Whatever pops into my tiny little mind...

Lady Felicity Katherine Hainge

2011-02-03T18:46:00.003Z

The funniest thing that has ever happened to me actually happened to my friend, the Lady Flic. I will tell you what it was, but it's really not possible to appreciate the comic effect of this incident without having been there, so expect to be disappointed by what actually happened.

I was in Flic's bed (as you do) whilst she sat on the bed moisturising her feet. We were both in pyjamas, and there were inevitably large glasses of wine involved somewhere, somehow. It's also worth pointing out that at this point in my life and for reasons I can't be bothered to re-visit, I hadn't found anything particularly funny for quite a while and was in a bit of a thought-bog regarding life in general. So - the scene is set. And for reasons that are no longer clear to me (perhaps due to the large glasses of wine ...?), Flic got up and jumped lightly off the end of the bed (perhaps to get more wine. Yes). However, having just moisturised her feet, they kept moving once they hit her carpet and she disappeared from view with a massive crash and failed to reappear - at least, not from my vantage point under the duvet. This simple accident was enough to catapult both of us into absolute hysterics. I was, for the first time in weeks, laughing so hard I was simultaneously crying and finding it difficult to breathe, whilst Flic, conversely, was laughing so hard she was unable to cry despite the fact that was what she really wanted to do. Have you ever laughed like that? When you just can' t stop, even though you know you should because your best mate is lying on the floor with a sore arse and a bruise like a plum growing on her elbow from where it hit the bed frame on the way down? When just the merest hint of a thought about the thing that's just happened makes you double up in hysterics because it's so funny, and the thought that actually she might need some help, an ice pack, or at least a chug of wine and a fag is just irrelevant because you're so busy laughing? That is how humorous that incident was. I am actually laughing to myself now. Hahahaaaaahaha. Hahaha. Oh Christ. I told you you wouldn't understand.

Now the reason this story was brought to you is basically because the Lady requested an entire post all about her. I don't want you thinking that she is self-obsessed and vain; she isn't by any stretch. She just likes my writing for some reason, or at least when I'm on form (her words). There are many things that she can do that I can't, or (more annoyingly) that I can do but not quite as well, such as flute-playing, lager-drinking and child-rearing - her little boy is definitely my favourite, and would definitely have grown up to be a ragamuffin had it been my maternal skills being put to use. But I can write, especially when it's about something completely un-academic and something as enjoyable as writing one of my best mates. And without sounding foolish and happy-clappy, one of the few people who know absolutely everything about me and can tell me I'm being a knob jockey without receiving a cold stare like most people would. (I'd love to be able to say 'punch in the face' but I'm not the violent type. I fight with WORDS, man.) She knows what is good for me and isn't afraid to tell me - which I appreciate very much, as do all of her mates (and I really do mean that in a good way!). She's also the only person I know who, when asked for a random suggestion of something for me to write about, says "ME". So hopefully I've risen to the challenge! And, yes, I know it's been a while since we talked about it... about 4 months, actually. I wrote the first draft pretty much straight away and then sort of got distracted... I'd like to say I've been busy, but whilst this definitely isn't a complete lie, I have found time to watch an awful lot of shit on YouTube and even an entire episode of Antiques Roadshow since the suggestion came up, so - sorry. It's no excuse really.

So this is my present to her, and to you - if you find the Story of the Slippery Feet as entertaining as we do. If you don't... well, never mind. I hope she will. :) xx

I Got Love For You... If You're Hated By The Daily Mail

2010-10-11T13:16:00.002+01:00

Last time I sat down to write a post it was when the Pope was in town. I was all set to write a critical piece (with a brilliantly humorous, sardonic take on things, of course), throwing in some references to the letter in the Guardian by Stephen Fry and companions expressing their distatste for the Pope's visit being funded by the public, and a smattering of the complete - and hilarious - irony of the Daily Mail lecturing anyone for having any form of so-called prejudice.

And then Stephen Fry wrote this. http://www.stephenfry.com/2010/09/16/dailymailhate/

The most brilliant piece of writing ever. I may be wrong, but it reads as though he's just gone, "Fuck it, I am voicing my opinion here and now. Someone pass me an iPad, I will blog it!" Maybe in the back of a black cab on the way to a QI rehearsal... anyway, there was no way I was going to follow up that. I refuse to compete with Stephen Fry. It wouldn't even be a competition, it would just be the literary equivalent of a Christmas roast turkey with all the trimmings beside a cold leftover turkey sandwich from a garage. But do read the article. Especially if you think the Daily Mail is a sanctimonious, out-dated pedlar of bollocks that, if it - oh, the joy! - stopped circulation, could save a vast portion of rainforest that instead of becoming tiresome droning about immigrants in print form could support a bountiful reserve of beautiful and probably dangerous wildlife in a foreign country, something it is to be hoped Paul Dacre would go into hiding to avoid.

Anyway. That is all for now - I just wanted to share the love momentarily, and I'll write something proper very soon. xxx

I Bought A Hardback Book

2010-09-03T22:54:00.004+01:00

I have been negligent, tardy and downright rubbish at blogging in recent times, and for this I am excessively sorry. However, the impending school term (or, for those of you who are aware of the eccentricities of my old high school, the term that began today, on a Friday, for some reason) seems to have put me in an academic sort of mood that has provided me with some motivation to write. Or, more precisely, to transfer the meandering stream of whimsy from my brain into something understandable and interesting (though hopefully not particularly useful).

Yesterday I did something insanely geeky and somewhat ridiculous. After discovering through The Guardian a man on Twitter masquerading as Dr Samuel Johnson reincarnated into a modern world, I then followed this genius's tweets, which as well as putting a seventeenth-century vernacular spin on current affairs provides us with original Johnson-style definitions of decidedly 21st-century phenomena such as Facebook, Will Ferrell, Britain's Got Talent and my personal favourite, MySpace - "a barren electronick Tundra haunted by lost Souls in Search of whiter Teeth or unsign'd Minstrel-Acts". These are actually now part of a book, the publication of which was yesterday and a day waited for in anticipation by me. Then I went on to Amazon and bought it in hardback. Now, waiting with unbridled impatience to buy an inconsequential book IN HARDBACK on the day of release is an activity that I normally reserve for Harry Potter books alone. I am not entirely sure what persuaded me to give in to such frivolities, except that in my new-found freedom as a graduate without a compulsory reading list I have gone slightly overboard with excitement about reading whatever the hell I like; last week I involuntarily spent £36 in Waterstone's on American Psycho, Dara O'Briain's Tickling the English, a fabulous history book called The Time Traveller's Guide to Medieval Britain, which is a lot more interesting and humorous than it sounds, and the entire works of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in one volume (prompted, no doubt, by Benedict Cumberbatch's excellent turn as Sherlock on the BBC recently, something that could clearly only be achieved by someone with such a bloody brilliant name). I didn't even know I had a particular yearning to read Sherlock Holmes - or, indeed, to learn more about the Middle Ages - but there's something about the 3-for-2 offers at Waterstone's that sends me into a sort of frenzy of literary focus as I search for that elusive third book that I get for free. I am now waiting for Dr Johnson's almanack of modern stuff (I cannot be arsed to look up its long-winded title at this time) to arrive, along with a Doctor Who boxset, safe in the knowledge that I am a massive geek, albeit a massive geek who's got a parcel full of enjoyment arriving on my doorstep any day now.

