And I'm back in the Shire!!! Quest-worthy train journey consisting of 3 hours, 3 trains and 2 spectacularly preposterous green welly women opposite me on the third one. After snoozing uncomfortably through the Richmond-Reading leg, a bit of mild entertainment from completely oblivious posh people was very welcome. One of them was wearing what looked like a grey cape trimmed with animal-fur pom-poms (a sure-fire way to antagonise me). Perhaps this was the reason for her confusion when the driver told us that at Charlbury passengers could only alight from the first three coaches, A, B and C. She asked the bloke next to me if we were in carriage C; he said yes, to which she replied "Oh yes, A, B, C, how terribly logical". Well... yeah. It's an unconventional way of listing things but it works quite well... This was just after claiming very loudly that ballerinas "never eat, because of course they're trained not to" (yeah, that's definitely how I got this figure, love). Ahhh. I love posh people. Only for purposes of personal entertainment though.
I've discovered that simultaneously watching Family Guy with the person you're talking to over the internet is waaaaay more fun than it sounds. (I'm actually doing it right now, and I haven't even got my usual glass of wine in my hand. So you see I must be right.) I mean, Family Guy is always frickin hilarious but there's just something about being able to quote to each other what's literally just been on screen...
I think I'm going slightly mad actually. I don't know if it's to do with the fact I have the strangest sleeping patterns known to man, creating a sort of Dali-esque surrealist picture of real life when I actually am awake, or if I'm just beginning to take after my nan, gawd bless her. Either way, I must apologise if these posts start turning into even more random and ill thought-out junk that before... I haven't even carried on last night's musicals tangent yet, so that may have to wait again. It's my favouritest thing in the world ever though, so it won't be long. In fact, J told me just the other day that I'm slightly obsessive. Considering that whenever he asks me what I'm listening to the answer is usually "Spring Awakening" or "Rent" he's probably got a good point.
Right, now considering I've forgotten the point of this blog, what I was talking about anyway, and basically the reason I'm even still awake (oh yes; Family Guy, but that has finished now) I'm gonna bid you a fond farewell.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Hmmmm...
Hmmm. Don't fully understand why the last post has turned into tiny pixie writing. Working on it...
Stop sign in the garden
After a relatively blah day today comprising of a completely unfathomable dance lecture, a minor bit of work in the library and a nap, my mood was brightened considerably by the discovery of a large stop sign in the square bit of paving that substitutes as our front garden. Apparently it's been there ages and I hadn't noticed. I believe the procuring of this item probably falls under the headings of 'theft' and 'mindless vandalism', but you haven't been a proper student until you own your very own road sign. So high fives to Doodle and Ballygirl for that.
I was on my way to the first musical rehearsal of the year when I chanced upon this fine thing. Good to meet the new cast, especially as most of them are new faces - the only people who are in it for the third year running are me and Hose, who is choreographing, although we're not entirely sure if this is really cool or deeply sad (we're giving it the benefit of the doubt and going with incredibly cool for now). It feels like we've hardly finished last year's musical, even though that ended in March... stuff seems to go by so quick at uni. I'm well aware that next week's deadline will creep up on me and then suddenly jump out and say "boo!" and I'll shit myself because I'll have done no work, then, quite surprisingly, it'll be Christmas and I'll desperately be ploughing through next semester's reading lists. Although at least I'll be doing it on the beach in St Lucia... yes, my fabulously generous parents are taking myself and my little sister to the Caribbean for some sun. It's not actually that I'm a spoilt brat; mum and dad couldn't go on their holiday over summer because dad acquired a sporting injury which then got infected so they couldn't fly. And mum, who lived in the Caribbean for a bit in the 80s, can't survive more than a couple of years without some HEAT. So I shall be reading Villette on a sun lounger under a palm tree with a rum cocktail, and I can't bloody wait.
Anywho, I digress. Although what from I'm not entirely sure. I really do just tend to ramble on about just about anything on here... it's quite therapeutic actually, but there's no way I'm calling it a diary or journal. My diary when I was a teenager is so full of shit it's unreal, it gives no hint as to what I was really like - just rambles on about this guy and that guy and the usual adolescent bullshit that no-one really cares about. Meh. No time for it. If I chose to discuss my romantic life on here I'd go on for pages, whinging and moaning and generally embarrassing myself so I won't.
