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