Sensible Susan & The Ladylike Punk

I'm off.

2010-12-31T03:27:00.001Z

HOW MUCH?

2010-11-30T21:55:00.004Z

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.

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.

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).

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.

Most universities in London tell their students to budget £100-150 per week for rent alone; UCL 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.

the fog

2010-11-28T22:51:00.004Z

I 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.

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 function, 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.

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.

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).

Have some pictures from a trip to the British Museum (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).

I think I need rails for the bathroom

2010-11-12T19:51:00.002Z

Yesterday was bloody chundering awful. Thankfully I don't get days like yesterday very often, but getting them at all is bad enough.

Yesterday really started on wednesday. I wanted to go to the demo - incidentally: sign this please - but realised, when G was leaving for work that I was just drained. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bollocks to all of it. Days like yesterday remind me that I'm sick, that I'm disabled.

Then I read this and think that at least I'm not there. Yet.

my camera lives!

2010-11-09T14:08:00.003Z

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.

Crystal Palace:

Crochet:

Boy Wonder's Graduation:

Frankie & The Heartstrings at the Lexington

And London with Patience's family and Lauren. 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.

***

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.

I should write my essay, do my job stuff, and do the household budget though. And the washing up too.

Indigo says "rrrrraaaaargh scawy monstar!"

Remember Remember

2010-11-06T19:30:00.002Z

Indigo does not like fireworks.

He's currently pacing about the house, trying to settle - then something goes bang 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.

Holly does not give a shit about fireworks. Unless they're somehow edible.

I am invisible.

2010-11-04T15:41:00.005Z

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 demo on the tenth (conclusion: yes) and which of us is the most pissed-off.

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 Broken of Britain, and I'm going to talk about being disabled. Being broken.

A little background - I have fibromyalgia. I don't have enough spoons.

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 needed to go into central London.

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.

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.

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.

***

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. Getting up doesn't really encompass the energy required.

***

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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 obviously physically disabled. Not one person offers me a seat.

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?

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.

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.

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.

I am invisible.

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.

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.

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.

Nobody looks at me, I am crippled and weird and they are comfortable in their seats.

I am wearing bright colours, my hair is weird, I am not old and I am using a walking stick. I am invisible.

Nobody gave me a seat.

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.

Then I cried.

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.

I cannot walk properly today.

Oh good gravy.

2010-09-16T18:57:00.001+01:00

Haircut, Haircut, Wedding.

2010-09-13T22:38:00.003+01:00

This is G, who I moved in with because I love. This is G shortly before moving.

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.

Scary.

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.

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 -

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. Simon sang during the signing, and I cried again. Ellie looked stunning and Rich just beamed.

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).

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.

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 before we danced the macarena, Ellie threw her bouquet and Melie caught it (and we were all very excited).

Did I mention the bad dancing?

Sayaka, Avalon, G and I caught a taxi and the last train home, which tied things off nicely.

Didn't G and I scrub up nicely?

House move

2010-08-11T21:04:00.001+01:00

I 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.

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.

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 not paying (repainting, a £300 new sofa) and what I was more than happy to pay.

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 not help, inducing a massive fibro crash yesterday evening and leaving me walking with a stick today) and fighting felt ridiculous.

Hopefully, she's now out of my life. This evening I'm going to watch How To Look Good Naked and then the four girls vs four boys "documentary" on channel four. And blog about it for Feminazery. Evening off. Boys playing football.

On brothers, and Being Ill

2010-07-28T21:33:00.005+01:00

I 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.

Until this morning, when it was the fibro, that is.

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 forced 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 immediately.

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, my brother 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).

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 like him. And I know he'll read this, so he can cock off now.

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 knows 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.

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 Penelopiad and Malorie Blackman's Noughts and Crosses 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.

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.

I have a week off

2010-07-22T21:23:00.006+01:00

I've taken a week off from teaching to go to Latitude and graduation and do Stuff. Which is nice,

I needed a break (already) and - at the end of last week - G and I were still looking for a house.

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.

We were there partly for G's birthday, and partly for G's work with the Heartstrings - who absolutely slayed 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 Fornicating Deer Chart (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.

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, Patience or Lauren to be around (because they understand these things).

It was exciting to be very close to Doreen Massey 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.

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.

My shoes 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.

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.

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.

I got dad to get the waitress to take an exciting fambly photo (from the left: Nabil, G, me, Boy Wonder, the Mothership, Pater).

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.

So I took pictures, which are now in my flickr.

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.

I need to sort out my books. And yarn. And stuff.

2010-07-04T22:58:00.002+01:00

I HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN AROUND TO OPENING MY FOLKSY SHOP.

Please buy stuff and tell everyone you know.

2010-04-26T19:57:00.000+01:00

Brother the Boy Wonder has a blog. Awww. Innit cute?

In further news: revision aaaaaaaaaaargh fuck fuck fuck first exam in eight days fuck fuck fuck argh argh *flail*

pasta for the confused

2010-04-23T20:22:00.002+01:00

Put required amount of pasta on to cook (assuming that, with boiling time, your pasta takes about 20 minutes)

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.

Chop up cherry tomatoes. Put in pan with herbs and garlic. If you have no fresh tomatoes, a tin will do at a push.

Chuck a couple of anchovies in the tomato-pan.

Prod with spoon.

Add some water, boil and reduce.

The more prodding, the more it all breaks up.

Do washing up from last two days.

Prod pasta for a change.

Make tea.

Turn pasta off, drain, lob in pan with tomato sauce, prod for a bit.

Discover there is not only no grated cheese, there is no sodding cheese.

Put it in chipped bowl, allow to cool as you've just put boiling tomato sauce in a bowl, ffs, it's not ready.

Write blog post.

Turn radio off.

Turn Sanctuary on.

Eat.

2010-04-19T01:35:00.002+01:00

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.

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.

I don't know. I've got to make the best choice for her, but I don't know what that is.

2010-03-30T00:18:00.003+01:00

I 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?

Fuck this shit.

The money is going on Millie's vet bills. And a tattoo.

And maybe one day I'll fucking forget.

MILLEH

2010-03-17T23:57:00.002Z

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.

I really, really hope it's not lymphoma. Which was mentioned. And I'm trying not to think about.

ooooh. midnight. Today is Millie's fifth birthday. MILLEH BIRFDAY FUD NAO MILLEH?

I am up to my ears in essays and

2010-03-13T19:06:00.004Z

If I have to listen to Vampire Weekend's Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa one more time I think I might stab myself in the ear just to make it go away.

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:

"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 an article in The Economist's More Intelligent Life magazine).

a veritable feast

2010-02-28T18:29:00.004Z

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

Nomnomnomnomnomnom.

Like any normal person, when faced with a massive pile of pb cups, I immediately think "cheesecake!". Duh.

I used this recipe, with the following changes:

200g gluten and wheat free chocolate chip cookies for the crust, with 50g dove farm gluten free flour, and 100g of butter.
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)
3 small eggs (could have used two, thinking about it)
75g soft brown sugar and 75g caster sugar (because I forgot to buy more caster sugar)
50ml whipping cream
best part of a jar of smooth peanut butter (roughly 200g)
1/2 tsp of vanilla extract
8 reese's peanut butter cups

The base, gluten free for Ellie, who has coeliac disease but likes cheesecake:

I fucking love my little kenwood. It's actually awesome.

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.

Gareth approved.

However, before consuming the glory that was cheesecake, we had sort-of enchiladas. Fuck knows what to call them. Anyway. Here:

3 chicken breasts, cooked and cut into bits.
50g cream cheese
a dollop of sour cream
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
juice from half a lime - 1 tbsp
2 finely chopped garlic cloves
about 1 tbps chopped coriander
1/2 tsp ground cumin
good dollop of salsa verde (see below for my version, which isn't salsa verde at all)
100g grated cheese - I used a mix of mature cheddar, mild cheese and mozzarella

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:

2/3 of largish cucumber
1 decent-sized green pepper
1 smallish green chilli
7 garlic cloves
1 tsp minced garlic paste
1 small red onion
1/2 a lime
a bunch of coriander.

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.

Excuse the lo-res iphone pics. It's too much of a mither to go find my cantankerous camera every time I cook.

Hook wielding (and dogs)

2010-02-06T23:05:00.004Z

I finished my first laceweight project a couple of weeks ago and got around to taking photos. It's the Dragonfly Shawl from IC '08 (Ravelry link) using cashmere/silk lace from Nimu. 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.

The first picture doesn't show the colour so well, but it's how I wear it. It's gorgeously soft and warm.

I'm writing up the pattern for this hat:

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.

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 super fun. She's asleep at my feet right now.

I love these pictures of Indigo playing - phone camera in one hand, Mr Rat in the other.

It is done.

2010-01-30T23:08:00.003Z

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.

visible disabilities and clothes

2010-01-25T21:53:00.005Z

I 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.

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.

So, yes, anyway. How to Look Good Naked... with a Difference 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 do 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.

Like Sadie Stein at Jezebel, 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 Britan's Missing Top Model, 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 disabled, see, they're different, we're being inclusive") before they can be seen as a normal part of the advertising and fashion industry.

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 all forms as an important move away from restrictive bodily ideals.

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 bodies, different sorts of bodies with different needs - but the people who inhabit them want - and deserve - the same access to and enjoyment of clothes.

The Telegraph article on the show.

Next step: realising just because someone isn't in a wheelchair or using a stick, doesn't mean they're not disabled.

Tank

2009-11-05T18:03:00.003Z

TankGirl died today.

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.

Tank died in my arms after a couple of minutes, I don't know whether it was shock or being shaken.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fibro, Yarn, Kent... weekend as usual then

2009-06-13T20:46:00.008+01:00

This 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 Planetariumfish). 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.

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.

I felt the need to take this picture on the way home:

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 scintillating - 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:

Home was reached, G talked to, food consumed and I was dressed for Brackers' 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 fibromyalgia the doctors are thinking I might have - or lupus, but it's never lupus - is playing up.

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 spell any more. So I'm going to bed.

*walkies!

A return of sorts

2009-05-23T17:27:00.003+01:00

Dear Blog,
I know I've been ignoring you, and I'm sorry. Oops. Whatever the fuck is wrong with me still hasn't gone away - or even got a name - and through it all I've been trying to do coursework and sit exams and be a normal person and do normal things without ending up in hospital or falling asleep halfway through lectures or forgetting how to spell my own bloody name. The exams and coursework seem to have gone ok, the rest I've failed miserably.

On the upside though, the lovely gang of Femis have started our very own blog, Feminazery , which is steadily getting started, and I have been posting there. I've also finished G's hoodie, and a few other bits and pieces of crochet - while the ever-lovely Metalouise taught me to knit a little. I have needles and wool now - needles thanks to MsKitton - and am planning on doing some more practice now exams are over.

