They can do something right

Say what you will of the Americans, but they sure do have some great surnames.

Take, for instance, Horowitz, Zimmerman, Kowalski, Liebowitz, Kellog, Roosevelt, Brudwig, Rodriguez, Delfino, Abramowitz, Katzoff, Stefani, Duff, Gyllanhaal. It sounds as though a couple of young tykes, so enamoured with the experimental potential of language, spent many a happy hour just playing around with noises with delightful consequences. An auditory landscape of gems and idiosyncracies that just get better with repetition.

Before you say anything, I realise that these surnames are evident all over the world and have many different origins etc etc. But I doubt that they would all be together, say in a highschool classroom, in any other country but the US. Not the banality and blandness of multiple Browns, Joneses and Smiths for them. They shake it up a bit, have some variation, keep on adding syllables and obscurities in order to construct more unique marvels. Registration must be an event, a source of fascination each day.

In fact, I would even go so far to say that I would ditch all my ingrained feminist sensibilities in a certain case and actually agree to take a partner's name. Now hold your horses and let me explain. If I were to meet and fall for a guy going by the name of Kowalsky (and lets face it, that would probably be the reason I fell for such a guy. His first name would be something like Duane, Bud, Chip or Biff knowing those crazy kids across the pond) I would consider adding such a suffix to my own simple title.
Anna Kirk-Kowalsky has a certain ring to it I'd say. You know you would.

'Is it wrong to taste the milk and honey? Oh Moses, Mo-o-oses, Moses'

It's been a while but I have had a packed schedule of glancing distactedly and worriedly at my 'filing system' of revision notes behind my sofa, making cups of coffee and watching 'Loose Women'. It's been a tough old week.

However, there have been some highlights. And I am unfortunately not referring to those jaunty fluorescent pens that everybody insists are fantastic revision aids but actually are of no use whatsoever apart from giving the effect that New Rave slugs have been partying on your notes.

One such highlight involved a very surreal evening in Byker.
I mingled with the members of the education profession that fall under the hippy-dippy category at a pub that has a regular ukulele club.
I was bought a drink by an ex-supply teacher's second husband (her first husband used to be a vicar before converting to Islam, a decision which apparently 'had something to do with the bird he was shagging').
I was enlightened by my Philosophy teacher's band that consists of one dreadlocked hippy (said Philosophy teacher) on vocals/guitar/mouth organ/saxophone, one crazy-eyed hobbit in a Pete Doherty hat on vocals/guitar/violin, one skinny, spruced up trendy on keyboards and a bass player who seemed to have a dislocated, deformed hand when playing though admirably looked quite chipper about it. Plus there was the trumpet player (another Philosophy teacher incidentally) and the large female cello player who came on for the odd song. An eclectic mix of styles issued forth from the set, the most memorable song of the evening being one about Moses called 'The Promised Land'. An anthem for the modern age, it is a heartfelt power ballad that includes a reference to taking succour from milk and honey and is surprisingly catchy. Other notable songs were one about the stories of C.S Lewis and one in the blues style that calls on our 'supreme Lord'.
I was coerced into a peck on the cheek by hippy teacherwhen going to congratulate him, from which I though I would never emerge alive from within the mass of dreadlocks. Shudder. Still having the nightmares.
I danced to such classics as 'Cotton-eyed Joe' and 'I am the Music Man' as the bands cleared up.
I went on a trip round the whole of Byker (multiple times) and eventually made it to Kingston Park at 1 0'clock in the morning for provisions after getting horribly lost and confused due to the person giving directions being absolutely wasted after tallying up 13 drinks. Do not fear though, as we had 'The Promised Land' playing to get us through (we bought the CD at the gig). It's the kind of song that you have to close your eyes to when singing as it has so much meaning and passion to convey, and clenched fists have to accompany it as well as walking through some landscape involving a smoke machine.
I ended up in a hovel of a bachelor pad where Chinese alcohol was shot, a viser was worn at a hip angle, and chocolate ice cream was passed round the circle in a refreshingly communal fashion. God love the hippy scene.
Good times were had.

Little else of note has been going down this side of the hood.

Anecdotal Antidotes

In rare moments of clarity, when life, the universe and everything in it etc is seen in straightforward, black and white simplicity, it seems as though everything can be divided into poisons and antidotes.

Even when it looks like all hope is lost once a poison has been taken, such as in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in the opening sequence when Indie is looking all Bond-like and has taken a fatal substance which can only be cured by drinking the green contents of the infuriatingly small phial which gets lost in all the crystal and glass amongst some Chinese people and the restaurant singer decked out in red jewels, there is always an antidote and sometimes half the excitement is in the chasing of it. In fact it can often lead to a whole adventure in India, involving a wisecracking kid named Shorty, weird sacred stones, eating monkey brains and generally being the lesser film of an ingenius trilogy as evidenced by the Harrison Ford analogy.

Anyways, I shall illustrate my point further.

Poison: Boredom
Antidote: A swift episode of Sex and the City
(I'll start off nice and simple)

Poison: Lack of revision
Antidote: A swift episode of Sex and the City
(See, sometimes antidotes can cure multiple ills caused by poisons)

Poison: Feeling a bit meh* about turning nineteen
Antidote: Lunching at an art gallery with a mother followed by an afternoon at a fabulous vintage store where ball dresses are purchased and fashion dreams are realised. It does not matter what age one is when in this timeless cave of treasures, where everything is swathed in beads and scarves, glamorous mirrors abound, mannequin heads sport intricate and over the top head wear, shoes from all eras litter the floor and all is splendidly dazzling.

Poison: Nuts and infuriating people, putting one into nuts and infuriating situations
Antidote: All material for the comic novel

Poison: The awkwardness of a long term guest, and the efforts needed to seem halfway normal to said intruder
Antidote: Presents, especially french perfume
(Also the fact that the guest is an unassuming sweetie)

Poison: An exam
Antidote: Browsing in a book shop when plied with book tokens

Poison: Stingray dying in Neighbours
Antidote: ..................

Okay, for some things there is no antidote.

But my theory is otherwise infallible. And an uncharacteristically optimistic one.

*'meh' is a new and lovely word used to convey any feelings of blahness, shrugdom, or hmph-ing. Use it in a sentence today.

A Short Study of Folk Folk... (though a big well done, and sorry, to N)

The people of Hexham dug deep in their wardrobes (and capacity for community support and tolerance) for lumpy wooly jumpers and/or handstitched kaftan-like ensembles in preparation for a weekend of folk. The bearded and bohemian flocked in their droves to be vigorously fiddled and fluted until their eardrums were worn down and withered away with a little sigh.

Even I embraced the Folk Philosophy and sported an oversized knitted affair. One has to appear willing to fit in at events such as these; it is hard to tell the expressions of folk lovers due to the abundance of wild, untreated (unless with henna) hair that they are enshrined in, despite the ample use of scarves and hippy head wear, but I would hazard a guess that they convey anger and disgruntlement adequately towards those openly shunning their beloved music.

There is something mildly disconcerting about the way a seated audience mutely and motionlessly watch folk bands on stage, who in turn are motionless apart from whatever part of their body is required to produce instrumental sound. They stare out into the crowd, soulless and disturbing, with only a foot manically tapping in time, whilst the music is full of life, rhythm and vigour (even if every single tune is actually the same one repeated, I refuse to believe otherwise). It is fascinating.

