Ok, so I haven't written anything in like forever and even when I did it was normally about, like, fictional people or whatever and not so much an account of my year abroad. But still, my french adventure is nearly over! I head back home on Friday.
Only, before that I have this exam. This important exam. Tomorrow. And I really should be frantically trying to get through all of the notes for it right now. As you can probably tell, that is not what I am doing. But there is good reason for that!
Well, actually, there isn't. Unless you count the fact that french family law is boring. And that I'm completely starving to death but I have no food and can't leave the house in case the people who are meant to be shipping my crap back to the UK show up, so I can't go buy something and so that box of dried split peas I bought six months ago because I was far too hungover to shop sensibly is getting worringly enticing. And that I'm FREEZING but have packed all of my hoodies and stuff into the cases awaiting the shipping people. These might not be good reasons, per se, but they do explain a lot.
Also, I need to invest a fair amount of time and energy into Not Thinking about what happens if these mythical shipping people don't show up. Because I have this kind of horrendous record with post, which is pretty inconvenient when it's a pile of very important forms at stake, but positively disasterous when it comes to all of my worldly belongings, y'know? And the intricacies of french divorce just don't grab my attention. So I have no choice but to think about other stuff. You know, like Tim Riggins. Or how awesome the Busted musical will be as soon as my sister and I get off our asses and write it. That sort of thing.
I'm doomed, aren't I?
mercredi 10 juin 2009
vendredi 13 février 2009
I smell what HE'S cooking
It's not often that you can look back on a childhood crush with a measure of pride. As a rule, whether you were shrieking the name of the gay one from Boyzone or failing to realise that, at the age of seven, you were one of the only women in the western world short enough to date a member of 911, the men we had plastered across our prepubescent walls were of the cringey variety.
Normally these teen hearthrobs at least do us the service of fading into relative obscurity, resurfacing from time to time as a punchline, or a Celeb Big Brother contestant or as a talking head on one of those 'We love the nineties' shows. More recently, the trend for relaunching classic boybands has brought a number of us face to face with our pretty boy of choice ten years on.
For many, including the aforementioned Steven Gately groupies, the effect is not too humiliating. Groups of twentysomethings can sit happily watching Boyzone's 2008 tour with no more than occasional squeal of 'I can't believe I thought he was straight!'. The same cannot be said for the comeback of my first true love.
Peter Andre.
I LOVED Peter Andre. I saw him live. I owned a badge. And.. yeah. With hindsight, I must admit that neither at his prime nor in the Jordan years was that man attractive. But God, I wanted to be his Mysterious Girl. Yeesh.
And so, I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to one Duane 'The Rock' Johnson, for managing to remain in the spotlight without making me feel like a total asshat for adoring him when I was twelve. If anything, he's gotten more attractive since he stopped playfighting with greasy men and devoted himself to helping cute Disney alien kids get back to Witch Mountain or whatever. The most electrifying man in sports entertainment has not let me down. I'm only a little embarrassed that I actually read his autobiography. So, thanks Duane! Keep up the good work.
Pity he's not enough to undo the Andre thing though.
Normally these teen hearthrobs at least do us the service of fading into relative obscurity, resurfacing from time to time as a punchline, or a Celeb Big Brother contestant or as a talking head on one of those 'We love the nineties' shows. More recently, the trend for relaunching classic boybands has brought a number of us face to face with our pretty boy of choice ten years on.
For many, including the aforementioned Steven Gately groupies, the effect is not too humiliating. Groups of twentysomethings can sit happily watching Boyzone's 2008 tour with no more than occasional squeal of 'I can't believe I thought he was straight!'. The same cannot be said for the comeback of my first true love.
Peter Andre.
I LOVED Peter Andre. I saw him live. I owned a badge. And.. yeah. With hindsight, I must admit that neither at his prime nor in the Jordan years was that man attractive. But God, I wanted to be his Mysterious Girl. Yeesh.
And so, I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to one Duane 'The Rock' Johnson, for managing to remain in the spotlight without making me feel like a total asshat for adoring him when I was twelve. If anything, he's gotten more attractive since he stopped playfighting with greasy men and devoted himself to helping cute Disney alien kids get back to Witch Mountain or whatever. The most electrifying man in sports entertainment has not let me down. I'm only a little embarrassed that I actually read his autobiography. So, thanks Duane! Keep up the good work.
