Disaster! We're a man down, and it's only 13.15. And the man in question is the most crucial to all operations, the general, the bigwig, the mother. Dum dum duuuuuum! Currently at casualty, return time unknown (could be anywhere between half an hour and half a millenia, knowing our hospital) this ship is sinking fast. Left to our own devices, God knows what could happen to the organisational nightmare that is the garden party. We're headless chickens without our mother hen to guide us, delegate, and to generally keep order. At the risk of sounding dramatic, we're dooooooomed! At least the gazebo is looking jaunty.
Is it just me, or are the masses ageing before their time? Currently within the weighty depths of the new Jilly Cooper (a marvellous diversionary tactic from, well, anything else one might have to do, therefore comes highly reccommended) I am still only on the verge of being able to entirely revel in the sordid, ridiculous, and inexhaustably over the top dealings with beyond stereotypical characters gallivanting at full pelt. This is highly infuriating, but I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable and ill at ease with the fact that half the characters in this most recent volume of scandal are below the age of fourteen. Hmmm... When younger I would have thought the dizzy heights of what barely constitutes as teendom was old and sophistocated to the extreme, but now the early angst of being thirteen/fourteen is but a distant memory my views are somewhat changed. In Jilly's latest blockbuster (and indeed arm buster: have you seen the size of it!) the children in question are the same age as my brothers. Therefore, the documentation of their sexual exploits is a bit...eeeuuuww. Especially as it is not uncommon for the older character to have the odd lustful yearning for the wee kiddiwinks. I am probably reading too much into the whole thing, and it is all harmless fun, but a return to the good old Cooper days, with pure escapism at it's heart, untainted by any challenging concepts, would be a welcome one. She is, ofcourse, the unrivalled, long-reigning queen of chick-lit, all hail, we are not worthy etc but the jury's out on this one Jilly.Along a similar vein, I was a little disconcerted by our recent Eurovision entry, with women in short skirted school uniform dancing about a middle aged rapper named Daz. Male fantasy central. Needless to say, this pop creation is now in the top ten. But in an age when Emma 'Hermione Granger' Watson is lusted after by men who old enough to be her father, or even grand-father, (*cough* dad, ahem) this comes as no surprise. I know I must move with the times, but my gut reaction never ceases to be: yuk.After a day of minimal effort on my part, yet valiant work from ma, my room is habitable-hurrah! The sheer amount of dust caused a day long irritating tick about the nasal region, causing incessent snuffling and a bit of projectile phlegmage, but a small price to pay for now actually being prepared to sit in my room for more than a moment before leaping in terror at the sight of yet another spider corpse attracting flies. Let's just hope that my sociopathic tendancies are not encouraged by having this oasis of escape to retreat to. I was comfort personified sitting on my bed amid cats and cushions, dunking digestives in mug, contentment at the clean smell of polish plastered on my face (mind you, could have been the lingering fumes getting me high). Sigh.For all those Anna afficionados (of which there are, doubtless, multitudes) it is merely two days in remainder before the most anticipated and celebrated date of the calendar. I'll be twiddling my thumbs until then.
And so it has come to pass that French ceases to be. At least for this steadfastly monolingual miss. For what is supposed to be the language of love (or is that Italian? Or Spanish? Well, they're all sex mad on the continent) it has, alas, inspired nothing but scorn and an insatiable habit of cursing within me. Perhaps our paths will cross again in happier cicumstances, or maybe I shall be content to merely order cafe au lait whilst sitting sunning myself on a Parisian terrace, chic and cultured beyond comprehension. Sans doute, une bonne idee.
Thus one foreign language is exchanged for another, with a wholeheartedly more fluent parlance the order of the day as the next exam is approached without a backward glance at the shambolic disaster of this morning that shall henceforth be known as... 'le matin de merde'. Metonyms, hyperbole, anaphora, sibilance, prolepsis, enjambment, assonance, ceasura, juxtaposition, lexus, bla bla bla, etc etc. Much more my cup of tea (and how's that for a metaphor?).A good few spatterings of these and I'll be laughing. The bits in between needn't even make sense.
Unfortunately the time has come to tackle the vast yukness that is my room. I know, I know, but I have been pushed into it against my will, finally succumbing to the endless hints, suggestions and downright objections to the ghastly state of it. There is even (of which I am particularly proud of) a rather attractive urine-coloured streak of cat sick stain on entering the boudoir of Anna. It's always nice to know there is a little haven to escape to. I may have lost the battle this time round, but the war against cleanliness is not yet over. It is perfectly plausable that I will end up one of those weird cat women: old, cabbage smelling, animal fur-strewn, and quite, quite mad. Tins of half eaten cat food will litter a poky flat, and dead mice will be found half decomposed at the back of cupboards. But, hell, if I'm happy...
