Hmmm . . . . I watching the Take That Star Stories thing, which isn't as funny as the adverts (the adverts for the Tom Cruise edition are best). This is the opposite to Fonejacker, which is a lot funnier than the adverts suggest (but which the critics hate) . . .

Anyway, I've had a week's "holiday" in Brighton/London (many thanks to Ed and Linda for putting me up for most of the time). I say "holiday", because in these modern times it seems like it's only a real holiday if you leave the country. But then, holidays themselves are often much more stressful than normal life, in my experience, which leads me to think that the notion of holidaying can only be applied to lazy beach-style holidays . . . the kind of holiday that would drive me insane with boredom.

I got mildly addicted to playing Animal Crossing, which is pretty pathetic. We also went to the arcade on the pier and spent lots of 2p and 10p pieces in those ridiculous games (what are they called?), and I got tendonitis from playing some mad pig-race game crossed with air hockey. Some of the most fun we had, however, was throwing pebbles at a can on the beach. That sea air does funny things to you. I also learned a new card trick with which I have since impressed at least 4 people.

Good holiday. Pictures to follow.

Ian bought me this dag-tastic book on learning to drum. It's so eighties it's untrue. But hey, if you need to know how to do a pressed drumroll as opposed to your everyday common or garden drum roll, this is the book you need. I'll have to scan some bits of it in so everyone can appreciate the cheesiness.

There was something else, but I can't remember what it was.

The limits of science

It's sometimes worrying how little scientists know about specifics. At present I'm in quite a lot of pain because (I assume) of ovulation. Apparently one in five women experience this, but for me it's not a regular thing: sometimes it's painful, other times there's nothing, and the pain varies from a mild sensation to full-on curled-up-on-a-sofa agony (actually, it feels a little like trapped wind). Anyway, there's a few theories, but doctors genuinely don't know what specifically causes the discomfort. I find this to be incredibly annoying!

Twas the Heartyeah (www.myspace.com/heartyeah) album launch gig last night at the Grapes. The guys are right: when they play the Grapes they have no technical problems at all, and sound really great. Anywhere else, however, and their set is riddled with electronic difficulties.

They were excellent last night, and so were Calf by Calf, who I'd neither heard of or seen before. The other band were complete pants, to use old skool terminology. I feel a sort of pity for bands who are investing time in playing music which had its day in grotty 16+ clubs seveal years ago. They had a crap name to boot.

Anyway, there was supposed to be an aftershow party at the Runaway Girl, but for some reason the guy playing music there (singing guitar, harmonica, loops) stayed on stage for absolutely ages. He was fairly atrocious by that stage and had started doing lame covers, which his friends found hilarious. The reason I mention this place is not because of aftershow plans going awry (we went home after one drink there), but because being in that place was like stepping into a David Lynch film. I particularly had this sensation when I came out of the ladies' toilet into a sort of antechamber with busy red wallpaper and about 5 doors. I was stood there for a few seconds before I worked out which door led back downstairs, and then when I went back into the bar I realised the whole place was quite surreal: velvet curtains, red and blue lighting, low ceiling, strange convex mirrors on the back wall. Freaky.

No backwards speaking dwarves though.*


*Which is what Ian instantly asked when I told him of the Lynchian bar.

Does anyone else find Roger Federer ineffably boring? He's so strictly business it's untrue, both off and on court. As soon as the Wimbledon final began I immediately lost interest, because there's no trace of humanity (or humour) in either Federer or Nadal. I was rooting for Djokovic, who has a strictly business haircut, but who actually has a personality. I look forward to him beating Federer in the future. It seems to me that a lot of top sportspeople have no personality to speak of, particularly in more dangerous pursuits. Look at Formula 1 or Moto GP. The only remarkable thing about them is just how tedious they actually are. Perhaps, it occurred to me, they need to be like that in order to do what they do. In the same way, many sports competitors must be erring on the weirder side of OCD (we're all obsessive compulsive about some things), because discipline and control are fundamental to what they do. So it's not that surprising that Nadal lines up his drinks bottles with the labels facing the same way and spends moments adjusting his socks, or that Djokovic bounces the ball at least 15 times before he actually serves the damned thing.

At least bizarre obsessions are remotely interesting however. I'd rather that than the dullness of RF . . . and the loquaciousness with which he is greeted by pundits only serves to make him appear more boring.

Give me Venus any day. Some time ago there was a massive Williams sister backlash, which I'm pleased has subsded. I felt that the undercurrent to that was sheer snobbery, and perhaps even a edge of institutional (latent) racism. Venus has always proved herself to be an amazing athlete with true mental grit as far as I'm concerned.

