As Frodo once said “I love the shire, with its rivers, its trees and its students.” Okay chances are the word ‘students’ would have replaced with ‘mushrooms’ and we all know the bond between hobbit and shrooms.
However being able to compare being back to Uni to Frodo and the members of middle earth, would non the less be revealing some uber form of geekiness. So instead I will keep it simple.
Its great being back. Chester is gorgeous, our house is perfect and we have already spent day one in Pj’s and have officially drunken our weight in alcohol. (The sophisticated drinkers that we are; pass me the Lambrini.)
We are less than a week in and already it feels (and looks) like we have been here for years. If only that were the case…
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Monday 14 September 2009
Good bye Josh.
There is a time in every ones life when something so crazy happens that you’re not too sure whether to be happy or fear for your life. In this instance I’m going with fear for your life and the lives or every other motor driver on the road.
My brother is starting to drive.
Not only has the nutter been granted his provisional piece of green card, he has also stolen my car. I came home to discover my wheels had been branded with L plates.
These plates are not subtle pieces of sticky paper that they once were. Oh no. These are ‘Magnetic banners’ a warning sign to the sane that there is an inexperienced, racer wanna be (driving a purple car may I add!) lose on the streets of Guildford. Long gone are the days of arguing over the front seat; now its fist fights over the keys.
Josh (my car’s acquired name) and myself have had some wonderful moments. There was that time we bundled about 8 people into it and proceeded to drive past an army of police men, or the time we got caught ‘miss behaving’ with an old friend, or the time it got covered in marsh mellows or was it gay porn?
Either way it was a good little runner, bless his little rubber tyres.
My brother is starting to drive.
Not only has the nutter been granted his provisional piece of green card, he has also stolen my car. I came home to discover my wheels had been branded with L plates.
These plates are not subtle pieces of sticky paper that they once were. Oh no. These are ‘Magnetic banners’ a warning sign to the sane that there is an inexperienced, racer wanna be (driving a purple car may I add!) lose on the streets of Guildford. Long gone are the days of arguing over the front seat; now its fist fights over the keys.
Josh (my car’s acquired name) and myself have had some wonderful moments. There was that time we bundled about 8 people into it and proceeded to drive past an army of police men, or the time we got caught ‘miss behaving’ with an old friend, or the time it got covered in marsh mellows or was it gay porn?
Either way it was a good little runner, bless his little rubber tyres.
Surrey seems to be the hardest word.
It seems that at long last summer is reaching the end and another academic year is about to begin. With less than a week to go the excitement is beginning to build. So to is the stress.
The stress is mainly resulting from the fear that very soon I will have to dive in to the loft and dig out various bits of crockery, folders and abstract dressing up gear. I use the word fear only because the current state of the loft is ridiculous and there is a strong chance I may die, or lose a limb under year’s worth of cuddly toys, books and boxes. All of which have very little meaning to me personally, I just havn’t the heart to throw anything away. You never know when a singing Care Bear may come in useful?
So once the loft has been conquered and the various items dusted, cleaned and tried on (purely to see if the fitness regime over summer has paid off) the packing will begin.
This is a very tricky process. One does not want to pack everything and move it into the hall too quickly, or the parents will feel unloved and wonder why you ever came home in the first place. But at the same time the longer you leave it, the more likely you are to forget the essentials. Good luck trying to cook without any pans. Or food.
I think the most logical way to pack is to do it gradually. Yes my friends, once again it is list writing time! If it’s on the list you won’t forget it. In fact if it’s on the list chances are you don’t really need to take the item at all, but you never know…
So am suggesting everyday you add to you increasing pile of ‘Stuff to take’. That way subtly telling everyone you’re (notice the apostrophe there) leaving presently and you have a heart.
Unless you are leaving on bad terms; in which case pack the car weeks before, empty the entire house of food and pin up a huge day by day count down on your bedroom door.
The count down begins: 121 hrs and 20 mins….
The stress is mainly resulting from the fear that very soon I will have to dive in to the loft and dig out various bits of crockery, folders and abstract dressing up gear. I use the word fear only because the current state of the loft is ridiculous and there is a strong chance I may die, or lose a limb under year’s worth of cuddly toys, books and boxes. All of which have very little meaning to me personally, I just havn’t the heart to throw anything away. You never know when a singing Care Bear may come in useful?
So once the loft has been conquered and the various items dusted, cleaned and tried on (purely to see if the fitness regime over summer has paid off) the packing will begin.
This is a very tricky process. One does not want to pack everything and move it into the hall too quickly, or the parents will feel unloved and wonder why you ever came home in the first place. But at the same time the longer you leave it, the more likely you are to forget the essentials. Good luck trying to cook without any pans. Or food.
I think the most logical way to pack is to do it gradually. Yes my friends, once again it is list writing time! If it’s on the list you won’t forget it. In fact if it’s on the list chances are you don’t really need to take the item at all, but you never know…
So am suggesting everyday you add to you increasing pile of ‘Stuff to take’. That way subtly telling everyone you’re (notice the apostrophe there) leaving presently and you have a heart.
