To the lovely people who follow this blog:
A real big thank you for reading my blathering for the past year or so. I'm moving to a new url though, as the email account this is associated with is soon going to be deleted. If you would like to resume following me, please go to
www.musingsofaseriallurker.blogspot.com
Hope to see you on the other side!
Kim xx
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Monday, 19 July 2010
I like hats!
Walking through Oldrids (a local department store) with my brother, we walked past a couple of women.
Random woman: I like hats!
If we were near hats, this would have made sense - but there were no hats in sight.
Random woman: I like hats!
If we were near hats, this would have made sense - but there were no hats in sight.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
The Strange People of Derby
I don’t know what it is, but strange people seem to be attracted to Derby like iron filings are attracted to a magnet. The number of strange people in Boston is quite high – we have such legends as George (“Happy Easter, it’ll soon be Christmas!”), Cedric (the bad transsexual), and the dude who walks around wearing ear phones that aren’t connected to anything. But it is nothing compared to the weird and wonderful people who walk the streets of Derby.
They are so weird they even deserve a post entirely about them.
The first strange person I saw was when I was on the train, a few moments outside of Derby. He was in the back garden of his house and he appeared to be shifting a metal wheelbarrow onto the roof of his garden shed. Why would anyone do that? To use it as an ornament, perhaps? A simple ‘I can do it’ to the people passing on trains? Wayne came up with this idea: the man had seen himself doing it in a dream, and when his wife asked why he would do such a stupid thing, he had done it as a big two fingers up at her. I have no idea, all I know is that it’s a very strange thing to do.
I didn’t encounter this next guy, but Wayne did and I trust his telling of the story enough to retell it as part of my evidence for Derby being Strange Person Central. He was walking back from work Friday morning, and a random bloke stopped him and asked him if he had 38p. Not 40 or 35p, oh no - 38p. After Wayne told him no, he didn’t have 38p as he was just on the way back from work, Random Man proceeded to introduce himself and start chatting to him. This might be considered friendly, but I think it’s actually scary. Why didn’t he talk to Wayne before asking for the 38p? Here’s why: he wanted to know as much as possible about him so he could take revenge for the denial of 38p.
Watch out, Wayne – this guy’s after you!
Person number 3 was a bloke I encountered while with Wayne. He’s not a potential murderer like the last person – he’s an architectural nutcase, desperate to pass on his knowledge to the rest of the world.
We were walking across the Bridge of Lights (not as amazing as it sounds, I assure you) and I was taking the piss out of St Mary’s Church, which was right in front of us. Suddenly, a man appeared from behind us: “The interior was designed by the same man who designed the interior of Westminster, you know!” he told us, obviously taking my pisstaking as a sign of extreme interest. We thanked him for imparting this interesting information to us, and quickly moved on – he might be a benevolent teacher, simply passing on his knowledge to the uneducated, but he also might be a crazed professor determined to make us pass on all of his knowledge about architecture. While that could be interesting, we had much more interesting plans for the afternoon: Super Smash Brothers and Mario Kart Wii with a load of Wayne’s friends.
The final person was an elderly lady I met while sitting on the train waiting to leave Derby. She may have sang at me for no apparent reason. I found this to be both disturbing and amusing.
So yeah, you find some real characters in Derby, and I love it. How can you ever run out of inspiration for wacky characters when you are always surrounded by them?!
They are so weird they even deserve a post entirely about them.
The first strange person I saw was when I was on the train, a few moments outside of Derby. He was in the back garden of his house and he appeared to be shifting a metal wheelbarrow onto the roof of his garden shed. Why would anyone do that? To use it as an ornament, perhaps? A simple ‘I can do it’ to the people passing on trains? Wayne came up with this idea: the man had seen himself doing it in a dream, and when his wife asked why he would do such a stupid thing, he had done it as a big two fingers up at her. I have no idea, all I know is that it’s a very strange thing to do.
I didn’t encounter this next guy, but Wayne did and I trust his telling of the story enough to retell it as part of my evidence for Derby being Strange Person Central. He was walking back from work Friday morning, and a random bloke stopped him and asked him if he had 38p. Not 40 or 35p, oh no - 38p. After Wayne told him no, he didn’t have 38p as he was just on the way back from work, Random Man proceeded to introduce himself and start chatting to him. This might be considered friendly, but I think it’s actually scary. Why didn’t he talk to Wayne before asking for the 38p? Here’s why: he wanted to know as much as possible about him so he could take revenge for the denial of 38p.
Watch out, Wayne – this guy’s after you!
Person number 3 was a bloke I encountered while with Wayne. He’s not a potential murderer like the last person – he’s an architectural nutcase, desperate to pass on his knowledge to the rest of the world.
We were walking across the Bridge of Lights (not as amazing as it sounds, I assure you) and I was taking the piss out of St Mary’s Church, which was right in front of us. Suddenly, a man appeared from behind us: “The interior was designed by the same man who designed the interior of Westminster, you know!” he told us, obviously taking my pisstaking as a sign of extreme interest. We thanked him for imparting this interesting information to us, and quickly moved on – he might be a benevolent teacher, simply passing on his knowledge to the uneducated, but he also might be a crazed professor determined to make us pass on all of his knowledge about architecture. While that could be interesting, we had much more interesting plans for the afternoon: Super Smash Brothers and Mario Kart Wii with a load of Wayne’s friends.
The final person was an elderly lady I met while sitting on the train waiting to leave Derby. She may have sang at me for no apparent reason. I found this to be both disturbing and amusing.
So yeah, you find some real characters in Derby, and I love it. How can you ever run out of inspiration for wacky characters when you are always surrounded by them?!
A moment of mild wit
One of my gorgeous best friends, Fizzy, gave birth to a (presumably) equally as gorgeous little girl – called Poppy Jasmine - this morning. I have already bought mummy and baby a few things, but I still had to buy a card.
Today, Clintons, with Carl (my brother):
Carl: Where are they? Do new baby cards even exist?
Me: Yeahhh, I know they do – I’ve seen them before! Ah – hang on, what are these? *points to the side*
Carl: *Begins to laugh* “‘With sympathy’?!”
Today, Clintons, with Carl (my brother):
Carl: Where are they? Do new baby cards even exist?
Me: Yeahhh, I know they do – I’ve seen them before! Ah – hang on, what are these? *points to the side*
Carl: *Begins to laugh* “‘With sympathy’?!”
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
I just want to get home!
Up until the past few days, I couldn’t understand why trains in the UK - or at least England - have such a bad reputation among the people I know: okay, so they weren’t exactly plushy – or even very nice – but they got me where I needed to be and on time, too. The last five or so times I have travelled using the trains, though, I have discovered why they are mocked as well as gaining a loathing of using them.
Strangely, the problems never come from the Skegness–Nottingham line – they always (yes, always) come from the Birmingham New Street-Derby line. How it is that a line from a small seaside town is more reliable than a line from a city, I don’t know. But it’s true all the same.
Take this weekend, for example.
For the past week, I have been in Derby with Wayne. However, I had to be back today so that I could make an important dentist appointment. It took me four attempts to get here, and even then I didn’t make it on time to make the appointment.
What could have caused that?
Cancellations and delays.
The first time I tried to get home was Sunday. Not exactly a good day to choose due to the timetables being fucked up, but I was talked into staying longer than planned by Wayne. This time, missing the train was my fault. I fully admit to that (although I think Wayne deserves some of the credit, too, seeing as he was the reason why I was walking so slowly to the station - he doesn't half talk some rubbish!). It's the only time I take responsibility for it: the other times it was entirely down to the stupid railway service.
Tuesday evening was the second attempt I made. This time, the train arrived on time, but departed 3 minutes late. While this doesn't sound disastrous, I only have 10 minutes to get from the train to Nottingham to the train to Boston, so every single minute counts. Had that been the only delay, I could have possibly made it, although I would have been knackered from running – the platform my Nottingham train arrives at is on the opposite side of the station to where the Skegness train departs. Then came the killing blow for my plans to get home that night: about 3 minutes away from the destination, the train pulled to a halt, and didn’t move for about 20 minutes.
There was another train to Boston, don’t get me wrong. I could have got it. But I would have had to wait for an hour and a half, and the station was cold. And by ‘cold’ I mean ‘fucking freezing’; there wasn't much wind, but the station was funnelling it and making it chillier than Wayne’s old house on a cold day. Fuming and almost to the point of pulling my hair out in anger, I rang Wayne and let him know what was going on. Half an hour later, I was back on a train to Derby, planning on spending an extra night at his house. I was definitely not a happy bunny - especially as this wasn't the first time this had happened to me. It's happened once before, at the beginning of May: I was trying to get home, train was late, I had to wait for hours for next train. Okay, so they offered me a taxi to Boston last time, and I took them up on it. Last night, however, they told me to catch the train to Grantham (meaning that hour and a half wait) then get a taxi from there to Boston. But what's the point of that? I'd be getting home the same time as the really late Nottingham - Skegness train!
The third time I walked to the station was this morning. I was going to catch the 1110 and arrive at 1330 – just in time to get to the dentist when I reached Boston. The train was cancelled. The next train to Nottingham was only ten minutes later, but it meant that I missed the Skegness train…so I had to catch the one an hour later. And even then it wasn’t the last of the delays: the Skegness train, when it finally arrived, was 10 minutes late in setting off due to a senile old man running around and refusing to sit down. By the time I got home, I was an half an hour late for the dentist and fuming, once again.
Lessons learned: trains are rubbish, and should never be depended upon. Also, I really need to learn to drive or get Wayne to learn to drive so I don’t have to use trains as my main method of transport.
Now that I've ranted about that, I'm in the process of writing a collection of happy blog pots about the awesome time I had last week. I wrote out a diary (well, a mishmash of stuff) in a notebook while I was there, so I'll type them out and post them as separate days on here. It's sort of therapy to make me calm down after writing this out and getting angry (once again) at railways.
Strangely, the problems never come from the Skegness–Nottingham line – they always (yes, always) come from the Birmingham New Street-Derby line. How it is that a line from a small seaside town is more reliable than a line from a city, I don’t know. But it’s true all the same.
Take this weekend, for example.
For the past week, I have been in Derby with Wayne. However, I had to be back today so that I could make an important dentist appointment. It took me four attempts to get here, and even then I didn’t make it on time to make the appointment.
What could have caused that?
Cancellations and delays.
The first time I tried to get home was Sunday. Not exactly a good day to choose due to the timetables being fucked up, but I was talked into staying longer than planned by Wayne. This time, missing the train was my fault. I fully admit to that (although I think Wayne deserves some of the credit, too, seeing as he was the reason why I was walking so slowly to the station - he doesn't half talk some rubbish!). It's the only time I take responsibility for it: the other times it was entirely down to the stupid railway service.
Tuesday evening was the second attempt I made. This time, the train arrived on time, but departed 3 minutes late. While this doesn't sound disastrous, I only have 10 minutes to get from the train to Nottingham to the train to Boston, so every single minute counts. Had that been the only delay, I could have possibly made it, although I would have been knackered from running – the platform my Nottingham train arrives at is on the opposite side of the station to where the Skegness train departs. Then came the killing blow for my plans to get home that night: about 3 minutes away from the destination, the train pulled to a halt, and didn’t move for about 20 minutes.
There was another train to Boston, don’t get me wrong. I could have got it. But I would have had to wait for an hour and a half, and the station was cold. And by ‘cold’ I mean ‘fucking freezing’; there wasn't much wind, but the station was funnelling it and making it chillier than Wayne’s old house on a cold day. Fuming and almost to the point of pulling my hair out in anger, I rang Wayne and let him know what was going on. Half an hour later, I was back on a train to Derby, planning on spending an extra night at his house. I was definitely not a happy bunny - especially as this wasn't the first time this had happened to me. It's happened once before, at the beginning of May: I was trying to get home, train was late, I had to wait for hours for next train. Okay, so they offered me a taxi to Boston last time, and I took them up on it. Last night, however, they told me to catch the train to Grantham (meaning that hour and a half wait) then get a taxi from there to Boston. But what's the point of that? I'd be getting home the same time as the really late Nottingham - Skegness train!
The third time I walked to the station was this morning. I was going to catch the 1110 and arrive at 1330 – just in time to get to the dentist when I reached Boston. The train was cancelled. The next train to Nottingham was only ten minutes later, but it meant that I missed the Skegness train…so I had to catch the one an hour later. And even then it wasn’t the last of the delays: the Skegness train, when it finally arrived, was 10 minutes late in setting off due to a senile old man running around and refusing to sit down. By the time I got home, I was an half an hour late for the dentist and fuming, once again.
Lessons learned: trains are rubbish, and should never be depended upon. Also, I really need to learn to drive or get Wayne to learn to drive so I don’t have to use trains as my main method of transport.
Now that I've ranted about that, I'm in the process of writing a collection of happy blog pots about the awesome time I had last week. I wrote out a diary (well, a mishmash of stuff) in a notebook while I was there, so I'll type them out and post them as separate days on here. It's sort of therapy to make me calm down after writing this out and getting angry (once again) at railways.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
First day in Derby
I arrived in Derby quite late this evening due to having a couple of other things on which meant I couldn't get a very early train. I don't know, you have nothing on for ages, and then suddenly everything collides: today, I had an eye test (I need new glasses, which wasn't much of a surprise), had my hair cut, and then had to get the two hour train to Derby. After the eye test and hairdresser I didn't much feel like going on the train, to be honest, but I pepped myself up with the knowledge that Wayne would be there when I arrived and I could have a much-needed hug. I might have only been in Boston for one week, but that was more than enough, believe me.
So I arrived about 8 and found Wayne outside the station, reading some signs about the history of Derby. After a quick RAARR hug attack, we set off for his new house - a house he only moved in to last week, and so a house I had never seen before.
The last house he lived in wasn't, to be perfectly and brutally honest, the best. It was too big, too cold, and although the atmosphere was cheerier than the one in the Boston house, it was pretty bad. This new house, however, is lovely. There’s no mould (something the old house had in great big green mounds), the atmosphere is cheery and happy, and everyone gathers in the room daily. The rooms are a nice size, and the house is away from the main road – it really is a lovely place. The only slight problem with it is that it is so far away from town, but hey-ho, never mind. It is only 6 minutes away from the Uni (at Wayne's regular walking pace (aka, snail pace)) so I can forgive it for being away from town!
After being shown around, Wayne made me a cup of tea. Ooooh, that reminds me of something I said I'd mention – The Kettle! When they moved in, Wayne sent me a really excited text about a really awesome kettle. I don’t know what I was expecting – perhaps a kettle that played music while boiling, mashing and fixing the tea – but it certainly didn't live up to the hype. A press of a button makes the lid flick up, and when you turn the power on, the water level lights up blue. That’s what makes it 'awesome'. Still, it makes a cuppa, and that's all that matters really.