And now, it's photo time. Because you all need to see the cuteness that is the foal Indigo tried to befriend last week - poor wee thing was a bit scared at first, but was getting more confident - enough to sniff Indigo, which freaked him out, so he ran away.
And some more Indigo pictures:

fuck you, career

2009-02-09T23:17:00.002Z

I have several thoughts working their way through my brain (I have to be patient these days, I seem particularly sluggish and slow). Firstly: I really ought to start looking seriously into internships and what-have-you for going into development work. However, a lot of these internships don't want anyone without a MA (or at least due to do one). A lot of masters courses, however, ask for at least six months experience... Anyone see an issue here? Just me? Of course, I could always just pay half my loan to be an unpaid volunteer, but I didn't do that over my gap year for a very simple reason: I can't afford it. Yes, I know you're supposed to raise the money by doing Good Works, but frankly, I haven't got the money to make up the difference when my fundraising falls short (because it will). So I'm having a bit of an issue.

Secondly, and this sort of runs on from the first, I'm thinking I'll volunteer in the UK for the time being, and see what the parents can help me sort out for the summer. However, being so poo I can't afford "r"s, I also need to get a job over the summer... and guess where that thought is headed.

Thirdly, why are mint aeros no longer green inside? This is most upsetting.

enabling myself

2009-01-30T00:11:00.005Z

I have a twitter. Oh dear cod, what have I done? It'll annoy Rory though. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go catch the rabbit before she destroys the house.

a thinking of thoughts

2009-01-25T17:08:00.002Z

So there's this article on the Daily Fail. You know I like to bitch about them. But anyway, a series of thoughts have since occured since I read it.

I do sometimes think that my depression has made me stronger and more inclined to reflect on my behaviours (when I'm ok; when I'm in a bad phase, I find it next to impossible to be rational), but I think the meds help, and the therapy does a lot towards making me able to recognise destructive behaviour (and even differentiate between when a behaviour is good or not). Definitely, otherwise I'd never be able to cope, and I honestly don't know if I'd have made it to see 2009. But then again, I wouldn't wish it on anyone....

I see the argument of depression producing creativity a lot of the time. It doesn't, not really. What creates depression, to me, either seems to be phases of mania (I thank the deity of your choice or genetic luck of the draw that I am not bi-polar, my mood swings are bad enough as it is, thankyouverymuch) or an attempt to stave off depression. I know it is with me; when I'm really low I'm not interested in creating, not motivated to wash my face and eat something that doesn't come out the freezer section at lidl, let alone make something. When I'm not depressed, creating things is a distraction method - it gives me something to think about when I'd otherwise just dwell on things, or give me a way to relax and reflect when I'm really busy (one of my triggers being stress).

Not all depressive people create. Not all depressive people see their depressive phases as a positive thing, although some do, and I can see how it might help them deal (in much the same way that having the label "depressed" has helped me). Sometime, if all they have suffered is a one-off occurance, then it may be easier to see it as a positive thing, eventually. But when it happens again, and again, and I learn to see it coming, to know what will happen to me - then I can't see it as a positive thing.

putting the L in...

2009-01-24T23:40:00.002Z

I should probably admit to being woefully bad at the whole 365 thing. Sometimes its a matter of forgetting my camera, but usually its because I'm just plain shite at remembering. That and I'm crazy busy with work...

So, yes. Pictures:

Today I went to see the lovely Kirsty Hall's Pin Ritual at Prick Your Finge r, which was wonderful to watch as well as beautiful to look at. As per usual, I forgot to take any pictures (especially as Kirsty is a fellow LSGer)... Although I did remember to take a picture of the Stormtroopers posing about by Longacre (apparently something to do with Orbital Comics opening another shop) when I went to get my hair cut. Mm, hair cut. As usual, my request to not have my hair razor-cut was ignored - I'm wondering if I should get a new hairdresser, but this place is cheap, which is probably top of my priority list right now. And it's not a bad cut...

I should be writing my Society, Culture and Space essay about now; I think it's starting to get to me as its all I can really think about.

Oh, and The Whitest Boy Alive told G that he liked G's scarf. Which I made for him. I feel slightly proud now...

Day Three

2008-12-14T19:42:00.002Z

I fucking love mulled wine.

LSG 365...

2008-12-11T18:50:00.002Z

So... yeah. I'm going to do the LSG version of Project 365 - and 'cos I'm L, it's going to be just regular pictures, not necessarily self-portraits.

This is the first one:

feminism vs domesticity

2008-08-23T23:47:00.004+01:00

I read this in the Guardian the other day, and felt the need to write some thoughts.

Baking, sewing, knitting - all of these things are "female", they are done by women, by housewives. Or is that simply a gender role ascribed to women in their idealized role as mother and housewife? I do think these acts can be feminist - but they can also be distinctly unfeminist as well. The key to them being feminist acts is one of choice;

"what makes this modern domesticity very different to the old-fashioned kind is that it is done out of choice"

women do not need to sew, to bake, to make and mend clothes in this day and age. It is much, much easier to go down to the shops and buy your clothes and your cakes and your ready meals. I think because cookery has now been associated with craft, we have the question about the "feminist-friendliness" (for want of a better word) of modern domesticity. When we still have the Daily hateMail spewing its message that women belong in the kitchen and that we are failing if we don't cook all our meals from scratch every day we can see that the housewifely ideal has never gone away.

That said, unlike the image we feminists have of the 1950s housewife - baking and sewing because she is expected to, out of duty, not love - the modern, mildly subversive domesticity of websites The AntiCraft, Craftermath and Cut Out + Keep shows that people (not just women) use their hands and minds to create beauty and usefulness and whimsy out of joy and pleasure - because they enjoy it, because they can, because they have the time to.

Yes, I enjoy my domesticity. I choose my hobbies; I know that nobody requires, nobody expects me to make a fresh cake for tea, to darn socks or make my own curtains. I do it because I want to, and because if I don't feel like it, I can head to the supermarket and buy some cake, or a skirt, or a cardigan. Yes, I enjoy cooking for others; for me it is something I do out of love, the same as when I make Gareth socks, or my grandfather a hat, or my mother a cushion, or myself a jumper. It's something I do out of choice, and that, ultimately, is feminist.

it's been a week

2008-08-20T21:18:00.003+01:00

I love how the BBC's latest round of nature programmes are all "the most dangerous expedition ever" to "unexplored lands". But I can't really mock them, they're fucking brilliant, mostly.

It's been a week. Or it will have been a week, tomorrow. I still miss him horribly, look for his grumpy face when I head downstairs in the morning and find myself collecting loo-rolls for his amusement (Dorris was never as interested as he was in knocking things over). The house isn't empty without him, but it does feel... less full. There's a Pete-shaped gap that I know won't be filled, but will merely become less sharp.

I hope he went happy, and I hope that he and Daphne are back together - there is a strange consolation in him leaving almost two years to the day after she did.

preserved for... thingumy

2008-08-04T21:28:00.001+01:00

Yes, a lot of (magazine) porn portrays women as sexual objects - more so than as willing participants - but perhaps a part of staking a claim in women as sexual participants with their own ideas about sex is porn for women, through which women can say "yes, I like to look at naked men". Women have always been seen as objects and property, I think trying to give women a voice in their own sexuality is a step to reversing this.

On women's porn, when playboy did a female version (playgirl, I believe, I don't know if it still sells) the main readership was gay men. However, there have been some good women's porn out there (Sweet Action was brilliant, although I believe it's no longer in circulation); the problem seems to be that "porn for women" aims to emulate "porn for men" - the waxed-chest brigade doesn't sell for most women. I know it's interpreted as "women are just as bad", but there is a lot to be said for being more open about sexuality - and that includes porn.

yarn and landlords

2008-08-01T16:57:00.002+01:00

So, yes, I did some crochet.

First up, and finished a fair while ago, is Angela Best's Short and Sweet which was nice and easy to make (although a few parts of the pattern seemed a little off) and I think it turned out ok:

(more pictures here)

Then, Megan Nieve's Luna Lovegood Crocheted Cardigan:

This one was really easy to do, and I'm really happy how it worked out.

In further landlord fun... the house I wrote about a few weeks ago fell through, but now I've found somewhere else, close to rowing and with a garden - which I'm really happy about. I got home today though to find that my current landlord has been served notice because he failed to get planning permission to convert this place from a house to flats, and apparently I have to supply all sorts of information that I don't know the answer too. Oh, the roffles I have.

wot i rote, innit

2008-07-13T19:45:00.004+01:00

I got overexcited in class and wrote a poem. I'm sad like that.

Words words words
Falling from my lips
Hanging on my tongue
Dancing from my fingers
A thousand stuttering
sibilant sarcastic
free-falling utterances
Making nonsense
Signifying nothing
Describing everything
A cascade of sounds
Tripping of tongue
Across chattering teeth
And the whisper of pen on paper.

landlords

2008-07-07T15:34:00.001+01:00

My landlord* is an arsehole and won't be contacted. Jesus fuck, if he expects people to pay the rent he demands, he ought to make it possible for his fucking tenants to contact him so we can make sure everything is ok. What if this was a fucking emergency?

Actually, it is an emergency. He's got £600 of mine that I want back. Fucker. Anyone know how best to go about contacting him other than ringing up every Singh in London?

*The old landlord, not the one as of next weekend.

2008-07-06T00:36:00.001+01:00

I just put the deposit down on a new flat - a very nice, big, quiet place, next to a park and with a communal garden. It's a decent walk to the shops, but I'd rather walk the dog somewhere green instead. I'm crazy like that.

Well, anyway. I'm moving next weekend. Probably the saturday, although it might be the sunday. or maybe the monday. We just don't know... because my dad's incapable of making a decision. But yes, my minions - who will help me move?

In further news, me and him and Kev and Al went to the Alternative Village Fete on the southbank, and it was good. I petted a duck and G won a book in the tombola. We drank apple juice and listened to the Bollywood Brass Band. And then we went to a wine bar and chilled out. Naturally I didn't charge my camera.

lookit, a book review.

2008-06-25T16:33:00.002+01:00

Shere Hite - Oedipus Revisited: Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male Today

I think the first - and possibly most important thing - is that this book is basically a much shorter, slightly discursive summary of The Hite Report on Male Sexuality (Hite does these batshit huge "reports" on sexuality, building on and refuting parts of Kinsey's work, and as such is quite the Name). So... it can feel a little skim-y, like there are huge chunks missing even though it's a decent-sized book (although if the female sexuality version is anything to go by, the actual Report is a fucking tome, and not the fun kind). It is, however, readable enough; it's a bit disappointing in parts. Excuse me while I go academic, but it falls into the trap of being heteronormative and perhaps a little masculinist - Hite doesn't delve into gay sexuality or kink, nor does she consider reflections of race or class on sexuality, so her portrait can appear a little two-dimensional and limited (which leads to a criticism of generalities, although I'll kick myself in the foot by acknowledging that you have to generalise a little, and it's easy to generalise too much when you've only got so much space to deal with).

