Nothings changed, it's still the same.
Hiding in stones like shell less hermits, trapped in their prisons.
Life’s jealousy creating hysteria and turning emotions to stone.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a fist for a face.
Should time have stopped and given them the rewind button?
Or should they have skipped to fast forward?
Regret is too strong a word, but forgiveness is too decent.
The weaker sex has the strongest will and the mature strategy was taken by the elder.
How to use a garlic crusher on a dream.
One day you’ll be able to see again, but by that time you’ll be the only northerner.
This is the result of a glass of wine and the discovery of forgotten word document called ‘My Book 2.’ See if you can spot the connection between the above and below…
“His situation at home wasn’t good and a lot of things had changed in the past weeks. But he knew she was there for him, yet it wasn’t enough. How could she be there for him when he would no longer talk about it? Suddenly out of no where he had locked himself away and there was nothing she could do. Maybe he would come back to her or maybe he was talking about his feelings to somebody else. Should they have waited, ignored the silence and just believed that their last kiss was not going to be their last? Maybe she should have, but it’s impossible to protect yourself from more damage when your guard is completely down.”
Saturday 28 November 2009
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Modern technology.
Answer phone robots. I’m going to call them that because I don’t know the accurate name for the androids you end up talking to when trying to make a very important call.
Here was the situation: my laptop charger was ticking. I wasn’t sure if my laptops was about to blow up, the house electrics were dodgy or my charger was just a bit ticky happy.
This seems like an appalling start to a blog, but trust me, it’s worth it.
So my laptop was ticking and after recently having to fork out £80 for a new charger due to the same noise, I instantly took it to A and E (PC world tech guys.) What followed was a bizarre sequence of events, pretty much a daily routine for me. One tech guy had a look at it, ummed and arrred (I’m sure that’s the correct spelling there) prodded around with my laptop and scratched his head. A second tech guy then came over and attempted to sort out my mysterious ticking problem. Except this guy decided to chat to my housemate and I about cars and endeavoured to win both our numbers, with what can only be described as some of the worst flirting I have EVER seen. Mo from the Simpsons could have done a better job flirting and he isn’t even real.
Nonetheless this didn’t stop Mr. PC world from trying to swoon us, think my personal favourite was when he tried to test if the charger was working, by shoving the pin on his name badge in to the live end of the charger. He may have laughed, but if he had electrocuted himself and started to frizzle, we would definitely be the last ones laughing. And most likely be on the floor with our spleens ruptured and uncontrollably crying through tears of laughter.
Sadly that didn’t happen.
Anyway, got home slight relieved that my bank balance was safe and I had not successfully destroyed charger number two, popped on the kettle and logged on to the infamous Twitter.
Then, out of the depths of no where it came. Tick. Tick. Tick.
As you can imagine I was very calm about this, so relaxed in fact that this whole thing seemed to hardly phase me at all. That fact that I almost threw my laptop out the window is irrelevant.
Bloody tickticktickticktickticktickticktick.
A few deep breaths later and I was dialling PC world Chester, to speak to one of the tech guys about the problem…or so I thought.
The first hiccup was the number I was dialling was no longer the correct number, but no problem, just redial the new one. And sure enough a few minutes down the line a voice answered, result, I could finally get this ticking sorted. “Please state your postcode” the monotone voice said. Oh no.
So hiccup number two, the voice I had been waiting for was in fact a recording. Now maybe this is just human nature to rebel against automatic telephone dweebs, but have you ever noticed how they say “your call may be recorded.” It is like God has deliberately given us the chance to express our frustration through the telephone line. So naturally I did not take this opportunity to swear and shout at this robot, which ironically was still asking for my postcode in order to find the location of the nearest PC world.
However, it was great fun to see if the machine could find a postcode match for ‘you piece of cr..’ To which the voice amusingly said “is that CR for Crawley?”
In the end it was no use, I could have driven to PC world and back in half the time it took me to argue with the phone. So I gave up. And am currently sitting here typing away to tick, tick, tick.
Where did I put that hammer…!
Here was the situation: my laptop charger was ticking. I wasn’t sure if my laptops was about to blow up, the house electrics were dodgy or my charger was just a bit ticky happy.
This seems like an appalling start to a blog, but trust me, it’s worth it.
So my laptop was ticking and after recently having to fork out £80 for a new charger due to the same noise, I instantly took it to A and E (PC world tech guys.) What followed was a bizarre sequence of events, pretty much a daily routine for me. One tech guy had a look at it, ummed and arrred (I’m sure that’s the correct spelling there) prodded around with my laptop and scratched his head. A second tech guy then came over and attempted to sort out my mysterious ticking problem. Except this guy decided to chat to my housemate and I about cars and endeavoured to win both our numbers, with what can only be described as some of the worst flirting I have EVER seen. Mo from the Simpsons could have done a better job flirting and he isn’t even real.
Nonetheless this didn’t stop Mr. PC world from trying to swoon us, think my personal favourite was when he tried to test if the charger was working, by shoving the pin on his name badge in to the live end of the charger. He may have laughed, but if he had electrocuted himself and started to frizzle, we would definitely be the last ones laughing. And most likely be on the floor with our spleens ruptured and uncontrollably crying through tears of laughter.
