Just when it looked like a whole class were going to be wiped out in one fell swoop due to unexpected energy-sapping heat, eye-poppingly painful Pompey trivia boredom (and I'll passus on Crassus too thankyou. It can't be said that I rate-o Cato either, and as for Cissero? I'll give him a missero. Sorry. I'm stopping now) and having to look upon Matthew 'sociopath, sneezy, psychotic' Henderson's new pudding basin hair-do, an absolute gem saved us, one and all.

'Sorry I'm a little more hesitant than usual. I'm just having to translate from the latin'

Oh Strict Keith, your intellect knows no bounds.

Having been reading from a little, age-yellowed paperback for the past half hour in his stuttery, stammering manner, studded with deviation and diversion as normal, it had passed me by that this font of knowledge was fluently deciphering the ancient language of the Romans and making it intelligible to us. Although I shouldn't be surprised he speaks latin so naturally (aside from being a latin teacher of course) as I keep forgetting that he was actually there at the time of Caesar the Roman geezer. He may even be the great man himself, though using the pseudonym Strict Keith in order to lie low obviously. I don't think the publicity would agree with him if he was to be found out- he doesn't strike me as the kinda guy to revel in giving exclusives to 'Hello' and the like. A duddery old Ancient History teacher is the perfect disguise, as well as him being able to pass on his first hand knowlege too. Genious.




Neighbours withdrawel symptoms in full flow. It's been four days cold turkey now, and I'm feeling the effects. All the 'G'day's, 'Spiggin' hufters' and 'No worries' are working their way out of my system. Henman and Beckham can stuff it, taking their balls with them. 'Bring back Breeeeeeee!' I say. I am Anna, and I'm a Neighboursaholic. And not ashamed to say it no less.

Questions

Why are some people more susceptible to midge bites than others?

Who gets the money when people buy plots of land on the moon? Where does that odd sock go everytime a wash cycle finishes? What is Doctor Who's first name?

What function do earlobes have? Why do you always most want to do what you're expressly told not to? How come those with the most money are the ones given things for free, when it is them who could most afford it?

Why is it bad manners to eat with your fingers and not cut things up except in the case of asparagus? Why do the top of tights always rest under your armpits, yet the crotch rest somewhere about your knees?

Why is it that the people who describe themselves as 'totally mad, me' are in actuality the most dull? Ditto, 'bubbly'?

Why, when eaten, is pig called pork, cow called beef, sheep called lamb, yet chicken remains chicken? Why do you always spill things when wearing white? Why does it always rain the day you wear your hair loose?

Why do people talk in baby talk to their pets when they can't understand our language on any level? Why, as we come to it, do people speak in baby talk to babies?

How come parents are always wrong, especially when they are right? Why is watching somebody fall over and experience embarrassment and pain so funny? Why is the sidekick always the clever/funny/endearing one?

What do English people sound like to foreigners when speaking their language? Why are there often more irregular verbs than regular ones?

Why do bad things happen to good people? How did 'bad' come to mean 'good'? Why do people order the Hawaiian pizza then pick off the pineapple?

Why is it that the people who need the most help are the ones who find it most difficult to ask for it? Why do things that are bad for you taste so good and things that are good for you taste so bad? Why is medicine so unappetising when it is what is going to make you better?

How are you supposed to find any answers when all there seem to be are questions? There is an infinite number of questions; is there a finite number of answers?

And why on earth is the word 'bum' so endlessly and universally hilarious? Snigger.

Ting! Ommm....

'Oh, and bowing. Yes, yes, we do a lot of bowing'

Things I think about whilst meditating, when am supposed to be thinking of nothing at all:

1. What I am going to wear tomorrow
2. Why I have 'Wake Me Up' by Wham in my head
3. Whether the knot in that wood most resembles a tortoise or Ian Hislop
4. Possible lyrics and stage direction for the concept 'Midsummer Murders: The Musical!'
5. Pins and needles
6. Amusing tummy noises
7. Thinking about nothing at all. Therefore am thinking. It's a vicious circle
8. The latest plot development concerning Bree (all hail Bree Timmins! etc etc) in Neighbours
9. Blog entries

Note to self: meditation needs work

Anna Airhead

I have been living a lie.