Then we (Alex, Jess, Josh (Wayne's housemates), Wayne and I) sat down and stuck a film on. It was a martial arts film, so I wasn't entirely sure what I was letting myself in for by agreeing to watch it, but I went with it anyway. It would be rude not to, considering I was a guest at their house and everything. The film chosen was Ong Bak. Rotten Tomatoes gave it a percentage of 85% - way over what I was expecting. It wasn’t that the film was appalling – it wasn’t – it was just so laughable and silly. Obviously a showcase of the leading actor’s epic martial arts skillz, it was one chase (including one in tuc tucs) and fight after another. The best character in it was George, the idiotic and slightly adorable “sidekick” who kept making awesome mistakes. Not huge, momentous mistakes, but mistakes that are genuinely awesome and bring about the end of a load of bad guys.
The sidekick’s sidekick, a young girl, seemed to have no purpose except to stand there and look shocked or worried a lot. For example:
(She's the one in the middle. George is on the left, with the main character in the centre.)
But the film has ended so now we have to go to bed – I'm “more shattered than a smashed window” (to quote the text I sent Wayne this morning) and, since Wayne's been up since 5 due to work, he's just as knackered. He has Thursday morning off from Tesco so he can spend tomorrow with me, so I suppose that's one more good thing about this trip - it made him take a (much needed) day off from work!
Day one, done.
So I arrived about 8 and found Wayne outside the station, reading some signs about the history of Derby. After a quick RAARR hug attack, we set off for his new house - a house he only moved in to last week, and so a house I had never seen before.
The last house he lived in wasn't, to be perfectly and brutally honest, the best. It was too big, too cold, and although the atmosphere was cheerier than the one in the Boston house, it was pretty bad. This new house, however, is lovely. There’s no mould (something the old house had in great big green mounds), the atmosphere is cheery and happy, and everyone gathers in the room daily. The rooms are a nice size, and the house is away from the main road – it really is a lovely place. The only slight problem with it is that it is so far away from town, but hey-ho, never mind. It is only 6 minutes away from the Uni (at Wayne's regular walking pace (aka, snail pace)) so I can forgive it for being away from town!
After being shown around, Wayne made me a cup of tea. Ooooh, that reminds me of something I said I'd mention – The Kettle! When they moved in, Wayne sent me a really excited text about a really awesome kettle. I don’t know what I was expecting – perhaps a kettle that played music while boiling, mashing and fixing the tea – but it certainly didn't live up to the hype. A press of a button makes the lid flick up, and when you turn the power on, the water level lights up blue. That’s what makes it 'awesome'. Still, it makes a cuppa, and that's all that matters really.
Then we (Alex, Jess, Josh (Wayne's housemates), Wayne and I) sat down and stuck a film on. It was a martial arts film, so I wasn't entirely sure what I was letting myself in for by agreeing to watch it, but I went with it anyway. It would be rude not to, considering I was a guest at their house and everything. The film chosen was Ong Bak. Rotten Tomatoes gave it a percentage of 85% - way over what I was expecting. It wasn’t that the film was appalling – it wasn’t – it was just so laughable and silly. Obviously a showcase of the leading actor’s epic martial arts skillz, it was one chase (including one in tuc tucs) and fight after another. The best character in it was George, the idiotic and slightly adorable “sidekick” who kept making awesome mistakes. Not huge, momentous mistakes, but mistakes that are genuinely awesome and bring about the end of a load of bad guys.
The sidekick’s sidekick, a young girl, seemed to have no purpose except to stand there and look shocked or worried a lot. For example:
(She's the one in the middle. George is on the left, with the main character in the centre.)
But the film has ended so now we have to go to bed – I'm “more shattered than a smashed window” (to quote the text I sent Wayne this morning) and, since Wayne's been up since 5 due to work, he's just as knackered. He has Thursday morning off from Tesco so he can spend tomorrow with me, so I suppose that's one more good thing about this trip - it made him take a (much needed) day off from work!
Day one, done.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Clever Clogs strikes again...
Wayne and I walk towards the cash machine outside Sainsburys. There’s a billboard advertising a NEW WISPA DUO just outside.
Kim: What is it, then? A bigger version of the Wispa?
Wayne: You know how you get Bountys in two pieces, and Mars Bars? I think it’s like them…
Kim: So not a bigger version of the Wispa then?
Wayne: No, not a bigger version of the Wispa. Although…wouldn’t a larger version of a Wispa be a shout?
Kim: *groans* *punches Wayne*
Kim: What is it, then? A bigger version of the Wispa?
Wayne: You know how you get Bountys in two pieces, and Mars Bars? I think it’s like them…
Kim: So not a bigger version of the Wispa then?
Wayne: No, not a bigger version of the Wispa. Although…wouldn’t a larger version of a Wispa be a shout?
Kim: *groans* *punches Wayne*
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
(f5 f5 f5 f5)
It is That Time of Year once again – the time of year that all students dread and yet look forward to in equal amounts: Results Day. Or it should be today, anyway – while we have been told by a trusted source (or two) that it should be today. But it’s half six and I’m losing hope – do I really have to have another night of not being able to sleep much, of tossing and turning and waking up at 9 in the morning, the first thought on my mind being ‘ARE THEY UP YET?!”
Must I?!
Panicking comes easily for me. It doesn’t take much until I turn into a gibbering, hackering, jellified mess. How’s this for nerves: it took me well into the second semester before I stopped getting nervous about class. (Don’t ask why, I have no idea.) So this wait for my results is absolutely killing me, not to mention my forefinger – hitting the f5 button is probably gonna end up wearing the muscle out. How many times is it possible to check the same page in a minute?
‘LOTS’ is the answer.
Last year at this time, I was reasonably confident of passing. I had loved the course and while I may not have enjoyed all the modules, I felt I had learned something from them all. This year, in contrast, has been a hard slog of dried up inspiration, classes that weren’t motivating at all, and considering quitting the course several times.
Short Stories is the only module I am even slightly confident about: ‘Great Plans for the Future’, a story about an abused wife telling her child-hating husband that she is pregnant, is one of my favourite pieces of writing that I have done. It ushered in a new love of reading short stories, not to mention the genre shift – sci-fi and fantasy, my old favourite, seems to have given way into more ‘real life’ stories. Margaret Atwood, Roddy Doyle, and Raymond Carver have suddenly taken their places as some of my favourite authors (alongside old fantasy favourites), mainly due to the module and what I learned.
It’s the rest of the modules I’m dreading. All three of them. I know a couple of guys who are third years who are awaiting the results of their dissertations, and from them I know that 50% of the students taking one of the modules (research for writers – a module designed to make you think about your dissertation) usually fail. I will be one of those 50%. I had a decent idea, I think – to look at ghost writers – but the proposal lacked a focus and that, I think, will cause me to fail.
I had a decent idea for Narratives, too – to look at urban legends and to follow them back through time, thinking about what could have inspired them as well as their part in the history and the evolution of the folktale. A big subject, I know. So, to make it easier, I chose two urban legends (‘Bloody Mary’ and jewellery found in the stomach of an animal) and concentrated on them. It was a very interesting subject, actually – I really enjoyed researching them. That, however, doesn’t come through in the essay I wrote: after rereading it earlier (obviously in a fit of madness due to still being gradeless!), I have come to the conclusion that it was appallingly written and I could have done (and should have done) much better.
The module I failed badly is Creative Practice 2. I hated the module, and although I tried with the coursework, I know that the writing in it was sub-par. I can’t even bring myself to think about that module: even writing this, there’s an odd, queasy and wobbly feeling in my stomach.
Can the grades just get here, already?!
Must I?!
Panicking comes easily for me. It doesn’t take much until I turn into a gibbering, hackering, jellified mess. How’s this for nerves: it took me well into the second semester before I stopped getting nervous about class. (Don’t ask why, I have no idea.) So this wait for my results is absolutely killing me, not to mention my forefinger – hitting the f5 button is probably gonna end up wearing the muscle out. How many times is it possible to check the same page in a minute?
‘LOTS’ is the answer.
Last year at this time, I was reasonably confident of passing. I had loved the course and while I may not have enjoyed all the modules, I felt I had learned something from them all. This year, in contrast, has been a hard slog of dried up inspiration, classes that weren’t motivating at all, and considering quitting the course several times.
Short Stories is the only module I am even slightly confident about: ‘Great Plans for the Future’, a story about an abused wife telling her child-hating husband that she is pregnant, is one of my favourite pieces of writing that I have done. It ushered in a new love of reading short stories, not to mention the genre shift – sci-fi and fantasy, my old favourite, seems to have given way into more ‘real life’ stories. Margaret Atwood, Roddy Doyle, and Raymond Carver have suddenly taken their places as some of my favourite authors (alongside old fantasy favourites), mainly due to the module and what I learned.
It’s the rest of the modules I’m dreading. All three of them. I know a couple of guys who are third years who are awaiting the results of their dissertations, and from them I know that 50% of the students taking one of the modules (research for writers – a module designed to make you think about your dissertation) usually fail. I will be one of those 50%. I had a decent idea, I think – to look at ghost writers – but the proposal lacked a focus and that, I think, will cause me to fail.
I had a decent idea for Narratives, too – to look at urban legends and to follow them back through time, thinking about what could have inspired them as well as their part in the history and the evolution of the folktale. A big subject, I know. So, to make it easier, I chose two urban legends (‘Bloody Mary’ and jewellery found in the stomach of an animal) and concentrated on them. It was a very interesting subject, actually – I really enjoyed researching them. That, however, doesn’t come through in the essay I wrote: after rereading it earlier (obviously in a fit of madness due to still being gradeless!), I have come to the conclusion that it was appallingly written and I could have done (and should have done) much better.
The module I failed badly is Creative Practice 2. I hated the module, and although I tried with the coursework, I know that the writing in it was sub-par. I can’t even bring myself to think about that module: even writing this, there’s an odd, queasy and wobbly feeling in my stomach.
Can the grades just get here, already?!
Friday, 4 June 2010
Back to Boston
Oh, the things I put Wayne through!
A couple of weeks ago, he went vegetarian after losing a bet to me. This time, I went back to Boston for a week and he came to visit me. Why's that so bad? First of all, it involved returning to Boston, a town he has previously compared UNFAVOURABLY to Barnsley. And, if you know Wayne, you’ll know how much he hates that place! Second was the knowledge that I would be going babysitting for a short while every day, and that I would probably end up dragging him along with me (I did). Finally, he would finally have to face (*inserts echo and voice of doom*) My Mother’s Cooking!
Well, Boston wasn’t too bad, as it turned out.
Apart from the few minutes we spent in town going to the train station, we managed to avoid that hellhole quite nicely. Babysitting also went fine – Wayne made himself a new friend in the guise of a furry fluffball grumpy granddad cat called Steelo, (who looks like this...
)
I finally found out what the hell Viva Piñata is and we read some amazing poetry and stories by my charge. (I will never again be able to hear "300" without thinking of a cannibalistic crocodile who has a super telescopic gun that shoots giant inflatable bullets.)
Mother’s cooking was, however, every bit as awful as expected.
The first night she cooked for him, she gave him some sort of curry thing. Wayne hates curry and spicy food. That one was my fault, though. Mum and I were in Tesco on Saturday and we had been talking about Dad never eating anything new. Suddenly, she pointed to the curry and said “Will he eat that, do you think? It says Weightwatchers, but…” I said she should buy it and give him it – he would never know the difference. She didn’t mean for Dad. She meant for Wayne. Oops!
The second time she cooked it was better, but only marginally. That time she did mashed tate (Wayne did the unthinkable and made her use the tate masher as opposed to a fork - something I would never get away with doing!), beans, courgette, Yorkshire pudding and a pie. The veg was underdone, the Yorkie pud awful, the mash boring. The only thing she didn’t destroy was the pie, and all you need to do with that is stick it in the oven. I think he now has a greater understanding of why I hate food so much – when you’re putting up with rubbish like that every day of your life, you kind of start to go “…nah” every time food’s put in front of you. Wrecks the tastebuds, does my mum’s cooking!
I think, should he ever dare to return to this part of the country, we’ll be eating out every night. Or I’ll cook. But I know which one’s the safest - I have my mum’s awful ability to cook!
Thankfully, other things about the week were far more interesting than my mother’s disgusting creations that she calls food.
On Tuesday, after babysitting, we got the train to Skegness. Despite Wayne thinking that he had been there before (albeit many years ago), it appears this wasn’t the case and that was his first ever visit to Skeggy. This is both appalling and a relief in equal measure - how can he have got to his age and never visited Skeg? And yet the knowledge that there are such people out there, people who have never been to that grimy, rotten town is such a relief.
Sane people do exist!
However, for the first time since I was a nib, I actually enjoyed my day there. And that's not something I would ever say! I suppose there’s a big difference between going somewhere with your parents and going there with your boyfriend. Rather than walking around and giving things a glance but not your attention gets dull after a while. We went for a walk on the beach - I managed to get him to take his shoes off and walk barefoot along the sand, we built a very bad sand tower, drew faces in the sand, went to the sea and generally messed about.
We spent hours in the arcades (where Wayne kept on trying to win me something but failed every single time), walked around the Pleasure Beach, ate lots of ice cream (well, Wayne did - three, I think he had!), took photos of appalling grammar (yes, we're sad), ate rubbish chips – and generally had a great time. We got there 3-ish and left at 9 but the hours seemed to fly by.
The only downsides to the day were:
a) the seaside Clementine jingle wasn’t played (such a disappointment!)
b) Wayne made me play pool. I was dreadful, and it was highly embarrassing.
c) the food was shit.
Thursday dawned another bright, beautiful and hot day. We had wanted to go to Lincoln, but I was sitting until 2.15, and as it takes an hour to get there, there wasn’t really much point. So instead I thought I would show him more of my village and the surrounding area. We jumped on bikes (Wayne borrowed my brother’s) and we went to Freiston Shore, a nearby RSPB reserve.
Wayne was a bit wobbly on the bike, at least to start with, but he soon got into it. There was a bit of wind and that made things a bit difficult in a couple of places, but for the most part the going was easy. Especially when we got off the main road and there were fewer cars. Not long after we set out, we got there, locked up the bikes, and went off for a walk around the reserve.
We sat in the bird hide for ages, just watching the birds flying over the freshwater lake. There were no twitchers there (at least not in the hide), so we were fine to sit and quietly chat, or else sit in silence listening to the birds. Wayne says it was one of the most peaceful places he has ever seen - and I completely agree. It's lovely just to sit there and enjoy the quiet. Well, it was quiet until a guy trimming the hedges hadn't been there.
I think next time I go there (whether Wayne’s with me or not) I’m going to have to take some paper along, sit in the hide, and do some writing. It seems a brilliant place to go for it. Anyway, we went for a walk along the lakeside, shaded by the trees either side of the path, and went up onto the bank.
It’s not very often that Wayne is stunned to silence. But, upon seeing the wetlands in front of him, that rare occurrence.
Obviously, he had seen the sea before - even just the day before, at Skegness - but the sheer vastness of the wetland area held him completely in awe. I have never seen anyone quite so gobsmacked by it as he was! We walked around it for a short while, and then decided to go home. The day was hot and we stupidly forgot to pick a bottle of water up.
He may have moaned about being in pain after the ride for the next couple of days (after a 6 mile ride! The big pansy!), but it was totally worth it. I love that area of Boston, and getting to show it off was great fun.
