Horseplay for Philistines

Of course I felt awful. But Dad said it took him the best part of his life to realise that if he wasn't enjoying a book it was not actually compulsory to finish it. What is the point if you are willing the end to come with all your might and the book in question is soul destroying? It is a waste of time. You could be doing something infinitely more pleasurable and fulfilling.
I applied this same logic to a play.

It did make it worse that the first time I walked out of a performance was at the esteemed Globe theatre. BUT, I hasten to add, it was not Shakespeare, which would, of course, be sacrilege. Instead, it was some political drama (if one could call a lot of men sitting around in period clothing voting on matters of Government 'drama' as such) that documented American goings on within state arounf the time of Franklin etc. So it was to be expected really.

I love the Globe, and the whole ambience of the inspirational setting. Even the venue, with all its Shakespeare in Love connections, was not enough to redeem this play. The accents were dire, ranging from caricature hillbilly, to variations of Irish and Scottish (which at least was entertaining in its way) and there was an awful lot of thespian posturing, and placing of cast members within the audience. A frankly terrifying notion, as I was in a constant anticipatory state of dread that they would explode into action right beside me.

And so it was that I left in the interval (I would never be so rude as to leave mid-actorly gesture or speech) for the Tate Modern. Along with half the audience. Alas, poor production company. And for shame at leaving in the middle. I do harbour insecurities about not sticking it through, but really... American politics?

Incidentally, and incomprehensibly, there was a horse brought on a little while into the performance. It added absolutely nothing to, well, anything really. I suppose it was merely there to be talked about later, poor thing. 'Did you see that awful American history lesson masquerading as a production? You know, the one with the horse?'
Animal cruelty at its height- being the mascot for a truly mind-numbingly bad play.
Adds a new understanding to the phrase 'even wild horses couldn't hold me back'. This one couldn't hold me back from the exit point.

A mere whisp of the Big Smoke

'Where the devil have you been?', I hear you cry en masse. 'What the Dickens have you been getting up to?', you add as an afterthought.

Well, I'll tell you what I haven't been doing. And that is watching 'Neighbours'. Alas, my intellect has been called for elsewhere. And it certainly is necessary for all brain cells to be present in order to get off at the right bus stop, dodge raindrops effectively, and use all their strength for keeping my arm affixed to my body when lugging bloody great literary tomes around. That 'Riverside Chaucer' will be the death of me. On the plus side, I'm starting to resemble Popeye after the spinach magic. Only in one arm though.

Disregarding the loss of 'Neighbours' (I softly sob in sweet lament of this afternoon delight) I am attuning to the quirks and quaintness of our fine capital.
I shall give a taster of the observations I have made of late.
The library is organised in a nuts fashion. One could get lost in a dusty corner and never experience natural light again. Or, indeed, a common sense approach to alphebetisation.
Jeremy Bentham has his own pub. Which is marvellously cosy but a little overpriced. Now, is that the most happiness for the most people? At £5 for a large glass of wine, I think not. Though it is pleasing to see his brightly coloured features leering down at one from the pub sign.
Tutors all have their bizarre oddities. They are either named after Greek lute players, have disturbingly long fingernails for a middle aged man in corduroy, have a penchant, or even a fetish, for dashes in text, resemble Miss Cackle from 'The Worst Witch', or have fascinatingly lyrical names like Dr Ardis Butterfield.
The bus seems to be the place to be when the 'Dad gene' kicks in and I stare at people gormlessly without realising it. Totally captivating.
Large stacks of mattresses are transported from lorry to building in the middle of the street. Mattresses that I shall, in time, be laying my head on. Atleast I can see that they're doing something to my soon-to-be abode. I'll have a bed of sorts at any rate.
I actually have to read for the English course. A lot.

There are a billion other things too. But I can't recall off the top of my head. The cranial matter needs a rest. That is what 'Neighbours' is for.

Spot the difference

What I have feared all along is, in actuality, true. All Kirks are the same.

Even when they pretend to be otherwise, by giving themselves a different surname in the vain attempt at escaping the curse of Kirk and evading the pitfalls that are inextricably bound to the genepool and DNA strands. It is a futile endeavor to denounce what Kirk ancestory has granted.

