Immediate Unknowns

Festivity.

2009-12-25T16:13:00.000-08:00

(image via Google Images, satchel by the amazing Cambridge Satchel Company)

Thank you Santa! I hope everyone/anyone who reads this had a lovely Christmas Day. My family (five members, pathetic I know) all behaved themselves, bar my aging grandmother who forgot her keys when my dad took her home, possibly in a desperate attempt to drag the festivities out for longer.

High point of the day: watching my cat, Sam, navigate the snowy terrain of the garden, with a disgusted paw twitch and wince after every laboured step.

Low point of the day: immediately laddering my spotty tights as I excitedly put them on this morning, causing some wholly unseasonal swearing and a frenzy of nail varnish and hairspray repairs. You win some, you lose some.

pieces

2009-12-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

(Image via Mr. Fothergills)

For the last week I have been back at home with my parents, as I have three weeks off university for Christmas. I have SO MUCH WORK TO DO, but instead have been preoccupying myself with things like reading for my dissertation (which doesn't have to be in until May but is wholly preferable to the more pressing work) and, even more pointlessly, a jigsaw.

I am a big fan of the humble jigsaw. As someone who is constantly analysing everything and never just existing without thinking/worrying, I quite like the simple search for a piece > search more for a piece > get a bit frustrated and finally find the piece > smugly pop the piece in place > repeat until finished monotony of it all. However, the one I am currently a slave to is the most difficult I've ever done, as it features BIRD HOUSES. So many of them. There is a little man and his several cats present there too, and the odd bird looking for a nice home, but it is mostly just bird boxes that share the same earthy tones and woody textures. It is maddening, but consequently even more satisfying when I actually find a desired piece. I don't think it will ever be complete at the rate I am jigsaw-ing (jigging?) at. I am somehow thinking that a jigsaw-driven OCD isn't going to be a viable excuse for not having completed my assignments...

Cracks

2009-12-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

After seeing the soon-to-be-released film "Cracks" being discussed on Film 2009, I am looking forward to watching it with great anticipation. Not that I could tell you what it is remotely about, as Eva Green was so mesmerisingly beautiful in the clips shown that whatever ol' Jonathan was piping on about was completely lost on me.

I think I did pick up on the words "sapphic" (that image was stolen from a lesbian image posting board, of all places) and "boarding school themed" however, which surely cannot be a bad thing. And whilst reading over my housemate Sam's shoulder earlier I definitely caught sight of the term "St Trinian's but EVIL" in Empire. Oh, I am excited!

I saw this girl on a blog I love, Liebmarlene Vintage, written by the beautiful Rhiannon, and instantly fell in love with her hat! It's the perfect alternative to "Trapper" style, Russian influenced fur hats with ear flaps, which I would feel ridiculous in. I have a horrible feeling that, what with my hair being nearly the same colour as her glorious hat, and the small factor of this girl having an absolutely flawless face, the whole thing would just be a disaster should I attempt it.

(Photograph originally featured on The Streethearts)

I don't know if blue is my colour

2009-09-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

I have been working, if it can be called that, as a dinnertime supervisor in a primary school for the last week or so, as the school is on my street and there's this recession, end of life as we know it, jobless crisis, so one must take these opportunities for £7.50 a day and a free dinner where one can get them. I realise this is hilarious in itself, as I am single handedly bringing the age demographic of dinnerladies down by about thirty years whilst wearing the only tabard available to me; a less than snug XL, but what is more hilarious is what I end up witnessing whilst patrolling the playing field making sure my invariably mince-smeared charges are behaving themselves.

I remember having a pretty good time at primary school. Admittedly these memories are hazy at best, mostly being dominated by linking arms with my BFF, a lovable hunchback teacher, the ultimate glory of being a house captain in year 6, and having to wear plasters on my ears after I got them pierced, but I don't remember the sheer trauma that every single dinnertime seems to contain for these poor children.