Another of the highlights was actually at the house, much to my surprise. Carl (my brother), Wayne and I all gathered round on Thursday and watched Back to the Future - a trilogy I have never seen before. It was brilliant. The first two were better than the third - they were cleverly plotted and well scripted, and the third one just didn't live up to them. The best character, without a doubt, was Emmet - though I find it very difficult to believe that he would so easily give his life up and stay in the past with Clara. The kid (whose name I have forgot!) was irritating - well, he wasn't until he selfishly tried to get Doc Brown to go back to the future and leave the woman who had fallen in love with behind. Nor was I fond of the damsel in distress - the kid's girlfriend (forgot her name, too) was very annoying. Anyway - it was nice to sit there with those two and watch a few films together. It was also entertaining when all three of us were jigging along to Jonny B Goode - I have never seen Carl do that before!
So, on the whole, it was a highly enjoyable few days. He'll have to go back to Boston at some point, though - I really want to take him to Lincoln and a couple of other places (and I also plan on taking him on some very long bike rides - he'll regret whining about a poxy 6 mile thing!).
A couple of weeks ago, he went vegetarian after losing a bet to me. This time, I went back to Boston for a week and he came to visit me. Why's that so bad? First of all, it involved returning to Boston, a town he has previously compared UNFAVOURABLY to Barnsley. And, if you know Wayne, you’ll know how much he hates that place! Second was the knowledge that I would be going babysitting for a short while every day, and that I would probably end up dragging him along with me (I did). Finally, he would finally have to face (*inserts echo and voice of doom*) My Mother’s Cooking!
Well, Boston wasn’t too bad, as it turned out.
Apart from the few minutes we spent in town going to the train station, we managed to avoid that hellhole quite nicely. Babysitting also went fine – Wayne made himself a new friend in the guise of a furry fluffball grumpy granddad cat called Steelo, (who looks like this...
)I finally found out what the hell Viva Piñata is and we read some amazing poetry and stories by my charge. (I will never again be able to hear "300" without thinking of a cannibalistic crocodile who has a super telescopic gun that shoots giant inflatable bullets.)
Mother’s cooking was, however, every bit as awful as expected.
The first night she cooked for him, she gave him some sort of curry thing. Wayne hates curry and spicy food. That one was my fault, though. Mum and I were in Tesco on Saturday and we had been talking about Dad never eating anything new. Suddenly, she pointed to the curry and said “Will he eat that, do you think? It says Weightwatchers, but…” I said she should buy it and give him it – he would never know the difference. She didn’t mean for Dad. She meant for Wayne. Oops!
The second time she cooked it was better, but only marginally. That time she did mashed tate (Wayne did the unthinkable and made her use the tate masher as opposed to a fork - something I would never get away with doing!), beans, courgette, Yorkshire pudding and a pie. The veg was underdone, the Yorkie pud awful, the mash boring. The only thing she didn’t destroy was the pie, and all you need to do with that is stick it in the oven. I think he now has a greater understanding of why I hate food so much – when you’re putting up with rubbish like that every day of your life, you kind of start to go “…nah” every time food’s put in front of you. Wrecks the tastebuds, does my mum’s cooking!
I think, should he ever dare to return to this part of the country, we’ll be eating out every night. Or I’ll cook. But I know which one’s the safest - I have my mum’s awful ability to cook!
Thankfully, other things about the week were far more interesting than my mother’s disgusting creations that she calls food.
On Tuesday, after babysitting, we got the train to Skegness. Despite Wayne thinking that he had been there before (albeit many years ago), it appears this wasn’t the case and that was his first ever visit to Skeggy. This is both appalling and a relief in equal measure - how can he have got to his age and never visited Skeg? And yet the knowledge that there are such people out there, people who have never been to that grimy, rotten town is such a relief.
Sane people do exist!
However, for the first time since I was a nib, I actually enjoyed my day there. And that's not something I would ever say! I suppose there’s a big difference between going somewhere with your parents and going there with your boyfriend. Rather than walking around and giving things a glance but not your attention gets dull after a while. We went for a walk on the beach - I managed to get him to take his shoes off and walk barefoot along the sand, we built a very bad sand tower, drew faces in the sand, went to the sea and generally messed about.
We spent hours in the arcades (where Wayne kept on trying to win me something but failed every single time), walked around the Pleasure Beach, ate lots of ice cream (well, Wayne did - three, I think he had!), took photos of appalling grammar (yes, we're sad), ate rubbish chips – and generally had a great time. We got there 3-ish and left at 9 but the hours seemed to fly by.
The only downsides to the day were:
a) the seaside Clementine jingle wasn’t played (such a disappointment!)
b) Wayne made me play pool. I was dreadful, and it was highly embarrassing.
c) the food was shit.
Thursday dawned another bright, beautiful and hot day. We had wanted to go to Lincoln, but I was sitting until 2.15, and as it takes an hour to get there, there wasn’t really much point. So instead I thought I would show him more of my village and the surrounding area. We jumped on bikes (Wayne borrowed my brother’s) and we went to Freiston Shore, a nearby RSPB reserve.
Wayne was a bit wobbly on the bike, at least to start with, but he soon got into it. There was a bit of wind and that made things a bit difficult in a couple of places, but for the most part the going was easy. Especially when we got off the main road and there were fewer cars. Not long after we set out, we got there, locked up the bikes, and went off for a walk around the reserve.
We sat in the bird hide for ages, just watching the birds flying over the freshwater lake. There were no twitchers there (at least not in the hide), so we were fine to sit and quietly chat, or else sit in silence listening to the birds. Wayne says it was one of the most peaceful places he has ever seen - and I completely agree. It's lovely just to sit there and enjoy the quiet. Well, it was quiet until a guy trimming the hedges hadn't been there.
I think next time I go there (whether Wayne’s with me or not) I’m going to have to take some paper along, sit in the hide, and do some writing. It seems a brilliant place to go for it. Anyway, we went for a walk along the lakeside, shaded by the trees either side of the path, and went up onto the bank.
It’s not very often that Wayne is stunned to silence. But, upon seeing the wetlands in front of him, that rare occurrence.
Obviously, he had seen the sea before - even just the day before, at Skegness - but the sheer vastness of the wetland area held him completely in awe. I have never seen anyone quite so gobsmacked by it as he was! We walked around it for a short while, and then decided to go home. The day was hot and we stupidly forgot to pick a bottle of water up.
He may have moaned about being in pain after the ride for the next couple of days (after a 6 mile ride! The big pansy!), but it was totally worth it. I love that area of Boston, and getting to show it off was great fun.
Another of the highlights was actually at the house, much to my surprise. Carl (my brother), Wayne and I all gathered round on Thursday and watched Back to the Future - a trilogy I have never seen before. It was brilliant. The first two were better than the third - they were cleverly plotted and well scripted, and the third one just didn't live up to them. The best character, without a doubt, was Emmet - though I find it very difficult to believe that he would so easily give his life up and stay in the past with Clara. The kid (whose name I have forgot!) was irritating - well, he wasn't until he selfishly tried to get Doc Brown to go back to the future and leave the woman who had fallen in love with behind. Nor was I fond of the damsel in distress - the kid's girlfriend (forgot her name, too) was very annoying. Anyway - it was nice to sit there with those two and watch a few films together. It was also entertaining when all three of us were jigging along to Jonny B Goode - I have never seen Carl do that before!
So, on the whole, it was a highly enjoyable few days. He'll have to go back to Boston at some point, though - I really want to take him to Lincoln and a couple of other places (and I also plan on taking him on some very long bike rides - he'll regret whining about a poxy 6 mile thing!).
Monday, 31 May 2010
FAO David and Billy!
Unfortunately, I never really kept in contact with the many of the people I was friends with in secondary school.
David, my friend/tormentor, disappeared off the face of the Earth. Nobody could get in contact with him, or had any idea where he could be. Billy shacked himself up in his house, preferring to be depressed and alone than come out and see any of his friends. Ellie got a job, and so did Stef. Sarah moved to Grantham, but by the time we left school I hated her guts anyway. So…I never really got to see my old friends any more. I moved to Derby in September 2008 and although I got myself some new friends and a new life, I really missed talking to my Giles mates. We used to be together all the time, and although some people had a sick sense of humour (yes David, I am looking at you) hanging out in room 17 (and, later, the common room) gave me some of my best memories there.
Stef now goes to the same university as me, and is moving into the same halls as me next year. That should make it so much easier for me to meet up with her and have a chat! I talk to David and Billy on msn practically every day, and although they irritate me sometimes, I still enjoy talking to them. What can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment, obviously (and I know they’re going to find interesting ways of twisting that sentence!). They are some of the most immature, sex obsessed, silliest guys I know, but I can’t escape the fact that, for some bizarre reason, I actually kinda like talking to them. I’m even writing this blog post, purely because they instructed me to do so.
(Actually, they wanted me to write about them two having sex, but I don’t think I can do that without being sick. And even if I could, I wouldn’t inflict it on my poor readers!)
So…yeah, I guess the point of this post is a) to say that I love my friends, even if I don’t get to see them very much (BECAUSE THEY ARE ANTISOCIAL TWERPS) and b) I am easily forced into writing rubbish blog posts.
David, my friend/tormentor, disappeared off the face of the Earth. Nobody could get in contact with him, or had any idea where he could be. Billy shacked himself up in his house, preferring to be depressed and alone than come out and see any of his friends. Ellie got a job, and so did Stef. Sarah moved to Grantham, but by the time we left school I hated her guts anyway. So…I never really got to see my old friends any more. I moved to Derby in September 2008 and although I got myself some new friends and a new life, I really missed talking to my Giles mates. We used to be together all the time, and although some people had a sick sense of humour (yes David, I am looking at you) hanging out in room 17 (and, later, the common room) gave me some of my best memories there.
Stef now goes to the same university as me, and is moving into the same halls as me next year. That should make it so much easier for me to meet up with her and have a chat! I talk to David and Billy on msn practically every day, and although they irritate me sometimes, I still enjoy talking to them. What can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment, obviously (and I know they’re going to find interesting ways of twisting that sentence!). They are some of the most immature, sex obsessed, silliest guys I know, but I can’t escape the fact that, for some bizarre reason, I actually kinda like talking to them. I’m even writing this blog post, purely because they instructed me to do so.
(Actually, they wanted me to write about them two having sex, but I don’t think I can do that without being sick. And even if I could, I wouldn’t inflict it on my poor readers!)
So…yeah, I guess the point of this post is a) to say that I love my friends, even if I don’t get to see them very much (BECAUSE THEY ARE ANTISOCIAL TWERPS) and b) I am easily forced into writing rubbish blog posts.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Going Veggie (the vegetarian’s perspective)
When I went vegetarian when I was 15, it was the easiest decision in the world, and just as easy to carry forward into my life. Okay, so I had to put up with the constant, stupid, insufferable jokes (“Does that mean you can’t eat cock?” “If God didn’t intend for us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made them out of meat!” etc) and the parents telling me off for not eating what they were having, but, food wise, it was simple. I had never been a big fan of meat anyway, so cutting it out of my diet completely was simple. It got harder when I cut out all meat derived products like gelatine, rennet and cochineal, but after a bit it got easier.
My diet expanded from pie and tates (my Mum’s staple creation) and I began to eat spag bol, chilli con carne, lasagne, random Quorn dishes I discovered on the internet.
I wasn’t under any illusions about how difficult it would be when Wayne, my meat-eating boyfriend, went veggie for a week, though. One of the things he said last year, before we were dating, was that he could never date a vegetarian – “I like meat too much!” (Haha. Yeah, sure, Wayne...)
As explained in his blog, his week-long vegetarianism was a consequence of him losing a (horrible and really kind of mean) bet. Apparently, there’s a curse on him; when a girlfriend meets his mum, they split up within 6 weeks. And so he bet that we would do the same.
He lost, and the vegetarianism began last Thursday.
The first meal that he had was supposed to have been cooked by yours truly, but somehow I managed to wriggle out of it and get him and Kain to cook it for me. It was a sausage hotpot using some tomato and leek sausages (Tesco was out of the Quorn ones), beans, tomatoes and onion. It was quite yummy. I don’t think I would be able to eat lots of it, but as it cooks for 6 and we were dividing it between 3 people, I wouldn’t really, anyway. The best thing about the meal was the chips Kain had made. They were absolutely delicious!
The best food came from either Limes Restaurant in Derby, or, strangely, the random café in Drayton Manor. Wayne agreed that both of them were pretty damn delicious, and are things that he wouldn’t usually have eaten. So, although he didn’t enjoy his week of veggie-ness (“bland” was his word of the week), it did open his eyes to the massive world of food that exists beyond pepperoni pizza, and I suppose that’s one thing. It did the same thing for me too – I had become rather set in my ways, eating the same things and not trying anything new. My diet basically consisted of nothing, spag bol, pizza, and veggie burgers and chips.
I hope that it also opened his eyes to the difficulty vegetarians have when buying food, eating out, and even when hanging around people who eat meat. Meat by-products have got into almost everything, ruling out chocolates and desserts, sweets and cakes, and soups and cheeses. When you go out, not everything is marked, so you have to go through everything, checking to make sure there’s nothing bad in there. And there’s the fact that very few restaurants have a wide range of meals suitable for vegetarians.
So…yeah, I think some good things have come out of it for both of us. And I am very proud of him for sticking with it for the whole week, even despite my not being at his house to keep an eye on what he’s been eating for several days.
My diet expanded from pie and tates (my Mum’s staple creation) and I began to eat spag bol, chilli con carne, lasagne, random Quorn dishes I discovered on the internet.
I wasn’t under any illusions about how difficult it would be when Wayne, my meat-eating boyfriend, went veggie for a week, though. One of the things he said last year, before we were dating, was that he could never date a vegetarian – “I like meat too much!” (Haha. Yeah, sure, Wayne...)
As explained in his blog, his week-long vegetarianism was a consequence of him losing a (horrible and really kind of mean) bet. Apparently, there’s a curse on him; when a girlfriend meets his mum, they split up within 6 weeks. And so he bet that we would do the same.
He lost, and the vegetarianism began last Thursday.
The first meal that he had was supposed to have been cooked by yours truly, but somehow I managed to wriggle out of it and get him and Kain to cook it for me. It was a sausage hotpot using some tomato and leek sausages (Tesco was out of the Quorn ones), beans, tomatoes and onion. It was quite yummy. I don’t think I would be able to eat lots of it, but as it cooks for 6 and we were dividing it between 3 people, I wouldn’t really, anyway. The best thing about the meal was the chips Kain had made. They were absolutely delicious!
The best food came from either Limes Restaurant in Derby, or, strangely, the random café in Drayton Manor. Wayne agreed that both of them were pretty damn delicious, and are things that he wouldn’t usually have eaten. So, although he didn’t enjoy his week of veggie-ness (“bland” was his word of the week), it did open his eyes to the massive world of food that exists beyond pepperoni pizza, and I suppose that’s one thing. It did the same thing for me too – I had become rather set in my ways, eating the same things and not trying anything new. My diet basically consisted of nothing, spag bol, pizza, and veggie burgers and chips.
I hope that it also opened his eyes to the difficulty vegetarians have when buying food, eating out, and even when hanging around people who eat meat. Meat by-products have got into almost everything, ruling out chocolates and desserts, sweets and cakes, and soups and cheeses. When you go out, not everything is marked, so you have to go through everything, checking to make sure there’s nothing bad in there. And there’s the fact that very few restaurants have a wide range of meals suitable for vegetarians.