And so back to the afore-mentioned new school term. I find it strange to be at the beginning of September with no excuse to go out and buy a new pencil-case, folders I won't bother to fill and an academic diary. So far I've managed to deal with this, but it's only September 3rd. There has been a small pang of longing and upset already, involving a Roehampton Freshers' Week event on Facebook on which I can't (and really shouldn't anyway) click ACCEPT. But dwelling on the past helps me in no way at all, except perhaps the bit of the past that taught me to appreciate literature in all it's glorious forms (something that will get me through the current habit of sluttily thowing money at people in return for books) so I'm going to pretend for the next few weeks that there is no way in hell I'd like to be back in halls, eating toast for living and ticking 'student' when asked for my occupation on forms and suchlike. I am, as Fayeski informed me recently, a Young Professional now. And if someone would like to tell me what I'm supposed to be a professional at I'd be hugely grateful... Thank you, and good night.

Also - the link to the Guardian article on the book I bought. It's entertaining, I promise! http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/aug/14/guide-feature-twitter-book-johnson

Roehampton - This Is For You

2010-06-09T18:21:00.009+01:00

This is my first post as a normal person. I am no longer a student. I am a graduate. Or, as I’m going to have to start admitting to on forms and suchlike, unemployed.

It’s a curious sensation. Despite the fact that this is my first day as a normal adult inhabitant of this country, I’m startlingly aware that I don’t have the support net that is university life anymore. When I first started university after doing two years of A-Levels followed by a pretty chilled out gap year at home, university seemed to me like an explosion of independence and opportunity the likes of which I’d never encountered before. I lived in a hall of residence comprised entirely of people under 21, could cook (or, more often, heat up) whatever I liked for dinner, could wake up ten minutes before any given engagement and still be there on time and never had to worry about drink driving. It was even refreshing to be told off for being “a lightweight pussy” when suffering the hangover from hell instead of being berated for being on the brink of alcoholism by a parent who considers spending time at real ale festivals a worthwhile pastime. I definitely wasn’t alone in experiencing this new lease of life away from parents, teachers and any other adult I ever had to ask permission to do something from; it never occurred to me that, at the age of nineteen and a half, I was pretty much an adult myself. Now, three academic years on and suffering the consequences of my last university night out ever as I write, I’ve realised that whilst all of the above is true there is a degree of dependence to being a student that goes unnoticed. My beautiful interest-free student overdraft is being turned into a gradually diminishing graduate overdraft. The possibility of having a social engagement every hour of every day (or night) if I so wish has disappeared due to the doubly problematic situation of a) my mates having to get proper jobs now and b) having to move back into my parents’ house because I haven’t managed to get one of these proper jobs yet. Even just the comfortable knowledge of certain constants that are no longer there – that I will spend several days of each term feverishly writing essays that I started far too late, that I’ll always know someone serving in the bar, or that there will always be approximately twenty mates within walking distance of wherever I am at any given time – surrounded me in a happy little bubble of contentment, shielding me from the reality of life outside of uni that everyone knows about but refuses to consider until they’ve handed in their final assignment. You just never realise how quickly three years will pass away until they have.

So far, so pretty much every university in Britain. But the thing that makes university so amazing is that wherever you go, even if you only went there because it was the only establishment to offer you a place through Clearing, by the end of your first Freshers’ Week you will hold the firm and never-ending belief that you go to the best university in the world. The reasons behind this belief will never make sense to anybody that wasn’t there at the same time as you, but that’s fine. Roehampton, taking all the benefits of a collegiate system and disregarding the hierarchical elitism that is often perceived to define certain other collegiate universities, lives up to this sentiment. It was apparent from my first day that nobody gave a flying fanny what grades anyone got at school or how much money you had as long as you weren’t too much of a knob. My own Freshers’ Week passed in a blur of alcohol consumption, preparatory ballet classes and the confused negotiation of a campus where you never feel as though you’re walking in the right direction to anything. I discovered that you can make better friends with people just by living with them for three days than I did from five years of secondary education together, and that it’s possible to have an inordinate amount of fun in what is essentially a school hall at night with a temporary bar. My floor rep was absolutely quality. As well as dishing out invaluable advice, like how to get to Asda and how to deal with breaking up with a long-distance boyfriend, I am proud to say that we were once escorted home from the Bop in Jon Foley’s car, where she was so pissed I had to take out her contacts lenses and put her to bed whilst I, for some unknown reason, thought it would be a great idea to sleep on her floor... in the room next door to mine. Being a dance student herself, she gave me the low-down on the lecturers, the modules and how to avoid being any of the horrific dance student stereotypes that became apparent as lessons progressed. Probably most importantly, she got me involved in the Roehampton Players.

I have mentioned the Players before. They are the society to which I have devoted three years of Sunday rehearsals, committee meetings in the bar, entire afternoons putting up posters and hours upon hours of painting sets. For them I have relinquished all possible qualms about getting sweaty and unattractive in front of lots of people, have pretty much prostituted myself to get people to buy tickets, have spent entire birthdays rehearsing until the early hours and have managed to successfully perform a run of a show in which I was required to pull off fourteen costume changes. Through this society I have met people I’ve got a huge amount of respect, admiration and downright love for, and without sounding sickeningly thespian about the entire thing, I literally don’t know what my uni days would have been without them. There is no other situation where it is acceptable to spend a well-earned break singing along unashamedly to selections from Les Miserable or, during a duet that that to the audience demonstrates sexual tension that could be cut with a knife, to be considerably more concerned that you’re sweating like a pig on heat under the lights and might get dropped on your head because your partner can’t get a good grip to lift you properly. I’m completely grateful to have had the opportunity to realise that, despite popular opinion, it’s perfectly possible to do a quite astounding amount of drugs and still pull of a brilliant performance. On a more selfish point, I’m also very grateful that if it weren’t for permanent rehearsals I’d probably be the size of a hippo by now, and would go as far as saying that I’m concerned for my dress size now that I don’t dance about twenty hours a week. It’s impossible to say everything I could say about this, or to mention anyone individually because I would literally be here until I’d mentioned everyone I’ve ever performed with. All I will say is this (and please forgive me if you’re reading this and aren’t particularly down with outrageous statements of luvvie affection): working and performing with the Players has made my time at Roe, and if I don’t get to see you all again very soon then my life will be a little bit worse because of it. Oh, and one more thing – 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LALALALA WHEYYY, LALALALA WHEYYY!!!! Phoebe and Hose – three years – I salute you.

So what else will I miss? This is a difficult question as I could ramble on for pages and already have. But for my own personal enjoyment, I'm just going to reminisce a little more... The Belfry, with it's shit chairs and fairy lights, and our winning Frigby legacy on the walls... Frigby itself, where it is acceptable for grown adults to drunkenly hurl buckets of water at each other whilst watching other grown adults play football... bus rides back from Fez or the Grand singing outrageously rude (but entirely accurate) songs about Froebel... chilling out on Digby lawn in the empty days after Easter whilst making sure you're not lying in goose shit... Toby Bennett telling me to "be a DIAMOND!!!!! You're a DIAMOND FAIRY, not a MARSHMALLOW FAIRY!!!!"... Mamma's pizza... waiting on the steps outside Jubilee for security to open up the rehearsal space... Oh Christ. I'm getting emotional.