Talking of musicals, now I really wanna go and see another one. I saw Wicked a couple of weeks ago, which was fabulous but not quite worth all the fuss it seems to generate (I realise I might find a lynch mob outside my house after that comment, but what can you do). It has NOTHING on Les Miserables, which made me cry tears of joy that such amazing things exist in this world; as did Phantom... I've literally never come across such amazing orchestration, and whilst I will admit that Andrew Lloyd Webber is quite weird, I really can't have people tell me his music is rubbish. OH MY GOD NO. A trip to Leicester Square box office may be in order...
I may continue this subject tomorrow, it's definitely bedtime (once I've finished my wine). Night all...
I was on my way to the first musical rehearsal of the year when I chanced upon this fine thing. Good to meet the new cast, especially as most of them are new faces - the only people who are in it for the third year running are me and Hose, who is choreographing, although we're not entirely sure if this is really cool or deeply sad (we're giving it the benefit of the doubt and going with incredibly cool for now). It feels like we've hardly finished last year's musical, even though that ended in March... stuff seems to go by so quick at uni. I'm well aware that next week's deadline will creep up on me and then suddenly jump out and say "boo!" and I'll shit myself because I'll have done no work, then, quite surprisingly, it'll be Christmas and I'll desperately be ploughing through next semester's reading lists. Although at least I'll be doing it on the beach in St Lucia... yes, my fabulously generous parents are taking myself and my little sister to the Caribbean for some sun. It's not actually that I'm a spoilt brat; mum and dad couldn't go on their holiday over summer because dad acquired a sporting injury which then got infected so they couldn't fly. And mum, who lived in the Caribbean for a bit in the 80s, can't survive more than a couple of years without some HEAT. So I shall be reading Villette on a sun lounger under a palm tree with a rum cocktail, and I can't bloody wait.
Anywho, I digress. Although what from I'm not entirely sure. I really do just tend to ramble on about just about anything on here... it's quite therapeutic actually, but there's no way I'm calling it a diary or journal. My diary when I was a teenager is so full of shit it's unreal, it gives no hint as to what I was really like - just rambles on about this guy and that guy and the usual adolescent bullshit that no-one really cares about. Meh. No time for it. If I chose to discuss my romantic life on here I'd go on for pages, whinging and moaning and generally embarrassing myself so I won't.
Talking of musicals, now I really wanna go and see another one. I saw Wicked a couple of weeks ago, which was fabulous but not quite worth all the fuss it seems to generate (I realise I might find a lynch mob outside my house after that comment, but what can you do). It has NOTHING on Les Miserables, which made me cry tears of joy that such amazing things exist in this world; as did Phantom... I've literally never come across such amazing orchestration, and whilst I will admit that Andrew Lloyd Webber is quite weird, I really can't have people tell me his music is rubbish. OH MY GOD NO. A trip to Leicester Square box office may be in order...
I may continue this subject tomorrow, it's definitely bedtime (once I've finished my wine). Night all...
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Capitalism and VWs
I've realised that I don't have any of what most people would class as proper ambitions. I don't have a particular career in mind (although the list of what I don't want to do is endless; nuclear physicist anyone?), I have no particular desire to be rich or famous or globally acknowledged for my achievements, and I haven't already decided what my kids' names will be like many slightly worrying women my age. In fact, the highest ambition I hold is to buy a split-screen VW campervan, paint it and do it up inside, take it to various hippy beach destinations and live in it. I'd also like to live abroad, ideally in the campervan, but a beach hut/log cabin/teepee would do, as long as I have someone nice to share it with. Unfortunately, it seems I'll need an insanely overpaid job to be able to afford any of these things. And, as you may be beginning to understand, I'm not sure how suited to a corporate environment I am; for a start, I just don't give enough of a shit about money. If I had my way we'd all be haggling and paying with whatever bits of shit we have in our pockets (I believe this is known as TRADING and seemed to be managed much better by ancient civilisations than this banking lark the bloody fools in the City have managed to fuck up so spectacularly).
Also, another thing, what exactly does one do with a degree in English Literature and Dance Studies?! I suppose I could work for Dancing Times; they seemed lovely when I rang up about my subscription. In fact, when I gave my postcode as SW15 the charming man on the other end of the phone said "Oh really darling?? I'm SW14!!!!!". Like we're suddenly geographical soulmates. I wonder though if I'd get the same reaction as I do when I go into Bloch on Drury Lane in search of a leotard - faces that say "But you're a size 10 and have a figure!?! Really, darling, do you suppose you'll fit in anything we supply? Oh crikey, she sounds a bit like a farmer, do you suppose she's even heard of Ninette de Valois?"