Maybe I've turned anti-mainland Europe?

I suppose I can take my 'Free Alan Johnston' banner off my page now. It's stupid to say I felt so relieved when Ian shouted up this morning that he'd been freed, but bizarrely I really did get a nice feeling in my belly. I'm glad I had that reaction, because once I heard him talking about the whole ordeal I couldn't believe what a humble, intelligent and uncynical person he was - and how phenomenally articulate and grounded he appeared after such an experience. When he was doing the international press conference from Jerusalem, I looked up at the clock and thought, "Shit, he's been talking for 40 minutes!" But I suppose when you've had nothing to do but go over and over the few things that have happened to you, then maybe you would be prepared to talk about it all so eloquently, and be glad of the opportunity to engage in a dialogue at all.

It's a trite thing to say, but I was really impressed with him.

In a completed unrelated matter, I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean 3 tonight, and it was completely ludicrous and had the most convoluted plot since Mission:Impossible, but it was still enjoyable. Possibly I scoffed and guffawed more than I genuinely chuckled or laugher, but hey. You have to take it for what it is . . . which judging by the ending is a filthy, commercial endeavour to extort money from audiences further by extending the franchise to a FOURTH movie. For godsake . . . .

sucked dry

What is it about Sundays? I think it's because I have to go to my new school tomorrow to sort out various things (my timetable, for one), and in the lead up to visiting I've been having uncomfortable teaching dreams. I might start taking bets on how long I'll stick it out.

Skoda update

I was wrong. It was inedible because it had been under studio lights for several days. Apparently it was composted and used on allotments. Cake compost? Weird.

The tasty waste . . .

I'm talking about the over-long Skoda advert in which team of bakers create a huge car cake. The first time I saw it, I wondered what would happen to it, and Ian suggested that the shareholders probably had a party and ate it all.

No. Apparently not. The cake car was actually held together in places by glue, not icing, and as such was inedible. Ridiculous.

Ultra short stories wanted

I'm trying to start some projects with which to occupy myself, and I want to make a zine of 50-word stories written in the sci-fi genre (hopefully, if I maintain an interest, other genres will follow). The rules are that the story MUST be 50 words exactly, but it can have a title which is not included in the word count. I'd also quite like some pictures or illustrations, so any kind of submission would be gratefully received - write as many stories as you want (you could do a trilogy, even). Here are a couple of my early attempts:

The ship's spectrogram flickered and data filled the vast control screens. Kirk Balzac breathed deeply in relief as he strolled over to the door release mechanism. Outside lay the mythical forests of Mophistu. But in the instant that the doors began hissing open, Kirk’s lungs dissolved: he’d forgotten his helmet.

Damien’s heart thumped. The dull beat was the amphibocretonian guards heading their way. He shook the semi-conscious figure on the floor.
“Evelyn, quick!”
He followed her tearful, drowsy gaze: her leg was trapped under the dislodged fluxoradio command unit. He paused momentarily, gave her one last passionate kiss, and sprinted.

Please contribute: I'd be very grateful.

Bollocks

I posted an anti-comments comment on Post Secret, and didn't realise that my comment would link to my blog (google automatically signs me in, see).

If you've come to my blog from Post Secret, I honestly love cats and animals and don't wish to harm them with bleach . . . or anything else for that matter. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, visit www.postsecret.com) That said, I could definitely look after my goldfish a little better . . .

Itchy

Itchy feet and itchy brain. I'm slowly starting to get into more of a rhythm, though. The major problem presented by completing my course is actually stepping off the treadmill, and then, once off, not feeling terrible about not being on the treadmill. Even though I've been doing productive things over the last two weeks, I still feel immensely guilty about wasting my time and not achieving . . . and I think I'm just at the point of adapting. I hope it isn't like this in the Sumeer holidays to come, or I'll only have four proper weeks of guilt-free time to myself.

I don't think my complex is just about being in work-mode though. I remember hating going back to university after the Summer because people would inevitably ask, "So what did you do?" and if you didn't have an amazing story about travelling in South-East Asia or volunteering in Peru, you (well, me) felt completely uninteresting and uncool.

But then, it's the kind of question you ask people when you either don't know them (very well) or you don't really car, and which, annoyingly, you end up asking people yourself when you either don't know them enough to chat to or don't much care about their response. Aren't we all incredibly fake and rude? But it would be ruder not to fake, I suppose. But then, why don't we care? Hmmm . . .