The trouble with good things is that they always have to end. The trick to overcoming this is to always have a good thing within your sights. I'm never going to be able to hold on to absolutely everything I treasure from university. But if I make sure I keep the important bits, and the important people, close by... I'm pretty sure I'll find a new venture to keep me happy and the banter flowing. This is indispensible advice for when you leave university - remember it.

Small Interlude

2010-06-04T15:21:00.005+01:00

So I haven't written a new post for ages, and for that I apologise. I have been a busy bee. Since the end of the Easter holidays about 6 weeks ago I've been in rehearsal for two separate shows and also trying (and failing) to sort my life out to the extent that I'm not an unemployed waster this time next week when I'll be snivelling into a pillow because my university life is over.

And that's probably what I'm going to ramble on about today. See, the musical I'm performing in this week is all about uni... my uni... and as sad as it sounds, when the run is over tomorrow night it's gonna hit home pretty hard that after three years of laughs, drinks, banter, all-nighters, shows and arguments over the washing up it's all going to end and I'm going to be released into society and expected to stop doing all the things that made the last 3 years so completely epic and unforgettable. When I left Sixth Form I was completely ready to leave and wasn't massively bothered about missing my mates because they were all either having a gap year as well or would be home every holiday. I just thought that leaving uni would be the same. But with me headed back to the Shire, whilst most of my mates are either still at uni or staying living in London, it's hardly like we can meet up for a pint on a random night. And this makes me very sad :(

It's also the end of having such easy access to performing, whether it's dancing in Jazz Hands or hurling myself about in every possible way with the Roehampton Players. I've been rehearsing for something or other almost every week of term since October, and literally don't know what I'm going to do without several classes and rehearsals a week to keep me perky, and, more importantly, able to drink as much cider as possible without gaining about 20 stone. It's also slightly upsetting that the majority of the people I've met through shows this year are still going to be at uni next year, meaning I'm going to be insanely jealous of the good times ahead that I'm not having...

Having said that, I'm pant-wettingly excited about going travelling with Bell in January. Based entirely on whether someone deigns to employ me, obviously. I'm leaving good times behind, but then there should be some amazing ones ahead - how can there not be when you combine two mates, a campervan, some sun and an open road? Ha, cheeeeeese... but so true. As sad as it is to leave behind such awesome mates and memories, there's always new ones to be made.

Pointless drivel plus some lovely links for you.

2010-03-15T19:55:00.004Z

I am back in the Hoe after a swift weekend in the Shire for Mother's Day. Interestingly, and in this particular order, I managed to get drunk with (and spoon) Lady (who is a mother), have a drink and chats with her mother (my mummy number two), have Sunday lunch and watch Larkrise To Candleford with my own mother, and discovered that a mate of mine is going to become a mother this autumn. Unfortunately I didn't get to see Auntie, which is rather upsetting, due to the fact that she was at Blood Brothers, a show about a mother, with her mother-in-law, and pregnant.

Muchly enjoyed the weekend though. Instead of watching Wales lose and England scrape a draw in the internationals, myself and the Lady watched Upton 2nds comfortably beat, er, somebody else. Well, the last twenty minutes anyway. Was required to explain why "all those fat fucks are jumping on my little brother!!!" (it's a ruck, it's meant to happen) and why said little brother had to stick his arse out in preparation for a scrum, something she found slightly distasteful (I actually don't know the answer to this one). Having decided that a new rule should be brought in that only the fat ones are allowed to be jumped on top of in a pile on the ground, we witnessed a hilarious on-pitch scuffle then retired to the bar for a pint. Much better fun than watching England fuck about ineptly and listening to Jeremy Guscott whine about it being unfair.

This isn't all I did at the weekend, obviously, otherwise I really would need to learn how to have a life. I am just not about to record every moment of my life, and not really because I think it would bore you, but because I know it would bore me. I am, however, writing a travel journal when I go travelling, and blogging it if I get the chance, which I then plan on writing up once I am home. I can see this becoming one of those lifetime works thingys that people do and never finish, but hey, whatever. At least I have a smidgeon of ambition now, something that I really did not possess when I wrote the first post on this blog. But in far-flung, exotic places like Thailand and Kansas and Queenstown NZ every moment of my life there will inevitably be incredibly exciting and worth telling the world about. Of course.

Pretty short and slightly pointless post but what ho, never mind. This is pretty reflective of my life so far. Oh, look a bit of leftover teenage angst. Did not miss that whilst it was gone. Laters mofo, but first:.....

On an entirely almost separate note, Lady's rugby-playing brother who featured slightly earlier in the post is in a rather enjoyable band who I think many of you would appreciate (if you don't already), and so in the name of being the lovely person I am, and because I'm currently having a listen, here is the link to their website, http://www.bashroland.com/, where you can listen to some of their tracks. If you like them do inform them of this; they enjoy compliments :)

Actually, while I'm promoting things for people, this is a downloadable mix by my DJ mate Jennarate http://soundcloud.com/jennarate/pressure. Entirely different to Bash:Roland's perky ska-pop (and if that's not how you'd describe yourself guys, then I'm mildly sorry) - instead some bish bash boshin' hard trance/house. =D

Weetabix and Beans

2010-03-11T22:08:00.005Z

Having assessed the food situation, this was what was left.

Assorted carbohydrates e.g. rice, pasta etc
Approx. 5 slices of bread (including the crusts)
1 tin of tuna
1 tin of sweetcorn
1 bowl of leftover baked beans
Squeezy mayonnaise
Milk
Weetabix
Cup-a-Soups
Hot chocolate and teabags
Toast toppings, e.g. jam, marmite, honey, butter
1 green pepper
Several cereal bars
Box of jelly beans left over from Christmas
5 Activia yoghurts
Small misshapen block of cheese.

Sadly, unless my dear, darling parents gift me with a loan, I have a mere £200 to last me until April 26th, only £60 of which is actually in my account due to financial stupidities on behalf of Odeon Kingston-upon-Thames. Therefore technically, this food needs to last me four weeks until I go home for Easter (and please bear in mind that I had the cheese and baked beans for dinner). Luckily I am going home for the weekend in a couple of days, so I must consume many, many calories courtesy of mum and dad (pub Sunday lunch is a must) and retain them until the time comes for somebody else to buy me dinner... All I can say is, at least this is doing something for the losing-the-stomach-podge cause.

Was this the idea of graduates that Labour had when Tony Blair so eloquently ranted about "education, education, education"? Did they realise, when they brought in top-up fees, that students woud be so skint they'd be having a dinner of scrambled egg, spaghetti and processed salami, as Doodle did this evening? Did they realise that when I leave university in June 2010 with a 2:1 (here's to hoping) degree in English Lit with Dance I would be nearly £30,000 in debt and being rejected for jobs I was capable of doing when I was 18? (This last one hasn't happened yet but it's only a matter of time.) Also I am not quite a graduate yet, but you know. Nearly. I just don't understand the point of paying this much for a degree that doesn't actually help you get a job. Having said that, I have thoroughly enjoyed my years of study, possibly because the social side of things outweighs the studying slightly, and wouldn't have it any other way.