I am having an identity crisis.

And I have cotton wool stuck to my head.

As you may have gathered things are serious. After being of the impression all my life that I Am A Reader, I fear I may be mistaken. I have lost my power. All that is left is dorky, bespectacled Clarke Kent. Yet it is Superman, pants and all, who is needed.
Perhaps an explanation is needed. On being asked to come up with an anthology of six pieces of text attatched to a mere modicum of 'literary merit', I am at a loss. Me. The pretentious spoon who dares to connect the illustrious term of Reader to her name. Shameful.
Admittedly it is more the theme of prementioned anthology that is the blighter, not the texts themselves (those, after all, can be searched for on Google or the like. Don't worry, don't worry, literary parents of mine, only joking).
Of course I have a whole pile of books just waiting for me to devour and mentally digest. It sits mournfully by my bed, Joseph Conrad willing me to scan his rich prose, Oscar Wilde yearning for his wit to be appreciated. All the while I am guiltily, yet resolutely, ignoring their pleas. I keep meaning to read them naturally, it's just that the more pressing issue of becoming an absolute philistine and airhead bimbo calls for almost constant attention. And I let people think I am a well-read tycoon of the classics and critic of contemporary works. All a fabrication of alarming proportions.

I shall have to go and console my mortification steeped being by flicking through 'Heat' (only looking at the pictures of course) followed by an episode of Big Brother whilst painting my nails.

By the way, the cotton wool is due to me scratching a spot. There are times when youth is a favourable factor and advantageous beyond comprehension. This is not one of those times.

The Corruption of Strict Keith

Just for the record I feel I need to document that it has now been confirmed that the boy known as David...David Who? does exist.

After months, perhaps years, of hearing about this elusive character, so much of a none-entity that his surname is a matter of perpetual mystery, a rear view glimpse was captured a few days ago. Furthermore, an actual phonecall from the enigma that is this thirteen year old was received today by ma, in reference to meeting N (at the life-affiming joy that is the middle school summer fair no less, at which a great deal of e-numbers and musty-smelling junk is always consumed and acquired).

Of course I still have no actual proof that he is a living, breathing, real-life character (Despite N being adamant that 'he is one of my best friends, I've known him for aaaages!'), as the glimpse could have plausibly been anyone of xy chromosomes and the right side of puberty. And a voice on the end of a phoneline could hardly constitute as evidence that would hold in court. In fact, the more I think about it, N could well be constructing an elaborate con. He wasn't present at the time of the phonecall after all. Hmmm... Requires further investigation methinks.


I think I may have possibly encountered the poshest person alive. Known to all as Strict Keith, he is a vision in smoky-coloured tweed and impressionist painting ties, and is the type who can derive endless chuckles from little anecdotes concerning Roman emperors and finds his subject infinitely fascinating. I hardly need add that he is of course a history teacher of the ancient variety (in terms of period and his own age). In fact I am sure we can cite him as our source material in exams as he was evidently present at the rise of the Roman Empire. Which is why his knowledge is so extensive no doubt.

Adorably stuttery and well-meaning, he stumbles through his clipped Oxbridge vowels and befuddling latin names nervously, never having been faced by such a large class of gormless, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, empty-vesselled troglodytes. Having originally come from teaching at a boys public school, then being a recluse in the toppermost tower of the Hydro building, teaching a mere handful of latin fluent prodigies, he has now been thrust into the throes of the state school in all its glory. I don't think the poor chap had even ventured out of his 4 foot square office on F floor, before having to contend with year 12 Ancient History.
All credit to him though. He handled the onslought of newly evolved charv (a new generation of them seem to have emerged, ruder than ever before, in the blink of an eye. I don't know where I've been, but this new elite charv army seems to be growing) barging into the poorly equipped, peeling classroom our humble class had been allocated to, demanding to 'lend' chairs whilst sporting multicoloured tramlines down the side of their heads as a kind of war paint.
However, when faced with the white board situation, he had not realised that teachers really ought to carry around their own pens as it is rare that there will ever be any actually at hand. An unfortunate incident with a permanent marker followed.
He has obviously never had to do anything practical in his life (that is all probably taken care of by Mrs Strict Keith, if there is such a woman) as, when another board in another classroom required wiping, he stood and stared at it for some time, scratching his head in puzzlement, before asking somebody to deal with it for him. He will learn soon enough I am sure. The innocence of the private system will duly be corrupted.
Am loving him though; once the awkward initiation phase is over I am sure the banter (of the intelectual kind naturally) will be in full flow.
That's if he hasn't had a shock induced stroke of course.