Unless you are leaving on bad terms; in which case pack the car weeks before, empty the entire house of food and pin up a huge day by day count down on your bedroom door.
The count down begins: 121 hrs and 20 mins….
Sunday 6 September 2009
Literature doodling
Sitting in on a Sunday night apparently makes you creative. Or so my brain thought earlier. This is just a bit of doodling...
I would like to write you a love story. To capture your imagination and make you believe there is such a thing as true love. The kind of butterfly churning, fuchsia glasses, head over heels, crazy kind.
It could begin with the elegant meeting of two strangers or the realisation between ancient friends. Either way, the story would follow the same plot; passion, heartbreak and determination and all over in the blink of an eye.
But things are not always lost; sometimes they are just put aside for a while, scribbled down in a notebook or recited to grandchildren.
I have no grandparents, so I didn’t hear this story through them. Nothing was ever narrated to me, therefore nothing was put aside. But there was a notebook, found in a pile of old books we had collected whilst sorting through my Grandmother’s possessions.
I always loved going through her stuff, it always brought back such beautiful memories. She was a wonderful woman and the best Grandma a little girl could have ever asked for.
The closed book intrigued me; what secrets lived within those pages? As with any new book the excitement and mystery lead my fingers to examine it in more detail.
The book was made from small pieces of lined paper, bounded together with two pieces of faded ribbon. Its hand crafted appearance added to the increasing curiosity taking over my brain. It smelt of times gone by and underneath a smattering of dust hid the words ‘My diary’.
Right then, in that moment I knew what I was holding was gold. My Grandma had opened her world to me, like never before. The newspaper thin pages smiled up at me, inviting me to read them. Turning the first page I glanced down, letting my eyes scan the rolling writing, which was flowing horizontally along the paper.
‘September 3rd 1950
Who ever would have thought it! Jack Dearing and me. He is everything a man should be, smart, funny and has the most amazing smile ever. Last night was perfect, we went to the movies. Mother wasn’t happy about me coming back so late (10pm) but I think she could tell by my constant smile, that very little would have altered my happy mood. So thankfully she didn’t have words till this morning. I don’t think 10pm is that late. He said he would call me today and he did! We talked for ages, about everything. He’s so interesting. Every time he spoke my tummy cart wheeled. Look at me now, I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat. I have never felt like this before, it’s a lovely feeling. Every time I think of him (which is an awful lot- I can’t help it) I go all silly. It’s hard to explain it.
P.s Seeing Jack tomorrow. Night night xxx.’
Closing the diary I began to share my Grandma’s happiness. Maybe I had found my love story…
I would like to write you a love story. To capture your imagination and make you believe there is such a thing as true love. The kind of butterfly churning, fuchsia glasses, head over heels, crazy kind.
It could begin with the elegant meeting of two strangers or the realisation between ancient friends. Either way, the story would follow the same plot; passion, heartbreak and determination and all over in the blink of an eye.
But things are not always lost; sometimes they are just put aside for a while, scribbled down in a notebook or recited to grandchildren.
I have no grandparents, so I didn’t hear this story through them. Nothing was ever narrated to me, therefore nothing was put aside. But there was a notebook, found in a pile of old books we had collected whilst sorting through my Grandmother’s possessions.
I always loved going through her stuff, it always brought back such beautiful memories. She was a wonderful woman and the best Grandma a little girl could have ever asked for.
The closed book intrigued me; what secrets lived within those pages? As with any new book the excitement and mystery lead my fingers to examine it in more detail.
The book was made from small pieces of lined paper, bounded together with two pieces of faded ribbon. Its hand crafted appearance added to the increasing curiosity taking over my brain. It smelt of times gone by and underneath a smattering of dust hid the words ‘My diary’.
Right then, in that moment I knew what I was holding was gold. My Grandma had opened her world to me, like never before. The newspaper thin pages smiled up at me, inviting me to read them. Turning the first page I glanced down, letting my eyes scan the rolling writing, which was flowing horizontally along the paper.
‘September 3rd 1950
Who ever would have thought it! Jack Dearing and me. He is everything a man should be, smart, funny and has the most amazing smile ever. Last night was perfect, we went to the movies. Mother wasn’t happy about me coming back so late (10pm) but I think she could tell by my constant smile, that very little would have altered my happy mood. So thankfully she didn’t have words till this morning. I don’t think 10pm is that late. He said he would call me today and he did! We talked for ages, about everything. He’s so interesting. Every time he spoke my tummy cart wheeled. Look at me now, I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat. I have never felt like this before, it’s a lovely feeling. Every time I think of him (which is an awful lot- I can’t help it) I go all silly. It’s hard to explain it.
P.s Seeing Jack tomorrow. Night night xxx.’
Closing the diary I began to share my Grandma’s happiness. Maybe I had found my love story…
Saturday 5 September 2009
Forgotten Hobby.
Thinking back to September 2008 and the start of Chester Uni. Never to this day did I ever imagine I would ever stop dancing.
Its one of those things your parents start you doing when your about 3 and over the years you learn to love it and before you know it, your older, wiser and with a pretty good talent under your belt. Or amazing balance.