No, I think the answer is to accept the fact that I'm going to be a poor churchmouse my whole life and focus on having fun/doing something worthwhile/actually experiencing stuff (possibly in that order...?). I realise that to some people this is the equivalent of being a lazy arse and not bothering to contribute to society, but I don't personally see how me earning £50,000 a year does that. Based on recent observation, it'll just make me a greedy, capitalist parasite who wants an extra £100,000 every Christmas as a reward for... sorry, what, exactly? All you actually need in life are some things that are free anyway.
Air... don't see anyone bottling that and selling it yet (give it time though).
Water... the cavemen didn't buy Evian, they found streams, and they seem to have managed tolerably well.
Passion... comes from within, and you only need to look at the people and places around you to get it.
And you're good. Now who wants to start a new version of the Beach? (But a good one. No sharks or weird leaders.)
Also, another thing, what exactly does one do with a degree in English Literature and Dance Studies?! I suppose I could work for Dancing Times; they seemed lovely when I rang up about my subscription. In fact, when I gave my postcode as SW15 the charming man on the other end of the phone said "Oh really darling?? I'm SW14!!!!!". Like we're suddenly geographical soulmates. I wonder though if I'd get the same reaction as I do when I go into Bloch on Drury Lane in search of a leotard - faces that say "But you're a size 10 and have a figure!?! Really, darling, do you suppose you'll fit in anything we supply? Oh crikey, she sounds a bit like a farmer, do you suppose she's even heard of Ninette de Valois?"
No, I think the answer is to accept the fact that I'm going to be a poor churchmouse my whole life and focus on having fun/doing something worthwhile/actually experiencing stuff (possibly in that order...?). I realise that to some people this is the equivalent of being a lazy arse and not bothering to contribute to society, but I don't personally see how me earning £50,000 a year does that. Based on recent observation, it'll just make me a greedy, capitalist parasite who wants an extra £100,000 every Christmas as a reward for... sorry, what, exactly? All you actually need in life are some things that are free anyway.
Air... don't see anyone bottling that and selling it yet (give it time though).
Water... the cavemen didn't buy Evian, they found streams, and they seem to have managed tolerably well.
Passion... comes from within, and you only need to look at the people and places around you to get it.
And you're good. Now who wants to start a new version of the Beach? (But a good one. No sharks or weird leaders.)
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Pique turns and deer-chasing
So ballet today was pretty good actually. After lying in bed for 2 solid weeks over the summer, and then (once I could eat again) doing nothing more strenuous than lift large amounts of food into my mouth, I had the strength of a baby hedgehog and could barely haul myself up a flight of stairs without a breather half-way up. So being able to grand jete and battement tendu semi-competently was a lovely surprise... as were Toby's yells of "GOOD Sian, now PLIE pique!!!!! PLIE!!!!" which nearly caused me to crash into the mirror, just when I was doing quite well. (Pique turns are twirly across-the-room-diagonally type things, and if you're me you get excessively dizzy and red-faced. In case you didn't know any of that.)
But I won't bang on about ballet too much; I feel it will become boring for those who don't really give a shit (most people). Therefore I shall reach into the deepest recesses of my mind and follow whatever stream of consciousness appears to bear us away first.......
So I was reading the title of this actual blog and thinking about stuff like where the fields have all gone, and actually there's one massive field 10 minutes walk away from my humble abode - namely, Richmond Park. I say field. It's got hills, woods, and streams in it (which remind me of home) and rugby pitches, the Royal Ballet School and deer (which don't, but are a nice added extra, especially when lots of lovely men are making full usage of the rugby pitches). A short stroll starting at Roehampton Gate and ending at the nearest bench with a view is a popular hangover cure amongst me and my housebunnies, and provides endless opportunites for jogger-watching, soul-searching and deer-chasing (illegal and therefore ill-advised, by the way - they probably belong to the Queen or whatever), and all whilst wearing the latest in snuggly winter fashions.
