"I don't think that there are any limits to how excellent we could make life seem."

Have you ever fallen in love with someone just from the words they write? I seem to do it about seventeen times a day. Looks are irrelevant in this equation, it's all about the writing that people have squeezed out of their very being, put to paper and published, baring their soul. There's nothing like a good poet to soften a heart.

My latest literary crushes include A. E. Houseman (in spite of his homosexuality and death), Nick Laird (Irish hottie extraordinaire), Jonathan Safran Foer (whom I simply adore), and Milan Kundera (who makes me feel a bit more normal). I'm sure none of these people are really all that well-rounded or personable, but crushes are meant to be utterly without foundations, so there you go. So gentlemen, if you ever want to woo your lady, use a thesaurus. Just a little tip. 

I spent the weekend in beautiful Aberystwyth catching up with Sarah and Jordan and partaking in much merriment. One of the best bits was the stunning drive through the Elan Valley where I always used to go with my family, but haven't been for years. It was a gorgeous day, and despite driving through what was very possibly somebody's back garden and seeing ten thousand dead pheasants, Charlotte and I were almost sorry to see the journey end. Oh and I dyed my hair. I feel much more like my sixteen year old self, which may or may not be a good thing. 

Time for some pretty music!

Jonsi...



Jay Jay Pistolet (who can say things better than I ever could, therefore putting him into the aforementioned category)



The Yeah Yeah Yeahs because they are consistently brilliant...



And Mazzy Star just because.

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury...

I love it here. It's seven thirty and I'm yet to go to bed. I opted instead for staying up all night chatting to flatmates in the kitchen, after having watched Black Books and drunk wine. I have a seminar-type-thing at ten, so I'll probably flop into bed at some point after that. The perfect time, then to put on my beautiful new headphones, open up the Guardian website and Tumblr and Facebook and waste some time on the internet.

The film 'Howl' comes out tomorrow. I probably won't see it any time soon, but I'm sure I'll get around to it eventually. I ordered the slim little book a couple of years ago on a whim. I didn't know anything about it, but when it arrived, I remember feeling a little disappointed. It was really quite small (although it did have quite a nice cover). I opened it up and started reading. I finished, made myself a cup of tea, then read it again. I read it once more for good measure, then decided I probably liked it quite a lot. The thing is, it's a very overwhelming work which strives to convey anything and everything all at once in a rush of catharsis, so it's hard to take it all in. I've read it many, many times, and I still have no idea what it means. I know that it's wonderful, and I know that I love it, but I couldn't tell you what on earth it's about, nor why I like it so much. I think it's the frailty that comes through even though it is an assault. I think it's because I become too interested in people's lives and this man had a particularly interesting one. I think it's because it's one of the most brilliant things ever written.

Everything is a chore this week. I can't work and I can't cook and I can't sleep. I can't wait for the weekend when things will be good. I might also stop being a whingey cow, because who can be moody on a Friday night? Particularly when this Friday night holds the promise of dressing up like an old lady and drinking gin. Actually, this could be most Friday nights. Sigh...

overdrawn. in a nice way...

The frost on the trees was incredible, wasn't it? It's starting to thaw now, which is a shame because (in the words of Aqualung) just for a moment, everything was beautiful. Those in the know reckon that the changing of the seasons is good for our sanity. It keeps us on the ball. Keeps us ticking over. I think this is particularly true for those living on campus when it is very possible to feel a little bit trapped. If the view from your bedroom window alters (even just a little bit. With a covering of white, for example.), life seems a little less samey.

Yesterday was my birthday. You probably know this, because you probably know me. I had an exam in the morning and a full day of lectures so it wasn't perfect. But it was lovely.

One of my modules this year, 'Representations of Modern Italy' was pretty much made for me. The lectures are basically history lessons (mostly on Fascism) with a lot of literature and film thrown in. I think I like it just for the amount of variety. We started off studying poetry by Ungaretti, followed by 'Il Sentiero dei nidi di Ragno' or 'The Path to the Spiders' Nests' by Calvino. I had already read and loved 'If on a Winter's Night a Traveller' by Calvino, so I was pretty chuffed when this turned up on the syllabus. They are very different, but both stupidly good. Now we are looking at the work of Roberto Rossellini who pioneered the neo-realist movement in film. I cried. That's all you need to know.