Pity he's not enough to undo the Andre thing though.
jeudi 22 janvier 2009
A Recipe For Crazy..
Ok, so I'm not claiming to have found a definitive recipe here. For starters, there are many varieties of crazy, ranging from the homicidal to the Bjork to the whatever-one-of-the-King-Georges-had-to-make-him-talk-to-a-tree. Equally, there are many routes available to each of these types of mental instability. Almost anything can be included, particularly if cocaine, the menopause or scientology are used as a base.
But I can, with some confidence, say that I have found at least one foolproof mixture of factors that will produce an indisputable onslaught of crazy (normally of the frazzled variety, with the potential to edge into either catatonic or hysterical territory).
1. Take one student.
2. Deprive him/her of sleep for at least one week. During this time impose a diet that is either woefully lacking in most major food groups or composed almost entirely of one variety of food (ie, soup). Keep contact with other human beings to a minimum.
3. Fill his/her waking hours with revision. For best results this revision should be lengthy, complex and primarily made up of material he or she has neglected to look at, ever, before this week. If at all possible, make it written in a foreign language.
4. Sprinkle exams liberally throughout said week.
5. Then, on day seven, add one major exam in the afternoon and another for the subsequent morning.
6. Stir in at least five mugs of coffee.
7. Liberally apply cold/flu medication. (FYI, if you spray that thoat anesthetic stuff on blisters on your feet it does not, as you might expect, numb them and make shoes more comfortable. It just stings like a bitch.)
8. Create a playlist which includes the following songs; Mya's 'Case of the Ex', Celine Dion's 'It's all coming back to me now', The Fresh Prince of Belair Theme and anything by Nelly. Play on loop for several hours.
9. Allow to simmer overnight, being sure to allow no more than three hours' sleep.
10. Serve at 6am on day eight.
Et voila!
But I can, with some confidence, say that I have found at least one foolproof mixture of factors that will produce an indisputable onslaught of crazy (normally of the frazzled variety, with the potential to edge into either catatonic or hysterical territory).
1. Take one student.
2. Deprive him/her of sleep for at least one week. During this time impose a diet that is either woefully lacking in most major food groups or composed almost entirely of one variety of food (ie, soup). Keep contact with other human beings to a minimum.
3. Fill his/her waking hours with revision. For best results this revision should be lengthy, complex and primarily made up of material he or she has neglected to look at, ever, before this week. If at all possible, make it written in a foreign language.
4. Sprinkle exams liberally throughout said week.
5. Then, on day seven, add one major exam in the afternoon and another for the subsequent morning.
6. Stir in at least five mugs of coffee.
7. Liberally apply cold/flu medication. (FYI, if you spray that thoat anesthetic stuff on blisters on your feet it does not, as you might expect, numb them and make shoes more comfortable. It just stings like a bitch.)
8. Create a playlist which includes the following songs; Mya's 'Case of the Ex', Celine Dion's 'It's all coming back to me now', The Fresh Prince of Belair Theme and anything by Nelly. Play on loop for several hours.
9. Allow to simmer overnight, being sure to allow no more than three hours' sleep.
10. Serve at 6am on day eight.
Et voila!
vendredi 16 janvier 2009
Just one quick question
What was in that cheese that Nicola gave to Steve on Neighbours? He's, like, nearly dead!
I was going to use a picture of Steve writhing around in mouldy cheese-related agony, but I couldn't find one. And then I found this and decided it is much nicer.
Sigh. I miss Frazer.
jeudi 15 janvier 2009
Just Say No, kids
You know when people tell you that you should never, ever leave a foreign bar with two guys you just met to get drinks and pot in their apartment? Turns out they're totally right.
Because that's what me and my friend Anabel did on Wednesday and I seriously almost got bored to death.
They were nice enough guys. A talkative one who wanted to practice his english because he's moving to Canada, and his somewhat shyer friend. When we got to the apartment there were two more, who were so paralysingly shy that they essentially spent the entire time we were there cowering in a corner, hiding from us, with our conversation and our hair and our boobs and whatnot.
