And now its time for something totally different

Well, I'm back in lovely Dorset for a few days now before my long long flight to Australia. Dorset is not at the moment lovely but is in fact grey, soggy and exactly the same as when I left it two years ago. Dad picked me up and we went to Tesco in town to do some last minute shopping. Dad was chatted up by a woman at the banana section who carried herself like a drunk sack of hammers and lacked front teeth. I managed not to see anyone I knew much to my relief. When I go home I resign myself to the fact that at some point I will have an awkward encounter over a Tesco checkout. Or perhaps in an aisle. Someones mum, someones sister. God I know I'm bitter, but I just cant stand small talk.

I'm so excited about Australia I can't sleep at night. The next few days at home should be nice and relaxed- reading, walking around the Purbecks and cooking a 'non christmas' roast for my parents (and a few stray old ladies). I'm slightly annoyed that the rellies insisted on me returning their massive suitcase that I borrowed last time, especially because I have since discovered that they have no plans to use it any time soon. I lugged it back, empty, on a train so packed that i had to sit two carriages away from it in my reserved seat (thank goodness) which was occupied in and around by a very well mannered london family. I had to kick them out of my seat, like a heartless cow. I wouldn't have, but the only other option was to sit inside the suitcase. A man a few seats away was having a blazing row with another man who refused to move from his reserved seat. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, using phrases like 'duuuuur' and 'god you're such an arsehole! I'm going to sit on your lap!' A polish woman sat opposite me asked the refreshments trolley man if he had a bin for their waste. He was apparently also polish and snapped 'no! I dont have 'rubbish''. The woman foolishly persisted- 'what is that bag on the side of your trolly?'. 'ICE bag. No rubbish! I not dustbin man!' He trundled off without serving her and collided with an unfortunate woman trying to get to the toilet. 'GO OTHER WAY'. The woman reasoned that there wasn't a toilet the other way. He spat 'I AM GOING THIS WAY'... she went the other way. I bought a cup of tea from him, smiled sweetly and was very nice in an attempt to soothe him. He was unresponsive, and as thanks for me giving him exact change, he asked me if I wanted sugar...then didn't give me any.
God, what an arsehole.

Xmas eve at the 'rentals

Goes something like this:

Mum: What do you want in your ham sandwiches Ed?
Dad:...Ham. What kind of question is that?
Mum: Well then, JUST ham, thats fine. I'll make you JUST ham sandwiches then shall I?
Dad: Do you mean 'what would I like WITH my ham sandwiches'?
Mum: Yes thats what I meant.
Dad: Well I didn't know that did I? It's a silly way to phrase it. You should ask questions properly.
Mum: *tuts* do you want white or wholemeal bread?
Dad: You know I never have white bread.
Mum: What do you want WITH your ham?
Dad: We don't have any ham. Do you mean gammon?
Mum: Yeah, gammon.
Dad: Well why did you say ham when you meant gammon?
Mum: Oh, same difference. What do you want with your gammon?
Dad: Coleslaw.

LOL, I feel like I'm living with George from Seinfeld's parents sometimes.

Ten days and counting..

I played squash today for the first time ever. And I'm not actually terrible at it! I seem to have trouble hitting the ball from certain angles, but with practice this will improve. Plus I felt really cool and sporty strolling out holding a squash racket. My left arm and my arse hurts (?!) and my left nostril is sore but I'm pretty sure that is unrelated and probably something to do with an impending cold. Well, not for long, baby! In ten days time I will be arriving in sunny sunny hot hot Sydney, where colds are an invention of the silly and Dickensian British, along with chills, depression and 'the vapors'.



I have an awful lot to do before I go home on tuesday. Coursework research, packing, jewellery orders, work and bank stuff.....
Today, I have developed a cough. This is not a good sign. Perhaps the vapors have got to me after all. :(

Climbing the oak boughs, low boughs we straddle,
a kite to untangle, a birds nest to raid,
shoes tied at the laces and flung up to tangle
bright blankets we stretch and peg to the branches
all at sea we are
all at sea
all adrift we are
you and me

Things I have learned in the last couple of days

1) You can teach a goldfish to play football.
2) Getting a zip replaced on a pair of boots around here will set you back around the price of a nice new pair of boots.
3) Barclays charge a fiver for copies of bank statements.
4) Town before xmas is a callous, heartless place where one man will tread on anothers balls to get ahead in the queue.