I don't really know what the answer is. And in the run up to the general election, I actually don't think the major parties do either. Nick Clegg's got it spot-on in terms of abolishing fees - avoiding the kind of debt I've run up just from tuition fees and maintenance loands - but what actual good will that do in the long run? I don't think anyone really knows. Although I know one thing for sure - the job market will never get better whilst the banks use the money they've been bailed out with to give themselves Christmas fucking bonuses. So much of that money coud be going on graduate training schemes. And, in the slightly longer run, allowing me to eat something other than weetabix and beans for dinner.

The 22 Club

2010-03-02T23:34:00.002Z

By the time I've finished writing this and have posted it I will be 22.

This doesn't sound like a massive issue. And it isn't. In fact, I'm having a rather splendid week as of now - essays are written and printed, there is a bottle of rose in the fridge ready to crack open for breakfast, I am going out tomorrow night with mates, and on Friday myself and the Hose are having a joint merry bash with all of our lovely mates at uni. It's actually a double celebration in two ways - the 22nd year of life and also our 3rd anniversary as birthday bum chums Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I don't know what I'll do next year... actually, yes I do, I'll be travelling with Bell, so ideally I can drink rum and puff some sheesha/hash (depending on country) and get merry in an entirely hippy backpacker manner.

There are, however, certain problems that come with being not 21 anymore. 21 is the last age where it is completely acceptable to be in girlish high spirits (drunk) and to be completely obvlivious as to a career plan. Now, my girlish high spirits still tend to reach St Trinian levels (and I mean the genius Ronald Searle illustrations rather than Rupert Everett in drag), and I my only office experience as yet is a week's work experience at an independent publisher's in Evesham. I feel like by now I should really have something I can say I can do that is useful to someone who would like to pay me lots of money for doing it (this blog and being able to do some exceptionally authetic Sixties dancing do not count).

This is why I'm going travelling, to discover myself and find out what I actually want to DO.

This is basically a lame way of saying that I have no clue and therefore wish to waste yet more time before I'm forced to pick something, or face the endless stream of rejection letters...

You see, this is why getting old is not fun. I would like to skip to the bit where I go travelling, and then skip again to the bit where I get a job I vaguely enjoy, even if it's only because I have a hot colleague to flirt with when I get bored. I don't know, just... oh good lord, 10 minutes.

Also, once you are a responsible adult, are you allowed to have pictures of hot dancer men on your walls? Or is this only allowed until you leave university? Answers directed via the comments box please...

Thespianism

2010-02-22T13:37:00.005Z

It is over. Rehearsals are finished, the shows are done, the aftershow party and after-party aftermath are mere memories (if you discount the mystery bruises and apparant trashing of bedroom). There's something so delicate about stage shows - you rehearse for months, sacrificing time, social situations, money and health, for a grand total of about 7 hours of performing which are gone in a flash of greasepaint. So why do we do it? What is there to actually get out of it?

Well, loads. I get asked this a lot because I don't live with any stagey people (they are all Art History/Classics/Anthropology people, although Lala did help out backstage), so I have many reasons ready waiting in my brain.

1. Showing off. Whether you're in it for the dancing, the singing or the acting or a mixture of them all, anyone who likes being on stage likes showing other people what they can do. In fact, everyone likes people to know what they do, except that if you're writing a book, for instance, you are relatively disconnected from the public eye - they only read the book. But if you're on stage, there's nowhere to hide. Everyone knows it's you because they can see you, so you are putting your supposed talent out there and inviting everyone to judge the harsh (or beautiful, if you're lucky) reality of it.

2. Doing something you love. You only get up on stage if you really want to - it's not like an office presentation that you do because you have to and just overcome your fear of it because it's your job. Like, I love dancing, so I want other people to see it the way I do and to love it too. This isn't even in a pretentious look-at-my-beautiful-art way, I just want people to have as much fun watching as I do doing.
3. Having a massive amount of fun with people you love. Even if you don't know anyone at the start, you'll end up knowing these people even better than you actually want to. You'll see each other at the very extremes of emotion - stressed, euphoric, angry - and then go to the pub for post-rehearsal drinks and see everyone chilled out, happy and drunk. If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) you get to kiss someone, or dance with someone, or do something with someone in front of loads of people that you'd never normally do, and you have to just jump in blind. This involves putting a lot of trust in each other - and actually, this applies throughout and entire production. If one person fucks up then the entire show is that tiny bit worse than it would have been. So you put everything you have into that one show and that one group of people.

Then you have the tiny things that might be just me...

4. Getting to be someone you're not, even if it isn't real.

5. Wearing loads of make-up (inlcuding massive false eyelashes), having massive hair and wearing what might be a really strange outfit, but knowing that even if you look like a knob up close you look amazing to the audience.

6. Applause. This probably falls under the showing off part.

7. That moment. There's always a moment. Usually a few, and not just in performances. It could be a dance that suddenly clicks and is just amazing to perform even in rehearsal. It could be when you suddenly get through a scene with no mistakes. It's almost always the first time you do a run and suddenly realise you have a show. It's definitely always when you hear the first audience reaction to the first number of the first performance.

Having read these back, they do slightly cross over each other but what the hell, they're all still applicable. There's just something about musical theatre, and I think it takes a certain sort of person to enjoy doing it. It's completely different to performing straight plays (as the Drama lecturers at uni are continually telling everyone in no uncertain terms) because it's never, ever realist - it's never real to burst into song and dance at the drop of a hat, although I wish every day that it was.

Once you've got the rehearsals, tears, tantrums and finally some epic performances out of the way, you can concentrate on the aftershow party. It's my belief that a show without and aftershow party is a complete waste of my life. We've spent (in this case) several months getting to know each other, shouting at each other, flirting with each other, causing each other accidental injuries during dance rehearsals, losing our voices 2 days before opening night, hearing those immortal words "Act 2 once more, please!" at midnight after several hours of dress runs, and generally working our thespian arses off, so why oh why would you not have a massive shindig to celebrate it? I know that some of the best parties I have ever been to have been aftershows... I think it must be a mixture of alcohol, pent-up adrenalin, a tendency for everyone there to want to sing, dance and show off, several inter-cast flirtations to reach their peak and an exceptionally luvvie habit of everyone kissing everyone else's bums and telling them how fabulous they were and are. I believe I spent a large proportion of the night/very early morning playing SingStar(why I ever thought I might win considering who I was playing against is a mystery, but that's cider for you) and taking various photographs of imaginary scenarios...

I am completely aware that this last sentence probably deconstructed all the good work of the preceding paragraph by making it look fucking lame, but this just proves the point that you had to be there... so go have an aftershow party of your own. Except you have to have an actual show first. So go join a drama society. Trust me, you won't regret it.

Fat Dancing

2010-01-26T00:31:00.004Z

Evening all. Lovely day.