So…yeah, I think some good things have come out of it for both of us. And I am very proud of him for sticking with it for the whole week, even despite my not being at his house to keep an eye on what he’s been eating for several days.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
A Day Out: Drayton Manor Theme Park
"You two are going to hate me."
Krissy turned to give Wayne and me a big, evil grin. We were sitting on a ride at Drayton Manor theme park - a ride she promised us was just a log flume. We had just been down one flume – one down, two to go.
My stomach threatened to fall out.
"Why?"
"We're going to go backwards."
"WHAT?"
Wayne and I are first class, self declared Wimps when it comes to terrifying rides. If she had mentioned anything about going backwards down this flume, I would have said no to going on it. Which is why, I imagine, she didn’t mention it until a few moments before it was going to happen.
Imprints from my fingers will, I believe, never leave the bar onto which I was holding on for dear life as we plunged backwards, down a slope of unknown steepness, and immediately got drenched by the splash of water.
Freezing cold, very wet water.
Why did I go to a theme park if I wasn't expecting to go on anything? Same reason as I went to Alton Towers when I left Sixth Form - to go somewhere new, to hang around with my friends, and to laugh at other people going on stupidly terrifying rides. Yeah okay, it would be a bit (very) expensive to go to a theme park purely for that, but hey, I have been good and barely spent anything this year, so oh well.
Besides, my bursary was due to go in that day.
Miss Krissy and Kelly, however, would not stand for this and dragged me on as many rides as possible. The only ride I refused to go on was a spinny roundy thing with Speedy Gonzales on it. Rides that spin around in circles have a weird effect on me – I get really, really ill. I’ve never been able to go on Teacups, waltzers, or even roundabouts without getting very sick, so I didn’t want to go on it.
Kelly said I did the right thing by not going on, so I am very pleased I said no to that one! Saying that, somehow they did manage to get me to go on Black Revolver (waltzers) and some barrel things that were basically the same as the Teacups. They weren’t even too bad – okay, so I was a bit dizzy afterwards, but I was nowhere as ill as I usually get after going on that type of thing.
I enjoyed most of the rides I went on, actually. A special mention goes to The Buffalo Coaster, the first coaster that I have ever been on! That one was Wayne's fault, not Krissy or Kelly's. They were in the queue already and they were going to let me off. It was Wayne who grabbed me and dragged me into the queue.
Mean git.
Okay, so it was a rollercoaster for kids.
Apart from a couple of sharp bends and dips, it was pretty simple - no loop the loops, no big slopes, nothing drastic. It was, however, the biggest ride I had ever been on, and so I was bricking it while waiting in the queue to be allowed on. As it happens, I needn't have worried. It was absolutely fine - I even found myself enjoying it! We enjoyed it so much that we ended up going on it twice! I got thrown around a lot, especially on the second go, and was screaming more in pain than enjoyment or terror as I earned bruise after bruise after bruise. But hey, they’ll go soon.
I’m glad he did drag me on there. Even if I was shitting myself in the minutes before the ride set off.
Splash Canyon was the only other ride we went on twice. The first time I went on it, I was with the full group, the second time I was just with Wayne. I loved it as much the second time as I did the first, although I sustained more injuries in it. There was a very scary/funny moment when we got caught between two currents and were in danger of getting stuck on the course, but (with some help from a boat behind us) we managed to break free. The injuries came towards the end of the ride.
There’s a camera poised to get photos. We wanted one, but if we had been in our original seats, we would have got a shot of the backs of our heads. So, when we saw the camera, we dived for seats that would mean we would get an okay picture.
The flash went off.
And suddenly the rapids meant the boat jerked off to the side. I was caught unaware, and flew off the seat, landing hard on the steps that lead into the boat. And then it jerked again: I earned another bruise when my arm smashed into the side of the boat.
At least the photo was good!
While not particularly thrilling and despite me being completely crap at it, the Golden Nugget Shoot Out was lots of fun. We were in a little cart; Kelly and Krissy in the front, Wayne and me in the back. Have you been to Cadbury’s World before? If you have, you know there’s a ride through a trippy land of dancing coca beans.
This ride was kind of like that, but it was far less terrifying.
In the front of the seats were guns, and you had to use the guns to shoot targets that were all over the place. Hitting the target meant that the item the target was placed on would move.
Wayne, having played lots of games before, came first. Kelly came second, Krissy came third…I came last. Yay, go me!
One of the less brilliant rides of the day was Excalibur. Can it even be described as a ride, when it was neither interesting or exciting? I don’t know. I do know it was pretty damn awful, but Krissy had warned us about that before. Her reasoning for going on it anyway? “You’re at Drayton Manor, you have to go on as many rides as you can!”
Fair enough, Krissy.
The best thing about the ride was some of the quotes that came out of it.
*sees ducks*
Wayne: Look! Real wildlife!
Us: …
*boat turns a bit and we see a bloke by the trees*
Wayne: A real, authentic fat man!
Us: *sporfle*
The most exciting part of the ride wasn’t part of the ride. Nor was it particularly exciting. It was scary, but not in the normal themepark type way.
There was a duck in front of the boat, and we were *this close* (imagine a very small measurement) to running him over.
When you say that about a ride, you know things are bad.
Very similar to Excalibur was the very underwhelming Pirate Bay. Based on Pirates of the Caribbean, the main difference (apart from it being based on a battle and not the story of the Round Table) was the complete lack of ducks.
And a lot more pirates in suspicious positions that you don’t really want to think too much about.
The absolute shittiest ride of the day, though, was the Haunted House. The sign out the front promised much:
THE SCARIEST PLACE UNDER ONE ROOF.
As is usually the case with such things, this was a wild over estimate – I have been on scarier donkey rides at Skeggy beach. (Admittedly they aren’t UNDER ONE ROOF, but still.)
After a several minute wait, you go into a small room and watch a cliché filled film about some bad actors pretending to be paranormal investigators. They disappeared, and have never been seen again. Therefore this scientist dude wants more people to go in and check it out. The attendant turns the telly off, and opens a door, leading you through. Lights flicker on and off.
It could be scary if you are the biggest wimp in the entire universe.
Suddenly all lights go out. There’s screams from up front. I look around, no idea what the hell’s meant to be scary. My gaze goes upwards, and I’m looking at the ceiling. A very poor skeleton flies above us, so quickly that most people don’t have a clue what they’re supposed to be looking at.
The lights flicker back on again. We’re lead through a door at the end of the hall.
We emerge into a large room with three paintings on the wall. ‘Behind’ one of them is a puppet skeleton with a thick German accent that makes it difficult to understand what the hell he’s going on about. I think he said something about never being able to escape his house unless we find the Inner Sanctum. The atmosphere might even have been slightly scary, if it wasn’t for the bored looking attendant at the side of the room playing on his phone!
Anyway, straight after the puppet’s finished talking (with much Evil Laughter™ from him and laughter from me) we’re broken into two groups. One group goes through a door on the left, one goes through one on the right.
Both doors lead straight into the Inner Sanctum.
Possibly the simplest escape from a haunted house, ever.
We sit down, are told to hold on tight…and the walls spin around. Okay, so it makes you a bit disorientated. But, more than being scary, it was absolutely bloody hilarious how bad it was!
The only part of the day I completely hated was the zoo. I was reading the signs as I went around, and the number of animals whose natural habitats were in deep forests and yet had only one small tree in their cage was depressing. Plus, I hate zoos anyway. I spent half the time walking around fighting the urge to break down in tears for the poor creatures.
But I won’t talk about that in this post. It’s too depressing and cry-worthy to talk about in a post that should be happy. For the most part, it was an absolutely amazing day with three of my best friends, and was well worth the 19 quid I paid to get in. I would go again any time, and am already thinking about arranging a trip there with my brother sometime!
Krissy turned to give Wayne and me a big, evil grin. We were sitting on a ride at Drayton Manor theme park - a ride she promised us was just a log flume. We had just been down one flume – one down, two to go.
My stomach threatened to fall out.
"Why?"
"We're going to go backwards."
"WHAT?"
Wayne and I are first class, self declared Wimps when it comes to terrifying rides. If she had mentioned anything about going backwards down this flume, I would have said no to going on it. Which is why, I imagine, she didn’t mention it until a few moments before it was going to happen.
Imprints from my fingers will, I believe, never leave the bar onto which I was holding on for dear life as we plunged backwards, down a slope of unknown steepness, and immediately got drenched by the splash of water.
Freezing cold, very wet water.
Why did I go to a theme park if I wasn't expecting to go on anything? Same reason as I went to Alton Towers when I left Sixth Form - to go somewhere new, to hang around with my friends, and to laugh at other people going on stupidly terrifying rides. Yeah okay, it would be a bit (very) expensive to go to a theme park purely for that, but hey, I have been good and barely spent anything this year, so oh well.
Besides, my bursary was due to go in that day.
Miss Krissy and Kelly, however, would not stand for this and dragged me on as many rides as possible. The only ride I refused to go on was a spinny roundy thing with Speedy Gonzales on it. Rides that spin around in circles have a weird effect on me – I get really, really ill. I’ve never been able to go on Teacups, waltzers, or even roundabouts without getting very sick, so I didn’t want to go on it.
Kelly said I did the right thing by not going on, so I am very pleased I said no to that one! Saying that, somehow they did manage to get me to go on Black Revolver (waltzers) and some barrel things that were basically the same as the Teacups. They weren’t even too bad – okay, so I was a bit dizzy afterwards, but I was nowhere as ill as I usually get after going on that type of thing.
I enjoyed most of the rides I went on, actually. A special mention goes to The Buffalo Coaster, the first coaster that I have ever been on! That one was Wayne's fault, not Krissy or Kelly's. They were in the queue already and they were going to let me off. It was Wayne who grabbed me and dragged me into the queue.
Mean git.
Okay, so it was a rollercoaster for kids.
Apart from a couple of sharp bends and dips, it was pretty simple - no loop the loops, no big slopes, nothing drastic. It was, however, the biggest ride I had ever been on, and so I was bricking it while waiting in the queue to be allowed on. As it happens, I needn't have worried. It was absolutely fine - I even found myself enjoying it! We enjoyed it so much that we ended up going on it twice! I got thrown around a lot, especially on the second go, and was screaming more in pain than enjoyment or terror as I earned bruise after bruise after bruise. But hey, they’ll go soon.
I’m glad he did drag me on there. Even if I was shitting myself in the minutes before the ride set off.
Splash Canyon was the only other ride we went on twice. The first time I went on it, I was with the full group, the second time I was just with Wayne. I loved it as much the second time as I did the first, although I sustained more injuries in it. There was a very scary/funny moment when we got caught between two currents and were in danger of getting stuck on the course, but (with some help from a boat behind us) we managed to break free. The injuries came towards the end of the ride.
There’s a camera poised to get photos. We wanted one, but if we had been in our original seats, we would have got a shot of the backs of our heads. So, when we saw the camera, we dived for seats that would mean we would get an okay picture.
The flash went off.
And suddenly the rapids meant the boat jerked off to the side. I was caught unaware, and flew off the seat, landing hard on the steps that lead into the boat. And then it jerked again: I earned another bruise when my arm smashed into the side of the boat.
At least the photo was good!
While not particularly thrilling and despite me being completely crap at it, the Golden Nugget Shoot Out was lots of fun. We were in a little cart; Kelly and Krissy in the front, Wayne and me in the back. Have you been to Cadbury’s World before? If you have, you know there’s a ride through a trippy land of dancing coca beans.
This ride was kind of like that, but it was far less terrifying.
In the front of the seats were guns, and you had to use the guns to shoot targets that were all over the place. Hitting the target meant that the item the target was placed on would move.
Wayne, having played lots of games before, came first. Kelly came second, Krissy came third…I came last. Yay, go me!
One of the less brilliant rides of the day was Excalibur. Can it even be described as a ride, when it was neither interesting or exciting? I don’t know. I do know it was pretty damn awful, but Krissy had warned us about that before. Her reasoning for going on it anyway? “You’re at Drayton Manor, you have to go on as many rides as you can!”
Fair enough, Krissy.
The best thing about the ride was some of the quotes that came out of it.
*sees ducks*
Wayne: Look! Real wildlife!
Us: …
*boat turns a bit and we see a bloke by the trees*
Wayne: A real, authentic fat man!
Us: *sporfle*
The most exciting part of the ride wasn’t part of the ride. Nor was it particularly exciting. It was scary, but not in the normal themepark type way.
There was a duck in front of the boat, and we were *this close* (imagine a very small measurement) to running him over.
When you say that about a ride, you know things are bad.
Very similar to Excalibur was the very underwhelming Pirate Bay. Based on Pirates of the Caribbean, the main difference (apart from it being based on a battle and not the story of the Round Table) was the complete lack of ducks.
And a lot more pirates in suspicious positions that you don’t really want to think too much about.
The absolute shittiest ride of the day, though, was the Haunted House. The sign out the front promised much:
THE SCARIEST PLACE UNDER ONE ROOF.
As is usually the case with such things, this was a wild over estimate – I have been on scarier donkey rides at Skeggy beach. (Admittedly they aren’t UNDER ONE ROOF, but still.)
After a several minute wait, you go into a small room and watch a cliché filled film about some bad actors pretending to be paranormal investigators. They disappeared, and have never been seen again. Therefore this scientist dude wants more people to go in and check it out. The attendant turns the telly off, and opens a door, leading you through. Lights flicker on and off.
It could be scary if you are the biggest wimp in the entire universe.
Suddenly all lights go out. There’s screams from up front. I look around, no idea what the hell’s meant to be scary. My gaze goes upwards, and I’m looking at the ceiling. A very poor skeleton flies above us, so quickly that most people don’t have a clue what they’re supposed to be looking at.
The lights flicker back on again. We’re lead through a door at the end of the hall.
We emerge into a large room with three paintings on the wall. ‘Behind’ one of them is a puppet skeleton with a thick German accent that makes it difficult to understand what the hell he’s going on about. I think he said something about never being able to escape his house unless we find the Inner Sanctum. The atmosphere might even have been slightly scary, if it wasn’t for the bored looking attendant at the side of the room playing on his phone!
Anyway, straight after the puppet’s finished talking (with much Evil Laughter™ from him and laughter from me) we’re broken into two groups. One group goes through a door on the left, one goes through one on the right.
Both doors lead straight into the Inner Sanctum.
Possibly the simplest escape from a haunted house, ever.
We sit down, are told to hold on tight…and the walls spin around. Okay, so it makes you a bit disorientated. But, more than being scary, it was absolutely bloody hilarious how bad it was!
The only part of the day I completely hated was the zoo. I was reading the signs as I went around, and the number of animals whose natural habitats were in deep forests and yet had only one small tree in their cage was depressing. Plus, I hate zoos anyway. I spent half the time walking around fighting the urge to break down in tears for the poor creatures.
But I won’t talk about that in this post. It’s too depressing and cry-worthy to talk about in a post that should be happy. For the most part, it was an absolutely amazing day with three of my best friends, and was well worth the 19 quid I paid to get in. I would go again any time, and am already thinking about arranging a trip there with my brother sometime!