You gotta love pathetic fallacy; monday morning + dreaded weigh in day * exam season = the traditional miserable drizzle with the bone-chilling edge. Just what's appropriate for three hours in the sports hall, where the heater sounds like the gutteral wretchings and raspings of a thousand bronchial defected octogenarians. Times three. Decked out in four layers, complete with parka, my arms were somewhat restricted, inhibiting the flow of my hand guiding the glide of fountain pen across paper, thereby impeding flow of coherent thought and well-structured argument from head to answer booklet. Bit of a problemo for a couple of essay based papers. Well that's my story and I'm sticking to it, as those answer booklets that were so ceremoniously handed in ('Please STOP writing now and put DOWN your pen'- well, it was worth a try, but nothing gets past those wily, power crazy, self-important invigilators of varying oddness) were full of the most meaningless drivel I have ever had the misfortune to conjure. With the possible exception of this blog of course. Good luck to the examiner is all I say; hope they at least get a chuckle or two. More likely a snore, as they realise I have said exactly the same thing in about a three different ways, circulating the arguments and phrases when appropriate, so they'll be completely bored to.......zzzzzzz
An interesting way, I have found, of avoiding the whole tricky, ambiguous, confusing adolescent phase a propos the parentals is just to miss it out entirely. I went from child, to distant detatched stranger, to weird regressive dependant toddler, and emerged (as I would have it, though this is merely my perception) on pretty even ground with them, almost adult in nature, shock, horror, stupefaction etc. I have the relationship I imagine I shall now have with them for the rest of their days. It suddenly just happened, yet with all the murky, complex intricacies contributing. I don't even bother to hold my tongue in reference to the odd profanity or expletive any more (now do not be shocked dear reader, I know that it is beyond comprehension that anything other than sweet nothings could pass these angelic lips, but we are all human after all). Now that's what I call progress. I could even see myself going down the pub with them and having a...wait for it.....conversation. Dear lordy, I think it may be time to get out more.
I may have to get the house just to escape the infernal music-making. Don't get me wrong, I am no philistine, but there comes a point where the line is crossed. And we are so far away from the line now that 'the line is a dot to you!'. My heart dropped atleast a couple of near fatal millimetres I swear when it was announced that yet another instrument was to cross the kirk threshold. 'Hurrah! A keyboard for £25? Bargain! Go for it! Just don't get your hopes up, it may not be quite up to scratch...', increasingly hopeful 'Also, they may have a lot of offers, it may have already gone...' clutching at straws in desperation 'It could well have keys missing or some other defect...'And so I know have the same bleeding line of a self-penned ditty of N's filtering into my room day and night, gradually inching me over the edge and ceaselessly prodding me into realms of insanity. You have to admire his unflinching, undiminished determination though. Last week a mini-Monet, this week a mini-Mozart. Never ones to do things by halves, us Kirks.
Aaahhhhh... That was a sigh, not a scream, so fret not dear reader. I'm ready for a little sleep after being treated to tea and cake by A (oh, the joys of having a friend avec automobile), and now that my shoulders have been prised down from around my ears in knots of turmoil and stress. So much for attempts at being cool and blase about impending oral; the tension and downright fear made itself evident through means other than mental breakdown and instead crunched my neck muscles, and twisted sinew. Mind you, the whole french (shudder, even the mention of the word makes me break out in hives) oral build up was far from histrionics free, as is the kirk way, the brunt being borne by the surprisingly unfased and dependable stalwart of pops. Mental note: really need to work on the whole procrastination issue, I really should know this by now. Guess I'm just putting it off. But, and mark this comment as it will most likely not make a repeat appearance, Mr R came good. A wholeheartedly relaxing, stress free, and dare I say it, successful experience. Well, for a sheer terror inducing, heartstoppingly scary, brain frazzling exam that is. Ritual burning of oral notes and french ramblings will occur this evening, complete with victory dance.
I am planning the Wednesday evenings of all Wednesday evenings. Newspaper (the interesting, superficial section as opposed to the serious issue based news bits that require thought, sympathy and a tuned in brain of course), luxurious bath complete with bubbles galore and hefty magazine, cup of tea with macaroon, and saving the best till last, the great modern miracle that is Neighbours. God bless Bree, Stinger and all the other spiggin' hufters. Parfait. And the cherry on the top is that I don't have to feel guilty about these indulgences as the french oral is o-v-e-r. No more exams for, ooh...atleast five days.