Oedipus Revisited is an interesting book, that deserves a bit of time - thankfully it's written in such a way that it is easy enough to pick up and put down, giving the reader time to reflect. I don't think it aims to be definitive; it presents a simplified version of the findings and then extrapolates a few theories. Hite's approach to the intertwining "normal" male sexuality (the myth she's spent the first 250-odd pages systematically trashing) and politics is compelling although not a particularly new one; politics is power, power is identity, and identity is sexuality, gender, race and class, to simplify things. It can appear a little jarring, the first time you're confronted with the idea, but Hite takes a little time to explore the idea (although I think she assumes her readers are familiar with the idea to begin with)

Hite is clearly more familiar with female sexuality (The Hite Report on Female Sexuality was first published in the mid-70s), and a lot of Oedipus Revisited is concerned with male reactions to female sexuality, which is mildly irritating, although equally interesting; I'd have liked more on the societal junctions and less on the clitoris, but at the same time the presentation of the myth vs reality is illuminating. My biggest criticism is that Hite assumes her readers are familiar, not just with her earlier work, but with the basics of gender theory, but Oedipus Revisited is still an interesting and informative read - if you want to take the time to digest it.

And now, back to the hook.

awsum smoothieness

2008-06-17T17:49:00.004+01:00

Apparently I'm going through a food-fixation. Fuck you, crochet. Hello tasty snacks. I blame G and his passive-aggressive cupcakes yesterday - I now want to make food and feed people. I started with a casserole, which is simmering gently on the stove - it's middle-eastern influenced (with added sausagey goodness) and I intend to eat it with couscous later.

But my inspiration, my drive, was to make my own breakfast smoothie, a la marks and sparks. It fucking well worked too. Here goes:

punnet of rasperries
handful of blueberries (or more, if you want)
pint of yogurt. I used this organic vanilla-flavoured nonsense, but according to the daily fail all women are snobs, so I'm only doing what my nature forces me to do
bit of milk, to make it runny
handful of oats

Shove the whole lot in a blender, whizz until the noise ceases to be entertaining and grates instead. Consume with relish.

Then blog about it.

further to that...

2008-06-16T15:49:00.002+01:00

My uni appear to be actually helpful. I have an appointment tomorrow, only an initial one, but as I sent the email just after writing that post there... oooh, positivity. Proactiveness. Other good things beginning with "P".

G and I are making passive-aggressive cupcakes for his work later. yay.

all hail the nhs

2008-06-16T14:44:00.003+01:00

So, last week, in my continued search to not go fucking mental, I went to the doctor to ask if he'd be so kind as to give me more prozac (and also make it easier for me to get said prozac, as getting an appointment is more or less impossible). He gives me a four-week supply and a single repeat prescription. Now, considering I was previously getting six months at a time... is he not being a little, well, irritating? I did explain that getting an appointment was difficult and monthly prescriptions were expensive (several times) but he's selectively deaf. Actually, I think he's just deaf.

I also asked if he could refer me to see a shrink on the nhs, as I'm too broke to pay for one myself. He asked if I'd seen a therapist before; yes, but my last uni only provided short-term therapy, I was recommended something long-term but couldn't afford it. Hence me asking again... and he looked at me like I'd grown another head. He demanded to know why I wasn't in therapy already (I thought "I've not been able to afford it" answered that) and variations on the same question several times.

Persistence paid off. I got a letter from the therapist at the local large clinic. Apparently, I can have an appointment between 10 and 1 on a Wednesday. If I ask nicely and promise to not be too much trouble (and, obviously, if my job doesn't mind me taking two hours off in the middle of the day to go sit in a room and be told "you have issues").

Can anyone else say: *head/desk*

2008-06-07T18:44:00.002+01:00

So, I locked myself out today. Fuckin' geniarse that I am. My Brother the Boy Wonder had the spare key, but would he hand it over? Would he fuck. He's in a rehersal - fair enough. Can I come over about six? (I'm due to meet Caz and Pav in town). He might not be in. When will he be in? He doesn't know. I'm locked out, you little toad!

Dad to the rescue. He was near Boy Wonder anyway, so he picked up the key and drove it up to me. Yay Dad, you have your uses. And I still got to have a very nice natter with Caz and Pav, at the ever-wonderful CCK and now I'm home, inside, and Indigo is still asleep.

Monique is going back to Holland on Tuesday (boo) so on Wednesday we had a pre-rowing lunch in Neal's Yard, a wander about, and hit the docks about four - it was still perfect weather and glass-like water. We took photos of the boys afterwards:

Then yesterday Rory and I went shopping for G's birthday presents at Forbidden Planet (after teaching, natch) and I ended up in CCK... and bought books. I'm going to try and write reviews for their forum, and Alan very kindly gave me his wife's email address, as I'm going to ask about doing my dissertation on Spaces of Kink. Naturally.

Currently on the hook:
the skully scarf/shawl, and the second stripey sock. I'm off to watch atlantis and drink soup, because G has gone to see the Foo Fighters, and will bring me back Dave Grohl as a souvenir.

little nubbin of emmenthal

2008-05-31T19:45:00.002+01:00

G wants his own blog post, apparently I don't talk about him enough (not that he ever reads this, he's got better things to do).

Here ya go, petal. It's half yours, there's even a photo...

The rest of the time, I'm going to bitch about English grammar. I just want to scream "why so difficult?!?" and then burn the fucking textbooks. All those parts of speech! Who really, honestly, gives a monkeys about it?

Oh, yeah, EFL teachers. Like me.

today in news

2008-05-01T13:58:00.003+01:00

G is back. Yay for sex and cuddles and being brought tea in bed.

I have my first exam in exactly a week. I'm worrying just enough to want to go hide under the duvet and not come out.

I'm on the heel on the second sock. So self-impressed.

Mouse infestation: day whatever, but my landlord is an arse, so I'm moving. After I find a housemate.

I've had a haircut. It's been termed the "post-cancer kylie" look. My hair is now officially brown, so I might have to dye it again.

neighbours...

2008-04-30T11:04:00.003+01:00

This blog post is addressed to the old bat who lives round the corner from me.

Last week you had a go at me for not picking up a tiny bit of dog poo from the gutter, when my bloody greyhound had the shits and I'd run out of plastic bags. I apologised profusely, and asked if you had a plastic bag I could use. You gave me a dirty look instead, and those aren't much use, so I couldn't do anything but walk on.

Today, you see me walking Indigo, and watch me from halfway down the street (in the rain) while I pick up his poop. Yes, see, I pick up after my dog. And then I put the securely tied bag in the nearest bin. Which happens to be a wheelie bin, and not a dog-poo bin, because guess what - there are no fucking dog poo bins. The lady who lives in this house has a dog, she's seen me use her bin before, and she doesn't have a problem. You, old bat, do not need to wait until I'm walking past and shout at me. Would you like me to leave it in the street? Would you? I'd rather put his shit in a poo bin, but there isn't one. Nor do I have a wheelie bin of my own to put it in. Any bin will do at this point. It's a rubbish bin. No-one is going to be eating their dinner out of it. Now fuck off. Before I train Indigo to shit on your doorstep.

La weekender

2008-04-26T11:38:00.002+01:00

Fuck you, word count. Fuck you in the ear with a rusty spoon.

I really, really need to clean house before the mothership lands this evening. I want to be outsiiiiide where it's sunny and nice and perfect rowing/sex weather, and instead I'm going to pick up bunny shit and dust.

And the sock is going well; I'm not sure I like it so I'm going to start a different pattern and see which one I prefer; this one is a bit unlovely - I'm not sure the changes in stitch suit the wool (which is wierdly crappy and weirdly great at once)

Craft Excitement

2008-04-21T13:16:00.002+01:00

Exams are approaching. That means it's craft time!

Apparently, procrastination can also be constructive. Even if I fail, I will now have a warm head. Which'll be handy for when I move into a cardboard box.

bunny love

2008-04-15T11:15:00.004+01:00

I love my bunny. I thought i'd proved this to him spending a whacking chunk of my boat savings on vet bills, but apparently he begrudges the loss of his leg more than I thought. Oh yes. He wants revenge. He needs to know I love him, that I'll do anything for my poor little tripod bunny.

He's playing on my guilt. I can see it in his eyes, he knows I feel terrible for not spotting the lump earlier, for having his leg cut off so he falls over and for laughing when he does.

He's making me clean his bum.

He's got me standing in the bathroom, cradling him and picking caecals out of his fur with my fingernails, then washing his backside with water, carefully sponging around his stitches so it doesn't hurt. While he nibbles on my t-shirt, and I'm thinking, please don't chew my boob, please don't.

I love my bunny.

bunkin

2008-04-11T15:41:00.001+01:00

Pete has lost his leg to cancer. He's awake, the operation went fine and all is well. I'll update as and when I know what's happening.

now

2008-04-10T13:33:00.001+01:00

i hate it when every little thing becomes an insurmountable task.
I hate not being able to remain calm, that becoming angry makes it worse.

Pete

2008-04-09T22:40:00.002+01:00

The bunkin has either an abscess with massive amounts of scar tissue, or a tumor - the former being strange because it appeared so quickly, the second being rare in bunnies as it appears relatively skin-based. If it is a tumor, it's also grown quickly, which may have led to the center necrotizing. As it is, he went to the vet this afternoon (as I only saw it this morning) and had a drain put in; he's now on baytrill with a side order of pinapple juice; I'm going to be syringing baby food into him tomorrow, which he'll love. Almost as much as he loves his buster collar.

ill but not ill enough, apparently

2008-03-25T22:44:00.000Z

why the fuck can my new doctor not give me an appointment? First it took me three months to register - they want two utility bills. Hello? Student? I don't get utility bills because my electricity is on a fucking meter. So I change my bank, and have to wait until I get two statements through. Then they don't like it because it has my bank's address on it (if she actually read it, it says my name and address in BIG FUCKING LETTERS on it) and they don't like my passport because, well, I have pink hair now and not in my passport. Pu-leeze. Well, they gave in, and I can register. Except I can't get an appointment until next week, but I'm away next week for uni and I need a prescription for my meds. But they don't give emergency appointments.

Sometimes I think they'd turn me away if I had the fucking plague, but then again I don't look ill, so I can't compare. I've been trying to stretch my meds out, and I know it's affecting me, but I don't want to have to go cold turkey (again) while I'm halfway up a sodding mountain in scotland. Because dizzy fits and nausea are not good while I'm in London, let alone the arse end of nowhere. I fucking hate this, I know I can deal with my depression when I'm medicated, but I can't if I've not got the meds taking the edge off. Sodding doctors.

