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...

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?