Who Has The Right Of Way? I Do.

I've bloody done it again, haven't I? I've treated my blog like a piece of coursework and let it creep up on me until I have so many things to say, I'd bore you at the best of times. And goodness it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, if you're still with me, thanks. If you're not, then I suppose you're not reading and I have no need to address you. Well, that's that.

Apart from being poorly and exhausted - and what a year to become a wilting female! - I've been pretending to be really really busy, doing all sorts of things I feel I should have done before moving onto higher education (such as reading Winnie the Pooh and watching every episode ever made of Absolutely Fabulous).

And what's been happening? Well, some people went off to Lourdes and other people were coming back from Thailand. Genevieve had gone to Nice and my parents were going to Scotland, so I went to Liverpool. No, it was fun, really, in a lost boys and The Dreamers- cum- Shirley Valentine and more than a splash of Desperate Housewives sort of way. Have I lost you yet? I was going up to Scotland to see the parents by Loch Lomond. On the way, I stopped in London (where I had breakfast with some friendly, albeit rock 'n' roll, 'city doves' - unfortunately read: pigeons), Liverpool (where I played house with the up-and-coming Elliot James Langridge -not name-dropping or anything (darling...), but keep your eyes peeled!), Warrington -despite sounding like a very proper surname - is a town in Cheshire that has the sort of bus fares I approve of (20p from one side to the other) and Glasgow.

On the way, I read a brilliantly funny book, titled 'Lover Enshrined' by a J.R. Ward (who looks, just ever-so-slightly, like Uma Thurman). The first line read, "thanks to his sick bitch mistress, his face and his back and his wrists and his neck were scarred". I didn't enjoy it all that much, you might be surprised to know. I did, however, also (courtesy of Felix) catch the first episode of the newest vampire drama, True Blood, perhaps not for the faint-hearted, but certainly extremely good.

And then I should have known I'd fail another driving test when I managed to overturn a couple of quad bikes in Scotland - several times each. This said, I think a total of 31 minors and 2 majors across 3 practical tests isn't too drastic. Especially if you consider that passing my theory test first time around must technically erase the minors. And if we now recalculate, I definitely deserve a pink license. After some consideration, I think I may have actually failed the last test before turning on the ignition: as I wriggled into my seat, explaining that my knickers were just "in such a twist - the real problem with french knickers", poor Simon or Peter or Brian, as my weedy examiner may have been named, let an almighty gulp echo around the Ford Fiesta. Attempting to re-establish the ease we may (or may not) have begun with, I tried the old wink and "so (dramatic pause) how long have you have been doing this?" line (read: how you doiiin')- to, naturally, little avail.

So Lucy and I went out the following night. Lucy, apart from being one of my oldest friends, is the daughter of my mother's friend - this is important. Regardless of how well we think we behave, we appear to maintain our 'naughty daughter' tags, and so going out together, is pretty much a parental nightmare. Nevertheless, we did so (even if I was told by her father the following evening that I was "leading her up the proverbial garden path" - but not before Mummy asked Luce if she had a "sausage" for her!) and thoroughly exhausted ourselves - by our standards, we reckoned this was fairly impressive. We drank shots, requested Sean Paul, pulled out the lesbian card at all costs and kept an eye on each other's hem lines.

I also photographed the semi-finals of a DJ competition at a gorgeous bar in Angel (Barrio North) in conjunction with Movida and Corona, the only event I feel I'll ever attend with a floor covered in limes. Not the only night, however, I will have carried my eyelashes home in a pocket, feeling London is just ever so slightly easier for the bambi-legged sort, who have to hold on when the wind changes direction (and just as much when it doesn't).

I also gave up smoking in a very official way two nights ago because, while I love smoking, husky drawls and the intimacy of having my cigarette lit (Johnny Flynn so did me once!!) as much as the next student, the cough that creeps up with each packet just interferes with life more than I would like.

Then I was pooped, so I considered reading a very heavy book today(767g and it's only a paperback) called 'The Crimson Petal and the White' by a Michel Faber (who, despite having an incorrectly-spelt christian name, has written a novel), which Time Magazine claims is 'even better than sex'. Wikipedia says it is "a 2002 epic postmodern novel set in Victorian-era England" which sounds even more of an oxymoron to me than a stripper's dressing room. I flicked to the back hoping for something resembling a biography of the author (all I can find is anecdotes by critics and their fee(eee)lings - they really liked this one), as I still have no idea when Faber was born or if he is still alive. Finally, amidst seriously dense pages and a bags of tea, I resurfaced somewhere between Amazon and Wikipedia, unveiling Faber's placement in literature to be somewhere between Shakespeare and my mother. With this conclusion, I replaced the book (with some struggle) with a nicely controlled three-point-turn to trusty Rosamunde Pilcher who's promising me little else than a bit of charm.

"Who has the right of way?" he persists. "I do" I maintain, sitting in the right hand lane.

Listening to Travellin' Thru - Dolly Parton
Reading Long Way Round - Ewan McGreggor & Charley Boorman

Now Recruiting

Now I find myself striving to find things to do daily (being semi-unemployed), I remember an article I wrote for my local newspaper, aged 16, about being unable to find a Saturday job. At my expense, I'll humour you...

Short of prostitution and joining a convent, I don't know what to do: I can't get a Saturday job.

Gone are the days of growing up and getting a job at sixteen. No longer do you go out and get a job, the jobs come in and get you! The arrival of our National Insurance numbers at 15 and nine months are mere glimpses of loosely dangled false hope. No thanks.

