Haybridge, we hardly knew ye...

Today was a fairly fitting penultimate day. I woke up far too late, then found that we had no hot water (our bathroom is being refitted) so I had to have the kind of shower that's so cold, your head throbs in pain, so that was fun (it did wake me up, though). I then carved my feet up walking through town in my brand new gladiator sandals (I had to put some plasters on in T.K. Maxx.) Next, I went and drank tea at Christina's house and ended up crying in the car on the way to school when a particularly emotional song came on the radio. Then we dossed around a bit and ate biscuits before going to History and not discussing a single war. Excellent.

In the car on the way back, we accidentally listened to the Glee version of 'My Life Would Suck Without You'. You would think this song incapable of causing a grown girl to well up, but it well and truly succeeded. Man, I'm a mess...

The thing is, I'm not sure I'll ever feel quite as at home as I have done at this sixth form. It's a pretty special place, yes, but it's nothing compared to my INCREDIBLE friends. I don't have one best friend, I have about ten and I will miss them all so much. I think this is the reason I am so apprehensive about university; I know for a fact that I will never find friends who understand me and who I enjoy being around quite as much as our little group of rejects. It's love...

So thank you Haybridge High school. You made me, the laziest person on the planet work! You got me good grades, and, most importantly, I've had a bloody great time!

and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

A lot of people say that studying poetry at GCSE takes all the joy out of it, and I suppose I agree. But for me, the problem lies in studying a poem I really can't stand and over analysing it until it becomes even more unlikeable. I think that's what people are getting at and I completely understand. Last year for example, we were forced to reckon with the melancholy of Thomas Hardy's seemingly endless verse. His work was all basically an embodiment of his grief. He mourned the death of his wife, the simplicity of mankind, the (rubbish) century. This guy never stopped complaining and I was put off poetry for life. At least this is what I told myself. Then we moved on to Auden. And I fell in love.

The thing with Auden is that you can not just love his poems, but also be fascinated with his life. He married a lesbian to prevent her from being deported, was a massive lefty and had a somewhat exciting love life. He once wrote "If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me". So yes, I am a bit in love. Too bad he is both gay and dead. I sure know how to pick 'em...

This poem got me full marks in my English exam last year (shameless, I know). It's kind of sad. On second thoughts, don't read it.

I'm not very good with poetry. With the exception of 'The Love Song Of J. Alfred. Prufrock', they have to rhyme to keep me entertained. They have to mean at least something without months of study, and they have to have a story behind them.

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W. H. Auden (1907 - 73)

When watching 'My life in Verse' with Robert Webb, I also discovered T.S. Eliot. I have written about him before and will no doubt mention him again, so I won't bore you right now.

Poetry doesn't have to be fancy. It doesn't have to have critical acclaim. It doesn't even have to be all that good to mean something to someone. I love this poem a little bit, especially when he reads it.

do not for the fame, but for the glory. learn the difference.

My mother is currently in the corner of the room with a carpet fitter, looking at samples which all look exactly the same and deliberating loudly, while denying me the joys of my iTunes. We're finally getting our (avocado eighties nightmare) bathroom ripped out and starting again. Trust me when I say that anything would be an improvement.

I finally bought Fyfe (Fyfe, love of my life)'s album and in no way is it disappointing. Every song is magnificent. When you are a shambolic aspiring writer as I half-heartedly pretend to be, occasionally you read a book and think 'wow. I wish I had written this.) I imagine lots of music-types feel similarly about this album.

I'm currently reading 'One Day' by David Nicholls and storming through it (this is one of the aforementioned novels). It's sort of a nice compromise between a critically acclaimed but difficult to trawl through novel and a trashy beach read. I'm only half way through, but already it's established a firm footing amongst my favourites. I'm sure most people think this, but I feel that I am strangely similar to the protagonist, Emma. She's pretty clever but a bit of a skank who waitresses instead of getting a job while her less intelligent but copiously charismatic best friend shoots to fame. She has idealistic newspaper cuttings lining her walls and becomes too cynical and too critical. This is pretty much the life I have mapped out for myself. So anyway, I would definitely recommend it, even if you are not really the reading type.

I used to read all the time, but have somewhat lapsed lately. I really love books, but I have picked up the bad habit of spending loads of money on books, beginning them, then giving up half way through, or even worse, just letting them sit on my shelf (floor) gathering dust. So from now on, I vow to read more. I imagine that books will help Sarah and me immeasurably on our trek across Europe in the summer, and I reckon that as I'm doing a French degree (bleugh, don't get me started), a bit of literature in my native language will become a treat once more.