Ice skating on a saturday twilight

I did it. I went ice skating. And I didn't fall all the way over. Not once. I felt comfortably young doing something a bit 'fun', until I saw the scores of kids half my age skating rings around me. Suddenly I felt like a brittle, knock kneed old batty aunt with dyspraxia and one good eye, bumbling along with arms and legs akimbo going 'wheeeee....?' But I cared not. I had a jolly good spaz. Now my legs are aching and my ankles which felt so supported before are groaning.
That said, ice skating was possibly the best remedy for a day of working in the kind of bar where weird old men stroll in and tell you without any prompting that you would need to lose a bit of weight before they would ever consider you as a serious romantic option. This particular man was in his late forties, looked like a cross between Bono and a tranny/Boy George, and was sporting eyeliner, peircings and Ming The Merciless evil upside-down drawn-on eyebrows. He had a very amusing conversation with another local which went something like this. Names have been changed to protect the ridiculous:
Costco- 'oh yeah, well my girlfriend *name removed* is heading over in a bit.'
Ming- '*name removed*? I know her.
Costco- Yeah?
Ming- Yeah. Uh. I went out with her for a bit.
*awkward silence*
Ming- Hah, it was like 20 years ago...
Costco- Oh aye.
Ming- She was a lovely girl. Very nice. Stunning looking too, dead skinny....
Ming- Great shag. Got her legs up round my neck!
Costco- ........I'm just going to the cashpoint.
Ming (to me)- Well, that was a bit embarrassing.
Me- *squirm*
Ming- You know, you're a really well-built girl. You look dead solid, like an athlete, or a kickboxer.
Me- Uh...thanks.
Ming- Oh no, I don't mean it in a bad way, I think it's dead hot like. Not for me though, I like girls who are skinny. I mean, you're really a beautiful girl but you would have to lose some weight.
Me-.

I wish I did do kickboxing.

Agent Dale Cooper, you are my dream-boy

I have been alone in the house all day long. Entirely self-inflicted, but goddamit I needed to do some work. I have scrapped second-rate fairy romp in favour of a shorter and infinately less rubbish story. Mostly because I did all the hard work on it two years ago and just re-worked it using my new margret atwood google widget. The loneliness has gotten to me though. Ive been on the internet for the past two hours looking at freaks and autopsies on youtube. Sicko. This is how it starts...
Also in the absense of my beloved I have been growing unnaturally attatched to pictures of Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks...I am trying to attatch said photo example but it seems I saved it as a 'plain text' document, because I'm a mush-brained goon.

Postman calls

Ahh, I got a letter from Keir AND a letter from my dad AAAND a pair of PJ's in the post today. Amazing. Sadly Primark's sizing templates dictate that a girl who might wear size 14-16 pj's will undoubtedly have a belly like a beach ball and an arse like a pancake. And no, I wasnt wearing them back to front. Unless Primark stitched the label to the wrong side. Which is wholly possible.
In other news, we have SNOW. Not a great deal of it mind you, and although I want nothing more than to go and frolic in it, there IS a school at the end of my street and I don't want to be pelted to death by all the snotty 13 year olds who hate me because I wont buy them fags.

Fail day, success day

Well the weekend has been a totally driven all-out pen snapping kickupthearse-fest. I have written most of the first draft of my portfolio story and I will be finishing it today. Hopefully. However a series of FAILS is threatening to put a dampener on my day.

FAIL 1- Anja has gone off home for a wedding, and Clem has just gone off home, leaving me alone in the house for a couple of days with pets and occasionally visiting pieces of furniature for company. This is ok. BUT. I cannot have a shower at present as it seems the boiler has taken a decision to go from inexplicably working fine to just not working at all. Just for me.

FAIL2- I got a little package in the post this morning with an Australia stamp on it. Getting hugely excited, I ripped it open thinking 'yay it must be from Keir or my Uncle or someone from that hemisphere'.... but no. It was a stupid tiny packet of stupid dinosaur shaped sweets from the Natural Confectionary Company. The Australia stamp was dated dec 2006, which I suppose means that it is a joke about the 6 weeks it can take for free samples to drop through your door. Well, thanks a bundle Nat Con Co, you just ruined my day. And your sweets are bland tasting and gluey. I'm expecting far more important things in the post; a lonely planet guide to south australia, a winter feather duvet and a pair of fluffy frumpy frau pyjamas (thanks mum), and some jewellery making supplies so that I can afford to go home for xmas. Anyway, god how thoroughly boring. Sorry.