2 years!

2008-03-25T15:37:00.003Z

Sir Peteykins McFluffbum The Rabbit of Doom is two. I knew easter was good for something beyond zombified deities.

like a woodpecker, except not.

2008-03-16T13:52:00.005Z

My tattoos are as much a part of my body as well, my hair, or my eyes, or the veins in my wrists or the freckles on my... never mind. Yes, I put them there, they're not genetic and they're artificial, but they're me. I could have a nose job and a boob job and so much plastic surgery to change the way I look, and I don't think people would react in so much horror than they do to me putting a little ink into my skin. I've hardly got "cunt" tattooed on my forehead, have I?

They mean something to me; a period in my life I want to remember, and perhaps more importantly, marking my body as mine, accepting the way I look and becoming comfortable in my skin and myself. My legs, my arse, my face. So I'm not some generically "hot" girl; I'm not a blonde middle-class princess (well, I am blonde, and I am middle-class, but I can stand on my own two feet thank you very much) and I like who I am. Getting a tattoo is my way of saying "I love myself", marking myself as my own individual.

So don't tell me "it's not so bad", that at least I've not got sleeves or a chest-piece or something visible. You wouldn't tell me I was fat on the second date, would you?

Oh no, you did.

essay fun

2008-03-02T17:16:00.001Z

I have a sort of intellectual overload, ideas and wordswordswordswords spinning around in my little brain until the only recourse is to go away and not think for a little while.

Excuse me while I go find something intelligent to say about gender as spatial performance. I think my brain is going to melt.

The Animals Are Revolting (Again)

2007-12-10T11:32:00.000Z

Well, another weekend has come… and is, despite my best efforts to sleep through it, still here. I’ve been neglecting BLU, so a tardy half-assed blog entry will have to do.

Pete has single-pawedly taken on the roll of Cat, and although he hasn’t yet managed to catch the mouse living under the washing machine, he has at least managed a fine “get off my land” thump and a decent growl (which, uttered from the depths of a ball of white fluff, can only strike fear into the most timid of creatures).

Dorris has clearly been reading the newspapers as well as shredding them, and will now be renamed Amy Winehouse for her bizarre antics. Except without the coke – Dorris much prefers dried mango, fingers, the tip of the dog’s tail, wires, and plastic bags. We are now on stasis watch, although as she’s currently picking a fight with the laundry bag and playing king of the castle on the boxes, I think we can safely assume that Destructobunny will live to destroy another house. Although at the rate she’s going, I’m threatening to take the Bunny Swap too literally and put her in a box marked “f.a.o. Borris The Frog”.

Indigo, who turned six at the end of November, is celebrating his old age by developing psoriasis and being cantankerous. And, if it’s actually possible, sleeping even more than usual.

I've been thinking again

2007-11-16T18:58:00.000Z

ok, i've been thinking *pauses for expressions of shock and surprise*

it's probably not an original idea, but bear with me. The trend these days is for women to be slender ("boyish") and relatively small - but big breasted. However, if you look at porn stars, magazines etc, the lauded woman is hairless - certainly compared to porn mags from the 70s and earlier. Breasts and body hair - particularly pubic hair - are both secondary sexual characteristics.

If you look at classical nudes, pubic hair is generally left out; this isn't due to a fashion but because pubic hair was seen as "sexual" - and women were not presented as sexual beings. Come the 70s and the second wave, and women were sexual beings - and we've got a lot more hair and people are starting to accept that women enjoy - and have a right to enjoy - sex. But then comes the backlash.

off comes the pubes. ok. but now let's look at our porn again (although I'm generally talking about magazine porn). You've got no hair, so the genitalia are now more exposed - but further to that, they're bubblegum pink! Now go look at a cunt - particularly one during arousal, and it's not bubblegum pink. Yes, she might be sexy, but she shows no sign (other than a few gurns) of sexual arousal - she is no longer a sexual being.

Add to that the fascination with big breasts (which, by sheer necessity sometimes are artificial) and the "ideal woman" is not only asexual - while definitely female and sexy in appearance, she's not in herself a sexual being; she's not there to enjoy herself, but to be enjoyed - but fake. Effectively, a sleek, shiny, user-pleasing machine.

fears

2007-11-06T00:01:00.000Z

This money thing is getting worse. I've got to wait until the weekend, when MornMama comes to stay (which I'm really looking forward too) - before I can send the new forms off as she needs to sign them. Despite her having signed everything already. I hate the pettyness of these things; they have both our details on file, but because the form has a different heading - despite being nearly identical - they can't do anything until they've sat on it for another week or ten (at which point, they will probably tell me I have to send in documents they already have).

I have to pay my fees for uni. Now, thanks to the wonderful grants system, they won't decide my fee status until they decide what loan I'm getting - and so I currently have to pay all the fees (that would be a little over £3000). Not at once, just every month, for nine months. When you add that to my rent, you're looking at an outgoing of nearly just over £900 per month. My dad is helping out, thankfully, with the rent (I don't know how I'm going to pay that back, if ever, considering the amount I already owe him).

I'm looking for a job. But I have a problem - I'm either too qualified (I have a teaching qualification) or not qualified enough (I don't have a degree). I don't have any experience in anything except teaching (but I don't have a degree) or working in a shop (I've been turned down for the three jobs I've applied for), and I don't have the interpersonal skills or patience to work in a bar, especially if I have to be up at sparrowfart to go rowing.

If it was just me I was supporting, I wouldn't be so worried - I could, ultimately, live on beans. But Indigo needs his vaccines doing and his teeth cleaning, Dorris needs fixing (and an xray doing first), both she and Pete need thier vaccines. And they both need to eat proper diets, with vegetables and vitamins and what-have-you. I can't scrimp on thier food, certainly not any more than I'm doing by switching them to cheaper food and hay (although it smells good and the buns seem to like it). I can't find cheaper vegetables than what I'm paying. We're already crowded into our smaller place where the buns can't go out as much as I'd like them too, and Indigo doesn't get the run I want him too (and he has to go up and down the stairs). I just start to wonder if I can offer them the life I want them to have.

no money more problems

2007-11-02T17:47:00.000Z

I've moved house. Hurrah for me.

Well, sort-of. I have no shelves, but I do have five dining chairs (two different pairs and one folding chair from the grandparents) and several boxes of booksbooksbooks. And no wardrobe, so I still have suitcases waiting to be unpacked - which reduces the space I've got.

I could cope with that if I actually had the money to go and buy some bookshelves in order to make a start. But, thanks to the general ineptness of Northamptonshire LEA, I still don't have my student loan, so every day takes me further and further into my overdraft (and, as a result, I still have to pay my fees).

Sometimes it seems like every time I turn around something else goes wrong; I'm starting to get worried about being able to provide for the buns and Indigo, whether or not I'm going to be able to stay in uni, whether or not I'll be able to eat this week.

Halloween Mix

2007-10-30T22:23:00.000Z

R.E.M - I Walked With A Zombie
Banjo Kate - Zombie Jambouree
The Zombies - Spooky Little Girl Like You
Tom Waits - Cemetary Polka
The White Stripes - Little Ghost
Charlie Daniels Band - Devil Went Down To Georgia
Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor
Siouxie & The Banshees - Halloween
The Zutons - Nightmare Part II
Tilly & The Wall - Night Of The Living Dead
Washington Social Club - Dead Kid Town
The Awakening - Vampire Girl
The Rapture - The Devil
Xiu Xiu - Brian The Vampire
Tangiers - Spine To Necklace
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Satan Said Dance
Bloc Party - Hunting For Witches
Billion Dollar DJs - Hella Halloween (Mix)

Depression

2007-10-13T12:04:00.000+01:00

I go through terrible periods where I don't want to get up, interact with anyone (I get a crippling dislike of crowds, which makes attending lectures really difficult) and I can't even motivate myself to shower or eat properly. The easiest description I can think of is a numb feeling like you've been out in the wind and everything hurts but you can't really feel anything - but I have to hold onto that feeling, because otherwise I panic and become wholly irrational (like when you get pins and needles, except it's all over and you want to crawl out of your skin just to get away from it even though it's all in your head and no matter where you go it's still with you).

I wrote this trying to explain to Jim what depression was like - at least for me. I liked it, so I'm going to keep it around.

you know what I hate...

2007-09-30T23:20:00.000+01:00

Weird dreams, and then rolling over to snuggle against him, only to wake up to realise he's not there, because I'm in the wrong country. Or he's in the wrong country. One of us is.

Have a gratuitous photo:

Good Things and Bad Things

2007-08-18T23:28:00.000+01:00

I hate not seeing him when he's ill.
I hate it when he cries.
I hate that he won't talk to me when he's stressed.
I hate it when I can't put my arms around him and tell him it's all going to be alright.
I hate not being able to make sure he eats and doesn't live off whiskey.
I hate it when he doesn't talk to me.
I hate being so far away.
I hate it when I wake up reaching for him across the pillow.
I hate that he doesn't look after himself.

I love that he worries about others.
I love the anticipation of knowing that I will wake up next to him in a week, a month, a day.
I love the sound of his voice.
I love that he shows emotion.
I love that he hates upsetting me.
I love that he cares.
I love that he loves.
I love him.

I just wish it was easy and simple and clear and that he was close and well and happy.

But I know that I wouldn't change him for the world.

the buns are home!

2007-07-27T23:43:00.000+01:00

and to celebrate, I built them the condo I've been telling them about.

I used an actual outdoor bunny run (they need a roof to stop them getting out and the dog getting in); it used to be outside, but I always wanted them to have a condo - now seemed like the perfect time

The spotty fabric is in fact a fleece throw from primark; I wanted something to cover the carpet and give them a nice soft surface to lie on. The cage is just under 4foot by 5foot.

I've put the old base from their last cage in, partly to create something familiar, and partly to give Dorris newspaper to shred! The corner litter tray and hay rack are in there as well.

Then I've put another litter tray at the other end, next to the water bottle (which I tied on with ribbon, but I need a new bottle anyway). This is so they don't pee on the new flooring so much

I also added the little house from outdoors; they don't seem to interested, but they can always eat it or sit on it

the result:

Utata Thursday Walk no.66

2007-07-25T22:41:00.001+01:00

They've Got The Land But We've Got The View

Farm Path

Desert Island Discs

2007-07-25T22:32:00.000+01:00

Based on the beeb's programme; ten songs, one book, one luxury item, the collected works of Shakespeare, then either the Bible, the Torah, or the Koran.