This week promises to be a good one. We are trudging along to the Christmas Ball on Thursday and consuming much festive alcohol over the week. There are only three days left of term, and Charlotte is coming to stay for the weekend because she gets chucked out on Friday. I shall be back home (if you can call Wolverley that) on Wednesday, and there the fun will really begin. By this, I of course mean that I will put on a stone in mince pies and will watch Love Actually seventeen times. 'Tis the season to be porky and unquestioning.





Good morrow! (I'm coming over all Dickensian. Did you ever watch A Muppet Christmas Carol? Please do...)

you have to suffer to be well-read...

Because my books seem to breed when I leave the room, I have had to purchase a new bookcase. This has been my day today:

• Went into town with Helen and Mother to look at bookcases.
  
• Found a bookcase and a big thing in which to put my absurd amount of CDs
  
• Got the bus home because I could no longer fit in the car
• Arrived home after a fairly non-eventful bus trip
• With the help of Helen, removed both pieces of furniture from the courtesy car (necessary due to the fact that a drunk driver crashed through our wall, hitting trees, cars and houses. I told you about that, right?)
• Spent half an hour getting the bloody piece of crap upstairs, made more difficult by the fact that Helen and I have the combined upper body strength of a six year old girl, and the fact that we had to be clever due to the narrow staircase and the longest and heaviest bookcase ever made. I pulled a muscle in my tummy and laughed so much I thought my face might fall off.
  
• Moved around furniture in my bedroom to accommodate the new members of my family of furniture crap
• Spent three hours alphabetising the books by author
• Realised that in the process of all this alphabetising, my room seemed to vomit dusty crap all over the carpet
• Wrote a blog about it.
  

we'll meet in russian literature...

I was just feeding my dog and somehow managed to flick tripe down my top. This is quite an achievement considering the top in question was not low-cut in the slightest. My reaction was a little on the melodramatic side. My carnivorous former self would be ashamed.

I might start reading War and Peace, but it seems a little bit epic, and it's summer. Epic books are best left for the winter months when the outdoors no longer exist and we (I) retreat into our cosy winter shells.

My mum's in hospital for a bit (nothing too serious) so I have to get over myself and my all-consuming fear of hospitals and visit tomorrow. I'm not sure why I hate them so much, but I will not make the same mistake I have in the past of just not going at all. This seems a bit apathetic. From now on I will be perfect, superdaughter, armed with chocolate buttons and grapes. I hear ill people like grapes... It probably wouldn't be so bad if Helen wasn't in Madeira, because she has a superhuman tolerance for vomit and drips and all things clinical. She would probably calm me down a bit. I might buy myself a new iPod as a reward. Mine has never been the same since I washed it. Its fate was less severe than the phone I flushed down the toilet and the camera I killed in my bike spokes, however.

I realise that in the last week, I have written about absolutely nothing of any merit or interest, and for this I can only apologise. Perhaps tomorrow I will bring you a heavy, slightly obnoxious piece of prose on North Korea, or the plight of women (as you know I love doing), but today I'm not in the mood. Instead, I thought I'd just mention a few things I'm enjoying that are hovering about on the interweb at the moment.

• I really like the blog 'Dorothy Surrenders', which is very funny and intelligently written. Yes, it's written by a lesbian for lesbians and about lesbians, but I rather like it. I particularly like the thought of themed blogs according to the day on which they were written, such as 'Tank Top Tuesday' and 'Gender fuck Thursday'. Excellent.
• After having mentioned 'Alex Reads Twilight' last time, I have discovered his friend and flatmate Charlie's video blog. Turns out I'm fairly out of touch with this one, as he's been rambling on and strumming his ukulele for quite some time. Regardless, I quite like him.
• jezebel.com is the sort of writing I aspire to. It has a great mix of trashy celebrity gossip and more serious subjects such as cats eating peanut butter...
• While the Sartorialist will always have a place in my heart, Hollie Templar (whose blog I visit sometimes just for its sheer beauty) linked me to this site earlier today and I fell in love. This is the cherry on top of my cake of Scandinavian obsession...
• The 'Life and Style' section of the Guardian never fails to throw up something of interest. And even if the subject matter is trashy, the writer always manages to put a homely, middle-class glaze on everything.
• Yes, I've linked to it before, but frankly, it deserves two mentions. Sarah and I saw a boy in deck shoes reading Moby Dick in our hostel in Berlin. She commented on it, and I made a reference to this wonderful, wonderful blog, but was shocked when she knew nothing about it. Sarah, you are welcome. Just while I'm on the topic (feel free to skip this part if you are short of time/have a life) I feel the need to mention a second hand bookshop we found in deepest, darkest Berlin. It was run by two English guys, one of whom looked like Jarvis Cocker and was tuning bongos. We went in and found ourselves in heaven. There were gorgeous old Penguin books for €2, a massive poetry section, and all sorts of bizarre German comic books. They made us a cup of tea, and we must have spent at least an hour there. It was just brilliant...
• Finally, LaBlogotheque, Black Cab Sessions and watchlistentell are all great ways to discover interesting new bands...
  