But then the talkative one passed out. And the only other one who could actually speak to women said something which made my blood run cold. In broken english, he came out with
"I have travelled. I have been to Malaysia and Thailand and Laos. Would you like to see the photos?"
No, I assured him. That would be totally unnecessary. I told him how my best friend had been to those places on her gap year, and that consequently I have seen enough photos of the region to find my way around quite successfully should I ever be dropped unexpectedly in the middle of Bangkok (ok, this is a lie. But I would totally know what city I was lost in). And he nodded cheerfully and... started the slide show. He hooked it up to the tv and everything.
It would. Not. End. I swear. At one point, after showing me a photo of himself proudly holding up his target at a shooting range in Phuket, he wandered off and for a brief, glorious moment I hoped it was over. But then he came back, with that very target. He made me touch the bullet shell.
I don't care how good the shit they were offering was. Nothing is worth that.
Because that's what me and my friend Anabel did on Wednesday and I seriously almost got bored to death.
They were nice enough guys. A talkative one who wanted to practice his english because he's moving to Canada, and his somewhat shyer friend. When we got to the apartment there were two more, who were so paralysingly shy that they essentially spent the entire time we were there cowering in a corner, hiding from us, with our conversation and our hair and our boobs and whatnot.
But then the talkative one passed out. And the only other one who could actually speak to women said something which made my blood run cold. In broken english, he came out with
"I have travelled. I have been to Malaysia and Thailand and Laos. Would you like to see the photos?"
No, I assured him. That would be totally unnecessary. I told him how my best friend had been to those places on her gap year, and that consequently I have seen enough photos of the region to find my way around quite successfully should I ever be dropped unexpectedly in the middle of Bangkok (ok, this is a lie. But I would totally know what city I was lost in). And he nodded cheerfully and... started the slide show. He hooked it up to the tv and everything.
It would. Not. End. I swear. At one point, after showing me a photo of himself proudly holding up his target at a shooting range in Phuket, he wandered off and for a brief, glorious moment I hoped it was over. But then he came back, with that very target. He made me touch the bullet shell.
I don't care how good the shit they were offering was. Nothing is worth that.
dimanche 11 janvier 2009
I Blame Bill Bryson
I am currently suffering from the scientific phenonomon known as itchy feet. Which seems ridiculous, given that I've only been back a la France for a week, but it's freezing here and we all have exams and I'm bored. Last term I was plagued by a desire to go back to Durham and see everybody, this term apparently I just want to go somewhere new.
So one of my major revision avoidance techniques, aside from eating and sending incredibly long- winded facebook messages to everybody I've ever met, is to play a little game known as 'What I'm going to do when my loan comes in'. Never mind that I'm currently so overdrawn that looking at my statements actually makes me laugh, in a vaguely hysterical manner. No, I have decided that the mainetenance grant exists not for me to eke out a living over the next few months, but so that I can jet off and have some exotic adventures (and buy a leather miniskirt from Zara, of course).
I have - just - managed to reign in the crazy and stop short of seriously considering transatlantic flights. So instead I have turned my attention to Europe. And the idea of visiting it's major cities all by my lonesome holds a great deal of appeal for me, thanks to one Mr Bill Bryson. Because in addition to writing the only science book I ever voluntarily read, the esteemed Chancellor of Durham University is the author of 'Neither Here Nor There', a guide to Europe which I devoured on a recent Newcastle - Paris flight.
I have told myself repeatedly that setting off to pastures unknown with only a mountain of debt and a pop travel guide which is twenty years out of date for company is a stupid and expensive idea. It would appear that I am not listening. Having discovered, to my disappointment, that flights from Paris to Corsica only run in summertime (which, you know; sensible. I can't imagine there being a great deal of demand otherwise. What the hell is even on Corsica, anyway? Didn't Napoleon die there or something? Wasn't he killed by his wallpaper? I think I saw that on How 2 once. Anyway..), and that flights to Casablanca cost a bomb, I began whittling down the list of contenders.