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Stories Widget
How amazing is that? I found it (okay, so I was linked to it. So sue me) on Neil Gaiman's site, http://www.neilgaiman.com/works/Books/Stories:+All+New+Tales/
I have enough books to be going on with at the moment, but I will certainly be looking at this when I have finished my current load.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Best thing since anything. Ever.
Dear Internet
Thank you for providing me with something that I believe could, very possibly, be the best thing since sliced bread. Okay, so you took a strange method. You gave the link to one of Carl's friends, who passed it on to Carl, and I was sitting next to him when he received the said link. Anyway, thank you. Now, if you would kindly organise some sort of method for me to get it, I would appreciate it.
My wish list:
One brown suit: http://tinyurl.com/2w9j86s
One golden rod overcoat: http://tinyurl.com/n8q5fk
One swirly tie: http://tinyurl.com/32h2dy2
Lots of love,
Me
PS: I would also like the Time Lord who belongs in the clothing to turn up at my door at some point, and take me on some adventures around the Universe. Oh, and Wayne should be allowed to come with.
Thank you for providing me with something that I believe could, very possibly, be the best thing since sliced bread. Okay, so you took a strange method. You gave the link to one of Carl's friends, who passed it on to Carl, and I was sitting next to him when he received the said link. Anyway, thank you. Now, if you would kindly organise some sort of method for me to get it, I would appreciate it.
My wish list:
One brown suit: http://tinyurl.com/2w9j86s
One golden rod overcoat: http://tinyurl.com/n8q5fk
One swirly tie: http://tinyurl.com/32h2dy2
Lots of love,
Me
PS: I would also like the Time Lord who belongs in the clothing to turn up at my door at some point, and take me on some adventures around the Universe. Oh, and Wayne should be allowed to come with.
Not so secret any more...
Finally, after months of remaining secret, I have been Ratted Out. Discovered. Found. Well, not really, seeing as it was my commenting on a post that brought about my being found, but having someone (admittedly only you, Wayne) reading this and knowing me...it's a scary feeling, being public for the first time ever. Before, it was a kind of "My Eyes Only" kinda thing, now other people will get wind of me.
And I am very nervous when I know people are reading what I write.
I don't understand why, really. I mean, the few people I have allowed to read stuff I write say what I write is good, and I obviously think it's okay, seeing as I am taking a course in it at University. But, compared to most (although not all) of the people I know, I can't write for toffee. I'm not good at creating weird and wonderful plots like Wayne, don't have fantastic characters like Calum, and, unlike Krissy's, my dialogue is baaaad.
I'm not saying that I think my stuff is appalling compared to theirs, just that it is distinctly average, the kind of thing you look at and read, but have no desire to read again.
Could I blame it on the house I was brought up in? Creative thinking has never been encouraged: Mum and Dad always wanted me to be a lawyer or something to do with hard facts, something that would bring in the money, fast.
I'm not clever enough for that.
I'm barely clever enough to put my shoes on the right way round in the morning and even then I sometimes struggle. Academic subjects are not for me. Putting words down on paper in a more or less interesting way - that's my forte. So why don't I let people read my stuff? I wish I could, I wish I had a bit more confidence in what I write; my work will only improve and develop if I dare to put the shields down and let people tear it to shreds. Is that what I'm afraid of? People realising I'm the rubbish writer my parents believe me to be, that I'm too rubbish to be at University and for me to be chucked out?
Or, rather than blaming it on the parents, should I completely take the blame myself? Is it my own fear of being laughed at that stops me from letting people read what I write? I know that, even writing this, I am thinking about deleting portions of the blog - not because they are particularly badly written, but because I can imagine people laughing at me for it.
It's rather infuriating, really.
Anyway; after that rant, I am off to bed. Goodnight, and I'm sorry for the Kim-is-in-whiny-mode post. Hopefully it'll not happen too often.
And I am very nervous when I know people are reading what I write.
I don't understand why, really. I mean, the few people I have allowed to read stuff I write say what I write is good, and I obviously think it's okay, seeing as I am taking a course in it at University. But, compared to most (although not all) of the people I know, I can't write for toffee. I'm not good at creating weird and wonderful plots like Wayne, don't have fantastic characters like Calum, and, unlike Krissy's, my dialogue is baaaad.
I'm not saying that I think my stuff is appalling compared to theirs, just that it is distinctly average, the kind of thing you look at and read, but have no desire to read again.
Could I blame it on the house I was brought up in? Creative thinking has never been encouraged: Mum and Dad always wanted me to be a lawyer or something to do with hard facts, something that would bring in the money, fast.
I'm not clever enough for that.
I'm barely clever enough to put my shoes on the right way round in the morning and even then I sometimes struggle. Academic subjects are not for me. Putting words down on paper in a more or less interesting way - that's my forte. So why don't I let people read my stuff? I wish I could, I wish I had a bit more confidence in what I write; my work will only improve and develop if I dare to put the shields down and let people tear it to shreds. Is that what I'm afraid of? People realising I'm the rubbish writer my parents believe me to be, that I'm too rubbish to be at University and for me to be chucked out?
Or, rather than blaming it on the parents, should I completely take the blame myself? Is it my own fear of being laughed at that stops me from letting people read what I write? I know that, even writing this, I am thinking about deleting portions of the blog - not because they are particularly badly written, but because I can imagine people laughing at me for it.
It's rather infuriating, really.
Anyway; after that rant, I am off to bed. Goodnight, and I'm sorry for the Kim-is-in-whiny-mode post. Hopefully it'll not happen too often.
Friday, 14 May 2010
A Day Out: Stratford Upon Avon
Spoiler alert!
If you live under a Shakespeare free rock, blissfully unaware of Romeo and Juliet (or if you’re wanting to see the play and want to remain unspoiled), then I wouldn’t recommend reading any further as there’ll be some stonking huge spoilers.
--
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life,
Who misadventured piteous overthrows,
Do with their death bury their parents strife.
Everyone knows the story of Romeo and Juliet. A pair of whiny kids from a pair of families that hate each other end up thinking “I’d fuck that” and end up causing havoc, misery, and much death in Verona. The play has never been my favourite. So, when my boyfriend chose it as the one we went to see when we went to Stratford upon Avon, I had to stop myself from letting out a groan of dismay. I understand his reasoning (it’s the only one he remembers studying, and so is familiar with the text) but all the same, I could think of better plays to see. Well, not really, as I haven’t read any of the other plays that were being shown, but any was better than Romeo and Juliet!
That didn’t stop me from getting excited about it, though. It was his first ever proper experience at the theatre, and I couldn’t wait to find out what he thought of it.
We arrived at Stratford upon Avon early afternoon, and after a quick visit to the B&B to drop off our overnight stuff (the hosts weren’t there, so we ended up carrying it with us anyway), we headed into the town centre. Showing him around, I felt rather like a schoolgirl showing off her newest toys, jubilant at knowing more than he. Childish, I know. But forgive me; it’s not very often that I know more than him.
He thought it was gorgeous, although he wasn’t particularly excited by the old houses. As a re-enactor of the Jacobite Rebellion, the thrill of seeing old houses has worn off by now. I’m glad I’m not like him…I love old houses, and knowing that the wood/stone under my hand is old, made in a time so completely different to now. I still wouldn’t queue for hours and pay loads of money to go in one, though. I can’t imagine that going round Shakespeare’s house to be that thrilling. I always imagine the tour guide to be saying “And here is the outhouse where it is believed that Shakespeare went to take a dump. He kept his stash of porn just here.” It would be followed, obviously, by the “ooooh”ing of the people who paid to go on the tour, and then the frantic flashes of cameras.
Possibly not how it goes, but hell, I bet it’s 100 times more interesting.
A few hours and after a very unsatisfying dinner (for me, anyway) later, we headed back to the B&B. The man was sitting outside the house for us and gave us a very warm welcome. We were shown to our room, and, after the exhausting day that he had (ha!) Wayne proceeded to fall asleep. I joined him in the Land of Nod after a bit.
We woke at half 6 and had to leg it down to the theatre. The play started at 7.10 and, although we were only 20 minutes away from the town centre, we wanted to go in the shop and get some things first. Thankfully we made it to the theatre, took our seats, and looked forward to the play. I quickly discovered a major problem with the seat I was sitting in: while it would have been a fantastic view, it was obstructed by a pillar going up to the Gallery (we were in the Circle). Wayne’s seat was much better, and I have learned a valuable lesson: don’t go for a seat at the side of a section. I learned another lesson a few moments later: don’t leave your phone at the B&B when you go out! In the few minutes before the play, I drove Wayne mad by checking, double-checking, triple-checking (and even quadruple-checking) to make sure it wasn’t somewhere on my person, ready to go off as soon as the play began.
Then the lights went down, and a guy wandered onto stage, plugs for an mp3 player in his ears, looking thoughtful as he passed through the gate at the back. Then the play began: three men, two from the house of Montague, one from the house of Capulet, strode forward, slow-motion and, staying slow-mo (an effect that seemed to be favoured in the play), bit his thumb.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”
The fighting that followed it was impressive, with a very cool (although somewhat peculiar and unneeded) display of pyrotechnics, as one of the members of the brawling families threw a match. The training involved for the fights must have been incredible – as well as fucking hard work. You have to feel for Jonjo O’Neill, the actor playing Mercutio, for bad swordplay in the first fight would be looked over, for who can expect lower ranking people to be perfect in fighting? In his scene, which comes later, Mercutio is showing off his ability to fight, so people will criticise it more. Not that it seemed to bother him too much, for the fighting was just as brilliant and unstagey (that should do be a word) as the rest of the fights.
I get ahead of myself. Before I talk about Mercutio (wonderful though he is), I suppose I ought to talk about Romeo and Juliet, the titular couple, the star-cross’d lovers, the pair of unlikeable twerps.
Romeo’s like one of those irritating emo things that wander our streets, always looking on the bad side of life *whistles*. His puling and puppyish devotion to Rosaline, immediately dissipated when he sees Juliet, just makes me want to smack him. I feel rather like (or so I imagine), Friar Lawrence when Romeo’s threatening to kill himself.
Juliet, while a bit more tolerable than Romeo on account of her being a child and so given to flights of fancy, still irritates me. Possibly that has something to do with my hatred of her giving up her life so easily, though, and my placing my modern day morality into a play of Elizabethan values.
(Perhaps I ought to stop doing that.)
Neither of these opinions changed during the play, for better or for worse. Juliet was more childlike than usual, playing with a yoyo in her first scene and, at the party, excitedly leaping away from Romeo wearing a Cheshire cat grin as she declares “You kiss by the book!” (To the delight and laughter from the audience who, I suppose, were expecting the adult in a child’s body calmness that we usually get from the textbooks.)
Romeo was as irksome as ever, though fantastically played by Sam Troughton, who gave it his all. He really went for it, really relishing his part. Given that it’s one of the most famous of the Shakespeare plays, he had every reason to. Mariah Gale (Juliet), while not as immersed in the role as Troughton, pulled off a convincing fourteen year old. She seemed far too comfortable and at ease pulling back her skirt to show off her thigh for someone so young, but I’ll let that go. She does speak like an adult throughout the rest of the play (mostly), so I’ll pretend that her tutors gave lessons in the art of seduction.
In fact, as I remember, there was only one display of bad acting from the ensemble, and that was from Christine Entwistle (Lady Capulet). In the few lines she gets in the play, was out acted by the torch Romeo carries into the tomb. She seemed to be more wooden, more disinterested, than any other actor or actress and any emotion seemed to be completely overplayed. Take when Nurse calls her to Juliet’s room, for example. Upon discovering her daughter ‘dead’, she hitches up her skirts and runs around and around the stage, looking around like she’s trying to work out where Juliet’s spirit may have gone, so she can capture it and put it back in her child’s body. Yes, I know this is a directorial decision, but still, it shouldn’t have caused me to bite back a laugh. Even Lady Montague, who has even fewer lines than L. Capulet, managed to drum up a better performance. Perhaps Entwistle was having a bad day, but her acting was completely laughable, in my book. Which is annoying, because she was in a previous play I went to see (As You Like It – RSC 2009) and was brilliant as Phoebe.
Another thing that the play didn’t change was my love of Mercutio, that hot blooded male who is as sharp and clever with his tongue as he is with the sword. From clever word play and subtle puns to outright crudeness and depravity, the audience seemed to love his every word. It being a world apart from his role in As You Like It (where O'Neill plays the Romeo-esque character (albeit with less moping)), the actor seemed to give his role everything. He was well rewarded by the audience's reception to him: he earned the biggest laugh of the night when, “conjuring” Romeo, he started imitating swimming through someone’s arse. The Serious Shakespeare Fans (you know the ones – the old, stern-faced fellows who sit in the Stalls, faces stony, unmoving, even during the funniest of scenes) looked disapproving, but everyone else thought it was hilarious. Another particularly funny bit from him came when he launched into “You’re [Nurse is] a whore” to the tune of The Old Bamboo from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Complete with dancing.
For all the Serious Fans can look disapproving, I love the fact that the ensemble kept the Elizabethan style humour, although they had to emphasise it a little to make modern audiences appreciate it. And that’s one thing I loved about the play; it didn’t take itself too seriously. When Romeo and Juliet died, there was emotion, sure. There was a hush upon the seats as we watched the events happen, as things unfolded the way we knew they would. But, before all that, they weren't afraid to have a bit of fun with it, like it was a sacred text.
However, nothing can be perfect, and there were a few decisions that I wasn’t too impressed with. There was a very classical feel to the play - a small band to punctuate moments with music, a simple set, at the end there was an opera singer, and traditional clothing. Mostly. For some unfathomable reason, Romeo and Juliet were parading around in parkas and modern day casual wear while sharing a stage with people in full get-up. I would say this is to show how the leading characters are worlds apart from the other characters, apart from the end when the feuding families are forced to adopt their children's loving natures towards each other. This interpretation, however, is diminished by the fact that the alchemist (who provides Romeo with poison) also wears modern day clothing. If the interpretation I came up with is correct, would that mean that the alchemist holds the same good values, despite prizing money over anything else?
I could let this slide. The ultimate piss-take, however, comes in the final scene. While the modern clothing can be overlooked, what he did with the final scene completely pulled you out of the moment of tragedy. What should be a sombre, painful goodbye, a lesson to the Montagues and the Capulets, left me wondering "what?!!
After Romeo and Juliet have died, in enters an amused looking Inspector and two PCs interviewing the “suspects”. All the (still living) characters returned, apparently travelling a few hundred years into the future and donning modern dress. There was no reason for the modernisation, and, for that, it is marked down slightly.
Overall though, it was well worth the money that I spent on it, and I highly recommend it, even to the people who wouldn’t consider going to the theatre fun.
We returned to the B&B, happy after a brilliant day. After a cup of tea, we went to bed, knackered after a long day.
Play: 8/10
Trip all together: 9/10
Cost: £130 (ish) for two people (including train tickets).
If you live under a Shakespeare free rock, blissfully unaware of Romeo and Juliet (or if you’re wanting to see the play and want to remain unspoiled), then I wouldn’t recommend reading any further as there’ll be some stonking huge spoilers.