Actually, I may be exaggerating slightly. There was the odd person in the audience who insisted on persistantly juddering out the beat, making the entire row of seats shake. That, and the infrequent half-hearted whoop from an embarrassingly 'in the zone, feeling the music' spectator.

In direct opposition to the dead-to-the-world players was the awe-inspiringly enthusiastic and animated host of the event. The word 'magic' was associated with the horrors of folk music no less than 17 times. Fact. And I lost feeling in my fingers due to the requests made for 'showing support' and thanking those on stage and generally celebrating the joys of musical collaboration, youth, high spirits and jigs. One more clap or mention of the 'wonderful power of making music together' and I would have been done for.

A woman behind me actually lent over to the girl seated at my rear (who, incidentally, had been one of the jigglers and whoopers) and said 'You know, it's a very good thing that you're crying. It shows the strength of emotional reaction to the music.'

I'll show her intense emotional reaction to the 'music'.

An Education

Life at school is a bowl of strawberries and cream.

Quite literally in the case of our last lesson with Clenny. Punnets were produced, complete with sugar for sprinkling, cream for pouring and spoons to cram the summery combination into grateful, fruit-smeared mouths. Pearls of wisdom from an experienced, if eccentric, source have been duly noted over the months, and now we are festooned with fare fit for Wimbledon? The man has class. One such pearl that was collected and stored away eagerly was that Augustus had a pet name for the poet Horace, and that name was 'Little Cock'. Thus ended our affair with Clenny.

The last week has come upon us, as has the sun, leading to long and lazy days sitting out in the grounds and avoiding revision. Perhaps this is why schooldays are referred to as the best of one's life. It is almost nauseatingly idyllic.

If the media is to be believed I should really be suffering both verbal and physical abuse at the hands of hooded, foul-mouthed yobs, be subjected to dire teaching as all the concentration is on the ADHD kids, have to hang around in bleak, grey concrete blocks of misery when not failing at the 'dumbed down' A-level curriculum and vandalising school property. Instead I am reclining on luxuriantly green grass beneath pituresque overhanging foliage, drinking (reasonably) fresh coffee from sixth form cafe mugs, watching frisbee and football, and having a bit of lighthearted banter with passing teachers as we wile away frees.

Sigh...

Of course, this is between having panic attacks due to failing exams, being suspended for being drunk at school in the morning, sneaking out for tabs behind trees and outside school grounds, being asked to move yet again from directly outside one of the rooms where GCSE's are going on, scrawling profanities unfit for repetition all over folders and books in despair at the true tedium of work, getting shaky from sugar highs due to all the sweets the teachers are loading upon us in the final lessons before breaking up, and being guilt-tripped into not attempting anything that could be contrued as harmful, destructive, or indeed fun in any way, on muck-up day (despite the clue being in the name).

It will all be mourned and sadly missed no doubt.

Last Orders

I have come across a new drink doing the rounds whilst on my extensive pubtastic travels. It tastes delicious, despite containing one of the most disgusting concoctions known to man: Southern Comfort. There must be some sort of chemical reaction that cancels out the yukness of this vile spirit. All I know is that it tastes goo-oo-ood. Lip smacking.
Ingredients: Southern Comfort (one shot for the already merry, two for those on a mission)
Shot of Lime
Ginger Beer to top up

I like. What I am not so sure about is the name. This amber brew, a tall glass of nectar, has been dubbed a 'Gatsby'. The intention, I presume, is conjure sophisticated images of decadent, swinging parties and to give the drink romantic connotations. Fair enough, but it doesn't quite fit.
When one thinks of Gatsby, one thinks of a pyramid of babycham glasses with bottles of champagne being poured lavishly over the top so that bubbly is overflowing over the rims, and flapper girls hold them precariously in one hand, cigarette holder in the other, whilst they dance the Charlston. Lickety spit.
I do not connect ginger beer with the suave yet troubled enigma that is Gatsby.
Just my two cents worth for those marketing chaps down in their underworld of consumer dictatorship and flashy suits.

If I don't end up being a mad old cat woman (as is foreseen) I should like to live in a castle type of place - or near enough, some pile of stones would do me as long as it looked stately - wearing knitted garments over satin or tulle frocks, woolen socks and slingback heels, copious amounts of pearls and gems, and stalk about drinking from babycham glasses filled with clear spirits or bubbly. The glasses would be slightly dusty and there would be silver champagne buckets dotted about to catch the drips from the leaky roof. I would draw my finger round the rim of the glass to make that haunting high pitched note that would resonate when I stood at the window, so the locals would grow suspicious of the old eccentric. I would think of Gatsby and his parties and how I used to drink a cocktail named after him.

The weekend starts here...

There are two answers to the question 'What did you do this weekend?', a different one given depending on the person asking and how I wish to come across. Both are true, though through omition and manipulation differ in the telling.

I was mostly home alone this weekend and used my time in ways I saw fit.

Answer a)
I finished 'Vilette' and started 'The Bell Jar'.
I wrote an Ancient History essay on how Augustus gained the support of the people and how effective this was.
I perused the Guardian Review section for snippets of literary inspiration and exploration whilst sitting out in the sun.
I composed a poem based on T.S Eliot's 'The Waste Land' for English.
I watched 'The Culture Show' and thought about the transience of blockbuster franchises and the rediscovery of the original Manic Street Preachers sound.
I lit candles and was enamoured of the second half of the arthouse film 'Bagdad Cafe'.

Answer b)
I drank so much coffee my hand began to shake amusingly, which I then proceeded to smirk at, fascinated.
I read every word of the Weekend, though starting with the fashion pages.
I played solitaire intermittently, but never for less than 35 minutes each sitting.
I read Glamour Magazine on the internet and looked at the celebrity fashion pictures.
I talked to the cat.
I watched 'Dr Who' whilst eating a (salt-laden and saturated fat injected) ready meal off my knee.
I lay in the garden looking at the sun through my fingers, making light patterns and causing blotches in front of my eyes, listening in to the neighbours conversations either side, whilst trying to stop the Review section of the paper from flying off in the wind.
I ate pints of ice cream straight from the tub, remote control furiously flicking in my spoon-free hand.

A solitary weekend well-spent. Whichever way you look at it.

The Creeps

He looks like the archetypal British tourist abroad. He is either anorak clad or sporting a fleece. He has the most enormous rucksack I have ever encountered. He is allergic to everything. And I mean everything - it is non-stop sneezes, sniffles, deafening nose-blowing, and throat-clearing. He is an expert on ancient battles, talking about armour, tactics, weaponry in excrutiating detail. And I drew the short straw today and had to sit next to him.

Few people actually make me physically shudder, but the Phlegm Dislodger (as he shall be referred to) invokes this reaction effortlessly. His leg, usually in some shapeless tracksuit bottoms or multi-pocketed combats, nudges right up close and shakes in a way that conjures thoughts of things I would rather leave unconjured. Dirty old man or sexually frustrated adolescent....yuk just doesn't cover it. He leans over close and breathes in my face as he asks me which source we're looking at or which page we're on. Spine chilling. At Christmas we were going to watch a video at the suggestion of the teacher, but the Phlegm Dislodger said loudly and firmly 'Am I the ONLY person here who actually wants to pass my exams?' Yes, yes you are, because the rest of us all want to fail miserably of course. So we spent the lesson working half-heartedly, with him to blame and the incident never being forgotten. Also, he knows Suetonius inside out and back to front, which should always raise suspicion and denotes an unsound mind.