To be dubbed 'Hankins' fools nobody.

Nature seems to prevail over nurture if the family dynamics of the household I am currently ensconced within is anything to go by. Despite living hundreds of miles away from my own fair family unit and being brought up by different parents and in a different environment, offspring are interchangeable. No doubt a swap could occur within the brood and we would be none the wiser for at least a week. Especially if dishwasher loading and unloading is chucked into the mix. The Kirk approach seems universal. Delegation and avoidance, mostly. If only an aga were here, and I'd feel quite alarmingly at home.

And parental approach to wine drinking is comfortingly similar also.

First impression = Worst impression?

I have been working on my introductions.
My unforced, seemingly off the cuff, decidedly unpremeditated introductions that I will undoubtedly have to repeat about a billion times on arriving at university.

So, this is what I have come up with so far...

'Enchanted. I'm Anna and I'm reading English as I am so enamoured of the romanticism of the literary scene in Bloomsbury, steeped in its creative and scholarly traditions. I just cannot wait to steep myself in it also, being that I am such an ardent admirer of all that is encompassed within this grand institution. Don't you just positively ache to immerse yourself in the culture and ambience of the whole Fresher experience? I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance.'

'Nu! Call me Country Bumpkin Kirky. I'm from Up North. That's a bit further than Harrow. Where sheep outnumber people and you have to wait a mite longer than a minute or two for a bus to anywhere. Yes, the legends are true. And no, I'm not inbred. To the pub, where mine'll be a Newcastle Brown. Cheers!'

'Umm...Err...Hello, I'm Petrified. I mean I'm Anna. As well as petrified. Nice to meet you. I'm doing English, well, will be doing English, you know, when we start doing things. Studying things, I mean. And by things I mean books. Well, in my case anyway... So...what about you?'

Though once I get the old vino rouge down my neck all will be fine. There'll be no stopping my inane and blathering chit chat. Flow of conversation may well depend on flow of alcohol.

Not that I want to give the impression I'm an alcoholic.

The Little Things

Sometimes it gets to the point when one just wants to cry out, in the immortal words of Dr Evil, 'Throw me a frickin' bone here!'.
After being kicked one too many times when already very much down, bruised and bloodily pulpy from the blows, the little things that bring so much pleasure ordinarily take on almost mystically regenerating properties.
So when I learned that my Big Box of Books were going to arrive that day, I felt instantly brighter. There is nothing like new books. I am all for ancient, musty smelling and yellowing tomes, but there is something so beautifully clean and wholesome and uplifting about glossy, brand new, pristine books. They are nothing short of exciting.
And the fact that they would be inevitably arriving in a brown delivery box only served to add to the charm of it all- something so very 'brown paper package tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things' about the whole postal procedure.

I put off going in the shower for hours so as not to be otherwise engaged when the doorbell rang, announcing the books. I just wasn't in the frame of mind to cope with the disappointment of them being dragged away due to nobody being in. So I sacrificed my cleanliness and tolerated the smell in order to be there when the bell tolled. I was busy practicing my swanky gait when it finally did, getting used to my absurdly high new red patent leather heels around the house, but leapt three feet in the air as I heard the man arrive, leaving my shoes resolutely stationary on the ground as I did so, like in the cartoons.
He was a big, bald, beefy chap. Immediately the box was thrust into my arms, then he passed me the dinky signing contraption on top of this. Now this seemed silly. He was a strapping man of Mitchell brothers-muscle. I am a scrawny waif like creature, often mistaken for an urchin boy of distinctly Dickensian pedigree. So to have to sign this screen with that impractical little pencil/poking thing whilst lumbered with a box weighing over 5 kilos was a little bit rich. But it barely ruffled a feather, being, as I was, so excited and preoccupied with the treasure within the cardboard chest.

Wielding scissors manically, I sliced through the sellotape and beheld the innards. I beamed.