One interview of only two, having dispersed several dozen C.Vs, I was the only applicant of seven without a pierced or tattooed face(1). This was at a pharmacy, and needless to say, I wasn't offered the job. Apparently 'hygienic' wasn't on the checklist. As for my other 50 C.Vs , now harbouring the Slough recycling site I imagine, tell all the right lies so how did they make the trash?

Perhaps it concerns Tesco that I could single-handedly run the show? If only I were Eastern European and knew not of the English word 'exploit'. I recall a bizarre happening at this: a month ago or so, I was grabbing a latte in a Starbucks. Putting my card into the PIN machine, I explained to Conchita or Lolita, or whoever I had been lucking to catch on said day, that I would pay with cash if my card was denied. As the expected 'DENIED' flashed on the PIN machine, she happily handed my drink over, and 'Hab a nith day!' she grinned passing over the receipt also titled 'DENIED'. Perhaps I'll donate that £3.50 or so to the Geldofs.

Of the question 'And why do you want to work here?', the answer 'Cuz I like want to get money' achieves a far higher pass than that of 'Because I am passionately interested in this particular field'! Who are employers these days? Whatever happened to brown-nosing the boss? If I were to sincerely promise to spend my £4.30 an hour on short skirts from Primark, alcohol and condoms, would I stand a chance?

Having concluded that I was over-qualified to work amongst the public, I applied for a temporary finance position at Legoland. As everything these days, the application process was online, and after filling in the lengthy form, I received an e-mail approximately 15 seconds later, telling me that they did not want me. Well, I retorted, I didn't want you either!

Don't get me wrong, I am constantly running into young employees, so I'm not implying a form of ageism, however, with rhyming cockney, greased and fried bosses, what hope is there for the elite-haitch-pronouncing-few? (2) A young Marks & Spencer's member of staff recently gave me, what she might describe as 'evils' when I asked for some help. After persistent rudeness, I felt ready to explode: "How did they employ you?" I wanted to shout to anyone who would listen. In my fury, I left, purse firmly shut. Is this how St Michael lost his millions?

"Hi, how may I help you?" How hard can it be? Apparently it can: anymore than a "yer...wot?" and you're lucky a smile is almost certainly out of the question! I've actually taken to ridiculing particularly uninspiring shop staff. I would mostly ward you from fabric shops just don't chance it; their zombie-like boredom could spread, and God forbid a world of unintelligent lemmings!

My one paid workday this summer, I was a runner on a commercial, and I'll shock few, by telling you that the other runner was an Oxford Law graduate. But being naïve, this struck me as peculiar, but peculiar more so, when he confessed how he made his living: handing out flyers. So that's that: I won't be applying to Oxford, in fact, I should drop out of school now and take a vocational waxing course at a TVU college and all these years, I thought university was the future! Conceivably, a university graduate could argue his qualification to work at a launderette or as a dishwasher, but the nation's fear of a higher intelligence than its own worries me somewhat.

Can you not trace this negative correlation as the onward direction? Admittedly, I have had a horrid but subconscious superiority instilled, and therefore, today's youth, is only what I see in public either the nation is collectively losing brain cells though evidently not, as A-levels are on the up or employers are picking the dullest bunch. Dull: no thoughts: no opinions: no argument: no messing around. Ah, I see the logic. Well, I guess there's no argument then!

I cringe in horror at my earlier arrogance (sounding nearer fifty, than fifteen (3)), but sadly, the situation hasn't changed a huge amount: I still find myself failing to get, what are essentially, incredibly ordinary jobs. No skills required. I recall, however, an interview at FatFace in Windsor, where I appeared, mid-interview, with an outfit I had been instructed to pick out for the manager. Having lied about my ski and surf history, on being asked about my choice, "i think you'd look hot in it" I proudly grinned(4). This was in January. I evidently still have no shame...

Reading Shakespeare - Bill Bryson
Listening to Pon de Replay/ Disturbia - Rihanna

(1) I might point out I have since acquired eight further piercings since the original time of print...
(2) OUCH!
(3)I also promise I have joined the real world now!!
(4) I wouldn't like to say I didn't also wink.

I Make That Pimms O'Clock

I spent the last two days working at Henley Regatta. Behind the Pimms bar. In the Regatta Enclosure. Through rain and shine. And rain and shine it sure did, so that the uniform I shivered in during the morning (to the point that I managed to convince myself – over an extra hot, rather wet, mostly soya, Starbucks hot chocolate – that warming myself with a new Joules hoody - conveniently located opposite Starbucks – was completely justified and did not make me high maintenance. Of course, that I now own a Joules hoody and neither play, nor really understand polo beyond Jilly’s Cooper, is not justifiable at all) I stripped off later in the Mahiki enclosure much to the amusement of the rod stewarts who had asked me earlier in the day whether or not the “boat thing” was “over yet”. Yes, really.

But let’s go back a bit (1), to the morning I stumbled out of work, having competed with Amy to sell the most shots at Maidenhead’s own Coyote -very- Ugly. This is before I learnt about the effects of having a Henley STAFF pass and the sneaky under-the-counter services run by a hoard of waitresses. It hadn't been an unpleasant evening (if you don't count having two shots nicked and £15 disappear without explanation unpleasant): I, once again disobeyed my mother's one house rule (do not go out in just a bikini...); saw everyone I've ever met in Maidenhead and managed to actually tie with Amy (each selling exactly 312 shots, using absolutely no uncatholic methods...) who has acquired the club's capacity in extremely loyal best friends. Of course, the evening probably began to slide backwards when a man offered to buy fifteen shots from me - on the agreement that I would drink eleven of them... For a five-feet-nothing girl, wearing far too much make-up and really very little else, there's not much she can say... So, not only, might we note, have I learnt that I have not yet learnt my limits, but I also defy anyone to claim there is no alcohol in our yummy little shots!