Today a new revelation was made. He commented, in a series of distracted mutters, that a member of our class who was being rather vocal at the time should be 'tied up, gagged, thrown out the room and left there'. Charming. When this remark came to light there was uproar from the victim which resulted in the Phlegm Dislodger attempting sounds akin to chucklesome mirth and saying 'Sorry, I apologise for thinking nasty thoughts about you.'

I dread to think what goes in his mind. I bet he sits there in his disconcerting fidgety way running unsavoury thoughts through his brain about each and every one of us.

I understand that he's a bit of a loner and that often he's just wanting some social contact, but I can't help feeling a bit uneasy when he comes up and tells me that 'you look very nice today by the way, have you done something different? I really like you're scarf, I like scarves'. Or when he sees I'm doing ancient history on the computer and asks if I need any assistance, like he's the world expert on the subject despite getting crap results last year. I realise I should be a better human being and answer his cry out for a friend. But he kind of gives me the creeps. There, I said it. Bad person.

But somebody should not make you be a little bit sick in your mouth when they come too close.

Life Lessons a la Musicals

Knowing, as I do, that we all worship at the altar of St Julie Andrews, and that it is the Sect of The Sound of Music's holy light that is bathed in and revered above all on high in particular, converting multitudes from all backgrounds, creeds and sexual preferences who join the Musical Theatre flock to the sacred word (or should I say song) of Our Lady, Julie, I thought I would pay my respects by sacrificing this blog post in benediction. In short, the theme will be These Are a Few of My Favourite Things.

First of all I would like to state that I do have a certain fondness for raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and the like. A tear can even be brought to my eye (glisteneing upon my eyelash as dew clings to grass, sparkling under the sun's warm glow) by the arrival of a brown paper package tied up with string.
However, in order to prevent nausea and the need for sick buckets I shall swiftly move on to things that are marginally more stomach-settling and that actually are My Favourite Things...

Bohemian dressing rooms.

Being in the darkness of the cinema and forgetting where I am, that I am actually in public, due to being so totally immersed.

The warmth that comes with slightly sweaty pyjamas under the duvet.

Brushing my teeth the morning after the night before.

Having my feet prodded.

The view from the sitting room window just after it has been raining (that is a soppy one, granted, but only because it is like some vivid drug trip with all the colour and blurred edges).

The first sip of a glass of red wine when really comfortable and sleepy.

Green eyeliner.

Heated intellectual debate, usually regarding literature, when it doesn't bother me how pretentious or arsy I sound.

Proving people wrong when in heated intellectual debate.

Watching Sex and the City on my laptop at half 2 in the morning when the rest of the house is silent.

Looking through old photos.

Memories of Simnal cake.

Storms, with me on the inside.

Crying at some relentlessly weepy film so much it hurts to swallow and I have no inclination to wipe away the streaming tears.

Reading The Guardian, especially at the weekend.

Seeing people at those moments when they have no idea they are being seen, and they are all cute and childlike and look like they are a snuffly four year old again.

Our kettle.

Books. Fiction. The smell of old, yellowing paper. Feeling like I never want a novel to end.

Sitting on battered leather sofas.

Daydreaming.

Drinking Sally's Mum's special blend in Sally's house, with Meg the dog finally ceasing her growling and sitting on my feet.

The unity between siblings when fighting against parental authority in common cause and rare affinity with one another.

Clean sheets.

The list goes on and on...
I could provide endless material for the Von Trapps in The Sound of Music II. No doubt, after having tackled Nazis in the first one, the War on Terror would be solved by a problem like Maria. She would soften the opposition with images of warm woolen mittens.

Geek Chic

There are times when one* mooches (or even, if being positively wiiild, skulks) about doing the same old things in the same old way, with it never ocurring to oneself that the mooching through the quotidien of life would be regarded as odd, bizzarre or disturbing by any other party that may happen upon said mooching.

Then there are those times when the realisation hits that other people may not do things in quite the same way, or have the same priorities, principles or inherently held belief sysytems as oneself. In fact, they may even think one a wee bit anal or obsessive or just downright weird for carrying out these certain mooching rituals.

I am of course referring to Dr Who.

And this is so much more than a mooching ritual (the definition of which is most clear if I define through example: reading the Guardian Weekend magazine before late afternoon on a Saturday is a mooching ritual, as is using the half hour between The Simpsons and tea time to catch up on the blogs and witty websites). It is a fully established institution. It cannot be carried out in isolation, but must be watched by the family en masse (though in near complete silence naturally). It is an absolute priority, and the closest thing the Kirks are likely to ever accept as religion.

I had never even entertained the thought that every other family was not like mine in its true, dedicated following of the Timelord. But when I explain that I can't possibly go out to the pub until after the sacred programme I am met with either a little chuckle at the joke I have so evidently made (followed by an embarrassed cough as they realise I am deadly serious), or just wide-eyed bemusement. And so the lesson is learnt once more: not everyone is like the Kirks.

There are two types of people in this world. Those who realise that everything must, and should, be put on hold for the 45 glorious minutes of Dr Who, excepting nothing, and that totally get that nothing above the faint sound of necessary respiration can be uttered during this time, and understand the all-consuming shivery awe the theme tune invokes as the hypnotic title sequence hurtles us to other dimensions. And those who just don't.

Dr Who really is a unifying force. One that should not be underestimated. One that should not be missed by going to the pub. And one that is so cool it even advertises converse.

*By 'one', I of course mean me. But I am trying to be inclusive, and tar everyone with the same grubby brush as I tar myself. For this I apologise.

School Holidays

I face another moral dilemma.

There are so many throughout the day that one loses count, but this one is particularly pertinent. Mostly because I am reminded of it whenever I sit at my computer, or recline on my sofa (which, I am ashamed to say, now bears the imprint of my backside, rendering it even more difficult to peel myself off). The DVD of the book I am reading is positioned alongside my laptop, tempting me, imploring me, downright yelling at me to watch it.

To watch the film version before reading the novel? Sacrilegious! It is a Thing Not Done. I would regret it straight away.

But It's not like I wouldn't read the book. It's not a case of either/or. Just which to do first. Yet I know I couldn't bear to complete the book with my images of the characters, places etc besmirched and tainted with those of the film.

However, reading the book first prolongs the excuse of not doing any work whatsoever. If I have to read the book before I watch the film that is crying out to be viewed then getting down to anything else is prevented due to my ever-increasing list of Things To Do. Dilemma.

Somebody asked me yesterday, in a conspiratorial whisper, how the 'work' was going. I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, and looked bemused for some time. Then it dawned on me. They meant the pre-exam work I was expected to be doing. As in the life-defining A-level exam work. Ah.
I changed the subject.

The very same person, however, passed on a huge pile of Style magazines to me. It is cruel. Absolute cruelty to tempt me so. Will the constant stream of distractions and much more preferable occupations never cease their vicious, unrelenting attacks? Oh, the anguish of sunny afternoons! Oh, the torment of enticing literature and trashy magazines! What did I do to deserve you?!

Oh dash it all. I'm watching the bloody DVD. Glass of wine in hand, and chocolate accompanying me. If one is to sin, it will be in style.

Gno life like the Gnome life

I used to wonder how the streetlights would all light up at around the same time, and seemingly without any warning or human intervention.

It had to be magic.

The only explanation I could come up with was streetlight gnomes. Little men who were small enough to be settled in the base of the light, where it is slightly wider, and who had long poles that they would use to switch on the light at the top of the column when a pre-set alarm went off.
There would be a little community of streetlight gnomes, all using their poles to light up the country at the same time. In all likelihood there would be walkie-talkie system going on.

