tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-305189562024-03-14T08:05:16.316+00:00Sensible Susan & The Ladylike Punk"'All right,' I said. 'I'm glad it's a girl and I hope she'll be a fool - that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'"morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-56838834596299732032010-12-31T03:27:00.001+00:002010-12-31T03:28:58.920+00:00I'm off.<a href="http://ladylikepunk.wordpress.com/">I'm moving OVER HERE</a>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-83115012580081081002010-11-30T21:55:00.004+00:002010-11-30T22:23:13.990+00:00HOW MUCH?I was talking about uni fees and EMA cuts with my mum & P when we went to the British Museum last week; and there have been a few thoughts bumbling through my head ever since.<br /><br />Now, I didn't get an EMA - although I would have qualified had I gone to the local state whatever, because of where my parents worked, I was in private education (government-funded, but private nonetheless) and I didn't qualify. I wouldn't have even thought to apply, to be honest. But that doesn't stop me from seeing it as a lifeline, or as the single deciding factor in whether or not someone stays in school after GCSEs. It might just cover bus fares, or food, or uniform - but that is what makes the difference; school education might be free in this country in that we don't have to pay fees to go, but there are other associated costs. Cutting EMAs is effectively cutting opportunities before they've really even gotten started - forcing kids to abandon their education and start work in a job market where 16-24 year olds have the highest rate of unemployment of all working age people.<br /><br />As far as fees go - mum mentioned something a collegue had said to her about the cost not being that high; it's only £9000 a year maximum. However, assuming that most unis will put their fees up to maximum, as they did when top-up fees were introduced, we can use it as a standard figure. Let's assume that the average student goes to university for three years as an undergraduate - that's £27,000 of fees. It's not a lot if that's what you've paid for your kid's education every year since they turned 13 - but it's more than a lot of adults earn in a year (nine grand is more than some adults are able to earn in a year, and this assumes that the hypothetical student is able to find a job that pays this much while allowing them time to study properly).<br /><br />But that £27,000 isn't the only number - it's just for one thing. It doesn't cover cost of actually living - and I'm not talking about going out on the lash every night; I mean rent, food, utilities - the basic stuff everyone has to pay for.<br /><br />Most universities in London tell their students to budget £100-150 per week for rent alone; <a href="http://www.ucl.ac.uk/prospective-students/accommodation/london-life/living-costs">UCL</a> advises a weekly budget of £245 per week for everything. I don't really know what rent is like outside of London - but I imagine it'll be a little cheaper; however, because London is expensive, let's continue taking London as an example - living costs are going to be roughly £9500 per year - a further £28,500 needed to go to university. I'm sure there will be companies willing to loan that to students as well as their fees - making a charming £55,500 loan. Which is more than my mum's mortgage. Brilliant. And I thought being able to pay for a MA was going to be tough.morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-78668184252760752042010-11-28T22:51:00.004+00:002010-11-28T23:14:32.349+00:00the fogI am hoping it is not going to snow at all. I hate snow - I mean, it looks pretty, it's fun, but it's fucking nasty to walk on, bloody cold, and gets everywhere. I'm such a grump with the cold.<br /><br />The grump is not being helped today by the raging headache currently occupying most of my skull. It appears to be pushing my brain out, because I spent most of the day in a complete fog. Although that may have been caused by the tramadol I was prescribed - which I'm not sure about; I think the headache is also a result of the tramadol. I'm genuinely not sure if a painkiller that gives me a splitting headache and massive brainfog is going to be worth not having a sore back - I take painkillers so I can <span style="font-style: italic;">function<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">,</span></span></span></span></span> not so that I can spend the day sitting on the sofa in a heap going "whaa?" I might keep them for the really bad days, of the sort where I wouldn't be trying to go anywhere anyway.<br /><br />I've finished my first essay for uni, or at least I've reached the point where I've run out of sensible things to say. I'm not happy with it (when am I ever?) and I don't really want to hand it in, but the deadline is tomorrow, I don't know what else to say, and I hope that it gets a halfway decent mark. Either way, I get plenty of feedback before I have to write the next essay - for which I need to choose both a movement and a gender/sexuality theorist to interrogate it with - and I'm sort-of looking forward to that. It'll be interesting at least. I just need to ask my tutor if we can meet somewhere easier to access, as his office is up so many flights of stairs I'm pretty much ruined for the rest of the day.<br /><br />Talking of stairs - dear people who own/run large buildings: you have a lift. Please ensure it is accessible to those of us with disabilities that neccessitate the use of a lift. Thanks. (Dear boss and fellow employee: thank you for running all over the building to find the lift and get it to take me up to the office, you guys rock so very much).<br /><br />Have some pictures from a trip to the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/sets/72157625474451072/">British Museum</a> (incidentally: my former primary school teacher is awesome. We got carted all over the museum to look at a tiny wee cup with men shagging on it; clearly, she has had a great influence on me).<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5210132778/" title="P1010104 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4125/5210132778_215b096334.jpg" width="500" height="496" alt="P1010104" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5210126708/" title="P1010094 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4151/5210126708_020d8ec187.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1010094" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5209552667/" title="P1010123 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4085/5209552667_dbba2043f7.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1010123" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5210076488/" title="P1010059 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5281/5210076488_4e0a70d359.jpg" width="500" height="367" alt="P1010059" /></a>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-24347500176608730732010-11-12T19:51:00.002+00:002010-11-12T20:17:49.537+00:00I think I need rails for the bathroomYesterday was bloody chundering <i>awful</i>. Thankfully I don't get days like yesterday very often, but getting them at all is bad enough.<div><br /></div><div>Yesterday really started on wednesday. I wanted to go to the demo - incidentally: <a href="http://teneleventen.wordpress.com/">sign this please</a> - but realised, when G was leaving for work that I was just <i>drained</i>. So I stayed in bed and slept a little. Then I got up, and walked the dogs as usual. And that was bloody exhausting. I was supposed to meet a friend in town, but thankfully she cancelled - and so I did some research on my uni essay from home (thank the internet for google books) and by the time getting ready to leave for uni came around I was fucking wiped. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I didn't go, and I felt a bit crap about it. I hate having to miss things, especially uni, but I was supposed to go into work on Thursday, and it was only a film, and... I was just so damn tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>Went to bed on Wednesday, and I woke up on Thursday feeling like someone had set my spine on fire. Which is always a good sign. And then I discovered other parts of me hurt, and I couldn't really stand, so I called G, sobbing, to get him to come and walk the dogs because Boy Wonder couldn't make it, and I crawled to the back door to let Holly out... and crawled back into bed until G arrived.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate having to get G to help me shower (the issue is mostly getting in and out), I hate not being able to walk the dogs, I hate that all I did was sleep and sort-of watch tv. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hate that people like me are called scroungers, and that people think we're lazy. I won't apply for disability support, because I know I won't get it - I don't need help with "everyday" tasks, not everyday at least. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bollocks to all of it. Days like yesterday remind me that I'm sick, that I'm disabled. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I read <a href="http://wheresthebenefit.blogspot.com/2010/08/human-cost-of-benefit-cuts.html">this</a> and think that at least I'm not there. Yet.</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-74682406679599587162010-11-09T14:08:00.003+00:002010-11-09T14:32:12.400+00:00my camera lives!I gave up searching the house, and bought a new camera cable last week - no doubt the old one will now appear, but last night I finally got around to uploading the photos that had been waiting since september.<div><br /></div><div>Crystal Palace:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159245575/" title="P1000785 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1119/5159245575_4036585596.jpg" width="500" height="334" alt="P1000785" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159861692/" title="IMG_3072 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4055/5159861692_e6b9c6ec09.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_3072" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159258457/" title="IMG_3078 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1408/5159258457_e06704f263.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_3078" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/sets/72157594492734047/">Crochet:</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159892964/" title="P1000819 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1088/5159892964_4a1f9e00cc.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1000819" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://hugo-backstage.blogspot.com/">Boy Wonder</a>'s <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/sets/72157625343599786/">Graduation</a>:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159326815/" title="P1000846 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4127/5159326815_5417bda74b.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1000846" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/sets/72157625218668257/with/5159356705/">Frankie & The Heartstring</a>s at the Lexington</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159961894/" title="P1000917 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4044/5159961894_d2ce4669ee.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1000917" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159356705/" title="P1000931 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4032/5159356705_17d9e6e743.jpg" width="500" height="332" alt="P1000931" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And London with <a href="http://millarca.tumblr.com/">Patience</a>'s family and <a href="http://ellev.tumblr.com/">Lauren</a>. I still haven't got the ovaries to write about Owen's funeral. It happened, it was lovely and terrible all at the same time. The urge to hug Patience & his family repeatedly has still not subsided. But we went into London and there was sightseeing and doc martens and tattoos and I hope it helped for a little while. I took photos, until I decided it was raining too much.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159977234/" title="P1000942 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4126/5159977234_ff2417a118.jpg" width="331" height="500" alt="P1000942" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>I have an urge, at the moment, to embroider. I think I shall. I want it to say something like "rational secular humanism condones this mess" but I don't want to cross-stitch, which is my usual medium for words. I want to do something more arty. </div><div><br /></div><div>I should write my essay, do my job stuff, and do the household budget though. And the washing up too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Indigo says "rrrrraaaaargh scawy monstar!"</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/5159262237/" title="IMG_3101 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/5159262237_87540f8c86.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_3101" /></a></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-22418538488047404972010-11-06T19:30:00.002+00:002010-11-06T19:50:13.253+00:00Remember Remember<div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4952532534/" title="P1000323 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4081/4952532534_9dfb5201cd.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1000323" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Indigo does not like fireworks.<div><br /></div><div>He's currently pacing about the house, trying to settle - then something goes <i>bang</i> and he decides that if something is going bang, he needs to find somewhere else to be, because maybe things won't go bang there. He's dosed up on Rescue Remedy, and I'll give him some peanut butter once he's sat down for long enough, but there's nothing to do except wait it out - hopefully, as fireworks night (and Diwali) was yesterday, tonight will be a little more low-key. </div><div><br /></div><div>Holly does not give a shit about fireworks. Unless they're somehow edible.</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-84525515523925647202010-11-04T15:41:00.005+00:002010-11-04T17:33:28.948+00:00I am invisible.Since the cuts were announced, I've been trying to think of something cogent to say, and failing miserably. I manage sensible for about thirty seconds, and then just get so bloody angry I end up waving my hands in the air and swearing even more than I usually do. It got talked over at uni last night, whether we're planning to go on the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/We-are-women-We-Will-March/137880756259864?v=info">demo on</a> <a href="http://www.demo2010.org/">the tenth </a> (conclusion: yes) and which of us is the most pissed-off. <div><br /></div><div>So I'm not going to talk about the cuts right now; others have said what I want to say, in better ways. Instead, I've been inspired by the most excellent <a href="http://thebrokenofbritain.blogspot.com/">Broken of Britain</a>, and I'm going to talk about being disabled. Being broken. </div><div><br /></div><div>A little background - I have <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fibromyalgia">fibromyalgia</a>. I don't have enough <a href="http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory-written-by-christine-miserandino/">spoons</a>. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday there was a tube strike. I go in to uni one day a week; that day, I had a meeting with my tutor, books to return to the library, a lecture, a seminar, and a friend's birthday. I <i>needed</i> to go into central London.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did some work that morning - nothing dramatic, a couple of hours at the computer emailing and phoning people, and I walked the dogs. I left the house just after four, having tried to get ready in half an hour and failed miserably. I got the train to Victoria. I got on the tube at Victoria, squashed in like a sardine. I got a seat after a couple of stops, and decided it was going to be ok. I went to Euston. I stood in the drizzle for twenty minutes for a bus, knowing that a twenty minute walk was a bit much right then, especially as I had to be coherent and functional for the next three hours at least. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I got on the bus. I was half an hour late for my meeting, and my tutor was ok with that. Incidentally, my tutor's office is on the second floor, up several flights of very steep stairs, where there is no lift. I didn't know this; my first reaction was to sit down and try to explain that I needed a couple of seconds. The problem with not being able to do much exercise beyond half an hour strolling with the dogs every day is that you don't get to be particularly fit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dr M, said tutor, is very nice. He put up with the fact that I relied utterly on notes to tell him what my essay was about, and that I made more notes as we spoke. He was happy to talk about my dissertation, even though I was forgetting words for things and couldn't actually remember one of the topics I want to write about, and said "thingy" a lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>It's strange, when I read how I write about my day. There is no "I went to see Dr M in his office" for me. It doesn't work like that. It is important to me whether that meeting takes place on the ground floor or the second, whether I walked there or took the bus - because each tiny detail has a direct impact on the number of spoons I've got left after completing a task. I don't simply get up, I wake up, stretch, see what hurts where, I sit up slowly, put my feet on the floor, I take my meds with a drink of water, opening blister packs and pill bottles, I may or may not take paracetamol, depending on how much I hurt and whether or not I've already got a headache. Then I stand up, pushing myself off the bed with my arms and using the wardrobe to stop me from falling over too far. <i>Getting up</i> doesn't really encompass the energy required. </div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Back to yesterday. After walking back down those stairs, clinging to the bannister because my balance is a bit shit and I don't want to fall over, I walk around the block to the library. There's a lift, thank goodness. I take the lift, renew my library card, and then return my books. Just enough time to do this, I have a lecture now. Lift, out, across the road. Up the stairs, in. Down more steep stairs, holding on to the wall. I'd take the lift, but I'm late and it is slow to come down from the fourth floor. </div><div><br /></div><div>My lecture is good. Lynne Segal is awesome, and interesting, even if she does speak quickly and ramble a little. I make notes furiously, trying to keep up. I am also recording the lecture, knowing that if I don't manage to write it down, I'll forget it. But I enjoy it. The seminar is good, I get a little break to wind down a little in between. I have run out of painkillers, not thinking to check that the box of ibruprofen I put in my bag actually holds anything more than an empty blister pack. My back hurts, partly from carrying books, and partly because it just does. I talk to M about Stephen Fry's comments, and about the BIGS seminar on friday. I don't make notes in the seminar, but I do get to interject a comment about Christine de Pizan. </div><div><br /></div><div>After the seminar, a group of us walk around the block to Birkbeck itself, where we take the lift up to the bar. I get a pint of cider, and a seat. We talk about glasses, tattoos, acrobatics, parents, dating, the cuts, theatre. We discuss the waves of feminism and Segal's lecture, at least a little. I get another pint and some crisps. T wants to go out dancing. I'm tired; the seat is more of a stool and my back really does hurt. I get my stick out, and announce I'm going home. Goodbyes are said. Nobody raises an eye at the stick, they know I need one sometimes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I run into a knitter sort-of-friend outside the library, and stand and chat a bit. Shouldn't have stood. Did I mention my back hurts?</div><div><br /></div><div>I walk to the bus stop, slowly. I wait for the bus. I wait a bit more. Eventually, a bus comes along. I want to go to Oxford Circus, but I've been waiting fifteen minutes and this one goes to Tottenham Court Road and it's already after eleven and I hurt. I'm also bone tired, as opposed to the merely a bit tired I felt when I was sitting in the union bar talking about the demo.</div><div><br /></div><div>At Tottenham Court Road, I discover that the Central Line is no longer running, so I have to either take the northern line or walk to Oxford Circus. I decide on the northern line. Thankfully there is an escalator - but only part of the way, then there are stairs. Then I have to get through the crowds of people, saying "excuse me" every time I need to get past. I thank the teenager who moves before I get to him. The northbound platform is less crowded, so I wait on that - there's nothing to lean against on the other platform, and I know I won't get on the first train. So I get the train north, away from where I want to go. </div><div><br /></div><div>I should probably mention this. I have purple hair. I am a size 16-18. I was wearing doc martens. I'm of average height and while generally unremarkable, I am fairly visible. I am carrying, and leaning on, a purple walking stick. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am pushed out of the way by a few people, fuck it, I'm slow. I get on the train anyway, and move to stand in the middle of the aisle. There are no seats. Several people stare at me - I get that a lot; I am young, wearing a skirt, I have large shoes and bright hair, and I am <i>obviously physically disabled</i>. Not one person offers me a seat.</div><div><br /></div><div>I cling to the pole, the knuckles on the hand holding my stick are white as I lean first on that and then on the pole, trying to keep my balance. If I fall over, will anyone help me? Will I be able to get back up? </div><div><br /></div><div>Euston. I get off, moving slowly. I get pushed about a lot by the crowd. I can cope with that, it is busy and everyone wants to get to places that are not deep underground. I walk to the Southbound Victoria Line platform - it takes me several minutes. I can feel myself getting slower with every step. More funny looks. There was a concert somewhere; emo kids on the platform look at me, a couple point and whisper. Yes, children - young people with access to hair dye and ipods can also be disabled. The platform is not particularly crowded, and when the train comes, it is half empty. </div><div><br /></div><div>I move towards the doors. A man about my age, maybe older, carrying a small case with ease, pushes in front of me, as do a couple of other people. All of them are adults, none of them are elderly or pregnant. Everyone wants to get home; more than that, they want to sit down.</div><div><br /></div><div>The man with the case sits, as does one of the older concert-goers; there are no more seats left. I move into the aisle; the old Victoria line trains don't have ledges to sit on or poles to hold at the end of the carriages, and there are people behind me. I am a young woman with bright purple hair, wearing a green cardigan, carrying a large white bag, wearing large doc martens, and leaning heavily on a purple walking stick.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am invisible.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not so invisible to prevent people staring, then looking away if they make eye contact. I cling to the pole and my stick. I want to sit down. I don't know if I can speak loud enough to be heard. I hope someone offers me a seat. I know not all disabilities are visible. But not all of the people in the carriage with me are disabled, surely. None of them are over fifty, with the possible exception of the lady at the end with the shopping bags. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to cry. I blink back tears. I cling to my pole like it's the only thing keeping me upright and I look at the people in front of me. I cannot stand without support. I have been on my feet for over an hour. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to shout. Shouting takes energy. I have more to do before I get home and it is all I can do not to fall over in the middle of the aisle on the Victoria line train between Warren Street and Oxford Circus. I cannot shout. I will not cry. I will make it home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nobody looks at me, I am crippled and weird and they are comfortable in their seats. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am wearing bright colours, my hair is weird, I am not old and I am using a walking stick. I am invisible. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nobody gave me a seat. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sat down at 11:53, when I got on the train at Victoria. It took me ten minutes to walk from my station to my house - less than 200m away. I made it to my house, and let myself in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I cried. </div><div><br /></div><div>I cried because I was tired, because I did not have the energy to shout, because my limbs were stiff and sore and my head hurt and because when G reached to hug me it was like I was being punched. I wanted to be hugged, instead touching hurt. </div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot walk properly today. </div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-27500176000755349272010-09-16T18:57:00.001+01:002010-09-16T18:59:42.692+01:00Oh good gravy.