It's alright everyone - I'm ok!

Yes, parts of Sheffield are seriously flooded ("seriously", as in more than 200 people waiting to get winched from the tops of buildings), and mainly in David Blunkett's constituency which comprises much of the low-lying industrial quarter in the north of Sheffield, alongside the River Don.

We're very safe, I think, up on the hilly side. In fact, I didn't even have an inkling that this was going on, as I've been holed up with my cold all day long.

Oh well. Met Check says it'll be sunny tomorrow!

Phew

I'm deleting various tracks that I never listen to off my iTunes for the express purpose of making room for The Sims. Ayway, I've found myself just listening to purely classical music. Sometimes it really feels purifying.

I had an ace day yesterday, shopping and killing bluebottles effectively and such, then I went out for a drink with some PGCE friends and things became rubbish on the way back (not because of of my friends, I hasten to add). Such is life.

How did it know I love Radiohead?

You are sorta emo. You listen to Radiohead and enjoy their eclectic sound, but haven't pushed past into the underground indie subculture. The closest to emo attire that you own is maybe a few band t-shirts and tight jeans.

AreYouEmo.com

To evoke your sympathy . . .

I've felt crap all day. I woke up with a bunged up head and a sore throat, and now I'm dosed up on paracetamol and feeling drowsy and snivelly. This isn't a good way to feel when your house is infested by bluebottles. I walked into the kitchen before and felt so defeated by the tens of bluebottles buzzing around the window that I got the hoover and sucked up the vast majority. Yes, ALIVE. The irritatating thing is that I have no idea how they're getting into the kitchen. They're such disgusting creatures. But I suppose their purpose is helping things to decompose is a valid one. What surprises me is just how long they're around for. How many eggs then maggots does one bluebottle spawn, and how many maggots does it take before a carcass is soft-material free? It's both disgusting and fascinating, like a toddler intent on scrutinising dog turds.

What do you get if you cross Christian Bale with Cliff Richard?

Ziggy from Big Brother! Am I the only one who's noticed this? (Yes, I know I decried BB, but I have a lot of time on my hands now - what's a lazy girl to do?) Seriously, he looks like Christian Bale with longer, bleached hair, then he begins to talk and his mouth makes Cliff Richard-type shapes. Maybe there's a bit of Macca there too. Tres unsexy.

I forgot

Look how much my Yorkshire puddings rose! It's ridiculous! It meant they didn't taste quite right. Nice though.

Update

I feel extremely groggy today, so I took one of Ian's hayfever things to see if it was that, but I still feel heavy in the head and have a sore throat, so I'll put it down to illness instead.

There's just been a massive downpour here - only ten minutes or so, but at times so heavy that the rain bouncing off the ledge outside comes up through the open window 3 and a half feet up. I love torrential rain, particularly when it's accompanied by thunder and lightning. There's just something satisfyingly cathartic about it. Plus it gives me the excuse to laze around rather than actually tax my brain cells and do something.

I have been doing some things though:
* I've lost count of how many bluebottles I've swatted.
* I've trussed up the tomatoes out back (that's what I was doing when the rain came a-tumbling)
* I've become mildly addicted to Facebook and then filled with anxiety at the idea of having to communicate with many of the girls from Fenham's "Catholic mafia" (as they have been termed by a family member)
* I've made a grate for the drain outside (I'm trying to block off rat access points)
* I foam-filled the rat runs behind the washing machine
* I potted plants up
* I made an ace CD sleeve for a mix-CD I made
* I spray-painted a tall lamp stand that me and Ian found which will become a coat/hat stand in the future.

Actually, that's probably about it. In fact, I've been horrednously slack and therefore bored. I was so bored the other night that I ended up cutting a fringe into my hair. It doesn't look too bad though:


My eyes look extremely scary in these pictures, but you can also make out my freckles which are much more visible this year. Bless.

I'm going to go and take some paracetamol I think, then I'll pretend I'm motivating myself to do something, when actually I'm just going to make a cup of tea, dunk biscuits and watch TV.

Unfortunately there are no pictures of how ace I looked as Alex from A Clockwork Orange at my end-of-PGCE party! Gutted. I'll post other pictures soon though.

Arrivederci.

Now I'm REALLY in a mood

As if it isn't bad enough having to prepare an extremely boring presentation for a college day tomorrow, two terrible things have happened: -

1) They killed off Stingray! How could they?

2) Scrubs no longer has the 6pm slot on E4 thanks to Big Brother.

It's enough to make me scream . . .