People often say that they would love to be a cat as it is such an easy life just to laze around all day, occasionly stretching and being stroked. But surely it would get a bit dull, not being able to read, converse etc (though I'm sure our cats do watch the t.v when it's on; nothing can resist or fail to understand Neighbours). No, I would much rather be a streetlight gnome. They have big squashy duvet covers in which they are swaddled cosily in, piles of books around them (both classics and lighter froth), the occasional glossy magazine, endless period drama dvds, hot fresh coffee on tap, with a thick and clunky mug to drink it out of comfortingly. And the only responsibilty they have is to twiddle their pole to activate light at a particular time.

Sometimes a streetlight is on in the middle of the day. Just the one, and for no reason. That's when I imagine the little gnome inhabiting that particular streetlight was so engrossed in his novel, all cosy and sleepy, he failed to hear the tuneful alarm alerting him to the time when his one job must be done.
And I sigh and think of how lovely it would be to be a streetlight gnome.

Egos a-go-go

I am sure that alter egos run amok in any given household. Characters we play when not being our regular selves. Or, indeed, exaggerated versions of those very real aspects that are normally hidden under the many layers of etiquette and dilution/delusion. Just as the Incredible 'you wouldn't like me when I'm angry' Hulk takes over Dr Robert Bruce Banner when provoked, we all have our inner monsterfications.

And there is certainly more than our fair share in this family. I like to think it reflects our obviously advanced and complex intellects, the deepness of the Kirk psyche, and the sensitivity of our souls. That, and the fact that we just get really mad sometimes.

So when the invoked spirit of Bob Dylan, or a bat (as in totally batty) is not the prime motivation of the actions of N, for example, his alter ego is a household smoke alarm. Let me elaborate; they go on and on and on for no good reason, not being stopped by any human means, until they have been ignored for long enough and have saturated every cell with the incessant wailing noise. Then it stops for no more reason than it began, bringing welcome and delicious silence.

Dad's is a dopey guard dog. Sleepy and content for the majority of the time, doing his own thing, occasionally scratching. Until he will pick up on some obscure scent and pursue it for all it is worth, barking and growling terrifyingly at it until satisfied, safe in the knowledge that some nod to the job he is supposed to be doing has been made. Then back to a nap. An alter ego that makes an appearence every so often as well, is a history teacher, David Starkey-esque in tone.

Harry Potter (an ever reliable source) holds the key to J's alter egos. It'll be Dobby one moment, babbling excitedly but incomprehensibly, Moaning Myrtle the next, complaints abounding. And then, of course, there is the Whomping Willow. Watch out is all I can say. Those branches can seek you out however careful you are, giving you a big old metaphorical smack in the face. These all switch from one to another like magic. Yet all these personas can be summed up rather more simply: Teenager.

Having so many fingers in so many pies, and being the epicentre of home life, it is inevitable that Mum has so many alter egos. There is Delia Smith (or Nigella Lawson if in a more adventurous mood), Beethoven (battling on despite deafness) and Napoleon (strategist and general extroadinaire, and often striking terror into the troupes, i.e us) to name but a few.

And mine? Well, my alter ego is the sedate clam.

A Plea, Will Self, and I

This week I have been mostly being a freedom fighter and culture crusader.

Whereas last week saw me flying the flag for Fair Trade in assemblies, it was the turn of freedom and the abolition of slavery to be ignored by a hall full of blank, sleepy faces each morning this week. On the bright side, I do get to use a microphone and hear my voice booming about me in a diva-like fashion at an ungodly hour. There are perks.



Today marks 200 years since slavery was abolished and has been dubbed Freedom Day. Happy Freedom Day to all! To show our support at school we put forward a plea for all those interested to contribute to our Freedom Wall (which, I suppose, should technically be a Flimsy Freedom Sheet, but same difference) and we were inundated. It was the lure of paint, and mess, and the association with first school frolics with handpainting that drew the crowds. What we were left with would not look out of place as an instalation piece at the Tate Modern. I have only just rid myself of the paint beneath my fingernails. The lengths I go to for a good cause (looking like a grubby street urchin/child from down t'pit), and the sacrifices I make (my gnarled fingernails) know no bounds. Let's just hope that they fail to notice that the permanent marker and paint went through to the corridor wall...


And so from the charitable and compassionate, to the downright Self-ish (see what I did there? Clever huh?). Who would have thought Hexham was such a cultural hotbed, a literary feast of sustenance to nourish us throughout the weekend. And the patron saint of grumpy himself, blissfully acerbic, sardonic, and laconic, Mr Will Self graced our humble theatre with his mighty presence. Decked in head to toe black, walking booted and sallow cheeked, he enthralled with his drawl. The 'creative writing' tinged tone of the festival surroundings paled into insignificance as he took to the stage.




What a dude. And we have an autograph. Not for sale on e-bay. J insisted on asking him what a dystopia was (a preoccupation and repeated theme of the talk). Will - and I feel that we are now on first name terms - gave him the same answer as I did. 'You know what a utopia is? Well, it's the opposite of that really'. J was determined to ask a clever question though, and I looked like a pillock, knowing fine well what dystopia meant and grinning blankly. I should have made some cutting remark, looked really grumpy, and asked him for a cigarette or something stronger. That's the Self style after all.


Poetry the morning after didn't have quite the same 'struck right between the eyes' effect. Flowers and singing birds just don't strike the same tone funnily enough.

Save the Polar Bears!

Sorry for going all political on your ass and all, but my speaking out on the controversial issues plaguing the planet today is long overdue. And I know that the world has been unanimously holding its breath regarding my thoughts on the state of affairs in these modern times...

Well, I got to thinking when watching 'An Inconvenient Truth' (though as 'Inconvenient' as it was, I still took the trouble to watch it all the way through, and aren't you glad?) as to how things would be if the eco-warrior and fine figure of a toothsome, nutritious man, Al Gore-geous had indeed got his spade-savvy hands on the top job at the head of a superpower. Of course the film did betray signs of that wholesome American sentimentality which makes me faintly nauseous (they can't help it; being American, it's always going to seep in somehow), but he comes across as a genuinely decent chap. He is a little orange, and a little Donald Trumpesque for my taste, but we'll let that slide as he has proved he can pronounce such words as 'infrared radiation' and 'deforestation'.

Just imagine if he was in office today. The cartoons of Steve Bell would be a little less entertaining for one. And chimpanzees wouldn't have half the publicity they currently receive. Michael Moore would be a whole lot less successful, with less satirical footage to play around with. Ditto Dead Ringers. In fact, quite a bit of the entertainment industry would suffer. So maybe the economy really is better off without Mr Gore and his crazy ideas about (frantic hand gestures resembling quotation marks in air) 'global warming' and this thing they call 'climate change'. Would we really have wanted such a nutcase running the most powerful country in the world? Heavens no, that would be ridiculous.

Thank goodness for that pesky state of Florida and their inability to count or avoid corrupt dealings. Now that really is the American way.

Sorcery to Horsery; the transition of Harry Potter

Alas, we must mourn true innocence and purity of bygone days.

Just as Alice in Wonderland is forever ruined for me with the sordid suggestions that the once idolised author, Lewis Carroll, indulged in unsavoury acts with a young girl of his acquaintance named Alice, and Captain Pugwash was transformed into a perverted who's who of pornography, that little magical scamp, Harry Potter, has also undergone a vile desecration.