Oh, success came in the post too. The water bill has inexplicably been written off. We now owe them a grand total of £2.26. Which I can just about afford to pay right now. Huzzah!
x

Sunday, an Attic Room

This is a bit of writing. Enjoy :)

Mid afternoon in your attic room feels static. There is no sound from outside, just the occasional creak of the house as it adjusts itself for comfort. If I look out of the tiny window, I might discover that we are adrift in the Pacific ocean.

I am lying on my back on your bed, reading an out of date weekend guide. You get up and ask me if I would like a piece of fruit. There is a visit to your sister’s place between us and dinner, so I say yes, I would like a satsuma please. I noticed a particularly big and yellow one in the fruit bowl downstairs. You grin, standing half in, half out of the doorway, stooping slightly because the door is really meant for a child. Your hair is short and fluffy; it sticks up in funny places where it has not yet settled into a style. When the woman in the barber shop asked me if I was going to miss you, I cried. It was down to your shoulders when we met. It was down to your shoulders yesterday, and smelled like lemon and tea tree.

You return with a plate. My satsuma is there on the side, accompanied by a selection; sliced melon, a banana, and a sharon fruit. Neither of us has tasted a sharon fruit before. It’s yellow and shiny. Fits in the palm of my hand. It looks like a fat tomato, but harder to the touch, like the plastic fruit thats manufactured for coffee tables. It doesn’t look like a Sharon fruit. Or a Claire fruit, or a Janice fruit.
You pluck off the green top and try to peel it with your fingers. I peer into the hole; the inside is wet and fleshy.
‘Gross. I don’t want to eat it. Rob said it would be like an apple inside.’

The television is showing the Moto GP. Stoner is in the lead. Rossi is close behind.

We cut it in half. It’s juicy and full of little stringy veins. You sniff at it cautiously before taking a bite.
‘It tastes like a pear. Lot like a pear.’
I have a go. It’s not like a pear at all. It smells strange, sort of yeasty, and tastes like a mango.
‘It’s like a mango. A weak, mushy one.’
‘I suppose it is.’
We sit curled together on the sofa, with the plate between us and the race in front of us whining on a twelve inch television screen.

Shameless self-promotion

So, this is what I have been up to the past few days. If only I had a gang of convicts to help me mass produce this stuff. I'm dreaming buttons at the moment.
Progress is slow and uncertain saving wise. Sudden bills and angry letters fom various water/gas/electric companies are stripping me slowly of any extra shifts I have managed at Vines, and communication from the Ropewalk gallery is patchy. To raise some extra funds, I have a plan. If anyone has a lot of girlie friends who like to buy beady things, I am looking for a host for a jewellery party. The deal is, you invite me, my jewelleries and a hoard of friends over for nibbles, wine and jewellery gazing/buying/ordering. In return, I can offer you either a cut of the profits, or a set of jewellery to keep, depending on the level of success. I can supply wine and nibbles if need be :) the following is a link to my facebook album, with a few examples of what I do:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2001600&l=64029&id=1161262824

Now that we have caught up...

Down to matters at hand. Our house smells of chicken, and the kitchen bin is overflowing to the extent that if anyone were brave enough to dig the tie handles out from under the refuse, they might just get pulled in. The residents of 11 Rowditch Avenue would like to take this point to extend their apologies to the Binfox, and announce that we have found the cause of our problem-



Times have been hard since Keir went away, but now that we have decided to throw credit cards to the wind, the anguish has lessened. My tickets to Sydney are booked, as is my lovely National Express coach trip from Shaftesbury to Heathrow Airport. Rhi informs me it's like visiting a town....except it's an airport. Fabulous! I was a little worried when I found that each terminal has a dedicated bus service. Eep. I must remain positive though. I am the fearless traveller, and no obstacle will overcome me, especially not long-haul flights and the possibility of having all my camera film ruined by the x-rays at customs.
Despite my worries, I am pleased as punch and am now eagerly counting the days until New Year. I spent all day yesterday in a self-created sweatshop, manufacturing handmade jewellery for the wah classes to gift their loved ones. Keir is busy beavering away at his matched betting to make us some extra dinero, and both of our parents are contributing towards it, which is wonderful news for us. I've counted the piggybank- it's an extra thirty squid. Woot. I almost made the grave error of pouring the thing into the Coinstar at Sainsburys, until I remembered that all it gives you in return is a voucher for groceries. Nuh-uh.