would you rather get married or lick a tramp?

I often start a blog post with no intent and no idea where it will take me. This is one of those occasions. My mum's come back, so the house has a miserable air. I'm glad I'm only going to be here for a couple more days. She does have her uses though, having just removed a monster earwig from the kitchen for me. I've always hated the vile little things ever since I found one hanging out of my finger a few years back. Grim.

According to the Guardian, Warwick is now second only to Oxford and Cambridge in excellence. This means I will be even more gutted when I fail to make the cut in just over a month.

Also according to the Guardian, one in five of those in a relationship claim to be in love with a third party. The article then goes on to dismiss these feelings as misdirected lust and rather self-righteously explain where these poor, misguided romantics went wrong in their relationships, even stating that they have never known love at all. Of course, just because I think the journalist in question sounds like a bit of a ponse, doesn't mean I disagree with her.

Now, I may be about as cynical as they come. When people ask me why I don't have a boyfriend, I scoff and say something derisive about men, cite my insane independence and say something wry about my general contempt for society. I make no secret of the fact that I don't believe in marriage. I have completely perfected my ''can't argue with the statistics'' argument, and though I try to be supportive to those of my friends who have chosen to get engaged at the ripe old age of eighteen, I can't help but be pessimistic. It's just my nature, I've never been mushy. And when yet another person blames my attitudes to all this crap on the "hard time" I've supposedly had in life, inside I am screaming that I would have been like this anyway! That's what I let myself think.

I think at the end of the day, it's all about what makes us happy. I am perfectly content with the idea of being married to literature and music and goats' cheese. I'm not saying this won't change, but for now I'm dangerously close to the terrifying precipice that is happiness, and I find it disconcerting. After all, youth is supposed to centre itself around self-obsessed angst, isn't it? Meanwhile, the label of a slightly damaged , hostile girl has been working just fine for me, and I will think very carefully before ditching it.

Phallic what now!?

"Feminist theorists have devoted some attention to the gun which Isabella desires, and the whip requested by Catherine at the beginning of the novel, reading both of these as phallic symbols. It is important to note that as phallic symbols they signify desire not for the penis as such, but for the power the penis represents." Good to know, York Notes. Good to know. You know that you have done too much revision in a day when stuff like this starts making sense. After all, what is English Literature without a bit of phallic symbolism? Innocent? Dull? Actually, it is exactly the same. Because you know what? We make it up! NO Septimus Smith's nervous habit of fiddling with his pen knife does not show us that he has erectile dysfunction. NO the dog's tongue in Wuthering Heights is not a bloody penis! AND the word 'prick' does not necessarily have rude connotations. It can just mean prick... Of course, if you are an A-level Lit student, you will know exactly what I'm talking about. The final straw for me was "Oh Remus Lupin? Well he's obviously a phallic symbol isn't he?!" (Mrs Lynn Byford) WOAH, woah. Hold it right there! I didn't let her finish. How could I? Lupin is the best fictional character of all time with his Atticus Finch-esque calm demeanour, wolfish tendencies and friendship with both Sirius Black AND James Potter (earning him instant cool points). I will not have him ruined as all other books have been ruined with all this trouser snake talk.

Right. Penis rant over, I have had a lovely week. The sun has been shining, I have dressed up as Hermione Granger (I am aware that with two Harry Potter references I am beginning to sound like a bit of a loon. This is a sacrifice I am willing to make) and I saw James Cracknell. THE James Cracknell I fell a bit in love with as he trekked through ice and put up with Ben Fogle's constant whinging. I was sat in a beer garden in Devon, and there he was! I was forced to cut my ogling short however, as one of his kids decided to vomit everywhere. Turns out this love is conditional...