When not fighting evil, honouring his dead parents, and saving the world from dark deeds, he is flaunting his naked body in sex scenes on the stage.

Skinny, bespectacled, wand-wielder no more. Instead a sculpted-torsoed, brooding, sex crazed thespian. I doubt the transformation includes a new found ability to act however.

Are all cherished childhood memories (not that I ever watched Captain Pugwash, though young Master Bates is infamous) to be marred by corruption and be subjected to a sexual besmirching? Can Seaman Stains not just be a man who sails the sea?

However, it's about time that Hogwarts had a taste of gritty adolescence. I'm surprised Hermione's not already knocked up, impregnated by Ron behind the broomstick shed, and that some hardcore substance abuse isn't rife due to the all the magical ingredients available to them. But who knows, maybe J.K Rowling will inject a bit of realism into book 7. Cho Chang was already on her way to becoming school slut, so full blown smut could well be on the cards.

July 21st will be a sad day for all. It will mean the end of involving and entertaining Harry Potter theories.

Possible Murder on the Orator Express

Aaaand... I would also go to Central America and Africa and China. And then I'd go to Texas and Scotland and Afghanistan and Wales, and then New York and Ireland and the South Pole and the North Pole and the West Pole and Newcastle and England and Wales and Trafalgar Square. And South America and Italy. And then Spain, then Australia, then France, then the Moon, then Outer Space...

For the first hour it was truly adorable.

And then I discovered a kangaroo, and koalas and sheep and iguanas. Aaand... also... sharks and whales and beetles. And, and, and... ALIENS! They were from Mars and we went to the Sun and Pluto and Earth and the World. And they were green, and spotty, and purple, and also gold, and silver, and also stripy...

I had now read the sentence I was on in my improving novel 23 times and still not reached the end or understood it.

Aaand...and I invented the Titanic and planes and cars and trains. And tables, and cups, and food, and windows. And also shoes and hats and computers and wigs and slippers and televisions. And plugs, and I became the most famousest person in the whole wide world and earned a million pounds and one thousand trillian dollars so I could buy... do you know what I bought? Do you know mummy? Do you know?

Just say yes, please just say yes. I beg of you woman.

No, darling. What did you buy?

The woman was a masochist. And my worst enemy.

I bought a speedboat, and trainers and a dragon and a sword and a tiger...

By this point a tree had fallen on the track, resulting in a delay. And the boy had not stopped talking, resulting in me wanting to hit something. Hard. Preferably him.

Mummy, can you remember what I had for breakfast? Mummy what did I have? Can you remember? I had sausage, and beans, and cornflakes. And... what else did I have? I had sardines and marshmallows and french fries and...

And I quietly muffled my exasperated sobs and prayed for salvation at the next stop.

An Anna for Any Occasion

Having a multifaceted persona is both a drag and a boon. It sums up my relationship to the much eulogised concept of choice; which Anna to be right at this moment? Except, thankfully, the decision is often made for me, detectable by how I am addressed.

So, the quick guide to the many faces of Anna...

Anna Kirk - Only used on formal occasions, and by people who do not know me. Strikes a sense of fear in me as will obviously be required to do something of an official capacity.

Banana - 'At home Anna', a term used when pottering. Light and detatched.

Lamb - Often with the prefix 'poor'. A term unique to pa, and in answer to some minor injury (eg, stubbed toe) or misfortune. Harks back to times past, when scrapes were common.

Small - Generic term of ma's for whichever one of her brood looks mopesome and dejected enough to warrant it. Helps lift the spirits. Small needs protecting and indulging.

Narna - Used by a closeknit group, and resonant of a certain intense period. Narna was mostly in a state of giggles and piss-taking. An endearment, but also used as a lighthearted insult eg. 'You tripped over in front of everyone? What a narna!'.

Kirky - The most common term, and who I am for a large percentage of the week. Kirky is a bit of a harmless div, chucklesome, bitchy and occasionally a stresshead regarding work.

Vodka and Kirk - Anna when out with cohorts. Dancer, drinker, waffler, gossiper.

Vodka - Anna when out at the end of the night, and those around are increasingly under the influence. Not to be mistaken with desperate cries for more intoxication.

AnnaK - Purely used by R, and not entirely sure why. Sounds cool when she says it, and I immediately know who requires me.

You'll find me at the freakshow all week: The Girl with Many Faces

Animal rights? What about computer illiterates, I say.

My mouse is going periodically bonkers.

It is hopping about all over the place completely of its own accord, in a manner far from rodenty, but rather infuriatingly frog like. I will be innocently trying to send an email to a worthy Fairtrade cause (on this occasion, to the androgynously named Silje, a contact at 'worthy cause' headquarters, who must at all times be referred to as 'it' due to not-quite-ascertained gender issues) when all of a sudden I will be linked to a penis enlarging website or highlighting details of how to purchase viagra on the net. The mouse is possessed. And the possessor clearly has erectile issues.

Anyhow, I've had enough of this computing tomfoolery, having spent days staring at screens, brain slowly melting into one big daydream as I try to escape the horrors of YET ANOTHER COMPUTER LESSON. Technically meant for research and, of course, the actual writing of the work. But literally for the purpose of mind- wanderings, planning of nights out, and checking out the J K Rowling website (surprisingly informative- for instance the Weasley's have a cousin named Mafalda). We know their game; it's merely a ruse for Hedley to avoid the sheer ludicracy of teaching us. So by refusing to learn we're cheating the system and playing them at their own game. Suckers.

Mouse going barmy again. Will have to get Fat Hector on the case. Better get out of this technological hellhole.

I'm becoming power-crazed.

Not content with organising a Ceilidh (yes, that's right a Ceilidh. Ridiculous spelling, ridiculous music, ridiculous concept. Yet I'm campaigning ardently for it to be in vogue), complete with raffle, Fair Trade booze, and the mere matter of raising money for victims of torture, I now seem to be chairing English teacher interviews. Da da daaa, Super Anna strikes again, crusading for moral justice and... seemingly the fates of English teachers.

Now surely this is the job of the current teachers at the school. Surely they aren't putting the career of an aspiring educational motivator and diciplinarian into the hands of a mere sixth former. Surely.

But it appears that they can't spare an hour to question a couple of possible inspirational literary leaders, and are instead handing over the responsibility to none other than... moi. No pressure then. Only somebody's future we're dealing with here after all.

I'm just a girl who can't say no. And who would to the frenzied, madness-tinged, hypnotic hollows that are the notably psychotic Head of English's eyes. Not me, I wanted to at least survive for a wee dance at this Ceilidh I've spent so long organising.

She dribbles no more...

They know. The other two know. It's hard to tell if she did herself; she was always the stupid one.
Stretched out, tongue protruding pinkly, paw reaching towards me and the tub of ice cream (with claws safely retracted for once), Archie looked settled and contented. Like he knew that it was all over now, that there was nothing to be done but longingly imagine me spoon feeding him melting vanilla ice cream. Once again granted permission to enter rooms filled with human comfort, and not obliged to wait outside doors, bereft of attention, the ginger ones (like Laurel and Hardy, or French and Saunders) are almost audibly sighing relief at the final rest of the matriarch.

I let Archie sleep on my pillow. He needed it. The unspoken (naturally, as he is a cat) acknowledging of grief and the necessity for contact and my duvet cover. Hector isn't so quick to catch on. He takes after his mother. But he definitely sought out a little more head-scratching and jowel-jiggling than usual, on my return in the evening. As always, it is not so much the loss at what has gone that is the heart breaking element, but what is left behind. A confused chubby son (the chubbiness makes it all the more heart rendering, like he needs his mum to give him nutritional guidance), and the resilient loner of an older brother.