Sadly that didn’t happen.
Anyway, got home slight relieved that my bank balance was safe and I had not successfully destroyed charger number two, popped on the kettle and logged on to the infamous Twitter.
Then, out of the depths of no where it came. Tick. Tick. Tick.
As you can imagine I was very calm about this, so relaxed in fact that this whole thing seemed to hardly phase me at all. That fact that I almost threw my laptop out the window is irrelevant.
Bloody tickticktickticktickticktickticktick.
A few deep breaths later and I was dialling PC world Chester, to speak to one of the tech guys about the problem…or so I thought.
The first hiccup was the number I was dialling was no longer the correct number, but no problem, just redial the new one. And sure enough a few minutes down the line a voice answered, result, I could finally get this ticking sorted. “Please state your postcode” the monotone voice said. Oh no.
So hiccup number two, the voice I had been waiting for was in fact a recording. Now maybe this is just human nature to rebel against automatic telephone dweebs, but have you ever noticed how they say “your call may be recorded.” It is like God has deliberately given us the chance to express our frustration through the telephone line. So naturally I did not take this opportunity to swear and shout at this robot, which ironically was still asking for my postcode in order to find the location of the nearest PC world.
However, it was great fun to see if the machine could find a postcode match for ‘you piece of cr..’ To which the voice amusingly said “is that CR for Crawley?”
In the end it was no use, I could have driven to PC world and back in half the time it took me to argue with the phone. So I gave up. And am currently sitting here typing away to tick, tick, tick.
Where did I put that hammer…!
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Food for thought.
It takes a certain type of genius to successfully burn 6 Yorkshire puddings that take 5 minutes to cook in the oven. I use the word burn loosely. A much better description would be incinerated, scorched, reduce to ashes or just pain destroyed.
In short, the beautiful pork dinner I was cooking for my housemates decreased in awe once the fire alarm went off. But bless Becky and Claire, they will never admit my cooking is terrible and you have to admire them for that!
I know women are meant to be goddesses in the kitchen, pouring out three beautiful meals a day, making sure the kids get their five a day and the husband gets his two portions of steak. But is it possible for women not to be able to cook?
It’s a very sad truth; but it seems uni has taken its toll on my cooking skills. Admittedly I can now drink Cider, however can not cook to save my life!
Take today for example, the second somebody stepped into the kitchen the magic (or lack of) all went. Hence the burnt Yorkshires. Give me a Westlife cd, an empty kitchen and the right utensils and miracles will happen. Maybe…?
Granted it may be making Mrs Beeton turn in her grave, but sometimes you just have to accept it, cooking is not for everyone.
And what’s wrong with fish fingers and peas for dinner? Whack in a bit of ketchup and your sorted.
Just have to hope the poor man I ended up marrying has a sense of humour; Christmas dinners may be replaced with microwavable meals and frozen veg.
Thank goodness there is still time to learn or should it be time to re-learn…
In short, the beautiful pork dinner I was cooking for my housemates decreased in awe once the fire alarm went off. But bless Becky and Claire, they will never admit my cooking is terrible and you have to admire them for that!
I know women are meant to be goddesses in the kitchen, pouring out three beautiful meals a day, making sure the kids get their five a day and the husband gets his two portions of steak. But is it possible for women not to be able to cook?
It’s a very sad truth; but it seems uni has taken its toll on my cooking skills. Admittedly I can now drink Cider, however can not cook to save my life!
Take today for example, the second somebody stepped into the kitchen the magic (or lack of) all went. Hence the burnt Yorkshires. Give me a Westlife cd, an empty kitchen and the right utensils and miracles will happen. Maybe…?
Granted it may be making Mrs Beeton turn in her grave, but sometimes you just have to accept it, cooking is not for everyone.
And what’s wrong with fish fingers and peas for dinner? Whack in a bit of ketchup and your sorted.
Just have to hope the poor man I ended up marrying has a sense of humour; Christmas dinners may be replaced with microwavable meals and frozen veg.
Thank goodness there is still time to learn or should it be time to re-learn…
Thursday 19 November 2009
Anyone for the library?
As I sit in the library for the fifth day in a week I suddenly realise I’vebecome a geek. It has only taken three years but I worryingly feel likea student; lugging books around, having an overflowing pencil case (complete with a glue stick??) and sticky notes as far as the eye cansee. At least my text books look pretty, even if the neon page markersdo make my books resembles an infant school flip book.Believe me, I wish I was learning the alphabet again instead of literarycanon’s found in Jane Austen’.I have been doing Austen so much recently that last Saturday I decidedto take a day off. And what a day it was! There has been a very odd smell coming from my wardrobe for a while now,I hadn’t forgotten about it, I just hadn’t found the time to fully ventureinto Narnia and drag Mr. Tumnes out by his hind legs. So on Saturday Iemptied it out and found the source of the problem. Mould. Yes, in short I spent Saturday scrubbing the insides of my wardrobe,de-moulding it and attempting to once again make it smell of freshdaisies. And after the initial fear that my extensive shoe collecting wasslowly turning black and soggy, I whipped out the bleach and becamesuper mould woman.I reluctantly hung up my cape on Sunday and trundled back to thelibrary.Who said being a student wasn’t fun?
