moving on...

Well it's been a good weekend. My brand new iPod arrived, the Labour Party was saved and I went to Surrey to a silver wedding celebration/renewal of vows/apparent excuse for old people to get drunk. I also discovered that a maroon chunky knit beret is a brilliant way to cover up shit hair. Which I definitely have at the moment...

So we'll start with the lovely Ed, shall we? Finally, a genuine socialist has taken the reigns, and things are going to change. It's not like we can underestimate the impact of such a disappointing election, but the shiny veneer of the coalition is starting to crack, and now we are in opposition, the left is cool again. I really liked David Miliband, but I voted for Ed because his values are the closest to my own. In May, I must have heard the phrase "well they're all the same, aren't they?" about fifteen hundred times, and even though this is really quite untrue, Ed is definitely different. And he's fairly young and punchy, and with Harman beside him, I feel like the party's in good hands.

Today was the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary of my uncle's stepson and his wife (yes that's right). They are only in their early forties, so they must have got married incredibly young, but in fairness, they seem very happy. To celebrate the longevity of their relationship, we got up at five and drove down to Surrey to make it to the church service on time (incidentally, today is 'back to church Sunday'. Fairly fitting as this was the first time I had set foot in a church in months.) The vows were renewed and rings were exchanged (again) during a fairly bog standard service. The vicar did manage, however to centre the entire thing around the importance of commitment and love and not murdering one's spouse. He also mentioned something about Lazarus and a rich guy, but I think this was unrelated. Next, we went to a pub-type place where the champagne flowed (although I drank lime and soda because I had enough trouble staying awake without the interference of alcohol) and there was food. Lots of food. I gritted my teeth while many distant un-relatives grilled me on my lack of a male escort. At least two people asked me whether wedding bells were on the horizon for me. The exasperated response "I'm eighteen!" did not seem sufficient to quell their disapproval. Coupled with the fact that my mum kept telling everyone that I hate men, I'm not sure I gave off a great impression, but I probably shouldn't look into it too much. They probably just thought I was a friendly lesbian.

And the thing is, it's not even true! To say I hate men would be a grossly unfair generalisation. There are several men I like including Stephen Merchant, Conor Oberst and Gordon Brown. See? My mother also fails to bear in mind that far from hating only men, I don't like women all that much either, and as such, I am probably a pretty poor excuse for a feminist. So all in all, it is more of a general dislike of humanity than of males in particular. And I'm sure one day, there will be a man who will sweep me off my feet and with whom I shall fall uncontrollably in love, etc, but until that day, it just doesn't seem worth the bother, and as such, I'll have to deal with the prying questions for a little while longer.

sweet disposition...

It's amazing how from one day to the next, we see the world completely differently. Sometimes (for example when working in a twee little shop/deli/café in a twee little place like Wolverley), this life isn't quite so shite. Polite people come in and make polite conversation while sipping their organic ginger beer and chobbling on home made cake. On these days, music is lovely and friends are gracious, technology works in our favour and we are glad when we get home. Other days (when really nothing has changed), it hails and the fridge smells funny and we take criticism to heart and there is no cake. On these days, we hear news of the sorry state of our planet; of wars and drought and Justin Bieber. On these days, we cannot be helped, and even a glimpse of the ones we love or the ones who give us butterflies won't make us feel better. I think my mood is predetermined the moment I wake up. I wake up a miserable cow and that is how I will be all day. Terrible isn't it?

Of course, I'm sure there are some people with naturally sunny dispositions who never have the aforementioned days and are never miserable cows. Perhaps if I try, I can become like these people, the ones with nice hair and rosy cheeks who look good in floral aprons and make good pastry, or even entire pies with apples and blackberries. Wait, I think this could be classed as a tangent...

So yes, I wonder whether you can alter your mindset, or whether I will be stuck like this forever. I'm sure university will bring changes, but whether good or bad, it's impossible to know.

These pictures are incredible, but if you are Jess Carvlin, please don't click on the link.

love steals us from loneliness?

I think my dog is lonely. He has a teddy bought for 50p at a car boot sale which he carries around everywhere and treats very gently and with fondness. I noticed this, and realised that he doesn't really have any friends and probably uses the somewhat sad little bear as a substitute. The other day, he nudged the speed-dial button on the phone, and Helen and I both mocked him gently because, well, who would he ring? It's not like we can get another dog to keep him company. I think there is very little to be done. We have a lonely dog on our hands. So why am I telling you this? I'm not sure really. It's very possible that I have spent too much time at home with my dog in the past couple of weeks, or perhaps the tale of my lonely dog can be seen as an allegory. Perhaps I'm just the sort of person who notices when a dog is sad. Hard to say...

