ZZZZzzzzz

I just wrote a paragraph, and it was abysmal. I'm so tired, I'm going to bed instead. But I've had an ace day and I'll write about it tomorrow. If you're reading this, have an ace weekend!

traduire?

I should be writing an essay on the changing influence of public opinion on the conduct of warfare, or at the very least trawling through a truly horrific amount of French translation, but it's a Monday night, and as such, I am watching Glee. I am also quietly celebrating the return of my wireless connection, so instead of freezing my metaphorical balls off in Helen's room, I am nice and cosy in the lounge, drinking endless cups of tea to keep me sane in the face of all the trouble I will get in tomorrow due to the general lack of work I have done this half term. This year in fact. I really need to step up my game, get back on track and any other sports metaphors you can think of.

Now I know I do tend to ramble on a bit in my writing, but I have finally found a way in which I can channel this misdirected enthusiasm. Anna Muggeridge came into sixth form earlier having bought two Mills and Boon books for her mother's birthday. I was leafing through in my usual, cynical manner, expecting the books to be poorly written, but they weren't. They were abysmally written. I even spied the phrase "He whispered stuff in her ear." Then, to my horror, several of my friends admitted to reading these books without any sense of irony. One of these friends, I won't name names, is eighteen in two months, and it hit me. For her birthday present, I am going to write my very own romance novel. My friends and I set out the rules. It has to be as cheesy as possible, but I'm not allowed to be mocking. It will genuinely be my best effort at a story that the birthday girl will actually enjoy. Who knows? I may have found my calling... I hear those substandard authors are loaded!

Five days into the veggie thing, I have had my first proper meat craving. I was lusting over a greasy, disgusting sausage roll this morning. I didn't even eat those when I was eating meat! Nevertheless, I am determined to see this through. I haven't cheated at all!

boy prey...

Charlotte and I have decided that backpacking around Europe is the only way we could possibly spend this summer. We have a very vague plan to go Germany - Austria - Hungary - Czech Republic - Poland - home. We both agreed that while all of these countries are slightly more originial than a couple of weeks in Ibiza(!), we should be fine backpacking there and they do not seem too scary for a couple of teenage girls. I'm excited! We're also hitting Edinburgh festival in August and I am determined to spend a weekend in Dublin, possibly with my friend Sarah at some point. Finally, I am going to Greenbelt arts festival (as usual) later in August, though I plan to volunteer instead of just attending. Greenbelt is my favourite thing in the world; it would be nice to give something back. So a jam-packed summer, and I can't wait!

Sam Taylor Wood, the 42 year old eternally cool artist is pregnant and engaged to Aaron Johnson who is 19! Now I'm all for shaking things up a bit, but surely this is a little on the creepy side? It was only a couple of years ago that he was playing the male lead in Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging, which should probably say it all. He was even rumoured to be getting fairly cozy with his co-star who is my age and seems even younger. It seems quite a leap to then date a woman old enough to be his mother. Saying this, however, I am not sure anybody would bat an eyelid if the genders were reversed. Many famous men have a much younger woman as their armcandy, for example Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, yet a woman is branded a "cougar" if she goes for a younger man. I am on the fence when it comes to large age gaps in relationships. In ten years time, Taylor-Wood will start to become less attractive to the boy, and I am fairly sure he will not be with her in another ten, baby or not. Saying that, they seem to be happy, and they are certainly an attractive couple... See for yourself.

Chickpeas and Wayne Sleep...

I've always loved writing. When I was a little girl, I would spend hours creating elaborate beginnings to stories I would never finish (I'm no novelist) and create heroines who were, without exception, cooler versions of myself; everything I wanted to be. As I grew up a bit, the stories became love stories and as I turned older still and read more bitter, feminist literature, the twee fairytales became cynical tales of heartbreak, almost always without the happy ending I had previously craved. In between these stages came essay writing, an obsession with Les Miserables and a dabble in the twisted world of Fanfiction. I am aware that this confession earns me no cool points.