Technological Healing

In the current social climate we live in, shadowed and tainted by terrorism, attacks and the media stoking the fires of fear within the masses, I was not surprised to be receiving flashing boxes popping up on my laptop alerting me to the fact that there was a 'THREAT DETECTED'. Dum dum duuuuum....!

What I was surprised to see was that one of the options presented in dealing with said 'THREAT' (which was not elaborated on- it was apparently enough to know that it would be threatening) was to 'heal'. I could either 'ignore' or 'heal'. Naturally I opted for 'heal'.

And lo, a new box appeared instantaneously informing me 'the object is healed'. And there was great rejoicing in the land, and the trumpets sounded and all exulted in the power and the glory, and the laptop was praised.

So there you go, it's as easy as that. Threats can just be healed. By computers no less. Computers channelling the grace of God.

Puddings of the Past: Chocolate Childhood in a Bowl

It is a true classic. Synonymous with family life and formative childhood experiences, Mum’s Chocolate Mousse is forever entwined with vivid, animated images of crowded dinner tables and smacking lips. It surpasses the Chris Garner Chocolate Traybake, and even the Slightly Sticking Yorkshire Pudding on the Kirk Family Classics scale.

Its fame is widespread, reaching as far as any extended family member or family friend has deigned to hold a celebration or gathering over the past decade or so for which we were required to bring dessert. The notoriety and infamy of such a pudding exceeds any that has come before it. It really is that good.

A firm favourite with the menfolk of the Kirk clan, who lap it up as though they have been working the Cumbrian fields since sunrise and have been hard at manual labour which coarsens the skin and puts muscles on their backs, the ritualistic trundling out of the whipped up indulgence never fails to make the revellers eyes light up. Eyes that are often bigger than their bellies. Bellies that have invariably already been stretched with fine food and good wine. The family resemblance between Dad and Uncle D is never more apparent than when presented with the fancy ‘special occasion’ glass bowl of Chocolate Mousse.

Everybody has their own tried and tested way of embarking on its lusciousness and tackling the richness that could take out a rhinoceros with one spoonful. I favour the method of using a small spoon and accompanying the bowlful with a large glass of water that is sipped between mouthfuls, and gulped in the aftermath. Dad drowns his in double cream (‘I’ll have some mousse with my cream, please’) to ‘cut’ through the rich chocolate. N eats his at a (literal) fair lick, asks for seconds - still heady from the first instalment of sugar and cocoa – then promptly keels over from overload, unrepentant in his greed. Mum savours, but consumes at a reasonable pace, smug in the fact she is established in her running program. J takes it slow and steady and, to my extreme surprise, cannot finish it. It is his all time fave after all, requested for his birthday. I’m shocked until I learn he finished off the luxury chocolate cake with butter cream and decorative chocolate shavings earlier. One chocolate hit too far. Deadly.

Thank goodness it was requested however, as it meant I could sample its magical qualities one last time before leaving home. And I had the extreme privilege of making it on this occasion. With the proper type of chocolate that is purchased especially to be used for the Chocolate Mousse no less. The type of chocolate we feared had disappeared forever but was actually bought by Nestle. We shall have to withhold political ethics in this instance, for the greater good of the perfect dessert. Even though, once having been refrigerated, a hammer and chisel is required to break into the dark, velvety yumminess that holds all the answers to childhood. Oooh, mystical... Never underestimate the powers of pudding.

Avocado Skins

Living, as we do, in the wrong neck of the woods to be eligible for any kind of modern, new age technology that actually allows us to get channel five, let alone this new-fangled 'digital' tv that I have heard legend of, mere rumours whispered on the breeze as they pass through our country bumpkin dwellings, I have had to wait until now to watch the appraised 'Skins'. Our stone-age bubble around the house has dictated that we must make do with terrestrial. This is one of the many sob-story, MontyPython Yorkshiremen sketch-style tales I will pass on to the grandchildren with a wistful tear in my eye.

Anyway, now that channel four has deigned to give us lowly analogue viewers the chance to revel in the teenage exploits of the wild southern group of pill-popping, vodka-necking, gonad-groping sixth formers, I have a reference point for our own parties.


Quel difference??