--
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life,
Who misadventured piteous overthrows,
Do with their death bury their parents strife.
Everyone knows the story of Romeo and Juliet. A pair of whiny kids from a pair of families that hate each other end up thinking “I’d fuck that” and end up causing havoc, misery, and much death in Verona. The play has never been my favourite. So, when my boyfriend chose it as the one we went to see when we went to Stratford upon Avon, I had to stop myself from letting out a groan of dismay. I understand his reasoning (it’s the only one he remembers studying, and so is familiar with the text) but all the same, I could think of better plays to see. Well, not really, as I haven’t read any of the other plays that were being shown, but any was better than Romeo and Juliet!
That didn’t stop me from getting excited about it, though. It was his first ever proper experience at the theatre, and I couldn’t wait to find out what he thought of it.
We arrived at Stratford upon Avon early afternoon, and after a quick visit to the B&B to drop off our overnight stuff (the hosts weren’t there, so we ended up carrying it with us anyway), we headed into the town centre. Showing him around, I felt rather like a schoolgirl showing off her newest toys, jubilant at knowing more than he. Childish, I know. But forgive me; it’s not very often that I know more than him.
He thought it was gorgeous, although he wasn’t particularly excited by the old houses. As a re-enactor of the Jacobite Rebellion, the thrill of seeing old houses has worn off by now. I’m glad I’m not like him…I love old houses, and knowing that the wood/stone under my hand is old, made in a time so completely different to now. I still wouldn’t queue for hours and pay loads of money to go in one, though. I can’t imagine that going round Shakespeare’s house to be that thrilling. I always imagine the tour guide to be saying “And here is the outhouse where it is believed that Shakespeare went to take a dump. He kept his stash of porn just here.” It would be followed, obviously, by the “ooooh”ing of the people who paid to go on the tour, and then the frantic flashes of cameras.
Possibly not how it goes, but hell, I bet it’s 100 times more interesting.
A few hours and after a very unsatisfying dinner (for me, anyway) later, we headed back to the B&B. The man was sitting outside the house for us and gave us a very warm welcome. We were shown to our room, and, after the exhausting day that he had (ha!) Wayne proceeded to fall asleep. I joined him in the Land of Nod after a bit.
We woke at half 6 and had to leg it down to the theatre. The play started at 7.10 and, although we were only 20 minutes away from the town centre, we wanted to go in the shop and get some things first. Thankfully we made it to the theatre, took our seats, and looked forward to the play. I quickly discovered a major problem with the seat I was sitting in: while it would have been a fantastic view, it was obstructed by a pillar going up to the Gallery (we were in the Circle). Wayne’s seat was much better, and I have learned a valuable lesson: don’t go for a seat at the side of a section. I learned another lesson a few moments later: don’t leave your phone at the B&B when you go out! In the few minutes before the play, I drove Wayne mad by checking, double-checking, triple-checking (and even quadruple-checking) to make sure it wasn’t somewhere on my person, ready to go off as soon as the play began.
Then the lights went down, and a guy wandered onto stage, plugs for an mp3 player in his ears, looking thoughtful as he passed through the gate at the back. Then the play began: three men, two from the house of Montague, one from the house of Capulet, strode forward, slow-motion and, staying slow-mo (an effect that seemed to be favoured in the play), bit his thumb.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”
The fighting that followed it was impressive, with a very cool (although somewhat peculiar and unneeded) display of pyrotechnics, as one of the members of the brawling families threw a match. The training involved for the fights must have been incredible – as well as fucking hard work. You have to feel for Jonjo O’Neill, the actor playing Mercutio, for bad swordplay in the first fight would be looked over, for who can expect lower ranking people to be perfect in fighting? In his scene, which comes later, Mercutio is showing off his ability to fight, so people will criticise it more. Not that it seemed to bother him too much, for the fighting was just as brilliant and unstagey (that should do be a word) as the rest of the fights.
I get ahead of myself. Before I talk about Mercutio (wonderful though he is), I suppose I ought to talk about Romeo and Juliet, the titular couple, the star-cross’d lovers, the pair of unlikeable twerps.
Romeo’s like one of those irritating emo things that wander our streets, always looking on the bad side of life *whistles*. His puling and puppyish devotion to Rosaline, immediately dissipated when he sees Juliet, just makes me want to smack him. I feel rather like (or so I imagine), Friar Lawrence when Romeo’s threatening to kill himself.
Juliet, while a bit more tolerable than Romeo on account of her being a child and so given to flights of fancy, still irritates me. Possibly that has something to do with my hatred of her giving up her life so easily, though, and my placing my modern day morality into a play of Elizabethan values.
(Perhaps I ought to stop doing that.)
Neither of these opinions changed during the play, for better or for worse. Juliet was more childlike than usual, playing with a yoyo in her first scene and, at the party, excitedly leaping away from Romeo wearing a Cheshire cat grin as she declares “You kiss by the book!” (To the delight and laughter from the audience who, I suppose, were expecting the adult in a child’s body calmness that we usually get from the textbooks.)
Romeo was as irksome as ever, though fantastically played by Sam Troughton, who gave it his all. He really went for it, really relishing his part. Given that it’s one of the most famous of the Shakespeare plays, he had every reason to. Mariah Gale (Juliet), while not as immersed in the role as Troughton, pulled off a convincing fourteen year old. She seemed far too comfortable and at ease pulling back her skirt to show off her thigh for someone so young, but I’ll let that go. She does speak like an adult throughout the rest of the play (mostly), so I’ll pretend that her tutors gave lessons in the art of seduction.
In fact, as I remember, there was only one display of bad acting from the ensemble, and that was from Christine Entwistle (Lady Capulet). In the few lines she gets in the play, was out acted by the torch Romeo carries into the tomb. She seemed to be more wooden, more disinterested, than any other actor or actress and any emotion seemed to be completely overplayed. Take when Nurse calls her to Juliet’s room, for example. Upon discovering her daughter ‘dead’, she hitches up her skirts and runs around and around the stage, looking around like she’s trying to work out where Juliet’s spirit may have gone, so she can capture it and put it back in her child’s body. Yes, I know this is a directorial decision, but still, it shouldn’t have caused me to bite back a laugh. Even Lady Montague, who has even fewer lines than L. Capulet, managed to drum up a better performance. Perhaps Entwistle was having a bad day, but her acting was completely laughable, in my book. Which is annoying, because she was in a previous play I went to see (As You Like It – RSC 2009) and was brilliant as Phoebe.
Another thing that the play didn’t change was my love of Mercutio, that hot blooded male who is as sharp and clever with his tongue as he is with the sword. From clever word play and subtle puns to outright crudeness and depravity, the audience seemed to love his every word. It being a world apart from his role in As You Like It (where O'Neill plays the Romeo-esque character (albeit with less moping)), the actor seemed to give his role everything. He was well rewarded by the audience's reception to him: he earned the biggest laugh of the night when, “conjuring” Romeo, he started imitating swimming through someone’s arse. The Serious Shakespeare Fans (you know the ones – the old, stern-faced fellows who sit in the Stalls, faces stony, unmoving, even during the funniest of scenes) looked disapproving, but everyone else thought it was hilarious. Another particularly funny bit from him came when he launched into “You’re [Nurse is] a whore” to the tune of The Old Bamboo from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Complete with dancing.
For all the Serious Fans can look disapproving, I love the fact that the ensemble kept the Elizabethan style humour, although they had to emphasise it a little to make modern audiences appreciate it. And that’s one thing I loved about the play; it didn’t take itself too seriously. When Romeo and Juliet died, there was emotion, sure. There was a hush upon the seats as we watched the events happen, as things unfolded the way we knew they would. But, before all that, they weren't afraid to have a bit of fun with it, like it was a sacred text.
However, nothing can be perfect, and there were a few decisions that I wasn’t too impressed with. There was a very classical feel to the play - a small band to punctuate moments with music, a simple set, at the end there was an opera singer, and traditional clothing. Mostly. For some unfathomable reason, Romeo and Juliet were parading around in parkas and modern day casual wear while sharing a stage with people in full get-up. I would say this is to show how the leading characters are worlds apart from the other characters, apart from the end when the feuding families are forced to adopt their children's loving natures towards each other. This interpretation, however, is diminished by the fact that the alchemist (who provides Romeo with poison) also wears modern day clothing. If the interpretation I came up with is correct, would that mean that the alchemist holds the same good values, despite prizing money over anything else?
I could let this slide. The ultimate piss-take, however, comes in the final scene. While the modern clothing can be overlooked, what he did with the final scene completely pulled you out of the moment of tragedy. What should be a sombre, painful goodbye, a lesson to the Montagues and the Capulets, left me wondering "what?!!
After Romeo and Juliet have died, in enters an amused looking Inspector and two PCs interviewing the “suspects”. All the (still living) characters returned, apparently travelling a few hundred years into the future and donning modern dress. There was no reason for the modernisation, and, for that, it is marked down slightly.
Overall though, it was well worth the money that I spent on it, and I highly recommend it, even to the people who wouldn’t consider going to the theatre fun.
We returned to the B&B, happy after a brilliant day. After a cup of tea, we went to bed, knackered after a long day.
Play: 8/10
Trip all together: 9/10
Cost: £130 (ish) for two people (including train tickets).
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
The things you do when bored...
It's an interesting thing, boredom. Well, it's not, but it does drive us to do some interesting things, and you Google/Bing/Yahoo/Random Search Engine things that you would never think of using as search terms any other time.
Take earlier today. I was sitting in the DRS (Derby Radio Station) studio, most definitely not bored (some brilliant 60s tunes were being played and I was in the delightful company of Wayne) but my mind drifted, and I decided to follow up a conversation we had on air and look up odd ice cream flavours. I came across this jewel.
http://www.who-sucks.com/food/101-frightening-ice-cream-flavors-from-around-the-world
(Not safe for people with taste buds)
If you feel like being ill, or would like to find out some of the more adventurous (read: stark raving mental) things that the Japanese have unleashed upon the world, please take a look. And remember - they're all real. Including the horse flesh one.
Tasty.
Take earlier today. I was sitting in the DRS (Derby Radio Station) studio, most definitely not bored (some brilliant 60s tunes were being played and I was in the delightful company of Wayne) but my mind drifted, and I decided to follow up a conversation we had on air and look up odd ice cream flavours. I came across this jewel.
http://www.who-sucks.com/food/101-frightening-ice-cream-flavors-from-around-the-world
(Not safe for people with taste buds)
If you feel like being ill, or would like to find out some of the more adventurous (read: stark raving mental) things that the Japanese have unleashed upon the world, please take a look. And remember - they're all real. Including the horse flesh one.
Tasty.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Bloody Mary!
"If you look in a mirror and say "Bloody Mary" three times, she'll appear behind you and attack you!"
"You have to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, right, and say "Mary Worth" 13 times, all the while turning in a slow circle. Then look quickly in the mirror and you'll see her behind you."
"I believe in Mary Worth!"
Everyone knows one of these stories, remembers it from their childhood, right? I know I do. I know I believed it at the time, and that I used to feel sick with terror and excitement whenever I was near a mirror because of it. That compulsion to say her name, to test the credibility of the story and finally gain some acceptance in the eyes of the people at school - it was always there. But so was the terror that if I did allow myself to say it, I would see someone else in the mirror.
Part of my essay for Narratives this year is going to be looking at the tale of Bloody Mary/Mary Worth/Mary Worthington, and so I have been looking through a mega long essay (well, 14 pages, but that's long enough) by Alan Dundes about the significance of the myth and what it symbolises. While reading this thing, I came across this rather magnificent piece of information:
"In a fascinating discussion of the folklore of menstruation, it has been suggested that 'in folklore, the conclusion is that menstruation causes a woman to act like a witch'".
You hear that, ladies? Once a month we turn into evil, cackling monsters. Hmmmm...sounds like a story idea...
"You have to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, right, and say "Mary Worth" 13 times, all the while turning in a slow circle. Then look quickly in the mirror and you'll see her behind you."
"I believe in Mary Worth!"
Everyone knows one of these stories, remembers it from their childhood, right? I know I do. I know I believed it at the time, and that I used to feel sick with terror and excitement whenever I was near a mirror because of it. That compulsion to say her name, to test the credibility of the story and finally gain some acceptance in the eyes of the people at school - it was always there. But so was the terror that if I did allow myself to say it, I would see someone else in the mirror.
Part of my essay for Narratives this year is going to be looking at the tale of Bloody Mary/Mary Worth/Mary Worthington, and so I have been looking through a mega long essay (well, 14 pages, but that's long enough) by Alan Dundes about the significance of the myth and what it symbolises. While reading this thing, I came across this rather magnificent piece of information:
"In a fascinating discussion of the folklore of menstruation, it has been suggested that 'in folklore, the conclusion is that menstruation causes a woman to act like a witch'".
You hear that, ladies? Once a month we turn into evil, cackling monsters. Hmmmm...sounds like a story idea...
Casual dress?
"Crisp, Kim?" She waved the packet of crisps in my face. I smiled, shook my head.
"No ta. My hands are kind of occupied with holding my skirt down."
Laughter from my best friend as she took the crisps back. Lovely. As if the odd looks I was getting from passers by wasn't enough!
You see, today, for the first time since I was about 8, I wore a dress - willingly and of my own choice - outside. As casual wear. Usually, if I am to wear a dress, it is due to some sort of party or do where dressing up is required, like birthdays or parties or such. I never wear dresses as casual wear.
Except I did.
It was a 2-in-1 affair, a long jumper with a skirt peeking out of the bottom. It's very nice - not too long (so I don't look like my mother) and not too short, although it does fall above the knees.
When I put the dress on and started on my way to my friend's house, it was a glorious day.
By the time I got there, there was quite a wind.
As you can imagine, I was having a lot of fun trying to prevent a Marilyn moment - while I'm sure my lovely friend would have killed herself laughing, I didn't fancy my dress lifting and showing off my underwear for all passerby...s (passers-by? passerbys? passerbies? Hmmmm - none of those sound/look right...) to see!
Moral of the story: dresses for casual wear = BAD.
"No ta. My hands are kind of occupied with holding my skirt down."
Laughter from my best friend as she took the crisps back. Lovely. As if the odd looks I was getting from passers by wasn't enough!
You see, today, for the first time since I was about 8, I wore a dress - willingly and of my own choice - outside. As casual wear. Usually, if I am to wear a dress, it is due to some sort of party or do where dressing up is required, like birthdays or parties or such. I never wear dresses as casual wear.
Except I did.
It was a 2-in-1 affair, a long jumper with a skirt peeking out of the bottom. It's very nice - not too long (so I don't look like my mother) and not too short, although it does fall above the knees.
When I put the dress on and started on my way to my friend's house, it was a glorious day.
By the time I got there, there was quite a wind.
As you can imagine, I was having a lot of fun trying to prevent a Marilyn moment - while I'm sure my lovely friend would have killed herself laughing, I didn't fancy my dress lifting and showing off my underwear for all passerby...s (passers-by? passerbys? passerbies? Hmmmm - none of those sound/look right...) to see!
Moral of the story: dresses for casual wear = BAD.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
The Usefulness of Children
A conversation I overheard between two kids as I walked past the school gates near to my Uni:
Boy 1: Awwwwwww, a dog! Whose is it?