Fastforward 48 hours, minus £17, add a few shots backfiring in our upstairs loo, several rows with one's mother and a lift - the long way - from a james, we're back to Henley with a copy of Lolita and little - to no- organisation behind the safety of our loveable Pimms bar. Only I wasn't behind the bar: I was on table service, so that I later met a group who simply had to put an end to an 'ongoing argument', whether or not I had earlier been wearing a 'nude thong'. Thank you, regulatory flesh-coloured tights! Needless to say, I rebelled the second day and 'forgot' my tights at home (read: ripped them off at the first chance and LEFT THEM TO ROT).

While years of attending Henley as one of the 'Saturday lot' (i.e. one of the all-knowing, socialising, chain-smoking, under-age yaaaaaahs), well before I knew what rowing was, was perfectly pleasant, working at Henley was another experience entirely. For someone as disorganised as I am, I am rarely shocked by disorganisation, however, the manager in charge of the bar I worked with, had about as much knowledge of managing a bar as half a wet dog, and after a freezing morning, eyeing up a stack of bacon sandwiches, only to catch wind of the fact they'd been thrown away, I almost broke down. The very worst part of my brief attendance this year, however, was great rescue I managed. Calling Harriet Green, only have a male voice answer, panic alarms went off in little me, but I efficiently (not so calm) engineered said male into meeting me about a mile down the river from where I was. Running all the way, on the phone to him, making sure he would definitely be there, I was finally found (having described myself as 'too small to see but wearing a pillow case'), by a boy who, saying 'I think you'd better come with me, I obligingly followed (is this worrying at all?). This was only to discover that he was Catherine's boyfriend's brother and, in fact, walked me over to Harriet, who I had just gallantly sprinted down the river for. All in all, the event was truly heartbreaking. No jokes please about how easily my heart breaks.

And then I heard something quite funny - and was a bit pissed off I hadn't thought of it first - that waitresses were selling cigarettes on the sly(2). And at around £20 a pack! (I'm no mathematician, but even I can tell you that's an incredible profit for no practically no effort - the mind even boggles to think if they originated from a Duty Free). While I did almost sob by the third time I'd been asked if I had 'any cigs going...', I can't complain, because (for anyone who doesn't know, the Regatta Enclosure is not the laaaavely enclosure, it's the mediocre one - hence the fact we had bacon sandwiches on offer) I was actually tipped £4 for bringing someone a glass with ice! This is the kind of tip one wants to bat away muttering something like "no, don't be silly: it was no trouble!", but then one remembers one woke up at 7am and has been drenched in lemonade since 9am, so one dismisses one's argument, smiles sweetly and then retreats bashfully.

Reading Lolita - Nabokov
Listening to PODCASTS ON VIIGO

(1) Ignoring the fact that I begin most of my sentences with all sorts of things I promised not to at prep school...
(2) note: I am not outing anyone here...

Bite Me!

I have something to confess. I've got a bit of a thing for vampires.

Had I admitted this a year and a half ago, however, you'd have thought I was mad (maybe you still do), but because of the - well-received, but typo-ridden- Twilight Saga, odaxelagnia is now a socially-accepted fetish. And we've even got to the stage of being able to discuss it like Marmite: you either love it or hate it. I'd say, if you love it, it's the raw and physical, shirt-ripping type of love... And then if you hate it, you just don't talk about it.

Once again, I turned to Ed Fraser for a male opinion.
"Do we fear what we do not understand?" he considered.
"Fear is kinky" I threw in for argument's sake.
He decided, following rather a lot of deliberation, that he might, were the vampirist to be at least part Scandinavian, consider involvement in such an indulgence. I wasn't satisfied.

Convinced this was a bigger fetish than I could immediately prove, I asked around, leading to conversations turning in every weird and wonderful direction possible. A vincent suggested a scenario in which both (or all) participants play vampires draped in cloaks, donning fangs and sharing blood, leading, however, to an argument over whether or not vampires have blood (very much up for debate). A james claimed "everyone likes a bit of pain". A tom didn't get it.

I spent the afternoon with my dear friend Alex last Saturday (although, as you may have noticed, my blog dates are now entirely out-of-sync, and so it is probably in fact next Saturday), when we caught one of the last matinees of Matthew Bourne's Dorian Gray, which we both decided was really rather great (1). This alex once wrote a song called 'I Wanna Be A Sex Offender' (2), well received by 14-year-old Godolphin thoroughbreds in leotards, primary-school plimsols and little else but, no doubt, less by their mothers.

Alex explained that the song was in response to some silly ideas thought up by the Daily Mail regarding their ideas of sex offence, with headlines such as ‘POSTMAN POKES PACKAGE’ and ‘MILKMAN MILKS MANSLAVE’(3). Of course, my morally-Catholic mother maintains that anything sexual (4) is disgusting and a practice that not even, 'normal married couples' engage in(5). And so vampirism, as a way of life, is not something we have brought up over supper as yet, and so my sister and I remain living our half-lives cocooned between the covers of our Buffy and Angel boxsets and Twilight collector's editions.

Ok, uncatholic it may be, but if we must also insist it is also wrong, as Alex says, I too, wanna be a sex offender.

Reading Breaking Dawn - Stephenie Meyer
Listening to The Boat That Rocked Soundtrack

(1) Olivia-Anne requested some footnotes, so I thought I might add that of the shows currently a-playing in London, Dorian Gray is a great bounding skip better than Peter Pan but potentially not as a great as Waiting For Godot, even if Olivia-Anne described it as a play in which "nothing happens in the first half and then the second half is a repeat of the first".
(2) with his band The More Assured -buy their album on itunes!
(3) not really
(4) pronounced like 'capsule'.
(5) less of a joke than I would like.