Gemma and Keir have now seperately informed me that I will be forming a new band with them and Sophie in Austrailia....and we are playing a gig. The seperate and repeated assertion that this is indeed a plan leads me to believe that they are actually serious. Am I musically competant? No. But lets not niggle over little details.

Oh, and we invented a new word last night- 'Flunging'. The meaning is disputed, but I think we agreed at least on it being some form of ear-sex. I also believe that Nick put it on Wikipedia. But I'm not sure. I have learned a lot of words recently. Cam told me what 'Docking' is. Josh and Anja showed me a pornographic drawing on the coach home from Amsteram to explain the concept of 'Swordfighting'. All these words are sure to come in handy. One day.

xx

So heres a catch up-

Since Keir went away to Other-Hemisphereland I have been all the way to Amsterdam with some jolly good chums, where we saw all manner of strange and magical things. I even wrote an article about it for Dusted, which I've blagged for this...blog. Enjoy!

About 7.30am, after an eleven hour slog across Europe, our coach pulls up outside the Heiniken museum and we all stumble out. Tired. Travel Sick. Cramped to the max. But nobody really minds that we are all sweaty and smell like stale crisps... because we are in Amsterdam.
The Hans-Brinker hotel is located quite close to the Red Light District- politely called 'De Valen' ('The Walls') by the locals, and prides itself on it's grubbiness. So much so, there are postcards available to buy at reception which bear slogans like 'Hans-Brinker- now a bed in every room!'. They don't lie. Our room consists of six prison-issue bunkbeds, a few kicked in lockers, and a kind of wetroom shower/toilet combo. Not much else, except for the charming graffiti'd pinboard which shouts 'I HATE VAGINAS', among other things. Oh, and there are posters in the lifts warning guests of the dangers of overindulgence. Any guesses? Yep, it's a photo of a guy passed out and covered in writing, shaving foam, fruit and lingerie. Beware.



The first stroll around Amsterdam in the morning sun is breathtaking. The streets are bustling with commuters, but the cars are few and far between. Men and women dressed in smart suits and high heels peddle to work. People rush by on bikes customised with paint and plastic flowers. Parents taxi their little children in wooden carts hooked to the front of their bicycles. This is an image of a lifestyle that I wish I was a part of. Locals leave their bikes unchained, knowing that they will be safe. Of course, for those not accustomed to bicycles en masse, woe betide you who strides obliviously across that 'pavement'.

I must be honest now and admit that although there are many fascinating galleries and museums in the city (most popular are the Cannabis museum and the Sex museum), I was too caught up in the magic to visit them. The real romance of Amsterdam lies in it's streets and coffee shops, and I found plenty of things to see tripping dreamily between the smokey cafes and street markets- a specialist glass doorknob shop, fast food vending machines and market stalls selling Virgin Mary paraphenalia. After dark is the time to really explore. The city opens up to show it's bright and colourful lining, and the real fun begins.

The Red Light District is not for the faint of heart. Or for claustrophobes or people who are scared of shop dummies. At it's dark heart it is a dizzying network of narrow alleys, lined with full length windows lit up in a lurid pinky-red. Inside, prostitutes stand displayed like living manneqins in underwear. It is an unnerving sight. One or two such alleys that we visited are so narrow that to get past the row of people coming the other way, you must press your face against the wall and inch along past the mad graffiti until you are spat out on the other side. There are cinemas devoted to showing hardcore porn, and even a 'discount erotic store' which sells, amongst the naughty things, cheap 2009 diaries and paint-by-numbers kits.
The locals, if you are lucky enough to meet one (Amsterdam is very cosmopolitan) are generally friendly and take an interest in the experiences of the tourist. We were chased by a man in a wheelchair, personally serenaded by a man with an accordian and joined in a few photographs by a teen who called himself 'amsterdam guy'. Wouldn't have met them in a Cannabis museum.
Despite the eye bags and sore head on departure, I think the time was right to be going. Amsterdam is a beautiful and hedonistic city, with the balance just right. Everyone is relaxed, nobody is rushing, nobody causes trouble. What you decide to indulge in there remains between you and the city. Oh, and some very good friends.