Songs:
1. Bubblegum On My Boots - Springbok Nude Girls
2. Soho Square - Kirsty MacColl
3. Love In A Time Of Visas - The Buckfever Underground
4. Portions For Foxes - Rilo Kiley
5. A Sweet Summer Night On Hammer Hill - Jens Lekman
6. Road To Joy - Bright Eyes
7. Girl Anachronism - The Dresden Dolls
8. Ballad Of A Lonely Construction Worker - Cuff The Duke
9. We Both Go Down Together - The Decemberists
10. Fear Of Dying - Jack Off Jill

Book: American Gods, by Neil Gaiman
Luxury Item: balls of wool, crochet hook and scissors.

And one record: A Sweet Summer Night On Hammer Hill - Jens Lekman

Thursday Walk 64

2007-07-14T00:20:00.000+01:00

In an attempt to improve my photography - I'm rediscovering how much I love taking pictures of things - I've joined Utata - a "salon" that encourages the arts. I like it, and even though I'm no way as brilliant as the people on there, I enjoy the projects they set along a particular theme. Yesterday, being Thursday, was the day of the weekly Thursday Walk. I didn't take many pictures, as my little point-and-shoot camera ran out of battery, but this is what I did take:

The Faded Dreams of Summer

Bark Bark

And I'm thinking of taking on another bunny.

hooray!

2007-07-07T21:54:00.000+01:00

As of yesterday, I am no longer a vet student. I didn't quit, but I'm not going to appeal after I failed my exams again. I tried - if I'm honest, I probably could have tried harder, but at the same time, my heart wasn't in it.

I hated large animal work - I hated animal husbandry, spending hours trying to find somewhere that will house you, feed you, and then working for two weeks without pay on something you have zero interest in (pigs anyone?). It just never gelled with me, and I resented it, resented how stressed it made, how tired I felt, and how completely disillusioned. I just wasn't interested in it, I never, ever even considered working with large animals, and I wasn't raised around animals - and I was always irritated by the amount of knowledge we were assumed to have about farm animals.

That was my biggest problem - the sheer disillusionment. I wanted to be a vet, but being a vet student... not so much. I didn't like the atmosphere, the attitude of many of the students en masse (while on an individual basis, I liked the majority of people) which was so competitive, so "look at me, I'm fantastic", "work hard party harder" and very, very cliquey. It wasn't a good place for someone whose depression is so triggered by stress (both mine and others', which is why I avoided the place a lot of the time).

I'm relieved, though. I really wasn't enjoying myself at all, and what I did enjoy was such a small part of what was going on. I didn't feel supported, or even noticed (for fuck's sake, I was still on the lists for second years, and kept getting angry emails because I wasn't at a second year lecture/workshop/whatever).

So... now I have to decide what to do now. I don't want to do something for the end result, but for the sake of doing it. I'm probably going to go for something with women's studies (probably english lit., international relations, or sociology). Something that interests me, something I'm curious about - but not something that is going to lead to a specific career. I've got my CELTA, I could go into teaching, or journalism, or working for a NGO. I could do anything, I don't have a single line to walk along any more.

projects

2007-07-03T15:01:00.000+01:00

I have a monstrous to-do list, as usual.

Make dresses, plural - I have fabric for three dresses, and patterns for them; two wrap dresses (red knit and a printed jersey), and one vintage 1950s vogue dress that I have to make up in white polycotton to make sure the sizing is right before I start. I then have to find suitable fabric.
Fix the dress that i've got hanging in my wardrobe, and has been half-finished for a year now. I really need a dress model
Make dress model. For this, I need an assistant to wrap my torso in masking tape - any volunteers?
Make a dog coat for a certain hound.
Make something for F - probably a hoodie or cardigan. For this, I need F, or an item of his clothing, and I currently have neither.
Do something with my cross-stitches. I now have three squares, and an idea for a fourth, and I really ought to do something with them.
Find something to do with that pink cord.
Learn to crochet.
Tidy my house

the dog...

2007-06-30T13:11:00.000+01:00

in his new bed.

it's half-empty!

2007-06-28T22:21:00.000+01:00

The mothership and I went to ikea today, after dropping off BoyWonder's cricket and hockey bags at one of those storage companies. I love ikea, but hate it too. It's full of the most wonderful, useless stuff - ok, some of it is dreadfully useful, but that's the stuff I don't need. The useless stuff is what I want. I ended up buying another dog bed for Indigo - this wonderful soft donut shape, covered in fun fur with legs and a tail - because I'm trying to persuade him to sleep more on the floor.

But, pleasantly - and surprisingly enough - the store was quiet. There were blissfully few people, few screaming babies (except for a few delightful preschoolers who needed putting on a lead). I know ikea is a family friendly shop - they're proud of it. And I do like kids (well, most of the time... except for the screamy ones, and preferably if I know them) but sometimes it's just so lovely to not have to dodge prams and toddlers.

Other thoughts... I've become addicted to wardrobe_remix on flickr. I love looking at the pictures; they're far more inspiring than the skeletal identikit models in the magazines, and show a gorgeous range of styles and ideas than you see just walking along the street. It's driving me to be more creative about what I wear, but also reminding me why I don't read women's magazines regularly.

shock

2007-06-15T01:07:00.000+01:00

You Are 98% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man).
You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

big bad feminist

2007-06-13T14:36:00.000+01:00

Feminism isn't the easiest thing to define. Well, it is. It's belief in the equality of men and women. But feminism means different things to different people - ultimately, feminism is what you make it and what it means to you.

I suppose I'm writing this for two of my friends - well, not specifically for them, but they inspired it. They don't - won't - define themselves as feminists, and so I asked Ellie why. Her answer was simple - because she would happily stay at home and be a housewife. Now, I define myself as a feminist, and I think that's fair enough. If she's happy to do that, then she can, with my blessing. What I don't believe is that women should be housewives first and foremost - I believe that women should have the choice to become housewives or executives or air hostesses or authors or doctors. Whatever they want to do. Some women wouldn't be happy staying at home - I know my mother wasn't, and I don't think I would be. I'd always seek something else to do. But if you are, and that is what you want to do - then that's cool.

For me, feminism is about choice, and the right to make those choices yourself from the same options as everyone else, regardless of the labels that society has otherwise given you. Women should be able to walk down the street without getting whistled, hooted or shouted at. Women should be listened to, their opinions given equal weight. We are not decorative objects for other people's amusement, but intelligent self-determining individuals. Women should be paid the same as men, considered on merit rather than looks or the likelihood of them having kids in the next five years.

Feminists aren't hairy-legged man-hating bra-burning militant pagan emasculating lesbians. Ok, some feminists are gay, or non-religious. Some feminists probably do hate men. I mean, just because I haven't met any genuine man-hating feminists, doesn't mean they don't exist? When I began to identify myself as a feminist, I didn't turn my boyfriend and my razor in at the door. I kept my bras, my tottering spike heels, my make-up, even my sense of humor. Militant feminists are a minority - the most militant most feminists get is going on a Take Back The Night march or taking a self-defence course. And, if you look at the definition of militant, engaging in a peaceful protest rally is hardly posing a threat to others.

Feminists don't hate children. We don't kill babies for sexual gratification (no matter what this guy might say). Feminists aren't pro-abortion, they're pro-choice. As a feminist, as an individual, I believe every woman should have access to safe, legal abortions, whether for medical or social reasons. But more than that - I believe abortion should be rare. Everyone should have proper sex education - and starting young. It shouldn't be taboo to talk about preventing unwanted pregnancy or STDs or the right to say no or what constitutes rape. But it's no use just talking about it - everyone should have access to contraception, whether that's the pill, condoms, or a coil; it's your body, you have the right to say what is done with it.

Feminists come in all different shapes and sizes, and they believe a wide range of things. But what it boils down to: women and men are the same, and they should have the same choices and opportunities. That's it. Really.

linky: "Yes, you are"

Daphne

2007-06-02T01:22:00.000+01:00

It's a strange thing to think that she's been gone nearly a year. I know people will say "she was only a bunny, they don't live long", and I tell myself that, but... Daphne way my bunny. My baby, my friend and confidante and comfort. I got so used to waking up to her bouncing on the bed by my head before climbing onto my desk - she knew that was the one place she wasn't allowed, and therefore the one thing guaranteed to get me up. So used to hearing her thump and charge up and down the halls, sniffing everything, playing throw with her ball or my shoes or a book or whatever caught her attention and clearly needed a good chewing.

She was such a foul-tempered thing when I first brought her home. She would chase T out the room, bite anyone foolish enough to put a hand under the sofa, snort and hiss and snarl like the Killer Bunny itself. But part of her was always loving, sudden moments where she's sit happily in my lap, or by my feet on the floor. She had to know where I was; she became my shadow, and I couldn't move without her taking notice.

I cried when she first kissed me. I was lying on the floor, desperately trying to communicate with my cantankerous bundle of fluff and spite, nearly asleep... when she decided that I wasn't so bad, after all. And that my hair was tasty too - so she licked my face, thoroughly. It became a routine; I'd sit, she'd hop up beside me and lick my hand... and I'd stroke her ears. We did it every night.

It's still quiet without her; literally as well as metaphorically. She was a noisy so-and-so, really. Full of bounce and adventure - I can remember her climbing all over my bed, along the back of the sofa - getting everywhere and into everything.

And then, a few days after we moved, she became ill. She lost her appetite, and lost her will to explore. She would sit in my lap, ignoring Pete completely, but lying so still and heavy. She faded over a few days, but she would still try to kiss me, even when she couldn't breathe properly, when I was syringing fluid down her and she would still try to fight back.

I don't know how long it will take for me to really get used to her not being around. Somehow, I don't think I ever will.

For Indigo

2007-05-27T21:21:00.000+01:00

It seems strange that we lie here together, wrapped in blankets and sound,
me reading, you dozing,
watching me with those patient brown eyes half-sleepy half-adoring.
Your head is resting on my hip,
your paws jutting into my legs as you insist on taking up two-thirds of the sofa,
lying along side me.
You have inspected the book I'm reading,
decided that it's not worth chewing, as you prefer textbooks or schoolbooks or secondhand romance novels.
Either that, or you approve of Neil Gaiman (but don't like a-level drama texts).
As I type, you've rested your head on my legs, causing pins and needles to invade my feet,
but move when prodded, groaning and sighing as though I've asked you to perform some impossible feat.
It seems strange that we've been together for nearly nine months now,
at once the time has gone quickly, but I can't imagine not having you at my side, underfoot, stealing my clothes or waking me in the middle of the night by kicking me in the face as you did last night.
You're my good dog.

drunken butterfly

2007-05-23T20:57:00.000+01:00

I miss him
I love him.
These two thoughts are constant in my mind, part reassuring, part worrying, always hovering near the surface.
Sometimes, it scares me.
How strongly I feel about another person.
I've been in love before.
At least, at the time, I thought myself in love.
But perhaps, loving him as I do now, perhaps I wasn't as in love as I thought, but only in love with the idea of being in love.
I know I want him near me, beside me.
Not far away, on the other side of the ocean, but close, in the next room or down the road or in my bed.
In my heart.
I want to share what I have with him.
To be there when he's tired, angry, hungry.
To laugh, fight, love and cry.
The phone helps, he's not so far away when he's on the other end.
But still not close enough to reach out and touch, although if I close my eyes, I can feel his arms around me.

everyone fucks up it's going to be ok

2007-05-21T17:56:00.000+01:00

This is the worst thing about depression. Knowing I'm getting depressed, as though I'm watching from the sidelines inside my own head, listening to this little part of myself shouting, screaming "no, don't go there, step back" even though I know that I'm only shouting to myself, and the rest of me isn't listening or can't hear or doesn't care, but is blithely steaming into the darkness.