Not sure whether its one of those things that grows out of you or just sort of disappears into no where. But it wasn’t until recently that it suddenly kicked in that I havn’t danced in a pair of ballet shoes for almost two years now.
Guess it’s kind of corny, but every time there is a pair on my feet something takes over. Believe me; if I could wear them it the final exams next year, I would probably pirouette out the room with a First. Suppose it’s similar to the blanket that a young toddler trails around after itself, its little bit of security made of cotton.
Everyone has something they love doing, something that just makes everything else seem ok, something that even when your fuming and angered out of your mind, you know will instantly calm you down and maker everything bearable. For me it’s putting on a pair of ballet shoes, for my mum its being in the garden, for my dad its sitting in his car and for my brother its having a full blown teenage huff, complete with door slamming and putting the TV on full volume. Everyone has something, whether they admit it or not.
It’s just a bit daunting how quickly we can forget these things. Have officially lost track of the amount of times I keep saying I’ll start a collection of famous (and meaningful) sayings, or the amount of times ive gone into Jessops and forgotten to get some photos of my closest friends printed.
It’s worrying how much we forget the simple things that make us happy and the things that make us who we are. The years of Tutu’s, tiara’s and ballet ribbons, seem to have been replaced with book shelves of feminist novels, Tesco receipts and pockets full of loose change.
Its one of those things your parents start you doing when your about 3 and over the years you learn to love it and before you know it, your older, wiser and with a pretty good talent under your belt. Or amazing balance.
Not sure whether its one of those things that grows out of you or just sort of disappears into no where. But it wasn’t until recently that it suddenly kicked in that I havn’t danced in a pair of ballet shoes for almost two years now.
Guess it’s kind of corny, but every time there is a pair on my feet something takes over. Believe me; if I could wear them it the final exams next year, I would probably pirouette out the room with a First. Suppose it’s similar to the blanket that a young toddler trails around after itself, its little bit of security made of cotton.
Everyone has something they love doing, something that just makes everything else seem ok, something that even when your fuming and angered out of your mind, you know will instantly calm you down and maker everything bearable. For me it’s putting on a pair of ballet shoes, for my mum its being in the garden, for my dad its sitting in his car and for my brother its having a full blown teenage huff, complete with door slamming and putting the TV on full volume. Everyone has something, whether they admit it or not.
It’s just a bit daunting how quickly we can forget these things. Have officially lost track of the amount of times I keep saying I’ll start a collection of famous (and meaningful) sayings, or the amount of times ive gone into Jessops and forgotten to get some photos of my closest friends printed.
It’s worrying how much we forget the simple things that make us happy and the things that make us who we are. The years of Tutu’s, tiara’s and ballet ribbons, seem to have been replaced with book shelves of feminist novels, Tesco receipts and pockets full of loose change.
The writer
It’s a beautiful thing being able to write. You can write anything; the first thing that comes into your mind, your hopes, your dreams or even the weekly shopping list. Where would we be without writing?
It’s weird how much easier it is to write than to talk. There may be a slight advantage being most of what you write is only read by yourself, or the beauty that is the ‘delete’ button, allowing you to re phrase everything.
Think back to all those love sick 18th/ 19th century men, who constantly swore by letter writing. It’s such a beautiful art and is sadly something that is very rarely done these days. We have all got lazy, turning to texts to supply conversations and information.
Right now for example I could write about anything in the world and to be honest, that’s a slightly scary thought. Personally I’m one of these people who likes to be told what do, I love plans and am god of ‘writing lists’.
I could write about the ridiculous amount of pizza the girls and I brought last night, how I decided not to go with drunken texting on Thursday (due to previous banana incident!) and decided to actually talk to the guy; only resulting in a very humiliating text the following morning apologising for the marriage proposal, the constant Harry Potter commentary and terrible rendition of Alice Coopers ‘poison’.
Either way, there is a lot one can write about and it is never a good thing if your indecisive. So there you have it writing about writing. How to kill time and brainstorm what to what for the next blog…
It’s weird how much easier it is to write than to talk. There may be a slight advantage being most of what you write is only read by yourself, or the beauty that is the ‘delete’ button, allowing you to re phrase everything.
Think back to all those love sick 18th/ 19th century men, who constantly swore by letter writing. It’s such a beautiful art and is sadly something that is very rarely done these days. We have all got lazy, turning to texts to supply conversations and information.
Right now for example I could write about anything in the world and to be honest, that’s a slightly scary thought. Personally I’m one of these people who likes to be told what do, I love plans and am god of ‘writing lists’.
I could write about the ridiculous amount of pizza the girls and I brought last night, how I decided not to go with drunken texting on Thursday (due to previous banana incident!) and decided to actually talk to the guy; only resulting in a very humiliating text the following morning apologising for the marriage proposal, the constant Harry Potter commentary and terrible rendition of Alice Coopers ‘poison’.
Either way, there is a lot one can write about and it is never a good thing if your indecisive. So there you have it writing about writing. How to kill time and brainstorm what to what for the next blog…
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