Oh good gravy.

Haircut, Haircut, Wedding.

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

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

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

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.

I HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN AROUND TO OPENING MY FOLKSY SHOP.

Please buy stuff and tell everyone you know.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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)

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.