Lie ins, frantic and intense Currie sessions, mindless reading of unimproving literature, daytime tv, and pencil sharpening in preparation await in all their bounteous glory. Study leave (a contradiction in terms if ever there was one, is any 'study' going to take place for the vast majority? I cynically think not), I salute you.
Hmm... I wonder if there's a blank sudoku kicking around this haven of industrial activity and hotbed of intelectualism (quite literally actually; it is more than a little toasty and airless, perhaps beneficial to the molding of minds) that is the LRC. Is that Leach Ridden Circus, or Lame Reading Cage, or indeed something entirely different I muse as I head off for lunch.
Have grabbed a rare free computer before a snivelling, socially inept year nine has a chance to obtain it and proceed to spend thier whole lunchbreak/skived lesson playing on some online game with noisy, retina-offending graphics or learning elvish off the internet or whatever it is they do instead of venturing into the real world, becoming prey of bullying chavs and the butt of everyone's jokes. Bless 'em. However, having managed to actually get one, absolutely nothing of any use is being accomplished and I am merely using it as yet another diversionary tactic to avoid such horrors as LEARNING MY ORAL. I thought maybe putting that in capitals would shock me into doing it. But it didn't.
I may use this vast recepticle of data and information galore to do a bit of research on universities though; constructive and invoking of fulfilment in a studious manner yet not actually requiring me to face doing any real work/revision/staring uncomprehendingly at sheets, photocopies and my own unintelligable scrawlings. Although, looking at unis may be just as scary and unnerving as looking at straining folder of the past year's work, as going on to further education requires me to actually get through this stage first. Hmmm... bit of a bugger that.
But atleast I'm here- a lot of the crew have just left for spoons. Now that's hardcore. S's Birthday must be celebrated in style though.
The biggest sod's law I have ever had the misfortune to experience trampled well and truly through our morning today. Due to a flash of inspiration sent from above, the grand present for S's 18th was to be a phone. Her old one merely had to be looked at before exploding into a thousand pieces and having to be reassembled before any use was to be got out of it. A super-duper, high tech, uber-sophistocated one was identified (know nothing about these communication device thingymajigs so couldn't tell you what type) and paid for, after extensive research into whether or not she would be receiving one from anyone else. But horror of horrors! The exact same phone was given to her by her sister, only a couple of hours before our's was presented. Damn and double damn. To say the least. But S is of a sensible nature and could see the thought and gesture of immense proportions was there. The money will probs go on Fosters. A fair exchange.
Right, focus. Back on track. Uni research. Discovering that everything is ridiculously complicated, expensive, daunting, and well beyond my means needs to be attended to. Followed by learning french. God, I need a coffee. Maybe I'll go meet R in the cafe instead.
The moment when it is realised that the point of no return is in the dim and distant past, is when everything seems to smell and taste of concentrated alcohol, even the air being thick with it. Nostrils, ears, and tongue furred with it. Warm, chemical, cheap plonk- yummo. When I start to really dislike the taste yet am drinking it regardless, the problem stage is reached. Not quite drunk enough to not care that I don't like it, yet sufficiently intoxicated to not be willing to stop pouring it down my throat. Though these days, now I am an old woman and going out for the evening is an anticipated treat, a couple of glasses and I'm ready for a little nap. Aww, bless, one might think. Actually it's bloody irritating. Mind you, did give P a bit of a surprise when she found me 'resting my eyes' in a big pile on her bed which proved amusing.
My new favourite drinking game, 'I have never...', provided some very interesting revelations and copious amounts of giggling. The brilliance of the game lies in that the dirtiest peeps end up the most pissed, whilst those of us of virtuous nature can watch on with, marginally more sober, amusement. A few red faces resulted, yet no judgements made of the more scandalous discrepencies divulged amongst friends. Did make me feel a little too angelic however, I think it's about time the more devilish side (if I indeed possess one!) made an appearence.
I love how M can get so embarrassed and paranoid about such meaningless things, but just not care one iota about what anyone thinks of her unique and expressive dancing. The wildness, intenseness, and crackers nature of it is totally absorbing and I could watch it all day in the manner of a screensaver and the like. The fact that she is in her own little world, just doing it because she wants to and that's what she feels like, makes it so admirable and mesmerising. What a dude.