Shucks

Prepare yourselves for some sentimental soppy stuff guys. I usually steer clear of nauseating scenarios, not wishing to indulge in any stomach turning sap (with the obvious exception of such masochistic epic films as 'Love Story' or 'It's a Wonderful Life') yet this could not be shied away from. It is utterly adorable, in the least patronising way possible naturally, and tres tres sweet in a satisfyingly gooey way. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...drum roll please... N's song. Written for none other than moi no less. Plucks at the heart strings as well as the acoustic guitar strings.

I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me through the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say, to say...
Thank you

It's been a journey to remember
I won't forget, don't you forget
So I'd like to say to say
Thank you


I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me throught the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say,to say...
Thank you

Take a deserved bow Bob.
Well who'd have thunk it. It makes me go positively pink with embarrassment. When next winding him up or embarking on a fisticuffs with the young ragamuffin one must remember the sensitive poet within, prone to exploring his evident artistic temperament with flair and finesse. Yes, will have to remember this very frequently indeed. Anyhow, I figure that I am merely providing inspiration and fuelling his art when in the midst of passionate embroilment.

Almost as good as scrabble

I have come up with a new game. It can be played by any small gathering, mixed in both age and gender, and is more than suitable for families. In fact this is preferable for the game to succeed to full effect. As a working title I am calling it 'It's All Relative', (subject to change when marketed)
The rules go a little like this:

1. Must be played around the dinner table (al fresco works just as well)

2. Whoever is talking must be interrupted, preferably with a completely unrelated topic, as soon as possible. Or just at the most crucial and poignant part of their vocal flow

3. If there is the merest suggestion or hint of hesitation then random guesses as to what is coming next must be shouted out clearly and unrelentingly, resulting in the frustration of original speaker and causing all threads to be lost

4. Wait until a particularly lengthy and intricate anecdote has been related to the group in it's entirity, then after five minutes, or a couple of conversations later, bring up the subject the anecdote touched on and demand to hear it again as you missed it. Act surprised and disgruntled when this is not met with enthusiasm

5. Choose a random couple of minutes, interspersed throughout the meal, to completely switch off, yet appear to still be listening. This enables you to then bring up topics that have already been covered in full. Even more effective when the switching off occurs during instructions being given, imperative to later events

6. Make at least one of your fellow players the object of your scorn and cause of immense irritation for the whole meal, (if especially skilled then could be applied to more than one other player) with this culminating in the odd shouted expletive or tearful squeal

7. Be accepting of jibes and winding up, laughing along amiably, willing to be a figure of fun, until suddenly turning this on its head and becoming a wounded victim, offended and very vocal of this

8. Always, always wait until everyone is finished their food (seconds and all), ready to move on to pudding, before refilling your plate so that the other players can sit and watch you eat

9. Repeat every story, instruction, or mere contribution to the conversation at least twice, saying it like it's the fist time it has ever been said in the history of man everytime you say it

10. Use physical irritants to unnerve other players also; don't merely rely on dialogue. Extreme slouching, lounging, stretching legs out under the table, elbows on table and in plates, kicking and placing feet on other players' chairs, inappropriate eye contact, and snorting whilst guzzling are all effective methods worth a try

The aim of the game is to still be at the table in fine spirits by the time all food is consumed, without having left in a blaze of anger, and to be able to retain even the most simplistic of social skills when mixing with the actual public.