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZEVsGBA732k/TJJapJvYk2I/AAAAAAAAADk/MFW_a56OM9s/s1600/61571_588100450191_37008175_34441058_888860_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZEVsGBA732k/TJJapJvYk2I/AAAAAAAAADk/MFW_a56OM9s/s320/61571_588100450191_37008175_34441058_888860_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517572156518077282" /></a>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-14019231912309468612010-09-13T22:38:00.003+01:002010-09-13T23:03:15.551+01:00Haircut, Haircut, Wedding.This is G, who I moved in with because I love. This is G shortly before moving. <div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4898162417/" title="P1000189 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4077/4898162417_c9a6c1b652.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1000189" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>G decided that the hairy hairy hippy look was no longer for him - he wanted a haircut. I threatened to kick him out if the beard went, so it was agreed that he would have a haircut. He lost his nerve, I made the fatal mistake of saying I was all psyched up and he couldn't do this now. So he did it. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4954953363/" title="P1000440 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4083/4954953363_5db7bab148.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1000440" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Scary. </div><div><br /></div><div>I then decided that if he was going all drastic on me, I would also get my hair cut and go back to my pink, which I'd been missing terribly. Particularly in time for my oldest and dearest friend's wedding.</div><div><br /></div><div>I modified my graduation dress - namely by lopping off the sleeves and shoulders, and turning it into a halter neck. Then, what with autumn suddenly arriving and it being a church affair, I got a cardigan. Et Voila - </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4985917305/" title="IMG_3023 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4104/4985917305_bb7f02aa9d.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_3023" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>So off G and I toddled to deepest Surrey, and I did a reading while trying not to cry (I sobbed through the vows. I'm a massive wet blanket at weddings, and Ellie's was particularly special). Apparently it was decently done. <a href="http://en-gb.facebook.com/castleradiomusic">Simon</a> sang during the signing, and I cried again. Ellie looked stunning and Rich just beamed. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986099117/" title="P1000606 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4146/4986099117_1b237c0c4a.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1000606" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Then we pottered off to the reception, where there was pimms and silly games and then speeches were made by the father of the bride, the best man, and the groom. Rich's speech made me cry (it made Ellie cry too, and Melie had a sniffle as well; I don't know about the rest of the people). </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986205975/" title="Groom's Speech by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4129/4986205975_59e3c28eee.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Groom's Speech" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>There was lots of food after the speeches, and lots of drink, and we all got thrown out into the sunshine to drink more while the people who worked at the venue tidied up for the disco. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986810894/" title="Girls by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4126/4986810894_ec7dc3ae47.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Girls" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The disco was brilliant. Possibly because we were all hammered. Rich and Ellie danced, and it was beautiful - then Rich danced with his mum, and Ellie with the best man and then her brother, and everyone else joined in. At some point - my grasp of time becomes hazy after the dancing started, but it was definitely <i>before</i> we danced the macarena, Ellie threw her bouquet and Melie caught it (and we were all very excited).</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986232715/" title="E about to throw by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4151/4986232715_4fb8851a87.jpg" width="485" height="500" alt="E about to throw" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986836472/" title="She caught the bouquet by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4125/4986836472_9b14ecf262.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="She caught the bouquet" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Did I mention the bad dancing?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986231383/" title="Man Dancing by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4130/4986231383_cc512bcdc9.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Man Dancing" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986244441/" title="the traditional wedding bad-dancing disco by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4124/4986244441_b8d746a71f.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="the traditional wedding bad-dancing disco" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Sayaka, Avalon, G and I caught a taxi and the last train home, which tied things off nicely. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4986523656/" title="P1000584 by msmornington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4147/4986523656_40ee1f02c1.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="P1000584" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Didn't G and I scrub up nicely?</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-81900629141670413052010-08-11T21:04:00.001+01:002010-08-11T21:07:53.037+01:00House moveI have moved in with G. The house is in South East London, which is a change for me - the area is nice, the neighbours friendly (we were invited to the street party for our road within 10 minutes of arriving) and the house is lovely.<div><br /></div><div>Old landlady, who had previously been very nice, turned into a massive pain - wanting me to pay rent until she had someone in (because the house wasn't ready to move in within half an hour of me giving her the keys), get a skip to take rubbish away despite the council being booked for a collection, and to replace the sofa completely despite it being not new. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got her email detailing exactly what she wanted to claim off the deposit (all of it) at 11 last night, and because she hadn't had a response by 9:30 this morning, she started ringing me. I responded, informing her of what I was definitely <i>not</i> paying (repainting, a £300 new sofa) and what I was more than happy to pay.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually, we worked it out - although she didn't exactly help herself by ringing the new agents several times to complain about me (honestly, I think she was being a bit nuts at this point; the agent certainly seemed to think so). By the end of today, I was absolutely exhausted (scrubbing floors for two hours yesterday did <i>not</i> help, inducing a massive fibro crash yesterday evening and leaving me walking with a stick today) and fighting felt ridiculous. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully, she's now out of my life. This evening I'm going to watch <i>How To Look Good Naked</i> and then the four girls vs four boys "documentary" on channel four. And blog about it for Feminazery. Evening off. Boys playing football. </div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-21552595425723721122010-07-28T21:33:00.005+01:002010-07-28T22:42:02.211+01:00On brothers, and Being IllI have some sort of bug. I suspect it's actually G's bug, which he acquired at Latitude, but no matter where it came from, it hit properly on monday evening. I'd been feeling shite all day, suspected it was the fibro reacting to going back to work, but no, it was a fluey cold-like bug. <div><br /></div><div>Until this morning, when it was the fibro, that is. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hate being ill. While I'm quite happy to lounge about and do nothing for days at a time, there is something about being <i>forced</i> to inactivity that grates. I make a terrible patient; I complain all the time (unless asleep, which the fibro is good for making me do) and I crave peculiar things - yesterday I ate my way through an entire punnet of strawberries, dipping them in clotted cream, and then decided I needed a bacon sandwich - while getting quite bitchy if said cravings are not satisfied <i>immediately</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the less pleasant effects of me being ill is that I struggle to walk the dogs; Indigo is usually ok, and will put up with not going out, or only going for a potter around the block - he's also much better on the lead when it comes to not getting tangled up with my stick. Holly, however, needs to be taken out and allowed to run. She's fairly high-energy even with a walk, so without it, she's a demon. Thankfully, <a href="http://hugo-backstage.blogspot.com/">my brother</a> agreed to come over and take them out (he's a good boy like that; I can rely on him without feeling too much like I'm actually relying on him). </div><div><br /></div><div>My relationship with Boy Wonder is odd. We've always gotten on, to some degree or another; we wind each other up endlessly and argue over petty subjects, but at the same time - BW is my brother, and I actually <i>like</i> him. And I know he'll read this, so he can cock off now. </div><div><br /></div><div>Boy Wonder is, however, an arrogant little shitebag, and always will be; I can still remember our grandmother remarking that he'd be perfect in the army if they had direct entry at field-marshal level - and it holds as true now as it did when he was eight. He's smart, but it's only in the last couple of years I've been able to appreciate his intelligence and humour - possibly because, as he now points out, he's become a little more self-aware. He'll always be an arrogant little shitebag, but at least these days he <i>knows</i> he is. Which, believe me, is something when it comes to him. His determination to succeed is no longer as pointedly measured against me, for one thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>We can now talk, about politics and art and everything, without him acting the superior - he now listens as much as he pontificates, and actually - occasionally - takes it in. Today we discussed (as much discussing as is possible when one half of the conversation is a mumbling heap on the sofa) gender and race within the context of the plays he wants to explore in his masters; I have suggested he read both Margaret Atwood's <i>Penelopiad</i> and Malorie Blackman's <i>Noughts and Crosses</i> with a view to looking at adapting them (although he needs a writer, and he will not be the director, no matter what he thinks). He's interestingly aware of the personal as political, and I like knowing he's a pro-feminist young man.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm rambling now. My limbs and brain work enough for me to have gotten up, eaten, taken a bath, and write this - so now I shall go and read in bed. Hopefully, I will be well enough to go to work tomorrow; I feel terribly guilty about not being able to make it in, especially as it seems the KX school is the only one I've missed days at.</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-24528557315700059532010-07-22T21:23:00.006+01:002010-07-22T22:16:21.785+01:00I have a week off<div style="text-align: left;">I've taken a week off from teaching to go to Latitude and graduation and do Stuff. Which is nice,</div><div style="text-align: left;">I needed a break (already) and - at the end of last week - G and I were still looking for a house.</div><div><br /></div><div>Latitude was awesome, as usual - though the trip to Southwold was even better, possibly because after a couple of days of camping and festival loos I'd started to yearn for civilisation and a decently-priced cup of tea. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4140/4810028026_d6775a86e6.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 403px; " /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>We were there partly for G's birthday, and partly for G's work with the Heartstrings - who absolutely <i>slayed</i> their set - including dedicating a new song to the birthday boy. It was good to see them doing so well. I have rather foolishly agreed to crochet Michael a natty vest top; I'm planning on seeing if I can convert the <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/fornicating-deer-chart">Fornicating Deer Chart </a>(rav link) from knit to crochet. Because every man needs shagging deer on his jumper. If not, there will be lighthouses or some such. Or granny squares.</div><div><br /></div><div>On wednesday, I formally graduated. There was a stupid hat, and I kept flapping my gown and muttering "I am the goddamn Batman" to myself or anyone who would listen. One of those moments where I needed Rachel, <a href="http://millarca.tumblr.com/">Patience</a> or <a href="http://elleveev.blogspot.com/">Lauren</a> to be around (because they understand these things). </div><div><br /></div><div>It was exciting to be very close to <a href="http://www.open.ac.uk/socialsciences/staff/people-profile.php?name=Doreen_Massey">Doreen Massey</a> though - she was being given one of those exciting honorary degrees. I didn't have the courage to say hi at the after-ceremony drinkies (nom nom strawberry tart), I was too busy being hot and grumpy. But at the time - total fangirl moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>My brother Boy Wonder took pictures, obligingly. I managed to find a semi-decent one (I look like I'm about to do the zombie shuffle) in amongst the pictures of the lighting set-up, the sound deck, and the napping bearded bloke across the aisle from them. I was down the front feeling mildly nervous.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/4816424692/in/set-72157624435219919/">My shoes</a> fucking rocked. Still unconvinced about the home-made dress; think I might take off the sleeves and give it pleats (possibly go for straps and a squared-off bodice too) for Ellie's wedding in September. The waist goes out too early, and it's not defined enough for me and my body image issues. </div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4137/4816484980_8aa49274f8.jpg" border="0" alt="" /><div><br /></div><div>Then, after introducing the mothership to Geraldine (and Kate, who won the prize for Most Awesomely Obnoxious Gown), and shaking hands with Dave (Tie of the Day - pterodactyls) and Jaap (Cravat. Enough said), and letting my parents stare awkwardly at each other over the finger buffet, we went for lunch.</div><div><br /></div><div>G and Nabil (the mothership's boyfriend) joined us there, which was nice - and only a little awkward. Sometimes I think Pater doesn't really know how to behave around his ex-wife and her new partner (not that he sees either particularly frequently; this is the first time he'd met Nabil, and possibly the first new partner he'd met). He tried, though. And Nabil and G chatted; I love that my boyfriend is so bloody sociable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got dad to get the waitress to take an exciting fambly photo (from the left: Nabil, G, me, Boy Wonder, the Mothership, Pater).</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4080/4816548442_9e4e8b0913.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>The mothership, being awesome, bought me some underpants (including the requisite strapless number to go under the dress, because I wasn't sure if she'd cope with being dragged to Sh! to buy nipple covers), the massive fucking petticoat under my dress, and a new camera.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I took pictures, which are now in <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/msmornington/">my flickr</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4121/4816568232_082b33696c.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm intending to take the rest of the week to hang with the hounds, and start packing - or at least thinking about packing. We're moving on the 7th/8th - or at least I need to get my stuff out of here that weekend. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need to sort out my books. And yarn. And stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4097/4816642880_a8bdf30c78.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-17010599525068856282010-07-04T22:58:00.002+01:002010-07-04T22:59:44.911+01:00<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.folksy.com/shops/ladylikepunk">I HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN AROUND TO OPENING MY FOLKSY SHOP.</a></span></b><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Please buy stuff and tell everyone you know. </span></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-5399898297654728462010-04-26T19:57:00.000+01:002010-04-26T19:58:35.089+01:00Brother the Boy Wonder has <a href="http://hugo-backstage.blogspot.com/">a blog</a>. Awww. Innit cute?