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.