This game is a favourite in our household and a regular fixture of an evening. A true ensemble activity, involving of everyone and the cause of hours of old-fashioned family fun. Give it a go.

Have just emerged from an extremely traumatising experience. One which it is questionable as to if I will ever recover.

Was completely abondoned by entire family for at least three whole (yes, WHOLE) minutes whilst trapped in the pantry, shouting myself hoarse. It may have even been five minutes; all time was lost track of as the horror of the situation was faced. Why, why, why would the light be on and the door wide open if there was not a person in the cavern of doom, as it shall henceforth be known, innocently unearthing a tub of icecream from icy depths of freezer? The ease at which I was plunged into darkness and imprisoned (the door only opens from the outside, somewhat of a design flaw) then promptly forgotten about was astounding.
Furious bashings at the door with the mop handle, not to break it down but to cause as much noise as humanly possible to notify someone, anyone, of my existence, ensued. Along with increasingly desperate bellows and, ashamedly, girlish shrieks.
My whole life flashed before my eyes as I realised I could well meet my doom within the gloomy home of biscuits, pulses and cleaning products, half decomposed on the floor, the terror of my final moments still evident on immobile, lifeless face, with the only chance of discovery being the cats mewing and whining at the crack in the door, alerted by the smell of rotting flesh.

Except, that wouldn't happen because as soon as we were out of tunnocks caramel wafers in the biscuit tin someone would have come searching for more in the pantry. Of course I realise this now. Now I am free and have a new appreciation for life and all that it encompasses. Now that I am once again within the world of mortals and no longer of cat food and ironing piles. But at the timeall I could think was 'WHERE THE #*@$ IS EVERYONE?!!'

You would have thought, on initiating the rescue of his only sister and giving her newfound hope in the human race, the saviour would have said a little more than 'God, what's all that shouting about?'

Lady of Leisure

Dig me chaps, Carrie Bradshaw eat your heart out. Only with marginally fewer fabulous shoes. But I'm working on it. Any family member can verify this; that is if they haven't broken their necks tripping over said pairs of shoes.


Anyways, getting into the Sex and the City lingo (of which I am now fluent unsurprisingly, i'm thinking about going cold turkey as weaning myself off the four fashionistas is proving unsuccessful), 'I couldn't help but wonder'.... what the hell to worry about now.
It has been so long since at least something hasn't been nagging away at my mind, incessantly eating away, nibble, nibble, nibble (say it fast enough and sounds funny, bit like nipple haha), nag, nag, nag, pressure, stress, tap, tap, tap like chinese water torture until... kaboom! She blows. I just do not know what to do with myself now that there is nothing to worry me, I think I thrive on it. Hmmm... will have to find something or will be at a loose end. Maybe I could worry about lack of worry. Hurrah! A brand new set of neuroses to focus on. Thank goodness for that. I was beginning to worry.

Talking to N on matters of philosophy and religion (which of course happens a great deal in this ever so cultured, bohemian, intellectual household, usually as we sit down crosslegged on our Ethiopian woven mats to bowls of tofu and quinoa whilst listening to pan pipes and breathing in incence fumes) is an interesting experience. Loving it how the idea of an all powerful divine being who created everything and who cannot be seen and could well be living in the clouds, with them snuggled around him/her like big squashy cushions, seems perfectly acceptable to him, yet the Bible frankly a ridiculous notion. The boy'll go far.

By the way, just a warning to all folks in the vicinity of the Kirk dwelling. Now the sun seems to have made an appearence (hello stranger!) the sleeveless red tank top has made a long overdue revisitation also. You know summer is well and truly arrived when the vibrant vest of archaic origin is dug out once more. Shield the eyes of the innocent, save yourselves. Alas, it is too late for me, my young mind was corrupted by it long ago. Yet it may be at least a couple more weeks until the chest (and slightly increasing tummy, though this is not mentioned since it was discovered that the poor lamb is a little sensitive about it) is bared in full. We live in hope.

