When in Rome.

Normally when I haven't written anything for a while, I start off with an apology, an excuse or a terrible joke to clear the air a little bit, but it's been such an inexcusably long time, that I think it may just be best to start afresh. I took some time off, because I was aware that I should probably make an effort to pass my exams, and actually enjoy my summer, so that's what I did. But hello, it's nice to be back!

A few things have changed since last we met. I'm living in Rome now, how about that? It's scary and beautiful and captivating. I love it, and I miss home, and I'm terrified, all at the same time. I've never really been the adventurous sort, but if there's one place to try it, it's probably here in the eternal city. 

Summer was great, and I got to spend it with all of the people I love (although nowhere near enough time with Miss Sarah Dixon who has been incredibly elusive. I don't think she likes me any more.) I ended up in Sussex with Thomas half the time, and in the Midlands for the rest, all of which was awesome. Home isn't so bad when you don't really have to be there. I even got on with my mother, which is really good. Greenbelt this year was a corker - I worked in the Performance Cafe again, and this year's team was even better than the last. I was really sad to say goodbye!

I also got the opportunity this summer to go to Budapest with Warwick Photosoc, which was a lot of fun. It's a beautiful city, with the added bonus of being pretty unspoilt and wickedly cheap! You should go if you get the chance!

So that's all from me for now, but as I am taking what is in essence a year's holiday in Rome, you can expect to see much more of me, because when you live in a city as good as this one, you inevitably sit in your room and do nothing quite a lot...

This song is absolutely my favourite at the moment. Can't take any credit though, it was all Tom...

are we sluts?

CRASAC is a Coventry-based charity which provides support and information for women who have experienced sexual violence. It was brought to my attention by my friend Jonny who knew I was moving to the area and thought that perhaps I would be able to get involved. Unfortunately, what with all the gin and all the procrastinating, I haven't got round to doing anything, but I follow them on Facebook, so I know that what they are doing is vital: ridding women of the shame that seems to follow sexual abuse. I am fairly sure that one day I will end up working for some sort of women's charity, because I can honestly think of no cause more worthwhile.

On a related note, Ken Clarke was a dickhead today. Now, this is nothing new. Ken Clarke is usually a dickhead, and usually I quietly seethe, but I could not let this go. If you don't already know, this all came about when in an interview, Clarke denied that "rape is rape", categorising rape into serious, and less serious offences. It has caused an outcry in the media, and amongst women's groups, and so it bloody well should! Not only did he imply that rape is only "serious" when violence is involved, but he also said that "rape has been singled out … mainly to add a bit of sexual excitement to the headlines". 


Sexual excitement. There are no words. 


All of this comes at a time when sexual assault has come to the forefront of our conscience through the various demonstrations or "slutwalks" taking place worldwide. In order to challenge the belief held by some that when women wear suggestive clothing, they are in some way asking to be assaulted, women across the world are embracing their inner slut by going on protest marches dressed in heels and non-existent skirts. 


This in itself has sparked much controversy, but in general, I am of course in favour. The idea that assaulted women should bear any of the blame for the horrible thing that has happened to them - that they have in some way brought it upon themselves - is repugnant. And this should be the case whether the girl in question is wearing next to nothing, or wrapped up in a shapeless duffel coat. Furthermore, these campaigns are not suggesting that women should go out alone at night dressed in next to nothing, just that ideally they should be able to. 


In the brilliant teen classic "Mean Girls", Tina Fey says (and I don't even have to look this quote up) that teenage girls "have to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it okay for guys to call [them] sluts and whores", and there are certainly those who argue that these women are sending out the wrong message, and that by using the word "slut", they are somehow encouraging men to do the same. But then it is possible that the only way of lessening the impact of this word is by making it commonplace. It's such a horrible word because there is no real masculine equivalent. A male slut is christened a player - a word with oddly positive connotations. So really what we should be (and are) saying is - yes. I'm a slut. And what?