There's the arguments. Once the children are over the age of about seven, they sort it out between themselves, and I only have to involve myself if someone looks like they are being crucified, or about to get kicked. Any girl under the age of seven, however, likes to come and tell me in the vaguest way possible what has just gone on, expecting me, with my ultimate power as a dinner lady, to be able to make their little friends like them again, and let them play whatever ridiculous imaginative game they were involved in before the drama struck. Particular highlights so far have been the war that broke out after someone was called a "stinky face," the time one girl wanted to be the mummy but she was being forced to be the daddy or the baby and was not best pleased, and the time one furious child attested to never being friends with the sobbing girl clinging damply to my arm, despite their year long friendship, because aforementioned crying girl had told her off for playing their game wrong. A game that involved them all being dogs.

At first I thought the boys would cause me no problems; unlike the girls, they had no interest in falling out with each other daily, and were far more concerned with chasing each other and playing football. Then they started injuring themselves. When this happens, tears are shed and blame is always placed - there are no such things as accidents. Also, there is not much you can do about a bruise except wait it out, and these kids seem to fail to grasp the concept of pain vanishing over time, and think my blue tabard of dreams can solve all their problems. If they could only register this fact, then I would definitely not have spend 20 minutes of my day consoling a hysterical six year old who was sure her nettle sting was going to hurt FOREVER if I didn't DO SOMETHING. I am sorry, small girl, but you should have listened when I told you to STAY AWAY FROM THE FENCE.

For all I am complaining about these diminutive creatures, they do endear themselves to me daily. I am a sucker for the ones that insist on holding my hand all dinnertime whilst telling me tales in the brutally honest, utterly blunt fashion that only children could ever get away with. I particularly enjoyed hearing about how tired one girl was after her and her mum had to get up in the night and decamp to the lounge to try and escape the sound of her dad's snoring, and I forced a face of earnest interest when another informed me that she was the proud owner of Cinderella's glass slipper, THE glass slipper, THE REAL ONE. She is going to be really disappointed soon enough.

All in all, despite the near constant tale telling, crying, kicking, pushing, screaming and ridiculous arguing, I do look forward to going to school every day; a sentiment I am sure my parents wish I could have adopted during my own secondary schooling career. Plus, school dinners these days are incredible - far better than the paltry cheese sandwich I would be having if left to my own devices - but I may change my tune if I ever encounter any rice pudding.

Neverland

2009-09-05T09:40:00.000-07:00

As the summer holidays draw to a close, I have pretty much exhausted all forms of entertainment in/around/outside my house. Not that there's nothing I should be doing of course (tidying, reading next semester's books in advance, pretty much anything that would result in bettering myself). My search for entertainment led me to the wardrobe of the spare bedroom, where there are a few choice items my mother has seen fit to hang on to for various reasons. And what a treasure trove it was! I think the last time I ventured in there I was about 14, and was both too small to adequately fit into anything, and wholly disinterested in clothes that didn't have batman or the name of a band on them.

I discovered a fur coat of questionable origin, which did sort of fit in a wearable way, but weighed a disgusting amount (probably because of the added weight of all the GUILT I would carry around wearing the skin of a multitude of dead rabbits) and a navy velvet blazer with incredible shoulder pads, which I am pretty sure must have belonged to my dad, and is almost definitely going to get smuggled out of the house when I move back to Newcastle in a fortnight. My best find however, except for the hilarious sailor suit that my father apparently wore to drum in one of his many bands, was a white, chiffon, Peter Pan collar blouse that my mum used to wear. The sleeves are a little short, but I always push up long sleeves anyway, so it's not really a problem. I adore it! The collar combined with the tie in the middle is absolutely perfect, I can't believe it's been lurking merely a room away all this time.

simple equation...

2009-04-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

pan of boiling water + stupidity = an evening in A&E x a beastly bandage.I've had better days. I've never had more blisters or sympathy though, so WINNER in some respects really.

"She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day."