Yet they will have to adapt, and adopt a camaraderie, a marmalade unity.

Perfumigated

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.

Quotilicious

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.

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.

Woe

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.

Aftermath

Many more musical instruments, means to make musical instruments a lot louder, conributions to the demise of the earth through use of fossil fuels and rolls of discarded wrapping paper, and about 3 tonnes of Roses chocolates later...

Whilst still in the depths of Christmas fatigue, a heavy fug of alcohol soaked fruit and chocolate settled, blanket like, about me, I am attempting to flop. As in relax, do nothing, chill. But I am plagued by an infuriating cough, phlegm fest in nose, and the need for lists. Lists for leisure. Things to do when doing nothing, if you will.

It is in this interim, between Christmas day and the whole New Year fiasco, that one finds oneself experiencing a little of the anti-climax and at a loss as to what one should actually do. No present buying/wrapping/unwrapping to do, the Compulosry Family Walk over and done with (and with surprisingly low quota of grumbles this year; Christmas therefore a success!), feast preparations all done, feast consuming pretty much done (with the exception of the Christmas cake, which with a bit of luck should serve for next year's aswell), novels, dvds etc all beckoning to be indulged in. Which is what I should be making the most of and doing. Cultural stimulation, guilt free. But it isn't guilt free, and that is the nagging problem. Though I have the odd bit of homework, it isn't pressing. And room is reasonably tidy. So I should be free to enjoy the contents of Santa's sack. Except guilt is well and truly impressed upon my dna strands. May have something to do with all the religious connotations of the season, we are all born sinners, must tirelessly work to improve ourselves and must consistently feel guilty etc. God knows why it is supposed to be a time of cheer and jollity.

I will try, however, to take time out from guilt and, indeed, from outside world as books, television, dvds etc take precedence. I'll save the guilt for after New Year, when it will really be needed. That it is the time to face the consequences, after drink-fuelled revelry and the realisation of true laziness have occurred. Tis the season and all that.

Festive = Frazzled

You know it is the festive season when...

1. Enough nights are spent out drinking and celebrating to start being endearingly nicknamed 'Vodka and Kirk' by fellow merry revellers.

2. The arguments, chez Kirk, increase at an exponential rate, regarding such things as bauble placement, who actually gives two hoots about the advent calendar, whether the person 'in charge' of decorating the tree is also given licence to select the tree in the first place, why people just aren't being goddamn festive, cheerful, or merry enough. The list goes on.

3. Tacky, kitsch, and overthetopness are good. Crucial even.

4. The most amount of money is needed, yet the least amount of money is available in my account.

5. Not only are people going out unattractively donning their skimpy finery, goosepimples and all, but they are doing it wearing Santa hats, red and green colour schemes, and liberal doses of glitter.

6. It is acceptable to listen to Wham. 'Last Christmas' is a classic.

7. Ditto Mariah Carey, with 'All I want for Christmas'

8. The idea of hot wine with things floating about in it is an appetising one.

9. Religious services, songs praising God and Jesus, and scenes depicting the birth of Christ are positively encouraged by the resolutely irreligious mother.

10. Overindulgence is suddenly alright. Nay, necessary.

11. 'The Snowman' can reduce one to tears.

12. The air smells of spices, chocolate, pine, and log fires.

13. Sentimentality is a must.

It's a wonder we survive it every year. And a wonder we want to do it again the following one. But, as every Kirk knows, you can never ever break traditions.

I'm rather taken with this quote from a novel I'm currently reading,

'There's no need to intoduce exciting words like 'want'. It's what I'm realistically anticipating'

Ain't that just it in a nutshell. Nothing like a bit of literary summing up.

It's not what you know, but who you know

A common and banal question often asked is who would one like to have as guests at a dinner party, living or dead. Well, anyone can avoid interesting and scintillating conversation when glugging booze and gushing over the lightness of the beetroot mousse or cauliflower froth. A far more telling situation would be when browsing in a bookshop, in a booth at the local pub, or sitting in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic, for example.

This is my list...
Simon Amstell
Jo Brand
Colin Firth
Cleopatra
Paul Merton
Margot Fonteyn
Jon Ronson
Nancy Mitford

I, of course, would be far too intimidated and terrified to utter a word however.

It is rare that science provides explanatons for things that happen in everyday life. Despite what the scientific folk claim. Being an arts student myself, I cannot personally see the justification of having been compelled to partake in lessons such as chemistry, biology, and (even more heinously) physics. Apart from when it comes to things such as why all the biscuits end up tasting and smelling of lemon when a packet of lemon creams are dispersed in the tin, and why my hair dryer has a cold setting to finish off the flick of my 'do. Crucial things like that.

But I am convinced that there must be some scientific explanation for the so called 'blanking out' of a certain brother of the little and eccentric kind. Perhaps it has something with the density of dreadlocks, or the dispersion of grime about his person. Maybe it is the chemical imbalance caused by excessive amounts of red bush tea coursing through his system. Whatever it is, scientific research should be carried out forthwith. I will even personally fund it. As it is beyond exasperating and the arts are suffering due to this exasperation experienced. Therefore, science will be justified.

It could of course be down to pure genetics.

But are children human?

'The right to POO!'

Teaching a first school class of 36 all about Human Rights was never going to be easy. Emerging from the class an hour after entering, the three of us Human Rights Group representatives were shaking, slightly hysterical wrecks. The most stressful, yet hilarious hour, with even a little moral education thrown in for good measure.

The fact that by the time we arrived at the first school they had already heard that we had gone to the middle school by mistake beforehand was not the best start. They obviously thought we were nutcases. Nutcases who would be teaching young children about the rights that every human being should have. Though, on meeting the teacher before the lesson, she reassured us that although there was an autistic boy in the class, he could be removed immediately if he started heckling us. Rather naively, and more than a little foolishly, the three of us decided to split up and single handedly run a small group of the terrors. And with that, all remnants of authority or discipline were thrown out the window.

I took a rather anarchic approach to dealing with my group, therefore promoting rights to freedom of speech, free choice, and the problems of state intervention. That, and them just not paying a blind bit of notice except to ask why I was wearing a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved t-shirt. If they only learnt one thing today then it was the importance of layering.

With one child expounding on the importance of medication, security and community (all written down and spelt correctly), and another shouting how everyone should have the right to fart, hairspray and trees, it was abit of amixed bag. Mind you, there's definitely some activists in the making... 'Marcie, you do letter writing don't you, to try and change the world?' An earnest nod was the reply. The same girl and discounted all the other rights being discussed for her own three, which had obviously given great thought to. To look after yourself, to look after other people, and to look after your environment. That kid'll go far.

In voting for the most important three rights we came up with, the children treated it as a competition, taking it personally if the right they had come up with wasn't voted. Liam, head in his hands, was last seen wailing 'Curse you! Curse you, whoever voted for the right to life!'

The oldies are the best...

The problem with wanting to go to an Operetta at the local theatre (and no, it's not what you would think. I happen to be very fond of the odd Gilbert and Sullivan. Despite being teenaged. They have a lot of clever, witty wordplay, doncha know) is that lots of other people want to go to. Lots of other people who are of a certain age. Lots of hard-of-hearing, brittle-boned, infuriatingly slow people of this certain age, which hovers at about the 80 mark.