Thank goodness I was upstairs and out of harm's way when C expressed his manliness in the most primitive of ways, otherwise I would have been quite stripped (no pun intended) of my innocence. Though the laws of probability dictate that (as thus far I have managed to avoid it) due to the frequency of prementioned event, it is inevitable that my mind will be polluted with the image in due course.
For somebody who feels so wildly inadequate for the majority of the time, I am a bit of a goody two shoes. It is twice now, in only a few days, that I have been one of very few who have been present in timed essay lessons. I suppose I always feel better afterwards, safe in the knowledge that I have done the right thing and have gained more practice and useful experience than certain contemporaries, but at the time I just feel annoyed that I didn't have the forethought to skive. I hope I'm not in danger of becoming one of those self-rightious prudes that put themselves up on a pedestal in all their nauseating glory. A fate worse than... detention for ducking lessons.
Sitting outside the school with P and S (how oldskool is that?) in brilliant sunshine, bitching about each and every person that deigned to cross our field of vision, and all was right with the world. It doesn't get much better than that. Until the bell went for French of course.
Jeez, hormonal teenage boys- can't live with 'em, sure could live without 'em (though i'm sure a more boring, if peaceful, life would be lead in this case). Whoever came up with the theory that men are the uncomplicated sex has obviously never come across the kirk menfolk. At the drop of a hat, or the mention of cheese as I have discovered at my peril, the pleasant young charmer sitting before me can transform, hulk like, into a testosterone fuelled adolescent nightmare. There is no telling when this beast is to be unleashed, no warning signs, so the recipient of the venom is left utterly stupefied and not a little shocked. A full-blown diva fest of the highest order provoked no ill-feeling or, indeed, the merest reaction from the lucid, resting boyform of the soon to be teen, yet a misplaced (though witty, if I do say so myself) remark has me marked out as the enemy of the day. Whoops.
Let us hope that the transformation is reversable and, as promptly as it first occured, the moment the suffix 'teen' is dropped from their ages, the boys becomes serene again. I fear this may be wishful thinking however, with those adorable whippersnappers with puppy-dog eyes, moist with innocence and expectation, long gone and firmly in the past. Alas. Yet a new streak of interest and another dynamic layer is added into the grand scheme of things; three teenagers (not without their issues), a menopausal mother, mildly eccentric recluse of a father, three aging cats (with their own intricate family workings) and several gazillion bacteria and other parasitic life forms running amok in the grime, adolescent muck etc all under one roof does not make for passive entertainment or dull moments. How enriching.
For an obsessive control freak such as myself, I find it stupidly easy to live amidst vast quantities of yuck. Table corners must be perpendicular to furniture, cushions must be arranged and plumped just so, there is absolutely not a chance in hell that snotty tissue can be placed there, and on no terms whatsoever can you sit like that. But dust can layer thickly atop every surface, scrappy bit of paper, nook or cranny, my non-existent filing system can diffuse itself all over the shop, and (brace yourselves in anticipation of disgust) toenail clippings can nestle happily in hair-strewn carpet. What is that all about? I'm blowed if I know. If I could click my fingers and live in pristine cleanliness I no doubt would, but as this unfortunately not an option (though not for wont of trying, naturally) life is just too bloody short.
On the subject of control, what I had been so terrified of actually seemed to give me a greater sense of control and was almost empowering. It was like I had seen the light, or felt the 'click' Brick so yearns for in 'Cat...'. A tide-turning moment if ever there was one. Though I felt sick, it was in that satisfying way; satiated. Though for christ's sake don't let the A hear. Haven't quite got my head around it yet, and still finding my feet (god, could I include any other parts of my anatomy?) but i foresee good things. I am buoyed up, and ready to tackle. Fingers crossed my nerve is not lost.
Time for a beechams methinks, anything to stop the sheer persistance of this dratted phlegm.
New record: posted my 20 pences into coffee machine (at a rough estimate, note I was hightly aggravated at the time) 23 times before they registered. An all time low, or high depending on outlook, on the epic quest to obtain a caffeine fix. Scummy coffee machine: 1, Anna :0
Perhaps it was trying to tell me something about my caffeine intake, all that stimulent pulsing through my veins etc. But frankly, the fact that I'm prepared to guzzle exhorbitant quantities greedily is a speck of hope currently, weighty with significance. So, if the bleeding machine cooperates, plastic cup crap with a gritty layer of scum (perhaps capuccino aspirations) will continue to pass my lips.