2009-04-16T17:28:00.000-07:00

In Virginia Woolf's 'Mrs Dalloway,' the mental illness of the shell shocked Septimus Smith, which leads him to commit suicide under threat of being taken away for a 'rest cure' is described by one of his doctors as a lack of proportion. It is his inability to apply the principles of proportion to his life that leads him to suffer. Woolf seems to ridicule this notion; that each patients illness is the same, that each can be cured by regaining some proportion and spending a considerable period of time alone, confined to a bed, and she does so rightly, as this is clearly an archaic belief, something applied to all patients because it was all there was to offer. But I can't help but think there's some truth in the idea of proportion, and the loss of it, causing problems. (All that geekery just for that!)
I've had pretty awful issues with anxiety since I was 13, which mostly centre around a ridiculous, crippling phobia of being sick, and particularly in public. This obviously impacts on my life when those around me are ill, but also, in some chaos theory-esque manner, leads to me dashing out of lectures, being terrified to sit in the middle of a theatre row and washing my hands religiously, all 'just in case.' This has seemed like the end of the world so many times, like things are always going to be difficult for me and I'm never going to not have a voice in the back of my mind reminding me of the risks of every situation... but where's my sense of proportion?
This probably seems like a huge tangent to my previous posts but it seems particularly relevant tonight. I was in a foul mood after finding out a therapist's appointment I'd waited 8 weeks for clashed with my super competitive online module sign up for university on Wednesday, so I was obviously going to have to cancel it, and wait another month or so for one. Due to my ever-more-apparent tendency towards exaggeration, I was mentally set on the notion that nothing was ever going to be right, and I may get the modules I want, but then wouldn't even be able to attend everything because I'd be so worried, because I'd not talked to anyone about it in so long....... etc.
That was until I came online, and found out my best friend who studies photography (see it here!) had been burgled, and had had her giant super photography camera and her Mac containing all her work stolen, with a degree show looming. Suddenly the things I was worried about seemed pathetic. It definitely gave me a much needed sense of proportion. What happened to her his terrible, what happened to me is a small scheduling problem that can be resolved really easily, with little inconvenience. My boyfriend will be pleased to hear that tonight, I've definitely got a grip.

Accident and Emergency

2009-04-15T14:02:00.001-07:00

I have either just struck super lucky, or I have made a huge blunder. I have finally, FINALLY come across one of the American Apparel shiny black school bags on Ebay, after a long time searching for either a shiny one or the normal nylon edition, but refusing to pay the AA price of £26/£37, depending on the material. There is no way I want a backpack to put my university text books in that much, even if it does save my long suffering right shoulder that is currently bearing the brunt of their sickening weight. Here is the item in question:

So far so good. The auction is in its early days, but I am currently winning, and saving myself over £30. However, in my excited haste, I sort of repressed the realisation that this item probably/maybe doesn't exist. I have yet to see photographic evidence of the bag the seller claims to have, merely images stolen from the AA website. Ah crap. I'm really hoping this is just a novice blunder on her part (as my eager and foolish bidding was on mine) and this little lovely will be making its way across the country soon! My shoulders are counting on it! I've emailed the seller, so fingers crossed it all works out well.

update: I got a response and a real photo, so I am in the clear! Nerd heaven here I come.

A hundred emerald cities

2009-04-15T10:20:00.000-07:00

As much as I love Natasha Khan's peacock themed makeup, I don't think I have the skill or the confidence to attempt something similar. This peacock headband is the closest I'm going to get:

Next stop, a full on plumage:

Attenborough

2009-04-14T15:52:00.000-07:00

This is the best wrapping paper I've ever seen. I couldn't bear to use it as such though, could you imagine tearing through those little fox and badger faces!? these pictures belong in a frame. It is clear I was raised on a heady mix of National Trust houses and nature reserves.

Jenny, you're barely alive.

2009-04-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

Just humour me whilst I enthuse...

(By Ellen Von Unwerth.)