I say lovely. In reality I have had a rather strange day, involving a bizarre mood change from enthusiastically bothering to do my hair and stuff this morning, to tired and disinterested during Cunningham this afternoon, and then, circumspectly, to finding everything hilarious during rehearsals, which is neither practical nor whimsically entertaining (as one might hope it is) when negotiating jumps and a shiny floor. That said, it was a pretty constructive rehearsal, and with three weeks to go have learnt all the dances we need to. That also said, they do need polishing somewhat... and also we need to learn to actually sing the songs we dance to.

Considering I haven't even had any essay questions yet, and so no actual work other than reading to do, I feel I've been insanely busy recently. This might have something to do with the approximate 16 hours of dance I have done over each of the past two weeks, although until Doodle pointed out that most normal people don't even do one, I thought this was a pretty poor approach to my fitness. Which brings me in a fairly shit and un-thought-out manner to a point relatively close to my heart: this idea that dancers are fitness and food obsessives.

Well. I am a food obsessive. I love food. I can't think of a better evening that spending it in a nice restaurant with good company and fantastic food (and an unlimited budget ideally). And I'm also slightly obsessed with my fitness in a weird way; I think I'm not as fit as I should be but then when it comes down to it I hate the gym and therefore do not go. And these thoughts seem to be at the forefront of my mind a lot of the time. But what can you do. Anyway, I digress as usual. People seem to think that ballerinas eat nothing but lettuce and follow a punishing fitness regime in order to gain the slender body required for the Royal Ballet Company. In reality, this is not the case. The girls who stop eating at ballet school never make it to the companies because they can't dance properly, because they don't have a nutritious diet - you can't build the muscle to hold yourself on pointe without eating some protein. Darcey Bussell couldn't work the magic she does if she starved herself. And that's another thing - ballet is the only form of dance or fitness training that provides you with lean muscle whilst getting rid of all body fat; the skinny body is a result of the training rather than a requirement before you start. Of course you have to eat healthily and train an insane amount, but that's what happens at a dance company - you're job is to dance for an audience, and therefore you have to practise. It's no different to doctor training and being on call at the hospital 24/7 (although in this case you're inflicting pain on yourself rather than on other people - standing on your toes is most definitely not the graceful sylph-like elegance it looks).

Anyway as you might have guessed, I feel particularly strongly about this subject, which is surprising considering I'm one of those dancers who would be looked at like a fat alien if I ever entered the Royal Ballet School because I have nicely placed areas of podge around my body (i.e. a normal one). But I just hate the stigma against dancers when we're all actually very different. Much like most things in life when you think about it.

I haven't had to dance since yesterday and don't need to until Sunday morning... bliss. I am going out for lunch on Saturday and will definitely be eating everything in sight, alongside quaffing some wine and then probably some saturated fat infused stodge on the train home. And I will love it.

Cracked Ice

2010-01-08T19:30:00.004Z

Well, I must apologise for being thoroughly rubbish and not posting anything for about forty years. I have an excuse for last week, but that's it. I am a bad person.

So I guess everyone's excited about snow and that. I must say it's beginning to grate on me a little bit, but that's my fault really, for not finishing uni work and therefore feeling too guilty to go out and play in it. We got home from holiday (eventually) on the 6th to find our lane beautifully snowploughed but with the drive under a foot of snow and the SmartCar nearly buried (ha, good). I've been having trouble adjusting to these ridiculous temperatures after a week of steady 30C heat, enjoyably cold showers, Caribbean steel bands and watermelon consumption. I'm not down with the mercury being permanently below freezing, having lukewarm showers because anything hotter feels boiling on my freezing cold hands and toes and eating massively stodgy hot food like chilli (although I do love chilli). Best thing about this weather is the view out my window, which looks out across to the Malverns and is amazing, and the fact I get to wear the best in winter fashions; altogether much easier to do well than summer clothes that require flat stomachs, a tan, and perky breasts that don't need a bra. Also, they cover up the ridiculous tan lines I acquired by falling asleep on a sunlounger during the hottest part of the day on the first full day of being there. Sometimes I think I need sending into the corner wearing a dunce hat.

So - the Christmas season. A week of drink-fuelled hilarity and riot, followed by a couple of days of sobering family gatherings (sobering due to the intense insanity of my family, and kept in check by redressing the sobering balance with Stowfords), followed by a completely - no joke - sober week in the Caribbean, followed by a week of minus temperatures and snow, which brings us to now. I tell you what, New Year's Eve on a beach drinking fruit punch is a bit weird. Like, it isn't cold. I wasn't drunk. I didn't know any of the people I was with apart from the three I was related to. I got up at 9am the following morning and had an alfresco swim followed by a civilised breakfast. And I think I could quite happily spend every New Year's Eve like that. When I found out I was going to be away over that particular night I felt an overhwelming sense of relief that I wouldn't have to make a decision about what to do and where to go to celebrate. At least on Christmas Day everyone knows you're going to be with your family, but on New Year's Eve there's all of a sudden about 4 different places you could be, with 4 slightly different sets of people, but the few people you would like to spend it with are scattered throughout those 4 events... Oh it is stressful. And considering you normally wake up with your head on the loo seat and no recollection of the night anyway, it hardly matters. Next year I intend to be in some far-flung country (a hot one), wearing flip flops, a sarong and dreadlocks, with my travelling buddy as the only person I need to worry about being in the same place as. I feel this will help me on my way to becoming a chilled out and entirely stress-free hippy; a necessary measure before I enter the horrors of career-driven job hopping.

As usual, I have rambled off the beaten track and onto a cunningly hidden bit of frozen pond - similar, in a way, to something I did whilst walking the dog in 8 inches of snow earlier. But, again like earlier, the ice didn't break, it just cracked, and I continued along on my way unscathed... See you anon.

Cymru a Cymraeg

2009-11-23T16:12:00.008Z

I got back from a lovely weekend in Wales on Monday. I've never been in a freezing cold monsoon before, so it was quite an experience. Luckily we had Super Scrabble to keep us entertained so we didn't have to venture out into the elements too often. I lived in Penrhyncoch for the first 13 years of my life, but I still wasn't expecting such shit weather. Grandad said it was relatively normal. Ummm, wrong. Normal is not pretty much ice-skating down Great Darkgate street because the wind was blowing me down it. Normal is not putting on a raincoat and wellies to pop out to the car. Normal is not suddenly being cast into darkness in the middle of a tense Scrabble match because the fuse has blown due to the hurricane raging outside. But then, I didn't ever assume I was going anywhere normal (this is a country where you get words with no vowels, after all).

It was ace to see my cousin R, though. She lives half the time in Santa Cruz with her lovely boyfriend (jealous? not for a second) so I don't get to see her very often. I shall just take this opportunity to plug her art - I think it's actually amazing, and even better when you see one of her paintings in real life. Grandad had one up in his living room; he's one of our only relatives with a wall big enough to house one of her pieces. Have a spy through her stuff at http://www.rheaoneill.com/ if you fancy it. Anywho, yes, so I hopped on a train to Reading on Friday afternoon and spent a couple of hours at Uncle K and Aunty S's place in Earley, getting drooled on by the massive bear-dog and eating cheese and pickle sandwiches, then we headed off on our epic quest to West Wales. It is well far away, and you don't realise till you drive it.