I know stress is a trigger. I know. And I can control my own stress, to some degree. Take regular breaks, walk away from revision, cuddle the dog, stroke a bunny, take a nap. What I can't control is other people's stress. While I can walk away from or block out a stranger's stress - to a certain degree, although it's damn near impossible in uni - I can't do the same to my friends. I can't say "I'm sorry, your panicing about your exams is making me panic, and I'm not really interested in becoming suicidal right now, thx bye" to the people who matter to me, who support me in turn. I can't tell my friends that thier own petty dramas are impacting on my petty dramas - because to them, thier dramas aren't petty, just as mine aren't to me. And because I don't want to lose a dearest, oldest friend because she's getting worked up over an exam, or she's broken up with her boyfriend, or because she is going through what I went through, and is asking for help a lot quicker than I ever did.

I don't want to be heard-hearted or cruel. I want to support them, as they do me, because I can support them now. I can listen, I can sympathise, I can provide wine and chocolate and loud music and a comfy sofa and a listening ear. But will they do the same for me, when thier exams are over, they're done, and mine are just beginning? Will they grow tired of my moaning, my bitching, as often as I do thiers?

Part of me knows there is a single difference between me and them: they are doing thier courses because they want to - they don't know what they want to "be" once they leave university. I do. It's all I've wanted - and I am doing a course to reach that end. But with every year, the end gets jerked that bit further away, and I'm starting to fear I'll never reach that end. That no matter what I do I'll never be able to take that step to getting there.

Perhaps I ought to fight harder, work harder, stand taller, speak louder. That's what the little screaming voice is telling me. She's saying I can do it, I will do it, I'll do everything in my power to do it. But the rest of me isn't listening, she's too busy writing self-obsessive posts and moping over how inept, useless and thick she is.

Revision (part eleventy-billion)

2007-05-07T17:35:00.000+01:00

I think I've reached that stage in revision. You know, that one. The plateau stage. I've gotten to the point where I sort-of know everything, vaguely. Most of it isn't in any great detail, and I couldn't tell you much unless I was under exam conditions (I do better with the adrenaline rush). But when I open my notes, I know it. When it's in front of me.

Consequently, I'm familiar with what I'm reading. I've already re-written it, made notes on it at least once. I've recorded it on tape. It's old news to me now. Every now and again, I come across something new (today... population genetics), but it's finding the new information in an ever-shrinking pool of available notes that gets harder every time. And consequently, there is a greater temptation to procrastinate.

The Boy Wonder has gone back to school, and the hound misses him. He got all worked up when the brother started getting his stuff together, hoping he was going for a walk (it's raining, and he won't want to go... but every time he gets excited) and now he's lurking in his bed, looking mournful. I enjoyed having BW over this weekend. He's good company, most of the time... when he wants to be.

attack of the blimp...

2007-04-27T00:40:00.000+01:00

I just saw this. While I think that lots of teenagers are indulging in a little under-age binge drinking (and who among us hasn't, just once?) I don't think banning parents from allowing their fourteen-year-olds a half a glass of wine at a dinner party, or a can of beer at a bbq is going to solve the problem. In fact, under their parent's eyes is probably the best place for the little buggers to discover what alcohol does to them. It takes the edge off it, takes a great deal of the illicit thrill of that first swig of vodka before the school disco away, and above all, ensures that the kid isn't going to poison her/himself and pass out.

The rest of it, ok. I mean, let's ban alcohol adverts - although I'd like to see that carling advert banned just because it's fucking annoying - and make it tougher to buy drink when you're a pimply fifteen-year-old. Let's decrease the legal drink-driving limit. Kids are going to drink. Banning them from doing it in the safest of places is just going to make it more dangerous. Raising the drinking age to 21 is going to mean more alcohol is sold illegally. And it's going to put a bit of a damper on the convivial evening meal with the mothership.

It makes a change from doodling in the margins...

2007-01-28T22:26:00.000Z

Sometimes, if I cry
It's not from pain
Not from hurt or even anger
But from frustration
Exhaustion
Or joy.

Sometimes, if I laugh
It's not from pleasure
Not from happiness
But from anger
Pain
Or delight.

And if, sometimes,
I say nothing
It's not because I have nothing to say
But because I don't have the words
To tell you of my pain
Frustration
Or happiness.

...

To the boy who made me cry
Told me I was ugly
And no-one would kiss me but him.
Who ignored me when it suited him
And only came to me when he wished to.
To the boy who hurt me deepest
Goodbye, memory.

To the boy who told me stories
Until I fell asleep
And then stole my duvet
Complained of my cold hands
And left me though he loved me
Goodbye, old love,
Remember me, dearest friend.

To the boy who made me laugh
When I was crying
Who made me smile
At the simplest of things
Whose voice made me
Makes me
Weak at the knees
And weak in the head
When all he said was my name
And who drives me mad
When he doesn't pick up the phone.

Even though I have nothing to say.

To the boy who told me stories
Called just to say goodnight
Asked the most ridiculous questions
Makes me cackle like a pantomime witch.
Who makes me nervous
And drives me to distraction.
... unfinished

Why I Shouldn't Watch Romantic Movies

2007-01-06T22:52:00.000Z

I end up wishing, hoping, for that mysterious guy on a horse to pitch up, throw me up behind him and ride off with me into the sunset. Possibly having trained the buns and hound to run along behind us (I can see it now: "wanted: one prince charming. Must have gsoh, be housetrained, literate, well-read and love animals"). Heh. Maybe I've spent too long watching the bunny honeymoon - although, to be fair, I don't long for someone to jump on my head and dry-hump it, which is what Pete keeps doing to Doris. No, I want snuggles.

Anyway.

I'm scared of what will happen. Nervous of what he'll think, whether I'll say something stupid, have an outbreak of spots. Getting my heart broken, battered or just plain bruised. Actually, scratch that. The risk is half the fun, no?

Out one evening...

2006-12-10T20:49:00.000Z

Glistening bodies surge back and forth, back and forth. Flailing arms reach into the air and sway back and forth overhead in imperfect unison, only to dissappear again one by one, leaving only a sea of bobbing heads.

The noise is animal, defening. The smell, to the uninitiated, is worse. Sweat and cigarette smoke, spirits and the hint of sex, the acrid-sweet smell of weed smoke and the inimitable stench of spilt beer over it all. There are people everywhere, at the long bar packed three or four deep and shouting over the noise; girls with hard and unfriendly eyes slouch on sofas in the half-light, choosing which boys they will tease and abandon at the touch of a hand. Skinny boys in tight trousers with artfully ruffled hair wear thier fathers' braces over too-expensive "vintage" shirts, and try not to stare at the girls.

There is a girl in a patterned 1940s tea dress, standing in matching teal green court shoes. Her face, her hair, are both perfectly made up so that her features have become beautifully, fantastically, doll-like. She holds a plastic pint glass in a hand which sports bitten, unlovely nails.

The doll in the tea dress is being eyed by a man - a tall boy - wearing out-of-place baggy denim jeans and a skinny-fitting band t-sjirt. He has enough weed in his pocket to get him stoned and more than stoned, and in the other pocket, a wallet that contains twenty pounds, a bank card, his fake i.d., stating his age as nineteen, and two condoms given to him by a mate on his sixteenth birthday last year. A flash of the lights illuminates the acne hiding under his thin stubble, stubble he hasn't shaved for three weeks to achieve. His friend - the same giver of prophylactics - weaves through the crowds bearing bottles of the cheapest beer available. They drink, and watch the girls, trying to look older, less innocent and more experienced. The girls ignore them.

On the dancefloor, girls dance in groups, flinging thier arms around, stamping, on the edge of the greater mass, watching the boys they like through thier lashes, studiously not looking at them with more than a glance. Towards the center, towards the stage, the girls become tougher, less distinguishable from the boys as the gender line is blurred by sweat, smoke and seething bodies.

Objections

2006-11-28T20:31:00.000Z

Object, damn it
I want an objection
You are allowed
I won't bite your head off
I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't want an objection
I wouldn't have bothered to say anything if I didn't care whether you objected or not
In fact, I think I want you to object
Loudly
Strenuously
With intention
Please object?

I think I shall go mad

And I'll Fight Like Hell, To Hide That I'm Giving Up

2006-11-22T22:45:00.000Z

Yawning
I must stay awake
I scribble words, scrawl nonsense, inscribe the dregs of my mind that should be concentrating on futile cycles.
The is futile.
Resistance is futile.
The futility of waking, sleeping, concentrating.
The antisense approach, reaching understanding backwards through a mire of confusion.

No, I have no idea where that was going. I think I fell asleep while writing it. The power of a boring lecturer.

I'm tired of being fucked around. I know he doesn't do it on purpose, he doesn't intend to upset me - apparently trying to be pleasant about it means I'm not upset; I'm not allowed to be upset after the event, and furthermore we're not going to argue about it because he doesn't want to piss me off. Well, I'm already pissed off, and I'm not in the mood to get pissed off enough so that I end up apologising for being pissed off because I get so goddamned angry.

So instead, I'm going to give up.

Membrane Cytoscaffolds

2006-11-02T17:23:00.000Z

Row upon row of heads, tier upon tier of bodies. Shuffling noises, the undercurrent of two hundred asynchronous breaths being drawn and released. Someone coughs, another sneezes then blows thier nose, while another sniffs inelegantly, hoping nobody noticed.

There is no silence, but instead a noisy sort of quiet as two hundred pairs of ears strain to hear the narration of what two hundred pairs of eyes follow on the projection board in front of them. The clatter of pens being put down and picked up, searched for in pencil cases and dropped on the floor. Pens clicked, tapped, chewed in concentration and as the chewer drifts into daydream before shaking thier head and returning to the present. Eliptocyctosis, splemomegaly, anaemia; long words hang in the air with almost tangible crushing weight. Two hundred brains bend themselves around an endless parade of facts and tidbits of knowledge, gawp at the image of a grossely over-distended spleen and sigh over complex diagrams of molecules arranged in a complex network.