My love for Jenny Lewis first blossomed when I got my hands on a copy of one of her Rilo Kiley albums, More Adventurous. (I was particularly enamoured by the song Does He Love You? but my raving about the merits of each individual Rilo Kiley album track, and consequent solo work, have no place here, or anywhere to be honest.) After a spot of googling, I grew to love not only her girlish, Californian voice, but also her fashion choices and mane of the gingerest of ginger hair. As someone of a reddish tone myself, she became something of an idol. Now if only I could pull off white tights as well as her...
Or using two shrubs as a hairbrush for that matter...

I've been lucky enough to see her live twice; once in Rilo Kiley at a small venue in Newcastle, and then later, touring her second solo album, Acid Tongue, in an even smaller venue in Manchester. I would thoroughly recommend, for heartwarming acoustic sing alongs like the one pictured below. Or even just for Jenny's amazing clothing choices - gold sequins, hotpants and the most perfect pair of high wasted jeans have been flaunted in the past.

(by my friend Steph, from our prime location.)

You seem so out of context

2009-04-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

I have been away from university for over three weeks now, and the lack of productivity is palpable. I can hardly blame any pressing commitments; I've caught up on my sleep, put it that way. However, the pile of books I laboriously dragged down the East Coast line in a suitcase that almost led to my demise still lies mostly untouched in a precarious pile, mocking me from its chest of drawers location. Due to my lethargy, I am now going to have the month from hell, where I attempt to write a lengthy essay whilst revising for my two, equally lengthy exams, rather than gradually make my way through the horrors, as any sensible person would have done. More fool me.

The sheer amount of work I am facing is all the more depressing due to the plentiful offering of films I was given for my birthday a few weeks ago. Happy Go Lucky, The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, Singles and Two Days in Paris are all sitting temptingly in their cellophane, not to mention series one of Six Feet Under and a documentary on Saddle Creek Records. I suppose it's a good thing I've got so much viewing pleasure lined up though, since so far, after the aforementioned month of doom, I have an almost endless summer stretching ahead of me, with few prospects of paid employment. I have arranged to read to small children for part of the holiday, but this is on a purely voluntary basis, in the hope that in the long run, it will make me look a more worthwhile employee. Once my stint with the small and impressionable is over however, it will be back to antisocial waking hours and far too much 4od, I'm sure of it.

The most exhilarating thing I've discovered recently:

(not my actual bike, but the same model - I stole this image from here) I have revived my mother's little used Raleigh Sprite from the late 70's and it is wonderful; completely worth the time I had to spend armed with wire wool to clean the rust of the handlebars and bell. I've been cycling about seven miles around the area I live each day, and gaining more confidence to go further afield, as I was rather nervous to begin with (understatement - I made my boyfriend walk round the block with me in case I fell off.) I now look forward to my daily bike rides though, and am so sad that I'm going to have to leave it behind when I go back to university on Saturday!

Eight Mugs

2009-01-22T17:44:00.000-08:00

There are eight mugs on my desk. This signifies a period of intense work has been taking place. Luckily however, the period of intense work has now drawn to a close. Tomorrow I am going to go and see Milk, and then maybe go to an art gallery if I can be bothered with the walk. There is a Miranda July exhibit on, and I like both this and this, so it should be wholly pleasing. I then will consider washing my mugs.
I had my final exam today, an almost enjoyably short 90 minute Shakespeare fest, which I celebrated the demise of with copious amounts of cider until a late hour, which led to a perverse taxi ride home featuring the driver telling me about the Thai hookers who broke his heart/finances. I tried to maintain a jovial spirit throughout the affair, along the lines of "There are plenty more people who will allow the fat and balding to pay them for sex.... in the sea," but he seemed intent in his next love being a student of a ginger nature, namely me, triggering a premature departure from his flatulence scented taxicab, and a chilly walk down Holly Ave.
I would mostly like to fill this blog to the brim with photographs of my fascinating endeavours, but my poor Nikon had a run in with some sand a few months ago and had to be returned; current status: missing, presumed dead. So the photos are off.
I will however provide a surmise of my general character:
I am always that afraid and he is always that loving. No, I joke about the latter. But I really am quite nervous.