I wish I looked a little bit more like Idina Menzel. Look at her! Just look! She's so awesomely talented and cool and... witchy. And so I am back on the Glee bandwagon after a bit of a rain check. I just watched last week's episode, and it was completely amazing. It combined my three main loves: Les Mis, cheekbones and dodgy sixties laments (in the form of The Mamas and the Papas). If you haven't seen it, it's well worth it. It even forged a place in my heart for Billy Joel. Not bad, eh?


On a side note... Ruthie might just rival Idina in the cool stakes. If only they didn't all have stupid names...

It happens every time. They all become blueberries...

Today I handed in my two pieces of English Coursework. For good. That is it on the coursework front. Unless you count History. Which I don't (it's a sort of un-subject in my opinion). This means I never have to open my somewhat worn copy of The Bell Jar again. Of course just because I am not required to do so, doesn't mean I won't. Whenever I'm full of melodramatic teenage angst or general melancholy, Sylvia is always the one who teaches me a little bit of perspective. I know it's dull to read about my considerable workload, so over the next couple of months of hell, I will try to keep the school talk to a minimum.

I just discovered this on the Guardian website. It's fairly lovely as acoustic Biffy usually is. Simon Neil is THE sex. That voice! Those eyes! That... err... beard? I love how his accent isn't at all compromised when he sings. Also, he has a tattoo across his chest saying 'God only knows what I'd be without you'. Normally I am on the fence tattoo-wise. Personally I can't imagine ever liking something enough to get it scrawled across my body but I think they can look good sometimes. If ever there was a tattoo that could make a man soar up the ranks in my eyes, a good Beach Boys reference is probably it. Well played Mr Neil...

I'm still off meat but very much on the fish. I really didn't used to eat all that much fish, but being sensible, I am conscious that I need to get some protein somehow. My preferred source of this is cheese, but aware that I may swell up like Violet Beauregarde, I have decided to go for fish and fish-type things instead. Fish fingers have become my token comfort food and I had some really nice salmon the other day... Also if I eat fish, I can convince myself that it's meat. I cannot do this with any sort of mycoprotein, no matter how hard I try!

I seem to have replaced sleep with reading, a calm, serene room with one filled with revision-based post-it notes, and nutrition with biscuits. I keep telling myself that if I just work hard for the next month and a bit, doors will be opened to me for my entire life. It's strange that this sort of psychobabble can actually keep you going. Not that it will matter if I get scurvy. Maybe I should eat an orange...

with a dreamy far off look, and her nose stuck in a book...

I haven't been out of the house for two days. Usually I would find this depressing, but right now it's really rather wonderful. I've been watching LOTS and lots of House, as well as The Devil Wears Prada and Step Up (an awful film. Seriously.) Because none of these things are all that distracting, I've actually managed to get some work done. If I were to prioritise, I would do history coursework, followed by preparation for French speaking which falls a week tomorrow, then finish up my English coursework. Of course, my brain does not work in such a rational manner. I've been doing general English work, Wuthering Heights mostly. I've been colour-coding, note-taking, partaking in general literature-based merriment, the works. The exam isn't 'til mid June. I'm not really sure what I'm playing at, but some work, whether important or not is better than no work at all. Right?

I had everyone round here on Friday night which was nice. There was minimal vomit and I think the house actually turned out tidier after the party than before. This is because my friends are awesome. And really bizarrely tidy. My messiness is as mystifying to them as their urge to live in a clean, pleasant environment is to me. Minimalism has never really been my thing. What's the opposite? Squalor, or just plain mess? Either way, that's how I live my life. Anyway, it was really nice to see everyone. Equally, the next night, I had the pleasure of catching up with some old friends, including my ex-vicar Fiona and her husband Martin who had us all over for dinner. It was absolutely lovely despite the fact that we all seemed really tired due to holidays and hangovers.

It's time to lose weight for the summer. I don't like winter much but it does hold the advantage of being able to conceal rolls of fat beneath rolls of fabric. As soon as the snow melts and the gladiator sandals come out, there is no escape. I do this every year. Yo-yo? Me? We've acquired an archaic rowing machine from he who must not be named, which is a start. I may not lose weight, but my arms are now really manly. Score.