Grandma and Grandad live up the hill from Penrhyncoch, which is about 15mins drive inland from Aberystwyth. Their north-facing windows look out over the valley and you can see sheep and foxes (sometimes) meandering about on the opposite hill and red kites riding the air currents in between. Grandad's also got a swimming pool in his garden. Before anyone gets overexcited, it isn't heated, and this is WALES. When I lived up the lane from their house, I'd cycle down on hot days with my swimming costume and hop in. Flea has, on several occasions, exchanged an extremely swift run and jump into the pool during January for copious amounts of money, a prize - or compensation - for being the first person to go in the pool that year. But no-one ever swims in it anymore, except the odd beetle and a lot of leaves. I could see it out of my bedroom window, rain-spotted and wind-rippled, the coloured paving beginning to lift and fade. Ah well.

So - Welsh. I thought I had a pretty good grip on the Welsh language, you know, but then I was thrust into the Celtic whirlwind that is S4C. For those not in the know, this is what you get instead of Channel 4 in Wales, and involves a lot of Welsh singing, dancing and soap opera-style gallivanting. There was some bloke stood in front of a group of kids and a sheep and talking in a manner that I sort of subconsciously knew I should understand, but I thought for a moment he was speaking Martian. Turns out he was in fact speaking Welsh after all, very fast and with a funny northern accent. I think my grasp of the language since leaving Wales eight years ago has been reduced to purely comedic properties; I often get asked to say 'Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgoerychwyrndrobwyllllantysiliogogogoch' like I'm some kind of circus performer, and even Uncle K spent much of the journey once past the Severn Bridge asking me to pronounce the names of the villages we were going through. No-one does this to people who are fluent in French; there's really nothing that funny about a French man in England saying "Bonsoir!", but a Welsh girl in England saying "Nos da" when requested apparantly holds enormous entertainment value. You should hear Grandad speaking Irish. That really does sound funny.

The interesting thing is, I only learned any useful Welsh (i.e. swear-words) when I left Wales for England's green and pleasant land and my manager at work was Welsh. Whereas I had learned Welsh by going to a tiny little Welsh-speaking primary school and living in a village with no pub (due to the fact that until very recently, Ceredigion, or Dyfed as it was then, was a dry county), he hadn't really bothered to retain anything of conversational Welsh; just the profanities. My favourite is definitely "carachw bant", meaning "to fuck off", because no-one else can actually process in their brain what it is you're saying. That's the simultaneous beauty and curse of Welsh; it's completely infathomable to anyone who doesn't already know it because to an English-speaking mind, none of the letters are arranged into what usually look like words. So no-one ever bothers to learn it, unless they happened to have been born there, in which case you're forced to learn it until the end of secondary school, whereupon you move somewhere better and forget it - remembering only on request various amusing snippets.

My favourite of these is the word for five. It is spelt "pump" and pronounced "pimp". Fabulous.

Ultimate Vanning

2009-11-18T13:11:00.004Z

I'm not entirely sure where my obsession with VW campervans started. I know I haven't always loved them, I just don't I started doing so. Maybe it was a slow and unnoticed thing, a gradually dawning consiousness of their immensity. I always used to watch them stream past as I was waiting for a gap in the traffic to turn out of my road, on their way to the Three Counties show, and thought they were the most amazing-looking vehicles in the world. I once saw about thirty, all parked at an angle along the prom on the beach in Devon somewhere, and decided I wanted one. Here, now, ASAP.

Of course, the first thing I think about when I fantasise about my future camper is what it looks like. I mean I'd love a candy pink one - just look at the absolute sex god of a van in the photo on the right. But, just in case I had to share it with a man, I'd settle for either a shiny cherry red or a gorgeous baby blue or a peppermint green. With a white roof, of course, and chrome fittings. Then I'd do it out all sixties-style inside, with Kath Cidston curtains and cushion-covers and blankets and stuff... Oh lord, I'm salivating over an imaginary campervan.

The way the van looks is of course important - everyone starts with some shambolically rusted heap of junk that they love very much before they sort it out or get a better one - but the things you can do with it are what's really important. It doesn't matter if you're driving the swishest-looking machine you could ever dream of or a buckling hunk of be-primered metal, the feeling you get when you park up at the beach for summer will be the same. Nothing beats waking up in the morning and going straight outside to rub the sleep out of your eyes and feel the morning dew under your bare toes, before tramping off to find somewhere that does a fry-up. Once you're fed and watered you can go wherever the hell you like - and if you get somewhere and like it, you can stay - cos you've got a fabulous retro camper to stay in (and everywhere has campsites, even if you'd really much prefer a secluded corner of beach to park up at, so you'll never be completely screwed). I think I could happily mooch about in Cornwall for an entire summer if I had a shiny van to do it in and someone lovely to do it with. Maybe find a hippy folk band of some form to play my flute with... (maybe I'm getting a bit carried away now!)

And just imagine the fun if you got organised enough and shipped your camper overseas. I would LOVE to take mine to New Zealand and tour around. All hot and tropical and beachy up north, then slowly moving southwards towards cold mountains and snuggling under blankets with hot chocolate and skiing, or snowboarding if I was cool enough. Then leap over to Australia and take it to Bondi, make friends with a load of hot surfer dudes and learn to surf, with evenings spent drinking rum and coke on the beach with my new mates the surfers. That's before even thinking about Thailand.

Ahhhhh I want to go now! Now now now. Where's the nearest bank, I need to rob one! (They're not sheap, you know, campers.) Although, taking into account the current climate, it's probably not even worth robbing a bank... Any get rich quick schemes anyone would care to mention would be gratefully received! All that Cath Kidston ain't cheap either, come to think of it...

Wires Unfathomably Tangling Themselves

2009-11-15T14:03:00.003Z

I'm back in the library once again. I feel rather at home here now, especially when I make the effort to bring my laptop so I've got my iTunes and stuff. It's just a warmer version of my house. I'm actually currently having a musical theatre party in my ears; I had no idea I had so many musical soundtracks in my possession until someone pointed out that the only things that ever appear on my 'listening to' bit of Windows Live are Rent, Spring Awakening, Les Miserables and occasionally Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony or a nice bit of James Galway.

I love my headphones, right. At night time they allow me to block out the sounds of sirens, helicopters and planes and replace them with a soothing bit of Pachelbel. On the bus, I can forget that I'm in a hot, stuffy box on wheels with forty other people I neither know nor like and get lost in the soaring distortion of Muse. If I'm in the house when everyone's in and want to listen to guilty pleasure music at top volume then I can do so. But WHY oh WHY do headphones, as soon as you put them down somewhere, become a tangled mess of disappointment?!? Do the two ear bits and the plug bit play hide and seek with eachother when I'm not looking? Or do they just think that my favourite past-time is disentangling wires that are already slightly broken, therefore requiring a certain amount of gentility in untangling rather than just picking two ends and pulling until something happens? I swear they do it on purpose to annoy me. Even if I put them in the front pocket of my bag where they can't move they come out like Medusa's head. It's the most ridiculous thing to get annoyed by, but I mean, really. It's not natural.