Game Over

I just finished my exams but unfortunately, and as I'm sure you can imagine, finishing A Levels for the second time is somewhat of an anticlimactic. The first time, you relax thinking there is nothing more that can be done - until the second time, when continuing the pattern of failing indefinitely becomes a friendlier and friendlier option.

So although I guess I have now officially left school, I also left school last summer and two summers before that when I finished my GCSEs and every time, it has seemed more about holding hands and swaying uncontrollably to Eternal Flame than anything remotely linked to education - ironic really. This time, while everyone else was wasting away on buckets of Tequila and jumping through hoops of fire in the Far East, I finished off my Portuguese paper and signed off my coursework to the Devil, in whose utterly incapable hands my fate now lies.

I was thinking back over my academic life until arriving here in Limbo and my track record isn't a terribly inspiring one. While I may have been a scholar at two out of three schools, I've never won an award; had innumerous detentions and still got a D in my Physics GCSE, then again Annabel Banks did copy my spellings... but we won't go into that.

I applied for a job today that involved giving my Myspace URL (which I haven't looked at for quite some time). There, I found in a post, the first and only piece of A Level Latin work I ever produced before dropping the subject, and it is by no means any more or less exaggerated than an exactly literal translation of Ovid's Amores 1.5. I thought I had done quite well, I simply thought I could help Ovid out a bit:

It was past the sun's time with the gods, but not yet night. Pieces of the twilight entered our room, shredded -in a way that woodland does- by the part-open shutters. But let me tell you that between these shreds are found hidden, shy girls bidding their modesty.

And here, Corinna enters; an unbelted tunic in place of a masking veil. Hair, tumbling, surrounding an exposed fair decolletage: the look of a courtesan or queen, desired en masse.

I tore at her tunic, pulling it effortlessly from her. I would lie, were I to tell she had not struggled, but an apathetic struggle as it was, suggested it bore little intent. No, Corinna was out to be sought. Sought and conquered: to be dominated. And so, Corinna was taken not by force, but by the force of her own will.

And there she stood, before me, as though unspoiled- perfection in her natural shape. Nowhere could I find cause for any complaint- so flawless a form. Shoulders, as sweet as the arms I touched, and breasts, with caresses I may well not have done them justice. So worthy of appraisal, I could simply not admire them too greatly. This is not to say that her stomach, side or thighs were not worthy of vast awe- for they too: youthful and fair in colour. But I relate too much in detail, and in prose I am inept to describe such faultlessness.

Overcome with emotion and longing, I snatched her away from herself, embracing her body close to mine.

I narrate the rest in mind, and leave to you, my untold memoir. For lists do no credits to such actions past. Besides, that we both rested together, should illustrate alone. I make it no secret in hoping for echo.

OK, so I am evidently not to be an academic. Perhaps I should have listened to George Skerett, put my books away and invested more time in finding myself a husband. Why oh why did I never pursue Home Economics? While I may be able to elaborate heavily on the ideas of lots of really old men, I can neither cook nor sew - nor walk in a straight line at the best of times. On the other hand, there's always next year. It's not Game Over just yet.

New Game?

Press Continue

Reading O Alquimista - Paulo Coelho
Listening to The Sarah McLachlan trance remixes

I Scream, You Scream...

I HAVE A FIFTH FOLLOWER! Hell yeah! I feel as great as I do when I see that Phones4U ad - the one that claims it has 'GREAT DEALS 4 popular people' - because I know they mean me...

But I know it's about quality, not quantity... right?

(dare I make this sort of assertion?)


I recently went through my Facebook and deleted some 500 'friends' and I feel great. I'd managed to collect a hoard of somewhat less than acquaintances over the past two years at parties I was slightly drunk at, jobs I've walked out of and schools I attended for less than a term. At a glance, my Facebook was more like a horribly visual, bad-memory-provoking spidergram of everyone I've ever met - and it's no secret that I don't like most people.

Just to be really jolly and conformist, I looked up the definition of 'popular', so I knew what I was aiming for/competing against. My lovely illustrated dictionary said I just have to be 'generally liked or admired', which I don't think is too much of a feat. After all, what is 'generally' in the great scope of things? Say, 10%? Phones4U say that I need more than fifty contacts to fit their image of 'popular' and get their 'GREAT DEAL', so if five of the fifty are following my blog, I don't think I'm doing too badly... According to Steven Schwartz (who wrote Wicked), I also have to know how to stand properly; talk to boys; pick the right shoes; do my hair and be good at sport. My dictionary may say one thing, but realistically, Steve's closer to the mark: I remember the very first 'popular' girl I knew - the excedingly pretty Anoushka Dovey at prep school who danced and swam; she was the first to have a boyfriend; had a pair of navy suede mary janes from Shelleys we all wanted and never had a bad hair day.

So I sat down for an evening, and in one fell swoop, rubbed out several years worth of pointless, useless or plainly boring meetings as my criteria for deletion increased with impressive speed. I was thinking about these fifty contacts I require for this 'great deal' and, while the deal may be, I don't think the logic is so great because, even though I only just about passed Maths GCSE, I don't think making up several phone numbers would be too much of a challenge. After all, if you think you have my number, you might want to try giving it a ring because, chances are, you'll more likely get y'mum (oh yeah). What about the numbers for taxi companies I have for every city in the UK? They make me more popular than you, that's right. What I want to know is, who is cheating the system here? Am I dishonestly claiming deals I don't really deserve or is Phones4U inventing incredulous conditions to appear elitist? The bastards. Because, deny as we might, elitism is all we want, like the fact I must only holiday on islands just big enough for me - and my ego. On the upside, all the people I dislike won't be there (because I'll make my runway too small for their jets) but I also won't be able to invite the 200 'friends' I do have left, take photos and post them on Facebook so everyone can see how popular I am.