They fall short in terms of sheer wildness, recklessness, and downright destruction. Bottles of wine, hippie-rollies, bowls of Tesco's Taste the Difference crisps, quilt-strewn sofas, Cyndi Lauper/Bob Dylan/Aretha Franklin on the hi-fi, raving in the kitchen, heart to hearts in the basement, cheese and crackers before bed. That kind of civilised fare. As opposed to shooting heroin, discarded syringe littering the floors, vats of spag-bol chucked around, swinging from the chandelier type activity. Don't get me wrong, when throwing a shindig it's no tea party we have in mind, and it wouldn't be an amazing stretch of the imagination to envisage the 'Skins' situation going down in here Hexham. I'm just saying that, instead of poppers, it's popped avocados that get us high.
The morning after and L looks in her bag. 'Ewww, there's avocado mush all over my stuff! You gave me one as a present last night and it's popped!'

Two more popped avocadoes were discovered during mission clear up later that day. It's a problem in these parts.

And as I always say when eating salad, that green pulp just coats everything.

Textbook Case... with doodles

A horrifying realisation has been made. It is mostly horrifying because it has taken me this long to make it. I have realised that, on paper, I am a textbook lah-di-dah little lady of what is considered to be snort-snort toffiness and goody-two-shoes privilage. Not just any two shoes either, but the shiny patent leather t-bar kind that girlies wear when going on special outings. It is that bad.
Ballet lessons from the age of four with the quintessential ballet mistress with scraped back black bun and ankle warmers. Private flute lessons, possible the most lady-like and ponciest instrument there is, so I could play refined classical pieces. In various choirs throughout the educational process. Taking part in dance and theatre productions for which my mother often made my costumes. Trips to the ballet, art galleries, operettas, music recitals. Noel Streatfield being a favourite of mine for many a year, especially 'Ballet Shoes' in which I yearned to be a character. A penchant for pretty things: hand-crafted buttons, silky ribbons, ornate perfume bottles, intricate embroidery. I have been known to be in possession of a Little House on the Prairie-style frock and a collection of Alice bands that were invariably clamped to my head. I even have a Degas poster on my wall and a box set of hardback, beautifully illustrated Lewis Carroll books on my shelf.

I bow my head (of gleaming locks, 100 brush-strokes before bed naturally) in shame.

So, of course, I am grateful for all the other things that are not 'on paper', as it were. The fact that I can recite all of 'Robin Hood: Men in Tights', 'The Princess Bride' and the majority of the Star Wars trilogy by heart. The endless Roman wall outings and visits to castles, acting out scenes roitously with plastic swords and shields. Having every single screen version (both silver and small) of Robin Hood there is, on well-worn video. Scratching, punching, biting my way through many a 'play' fight with those of the opposite gender, and often coming out triumphant. Being the sole member of my family who can watch whole episodes of Rome without flinching at, or turning away from, the blood, gore and violence. In fact, I revel in it. Being brought up watching, what I was amusingly reminded of the other day as being referred to by a two year old N as, 'Henry the Viv'; the Laurence Olivier version of Henry V. Having an 'Empire Strikes Back' poster in place next to a Van Gogh. Being known to shriek 'On guard, you varlet!' with violent frequency when wielding weapons throughout childhood.

Thank goodness for the counterbalance. One might have thought me a wussy, prim, thoroughly revolting and precocious girly-girl. I hope I have set the score right.

Bla, bla, bla - Ignore if Bored by Waffling

It seems as though the more escapades I get up to and the more time I have, the less I blog. How odd.
So a great many things (of which you are going to have to only imagine- though some are beyond mortal comprehension it must be said) have occurred that could have filled post upon post of blogtastic entertainment. I cannot, alas, be arsed to cover these. They will not get the attention, wit and painstaking yet subtle handling they deserve if I dash off a few hasty typings.
Instead I am going to pepper this post with a smattering of observations that have been observed (which is what observations usually are. Observed I mean) of late. Nay, the very purpose of this post will be to provide a series of aforementioned observations. Lucky, lucky you.