Heads begin to loll as the lecture continues, concentration wavers and every now and again a muttered conversatin can be heard.

When the lecture ends, there will be a clattering of feet, as bodies rush to stand. Voices will raise suddenly as chatter errupts among friends anxious to continue conversations halted by the neccessity of learning. Bags will clater as pens, cases, pads and folders are slung in carelessly or wedged in; noise will conquor silence to reign once again.

But for now, quiet rules. Shuffling bodies, subdued movement, interrupted by the rattle of pen and the rustle of paper.

Dedicated to the interminable droning of Protein Pete

In Embryology (incomplete)

2006-10-24T20:30:00.000+01:00

Sitting here
Bored
Out of my skull
Listening to a strange little man
Talking about something called Potter's Syndrome
Over a background of students
Chattering in the corridor outside
Free.
A girl struggles with her presentation
Stutters
Continues
I wish I were anywhere but here
In the sunshine
In the rain
In the pollution that turns my lungs black
As fast as your cigarettes do yours.
I wonder if it's raining where you are
If you're awake to notice or if you're stuck in work
Speaking to a stranger
Instead of me.

Rambings

2006-09-20T22:54:00.000+01:00

I've just gotten back from taking Indigo for his late-night walk. Or rather, he's taken me - we march down to the grass, have a cursory sniff of the first few trees, and that's that, thank you very much, quick-time back to the house. The final training attempt of the night is undertaken; "Sit."
Just give me the biscuit.
"Sit."
fine, I'll go stand on my bed. Stuff biscuits.
"Sit."
What do you want? Why are you pushing at me like that, give me the freaking biscuit already.
"Sit."
No.
"Oh, alright, have the sodding biscuit."

I'm in a peculiar sort of limbo, not sure whether I'm starting next week or not, whether I'm supposed to be attending meetings or getting myself a job. I walk the dog, make earrings, talk to the bunny, walk the dog... all to the background of radio four and the rumble of the tube. I shop, returning to find Indigo lying where I left him standing nearly an hour before. I feel cruel for leaving him but I know he's not the sort of dog who will lie quietly outside sainsburys. I buy food for him, forgetting my own groceries in an attempt to tempt a palate that I suspect is only fussy because he's seeing how far I'll go to see that he eats. Oxo is rejected in favour of bisto, biscuits over weetabix despite the assurances of the rescue that most greyhounds like cereal for breakfast. Babybel are taken and delicately dropped on the floor, biscuits are taken and then crunched in his bed, leaving a trail of crumbs over the floor of my bedroom. The hoover is eyed with suspicion. Mozarella is consumed with gusto, cheddar is preferred, and carrots are really only acceptable after a few hours soaking in lukewarm gravy.

I wonder what I'll do this time next week - how early will I have to get up to ensure he gets a good walk before I leave for lectures? I have to buy a bike pump so I can cycle to camden instead of squeezing myself onto an already over-full and under-ventilated bendy bus for a tedious journey spent clasping a clammy yellow pole and trying not to hit anyone with my bag while desperately avoiding everyone else's eyes in the peculiar manner of the english on public transport. I will cycle through the park instead, even though I haven't cycled in years, don't own a bag suitable for carrying on a bike - I will have to get a rucksack or something - and I'm not even sure of the way.

I can't believe it's this close. Part of me doesn't want to go back, wants to live a life of not doing very much at all, but part of me is bored, needing something to stimulate the dusty spaces of my brain with the tedium of pH balance and protein synthesis. Even though I know what's coming, have the notes and fool myself into thinking I actually already know most of it. I'm not longer sure I do, though. I'm not sure I ever did.

Part of me wants to pick up and leave - take my dog and my bunny and pack my clothes into a suitcase and just go. Except I don't know where. I don't even know why; I've spent the last year longing for somewhere permanent-feeling, four walls I can call my own and yet the moment I'm withing them I want something more. Perhaps it isn't the need to leave, more the longing for an unidentifiable something - someone - that might complete this space. Until someone enters my four walls, and I am reminded how much I value this sancuary from the world.

To the people who are scared of dogs...

2006-09-18T11:43:00.000+01:00

Ok, my dog. I know it's not thier fault - they have a phobia. I know he's not exactly a little fluffy toy, he is big, he does like to walk around with his mouth hanging open, but he is fucking terrified by 99.9% of people. There is a goddamned reason why he's walking against the wall and against me, because he's fucking stronger than I am and he freaked out yesterday and almost pushed me in front of a car because of some kid in a pram shouting at him. And he is scared of people so I don't make him walk next to them. Your kid screaming and hiding behind you and you stopping dead in the middle of the pavement is not helping you, her, me, or my dog. Especially when there are three men walking directly behind you who won't fucking get out of the way for some girl and her odd-looking dog. Forcing me and him to walk in the middle of the pavement next to your idiot daughter while she screams at him is not a good fucking idea, if you'd kept walking where you had been he would never have jumped like that and I would have been between him and her.

Peter Bunny

2006-09-11T19:22:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting here, listening to Tori Amos and Pete is lying underneath my desk, leaning up against a box, flopped so that his hindquarters disappear into the shadows. Every now and again, his ears twitch and his head nods, and he wakes up a little, but then the next moment his nose sinks down onto his dewlap and he tilts towards the box again.

I wish I had a camera to hand, but it's on my desk and I don't want to disturb him, he looks so peaceful and relaxed.

Thoughts

2006-09-11T10:44:00.000+01:00

I want...
to wake up next to someone
to be picked up
and not fall over backwards
to be giddy drunk on red wine
and talking silly
because I want to make you laugh
and because I'm drunk.

I want my dog
And to be able to name him.
I want someone to cook for
Because cooking is more fun when someone else eats it too
I want my Eddings books back
As my shelves are lacking in my favourite books
And I haven't read them in over a year
Is it possible to have withdrawal symptoms from not reading your favourite author?

I want my bunny back
To hear her flop over the stairs
Tell her off for jumping on my bed
Or the back of the sofa.
To lie nose-to-nose on the floor
Talking while she licks my head
Tell her she's everything to me, the thing that keeps me sane
And that my hair is not edible
Stroke her ears again.

I want toe-curlingly good sex
The sort that makes me laugh because I ache
And cry because I'm deliriously exhausted
And afterwards, I want to fall asleep
In a tangle of limbs and hands and bodies
And steal the duvet
Or wake up because he has.

I want breakfast in bed.
Or even just a good cup of tea.

I want to pass this year
Without a hitch
Or a breakdown
And yet not let go of my friends now I can't sit next to them anymore
I want to stay awake in lectures
Or at least not snore my way through proteins
I want to understand
See the point of it all
And get the answers first time instead of the eighth and not be laughed at for not understanding

I want the willpower to actually read all the pages I'm supposed to
Instead of falling asleep on the sofa
Clutching Heyer instead of Alberts.

I want a day without a headache
Without stress
Without wondering if the damn prozac makes a difference
Or wondering if I'd flip without it
Or if I'm going slightly mad.

I want someone who'll accept
That I'm depressed
It's a part of who I am
I want to accept that myself.
But I want someone who won't care.
Or will.
And who'll let me cry for no reason other than a sad song
Without trying to cheer me up.

I don't know what I want.

On Being Ill

2006-09-06T10:40:00.000+01:00

My head is pounding. Pounding, throbbing, bursting, pounding. Little men have squashed cotton wool in place of the menisici between my brain and skull and it’s too tight. The granny trolley being wheeled down the street outside might as well be gunfire, it seems so loud. My teeth seem to rattle in my mouth and the vice around my skull tightens another notch and I can hear the blood pounding through my veins and arteries.

My throat tightens. A wave of nausea rises up my oesophagus and stops before it reaches my throat, and my empty stomach contracts and relaxes. I take a deep breath. The next wave comes, so quick as to be a spasm, wrenching me forward and despite this I know I will not be sick. I try to breathe, too shallow and my breathing rate increases. I heave again over the still-empty bowl on my knees. Suck air into my lungs. Heave and suck, heave, heave, suck, heave, suck desperately as spots begin to appear before my eyes. Finally, I vomit, and can breathe a little easier before the next wave comes.

I’ve been vomiting for what seems like a lifetime. There is nothing to vomit. There was nothing to begin with, now I am vomiting bile. It burns my throat, already raw, burns my oesophagous, exhausted from constant movement. The pain in my stomach is worse, breathing is obscured by pain and I can barely think. I am hyperventilating, aware of this but unable to stop myself, unable to talk, to vocalise the pain that twists my intestines and knots my body.

Morphine flows into my vein through the needle in my arm. It stings, everything stings. The light. Movement. The texture of the hospital gown and the gentle touch of the nurse. Morphine acts quickly. I am aware of another drug, to stop the nausea, but dimly. I pass my glasses to my mother, who hovers anxiously. I cannot see and I drift in and out of awareness now I no longer have pain to pin me to consciousness.

I am being hooked up to a drip. The nurse tells me its saline and I nod, not really understanding. I drift back to sleep. My head twinges, ever so slightly, and though to remind me that it is only the drugs between me and the pain. I’m awake. The drip is two-thirds empty and my head is starting to hurt.

The drip is gone. I am wobbly, spaceially aware but unable to do anything about it as I reel slightly. I am home. More painkillers and more tablets to stop the nausea. I sleep, curled in bed and glad of the pillows and the duvet. I wake regularly, and in the early hours I take more pills.

The pain. It’s back. Pounding pain as the vice around my skull is tightened. Knots in my stomach tighten and undo despite the painkillers and it is all I can do to lie there, hoping not to go to hospital.

I Think I Might Have Been Revising...

2006-08-24T15:22:00.000+01:00

It’s curious how we can create a fate map, know what cells will form what limbs, nerves, brain and gut, when the ball of cells is only a few days old – so young its age is still counted in hours post-fertilization. That you can go “these cells here, they’re going to form the skin, and these here are going to form the brain” when all you have is a disc just three cells thick. You spend hours reading of dissections, scientists removing first this bit and then that, to see how the cells change their development – “if we remove this bit here, then turn it around and stick it back in, does it make any difference?” – and yet the first time you do it yourself, cut into an egg to remove the chicken embryo, you’re surprised how human it looks. Birds and humans and dogs and crocodiles all look the same at that stage, until the skeleton develops beyond the faintest suggestion of differentiating cells, the brain is more than one end of a darker line that traces the length of the notochord, the cells that aren’t nerves or muscles or even a mix of the two but just cells, parasites off another body and incapable of feeling.