Inspiring isn't really the word, but I found myself clinging on to this awesome woman's every word. It really doesn't seem twenty minutes long, I promise. I think you'll enjoy it. Lesbianism aside, I pretty much want to be this woman. I fear that I can only be disappointed...

and so the tears begin to fall...

I am filled with the sort of divine happiness only achievable when the sun shines this brightly. In two days, my skin has gone from hopelessly pasty and a little bit corpse-like to having a nice sunkissed glow (or something like that). I'm such a summer person, I really am. The only things that get me through the winter are scarves and duffel coats, but otherwise I really do dislike it quite a lot. This is mostly because I am perpetually cold and I hate living in the almost constant darkness winter invariably brings. Today, however it is difficult to imagine even the existence of winter. Today it burns your feet to walk on the same patio we had to shovel snow from in the winter. Mind boggling...

This week is bound to be eventful and emotional as we leave Haybridge forever. It's strange. I've been there a third of my life, which makes me feel both terrified and really rather young. I'm not quite sure how to feel about it all. Even though I'm certain I could not stand being there for another year, this week has arrived pretty quickly and I will be so sad to leave. While at that school, I have gone from an awkward, nerdy twelve year old with no confidence to a slightly less awkward, possibly even nerdier adult. I'm still working on the confidence thing...

On Saturday, I have to battle with my unavoidable hangover to get on a train in Birmingham by nine in the morning. I am now cursing myself for booking such an early train, but I'm sure the destination will make it worthwhile. I'm off to the lovely Croyde in north Devon. We go every year with half of Stourbridge and even if the weather is shoddy, a good time is always had. Unfortunately, I must put up with the presence of my overbearing, manipulative, inconsistent mother and her cretinous boyfriend who I suspect does not possess enough brain cells to even pronounce the word manipulative. I am determined to enjoy myself nevertheless because I love long, solitary train journeys and though I have been to several places much more exotic, there is something about Croyde that makes it a strong contender for my favourite place in the world. So even though I am sure this beautiful weather will exhaust itself long before this weekend, I am excited. And I vow that I will make it into the sea (but wetsuits are such a faff aren't they? I have been known to go in wearing just a bikini at this time of year, but I fear that I may have lost some of the stupidity of my youth, so we'll have to see.)

I will put up photos of all the lovely goings on this week for those of you bored enough to care about the things that happen in my life. To do this, however, I may have to buy a camera. It'll have to be identical to the old one too, as my mother bought it for me and I don't quite have the heart to tell her that I lost it months ago. Goodbye money, it was nice while it lasted.

The prophets and their bombs have had another success and I wonder why we bother at all...

Marion Cotillard epitomises pretty much everything I want to be. She is French, she's successful, and , most importantly, she rocks Converse Allstars with ease. She completely nails every role she plays, whether in a bizarre Indie film, or something much more OSCARiffic like 'La Vie En Rose'.

What's more, Ms Cotillard is currently cosying up with the one and only Guillaume Canet: intellectual, visionary and overall French Hottie. The two starred together in 'Jeux D'enfants', one of my all time favourite films. It's funny and cute without being at all naff, as English and American films seem to slip into. If you haven't seen it, it really is wonderful and I recommend it. Those two would have cute babies...

The reason she's so great in 'La Vie En Rose' is the way she's unafraid to make herself look well and truly minging. It's possibly the most unattractive role she could have taken but it turned out to be a very wise move. Now she walks among Hollywood's elite, gracing the covers of magazines and seeming very classy and gracious with it. I think the fact that she failed to get her Oscar acceptance speech out over the flood of tears shows that she genuinely did not expect to win. Or she is a very good actress. Which sort of goes without saying really.

