gamble and bought a student getaway on a specific train); nor did it blow up (I had visions of Potters Bar or the Madrid fiasco). In Durham I didn't collapse on the cobbled pavement under the weight of my luggage (although I almost killed myself dragging home my shopping from Tesco- home delivery is calling my name!) and the taxi on the other end was only £3 and the driver put my (very heavy- whhhhyy did I buy saucepans and textbooks in Manchester????) luggage in the boot for me (UNHEARD of in Manchester, where drivers deliberately take the longest route and sit and pretend they don't see you struggling with a huge suitcase into the back). My room is really nice and modern now I've got all my posters and wall hangings up (although please, do excuse the huge black mark on the floor- not my fault; it was like that when I came, honest).

I have been in Durham for four days. I feel as though I've been here two weeks. I've done SO much it's untrue. On arrival day we had a formal dinner (complete with tubs of playdoh-how random) and then Karaoke. The next day was spent decorating my room, journeying out on an expedition to Tesco (and Aldi, although I shouldn't admit to that- I got bananas, apples and oranges for £3! Bargain!) and on Band Night in the evening. I also had a 'party' late at night in my room (no music, just intellectual conversation and a glass of red wine with some really interesting people- I met this Norwegian guy who lived in Houston, Texas for 6 years and in Paris for one year and speaks 3 foreign languages fluently, how amazing is that??). Yesterday, I collected all my registration forms (which I have to do today), went to my introductory speech for my course, Combined Arts, signed up for classes at the Language Centre in Mandarin (so altogether I'm studying English, French, History and Mandarin...it's starting to sink in now that maybe, just maybe, I'm being a tad ambitious...) and dressed up and went to the Grease themed Evening in Cuths Bar (not to sound like a gushing schoolgirl, but they had a disco and a bouncy castle and everything!) I have also learnt how to cook on an electric cooker; that Waitrose really is expensive (I didn't believe the people who told me it was until I actually had to shop there!); that when cooking sausages it is better to overcook them and be safe rather than sorry- I certainly don't want to spend the entire evening worrying whether I've given myself food poisoning again- and I have also met hundreds of people (my voice is starting to give out a bit from having to shout over the really loud music in the bar when talking to people!) I haven't been clubbing (having never been, I wanted to see what it was like) but to be honest, I'm happy with meeting people in the Bar and at the College Ents and so I don't think I've missed very much. The people in Cuths are really very friendly- everyone says hi and smiles and and I get on ok with my flatmates (I don't have much in common with them and they're into clubbing, which isn't my scene, but it could be a lot worse). What else? I have tried drinks I have never tried before- my favourite so far is Snakebite (cider and blackcurrant, it's nicer than it sounds!) although I suppose I've only ever had two alcoholic drinks in my life (that and Barcardi and Coke). Seriously, I am SUCH a lightweight- the other night, after half a pint of snakebite and half a glass of red wine I was really giggly and found it a bit difficult to walk straight!!

There are some negatives, however. While my flatmates are reasonably quiet, the people above me have a love for dance and techno music (played so loud that my whole bed vibrates from the force of the bass) and when they get drunk it's invariably played until 5AM (although I went up to see them about it and they've switched it off earlier and had it on quieter since then, so last night I just slept through it). From what I've asked around the college, it's pretty much noisy everywhere- lots of people are having late parties everynight and coming in drunk, so what can you do?? Also, I put two frozen 'emergency' (ie: if I'm ill and can't go shopping) boxes of pizzas in the freezer and one of the boxes 'disappeared' overnight!! I didn't say anything, as my flatmates have offered me things like a glass of wine and I'd feel like a cheapskate, but I'm glad I've found out now, as I won't be putting anything nice in the freezer or fridge from now on, unless I eat it on the day I purchase it!!

I spent today queuing for various modules (luckily I got everything I wanted- 2 English Modules-Intro to the Novel and Intro to Poetry- 2 French modules- French Lang and Language, Power and the making of the French Nation- and one History module- racism in C19th America). I also spent two hours this afternoon registering for my campus card (now I am officially a student at Durham University. Strangely enough, it doesn't feel too different to previously) in what was basically a big white tent, with chandeliers and a carpet, oddly enough. The only positive is that I met lots of people in the queue from other colleges oh, and also, it's a NUS certified card so I can get student discounts with it- I'm glad I didn't pay for the 'NUS Extra' card now! My feet still kill from all that standing around, but at least I've done all my registration and can enjoy tomorrow (Matriculation and Freshers Fair). There's a Toga Night on in Cuths Bar this evening (where basically everyone wanders round in a bedsheet with a few strategically placed safety pins) but I don't think I'm going, as firstly I don't have a bedsheet, secondly I have nothing to wear beneath a bedsheet even if I bought one (and I don't think the entire student population of Cuths Bar would want to see me in my undies- in fact I'm sure they'd be scarred for life) and, thirdly, I am really tired! I think I've come out of my shell a bit more at uni and I'm a lot more confident when it comes to asking for help and directions. I'm finding that with a smile and 'hi' you can pretty much talk to anyone. However, I also feel really really old and disgustingly sensible- I want to go to bed early (before midnight) and I don't know how others stay up partying until 5AM and then wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 9! I'm also cooking proper meals (although when lectures start and I'm cold, tired and hungry, the option of picking up a fattening, empty calorie meal of a pasty and iced finger from Greggs will probably be too tempting to resist!) while my flatmates are subsisting on meals of cereal morning, noon and night. I don't know how they do it! Any less than 8 hours sleep and OctoberPoppy quickly transforms into the grumpy monster, never mind running around all day and then going clubbing again night after night and surviving on 4 hours sleep!

Overall though, I'm enjoying my time here much more than I thought I would, although I miss my family and am looking forward to them visiting. Anyway, I'd better dash, as I have to go and start tea (that's 'evening meal' for non-Brits; I've confused many an international student with that one)!!

High and Low Notes

2006-09-29T22:40:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-26T19:30:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-25T12:50:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-24T15:34:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-23T18:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-20T22:37:00.000+01:00

"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

2006-09-18T19:01:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-14T15:38:00.000+01:00

"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

2006-09-13T21:53:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-11T14:19:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-09-08T13:57:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-06T11:40:00.000+01:00

"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

2006-09-04T21:52:00.001+01:00

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

2006-09-03T15:34:00.000+01:00

The mouse

"Are you ready?"

"Jesus, that thing moves at the speed of light!"

"I'll be back..."

Panic

2006-09-01T18:08:00.000+01:00

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.

Oh yeah, baby

2006-08-29T00:23:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-26T18:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-24T16:50:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-21T23:21:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-20T15:56:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-08-18T17:56:00.000+01:00

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

Breaking News

2006-08-13T18:27:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-12T23:34:00.000+01:00

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?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“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"

2006-08-09T23:48:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-06T19:51:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-05T18:31:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-04T19:48:00.000+01:00

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.