Sometimes I think I'm going mad (even though Julia Keys told me I wan't- to begin with...) And then I wake up to things like this
Introduce
Between You and Feri Irawan
Feri Irawan
Confirm Friend
20 June at 08:28
Report message
Hai sabrina , can I be your friend , I am from Indonesia

Just that ...and I wonder what I'd been worrying about!

Listening to: Ladysmith Black Mambazo

Reading: Peter Pan - JM Barrie

Watching: Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow

I Killed Bill

There's something wrong with this website: I now have three posts for yesterday.

I'm watching you...

Aliens Made Me Do It

I realised that I'd promised one woah-mama of an excuse for my poor spelling and grammar a few days ago, and I completely forgot. So here it is. Three linguists (Sebba, Street and Lefstein), claim that we each now have an "extended orthographic palette". Y'what? Basically, (I might get around this in a bit of a loopy way, so stay with me), Saussure reckoned that it is impossible to think outside language. Meaning is not 'real': it is socially agreed (which is why, when I say 'chair', you know what I'm talking about - at least I hope you do). But similarly, this is how language barriers are created, because while the link between the object and label 'chair' has been socially agreed in the English-speaking society, it has been agreed to be called 'chaise' in the French and 'silla' in the Spanish. Of course, there is often some variation - but not with the word 'chair', mind you.

This is why the meanings of concrete nouns are easier to grasp than those of abstract ones (because the words are linked to objects, rather than concepts, which require more language to understand) and why, when babies learn to speak, their first words are objective: 'drink', 'dog', 'ball', 'daddy' (in its most concrete form). Right, so considering man spoke before he wrote, when he did fancy writing (as in fancied writing, not calligraphy), it took quite a while (mostly because of accents) to agree on a system of notation. In fact, spelling and grammar were really only set in stone around the 18th century when Samuel Johnson's dictionary standardised the meanings of words and spellings and the first grammar textbooks were written.

And now, we can get really really silly about the whole thing and start off crazy trains of thought such as, if language is socially constructed and I require language to think, I must only know myself through language, which has no meaning and therefore I, too, must be socially constructed. If language isn't real, am I not real either?! Yuck. So you see, there's less of a problem if you think about concrete nouns. (However, there is the rather amusing little anecdote about the linguist who discovered that Eskimos had more words for 'snow' than any other language because they could distinguish between different types of snow most efficiently. Unfortunately, the study was actually based on a complete misunderstanding of the Eskimo language and actually held no weight at all! Shame...)

If language is socially agreed, then it means, as we acquire it as we grow up and discover more about society (although I never really grew as such...), then language becomes the main factor in determining the way we view the world. And so, this varies, depending on what language you use. (By the way, a lot of people, really don't like this theory - but I do!) This might be a bit extreme, so other theorists have just suggested that language may simply influence the way we view the world, eg. social values.

Ok, are you following so far? We've got to come away from concrete nouns . If language is influenced by society, what is society? Society: The institutions and culture of a distinct self-perpetuating group (thefreedictionary.com). Great, because, if we're following the same theory, then society must also influenced by language. It's like two steps forward and three steps back. If society really influences language that much, then we would all have the same ideas and all be exactly the same. Seeing as unconventional is the new convention, there must be a flaw in the theory.

I'm getting back to my point, I promise. How else can we show difference, without ideas and therefore without language? Flouting the grammatical and orthographical (spelling) conventions show variation in society. Going against the conventions, doesn't make grammar or spelling wrong, it makes it unconventional. (But of course, this is all a bit politically correct: we should describe, not prescribe) The original theory I was chitchatting about, claims we each have a palette from which to draw certain elements of language, and we just have to choose how and which and where and when. I could continue with spelling having moved with the phonetic changes etc etc, but I won't continue to bore you. I think I've made my point. So really, I've just been trying to show you variation in society, through my unique use of language...

And back to the Keble Poo Saga, I suppose. Well I'd been to stay with Fair Tits, who had taken me to some sort of open mic night. At some point in the evening, we'd decided to go back to her room. I was sent to collect some wine with two boys from one of their rooms. One of them decided to go to the loo while we were there. He was very quick, and so I decided to pop in after - except OF ALL THE TIMES FOR SOMETHING NOT TO FLUSH... As it had been an en suite, there were only a possible three culprits: the owner of the room, the aforementioned loo-user and myself. The aforementioned loo-user had been very quick and the owner of the room would have, for sure, known he hadn't been responsible. So I was left with a fairly large problem (not metaphorical). There were only two feasible solutions I could think up, and in the time it had taken me to come up with a plan B (the worse of the two and consequently, the one I went for), so much time had passed, that I had to cake on the make up as an excuse for having been locked in the bathroom for so long. Because, after all, surely it's better to look like a slut, than a phantom poo-er?

Plan A, would have been just to hope that the room's owner would have got really rather drunk, returned to his room and assumed he had been the producer of said poo. Plan B, on the other hand, was to find some other way of disposing of the offending item. (I hate you, Alix). The room, a really lovely one, was situated in the main quad, opposite the Keble chapel (which is really very beautiful) and there was a window which looked out across the college. I'm not the brightest of buttons, I'm happy to admit, and so, unfortunately, plan B, had been to scoop and fling (with a lot of loo roll). And so, that, is how there came to be a poo of mine at Keble and there's nothing I can say in my defence, other than that aliens made me do it?

I've been quite critical of Alix recently, but she doesn't help the situation and that's all I have to say on the matter.