But is this alternative form of protest really empowering? Are women still not just making an impact and finding a voice the only way they know how; by taking their clothes off? And should we not be able to challenge misconceptions while covering up? Possibly, but at the end of the day, these brave young women are challenging and changing rape culture, which can only be a good thing. Because none of these steps taken can be seen as women just making a fuss, as feminism is often seen. Women will always be physically vulnerable to men, and unfortunately women will probably always be sexually assaulted, but the blame and the stigma of talking about it must be taken away.

apologies.

Dearest followers, I know you may not believe me, but I went to much trouble to write an excellent blog post at some point last week (I think it was Thursday), but Blogger went on a rampage and deleted it all. It coincided with the strop YouTube had, so I'm guessing Google was going through some sort of personal crisis, and was not up to the task of matching all my internet needs. Needless to say, I was fairly disheartened, so I did not bother to recreate the aforementioned post, and I instead went out with my friends like a normal human being whose life does not revolve around the internet.

Nonetheless, I have decided to give it another go. I'm not going to write about the same stuff again, because I feel it would lack the same spontaneity and verve, so I'm just going to write one of those rambly posts which are abundant in spontaneity and not a lot else.

I have given it some thought, and I'm pretty sure that Jamie Parker - the fine fellow who plays Scripps in The History Boys - is one of the most fanciable men ever. He's not even all that attractive, but he has a certain northern charm that cannot be disputed. Although I did always quite like Dakin too. And Crowther. I even quite liked Mr Irwin.

Scratch that, I particularly liked Mr Irwin. Cor.

I've been reading Alan Bennett's short stories, which are so beautifully written, I'm pretty much in awe. I'm so sick of reading overly-laconic novels by young writers who seem to be able to do nothing but mimic their predecessors (who tend to have done it all with so much more grace). Bennett writes stories which are actually touching, and honest, and undeniably funny and he is responsible for The History Boys, which I love. If you hadn't already noticed.

Also, at the risk of sounding like the celebrity stalker I am, Caleb Followill - the man with eyes bluer than Joni Mitchell - has got married - to Lily Aldridge of all people! Oh I'm so ruddy jealous!

It's my Italian oral exam tomorrow, and I am absolutely terrified. Hence the blog. Hence the fact that I am once again absent from French Grammar. Shit shit shiiiiit.

To calm us all down, I'll leave you with a pretty song.

evidently, i don't experience things as rationally as you do.

Hello. If this were a friendship, this would be the awkward bit where I apologised for not answering your phone calls or keeping in touch, and you'd pretend it was no big deal, but you were evidently a bit pissed off. But luckily, it's not. It's a blog, and I'll write when I fucking well like.

That was a bit aggressive. Sorry...

I should currently be in French grammar class, but I was defeated by the distance from my bed to the floor, so I decided not to go. Don't judge me too harshly if you have never had the misfortune of attending a French grammar class. It makes me tremble with fear. I am counteracting the adverse effect my absence will have on my skills as a linguist by watching Sex and the City in French. This kind of education I can get on board with.

So exams are looming, and I am once again reminded of just how bad I am at all of this motivation stuff. My washing basket is brimming expectantly in the corner, and I honestly can't be arsed to walk the ten yards from my building to the laundrette. Pity me, won't you?

I stayed up late last night listening to various slam poets, some of whom were enviably eloquent, some of whom were a little embarrassing. I was discussing the concept with my sister who said that she finds it all a little bit unnerving. And I agree with her to an extent, but I also think that discomfort is sort of the point. So I'll let you make up your own mind while I find some old lasagne or something to eat.

gu





That Buddy Wakefield one makes me well up a bit, so you may want to skip it if you're in a good mood...

definitely night time now.

Evening comrades, or is it night time now? By the time I have finished this and you are reading it, it will almost certainly be night time. So I should probably say good night. But then that sounds a bit dismissive, doesn't it? A bit like I've ended before I've even begun. And while I'm sure this would be a relief for you, Mr Reader, it would sort of defeat the point. I have digressed... no matter.