The first time you remove an embryo from its egg, it’s a little blob. The next, you can define a head, here, and eyes – horribly out of proportion – and the faintest suggestion of a limb, not much more than a bump in the rounded comma that exsanguinates under your scalpel. You tell yourself that it can’t feel – it’s dead anyway, if it were to develop any more it would have horrific deformities; indeed the embryo in the next egg is slightly more developed, and if you look closely you can see the start of encephaly. But a tiny part of you twinges with guilt – that in order to learn how to save lives, you must first learn to end lives that never began, study their development under a microscope, dissect limb – with the first growths of bones faintly visible – from body to grow on in artificial fluids. Connect what you see to the pictures in the textbook of the adult dog – connect it to the cadaver in front of you leaking formalin into a bucket. Connect it to the hands in front of you, the bones arranged in an almost identical pattern; carpals to metacarpals to phalanges, no longer humanized but merely another anatomical study. Flex your wrist as you read, already correcting yourself to call it the metacarpal joint, trying to observe the sliding of tendon and muscle under skin, naming deep digital flexor and interossus muscle, knowing that the arrangement of the forearm in front of you is not so different from the dissected forelimb of a few hours ago.

And people wonder why I have such a sick sense of humour.

chez moi

2006-08-12T15:48:00.000+01:00

I’ve lost the wire to my internet connection. I’m not even sure if I actually have internet connection, but as the little wire which runs from this laptop to the phone socket is essential to testing the fact, I’m rather stymied. So I’ll write this now, and post it up later, when I either find the connection, or get out the house and return to halls. Where I have internet, I’m playing for internet – so I will use internet.

I’ve moved house. After five – yes, five – car trips (admittedly, four of those in a fiesta barely large enough for the three of us, let alone my stuff) and two days, myself and the bunsters are in place. The bunsters are sitting in their cage, ignoring me. Their cage is open, but the excitement of exploring has been passed on in favour of nap time. They’ve explored; I’ve blocked off the sofa, and all the fun has gone out of it.

Another train rumbles along under the house. The underground runs directly – I have no idea how far – below the house. It’s the house’s only fault, really. No doubt I shall get used to it.

So far, the living room appears relatively complete. I need a desk – I’m sitting on the floor – and the sofa is hidden under a mountain of clothes. I have a few bits and pieces to sort out, but the books are on the shelves, the cds are beside them, and there is a pleasant sort of homeliness to that. I find a room without books is bare; eventually more books will find their way into my bedroom, probably more as the shelves get too full. They’re looking full now, really, or at least the lower ones are – the higher ones are too high for me to reach without a stepladder. Or a chair (I also need a chair). I don’t know who put the shelves up, but it seems silly to have put them up so high. Perhaps they were incredibly tall.

I can hear the taps running as the people upstairs run their water. I haven’t yet figured out how the hot water works (it’ll be fun showering in the morning). Nor have I met the people upstairs, except via a rather snitty note requesting me to not lock one of the locks on the door, as they only have one key for it between the three of them. Ignoring for a moment how three people can live in the flat upstairs (which is no bigger than mine, and possibly smaller) I wonder why they haven’t had copies made. It would make sense, really.

But anyway. I will go to bed, in my newly made bed with its new sheets, leaving the bunsters to nap as they choose. I have to find my nightclothes first, however.

I have yet to start unpacking the bedroom.

The wonders of the internets

2006-07-30T23:15:00.000+01:00

My university has recently joined the bandwagon and registered with Facebook. I've been nosying around on it for most of the past two days; finding friends from uni and manically trying to get as many friends as possible. Oddly enough, I was talking about this with an old friend of mine - who I haven't seen for years, but myspace is a beautiful thing for that - and we were discussing Facebook. It turns out that my old school has also registered - and so I've been trying to see who is on and who is doing what. Unfortunately for my inner bitch, I can't see their pages unless they're my friends. Ah well, back to myspace for that one. And bebo.... my internet toys are multiplying but I only have myself to blame.

I've also signed myself and a friend up to do a craft show in London at some point; neither of us can really afford, or want, a table to ourselves, but half each seems fair. I'm not sure when, or indeed where, it is, but hopefully I'll get some details soon. I'm looking forward to this. I might even be able to justify getting a proper website.

insert mad-scientist laughter here

2006-07-26T23:53:00.000+01:00

I've cracked it! Finally! After all these years of experimenting I have finally discovered....How to make the perfect iced tea. Sometimes I amaze myself.

Take... one earl grey teabag. A teaspoon of loose english breakfast... fill your teapot. Stir in six teaspoons of sugar. Stand for five-ten minutes. Take a two litre bottle, and pour in around ten teaspoons of sugar. Add a cup or so of lemon juice (enough to get a few fingers' depth in the bottom of the bottle). Shake. Fill about half-full with water. Shake.

Once your tea is done brewing, pour it into the bottle (strain out any leaves). Leave to cool, then put in the fridge.
Consume. Blissfully.

You want to hear about parallels, how about the forty-ninth?

2006-07-23T23:11:00.000+01:00

I have a terrible addiction to making mixtapes... ok, they're not really mixtapes. They're iTunes playlists. I still like to call them mixtapes though. Here are two:

I.
Smoosh - Rad
Art Brut - Formed A Band
The Rakes - 22 Grand Job
Clor - Love & Pain
The Automatic - Monster
Panic! At The Disco - I Write Sins, Not Tragedies
Controller.Controller - Disco Blackout
The Cure - Love Will Tear Us Apart
Brakes - All Night Disco Party
The Bravery - Public Service Announcement
The Chalets - Love Punch
Brendan Benson - Sittin' Pretty
The Pipettes - Pull Shapes
The Feeling - Fill My Little World
Old Mol - Sobriety Friend
Hanson - Get Up & Go
Hepburn - Deep Deep Down
The Cure - Friday I'm In Love

II.
Buddy Holly - Heart Beat
The Bishops - I Don't Really Know What To Say
Lily Allen - Oh My God (Kaiser Chiefs Cover)
Guillemots - Made Up Love Song *43
Ben Lee - We're All In This Together
Mark Schwaber - Watergun
Paolo Nutini - These Streets
Bright Eyes - Haligh, Haligh, A Lie, Haligh
Emmy The Great - Secret Circuis
Jewel - Pieces of You
Denison Whitmer & The River Bends - Are You Lonely?
The Feeling - Sewn
The Innocence Mission - Wonderful World
Daphne Loves Derby - Simply Starving To Be Safe
Joni Mitchell - A Case of You
Jens Lekman - At The Department of Forgotten Songs
Nina Gordon - Straight Out of Compton
Rilo Kiley - With Arms Outstretched
Tegan And Sara - I Know I Know I Know
Bruce Springsteen - Waitin' On A Sunny Day

Rabbit or Greyhound?

2006-07-22T22:43:00.000+01:00

For the past two weeks, I've been re-bonding with my houserabbit. She used to live with a friend of mine (long, tortuous story) but when he moved back home, she came to stay with me. Daphne - after the Scooby-Doo character - is just over a year or so old; she's a French Lop. And a proper madam.

At the moment, she's lying, stretched full-length in the living room. She spends a lot of the day napping, dozing and checking her eyelids for leaks. And then she potters around the house for a little while, sniffing everything, checking everything is in place - and woe betide you if it isn't. One of her tricks is picking up shoes and throwing them out of the way - usually towards where they should be lying. She keeps me tidy. But after the exhaustions of shoe-throwing (or the olympic food-bowl throwing, usually held just after I've cleaned her room) she has a little nap.

There is, however, one event which demands stamina. Endurance. Training.

The Bunbun 400.

Dahpne starts in the bedroom, usually against a wall - or saving that, something which gives a satisfying noise when shoved - and charges, full tilt along the length of the corridor. She slaloms through the the kitchen doorway, scrabbling at the carpet tiles and narrowly avoiding the door. There's a sharp chicane around the bottom of the breakfast bar, weaving between the stool legs, and then the sharp turn under the sofa, usually executed by bouncing off the wall. And then back to the bedroom. And then lap two. And three. And maybe four, followed by a brief rest, before starting again.

This is all done at a charge, full of thundering feet, lop ears flapping furiously and white cotton-wool tail punctuating each bound with a wiggle. When turning corners, she binkies - flings herself into the air, twisting wildly as though attepmting to tie herself in knots - and lands with a thump far out of proportion to her size.

And after the race, she flops down again, to groom and shed fawny hair on the carpet before rolling on her back and sighing.

Hoarding

2006-07-16T11:10:00.000+01:00

In a few weeks' time, I will be moving house. Today, I'm going to go through some boxes which I haven't seen since September - I packed the contents away just before I left Libya. I will divide my possessions into three piles - that I want, now. That I want to keep, but I don't need just now. And that which I don't want at all. I have enourmous amounts of stuff, but I'm sentimental. I've got christmas cards from when I was six, programmes from school plays I was in, a photo of my best friend and me, aged five. I found the last birthday card I recieved that was signed "Mum & Dad". There are some things you can't throw away.

But some of it will go into storage. I don't have space for it right now, and even when I move into my flat I doubt there'll be room. Some of it, mostly books, will come with me when I move, and be reread because I haven't touched them for more than a year. I might have to buy some shelves for them, though.

I'm loving Smoosh right now.

Sensible Susan & The Ladylike Punk

I'm off.

HOW MUCH?

the fog

I think I need rails for the bathroom

my camera lives!

Remember Remember

I am invisible.

Oh good gravy.

Haircut, Haircut, Wedding.

House move

On brothers, and Being Ill

I have a week off

pasta for the confused

MILLEH

I am up to my ears in essays and

a veritable feast

Hook wielding (and dogs)

It is done.

visible disabilities and clothes

Tank

Fibro, Yarn, Kent... weekend as usual then

A return of sorts

fuck you, career

enabling myself

a thinking of thoughts

putting the L in...

Day Three

LSG 365...

feminism vs domesticity

it's been a week

preserved for... thingumy

yarn and landlords

wot i rote, innit

landlords

lookit, a book review.

awsum smoothieness

further to that...

all hail the nhs

little nubbin of emmenthal

today in news

neighbours...

La weekender

Craft Excitement

bunny love

bunkin

now

Pete

ill but not ill enough, apparently

2 years!

like a woodpecker, except not.

essay fun

The Animals Are Revolting (Again)

I've been thinking again

fears

no money more problems

Halloween Mix

Depression

you know what I hate...

Good Things and Bad Things

the buns are home!

Utata Thursday Walk no.66

Desert Island Discs

Thursday Walk 64

hooray!

projects

the dog...

it's half-empty!

*shock*

big bad feminist

Daphne

For Indigo

drunken butterfly

everyone fucks up it's going to be ok

Revision (part eleventy-billion)

attack of the blimp...

It makes a change from doodling in the margins...

Why I Shouldn't Watch Romantic Movies

Out one evening...

Objections

shock

insert mad-scientist laughter here