That rant over (bit still simmering away in my mind), I move on to... something else. Doodle just brough me a cup of tea, which is rather fabulous of her. Bit hot, though. And having an fantastic chat with the Lady (we're online at the same time so rarely that this deserves a medal) and J, so my library time is passing rather enjoyably. Of course, I'd rather be eating Sunday roast (beef or lamb) in a nice pub somewhere, but what can you do. Well, start sticking to some sort of budget for a start, but where's the fun in that? I definitely wouldn't have a lovely new jumper dress if I'd done that. (It is lush though, it's grey and sort of ruched and has buttons down one side :-D)

I literally don't know what I'd do without Doodle sometimes. On top of making me cups of tea a lot, she doesn't think I'm weird when all of a sudden I have a slight breakdown about things and cry for no apparant reason (usually because Fate's timing is spectacular, and when things go a bit tits up I'm always already exhausted/grumpy/ill and just become an angry harpy). She didn't even mind when I got home from ballet in a small rage, lay on her bed in a ballet leotard, tights and a hoodie, whingeing and uttering expletives, and smudging mascara all over her duvet cover. In fact, all my mates have been amazing at looking after me - the prize probably goes to Lady and Fairy for not absolutely shitting their pants when I collapsed in Lady'd bathroom for no apparant reason (I wasn't pissed for once). I'm still not really sure what that was all about, except that I fell asleep on the sofa, woke up at about 2.30am because Lady and Fairy actually were pissed, went upstairs to the loo and collapsed onto the floor whilst muttering unintelligibly. I don't actually remember this, but apparantly my temperature shot up to worrying levels and if I hadn't have randomly recovered after about 10mins they would have called an ambulance... anyway, they put me to bed and in the morning I was fine, and I'd like to apologise unreservedly here and now for scaring the shite out of them both. Sorry guys...

How did I get onto that??? Meh, oh well. The point is, after asking J for a completely random topic (and discarding the unconfinably random 'the problems with roofing felt'), I have successfully included the way wires unfathomably tangle themselves into this post... High Fiiiiive.

Are you alluring in bedsocks and a hoodie?

2009-11-10T12:45:00.008Z

I feel as though I've neglected my creative energies a little in recent days (not to mention neglected those poor people who await my next blog with eager anticipation... ahaha), but this is definitely not my fault. Due to the trampy and scavenging way we get internet in our house, we no longer have any, so I have had to haul myself up the hill to campus to write this. Well, technically I should be researching either George Balanchine or Malorie Blackman or both for upcoming presentations, but what the hell. I will do that too. And I was away all weekend with better things to do so I mean, really, what do people expect?

I've pretty much moved into the library actually. It's nice here. It has the basic essentials required by a student: heat, internet, food and opportunities for socialising. My house has none of these things, except for maybe a bit of food, with the added bonus of the next-door-neighbours starting their DIY projects at 8am every morning, the absolute bastards. It's not a happy way to wake up, you know, with what sounds and feels like (and is) someone drilling into the wall behind your head. A happy way to wake up is warm and snuggly, knowing you haven't got anything on to bother waking up for. I'm becoming a massive fan of sleeping in a hoody and bedsocks as well as pyjamas though, although it's not a particularly alluring look. But then, if perchance I was in bed with someone I wished to seem alluring in front of, there wouldn't be any need for such measures, and hopefully I'd have asked if they have a working heating system and then suggested we go back to theirs when they said yes.

ANYWAY. I was meant to go and see Chris Moyles's new TV show being filmed on Monday night, but the reprobates at Channel 4 overbook all the civilian tickets so we didn't get in. However, we should be able to get priority tickets for the next one as a refund thing so it's all good. Me and Doodle just fannied about in central instead, which was rather lovely. It's rare to get to just wander around without crashing through crowds of tourists or businessmen. Plus, it wasn't raining. We had pizza on the Southbank then walked over the Golden Jubilee bridge to Embankment, where we found Cleopatra's needle. (Did you know it was abandoned in the Bay of Biscay during a storm??? How could you abandon something that massive?!) Then all of a sudden we found ourselves at Charing Cross Station, which was a bit weird and unexpected, then skidded through some puddles up to Trafalgar Square, where Doodle nearly got us arrested/asked out on a date by two lovely helmeted policeman by saying "'Ello, 'ello, what's going on 'ere then?" at them, but unfortunately they just smirked at us and carried on past us. Trafalgar Square is really pretty at night time, though. They light the fountains pretty shades of pink and blue, and the National Portrait Gallery is lit up so that all the pillars and stuff along the front of it cast amazing shadows. There are also no pigeons flapping about and shitting everywhere, which is a bigger bonus than finding a Malteaser in your packet made of solid chocolate.

London's weird though. It's like a big adventure playground where nothing's quite real. Even all the big business workers don't really live in the real world, they think doing business in bars drinking champagne and hardly having to walk anywhere is the real world. It's normal to live in a massive jungle of buildings, breathing traffic fumes, and sitting in a city park during summer, thinking it can't get any better than a picnic in an icebox on a smog-choked patch of grass and trees - even if it is Hyde Park. It can get better. You could be chilling out with some cider next to Gullet Quarry, where the air really is fresh and the water really is ice cold, ven when it's thirty degrees (it happens!) and there's ten people you can see and talk to around you, instead of ten thousand that you don't even know the names of. Isn't it so much nicer in the evenings to go to the pub with your mates and know most of the people in there, and to be able to sit outside by the river and watch the sunset as you drink your pint, instead of being stuck in a hot, busy noisy bar, where the only escape outside is a little cordoned off smoking area? I don't know... maybe I'm being a grumpy country-dweller who hates anywhere bigger than Tewkesbury and anything busier than a farmer's market.

It's taken me about 3 days to write this blog, namely due to distractions such as Facebook, BBC iPlayer and actual university work (!), but I think now it's maybe a lost cause. I've just been trying to think of a title for it and can't, because it isn't about anything in particular... Hmmmm. I shall think of something shortly, and then hopefully write something better soon. Ciao.

Rain ---> Flood

2009-11-03T22:25:00.003Z

It absolutely pissed it down today. Just as I left the house for Writing Multi-Cultural Britain it started (or so it seemed) and didn't stop for approximately a millenia. Do people understand what a pain in the arse it is to bundle up in two tops, a cardigan, jacket, jeans, scarf, gloves and Ugg boots to tramp up the slippery, leaf-strewn hill to uni whilst carrying the heaviest handbag in the world because it's full of useless hardback library books and ballet kit, to then arrive at a greenhouse-like building that necessitates the removal of nearly every layer? And to then have to put it all back on, tramp once more along slippery, leaf-strewn pathways to the library (stuffiest building ever built) and unsuccessfully search for books that reference Jacobean conventions of casting after returning the aforementioned useless ones? No, they do not. They would tell me to get over it or get a car. And obviously neither of those options are open to me.

Anyway, rainy days are for sitting next to a window, watching the rain outside whilst it's warm and snuggly inside, and reading a good book/Cosmopolitan whilst drinking soup. And is there anything cosier than being snuggled up in your sleeping bag in a tent, listening to the rain hitting the roof? (Although, admittedly, the thought of attempting to get out of the tent - which will eventually become a necessity - without letting rain, mud or nearby wildlife in puts a slight damper on things.)