1. Although I recognise that dogs and cats are very different things, not least anatomically, I am more concerned with the subtle differences between them. The dog we are looking after is, admittedly, very like a cat, but it has been noted that I act differently with the canine creature than its feline nemesis. By which I mean that when I am skulking around home alone I will talk amicably to the animals in a conversational manner, but to the dog in straightforward English, and the cat in French. Why? Je ne sais pas.

2. Icecream vans are creepy. When up in my room I hear the soft tinkling of a nursery rhyme tune drifting on the breeze up to my window, luring innocent children with its haunting and frankly sinister melodies. There is something of the Pied Piper in the whole business, a fairytale I always had trouble with as it made me uncomfortable. A grown man leading young bairns away with a quick blow on his whistle? Shudder. And not to mention how reminiscent the icecream vans are to that familiar figure of children's nightmares, the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. An absolutely terrifying chap, all greasy hair, wiry limbs and long, crooked nose.
It is even more disconcerting when the faint, repetitive ditties are heard as night falls.

3. Doing crosswords when one is forced to copy out the grid from the puzzle in the paper may well be fun the first time, what with the novelty of creating a slipshod forgery, but it is most definitely not when done every day. It becomes a cumbersome task. But when there have been cross words over crosswords (sorry, I couldn't resist) one must do one's duty and relent to the wishes of the disgruntled parent. Just as long as they are aware of my martyrdom.

4. I am actually incapable of receiving compliments like an ordinary human being. It all goes well at first, with me smiling graciously and thanking whoever has been lovely enough to pay me one. But then I always have to go further and be a little bit manic in my reply. For example, when complimented on my new shoes, which has happened rather a lot actually, I then go on to immediately say how they were an absolute bargain from Save the Children at only £4 yada, yada, yada. People don't want to hear that. They want the moment to swiftly move one, having done a nice thing in saying something good about another and hoping that it will be reciprocated. They don't want to hear how I am the bag lady of Hexham, scrambling about in charity shops and being tight with money. I can't help it though, it all just spills out in a rather high-pitched voice, nineteen to the dozen. I must learn to say 'Thankyou, and I simply adore your vintage lycra jumpsuit'. Easy as that.

5. Being an only child (though only for a few days, granted) may not be all it's cracked up to be. It's basically the same as having siblings but with less satisfaction from winding up, less exasperation from observing the habits of others and less entertainment from the exploits of the young. A sedate ride is not necessarily preferable to one with peaks and troughs, as the rollercoaster industry is well aware.

Over and out on the observation front. It's time for Neighbours.

Oddie's Kirkwatch: Summertime

To paraphrase the sainted Gerald Durrell, whom is the apple of my father's eye, families are animals. Be it roving beasts, exotic birds or, in my case, all-out monsters, there is a certain animalistic quality at the core of every pared down, stripped bare family, feral and untamed.

Though I never got along with the overgrown boy scout tales of our familiar friend Gerald (far too wholesome and angst free for my liking- though I appreciated the naming of an elephant Rosie) I see there is some truth in his comparison. After all, is there really a vast difference between anthropology and zoology?

So, to the horseplay and monkeying around of the Ingleside livestock. A fair bit of rabid frothing is common at this time of year, what with increased exposure to the habits of other mammals in the vicinity. As well as pouncing on prey and ripping them limb from limb in a bloody frenzy. (Well a verbal frenzy of expletives at any rate).
A great deal of preening, posturing and fluffing of feathers is also noticeable, especially after the offspring dupe the elders into purchasing new clothes for them. This meticulous and extensive grooming increases just before the mating dances and strutting of stuff when going on hunts, out for the kill.
Nocturnal activity becomes the norm, with the young of the brood rarely rising before noon and staying wakeful well into the night. Though often dormant during the day, hibernation is not quite on the cards, despite supplies being horded in and around nest areas.
It is common for the youngest to have all manner of flora and fauna plucked from his wayward mane, but it is rare for these to be consumed ape-like by the one grooming.
The mother within the pride must accept that her cub is no longer of nurturing age, and after a recent birthday must fly the nest, spread his wings, leave the coop.