It's stuff like that that makes me miss home a lot. I mean, I don't spend my time in London chasing deer and perusing Vogue for the correct attire in which to partake in this most English of sports; what it does is make me miss good ol-fashioned countryside. Trees and fields and hedgerows and secret paths you only find when the dog disappears after a pheasant down them. Dad wearing a flatcap and wellies to walk the dog in and merely looking pleased about it when I laugh. Being able to sit with nothing except the grass and the sky and to know that there's probably no-one else near you. And being obliged to wrap up in the latest winter fashions, outside because Worcestershire winters bring with them a heart-stopping frost sometimes, and inside because dad's an eco-warrior and just tells me to put on some "proper clothes" (and yes, a knitted jumper dress, woolly tights and boots are definately proper clothes - you mean 80s has been in fashion for about a year now and it still hasn't reached Upton yet??).
I could go on... I won't. Not today anyway, unless I think of something else to say later, and let's face it, it's fairly likely with a brain like mine. Bon soir.
But I won't bang on about ballet too much; I feel it will become boring for those who don't really give a shit (most people). Therefore I shall reach into the deepest recesses of my mind and follow whatever stream of consciousness appears to bear us away first.......
So I was reading the title of this actual blog and thinking about stuff like where the fields have all gone, and actually there's one massive field 10 minutes walk away from my humble abode - namely, Richmond Park. I say field. It's got hills, woods, and streams in it (which remind me of home) and rugby pitches, the Royal Ballet School and deer (which don't, but are a nice added extra, especially when lots of lovely men are making full usage of the rugby pitches). A short stroll starting at Roehampton Gate and ending at the nearest bench with a view is a popular hangover cure amongst me and my housebunnies, and provides endless opportunites for jogger-watching, soul-searching and deer-chasing (illegal and therefore ill-advised, by the way - they probably belong to the Queen or whatever), and all whilst wearing the latest in snuggly winter fashions.
It's stuff like that that makes me miss home a lot. I mean, I don't spend my time in London chasing deer and perusing Vogue for the correct attire in which to partake in this most English of sports; what it does is make me miss good ol-fashioned countryside. Trees and fields and hedgerows and secret paths you only find when the dog disappears after a pheasant down them. Dad wearing a flatcap and wellies to walk the dog in and merely looking pleased about it when I laugh. Being able to sit with nothing except the grass and the sky and to know that there's probably no-one else near you. And being obliged to wrap up in the latest winter fashions, outside because Worcestershire winters bring with them a heart-stopping frost sometimes, and inside because dad's an eco-warrior and just tells me to put on some "proper clothes" (and yes, a knitted jumper dress, woolly tights and boots are definately proper clothes - you mean 80s has been in fashion for about a year now and it still hasn't reached Upton yet??).
I could go on... I won't. Not today anyway, unless I think of something else to say later, and let's face it, it's fairly likely with a brain like mine. Bon soir.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Why I am not attending 80s Night
H rang up to ask if I have an 80s karaoke DVD (no) and told me I spend too much time in my pyjamas watching Disney films when I told him i wasn't coming anyway.
For a start, it's impossible to spend too much time in pyjamas. They were invented to be comfy in, and if I'm having a night in I'm not doing it dressed up and made up like a bloody Stepford Wife when I could be having much more fun, thank you very much (and there's a lot of fun to be had in pyjamas if you'll only look for it).
Secondly, the only Disney films I own are on video and back at ma and pa's house, except for Pirates of the Caribbean and there's no way I'm gonna apologise for upping my Johnny Depp/Orlando Bloom intake. Case closed, I believe.
Anyway, doctor says to rest up. This woman is amazing, she actually told me I'd done the right thing in getting trashed every night between having a blood test to see if my glandular fever had gone away and getting the results, because I discovered my boyfriend at the time had two of us on the go. "Exactly what you needed" and "what an absolute shit" is what she said, and those are direct quotes. She's awesome. However, she then told me to stop drinking now because my liver is weak and my immune system is on its arse, and gave me a letter that basically excuses me from handing essays in on time. I mean, it is true that if I go to a lecture in the morning I then feel the need to have a siesta that rivals the entirety of Spain's, and therefore cannot be arsed to go to the library and do stuff... and I also did a tap class ONCE on top of my usual ballet classes and that seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back in terms of my physical up-holdal (I spent the following night and day in a state of complete exhaustion and consumed nothing but toast and tea)... but I'm sure it's also just that I'm a lazy bitch sometimes.
And THAT is why I am not coming to 80s night. That and the fact that at the weekend I spent 35 of my precious pounds on a piercing, and several more on getting merry beforehand. A far more worthy and long-term investment I feel.