They all know the music inside out and back to front naturally. Which is fine. Just not at a low hum in my ear, vibrating at just under the actual note and causing an under the skin irritant. The man next to me (a small, solid, leathery chap) insisted on intermitently deciding to hum the odd phrase during the opening medley, flitting between under the breath mindless noise and launching into out-and-out accompaniment. The whole thing was entirely unrecognisable as what was actually being played up on the stage. But he was content, chuckling every so often, and obviously thinking himself a true Gilbert and Sullivan connoisseur.

We, in our youth (and that is including the menopausal mother) were sandwhiched between coachloads of geriatrics, which meant that it took f-o-r-e-v-e-r to get in or out of our seats. No matter how apologetic one is, the guilt is still instilled within you when you are forcing the poor dear to ease their aching frames, uncomprehendingly slowly, out of their imprisoning seats. That is if they see or hear you wanting to get past in the first place. Polite coughs just don't cut the mustard in senile situations.

I was spared the humming in the second half. The man didn't turn up next to me. I hope to God he didn't suffer a stroke during the interval.

Be still my beating heart

Stop press. Hold the phone. Hang about. Just wait a darn bleedin' minute there.

Something remarkable has come to light. Something that will strike hope, reverie and extreme anticipation into the hearts of those fully initiated in the world of SJP. The drought may be over, and salvation may arrive imminently.

I am of course referring to the rumour circulating (discovered by my ever-dependable, trustworthy, and downright infallible associates at Glamour magazine) that Sarah Jessica Parker et al are in talks about a Sex and the City film.

Hopes for this holy grail of the shoe-loving, clothes-marvelling, New York-aspiring gal have been continually dashed time and time again, with word on the street being that not everybody involved wanted to take the franchise further. But that could have all changed. I can barely contain the excitement.

A part of me thinks that perhaps the series should stay just that, a series for the small screen. It was of its time and fabulous while it lasted.
However, just imagine those Manolos, Jimmy Choos, bling Samantha jewellery, and SJP's curls up on the cinematic screen, preserved forever in celluloid, and providing true escapism to the masses of girls/gays that so idolise the foursome.

Is it a good idea? In the immortal words of Big, 'Abso-f*cking-lutely'

Sobering School Trip

Even if I were 'allowed' to, I am not sure whether I would consider learning to drive a car or not. Or monster machines of death and destruction as I shall now refer to them.

Tutorial is usually a tedious affair, a superfluous period of the week with only enthusiastic cries of 'Team Blight' and cross stitch conversation from Blighty to get us through. Not so this week however. A trip was to be taken. A trip to the fire station. Excitement barely covered the breadth of emotion felt by 13NB.

Road safety was the name of the game, with four volunteers being cut out of a car as if they had been in an accident. Though the fun actually began when we all had to don fireman (fireperson? PC but sounds less cool) outfits complete with size 10 boots, fire resistant gloves and bright yellow hats with eye protection screens. Much hilarity had, and photos taken. Not entirely sure what the point of this was as we were only standing watching the car being cut up. But anything to get into the spirit of it all. Apparantly we needed to be protected from the flying glass etc as they shattered the windows and ripped the car apart. Mr H wasn't given an outfit though. Maybe he didn't need protecting.

Kind of exciting, but very scary. Lots of talk of death, injury, 'the golden hour' (once the hour's up and you're still not in hospital then you're pretty much done for), and how all the newfangled so-called 'protection' on cars can actually prove detrimental and lethal when trying to rescue people. Goodo. When there were the inevitable sniggers at the back, the leading fireman (the one who grunted least) stated stoically and from experience, 'Oi, no laughing. This is some serious shit.'

Serious shit indeed. Many spine boards, oxygen masks and destroyed cars later we all watched a stream of those hard-hitting, graphic, heart-wrenching adverts they use to make you drive more carefully. Followed by pictures of crunched up cars from accidents the chaps have been called out to.

Two people I know have their test this week. I am never getting in a car again.

Curtain Twitcher

To have a man (or a mere slip of a lad, as he appeared to be) at the window, stood christ-like with arms raised and body obstinately darkening the length of the pane, is a remarkable thing.

To have such a man observing you eat breakfast, with hair arranged in obligatory bedhead peaks and frizz, whilst concentrating very hard on pretending to read the paper, is more than a little disconcerting. Especially at godforesaken hour, when the transition from dreams to reality has not been completed in its entirety.

It is not so much the fact that he is there, on the other side of the glass, a couple of feet off the ground, more that the whole scene seems perfectly regular. Like I often have floating men looking into the kitchen over breakfast. As I walk in, sorting out file and school bag as is the norm, a mere nod in the direction of said man happens almost without concious awareness. It is good manners to say hello and acknowledge people in the morning, and it should make no difference if they are floating outside one's window or otherwise. A bit of British stiff upper lip and old-fashioned decorum is all that's required.

We both sensed the other as we went about our business (him with his frame painting, me with my coffee sipping), yet remained affably seperate from each other. He could look into my world from the outside, peering in with the security of double glazing as a distancing device. I could feel warm, comfortable, and smug as I revelled in being inside and out of the sheer-bloody-freezing-ness. A happy arrangement.

Of course the whole thing is a lot more alarming when it's the bathroom window they're stood at. Eek.

Pofaced by poetry

Poetry is a thing I do not like.

So for my first scribblings properly published (be it in an anthology of 'children's' writing- beyond belittling) to be of that godforsaken medium poetry is vexing. To say the least.

Don't get me wrong, the odd witty limerick in it's place can border on being a hoot, and I'm not averse to a bit of verse in the manner of Shakespeare or Chaucer (it would be heresy to say otherwise). But bog standard, everyday poetry is just not my bag. It seems self-indulgent, conciously pretentious, and I'm always a little suspicious of something that 'can mean whatever you want it to mean'. It is, in conclusion, not a pleasure to read. Which is what reading should be.

Seeing my own two poems (the word must now be in italics in order to convey my scorn and disgust) in black and white between the covers of a real live book is squirm-inducing. I wouldn't be so annoyed, but they said that to submit any script writing it would have to be five pages long. Mine was only two, so I fell back on the poetry. Yet, on receiving the book today, there are many, many examples of people's script writing that is far less that five pages. Grrr...

So I now look like I think I am a poet, having selected what I consider to be my best work to submit to the compilers. When in reality I more than aware that they are tripe. However, the advantage of poetry is (and this is it's only saving grace) that somebody may take my poems to mean that they are actually fantastic. Suckers.

Atleast I am not the truly appalling young girl who insisted on giving a reading at the distribution of the anthologies. Brat does not cover the half of it. I blame the parents; two pushy individuals already asking what was on the course next year, and smiling and applauding indulgently when their darling had finished her reading and was looking disappointed when not presented with a bouquet. Still, the mother did shout out (rather rudely in my opinion) to some unfortunate who stumbled into the library where it was all being held 'The library is CLOSED, being a Wednesday'. It is actually Thursday today. Dimwit. I bet she is an avid reader of poetry.

Tell me something I DON'T know!

The problem with being all knowing is that people will insist on telling you things you just already know.

For the pains of remaining passive and a sponge to surroundings, one must endure frequent repetitions. It is like a life on a loop.

But the lesser mortals must be humoured I suppose. Those who are built like watering cans: a large cavity where the water can be stored but a spout from which it leaks, spurting information everywhere so that it must again be poured back into the central system. One is either a sponge or a watering can, I find.