Boy 2: Thingy's.
Well, that cleared everything up. Thanks, kiddo!
Boy 1: Awwwwwww, a dog! Whose is it?
Boy 2: Thingy's.
Well, that cleared everything up. Thanks, kiddo!
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
This is what hate feels like.
To understand what I'm talking about in this post, you need to know a bit about the relationships and the people in this house.
Dan, Okana, Anna and I signed the contract and are the legal tenants. Last year, we were all in the same halls of residence, in the same building (though not the same flat). Anna and I were good friends - well, by 'friends' I mean that I looked after her and there was some sort of sister thing going on. I was her shoulder to cry on. But then she had to leave Uni for personal reasons, and Dan moved into our flat. Before, Dan lived on the floor below, in a flat with Okana. Okana couldn't stand the people they lived with, so he moved out and ended up in the house we're in now. Dan escaped by coming up to our flat.
Anna came back to Derby frequently, usually getting herself completely drunk and ending up asleep on my bed as she had nowhere else to sleep. Except from those nights where she had found a new pretty boy to shag, anyway. Perhaps I should have spotted the warning signs from that: in her world, her next fuck is far more important than friendship. Promises mean nothing when there's the promise of a bedmate. But I didn't see it, and in September I moved into a house with the three of them.
One week into staying here, she had met a guy, brought him back to ours and asked him to move in. Hang on. Did I say a week? I meant after one date. And she didn't ask a single one of us. That was where everything started falling apart. She started staying in her room all the time, getting him to do everything for her. He began to think he lived in the house, a proper tenant, and started telling Dan and I (he wouldn't dare tell Okana) what to do.
Today, he walked into the kitchen and Anna, ever the little lapdog, was at his heels, making puppy eyes and being generally gross. They went into the kitchen and started complaining about the mess in the kitchen. The mess, might I add, they made.
Boyfiend: That's Dan's, so that must be Kim's over there.
Kim: Actually, I keep all of my pots in my room. So it's not mine.
Anna: That's really unhygienic!
Kim: I can't see how it affects you, so I couldn't give a fuck, to be honest.
Anna: Oh, that's very grown up, Kim. Bad language. Very intelligent.
Kim: I show my intelligence in other ways, darling.
Her bloke didn't like that one bit - he yelled at me to shut the fuck up and get out of the room before slamming the door. I didn't. I pay for that room, he doesn't.
Either they are incredibly thick or they don't know that I could hear them talking about me. I would say it's the former. Anna is clever, but she is too naive, too lacking in common sense to get anywhere. It's one of the reasons why I looked after her last year.
A few minutes later, the pair of them appeared, clutching plates to them.
Him: You EVER speak like that to me or Anna again, Kim, and I will make you wish you had never been born.
Kim: Oh great, so I'm getting threatened in my own home now, am I?
Him: *explodes*
It possibly wasn't the best wording I could have used - one of the things they were talking about in the kitchen is how I thought I own the place - but hey, I just got threatened and semantics weren't really high on my agenda. And I do own the place. More than he does, anyway.
Outcome: Threats, abuse, insults. Being called the c word.
I texted Wayne and told him what had happened, and he made me feel lots better. I love him more and more every day, I swear it. I wrote some emo poetry that made me feel even better. Wayne asked me to join him and his friends at Uni so I could get on with some work and not be afraid of dickskin coming through.
Dan, Okana, Anna and I signed the contract and are the legal tenants. Last year, we were all in the same halls of residence, in the same building (though not the same flat). Anna and I were good friends - well, by 'friends' I mean that I looked after her and there was some sort of sister thing going on. I was her shoulder to cry on. But then she had to leave Uni for personal reasons, and Dan moved into our flat. Before, Dan lived on the floor below, in a flat with Okana. Okana couldn't stand the people they lived with, so he moved out and ended up in the house we're in now. Dan escaped by coming up to our flat.
Anna came back to Derby frequently, usually getting herself completely drunk and ending up asleep on my bed as she had nowhere else to sleep. Except from those nights where she had found a new pretty boy to shag, anyway. Perhaps I should have spotted the warning signs from that: in her world, her next fuck is far more important than friendship. Promises mean nothing when there's the promise of a bedmate. But I didn't see it, and in September I moved into a house with the three of them.
One week into staying here, she had met a guy, brought him back to ours and asked him to move in. Hang on. Did I say a week? I meant after one date. And she didn't ask a single one of us. That was where everything started falling apart. She started staying in her room all the time, getting him to do everything for her. He began to think he lived in the house, a proper tenant, and started telling Dan and I (he wouldn't dare tell Okana) what to do.
Today, he walked into the kitchen and Anna, ever the little lapdog, was at his heels, making puppy eyes and being generally gross. They went into the kitchen and started complaining about the mess in the kitchen. The mess, might I add, they made.
Boyfiend: That's Dan's, so that must be Kim's over there.
Kim: Actually, I keep all of my pots in my room. So it's not mine.
Anna: That's really unhygienic!
Kim: I can't see how it affects you, so I couldn't give a fuck, to be honest.
Anna: Oh, that's very grown up, Kim. Bad language. Very intelligent.
Kim: I show my intelligence in other ways, darling.
Her bloke didn't like that one bit - he yelled at me to shut the fuck up and get out of the room before slamming the door. I didn't. I pay for that room, he doesn't.
Either they are incredibly thick or they don't know that I could hear them talking about me. I would say it's the former. Anna is clever, but she is too naive, too lacking in common sense to get anywhere. It's one of the reasons why I looked after her last year.
A few minutes later, the pair of them appeared, clutching plates to them.
Him: You EVER speak like that to me or Anna again, Kim, and I will make you wish you had never been born.
Kim: Oh great, so I'm getting threatened in my own home now, am I?
Him: *explodes*
It possibly wasn't the best wording I could have used - one of the things they were talking about in the kitchen is how I thought I own the place - but hey, I just got threatened and semantics weren't really high on my agenda. And I do own the place. More than he does, anyway.
Outcome: Threats, abuse, insults. Being called the c word.
I texted Wayne and told him what had happened, and he made me feel lots better. I love him more and more every day, I swear it. I wrote some emo poetry that made me feel even better. Wayne asked me to join him and his friends at Uni so I could get on with some work and not be afraid of dickskin coming through.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
So, after having a few days of busy running around, going to birthday celebrations, doing work, writing to penpals and sleeping, today was the first day I have had in what seems like ages when I haven't actually done something.
Nothing.
Well, I have done a bit more of my coursework, but that is literally the only thing I can say I have achieved today. Unless chatting to my boyfriend on msn counts, anyway. Yesterday was far more interesting for it was finally the night of the Mod fancy dress.
Krissy first suggested it three months ago, and since then I have been frantically researching what sort of stuff I could get away with wearing, what the make up should be like etc. My dress arrived two weeks ago. When last night finally arrived, I was so looking forward to it.
Fate, it seemed, had everything against me, and everything went wrong before I set out. Mods had their eyes big, so I needed lots of mascara. Unfortunately, I had been into M&S earlier that day and, because of their confusing new set up (the make up should have been on ground floor, but wasn't) I couldn't find any more make-up. Typically, when I was getting ready, the mascara was completely empty, and so was the concealer. The coat I was going to wear had a stain on it. I realised a couple of minutes before I was going to set out that my tights had a hole in them.
Despite all that, I had a fantastic night. Wayne was there, looking great in his Mod gear (skinny fit jeans, black t-shirt, waistcoat, tie and Trilby hat) and I got to meet Clare, the friend that Krissy goes on about all the time. You can certainly see why the pair of them are friends!
Anyway - the reason I am writing this is mainly a way of procrastinating from the work I know I have to do. The hand in date is May 5th. Not far away, and yet I have so much to do!
There's four modules to my course: Short Stories, Narratives, Research for Writers and Non-Linear Narratives. The coursework is as follows...
- A non-linear hypertext of 2000 words.
(I have my first draft completed, and I have just finished putting it onto a website thing with all hyperlinks in.)
- A portfolio of work for non-linear narratives, and short stories (1,500 - 5,0000 words)
I have done one story of less than a thousand words for Short Stories and I have done a couple of bits and bobs for Non-Linear Narratives.
- A dissertation proposal
Mostly done
So yeah...it suddenly dawned on me earlier how little time I have to get everything done, and yet I still can't stop procrastinating!
Nothing.
Well, I have done a bit more of my coursework, but that is literally the only thing I can say I have achieved today. Unless chatting to my boyfriend on msn counts, anyway. Yesterday was far more interesting for it was finally the night of the Mod fancy dress.
Krissy first suggested it three months ago, and since then I have been frantically researching what sort of stuff I could get away with wearing, what the make up should be like etc. My dress arrived two weeks ago. When last night finally arrived, I was so looking forward to it.
Fate, it seemed, had everything against me, and everything went wrong before I set out. Mods had their eyes big, so I needed lots of mascara. Unfortunately, I had been into M&S earlier that day and, because of their confusing new set up (the make up should have been on ground floor, but wasn't) I couldn't find any more make-up. Typically, when I was getting ready, the mascara was completely empty, and so was the concealer. The coat I was going to wear had a stain on it. I realised a couple of minutes before I was going to set out that my tights had a hole in them.
Despite all that, I had a fantastic night. Wayne was there, looking great in his Mod gear (skinny fit jeans, black t-shirt, waistcoat, tie and Trilby hat) and I got to meet Clare, the friend that Krissy goes on about all the time. You can certainly see why the pair of them are friends!
Anyway - the reason I am writing this is mainly a way of procrastinating from the work I know I have to do. The hand in date is May 5th. Not far away, and yet I have so much to do!
There's four modules to my course: Short Stories, Narratives, Research for Writers and Non-Linear Narratives. The coursework is as follows...
- A non-linear hypertext of 2000 words.
(I have my first draft completed, and I have just finished putting it onto a website thing with all hyperlinks in.)
- A portfolio of work for non-linear narratives, and short stories (1,500 - 5,0000 words)
I have done one story of less than a thousand words for Short Stories and I have done a couple of bits and bobs for Non-Linear Narratives.
- A dissertation proposal
Mostly done
So yeah...it suddenly dawned on me earlier how little time I have to get everything done, and yet I still can't stop procrastinating!
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Alice in Wonderland
Everyone and his dog knows the story of 'Alice in Wonderland'. A young lass sees a rabbit in a waistcoat, follows him, falls down a rabbit hold and ends up in a magical place known as Wonderland. My boyfriend, who is a massive fan of the book, has been waiting for years for the recently released film to come out and, last night as part of the birthday celebrations, we went out to see it.
What a crock of crap. Seriously.
It wasn't that I didn't want to enjoy it - I only read Carroll's book once, and that was many years ago, so my loving of the film wasn't dependant upon loyalty to the book.
Nor have I seen the entirety of the original, so I had no preconceived ideas about what the film would be like. Still, for all the all-star cast, the film was completely dire. There will be spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the film and wish to, I wouldn't recommend going any further.
Why?
Let's start with the Queens. Whitey McFloatalot (aka the White Queen) was so calm that she had to prance everywhere with her arms flying about in the sky, her white/black face was completely and utterly terrifying, and some of the dialogue that came from her was appalling.
[White Queen] Have you been speaking to the trees?
[Random attendant] Yes, your majesty
[White Queen] Perhaps a bit more kindly?
I mean, WHAT? This is the woman who banishes her own sister to the Outlands, right? The same one who condemns the Knave to spending the rest of his life with the Red Queen, the woman he hates enough to try to get himself killed?
The acting from her during the Let's-Gross-Out-The-Kids-In-The-Audience scene (the one where she is creating the antidote to Alice's largeness) was so badly written and acted that I was squirming in my rather painful cinema seat.
The Red Queen, however, was the opposite. Helena Bonham Carter was brilliant as the queen known for her most frequent order - "Off with their heads!" You know a film is bad when you are rooting for the bad guys to win, rather than the good ones. Okay, so I didn't want them to win so much as I thought they were far more interesting than Lady Graceful and her cronies. All of the best bits come from Reddy - the slapping of the Knave for allowing Alice to escape on the Bandersnatch with the Vorpal Sword. "Can I have a pig here?!" The hilarious which-frog-stole-the-tarts scene.
Okay - I have just mentioned it, so I will talk about the poem, 'Jabberwocky' now. I might not have read Alice in Wonderland, but I have read this poem more times than I can count - I have read it so many times that I can recite the poem from memory. Therefore the Hatter murdering it in a rather thick Scottish accent wasn't something I appreciated, though I understood it: it's quite a long poem and doing the entire thing would have taken away from the film. But it still ended up making me want to slap Burton for murdering an awesome poem. It also made for one of the most cringe-worthy parts of the whole film: the Jabberwocky is dead! What do they say?
"Oh Frabjous Day!" And in the background you hear another guy going "Calloo! Callay!" I was sitting there thinking - they did not just do that.
Hatter. Completely off his trolley, funny, brilliant - at least, he was supposed to be. Depp's version was rubbish - although most people I know seem to disagree with this assessment. His ranty mode, stopped only by someone saying his name forcefully, so funny the first time, I admit it. But three times over the entire film meant that it got old quite quickly. Also, what was with the Scottish accent that he kept breaking into? It was slightly odd - maybe it was because he supposed to be insane, but changing accents? Really?
Alright - I have done enough whinging. Now for the good things about the film.
1/ The Mad Hare. "Spoon!" Got the biggest laugh from the entire cinema (which was packed, by the way - surprising, as it was the 10pm showing) and was just brilliant.
2/ The Cheshire Cat. Voiced by Stephen Fry, what could possibly be wrong?
What's that?
I missed out Alice?
There's a reason for that, and I'm not even going to go near her.
What a crock of crap. Seriously.
It wasn't that I didn't want to enjoy it - I only read Carroll's book once, and that was many years ago, so my loving of the film wasn't dependant upon loyalty to the book.
Nor have I seen the entirety of the original, so I had no preconceived ideas about what the film would be like. Still, for all the all-star cast, the film was completely dire. There will be spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the film and wish to, I wouldn't recommend going any further.
Why?
Let's start with the Queens. Whitey McFloatalot (aka the White Queen) was so calm that she had to prance everywhere with her arms flying about in the sky, her white/black face was completely and utterly terrifying, and some of the dialogue that came from her was appalling.
[White Queen] Have you been speaking to the trees?
[Random attendant] Yes, your majesty
[White Queen] Perhaps a bit more kindly?
I mean, WHAT? This is the woman who banishes her own sister to the Outlands, right? The same one who condemns the Knave to spending the rest of his life with the Red Queen, the woman he hates enough to try to get himself killed?
The acting from her during the Let's-Gross-Out-The-Kids-In-The-Audience scene (the one where she is creating the antidote to Alice's largeness) was so badly written and acted that I was squirming in my rather painful cinema seat.
The Red Queen, however, was the opposite. Helena Bonham Carter was brilliant as the queen known for her most frequent order - "Off with their heads!" You know a film is bad when you are rooting for the bad guys to win, rather than the good ones. Okay, so I didn't want them to win so much as I thought they were far more interesting than Lady Graceful and her cronies. All of the best bits come from Reddy - the slapping of the Knave for allowing Alice to escape on the Bandersnatch with the Vorpal Sword. "Can I have a pig here?!" The hilarious which-frog-stole-the-tarts scene.