Everyone is breaking up. This is bad at the best of times, but I have unusually high levels of cynicism in my blood, so when there is a spate of break-ups like this, I climb further in my metaphorical (though not insignificant) bitter hole. People cheat, people get divorced, people die. I always thought Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella were wet. Esmerelda is awesome and beats up her future husband whom she chooses over the evil man who could ensure her safety. Belle strives to escape her "provincial life" by choosing an ugly guy over the town hottie. Mulan gains the gratitude of the emperor of frigging China! They all end up happy. Well, they all end up married. According to Disney, I'm pretty sure these two things are interchangeable. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, so I will summarize. Girls with principles and a strong will end up happy too. They do tend to be animated though...

bella notte

Okay, so I didn't keep my promise. I know it's been a few days, but it's better late than never. I've had a lovely few days! Monday is my day off so I've taken the dog for a nice long walk, and now I'm sitting in front of the fire watching Lady and the Tramp. I love watching films I haven't seen for years. There are always jokes and puns hiding beneath the shiny surface- things that just fly over your head when you are little. So yeah, this film is ace! Good old Disney...

Most of Friday was spent on a coach going to and from Haworth in Yorkshire where the Brontë family lived and wrote. In the short amount of time we spent there, however, I fell completely in love with everything Brontë; the village, the alcoholism and the writing. Emily in particular fascinates me. As far as I can make out, she was pretty much autistic. She didn't take to teaching, didn't like travelling or the Church. She taught herself to speak German and Latin, and they think she was pretty radical compared to Charlotte. The revelation that Wuthering Heights had been written by a woman resulted in general disbelief. It is such a harsh, brutal novel, yet a day on the moors showed us all that in the desolate, unforgiving village of Haworth, there was really very little to do but let your imagination run wild.

I'm reading a beautifully written book; If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor, lent to me by Fiona the vicar quite some time ago. I figured it was probably time to give it back, but I thought I'd give it a go first. It's a masterclass in descriptive language. Nothing much happens, yet McGregor writes it in such a way that you never get bored. The narrative focuses on several characters which can be confusing but it isn't. The basic idea is that the little things we do everyday, though often unnoticed are 'remarkable' if someone thinks they are. Throw in a bit of unrequited love and some unwanted pregnancy, and you get a novel that I enjoy!

Wuthering, Wuthering, Wuthering Heights...

I have a sudden, very real yearning to be in France right now. Everything pretty much sucks here and I'm sick of school and covering the fact that I have once again done no homework. I would much rather be in Paris or Nice. I'd even settle for the Grenoble, despite my ability to be perpetually cold. Tired of England and all its implications, I have been researching different French cities. Nantes looks really cool and has a fascinating history. It also has a university. I wonder whether I could choose to spend my year abroad there?

As we speak, I am covering my ancient copy of Wuthering Heights in post-it notes covered in scribblings. Considering I hated this book so much on first reading it, I have really grown to like it quite a lot. Of course, I am not a member of the 'we heart Heathcliff' fan club, and I can safely say I never will be. I'm pretty sure it says something about womankind that such a man can be hailed as a hearthrob. I am, however, completely on the Mr Darcy bandwagon, though I think Mr Knightly is somewhat overlooked. I really love the book Emma. My vicar once said that I reminded her of Emma, and I was not altogether offended, and secretly quite pleased. I do interfere too much when it comes to my friends and the matters of their hearts. Equally, I do not see marriage in my future, I am stubborn, and I am a bit of a snob at times...

I have a vague plan to do a post-graduate diploma in journalism. Of course, this is a long way off and I am fairly prone to changing my mind, but journalism is the only career I have ever really considered (leaving out my desire to be a spy when I was about seven). Money has never been much of a turn on for me and I genuinely feel, having recently quit my job at Morrisons, that I would rather be broke and doing something I am passionate about, than being understimulated but overpaid. Right now, I am completely skint but I have time to myself and I am really quite happy with the exception of one or two things. I won't bore you with the details.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABbe33fMrkM I have loved Damien Rice for as long as I can remember, and can't believe I have only just discovered this song. It's fairly fitting for where I am right now.