For a start, it's impossible to spend too much time in pyjamas. They were invented to be comfy in, and if I'm having a night in I'm not doing it dressed up and made up like a bloody Stepford Wife when I could be having much more fun, thank you very much (and there's a lot of fun to be had in pyjamas if you'll only look for it).
Secondly, the only Disney films I own are on video and back at ma and pa's house, except for Pirates of the Caribbean and there's no way I'm gonna apologise for upping my Johnny Depp/Orlando Bloom intake. Case closed, I believe.
Anyway, doctor says to rest up. This woman is amazing, she actually told me I'd done the right thing in getting trashed every night between having a blood test to see if my glandular fever had gone away and getting the results, because I discovered my boyfriend at the time had two of us on the go. "Exactly what you needed" and "what an absolute shit" is what she said, and those are direct quotes. She's awesome. However, she then told me to stop drinking now because my liver is weak and my immune system is on its arse, and gave me a letter that basically excuses me from handing essays in on time. I mean, it is true that if I go to a lecture in the morning I then feel the need to have a siesta that rivals the entirety of Spain's, and therefore cannot be arsed to go to the library and do stuff... and I also did a tap class ONCE on top of my usual ballet classes and that seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back in terms of my physical up-holdal (I spent the following night and day in a state of complete exhaustion and consumed nothing but toast and tea)... but I'm sure it's also just that I'm a lazy bitch sometimes.
And THAT is why I am not coming to 80s night. That and the fact that at the weekend I spent 35 of my precious pounds on a piercing, and several more on getting merry beforehand. A far more worthy and long-term investment I feel.
No.1
Hiiiii to all the currently imaginary people reading this! I've never written a blog before, but I'm a student and therefore in dire need of more ways to distract myself from contributing to the graduation effort. So let us remove outselves momentarily from the day to day drudgery of life and enjoy the power of the written word...
OK, now I've set myself the highly unattainable task of providing you with something worth reading, where to start??? This shouldn't be too tricky considering my mother thinks I'm highly opinionated and difficult. But I'm not used to forcing my opinions on people (unless I've had a lot of vino, in which case I'm unaware I'm doing it) so I'm going to start with something that pretty much everyone has an opinion on. Or should have anyway.
Who watched Question Time with Nick Griffin the other day? And who, even if they watched Family Guy instead, was aware of whole furore from the news? I was completely behind the BBC giving him the opportunity to speak to the nation - after all, lots of us have been voting for his party recently, and these people needed to see what it is they've actually voted for. And how can we call ourselves a free-thinking democracy if we only allow certain ideals and views to be vocalised? Now, don't get me wrong, I think Griffin is the most deluded, manipulative, racist, xenophobic, fascist bell-end ever to set foot on BBC ground, but if we try to silence those we disagree with, doesn't that put us on an equal footing? And if I was ever likened to Nick Griffin in any way I'd have to shut myself away and become a hermit from the shame.
I may leave it there for now... I am, after all, supposed to be writing a close analysis of Grace Nichols' The Price We Pay for the Sun which is due tomorrow morning. And I've only written a third of it. SO... so long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, adieu. xx
OK, now I've set myself the highly unattainable task of providing you with something worth reading, where to start??? This shouldn't be too tricky considering my mother thinks I'm highly opinionated and difficult. But I'm not used to forcing my opinions on people (unless I've had a lot of vino, in which case I'm unaware I'm doing it) so I'm going to start with something that pretty much everyone has an opinion on. Or should have anyway.
Who watched Question Time with Nick Griffin the other day? And who, even if they watched Family Guy instead, was aware of whole furore from the news? I was completely behind the BBC giving him the opportunity to speak to the nation - after all, lots of us have been voting for his party recently, and these people needed to see what it is they've actually voted for. And how can we call ourselves a free-thinking democracy if we only allow certain ideals and views to be vocalised? Now, don't get me wrong, I think Griffin is the most deluded, manipulative, racist, xenophobic, fascist bell-end ever to set foot on BBC ground, but if we try to silence those we disagree with, doesn't that put us on an equal footing? And if I was ever likened to Nick Griffin in any way I'd have to shut myself away and become a hermit from the shame.
I may leave it there for now... I am, after all, supposed to be writing a close analysis of Grace Nichols' The Price We Pay for the Sun which is due tomorrow morning. And I've only written a third of it. SO... so long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, adieu. xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