However, he may still need keeping an eye on as he is still inclined to try and sit on chairs that are simply not there and come crashing to the ground like a herd of elephants. Which makes the onlookers cackle like hyenas.

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time there was a girl who indulged in a little regression and was bestowed with a fairytale treat. All Princess attributes were accounted for in this great gift magically conjured by her Fairy Godmother: Beauty, Grace, Wisdom, Grandeur and all-out oppulence of the most decadent degree. Scrubbed and shining after immersion in rivulets of steaming water in a vast sparkling bathroom, and clothed in spanking new gown of lacy detail, she was swept into the fading evening light for a night of enchantment.

Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.

Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.

The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.

What a way to make a living...

Things I have been mostly saying this week:

'I'm so sorry to bother you...'

'I assure you, we are not trying to sell you anything...'

'Perhaps there would be a more convenient time to call...?'

'Yes, yes, I am aware of what time it is...'

'Yes, I do realise that people have better things to do with their time...'

'You wouldn't be interested in participating? Okey-doke then, Cheerio!'

And all said in a cheery sing-song voice that morphs into violent swearing and spluttering as soon as the phone is in its cradle. There is nothing to inspire such celebration of the human race as being a minion of market researchers and calling le grand public of an evening.

I often muse as I call about whether I could tip a person over the edge. For instance, some of the surveys we carry out have certain criteria that must be met in order to take part, such as being in a particular age boundary or having so many children. So, if somebody is coming to terms with getting older and is really rather depressed about it, being turned away from a survey they have agreed to partake in (a rare occurrance though this is) due to their mature years could throw them into turmoil or intense mental instability. Likewise with an infertile person, or somebody suffering great trauma in trying to conceive, being ineligible for a questionnaire as they are childless. I could be causing deep personal agony and may be the final straw before suicide is contemplated or attempted...
Or they may try track me down and come after me and strangle me with the telephone wire for causing them such heartache. I am putting my own life at risk by undertaking this job. There are some nutcases out there after all.

Thus, this is the great responsibility I commit to when walking into work each evening. And for only five pounds an hour.

Home SWEET home? Home TANGY, CRUNCHY home!

There are, of course, many things about home that I miss when away from home, and it is only on returning after a bit of a jetset break that I realise how much I take these things for granted.

Yes, there is obviously the whole family thing. Those who are most beloved, have nurtured me, and provided me with a lasting formative experience that will serve me well throughout my life. Then there is the fact that the fridge and pantry are stocked by those little fairies that work so hard out of sight, and who also do the washing, ironing and cooking. They are indispensible creatures. And of course there are the many cafetieres at my disposal.

But what I am really referring to, the thing that is best about home, the thing I most take for granted and will sorely miss on leaving, is being able to eat a big bowl of pickled gerkins whilst in pyjama bottoms, crunching noisily and slopping pickle juice down me in front of Loose Women, and not even having to worry about the smell or the state of my breath.

That is what home is. Home is where the gerkin is.

Shag-a-muff

Yikes, the cyberspace documentation of the amazing adventures of Anna has been neglected for too long I fear. One of the pitfalls of raving in Magaluf for a week. Another is glowstick related injuries, such as fluorescent goo to the eye and over-enthusiastic wielding of said rave prop.





So, I think a summary is in order.

Someone pulled a Pedro

I got sunstroke and almost vommed on ravers

A Spanish keyboard player with a perm named Tony helped A practice her Spanish

Gammon Daddies were both ridiculed and embraced

C and I discovered how liberating pole dancing is

We ate mac in a can

I rode in the lift about a billion, trillion times

Eye liner 'taches and monobrows were applied for a night out in bars

I obtained a perfect white strap across my red raw back

A 'Cribs' style video was recorded in our appartment, complete with theme music

We got addicted to Smack (a breakfast cereal)

I mourned the loss of a big bug that was murdered by C

Sand got absolutely everywhere

We blocked the shower plughole with hair, ewww

Cheap vodka is the way to wildness, especially when in Long Island Iced Tea - yum

My tankini top blew off the balcony, but was later retrieved from a bush

We met a chap from Corbridge, randomly

Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and many other classics were danced to in a cheesy club

We sat on the bed drinking tea and eating choccy wocky (as it is now known)

C took over the mic from the Spanish indie band and stomped her way through a rendition of the White Stripes

We lay on the beach at five o'clock in the morning looking at the stars

'She's Electric' became the anthem of the week

I raved continuously to DJ Sammy for hours and hours, and actually LOVED it - who knew?