It is all well and good being able to reference such things as 'Paradise Lost', 'Anatomy of Meloncholy' and 'Ulyssus' in a literary and intellectually offhand manner, but where the skill lies is in interspersing all this pretentiousness with contrasting works such as Harry Potter, Jilly Cooper and 'Each Peach Pear Plum'. Literary snobbery really gets my goat. If something is only being read to thereafter be quoted and referred to with the sole intention of looking clever and cultured then the act is not justified. If enjoyment is not gained by sitting down to read something with a mug of coffee, surrounded by squashy cushions, then there is not a jot of point to it. Not one jot.
Without fail, last lesson on a Tuesday the torso tremblings take effect. I should really know this by now, yet it always seems to catch me unawares. I cannot stand uncontrollable physicalities (stubbon hair kinks, foot cramp, eye twitches etc) but the torso tremblings really take the biscuit. In the aftermath of lunch, in the quiet, humidity of the year 9 (and all the odours that go with them) vacated classroom, they strike. Sitting next to R, who closely looks over my notes so is therefore an inch away, I try to ignore them and feel the hot blood come to the surface of my immobile face. Just as Currie makes a profound point that blows everyone away and an awed silence decsends on his young wards, my chest chooses to object with a groan. The more uptight and tense I become about it, the worse the effect. I cannot relax into the usual furious, ferociously scribbled notes, but remain upright, only moving my eyes out of fear of disturbing the inner indigestion monster. R must think I'm a lunatic. I don't know how others can take all these weird and wonderful workings of the human body so lightly; many openly belch, hiccough, and worse besides, yet I cannot experience an inner creak like rumble without being paralysed with mortification. If I just went with the flow and and embraced bodily functions, they probs would not occur in the first place. Yet I remain a prude.
It is odd that often one can see a murmour of beauty, or something of admirable worth, in oneself (such as a flash of an eye in flattering shadow glimpsed in a wing mirror, or a well placed foot arching attractively) yet it is so easy to feel such a mess such a lot of the time. A fresh injection of novelty is all it takes to not feel grotty, whatever it may be, large or small. Merely adding a coloured streak to hair, introducing a new silver studded piercing to an ear, or newly painted nails can give a little lift and keep one in better spirits for atleast an uplifting moment. Not quite being able to put one's finger on the something that is making us feel a little brighter, that anticipative feeling and knowing that atleast something is a little improved, is unparallelled. Having anything new can have this effect. Even knowing that a new blog could well be created this evening.
'Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain'
John Keats
Keats, though bonkers in many respects and with a penchant for gothic extremes and 'demon-moles', was a man after my own heart when it came to dreams. Despite me actually coming after him, but no matter. There is a ceratain safety, and thus a comfort, to be derived from experiencing no pain or displeasure when sleeping or fantasising (though arguably nightmares cannot be said to be a barrel of laughs), and one is free to be immersed in whatever path is taken be the mind, independant of experience. This lack of actual experience and true reality does, I admit, hinder one in sensing joy also but who needs this when completely enveloped in unthreatening and soothing nothingness? Being rudely awakened (especially be mechanical beeps) destroys the effect and forces the realisation that the tedium must be faced. Not that it is all tedium; it just seems that way when the wonders of dreams have been so suddenly interrupted and the process of waking is forced upon us. Anything can happen in dreams, things far beyond the possibilities of real life, and I refuse to believe that to live in a fantasy world, where evrerything is vivid, colourful and ceaselessly amazing, is to live a half-life or a somehow lesser existence than one entrenched in the mundane and trivial. If my mind could always be concerned with exactly that, my mind, then all blotches and taints could merely float away.
As dreams need some basis in reality (for what else could they be modelled on?) they are therefore an extention of our experiences, and as a result broaden out minds. Surely a healthy thing.
In creating dreams we can avoid disappointment and make everything as we would wish, so even if the reality fails to enrapture, lives can still be enriched. Half the fun in planning and plotting is the fantastical imaginings of what is to come. The images conjured by this process are often enough to satisfy, even if they are never carried out, or end up turning out differently. I remember my previous anticipation and the settings I then created in this anticipation often more vividly than the event itself. And that is the magic of it.
My 18th could be crap, but this would not matter as I currently have a fantasy of it being a beautiful evening. And at the moment that is lovely and, frankly, sufficient.
Speaking of harsh reality, I must check to see if there is spinach in my teeth (apologies for the cliche, but who can help what they have for tea if they don't wish to cook?). Until next time, when deepness and profundity will do it's best to be avoided. What a pretentious loon.