Omniscience just isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I better copyright the 'anna'

Being a bohemian, individual, quirky kook is not a lifestyle choice or the result of an image decision. It is more of an image indecision.

What those words mean is synonymous to 'interesting'. You know, said in that heavy way, reverberating with connotation and issuing from a contorted false smile. Trying not to be offensive, yet insinuating distaste all the same. It is something to say when there is really nothing to say. Except, what in the name of fashionista are you wearing, you blind clotheshorse?

To be a bohemian, individual, quirky kook requires an absolute ignorance of all fashion trends currently rife on every spring chicken with access to a Primark, or alternatively wearing all of them at once, rendering each unidentifiable and the antithesis of 'hip'. Never knowing what to wear is also very important, with last minute mishmashes providing statement looks. Planning an outfit gives a polished and refined look. Piling everything on in a state of hurried panic, layers skewiff and mismatched accessories, gives that coveted kook image. Which is why it is the look of choice pour moi. Due to the sheer nature of it not being a look. Merely a 'whatever-is-to-hand' coverage device. So when I answer the door in stripy pyjama bottoms, vintage ACDC ripped t-shirt, straggly scarf, various chains and dangly earrings, haphazardly hairclipped hair, and thick woolen toasties, remember that it is the result of careful preconception and hours of perfecting.

In fact, for my next night out I'm aiming to channel 'colourblind baglady chic'. A look I just know I can pull off.

Me: Can I interest you in a Human Rights badge? It's in aid of Protect the Human Week. Only £2 and comes in three jaunty colours! The height of fashion, everybody wants one. Human Rights badges!

Sullen Year 12 male tw*t: Grunt. Nah, yer alright. (no eye contact and concluded with a shrug)

Me (in my head): I'm alright! I'm alright? Yes, because it's so much trouble to accept the money that would be going to a good cause and potentially save a life. Yes, I would much prefer to bypass all financial acceptence and move straight along to the next hapless victim of my nagging and guilt tripping. Thanks for doing me such a favour by declining to cough up a measly couple of quid and enabling me to take my wares elsewhere. I really couldn't be more grateful.

Me: Ok, thanks anyway! We're here all week! (insane grin)

Media Victim

My intellectualism has been violated.

I though I was being original. I thought I was being perceptive. And yes, goddamnit, I thought I was being clever. Hailed as being 'inspired', in the words of a certain English teacher and documented for all to see in the oh so official report, my coursework thesis was a masterpiece issuing forth from the deepest and most intellectual recesses of my brain.

Or so I thought. How naive I was. I am the victim of subliminal messaging. I have been well and truly had by the media machine. And I feel used.

Two well-loved novels, 'Emma' and 'Cold Comfort Farm', are to be the texts through which I am thumbing, skimming and, indeed, reading (oh yes, contrary to popular belief students do actually read texts as opposed to downloading internet summaries. Well, now that some stupid folk got caught and brought it to the attention of the education people anyway) for my coursework. How the female protagonists manipulate and control the situations around them is the basic idea. I won't bore with details, but it really is rather good.

Any roads, I have been duped into thinking that it was entirely my own concept and down to extensive reading and sensitivity to literature. But no. It is Hollywood. Well, the film industry anyway. Kate Beckinsale has starred as the main character in adaptations of both books. I must have sub-conciously retained this information and whipped it out unwhittingly through 'inspirational' (sorry, just can't help blowing my own trumpet, or stop reading my starry report in this case) coursework ideas.

Damn. My genius may not be as blindingly brilliant as I have always thought. I am in fact one of those philistines who is taken in by the glamorous and shallow showbiz world. Alas.

And damn Kate Beckinsale. Don't look into her eyes.

Modern Myths

Charvs are all thick, foul-mouthed yobs.
Oxbridge students are all posh, swotty boffins.
Emo kids are all morbidly depressed.
Anorexics all want to be skinny.
Old people are all inept.
Brothers are all infuriating idiots.
Those who bear the name of Kirk are all bonkers.

People who make generalisations are all stupid.

A lone charv can be an articulate and charming delight.
I have been to Cambridge and witnessed with my own eyes that there is also a percentage (be it a small one) of 'normal' folk. Also, I am applying so there must be some cool people.
I have, at least on one occasion, seen a dark eyed, side swept fringed youth crack a smile or two.
Some anorexics would actually like an arse.
My parents can, at a push, carry out simple day to day tasks reasonably well.
Brothers can be mildly amusing oftentimes, and perform dahing heroic acts with flair.

I make generalisations frequently. (This argument is somewhat lacking, granted)

Kirk's are all bonkers however.

Cock-a-hoop

I went to a cock show.

Ok, so technically it was 'puppetry of the penis' and an insight into the 'ancient art of genital origami'. But it was show about a cocks. A cock show.

You have to hand it to these guys, cashing in on what I imagine all blokes do and experiment with anyway. May as well entertain, have a laugh, and make some money by putting it all (and I mean ALL) out there.

And there is absolutely no point in being all highbrow and pious about it. Is it 'art'? No. It is fun. And funny. And a smidge squirm inducing. You may as well call a spade a spade I say. Or in this case, a cock a cock. You get what you're given, in that penis puppetry is essentially making objects and animals out of that oh so versatile appendage. To be snooty or superiour about such a concept is, frankly, a waste of time. If you don't want to see a bit of cock, do not buy a ticket.

But buy tickets they did. In their multitudes. I don't think, in all my years of absorbing culture, I have ever seen the Queen's Hall so busy. At the last count, four teachers from school, two doctors, and a secretary from the middle school had been sighted. Plus countless repressed Hexham housewives, young women up for a laugh and dressed to the nines, and a couple of dragged-along husbands. It was a cross between a hen party, stand up comedy night, and a naturist theatre trip. An experience unlike any other.

Highlights included 'the hamburger', 'the sea anenome' (complete with reflex disappearance when prodded), and the piece de resistance of one of the artistes being propelled along on a skateboard by a fan, using his, ahem, as a windsurfer.

I, being of the wrong sex and all, am not sure if these feats of human ridiculousness require much skill or certain, I don't know, flexibilities, but it was clear that a great deal of time, effort and practice had gone into each trick. All credit to them, they have the confidence and the girth to take them far. And lets face it, you have to be nothing less than cocky to show the world your cock (pun very much intended). They were from Australia though. Figures.

I'm sure glad the theatre is well heated mind. A chilly stage could have proved disastrous.

Is that a hot beverage in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

'Highlighters at the ready...'

The absorbing task of highlighting philosophy jargon beckoning, Hedders glanced in his breast pocket repeatedly, obviously looking for said highlighter. No matter how many times he delved into the pocket, it failed to miraculously conjure up the luminous utensil. Getting quite distracted, and frankly frustrated, by this lack-of-highlighter-in-pocket-ness, I inquired as to what the pocket did actually contain. Curiosity killed the cat.

Or, in this case, made the cat laugh hernia-inducingly hard.

Casually as you like, a teabag was produced from the pocket. Why? Why would anyone carry a teabag around in their breast pocket? Just in case one happened across a cup of hot water, so one could be prepared? Did he have milk and sugar in his trouser pockets? Every eventuality must be catered for I suppose.

It transpires that the philosophy office does not, in its undoubtedly vast repetoire of teas, have 'fair trade organic green tea' to which Hedders is paricularly partial.

So naturally he must carry the pristinely flat, specialist teabag around in his breast pocket, all day, every day, it seems. Thereby leaving little room for such trivialities as highlighters.