<div><br /></div><div>In further news: revision aaaaaaaaaaargh fuck fuck fuck first exam in eight days fuck fuck fuck argh argh *flail*</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-20542170688978291132010-04-23T20:22:00.002+01:002010-04-23T20:28:05.934+01:00pasta for the confusedPut required amount of pasta on to cook (assuming that, with boiling time, your pasta takes about 20 minutes)<div>In wok/frying pan/something else put generous amount of olive oil, chopped garlic (fresh, dried, jar, paste, whatever), some basil, a tsp or thereabouts of capers, and some pepper. Put on low heat.</div><div>Chop up cherry tomatoes. Put in pan with herbs and garlic. If you have no fresh tomatoes, a tin will do at a push.</div><div>Chuck a couple of anchovies in the tomato-pan.</div><div>Prod with spoon.</div><div>Add some water, boil and reduce.</div><div>The more prodding, the more it all breaks up.</div><div>Do washing up from last two days.</div><div>Prod pasta for a change.</div><div>Make tea.</div><div>Turn pasta off, drain, lob in pan with tomato sauce, prod for a bit.</div><div>Discover there is not only no grated cheese, there is no sodding cheese.</div><div>Put it in chipped bowl, allow to cool as you've just put boiling tomato sauce in a bowl, ffs, it's not ready.</div><div>Write blog post.</div><div>Turn radio off.</div><div>Turn <i>Sanctuary</i> on.</div><div>Eat. </div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-46904295035727963762010-04-19T01:35:00.002+01:002010-04-19T01:41:50.033+01:00<div style="text-align: left;">We're taking Millie to the vet first thing tomorrow, so I should get some sleep. She's settled a bit more, but she's not eaten for well over 24 hours now, and barely drunk anything - although her breathing is easier. She climbed the stairs herself, but couldn't get onto the bed (so I picked her up); it's all so changeable and I don't know what she can and can't do - she seems ok once she's on her feet, but getting up is a problem, and getting down isn't easier either - this morning she couldn't climb through the back door as she didn't seem to know where her back legs were, and she was completely unfocused.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I honestly don't know what to do with myself. I want to hug her and sob. I'm not ready for this to be the end, but nor do I want her to continue to get sicker and sicker. Nor do I want to have her put to sleep if she's just had a crappy weekend because of the heat and will be fine for months to come. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know. I've got to make the best choice for her, but I don't know what that is.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2047/4507936759_7e1aa17317_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></span></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-65545933199919957942010-03-30T00:18:00.003+01:002010-03-30T00:21:18.607+01:00I need to stop torturing myself and move the fuck on. She was just sitting there and I wasn't going to be able to use her. If I ever get better enough to row again fuck knows if she'd still be the right boat. If. When I'm walking with a stick because I can't keep my fucking balance how the fuck do I think I'm ever going to be able to row again? <div><br /></div><div>Fuck this shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>The money is going on Millie's vet bills. And a tattoo. </div><div><br /></div><div>And maybe one day I'll fucking forget.</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-42131942704924899922010-03-17T23:57:00.002+00:002010-03-18T00:02:02.486+00:00MILLEH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4064/4433182213_2f85c7ee50.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4064/4433182213_2f85c7ee50.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div>G took Millie to the vet today; she's had massively swollen neck glands for the last few weeks, though they don't seem to bother her - she's been on antibiotics for basically the last six weeks trying to get rid of her UTI (which seems to have fucked off, thank cod). So, she gets hauled into the vet, they take blood and lymph samples, and pee, and have sent them off to be analysed. And I have had to ask my grandparents for money. Woo. </div><div><br /></div><div>I really, really hope it's not lymphoma. Which was mentioned. And I'm trying not to think about. </div><div><br /></div><div>ooooh. midnight. Today is Millie's fifth birthday. MILLEH BIRFDAY FUD NAO MILLEH?</div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-36033011648917906882010-03-13T19:06:00.004+00:002010-03-13T19:37:51.642+00:00I am up to my ears in essays and<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If I have to listen to Vampire Weekend's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> one more time I think I might stab myself in the ear just to make it go away. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the meantime I will continue to find a way to wrangle this quote into my essay - not because I agree with the sentiment, but because the image makes me giggle:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"And if a Westerner so much as references Africa, the rotting tweed-tattered corpse of Edward Said will punch through his grave and eat them" (from </span><a href="http://www.moreintelligentlife.com/blog/ridiculous-apartheid-indie-music"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">an article</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> in The Economist's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">More Intelligent Life</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> magazine).</span></blockquote></span></span></span></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-19238929962028038252010-02-28T18:29:00.004+00:002010-02-28T19:03:57.861+00:00a veritable feast<div style="text-align: left;">Last weekend, the very lovely Kit came to visit from Minnesota - she flew in for two days in London, and there was LSG hanging out and whathaveyou. And she brought me a big fuckoff box of reese's</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2687/4395746132_ea1218e908_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nomnomnomnomnomnom. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Like any normal person, when faced with a massive pile of pb cups, I immediately think "cheesecake!". Duh. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I used <a href="http://www.recipezaar.com/Ruggles-Reeses-Peanut-Butter-Cup-Cheesecake-114907"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">this recipe</span></a>, with the following changes:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><ul><li>200g gluten and wheat free chocolate chip cookies for the crust, with 50g dove farm gluten free flour, and 100g of butter.</li><li>300g cream cheese (because fuck knows how big they make cheesecakes in Houston, but nobody needs a whole KILO of cream cheese in one cake)</li><li>3 small eggs (could have used two, thinking about it)</li><li>75g soft brown sugar and 75g caster sugar (because I forgot to buy more caster sugar)</li><li>50ml whipping cream</li><li>best part of a jar of smooth peanut butter (roughly 200g)</li><li>1/2 tsp of vanilla extract</li><li>8 reese's peanut butter cups</li></ul><div>The base, gluten free for Ellie, who has coeliac disease but likes cheesecake:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/4394979975_9b413e12a9_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I fucking love my little kenwood. It's actually awesome. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4035/4395747644_ea20233a6f_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4031/4394981811_6acef0e1d0_m.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4031/4394981811_6acef0e1d0_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4066/4395750274_e0e2d7f96b_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4017/4394984353_811f71f787_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">The only problem with so many cheesecakes, is that they need to be baked. So I did. And then I stuck it in the fridge overnight to cool.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4059/4394987123_9f49d0b43d_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2770/4394988115_ab1bf89b8d_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px; " /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2744/4394988811_7e64271d6c_m.jpg"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2744/4394988811_7e64271d6c_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Gareth approved.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">However, before consuming the glory that was cheesecake, we had sort-of enchiladas. Fuck knows what to call them. Anyway. Here:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">3 chicken breasts, cooked and cut into bits.