Sunday morning...

Well, it's been over a week, and for this I can only apologise. Happy Sunday, everyone! For lapsed Christians like me, Sundays are a particularly special day. I try not to find myself awake around ten o'clock because this is when I feel I should probably be in church, not eating biscuits for breakfast. So when I eventually rise around midday, I make some tea and invariably go on Facebook for a bit, before wallowing about in self pity. Sometimes I make porridge.

Thing is, even when you're a good-for-nothing layabout like me, and the days merge so utterly, Sundays never stop being depressing, do they? You can never shake that back to school feeling, even if you know your Monday will be just as empty as the day before. A while ago, my friends and I decided that to combat this Sunday feeling, we would mark the end of the weekend in celebration rather than mourning by going out and keeping ourselves occupied (getting drunk). Unfortunately, these outings only lasted a couple of weeks, so I wouldn't exactly call them a success.

Tonight, however, there will be a certain legitimacy to my Sunday night blues. That's right, I have a job. This week, I will be working in the deli in the village alongside my lovely sister who I'm sure will criticise me 'til the cows come home about my waitressing technique. I'm probably a bit rusty, to be honest, but as it's only three days, it's not like I have to really make a lasting impression on those in charge. Unfortunately, even I like to be liked sometimes, so I probably will try really quite hard, and I'm sure I will be exhausted next time I write here (which will not be another week. I'm a bit ashamed.)

Oh! Yeah, I went to Wales. It was very Welsh. I got to see my great uncle Danny who is now 93 and probably more active than me. Of course, this isn't saying much, but he is pretty damn old. Then we went to deepest, darkest Gower and stayed on my auntie's farm with the chickens and geese and sheep (oh my!). It was nice, but also nice to come back to civilisation (and by this, I mean my dvd player).

Bye then!

P.S. I love Jonathan Creek. Why is it always the fictional ones?

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else.

It appears that I am approaching rock bottom. I am sat alone on a Friday night drinking wine and watching French films about murder and adultery. Of course, to me this is pretty much the perfect evening, but soon my mum will come home from wherever she's been this time, and she will make me feel pathetic and lonely. Both she and Helen have admitted that they find being alone at night in my big, horrible house a bit creepy, but I don't mind it one bit. I'm the sort of person who needs time to myself which I haven't really got much lately while Mum has been off sick and Helen has been home.

This weekend will either be ace or a bit of a bore; I guess you could say that of anything really, so I'm sorry for talking bollocks. Last night we all stayed at Christina's for one last time and tomorrow evening I'm going to Bewdley with Hagley people which seems a bit odd, but it's close to home so I'm not going to complain. On Sunday, I'm going with Sarah to Ikea for the all important university shop. It's difficult to get excited about cutlery and pen-holders, but I do like the general Swedishness...

I really do need a phone now, but I hate spending money on things that aren't shoes or books, so I'm generally quite sulky about the prospect. Things are complicated somewhat by the fact that this time next year, I will be in Italy, making contracts and stuff tricky. I've just realised that I am writing about frightfully dull things tonight, so I can only apologise (though the phrase frightfully dull does make me feel like a prim Victorian, which is fun in moderation).

Goodnight!

P.S. watch 'Free Agents' on 4od. It's good and she's stylish. End of.

variations on the word love...

Variations on the Word Love

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.


Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside.
You can hold on or let go.
. Margaret Atwood

I love this poem. I found it earlier when I was feeling a bit despondent and it made me feel... not happy exactly, but different. And sometimes change is good.

I'm considering going to stay with my auntie who literally lives at the end of the world (Gower). I have decided this because there is no wireless, no noise, and very few people. A bit of walking in a truly pretty place might do me a bit of good. Plus, unlike my house, they have fruit and vegetables so I might avoid the almost inevitable onset of scurvy.

Last night, I went to see Scott Pilgrim Vs the World, which made me want to dye my hair blue. I also get this feeling every time I watch 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' or 'Ghost World'. Unfortunately, I neither look like Kate Winslet or the much less famous ones in the other two films, so I think I'll refrain from being too hasty. Not that becoming 'the weird girl with the blue hair' wouldn't be fun...

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.