Okay - I have just mentioned it, so I will talk about the poem, 'Jabberwocky' now. I might not have read Alice in Wonderland, but I have read this poem more times than I can count - I have read it so many times that I can recite the poem from memory. Therefore the Hatter murdering it in a rather thick Scottish accent wasn't something I appreciated, though I understood it: it's quite a long poem and doing the entire thing would have taken away from the film. But it still ended up making me want to slap Burton for murdering an awesome poem. It also made for one of the most cringe-worthy parts of the whole film: the Jabberwocky is dead! What do they say?
"Oh Frabjous Day!" And in the background you hear another guy going "Calloo! Callay!" I was sitting there thinking - they did not just do that.
Hatter. Completely off his trolley, funny, brilliant - at least, he was supposed to be. Depp's version was rubbish - although most people I know seem to disagree with this assessment. His ranty mode, stopped only by someone saying his name forcefully, so funny the first time, I admit it. But three times over the entire film meant that it got old quite quickly. Also, what was with the Scottish accent that he kept breaking into? It was slightly odd - maybe it was because he supposed to be insane, but changing accents? Really?
Alright - I have done enough whinging. Now for the good things about the film.
1/ The Mad Hare. "Spoon!" Got the biggest laugh from the entire cinema (which was packed, by the way - surprising, as it was the 10pm showing) and was just brilliant.
2/ The Cheshire Cat. Voiced by Stephen Fry, what could possibly be wrong?
What's that?
I missed out Alice?
There's a reason for that, and I'm not even going to go near her.
Monday, 8 March 2010
GREEN CHICKENS
Tomorrow is my good friend's birthday, and we are spending the week celebrating in a variety of different ways.
Today was Shopping and OK Diner Day.
Krissy and I went shopping, and were later joined my Kelly to go to the OK Diner. Much fun was had. Boyfriends were discussed, the Oscars were laughed at, green chickens escaped ovens, flapping and squawking.*
Oh, and I may have got stuck inside a dress.
It goes like this: Miss Krissy challenged me to try on a dress - she said it would be funny and I, not liking the idea of turning a challenge down, accepted. It was New Look, and the thing I tried on was a spotty thing with a love heart cut into the back. (http://www.newlook.co.uk/1901121/190112141/ProductDetails.aspx)She had three things to try on, so we headed to the changing rooms.
This dress has a zip at the back - a very small zip.
I put the dress on, pulled up the zip...and it promptly came off, leaving the dress fastened up. It would not come down again, and so there I was, stuck in this bitch of a dress, unable to do a bloody thing. Krissy tried on all three of her dresses and left.
I carried on struggling.
Eventually, I gave in and had to ask one of the nice ladies in the changing room for help - there was no way I was going to get the zip done by myself. If it had been at the front, I would have been fine...but at the back? No way.
Miss Krissy was highly amused when I told her.
I was less so.
* This may not be true. It was discussed, though.
Today was Shopping and OK Diner Day.
Krissy and I went shopping, and were later joined my Kelly to go to the OK Diner. Much fun was had. Boyfriends were discussed, the Oscars were laughed at, green chickens escaped ovens, flapping and squawking.*
Oh, and I may have got stuck inside a dress.
It goes like this: Miss Krissy challenged me to try on a dress - she said it would be funny and I, not liking the idea of turning a challenge down, accepted. It was New Look, and the thing I tried on was a spotty thing with a love heart cut into the back. (http://www.newlook.co.uk/1901121/190112141/ProductDetails.aspx)She had three things to try on, so we headed to the changing rooms.
This dress has a zip at the back - a very small zip.
I put the dress on, pulled up the zip...and it promptly came off, leaving the dress fastened up. It would not come down again, and so there I was, stuck in this bitch of a dress, unable to do a bloody thing. Krissy tried on all three of her dresses and left.
I carried on struggling.
Eventually, I gave in and had to ask one of the nice ladies in the changing room for help - there was no way I was going to get the zip done by myself. If it had been at the front, I would have been fine...but at the back? No way.
Miss Krissy was highly amused when I told her.
I was less so.
* This may not be true. It was discussed, though.
The relationship killer is dead!
My boyfriend, for the past 6 months or so, has been battling with an addiction. He got over this addiction sometime last year, but for some stupid reason started again this year.
It wasn't drugs, alcohol or gambling.
It was playing on World of Warcraft.
When he came over to mine, he usually went straight on WoW after saying hi to me and setting his laptop up. Sometimes a cup of tea would precede it, too. But most of the time, he would go on the bloody game within minutes of having walked in. Being a lenient and kind girlfriend, I knew how much he enjoyed playing it, so I tried not to get too upset or annoyed about it - I might be getting no conversation from him, but he was enjoying it, and that mattered. Besides, I was battling against my own addiction - Farmville - at the time, so I could hardly complain without going into pot/kettle/black territory.
Farmville and WoW, however, are now gone.
Without any input from me, he sold all of his kit and then uninstalled the game from his laptop. I am so proud I think I might be swelling up to several times my own size. If I need a larger size of clothes, I am gonna kill you, no matter how much I love you!
It wasn't drugs, alcohol or gambling.
It was playing on World of Warcraft.
When he came over to mine, he usually went straight on WoW after saying hi to me and setting his laptop up. Sometimes a cup of tea would precede it, too. But most of the time, he would go on the bloody game within minutes of having walked in. Being a lenient and kind girlfriend, I knew how much he enjoyed playing it, so I tried not to get too upset or annoyed about it - I might be getting no conversation from him, but he was enjoying it, and that mattered. Besides, I was battling against my own addiction - Farmville - at the time, so I could hardly complain without going into pot/kettle/black territory.
Farmville and WoW, however, are now gone.
Without any input from me, he sold all of his kit and then uninstalled the game from his laptop. I am so proud I think I might be swelling up to several times my own size. If I need a larger size of clothes, I am gonna kill you, no matter how much I love you!
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Man at the bus station
I return from the ether of the internet and the massive pile of coursework to bring news from the terrifying place that is known as Real Life. Like most people I know, I prefer to bury my head in the vast world of the internet and try to ignore that, around me, Things Are Happening.
Occasionally, though, I can't pretend any longer and, for a day, I emerge from the slumberous mass and spend a day with living, breathing people, hemming me in on all sides. And, once I remember how much I hate people, I flee back to my internet.
Over the past couple of days, I have made a Special Effort to be a Civilised Human Being(TM) and ventured forth into the realm of the living.
Yesterday, 6th March 2010, I hopped on a bus and travelled to Bakewell, home of the very yummy cake, with two of my very good friends, Mr D and Fawson. I'm trying to remember some amusing story or anecdote about my trip, but I am coming up with nothing - the sole amusing thing of the day came courtesy of a random man in Derby. Mr D, Fawson and I were sitting around, waiting for the bus to arrive, and, sitting yon side of the path (on top of a small wall) was a middle aged man. There was nobody sitting next to him (in fact, everyone was sitting as far away from the poor bugger as they could) and yet he didn't stop talking. Not to anyone - just talking.
And talking.
And talking.
He didn't stop - he barely even seemed to pause to draw in a breath. The bus arrived and there was a scramble to form a queue, every single person hoping that they wouldn't end up near Mr Talkative. We needn't have worried, though - he ignored the presence of the bus and the departure of his audience, he just sat there, in his own little world, talking to himself.
On the one hand, I kinda felt sorry for him. On the other, envious. How great must it be to exist in your own reality, where nothing and nobody exists apart from when you want them to? While I wouldn't say I would love to live like that, you have to admire him for it. Even if he's a bit nutty, you have to admire his courage.
Sir, I don't know who you are and the likelihood of you actually reading this is slim to none, but I salute you all the same.
Occasionally, though, I can't pretend any longer and, for a day, I emerge from the slumberous mass and spend a day with living, breathing people, hemming me in on all sides. And, once I remember how much I hate people, I flee back to my internet.
Over the past couple of days, I have made a Special Effort to be a Civilised Human Being(TM) and ventured forth into the realm of the living.
Yesterday, 6th March 2010, I hopped on a bus and travelled to Bakewell, home of the very yummy cake, with two of my very good friends, Mr D and Fawson. I'm trying to remember some amusing story or anecdote about my trip, but I am coming up with nothing - the sole amusing thing of the day came courtesy of a random man in Derby. Mr D, Fawson and I were sitting around, waiting for the bus to arrive, and, sitting yon side of the path (on top of a small wall) was a middle aged man. There was nobody sitting next to him (in fact, everyone was sitting as far away from the poor bugger as they could) and yet he didn't stop talking. Not to anyone - just talking.
And talking.
And talking.
He didn't stop - he barely even seemed to pause to draw in a breath. The bus arrived and there was a scramble to form a queue, every single person hoping that they wouldn't end up near Mr Talkative. We needn't have worried, though - he ignored the presence of the bus and the departure of his audience, he just sat there, in his own little world, talking to himself.
On the one hand, I kinda felt sorry for him. On the other, envious. How great must it be to exist in your own reality, where nothing and nobody exists apart from when you want them to? While I wouldn't say I would love to live like that, you have to admire him for it. Even if he's a bit nutty, you have to admire his courage.
Sir, I don't know who you are and the likelihood of you actually reading this is slim to none, but I salute you all the same.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Anti BNP =/= Fascism. Apparently.
One of the things I enjoy doing in my spare time is writing to penpals from all over the world. I'm not rich and so I can't afford to travel there myself, and so I explore lives and cultures through the medium of writing.
To be able to get as many friends as I can, I advertise on penpalsnow, my favoured site. All sorts of people go on there, and so I stand the greatest chance of meeting someone new.
Unfortunately, not all nice people go on there.
This is an email I got from one chap who seemed completely angered by my ad.
-
Dear ***,
The whole tragedy of Hitler was that he wouldn’t change primitive and radical opinions of his youth even become an educated man – so why aren’t you going to change yours?
I love nationalism and don't mind BNP. It was not you who raised GREAT BRITAIN, there were people with somewhat stronger nature (and they were Christians) but it is you who are letting the country down right now along with all the labours, sweet and blood of your ancestors put into the foundation of it.
Why not telling that I love you? We could exchange a couple of letters, then photos and fall in love with each other (they say, I’m very handsome) – and no admitting our feelings? It’s a concentration camp instead of friendship.
It seems that my message is aiming at a ‘Things To Laugh At’ category so I need to say if I were so good at classifications as you, your ad would be the first candidate into it. The fact that I’ve never read a post more laughable alone made me spend some time to compose these lines in a foreign language.
I hope that you’ll really follow one of your good rules and finally feel some love towards your nation and motherland as well as respect to the Almighty that created the nature and animals you’re fond of. Otherwise you have a chance to be send to hell and placed in a fiery chamber with some racists or sexists.
I wish you happy New Year and many sweet kisses for the whole 2010!
God bless thee, [my name].
[His name]
-
After sitting there for several minutes, with very little but WTF passing through my mind, I finally started laughing. Seriously, I thought - this must be a joke, right? I posted it on Facebook, where all my friends also found it hilarious. No way could I possibly take it seriously.
But I was bored and I had nothing else to waste my time on, so I compiled an email in reply to this annoyingly mental theist. Yes, if it was a joke then I fell for it hook, line and sinker...but there's no way I couldn't reply to it. It was too good! Fingers crossed that the guy replies and makes himself seem like an even bigger arse!
Aside from that, the day has been uneventful. I seem to have gained some sort of illness (I am convinced I caught it from my friend over msn!) and have been choking my guts up all day long. Fortunately/unfortunately, this illness gave me an excuse not to do any work today. I know that I'll suffer for it when I am better, but at the moment, I can't bring myself to care.
To be able to get as many friends as I can, I advertise on penpalsnow, my favoured site. All sorts of people go on there, and so I stand the greatest chance of meeting someone new.
Unfortunately, not all nice people go on there.
This is an email I got from one chap who seemed completely angered by my ad.
-
Dear ***,
The whole tragedy of Hitler was that he wouldn’t change primitive and radical opinions of his youth even become an educated man – so why aren’t you going to change yours?
I love nationalism and don't mind BNP. It was not you who raised GREAT BRITAIN, there were people with somewhat stronger nature (and they were Christians) but it is you who are letting the country down right now along with all the labours, sweet and blood of your ancestors put into the foundation of it.
Why not telling that I love you? We could exchange a couple of letters, then photos and fall in love with each other (they say, I’m very handsome) – and no admitting our feelings? It’s a concentration camp instead of friendship.
It seems that my message is aiming at a ‘Things To Laugh At’ category so I need to say if I were so good at classifications as you, your ad would be the first candidate into it. The fact that I’ve never read a post more laughable alone made me spend some time to compose these lines in a foreign language.
I hope that you’ll really follow one of your good rules and finally feel some love towards your nation and motherland as well as respect to the Almighty that created the nature and animals you’re fond of. Otherwise you have a chance to be send to hell and placed in a fiery chamber with some racists or sexists.
I wish you happy New Year and many sweet kisses for the whole 2010!
God bless thee, [my name].
[His name]
-
After sitting there for several minutes, with very little but WTF passing through my mind, I finally started laughing. Seriously, I thought - this must be a joke, right? I posted it on Facebook, where all my friends also found it hilarious. No way could I possibly take it seriously.
But I was bored and I had nothing else to waste my time on, so I compiled an email in reply to this annoyingly mental theist. Yes, if it was a joke then I fell for it hook, line and sinker...but there's no way I couldn't reply to it. It was too good! Fingers crossed that the guy replies and makes himself seem like an even bigger arse!
Aside from that, the day has been uneventful. I seem to have gained some sort of illness (I am convinced I caught it from my friend over msn!) and have been choking my guts up all day long. Fortunately/unfortunately, this illness gave me an excuse not to do any work today. I know that I'll suffer for it when I am better, but at the moment, I can't bring myself to care.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
When I named my blog "Musings of a Serial Lurker", I thought it would make the perfect place for hiding out from the world of internet, the terrifying place where you're dragged into the open, kicking and screaming.
I wasn't expecting it to become another place that I would lurk in.
The problem with writing a blog, I think, is that this terrifying white box needs to be filled, and yet my life is so dull I have nothing to fill it with. Unless, that is, people find this sort of thing interesting.
"Got up at 10 am this morning and, as usual, checked my Farmville. Nothing had happened, predictably, so hung out on the internet for the rest of the day, not entirely sure what I was hoping to do. Got some writing done."
No? Funny, that.
So, in order that I don't have to go through all this again some other time, here's me.
Me
Singing in the rain. Dancing in the rain. Acting like a fool, and then grinning like an idiot at the people who stop to gawp. Confusing people by using strange words from Yellerbelly land. The words "nebby", "yarniarni", "yawps". Stars. As in, stars in the sky, not celeb stars. Writing to penpals, writing to nobody, writing little post-it notes to me. Writing stories, and then hiding them from other people. Drawing silly faces on other people's notebooks. Taking photos in public, but pretending not to be so as to escape stupid people who might accuse me of paedophilia or terrorism. Shopping.
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