Listening to: Rosie Thomas http://www.myspace.com/rosiethomasmusic

Reading: Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert

I Put The STUD In Study.

Let's just get something out the way. There's a poo of mine at Keble (College, Oxford)- at least there was. In fact it's really actually inside the Main Quad - opposite the chapel... You know, it may not be there any longer: I imagine it's aided some seed on its journey to become something bigger and better by now. Perhaps a geranium or a potato. Perhaps not a potato on reflection. Nevertheless, let's not forget we're talking about a poo - just the one. At least, as well as my memory serves me, I think it was just the one.

I'm ever so tempted to leave the story at that. Perhaps I will until tomorrow...

SO TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR MORE OF THE KEBLE POO SAGA...

I am about to embark on a day of writing essays, but don't feel sorry for me just yet, as its only English Language A Level, and about language in social contexts (basically about Facebook, as Alix pointed out). Of course, if you've seen me recently, you'll know I've been complaining for the past couple of months that I know nothing about English Language, for so long in fact, that I could well have learnt lots and lots and lots about it in that time. Instead, I have had eight jobs; been on ten trips, used up two mascaras, read the Twilight series - twice; been to hospital; taken more trains than I can count; been through two driving instructors; watched two whole seasons straight of One Tree Hill; had two blood tests; photographed (and edited) an eighteenth; had two new piercings (neither of which I still have); completed a Powerplate challenge; pretended to be lots of different people; shed bucket loads of tears; invested in a pair of jeans; left four jobs; lost one; misplaced another; maintained two and worked my way through as many boys as I have tissues - and I had flu (not swine, obviously).

I'm going to discuss this, not because I haven't mentioned it before (because I have), but because, and while I may actually be turning into a bit of a broken record, I'm going to get it out of my system now and then try to not mention it again. SATAN THOUGHT UP GAP YEARS (I'm not joking, and I have proof! Maybe not the physically, biologically, visible sort of proof, but proof nonetheless).

Try and stick with me for a minute. We're in Thailand, sun, sea, sand - its gorgeous. Of course, unfortunately, your camera was stolen at the airport, so you won't be able to show anyone on Facebook but don't fret just yet, because the rest of London is out there with you. And even if you were all stupid enough to have lost your cameras by this point in the year, you're bound to run into Lottie (you know, from Stowe), who knows Randers(the one from Sassy's 18th), who once met Sophie (who's been in Tatler - twice!), who knew Teddy (don't go there...), who went to prep school with lots of other people who all know each other. Only, they don't. I'm still (please, make fun all you like), completely and utterly perplexed by the bizzarity of the public school rule that means, abroad, one is automatically an acquaintance of anyone else who went to a public school (however minor). And by acquaintance, I mean BEST FRIENDS.

This really is, a totally odd, upper middle class ritual that does not extend further than Heathrow airport, because if I hear someone else speaking in marked RP somewhere at the back of Reading, I will not rush up, pretend to be their best friend and then put all the photos on the internet. And this definitely doesn't extend to the state system, by any stretch of the imagination, as sticking a hoard of like-minded chavs in a bar in Corfu will certainly more likely cause a brawl than a ball... (Did I say that?)

Ok, I'm sorry, maybe I'm just jealous I'm not sitting on a beach right now. But frankly, bumping into everyone I've ever met while I'm hot, sweaty and no thinner than I was the last time we met, is not my idea of a holiday: it's my idea of Hell, which I'm hoping to have a few more years to psych myself up for. If I'd known this was the purpose of a gap year, I'd have camped at Sloane Square tube station from September onwards. I'd have achieved the same thing and spent a lot less. I could also go home if I got bored or it rained or someone was pissing me off or I was made to drink out of a bucket. This is another thing! WHY do people drink out of buckets in South East Asia?! And if it's such a great idea, then why don't we do it here? Perhaps we will when our future politicians all return from shacking up in villages (now) overflowing with wells. But why leave London at all? Dare I suggest current school leavers consider bricklaying courses at the Thames Valley University: you'll still be able to build a wall by the end of the year; you'll get all the crime and corruption and your ipods, blackberries and cameras will still get stolen.

And then they'll all come home. They'll look dirty, overgrown in every sense of the word and wear authentic Peruvian knits. They'll take over entire corridors in halls, take up all the en-suites and chat non-stop about the full moon (which, everyone forgets, exists worldwide). The thing is, spending six months travelling can't be good for the soul: I went for six weeks and forgot how to spell, making essay-writing, these days, virtually impossible - and this is the sort of thing that scares me. And what, can we - those who stayed home -, rival you travellers with? I can't see it. And so! I'm going to hop into a sunbed, order myself some Thai fishing trousers, backcomb my hair and settle into my en suite in September. Thailand? Yar babes, it was a RAAAAVE.

Listening to: Tegan and Sara

Alix Harmer, I've got a bone to pick with you...

I Think, Therefore I'm Single

I am a bad person. Ok, maybe not bad, but certainly not good: I broke my laptop. And that's just one, on a very long list of reasons, why I'm on the guest list for Hell (In the name of the Father...). Actually, it was a combination of factors (human and not so) that caused the breakdown, but if we're pointing fingers (which Daddy is), I did it. And I now have a broken laptop. Rest assured, this will go down in family history, along with the time Claudia fell straight through the pool cover and I stuck my tongue out on stage during a ballet production, aged seven, because I thought I was a Spice Girl (unfortunately, I was playing a moth). I also judge pregnant teenage girls, open my sister's post and, try as I occasionally might, I cannot keep secrets.