This is only the tip of the iceberg too. A great deal can happen in a week. And the result of it all boils down to me sitting at the dinner table on my return, having a perfectly civilised conversation with the parentals, peeling great sheets of skin from my back and placing them on a tissue. Both surreal and gross.

Badger me this...

The true embodiment and quintessence of versatility itself is the gloriously useful and fascinatingly malleable word 'badger'.



And not just in the animalistic sense, as in 'Is that fashionably monotone, snufflingly teddybear-esque creature, ridden with tuberculosis and perhaps liable to speak like they so disconcertingly do in Prince Caspian, possibly what is commonly known to the countryside dwellers as a BADGER?', but in the haranging and annoying sense also. Which is always a far better thing. Nature is so-so, but the potential for irritating and nagging? That's what I'm talkin' about.

To badger (verb): to harrass or urge persistently; nag; pester
I badger, I badgered, I will badger
You badger, He badgers, They badger, We all jolly well badger together

No doubt you are now all beginning to share my joy for the word. That's what sheer repetition does to the English language, rendering whatever word is being repeated nonsensical and somehow rude sounding.

It can be used perfectly adequately, nay favorably and proficiently, out of context as well. Such as exchanging the word 'riddle' for badger, 'Badger me this, why don't you?'. Or swapping 'ticket' for badger, 'That's the badger!'. Or, indeed, any swearword at all, 'Oh badgeration! I stubbed my badgering toe! How the badger did that happen?!'

It's just a word that keeps on giving.


Incidentally, can you tell that I first started musing on the subject of this post when in that dreamlike state between deep sleep and conciousness as I was waking up this morning? Nah, thought not.

Groundhog Day, Every Day

Just like there are re-runs of programmes like The Simpsons and Friends shown endlessly on TV at exactly the same time each day, that you can set your watch by and can be safe in the knowledge that you've seen them all before, my mind plays re-runs.

Admittedly there are a few original thoughts that flash through the old cranium. But aside from these rare and exotic things, there is pretty much a loop of the same thoughts that occur to me at round about the same time each day that I never think about except at that moment, day in, day out. I have endeavoured to remember them out of context.

When I push down the cafetiere most mornings I always think how much it sounds like a sound effect from Star Wars, the Death Star atmospherically ploughing through a galaxy far, far away perhaps, or Dr Who when the Tardis is embarking on travelling through the space time continuum.

When I use the remote control, usually about Neighbours time, that statistic about how many germs and bodily fluids are present in the peanut bowls at bars always occurs to me as I muse over how many grubby little fingers have poked at the volume and channel buttons.

When I am making use of a towel, after a shower or the like, I am always reminded of that riddle: what gets wetter the more it dries? A towel. This is rather clever and I wish I didn't know the answer so that I could think on it and be delighted by the solution to the riddle.

When I am alone in the house and venturing into the pantry I always imagine what it would be like if I accidentally shut the door and was trapped inside. I suppose there are worse places to be trapped as at least there are plenty of provisions in a pantry. But I always see myself as a decomposing corpse in rigor mortis, look of horror on my bloodless face, when discovered by returning family.

When returning from the pantry I always contemplate life itself and the transient nature of it and all I have achieved in my own short existence as I see it flash before my eyes when tripping over all the shoes strewn across the floor, narrowly avoiding a broken neck.

All these thoughts and more are touched on, however fleetingly, each day as they are provoked or inspired by whatever external activity I am involved with. Often to the point of annoyance as I feel like saying 'Yes, I know that, I have thought that before, many a time, get out of my head and leave me to be otherwise cerebrally disposed'. I am trapped in a loop of my own thoughts.

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.