Yet another diversionary ploy

Whoops. Have just watched an episode of Sex and the City. Whilst drinking whole pot of coffee. In bed. How did that happen? Oh dear, have once again suppassed myself in the procrastination stakes. Now if there was an exam in that then I would pass with flying colours. Was good though. Am totally living the high life with this miraculous contraption.

As if deciphering Descartes, contemplating Kant, and musing over Mills isn't enough, I still have stuffing my face to contend with. Dreaded Monday activities stop for no man, despite epic exams that are beginning to lose all proportion and swallow me up. It's enough to drive one to Spoons. Which I can do now. 'Cause I'm 18. Which I did last night in fact. No more quaking in my boots (or funky open-toed flats in my case) for me, glancing over my shoulder continually in anticipation of being thrown out, thoroughly mortified. Nope, I'm a grown up now. Didn't even get asked for ID. Bit annoying actually as was all prepared and was going to be rite of passage moment, poignant beyond belief. But I got a drink down me nervertheless. A legal drink. Even went and got a couple of the young'ns drinks (with their money ofcourse, my generosity has its limits), the poor souls, still a sober seventeen.

Isn't it funny when watching anything 3D, complete with super-sized specs, synchronised arm waving ensues, mexican wave-like. Sitting in a line at an iMax cinema, hands extended flailing around, wearing enormous geek glasses- a sight for sore eyes. The inevitability of trying to feel for objects leaping out of the screen is laughable. We live in a 3D world (obviously) yet don't go round with our arms in front of our faces in amazement. Always bizarre when watching 3D though, what with things flying at you and whatnot. Even grown adults duck and lunge in their seats. Ho ho ho. It's all an illusion chaps.
Speaking of illusions, enough with this nonsense and on with theories of perception. Or I could grapple with a bit of Plato. Or move on to another ancient, toga-ed up character from the old BC days. Beyond Comprehension that is. Don't understand a sausage. Right, onwards ever onwards.

Written on brand spanking new laptop, ooh la la!

Despite what people say, everybody naturally likes to receive more than they like to give, no matter how self rightous or charitable they like to think themselves. It's a universal truth. Well I had always been of that mindset anyhow. I'm not so sure after the astounding and overwhelming (merely being whelmed was but a distant concept to me in fact) and frankly ridiculous generosity of all that made the social event of the year so hot in rocked my socks. I mean what had I done apart from manage to make it to the momentous 18th year of my life? To get bombarded with gifts, kisses, showers of affection and whatnot for this is pretty cool; it requires absolutely no effort from me as I merely glide from May 30th to May 31st and whoosh! I am the main man. Was quite daunting actually, had to make the odd five minute escape to have a few games of solitaire. Phew. Can't cope with gratitude very well; either gush nauseatingly for too long, reminicsent of Oscar speeches, or look sullen and a bit rude as can't express how stupidly grateful I am so don't seem to bother at all. Unfortunately the gushing seems to happen with lesser gifts and the rudeness occurs with the ones that mean the most from the most important people. Irony, gotta love it.




Vast, vast improvement on previous party (clocking up a broken window, spilt tins of paint, curtain rail down, smashed picture frame etc etc) as we were all cleared up and back to normal by following mid-afternoon. Was like it had never happened. Pretty sure it wasn't a dream though. Even the parentals seemed to have a bit of a blast. Gave pa a drink quite early on and all was cool in that camp, and ma (being the social butterfly she is, as well as domestic marvel) was in her element. Once the champers was in full flow there was no looking back. J, chanelling the spirit of Brandon Flowers, worked the crowd, both when on stage and when mingling. And N was N, as ever and I wouldn't want anything less on my birthday. Even S, in his own unique way, showed his support and affection with not a little winding up but a whole lot of hilariosity. He is a one, what with his mind being the width of a hair and all. But the most amiable and endearing chavarama I have ever come across. Good crack was had by all methinks.

It will go down in the annuls of time as a not half bad night folks. Not half bad at all.