Marrakech I rejected because everybody goes there. It's like that token 'exotic' place people choose to prove that they don't only want t0 see the Costa Del Sol, mainly selected for it's reassuring proximity to the homeland of said Costa. In fact, the only place more people my age like to tell you that they're going to visit is Australia. Seriously, if you want to grab my attention do not brag about adventures down under. Walk up to me and say 'I am not, nor do I have any intention of, going to Australia for the foreseeable future'. What does that country have, despite soul destroying heat and an infathomable passion for sporting activities? (Aside from Neighbours, obviously) Even Hugh Jackman has moved to LA.
I was extremely upset to find that flights from Paris to Austria simply do not exist. Dreams of cycling around in floral curtains singing 'Doe, a deer' were shattered, unless I'm willing to pay an arm and a leg to spend three days on a coach. Krakow was cheap, but I get the impression that people basically go there to get drunk on cheap wodka, so going alone seemed a bit sad. Naples was just too pricey. Pity - Bryson loved Sorrento.
So our current frontrunners are Venice and Tangiers. Lord knows what I'll actually do if I go to either. I don't even own a camera. We'll see what happens come the 19th..
So one of my major revision avoidance techniques, aside from eating and sending incredibly long- winded facebook messages to everybody I've ever met, is to play a little game known as 'What I'm going to do when my loan comes in'. Never mind that I'm currently so overdrawn that looking at my statements actually makes me laugh, in a vaguely hysterical manner. No, I have decided that the mainetenance grant exists not for me to eke out a living over the next few months, but so that I can jet off and have some exotic adventures (and buy a leather miniskirt from Zara, of course).
I have - just - managed to reign in the crazy and stop short of seriously considering transatlantic flights. So instead I have turned my attention to Europe. And the idea of visiting it's major cities all by my lonesome holds a great deal of appeal for me, thanks to one Mr Bill Bryson. Because in addition to writing the only science book I ever voluntarily read, the esteemed Chancellor of Durham University is the author of 'Neither Here Nor There', a guide to Europe which I devoured on a recent Newcastle - Paris flight.
I have told myself repeatedly that setting off to pastures unknown with only a mountain of debt and a pop travel guide which is twenty years out of date for company is a stupid and expensive idea. It would appear that I am not listening. Having discovered, to my disappointment, that flights from Paris to Corsica only run in summertime (which, you know; sensible. I can't imagine there being a great deal of demand otherwise. What the hell is even on Corsica, anyway? Didn't Napoleon die there or something? Wasn't he killed by his wallpaper? I think I saw that on How 2 once. Anyway..), and that flights to Casablanca cost a bomb, I began whittling down the list of contenders.
Marrakech I rejected because everybody goes there. It's like that token 'exotic' place people choose to prove that they don't only want t0 see the Costa Del Sol, mainly selected for it's reassuring proximity to the homeland of said Costa. In fact, the only place more people my age like to tell you that they're going to visit is Australia. Seriously, if you want to grab my attention do not brag about adventures down under. Walk up to me and say 'I am not, nor do I have any intention of, going to Australia for the foreseeable future'. What does that country have, despite soul destroying heat and an infathomable passion for sporting activities? (Aside from Neighbours, obviously) Even Hugh Jackman has moved to LA.
I was extremely upset to find that flights from Paris to Austria simply do not exist. Dreams of cycling around in floral curtains singing 'Doe, a deer' were shattered, unless I'm willing to pay an arm and a leg to spend three days on a coach. Krakow was cheap, but I get the impression that people basically go there to get drunk on cheap wodka, so going alone seemed a bit sad. Naples was just too pricey. Pity - Bryson loved Sorrento.
So our current frontrunners are Venice and Tangiers. Lord knows what I'll actually do if I go to either. I don't even own a camera. We'll see what happens come the 19th..
lundi 5 janvier 2009
The Coat Of Wonders (or Why I Can't Really Move My Arms Anymore)
So, I've just been home for the holidays, and the repeated lugging around of all of my possessions has led me to question, fairly frequently, what on earth I actually consider necessary for a three week stint back in the UK. I mean, I had regular access to a washing machine, right? And not that many glittering events to attend? A smallish case should do me.
And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.
However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).
It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.
All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?
The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.
And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.
Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).
So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.
Totally worth it, right?
And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.
However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).
It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.
All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?
The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.
And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.
Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).
So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.
Totally worth it, right?
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