31 January 2007


I'm in the middle of a slightly psychadelic experience (if things can indeed be 'slightly' psychadelic) which has rather put me off course what I was intending to blog about.

I lit some incense to create ambience. What has in fact been created is a gagging, thick smoke stream headed straight for my face, filling my nostrils with a burning perfume. Not ambience. I think I'm experiencing an air flow malfunction, thus rendering the calming, settling qualities I wished to evoke, through the lighting of said incense, an eye-watering fug of surreal, blue-tinged smoke spirals, reminiscent of centaurs, gryffins, nyads and the like.

Nyads are all well and good, but they are beginning to make me feel a little woozy... and lightheaded... and... and...

Right. Smoke abated, and incense extinguished with a soft 'phut' between fingers. Can once again think clearly. No wonder N's the way he is. He goes through packets of the stuff, he must have centaurs coming out his ears. No space for room tidying or dishwasher emptying therefore.

Can't for the life of me remember what was going to be in this post now. Something about what a bitch Scarlett O'Hara is, how undeniably cool Rhett Butler is (ignoring all the misogyny etc of course), and how the Library Fascism is getting increasingly out of hand and, yes I'll say it, positively dangerous. But another time chaps. The old brain's atop a gryffin.

24 January 2007


Weeks, nay, months of work came down to just two measly hours, two measly questions, and two measly essays in a freezing cold hall.

Can now ceremoniously burn all notes for English. Hurrah! Ritual burnings of educational material! A pyre of improving works, brought to mere ashes!
Except I can't, as may have re-sits. No burning satisfaction therefore.

No matter however, as some lasting impression was gleaned in the form of a few jolly quotes, immortalised in my mind from repetition and frequent use, forever branded on my brain. These are my favourite...

His urine is congealed ice - summons the pleasantest of images

The rebellion of a codpiece - always amusing

Man, proud man, dressed in little brief authority - sounds impressive, and a little epic

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river - another comical innuendo

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall - my favourite epic quote, almost Lord of the Rings in tone I think

Th'impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies and strip myself to death as to a bed - that Isabella is a kinky one; it's always the quiet ones

By God, I was a lusty one! - she says it like it is, that Wife of Bath

By very force he raft her maidenhead - who knew rape could sound so poetic?

I could not withdraw my chamber of Venus from a good fellow - pick up on a running theme?

As a bittern bumbleth in the mire - I just like how this sounds. God knows what it means.

So, you see, something was learnt. Even if it is that the majority of all English literature is sex-obsessed. So that's why so many boys take it in the sixth form.

17 January 2007

Some things I would like to know

Why I am currently allying myself with technology and the modern craze of blogging instead of being an ancient historian and doing the essay that I very much need to do.

How old Clenny actually is. And if the undertaker should be on speed dial.

What imperialist triumphalism is.

The reasons behind having yet another Celebrity Big Brother.

The reasons behind anybody actually watching Celebrity Big Brother.

Why there is about a million and twenty six themes in 'Measure for Measure', and only two in 'The Wife of Bath': sex and more sex.

How Zach Braff is not beloved by all and praised as a God by some small tribe.

Why it isn't allowed to read the paper in a certain section of the library, despite reading quietly and not disturbing anybody, and having to relocate to the 'Newspaper Reading Section'. For crying out loud.

Why I seem to be the most blasphemous heretic alive whenever in the presence of a religious person. By the way, have a good joke: Jesus checked into a hotel. He had a handful of nails and asked 'Can you put me up for the night?'

What the point of an AS level in Critical Thinking is.

What the mysterious illness is that TimmyB is suffering from.

Why I have still not started that freakin essay.

10 January 2007


January really is the deepest, deepest pit of despair, from which only the scrabbling of tiny little desparate arms trying ever so hard to climb out, and the faint, hopeless screams of those who have unwittingly fallen into said pit can be heard.

Only been back at school for three days and already reassessing my former 14 year old relationship with education. No longer going steady that's for sure. Things that have gone amiss so far include...

The loss of planner (though has since been found so structure, memory, life will not, in fact, collapse into wallowing mass of nothingness. Which is a relief)

Lent copy of Juvenal to J, who has of course screwed it into ball, scribbled all over it, chewed it up and spat it out since, refusing to ever return it as claims it is indispensable to him. What I am supposed to do for the Juvenal essay is of course inconsequential and remains a mystery.

Complete and total disappearance of only good Ancient History notes made. Though suspect they may be in shreds at bottom of J's bag also.

Am going to end up in a Preston-like nightmare of a uni, due to nobody saying 'look at this amazing individual, we must snap her up'. Absolutely no sign of any acknowledgement from UCL, yet J has interview down there. He has already been offered place at Oxford so that is just plain greedy. Jeez. He never does any goddamn work anyway, just copies mine, steals my notes, and generally crushes me with his laissez-faire intellectualism. Phew, that was somewhat of a rant. Though necessary.

Accused of being a know-all. Well not in so many words. But only 6 in our philosophy class and I am always first to crack in the awkward, bottomless, everlasting silences when asked class questions, despite everyone knowing the answer. Not an eager, precocious type really, just need to fill the silences. But it is always with my own, tedious, rambling voice. The teacher requires me to not be quite so vocal. Oops (she whispers)

No sign of TimmyB. Still cuckoo then. And us still going to fail philosophy then.

Heavily involved in a ceilidh. Which is the height of cool. But is for Human Rights and Fair Trade. And we're going to the pub after. Also, on a related topic, still only 4 members of Fair Trade so seem to be required as a driving force. Despite me totally feigning any sense of authority or relevant knowledge.

One half of lovely couple I know is being forced against will to return halfway across the world, thus breaking them up once more. Tragic star-crossed lovers. Sad.

Mr S told a truly dirty joke. Which is always disturbing. (despite sniggers)

So, to sum up, January really is the pits.