Tuesday 3 November 2009
A woman's oath.
Picture this...
A small white wedding in an ancient church, secluded candle lit dinners with breath taking backdrops, unexpected bouquets of yellow roses, hand written valentines cards, kisses instead of alarm clocks, borrowed hoodies for when their not there, random ‘love’ notes everywhere, black and white photographs capturing the moments, country walks through beautiful villages, endless goofy smiles, constant human security, nerve racking first family visits, cuddling in bed all day, human hot water bottles, crazy conversations about nothing, hours of phone cord twiddling and not forgetting the ‘I miss you’s.’
And then repeat “I hate being a romantic.”
A small white wedding in an ancient church, secluded candle lit dinners with breath taking backdrops, unexpected bouquets of yellow roses, hand written valentines cards, kisses instead of alarm clocks, borrowed hoodies for when their not there, random ‘love’ notes everywhere, black and white photographs capturing the moments, country walks through beautiful villages, endless goofy smiles, constant human security, nerve racking first family visits, cuddling in bed all day, human hot water bottles, crazy conversations about nothing, hours of phone cord twiddling and not forgetting the ‘I miss you’s.’
And then repeat “I hate being a romantic.”
The age of man.
I often wonder if my brain can function on any other subject than just men. Men men men. My brain works with one subject and clearly likes the power of three.
To be honest it will be a surprise if I manage to get a degree at all. It seems as though my dissertation should be on the knowledge of male students and my course work (100% practical) should be on the best types of men to go for.
The weird thing is my brain has always functioned in this way; men first, life second. Even at the tender age of 11 (Year 7) my focuses were on the lower sixth form boys; rather than getting an academic education of any sort.
God forbid I have any daughters.
But now in a crazy turn of events I have been wondering how young is too young?
Being newly 21 makes this an even bigger challenge and stresses the age gap between fresher and third year. Would getting with a fresher make me a paedophile?
Aside from the obvious fact that you would hope a fresher to be over the age of 16, it still seems wrong.
So what are the options?
A simple flirt is harmless, an accidental kiss can be blamed on drink, but it just doesn’t seem right. No matter how cute they are.
Am I already in a situation of look but don’t touch (cliché or what!) or is it a matter of see how far you can push the boat out?
Either way, don’t think I can play the young vulnerable, insecure card here. Bugger.
To be honest it will be a surprise if I manage to get a degree at all. It seems as though my dissertation should be on the knowledge of male students and my course work (100% practical) should be on the best types of men to go for.
The weird thing is my brain has always functioned in this way; men first, life second. Even at the tender age of 11 (Year 7) my focuses were on the lower sixth form boys; rather than getting an academic education of any sort.
God forbid I have any daughters.
But now in a crazy turn of events I have been wondering how young is too young?
Being newly 21 makes this an even bigger challenge and stresses the age gap between fresher and third year. Would getting with a fresher make me a paedophile?
Aside from the obvious fact that you would hope a fresher to be over the age of 16, it still seems wrong.
So what are the options?
A simple flirt is harmless, an accidental kiss can be blamed on drink, but it just doesn’t seem right. No matter how cute they are.
Am I already in a situation of look but don’t touch (cliché or what!) or is it a matter of see how far you can push the boat out?
Either way, don’t think I can play the young vulnerable, insecure card here. Bugger.
Sentimental kisses.
Have you ever noticed how it’s the weirdest things that mean so much to us?
I recently read an article about women and how the amount of kisses at the end of a text (or lack of) can instantly decipher between liking a guy and not. It’s crazy how women measure a relationship on the repetition of the letter ‘X’.
However the amount of kisses on a text was not the highlight of today; nor was the spontaneous trip to Wales to visit a castle or the amazing chocolate cake we ate.
For my 21st two of my closest friends from home brought me a gorgeous Links of London bracelet, I loved it and practically slept in it until it fell of my wrist about a month ago. After searing high and low for it I sadly accepted I had lost it.
That was until it was found under the seat of my car today! You never realise how much you miss things till you have them back. It is now glued to my wrist.
Its odd, but this simple piece of jewellery seems to have given me my life back. It’s that little bit of home around my arm, always there and a mountain of metal memories.
I recently read an article about women and how the amount of kisses at the end of a text (or lack of) can instantly decipher between liking a guy and not. It’s crazy how women measure a relationship on the repetition of the letter ‘X’.
However the amount of kisses on a text was not the highlight of today; nor was the spontaneous trip to Wales to visit a castle or the amazing chocolate cake we ate.
For my 21st two of my closest friends from home brought me a gorgeous Links of London bracelet, I loved it and practically slept in it until it fell of my wrist about a month ago. After searing high and low for it I sadly accepted I had lost it.
That was until it was found under the seat of my car today! You never realise how much you miss things till you have them back. It is now glued to my wrist.
Its odd, but this simple piece of jewellery seems to have given me my life back. It’s that little bit of home around my arm, always there and a mountain of metal memories.
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