So, as my laptop was being restored to 'factory fresh', I couldn't help but have a good old reflect on materialism. What do I really need a laptop for, after all? When... all you need is love? But sitting down with my cup of tea to think about it, I crushed my glasses and materialism came bounding back. So while I may not be able to see (today's excuse for poor spelling and grammar - and I have an even better one lined up for tomorrow, so sit tight), I've got love? No, not buying that, because, while I may not be able to see, whoever gets roped into fixing my poor machine will unlikely miss the stack of vulgar links Claire Mitchell has been sending me via Skype (eg. cakefarts - google at your own peril). Yes, I've outed you. HA. (My shoutout - I'm so Youtube - today, also goes to Claire, to wish her LOADS of luck for her exams! xxx)

And then love also got me in trouble yesterday (which is why I'd rather see and have things): I was practising loving my neighbour, when it occurred to me that I had picked the wrong neighbour to practise loving, confusing number 4 for number 6. "It's OK, I can't remember your name either", she amazingly threw over the fence. Shit.

According to J. A. Lee (who wrote a couple of books about Psychology and was tragically American), there are six types of love, which got me wondering how large and mind-boggling a number of types of liking there must be. I turned back to the US and Ten Things I Hate About You for guidance:

Bianca: There's a difference between like and love. Because I like my Skechers, but I love my Prada backback.

Chastity: But I love my Skechers.

Bianca: That's because you don't have a Prada backpack.

Oh, I see now!

Pretty much on the same note (or a completely different one if you're familiar with Harmer's thesis on Mercury's Lost Lover, which details lots of really really irrelevant things), I've been on a series of truly bizarre dates in the past year: I probably wore the same thing to every one, acted as inappropriately as possible and then began yawning around 9pm. These were my tactics until about two weeks ago, when I met a Jonny who actually left before then. In fact, he also left before 8pm and 7.30 and we might have only been together for 25 minutes at the very most seeing as he'd been late - and I'd been even later. The problem? He'd asked me about myself and while I'd tried to divert, answering questions with questions, one thing led to another and, very quickly, he knew I was an ex-nannying Catholic who could do the splits but not quite make herself understood in French. It was my own fault. And I'd only been drinking orange juice.

Does it make me greedy to want them all at once? An erotic, ludic, storgic, pragmatic, manic, agapic love? I didn't think it existed until I began my Powerplate Challenge (http://www.powerplate.com/), which I did just before I had flu last month. It involves three 25-minute workouts a week, for five weeks. And its hard. You have to work at it, but the benefits are certainly there to be reaped: it makes me feel great; its easily my favourite sport; its practical; and while I wasn't quite sure at first, I quickly became obsessed. It's completely selfless and frankly, I couldn't have been more satisfied. Better still, it has a very low and irresistably sexy growl. I don't really know why I've been so convinced relationships had to be limited to boys. The real challenge, however? See if you can keep a straight face for a whole minute, sitting on fifty vibrations a second.

Listening to: Kate Rusby (www.myspace.com/katerusby)

Watching: communitychannel on Youtube

Seriously endorsing: Powerplates

I Don't Skinny Dip: I Chunky Dunk

Earlier in the year, George Skerrett asked, "must your mailing posts be so extensive?" For all of you who know George, this won't surprise you. And for all of you who don't, he is also the sort of boy who told me this week that I should stop stressing about ever getting into university, as all I am required to do in life is marry a (well-educated) banker. So George, in answer to your question, yes, they will be extensive. Of course, he didn't really mean this, as he's been a member of both my Facebook groups...

My best pair of pants appeared MIA this morning and in realising that 80% of my 'knicker drawer' is solely for show, the type of pant that you wouldn't dream of wearing under jeans for fear of having to wriggle all day, I was left in a bit of a predicament. "But who's going to see?!" my mother always demands and we won't go into that, especially seeing as, very often, its only Genevieve, dragging me to the gym, so I can watch her run. So the loss of this pair is a significant one, you see. Its upset me so, because they are the perfect combination between granny and tranny (the poles on the knicker spectrum); they haven't lost their elastic yet and I even have a bra that they match. Really, things couldn't be better.

This said, I didn't actually own a pair of jeans until yesterday (still trying to break out of the sixth form dress code mould), when I invested in a pair of 'boyfriend' fits, during the aforementioned Topshop nightmare. Of course, had I a boyfriend, I would have simply 'borrowed' and re-hemmed, but sadly, with neither one of my own (a boyfriend that is) nor, thankfully, one of anyone else's, I was forced into sacrificing 80 cans of diet coke for a pair, in order to look just like everyone else (that is the Topshop slogan, right?)

Last week, my sister wanted a pair of the appallingly-named, 'jeggings' (in the same way as 'banoffee', 'labradoodle' and 'honkey' which, I am now told, actually has the more pleasing label, 'mule'...), and, with it being her birthday, I begrudgingly obliged. I won't pretend that there is more than one reason that I don't like shopping with my sister: she is a size 4. So when I went to the desk to ask if they had anything smaller than a size 6, I was charmingly looked up and down by the sales assistant,
"Four is a very small size", he said.
"Yes, it is", I said.
A few more raised eyebrows from eavesdroppers and several awkward moments later, I decided to put him out his misery in firmly establishing that they hadn't been meant for myself and, while they would ordinarily only fit a Barbie, my doll-proportioned sister would be enjoying them.

I decided to start spell-checking myself before clicking 'publish' (as I am only learning to spell again) and realised that my Microsoft is clearly set to US English, as I have been capitalizing and realizing all over the place! Accept my sincerest apologises.

On a slightly less ridiculous note, I have a friend who is going to be blindfolded for 24 hours somewhere mid-August to raise money for Guide Dogs http://www.guidedogs.org.uk/, so if you're feeling particularly generous and animal-loving, I know he'd appreciate the support http://www.justgiving.com/vanceboot. Thanks!