The problem with torrential rain is that, where I come from, everyone shits themselves that it's going to flood. This is an understandable fear considering Upton is the most frequently flooded town in Britain (I'm sure I read that somewhere...?), and in July 07 actually became an island. Unfortunately I wasn't on that island, I was in my house, which isn;t anywhere, so I couldn't get to work (bonus) the pub (severe problem) or in fact anywhere that sold food without getting on the M50 and going to Ledbury for it. Basically, it happened thus.

It rained for about 3 solid days and nights. By Friday evening, when my sister was due back from Newquay with school and mum and dad from the Channel Islands, my front garden had flooded. I'd dropped G off at the pub earlier and he had to practically swim home. Mum and dad kept ringing to say they were delayed, so could I pick Flea up, but Flea kept ringing to say they were delayed and going the wrong way because of trees in the road and stuff, so she didn't even know where they were. In the end mum and dad banned me from driving anywhere in my little Ka and organised a parent with a four-by-four to pick up Flea. I just sort of sat in the front room with the dog, who spent the evening barking at the rising rainwater in the front garden and asking me for walks that clearly weren't going to happen. Eventually Flea rang me in floods of tears saying the were stuck in Ross-on-Wye, sleeping on a hotel conference room floor, and mum and dad said their train was stuck at Oxford so they were going to stay at my uncle's. So I went to bed, hoping the floodwater in the garden didn't start coming through the front door, taking the dog with me because the roof in the back porch (where he sleeps) was leaking.

Next morning I went to work at the bakery for 8am, and was sold out of everything by 11am what with people panic-buying stuff. Round about 10ish my sister turned up, dressed in a bikini, board shorts, a hoodie and flipflops and looking like she'd just stepped off the beach (she'd actually only just got off the coach). I gave her a free chelsea bun and she went to her mate's for a sleep. Mum and dad got home with my uncle and his massive dog, so her and Monty had fun splashing about in the diminishing lake that was the front garden before we all went for a pint, laughing and joking about the weekend's misfortune. Oh how naive...

By 9pm the main road between Upton and our house was flooded, which is insane considering it's built up like a bridge above the floodplain. By Sunday morning it was 5' under, meaning the actual level of flooding on the meadow was about 10'. We spent some time fannying about at the edge of the water, nosing around at the camera crews and gossiping darkly with locals about food shortages and sewage problems, then went up the lane to the farm where we met a very posh blonde woman in brand new wellies from Sky News. Felt a bit like a refugee comapared to her, with our muddy boots and careworn expressions, until mum and dad announced that they were going away with Flea the next day as planned because they could get onto the M50. Great, now I've got to spend 5 days in the company of a dissolute, hyperactive dog who can't be walked because all the fields are flooded, and a boyfriend who's grumpy because there won't be any cricket for weeks now, whilst you three swan off to Scarborough where it's dry and the cricket is still on. What a fabulous summer holiday. The only thing that got me through that week was the fact that the final Harry Potter book had come out, so I read all seven in a row, and the minor incident where the dog ran away from the car in Tesco's carpark out of sheer boredom and had to be chased and caught by G.

So... yeah. The actual flooded people of Upton had a much better time (initially) with street parties and water cricket and a general wartime feeling of everyone getting along together. Then everyone had to claim insurance and dry out their houses and it stopped being fun. Luckily for me, the only problem was that Upton and its surrounding area smelled like off seaweed for weeks, and the cellar at work was flooded, meaning we had to take off our shoes and socks and roll up our trousers in order to restock the bar.

And there you have one person's brief account of the July 07 floods... I'm sure there are many more exciting stories, like my mates who took out a rubber dinghy on the floodwater and got apprehended by the watre police, or whatever, but hey. They are not meaninglessly writing a blog...

A Weekend in the Country

2009-11-01T22:36:00.005Z

Tis the end of my weekend in Uptonshire... *sniff*.

I am being melodramatic, it's not like I'm never coming back. It is, after all, the location of the familial homestead. But it was such a lush weekend; even the dog was so excited to see me he made funny noises when he greeted me (although he isn't what you'd call entirely sane; he makes a habit of staring at the invisible man that seems to reside in secret in our house, and if he isn't around he stares at me instead). Me, Fayski and Aunty J went to see Frank, Lady, Fairy and Flea in Our Day Out which was wicked, and pub afterwards with everyone was even better. Interestingly, my mother and sister conspired with M and decided we should get married... I think (hope) this was an alcohol-fuelled decision, but you never know - M keeps calling me Wifey. There just seems to be something about being able to sit in a snuggly pub with the river outside the window, a pint in your hand and a group of lovely lovely people to chattle to that makes me thoroughly content. I'm not an alcoholic or anything, but I could literally live in a pub. (Not run one. Live in one.) Then today I had a lovely luncheon with another old school friend (who came to the pub but not the play, the rotter), where I discovered some startling things about various mutual friends' relationships and spent too much money in HMV before retreating to the Lady's house for tea and gossiping. Good gossiping. I miss the Lady for gossiping when I'm in London, but then I come home there's just so damn much to chat about that it almost makes it worth the pain of separation.

Didn't get to walk the dog though actually (I was too busy watching Hairspray with Flea and scouting phone chargers yesterday) which is sort of a shame, but as I look over at young Montgomery now, drooling and snoring in a runty sort of way on his bed in the corner, I realise he probably doesn't give a shit as long as someone took him out to harass some pheasants and a couple of cows. I think he's just pleased I let him come and have a snuggle on the sofa, something he's only allowed to do secretly when mum is out. Here is a picture of said dog with his new fashion accessory. He seemed to quite like it; at least, he completely ignored it, which made it funnier (and no it is not tied round his neck, just to his collar, before anyone gets all mardy about it). He's still asleep. With his head on the hard wood armrest of his chair, which doesn't look very comfortable. He literally spends his entire life being severely, painfully excited or... asleep. He's not paticularly bright either. Once when he was a puppy and we were walking along the highstreet someone accidentally bashed him over the head with their shopping and he didn't even appear to notice. My neighbour's 10-week old springer puppy is more self-aware than he is.

I should at this point (before I head bedwards, and before I write any more posts) explain that it's not that everyone I know has either a ridiculous name or merely a letter masquerading as a name. Basically I thought I'd better not name people directly in case they wouldn;t like it, and then I started having far too much fun deciding which nickname to use for people... some are more obvious than others. My sister actually has an incredibly ridiculous name (to English eyes) involving too many consonants, therefore everyone will know it's definately her I'm talking about. Anywhoooo... cheerio.

Family Guy Appreciation Over The Internet

2009-10-30T23:08:00.006Z

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.

Hmmmm...

2009-10-30T01:25:00.001Z

Hmmm. Don't fully understand why the last post has turned into tiny pixie writing. Working on it...

Stop sign in the garden

2009-10-30T00:19:00.009Z

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...

Capitalism and VWs

2009-10-28T21:30:00.005Z

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.)

Pique turns and deer-chasing

2009-10-27T16:37:00.003Z

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.

Why I am not attending 80s Night

2009-10-26T20:19:00.005Z

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.

No.1

2009-10-26T16:14:00.006Z

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