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">50g cream cheese</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">a dollop of sour cream</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1/2 tsp cayenne pepper</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">juice from half a lime - 1 tbsp</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">2 finely chopped garlic cloves</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">about 1 tbps chopped coriander </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1/2 tsp ground cumin</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">good dollop of salsa verde (see below for my version, which isn't salsa verde at all)</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">100g grated cheese - I used a mix of mature cheddar, mild cheese and mozzarella</span></li></ul><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Mix all together. Place double spoonful in centre of corn tortilla, and wrap to form a tube. Put seam-down in baking pan - repeat 7 times more; if you do two layers put a bit of cheese in between. Cover with more grated cheese, whack in oven for about 15 mins on med-high heat. Eat with sour cream and more salsa verde:</span></div><div><ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">2/3 of largish cucumber</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1 decent-sized green pepper</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1 smallish green chilli</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">7 garlic cloves</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1 tsp minced garlic paste</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1 small red onion</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">1/2 a lime</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">a bunch of coriander. </span></li></ul><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Chop cucumber, pepper, chilli, garlic, onion and coriander. Mix together. Put about half of the mix through a blender to chop it small - include garlic paste and lime in the blender, use a good few glugs of olive oil. Let it sit for a bit. The longer the better - a few hours is ideal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2763/4395752098_3c1709779c_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Excuse the lo-res iphone pics. It's too much of a mither to go find my cantankerous camera every time I cook.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div></span></div></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-49941503635949595572010-02-06T23:05:00.004+00:002010-02-06T23:27:45.833+00:00Hook wielding (and dogs)<div style="text-align: left;">I finished my first laceweight project a couple of weeks ago and got around to taking photos. It's the <i><a href="http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/dragonfly-shawl-2">Dragonfly Shawl</a></i><a href="http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/dragonfly-shawl-2"> from IC '08</a> (Ravelry link) using cashmere/silk lace from <a href="http://www.nimuyarns.co.uk/">Nimu</a>. Because of the colour of the yarn, it didn't show up the pattern so well, but I don't care because I fucking love it anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>The first picture doesn't show the colour so well, but it's how I wear it. It's gorgeously soft and warm.<br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4037/4296190767_85d01ca077.jpg" border="0" alt="" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 371px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4296177965_7b1f937463.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm writing up the pattern for <a href="http://www.ravelry.com/projects/mornington/massive-purple-head">this hat</a>:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2705/4296187517_43b5dc119a.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 500px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I also sent a pattern for some mittens to p/hop, but they're obviously snowed under and haven't got back to me, so this will probably be my first pattern on rav.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Millie has finally stopped peeing on things, it seems that she's got a definite tendencies towards UTIs, and so she's on a month's worth of antibiotics. Shoving pills down her throat twice a day is <i>super fun</i>. She's asleep at my feet right now.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4005/4287585055_a40d7a1263_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>I love these pictures of Indigo playing - phone camera in one hand, Mr Rat in the other.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4005/4287585055_a40d7a1263_m.jpg"></a><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4052/4296943326_fcd5782f92.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="cursor: pointer; width: 478px; height: 500px; " /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2714/4296945472_f7962c467c.jpg"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2714/4296945472_f7962c467c.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 500px; " /></a></div></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-62314599349818996712010-01-30T23:08:00.003+00:002010-01-30T23:11:19.270+00:00It is done.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZEVsGBA732k/S2S8S1Y3f6I/AAAAAAAAAC0/942Ta2kBZvc/s1600-h/webcam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZEVsGBA732k/S2S8S1Y3f6I/AAAAAAAAAC0/942Ta2kBZvc/s320/webcam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432674082270707618" /></a><br />53 pages on gender, physical geography fieldwork and why women can like getting muddy too. I'm fucking shattered, I want to print another copy just to set it on fire, and I have absolutely no desire to ever see it again. Until I get the grades back and think about publishing the fucker properly.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-21450041361922073752010-01-25T21:53:00.005+00:002010-01-25T22:55:20.726+00:00visible disabilities and clothesI saw a post about this over on the lovely DMHFFH group, and decided I had to watch. Since the fibromyalgia - woo, it has a name - started, and because I'm having one of those days (a whole 'nother story involving Millie, the bed, and me ending up on the sofa and not sleeping) I'm kinda interested in disability and the way disability is perceived. <div><br /></div><div>Well, that and after going to see Frankie & The Heartstrings last night (they were awesome, lovely boys and I can understand why G loves them so), I decided that I needed an extra leg getting home and got my walking stick out. I was wearing a miniskirt (with mini bustle bum-ruffles) and pink tights and boots, and I thought I looked alright. Apparently, however, I was accessorizing with a second head the way I was being stared at once I got my stick out. Attention people: just because a person has a walking stick, doesn't mean they immediately lose all interest in clothing, or mutate into an old lady. If you don't stop staring I'll shove said stick so far up your arse you'll be able to taste it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes, anyway. <i>How to Look Good Naked... with a Difference</i> was on Channel 4 last week, but I watched it on 4OD earlier (I fucking love internet tv catch up stuff). I don't usually watch HtLGN, mostly because I'm not a massive fan of makeover shows - I'm uncomfortable with the public critiquing of women's appearance, although at the same time I can see how it can help women become more open with each other about their body issues. I <i>do</i> like that HtLGN encourages body-acceptance over surgery or diets to change the women's physical appearance - it's message of confidence in one's self is a good one, at heart. That and I find Gok Wan a bit much a lot of the time. Ah well. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like <a href="http://jezebel.com/5448333/in-which-disabled-women-get-makeovers">Sadie Stein at Jezebel</a>, though, my biggest issue is that they feel they need to devote a whole series to disabled women - in a way, it is still excluding a group by virtue of circling them out for "special attention". To me, it shouldn't be a special attention thing - there should just be disabled women involved in the "regular" HtLGN series without a big thing being made about it. However, because disabled women (and men, for that matter) are so rarely seen outside of alternative and fetish modeling, perhaps drawing a big red circle and screaming "oi, dickheads, pay attention" is the way forward; we have to increase the visibility of disabled persons in shows like HtLGN (and not <i>Britan's Missing Top Model</i>, which was just endless rounds of trying to make typically-attractive girls who happened to be disabled look like able-bodied models while still screaming "no, they're <i>disabled</i>, see, they're different, we're being <i>inclusive</i>") before they can be seen as a normal part of the advertising and fashion industry. </div><div><br /></div><div>I liked Tracy (the first participant) for her honesty - and her bravery - in admitting that she didn't like her body. I understand her anger at having a body that doesn't quite work "right", at being that one step further away from being "perfect". I admire her confidence, and how much she did change (while I might get almost-naked for LSG's charity drive for Haiti, total strangers in a very public place is not happening). While I don't think being confident in one's body requires the ability to get naked in front of a crowd of strangers, or that it's particularly feminist to do so, at the same time I do like that HtLGN does not require the women taking part to be typically beautiful to do so - there is a part of my feminist side that sees nudity of <i>all</i> forms as an important move away from restrictive bodily ideals. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is important that disabled women and men have the same access to fashion as able-bodied people; while Tracy showed that there are sometimes clothing has to be adapted to meet the needs of a disabled person - elasticated panels in the waistband of jeans, for example - there is no real difference between asking yourself "will the sleeves catch in my wheels?" or "how long can I wear these heels for before I won't be able to walk any more?" and "will this top be too big in the chest?". They're just <i>bodies</i>, different sorts of bodies with different needs - but the people who inhabit them want - and deserve - the same access to and enjoyment of clothes.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/fashion/article6986743.ece">The Telegraph article</a> on the show.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next step: realising just because someone isn't in a wheelchair or using a stick, doesn't mean they're not disabled. </div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-51647965034700651272009-11-05T18:03:00.003+00:002009-11-05T18:27:02.331+00:00TankTankGirl died today. <div><br /></div><div>Basically, she managed to get out at some point in the night (I have no idea how), and as her hutch door was closed I didn't think to check before letting Millie out in the morning. A couple of minutes later, I hear the most horrible scream, and see Millie has pinned something to the floor - so I rush outside and try to grab her. Millie was in full hunt by this time, and it took several minutes and attempts to get her to let go of Tank and for me to carry her inside. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tank died in my arms after a couple of minutes, I don't know whether it was shock or being shaken. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel like such a fucking cunt. I was hoping Millie was finally settling down to Tank's presence, and I was hoping to start training her with a muzzle. I was planning on bringing Tank inside today, to hang out for a bit while I made soup (she loved broccoli soup, both for leftovers and the soup itself - especially with cheese in it, the little lunatic). Only yesterday I was joking with Inny that Tank would turn a roomba into her war chariot. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hell, I'd even let Indigo out in the early hours of the morning and hadn't seen anything. I hadn't bothered to check, and now she's gone. She was so fucking terrified, she'd never screamed quite like that, even if she wasn't above screaming when I picked her up (instead of giving up and letting her run about the garden for longer, like she wanted). It was awful. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know Millie doesn't fully understand - she was hyped up and excited because she'd been chasing things, and I'm trying not to be angry with her. She only did what comes naturally to her. It's not her fault. It'll be a long while before I start to forgive myself though.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I want to add, though, that Millie was considered cat-safe; she'd scored very highly in her test. Had I known she wasn't in the slightest safe, I wouldn't have brought her home. Indigo, while not cat safe in the slightest, and not being classed as safe, became safe through training. Tank lived outside so I could work on Millie's obedience without Tank attacking Millie like she did Indigo. </span></div>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30518956.post-23761093870274893472009-06-13T20:46:00.008+01:002009-06-13T21:52:34.032+01:00Fibro, Yarn, Kent... weekend as usual thenThis morning, after getting up very early, and meeting the lovely Ryn at the station - she brought me pancakes. They were quite possibly the best pancakes in pancake history - we headed down to sunny Kent to meet with the downright adorable Patience and everybody's favourite Metalouise. It was very sunny, and we sat in the beer garden of Patience's local and knitted (well, they knitted, I crocheted, with my gorgeous yarn from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5904574">Planetariumfish</a>). Look at this yarn. Is it not fucking gorgeous? I'm making it into a slightly lacy cowl, and possibly some fingerless gloves. I don't normally wear limey green shades, because I'm scared of them, but this was just too pretty - I like the bruisey flashes of deep red and purple.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3328/3623170390_2ea816f854.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3328/3623170390_2ea816f854.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />So, anyway. We were in Kent for World Wide Knit in Public Day, and all was well. Cider and chips and other excitement was consumed, talking was done, and I got sunburned across my shoulders because I'm cool like that. Oh yes.<br /><br />I felt the need to take this picture on the way home:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3380/3623176376_fbccfbfa83.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3380/3623176376_fbccfbfa83.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Ryn and I hopped back on the train to London when the pub shut mid-afternoon (boo!); a few stops out of London Bridge, some of the local chavs decided to sit next to us. Their conversation was <span style="font-style: italic;">scintillating</span> - I sound like such a bitch, but seriously, dude, you're barely 14, and your grasp of politics and geography has come from the headlines you glanced at while turning to page three of The Sun. Do fuck off now. Cow that I am, I abandoned Ryn at London Bridge to sit through their conversation for a few more stops, and got on the DLR home. And saw this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2450/3622358735_c31e052758.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2450/3622358735_c31e052758.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Home was reached, G talked to, food consumed and I was dressed for <a href="http://oneiseverfallingover.blogspot.com/">Brackers'</a> birthday party. So I pull on a cardi and say the magic word* to Indigo. Oh hai body fail time. I can haz working legs please? About halfway through our walk, I'm rapidly reaching the point where it looks like I'm going to need a zimmer frame in the immediate future (that would at least give me a reason to be moving so slowly). The <a href="http://www.fibromyalgia-associationuk.org/content/view/223/203/">fibromyalgia</a> the doctors are thinking I might have - or lupus, but it's never lupus - is playing up.<br /><br />I hate this. I hate not knowing if I'm going to make it home without a trip to the hospital because I can barely walk, or feeling like I've run a marathon and been beaten with sticks when all I've done is get up and make a cup of tea. I hate the headaches and how it turns me from a fairly self-sufficient person to someone who can barely make it down the stairs. It's fucking ridiculous, and I know it costs me friendships because I can't go out and do things - or stay in and do things, or I can't listen because I'm barely conscious, or can't type a coherent sentence. This week has been pretty good - I've been to the library, had meetings, walked Indigo, all sorts. And this evening I keep having to retype words because I can't fucking <span style="font-style: italic;">spell</span> any more. So I'm going to bed.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*<span style="font-style: italic;">walkies</span><span style="font-style: italic;">!</span></span>morningtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01189531902050114158noreply@blogger.com1