Quotes:
Hendrika: did you know, it takes 37 muscles to frown and...
Me: less to smile, right?
Hendrika: only 4 to stick your finger up at someone!

Listening to: On The Road - The Bowmans http://www.myspace.com/thebowmans
(re-)Reading: The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Liking: letting coke go flat
Disliking: the binliner I was given to empty my room into
Endorsing: Mrs Doubtfire and learning to knit while the weather's down

Second Base Is At The Back In The Corner

I hate Topshop. I mean I really hate Topshop and least of all the all-singing, all-dancing, spectacularly bone-crushing, soul-wringing Oxford Circus branch that's just waiting to capitalize on insecurity in the form of hungry under-sized 4s. It’s all a bit too fashionable for me: I mean, this girl looks cool, I suppose. But she also looks really bored of propping open that door. And frankly, if that's the look they can help me achieve, I'd rather hand-weave sacks.

I slipped in the side entrance around 1650 and I left, an hour later almost in tears, forgetting that anything over a size 10 existed and thinking my bra size was extra-terrestrial. "Second base is at the back in the corner" I overheard somewhere near the jeans. Whether this was a brand or a nickname or a mishap, I can't say, but I giggled nonetheless. I hate the idea, I hate the prices, I hate the crowds and I hate the location, but most of all I hate the fact that it was such a bloody great idea.

Later, I went to see the new Sister Act musical with my parents. I don't want to spoil this (too much) for anyone who has tickets or is planning to see it, so I'll try not to say too much. Incredible set but painfully sacrilegious and unfortunately I'm not the only one with to have found it overrated http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jun/03/sister-act-london-palladium-review My fourteen-year-old sister explaining the sexual props, however, was the real highlight of the evening. Oh and go for the strawberry ice cream if you want to enjoy the second half because, of course, the cast are still enjoying their curtain call.

And then I heard Ascot had been closed and I couldn't help but be unsurprised with it, clearly, being the result of a year ten snogging an E blocker somewhere over the Eton bridge, having been told, under any circumstances, never to cross the river. Of course, had the school never allowed the integration at socials, then the problem may never have occurred, and little Euphemisma could still be sewing felt to card for Father's Day. For more information on Swine Flu, see: http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Swine_Flu

I also promised to mention Ed Fraser (not the Channel 4 editor or the owner of the memorial hospital in Macclenny Florida), who is about to chase an older Swedish girl from Columbia to Shoreditch. In defense of his overly-romantic gesture, Ed adds, "she's also taller". He maintains, however, that she is neither stronger nor has a deeper voice and, of course, did ask me not to mention any of this, however, I pulled a "your mum" on him and he soon shut up. Bad luck, Fraser: the cat's out the bag. But it's ok: I have an extremely small readership right now... So! If you ever come across this fellow, you might want to congratulate him because, he turned down a Norwegian. Well done, darling: that's big of you.

What a lot of links today! Can I make up for it? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCAt9WcCFbM


Reading: The World According to Clarkson, Volume 3
Listening to: Fly - Nick Drake http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ShXHW_FrlM
Endorsing: Vapiano (Great Portland St)

Forget The Twat, Twitter: I'll Macroblog, Thank You.

It was suggested by a friend, who goes by the fine nickname of Fair Tits, that I should capitalize on this business of blogging to pour out my silly stories online, in the hope that if, should I come to 25 and still not have got the hang of UCAS and have grappled at some sort of degree (academic or really otherwise), someone might let me write for their small-town (very) indie magazine with the prospect of payment if a readership of over an hundred is ever achieved. Of course, the other, and possibly more achievable solution, is that great big money-making production-line of Erotic Fiction. I’ll leave that for another day.

But what do I know about blogging? What do I know about writing?! Very little indeed, I can tell you: I know that narrative in the first person major is largely pretentious and the minor, often dull: who cares about the sidekick’s feelings? I know that language evolves at such a rate, that I won’t have to worry about my grandchildren ever unearthing my mostly-horrideous teenage personality and that the extreme permanence of written language is enough to scare me into hiding.

This limited knowledge comes from my brief stint at attempting an A Level in English Language at the end of last year, which only taught me really dull and fairly nasty things about the state system such as, ‘Free Condom Fridays’ happening once a month and the game they like to call ‘college’ which involves packing as many underage girls doing Hairdressing courses and overage boys (although often referred to as, ‘lads’) ‘studying’ something to do with cars into a small and dingy canteen. The result? Think http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE9llClgTqY. There’s very little education involved, and hence my lack of insight into writing.

Nevertheless, furthermore and moreover, I thought I would try in my best English (which is rapidly going downhill I have recently noticed: I can no longer distinguish between third person singular and plural) to create some form of continuation from the (surprisingly well-received) letters I began during my nannyship France.

I'll begin, as is rhetorically correct, with an apology for my lack of tact (having been described as 'the discretion of a swan flapping around on the back of a giant elephant'), so if anyone is heavily offended by anything I say, just stop reading, don’t try and get me thrown off the internet, ok? Because there are bigger things for you to worry about. Click here, http://rotten.com/ and you’ll be feeling a lot more comfortable with whatever I have to say.

As soon as I've got my computer sorted so it can take more photos, I will also keep the photos flowing, but at the moment, its feeling a bit sorry for itself, with its limited memory. So for the moment, I'll leave you with my favourite Postsecret I've seen for a while.

Reading: Eclipse, Stephenie Meyer
Listening to: Coeur de Pirate - Comme des Enfants (Le Matos Andy Carmichael Remix) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWrU4We1Nq8