So this is where I find myself. Eighteen and, in the immortal words of A-ha, slowly learning that life is okay. This last year has been a tough one and I'm sure I have changed beyond recognition, but there is no point dwelling on the past and letting it mar the future. Something somebody said to me earlier made me realise that I have it all going for me. I've got in to some of the best universities in the world and rarely feel out of my depth in conversation. Sod the little stuff. I've realised that happiness isn't something we just stumble upon, it's a frame of mind. I'm not saying that from now on I will be miraculously happy, but it's time to stop being so miserable and move on with my life.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm listening to the Cabaret soundtrack. I went to see it a couple of months ago with my friend Robyn and her friend Lee in Malvern, not having seen it before. The songs are brilliant and though I think its main competition in the dark Nazi undertones, The Sound Of Music, may trump it in terms of classic status, Cabaret seemed to tick all of the right boxes and I enjoyed it immensely. Sally Bowles was played by the understudy who put on a very strong performance; consistently very easy to watch, with a brilliant speaking voice. The male lead was magnetic and charismatic (by this, of course I mean he was HOT). The second half as a whole was slightly patchy in terms of storyline and showstoppers, but I left feeling that I had had a very good night, enhanced by the fact that my ticket was a mere £8 due to the scheme to get young people into the theatre (I intend to take advantage of this again with The History Boys and La Traviata later this year).

Finally, giving up meat is turning out to be a doddle, though my house is chickpea central. I think this could be the beginning of a healthier me, mostly due to the fact that they simply do not make any decent vegetarian ready meals.

rugby and rib-ache...

So it's half term. At last. And spring seems to be on the way (by which I mean there are some daffodils on the fireplace...) I had an ace weekend drinking far too much in Leamington Spa with the smelly big sister and her friends who are all pretty cool... I ended up watching all of the Six Nations rugby matches with many twenty-something boys who know much more than I do about the sport. The undeserved (though not unwelcome) Wales victory secured my good mood for the next few days. We also saw West Side Story at Warwick University which was really very good, though made me feel fat and very English and unskilled. But that's fairly commonplace...

I'm giving up meat tomorrow for Lent. I am determined to actually do it and will not relent. Not even when presented with a massive big steak and chips... wait, I'm salivating... I should be fine. I don't mind quorn mince and I'm always fond of good old lentil-based cuisine. I made really rather yummy Dahl the other day, following the recipe of an Indian friend. It was completely brilliant and I intend to make it a regular dish.

I'm supposed to be visiting Cardiff University tomorrow with my friend Rosie, but I have no idea whether or not she's expecting me. I don't have her number and her parents won't allow her to have Facebook (she is forced to spend the time more productively by doing work and suchlike things. I will never understand this). So I can't get in touch with her and I imagine this could cause a bit of tension when I do see her this week. Her parents already hate me. I ooze student lefty idealism and they are really rather Tory. I will have to rectify this. (The dislike, not the political stance. I am just one girl)

I went shopping in Birmingham yesterday and successfully squandered an impressive amount of money. I say squandered. I found a lovely high-waisted black skirt and a scarf in Zara, my new favourite shop. I find shopping cathartic, completely brilliant. In that respect, I am really rather girly.

My ribs hurt. Time for the doctors?

I thought I should post something, though as I write, I still have no idea how this will turn out. I had a Radiohead reawakening earlier. This happens fairly frequently. The band possesses powers of which I can only dream. We were in English and as usual I was putting all my energy into pretending to work when my teacher put The Bends on. This does happen to be my favourite studio album of all time, but I still stopped, put my pen down and just listened. For half an hour. If you don't have this album, buy it. If you do, stick it on. Thom Yorke instantly stirs something within me. If I am happy, I feel happier. If I am sad, he seems melancholy and understanding. If I am having an ugly day, I will never look quite as strange as him. I know the album word for word and yet would never sing along. Anyone who knows me knows that I am constantly singing so this is a pretty big deal.

The rest of the day was spent drawing a life-sized, provocatively posed Heathcliff to display in our other English classroom. He turned out casually coiffed and a little bit emo-chic. This had been my plan all along, though he does not exactly look threatening, laid out nonchalantly underneath the window in the far side of the room. I think it is impressive that I always somehow manage to avoid doing work of any value and end up debating whether Heathcliff has quite enough stubble.

Double French, normally the low point of the week was bizarrely very enjoyable. We debated equality of men and women in the western business world, and of course I enjoy any opportunity for a mini feminist rant. I am, as I type, feeling very positive about my French based future. Emo-Heathcliff will just have to take a backseat. This does not mean that I am A) working hard enough or B) anything other than indifferent towards university choices and where I will end up for four years. Five if I decide to do a post-grad diploma in journalism. I'm trying to get work experience at the BBC which would be completely awesome. I will not give up easily.