I am pretty much only writing this because I have told myself that I have to complete my essay on representations of the Italian Family by the time I leave for Bristol on Sunday, and at the moment, that is looking like a tremendously unappealing prospect, so I am blogging and applying for work experience on The Archers instead. Such is my life. As an incentive, I have told myself that I am not allowed the new Harry Potter DVD until the aforementioned essay is done and dusted, but my resolve could crumble at any moment.

This woman, artist and freedom fighter Rania Matar has had the brainwave of photographing teenage girls in both the US and the Middle East in the comfort of their own rooms. Turns out, the appeal of messy floors and collaged walls transcends background. What a lovely thought.

Also, stolen from the same website (thehairpin.com) is an interesting demonstration of the way in which the feminine ideal is vanishing before our eyes. Quite literally. Marilyn Monroe was at least a size ten. Just saying.

Time for music time now. Have a lovely weekend, and if any of you know anything about Italian literature, do let me know.

ten things that make the holidays excellent.

1. I never have to wear makeup or look at all good ever - I haven't even put mascara on for four whole days. It's liberating. Of course, I'm always kicking yourself on the rare occasion that someone of interest decides to pay a surprise visit, and I look a bit like the evil one from The Little Mermaid, but luckily, we're not very sociable people.
2. I get time to get back to the important things in life, such as Waking the Dead and Inspector Morse, then watch lots of silly comedy when I've freaked myself out a bit by watching too much Waking the Dead and Inspector Morse. 
3. Sun.
4. I get to see my excellent friends, who much to my relief have remained excellent friends, and whom I shall adore for all eternity. 
5. There is food in the fridge. Sort of. If you count lard as food. 
6. The village in which I live is actually quite pretty at times. The neighbours have a beautiful magnolia, and though it becomes less lovely with the passing of the days, it is still pretty magical. And there are ducks and shit residing on the canal. And by shit, I mean actual shit. 
7. I can catch up with my correspondence (by which I mean texts). 
8. I saw two cows kissing yesterday. 
9. I get to spend lots of time with my doting, oh-so-maternal, caring mother. 
10. Spaced.

N.B. from this point onwards, when I have said little of interest, and as a result can find no relevant picture, I will include a random snap from the Guardian website. You have been warned. 

maybe.

It may shock and surprise you to learn that Wolverley is not the most left-wing of places. There is a man I encountered during my brief stint in the Old Village Store (a wealthy landowner) who comes in on a daily basis to pick up his copy of the Telegraph, never failing to comment wryly on the way in which Gordon Brown ruined the country, or how Cameron is a "solid fellow". Now, I'm not saying all inhabitants of this weird little village are as extreme as the aforementioned gentleman, but I live in one of the most conservative sections of a generally conservative area, and it's a little bit depressing.

I was shocked nonetheless when I found out that there is not even a Labour candidate standing in the upcoming election. That is how Tory Wolverley is. I am only nineteen years old, so the ability to vote is still a massive novelty, but now it's a toss-up between abstaining and voting Green(!). I would abstain, but I distinctly remember a Citizenship lesson with Mrs Nightingale in year 6, in which we were told that voting was a large part of becoming a 'Good Citizen'. I always take these things to heart, so I think I probably will vote, even if it is for a non-party with only one objective.

Besides, I'm going to have to vote in the AV election anyway, in spite of my indifference. I'm going to vote Yes, because in general, it's a more positive word than 'no', and because lovely Ed told me to. Indeed, I'm all about change. Even if it's only a little, slightly wimpy change like this one. If you happen to live in Wolverley, you should vote for Robin in the parish election. He lives next door, and is a thoroughly nice fellow. The time he shouted at us because the dog was barking at an inappropriate hour was, I'm sure, an isolated incident.