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'.
20 May 2007
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.
13 May 2007
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.
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.
7 May 2007
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.
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.
2 May 2007
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.
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.
24 April 2007
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.
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.
18 April 2007
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.
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.
12 April 2007
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.
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.
8 April 2007
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.
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.
31 March 2007
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.
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.
25 March 2007
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.
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.
13 March 2007
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.
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.
6 March 2007
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.
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.
1 March 2007
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.
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.
21 February 2007
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
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
13 February 2007
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.
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.
7 February 2007
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.
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.
4 February 2007
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.
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.
31 January 2007
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.
I lit some incense to create ambience. What has in fact been created is a gagging, thick smoke stream headed straight for my face, filling my nostrils with a burning perfume. Not ambience. I think I'm experiencing an air flow malfunction, thus rendering the calming, settling qualities I wished to evoke, through the lighting of said incense, an eye-watering fug of surreal, blue-tinged smoke spirals, reminiscent of centaurs, gryffins, nyads and the like.
Nyads are all well and good, but they are beginning to make me feel a little woozy... and lightheaded... and... and...
Right. Smoke abated, and incense extinguished with a soft 'phut' between fingers. Can once again think clearly. No wonder N's the way he is. He goes through packets of the stuff, he must have centaurs coming out his ears. No space for room tidying or dishwasher emptying therefore.
Can't for the life of me remember what was going to be in this post now. Something about what a bitch Scarlett O'Hara is, how undeniably cool Rhett Butler is (ignoring all the misogyny etc of course), and how the Library Fascism is getting increasingly out of hand and, yes I'll say it, positively dangerous. But another time chaps. The old brain's atop a gryffin.
24 January 2007
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.
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.
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