So this week has panned out much better than was expected. I did have a rubbish driving lesson on Monday, but everything else has been pretty good. Usually the double dose of double French on Tuesday and Wednesday pretty much finishes me off, but something odd has happened in the Modern Languages department; the teachers have gone soft. So instead of sheet after sheet of grammar, we got to watch TWO films. So yesterday, we watched 'He loves me, he loves me not' starring Audrey Tatou and a guy with really good hair. I'd never seen it before, so didn't know what to expect, but it was brilliant! It was exactly like Enduring Love, but Frencher and even creepier. The plot was almost identical, but because of the style of the film, the viewer is hooked much longer. Today, we watched 'A very long engagement' which was sad, but good. This had Tatou AND Cotillard in, therefore was automatically going to be ace. It did not disappoint. To say I enjoyed it would be a bit sick really - there was an awful lot of graphic mutilation, but it was pretty awesome. Cotillard plays an amazing, gutsy prostitute who seeks to avenge her bloke who dies on the Somme. If I didn't love her before, this certainly did it. Watch it. Please?

Fyfe Dangerfield (Fyfe, Fyfe, love of my life) may be my crush of the week. I just love his voice, love the Guillemots, love the John Lewis advert (about which I have already gushed). He's probably a bit of an arse, but he has lovely eyes and the voice of an angel. I think this is enough to absolve him. Trains to Brazil is an amazing song!

Love will tear us apart.

Bus talk...

The day Charlotte Ireland passed her driving test may have been the greatest day of my life. Instead of having to get up far too early and being crammed onto a train full of loud, obnoxious eleven year olds in uniform, I now get up ever so slightly later and Charlotte picks me up. Unfortunately for her, I don't really do mornings. She invariably arrives bang on time and is left gritting her teeth while I search for shoes or scarves or long lost textbooks. We then cruise to school, blasting out the tunes (highlights include Bruce Springsteen, Lenny Kravitz and even a bit of Jay-Z...). Overall, it is brilliant.

However, sometimes Charlotte will be ill or we don't have to be in at the same time and I am forced to once make my own way to and from the little haven of Hagley village. This involves not only catching the train, but also dragging myself on to a bus. Full of old people. Who smell. It isn't all bad. They talk a lot and sometimes it's fun to eavesdrop. In fact, I tend to use these brief snippets of conversation to judge the vague ebb and flow of public opinion. I realise that my sample of the general public is a little bit selective, but it's sufficient in order to get a general idea.

So with the excitement of the election and the upheaval of the Government, the 'bus talk' has been decidedly political. Interestingly, while a few months ago, the old folk of Kidderminster were intensely critical of the Labour Government, they definitely DO NOT want a coalition either. None of them seem to like Cameron much, and now Gordon has been booted out, they seem rather fond of him. People of Kidderminster, make up your mind! Or join the Labour Party. Or just take a shower...

I want to make you cups of tea all night long in so many ways...

So the nation is doomed. The Conservacrats reign supreme and everything is shit. I do think though that this can be seen as a good thing. I'm not quite sure how yet. I'll keep you posted.

Tonight I went to see my lovely cousin Mikey in Lord of The Flies at Old Swinford school where he goes and my uncle teaches. I feel like a bit of a failure because all my knowledge of the play before tonight was based on an episode of Simpsons. I was thoroughly impressed though and definitely did NOT cry when people kept dying. Not at all...





Ooft. I think I'm in love...

still hanging...

I'm in a splendid mood today. This is partly because I never quite got round to getting dressed and partly because I wrote an essay. This is a very rare occurrence and should be marked with champagne and fanfare! Unfortunately, I only have fishcakes and disheartened laments, but I'll take what I can get.



You've probably come across this before, but it never fails to make me smile. Yes, it's lame, and once you've watched it, you pretty much forget it all; all seven minutes of it, but I pretty much love it all the same. I'm not sure I'd watched in the past year, however, so the bit about 'getting to know your parents' made me a bit sad. Nevertheless, if in need of a bit of a lift, this is the place to get it.

And look! I've learnt to embed! I feel this is the thing I need to take my blog into new territory.



Oh look! I did it again!

Finally, Heidi Montag has a new face to celebrate her separation from the Pratt.

She went from this...


To this...


This absurdity is compounded by the fact that she is twenty four. She also got her boobs done. Big time. What is wrong with society? Grumble, grumble, grumble...

hard graft...

If I ever get my arse in gear and actually do some work, I will go to university. While there, the matter of careers is bound to cross my mind, so I'm prematurely giving it some thought. There are several problems with entering the 'job world'. Firstly, I am very lazy and don't actually ever want a proper job, but I am aware that this aspiration is pretty unrealistic and one day I will have to do more to earn the food on my plate.

Having worked in Morrisons, I am no stranger to hard work. Dishing up suspect looking meat, clearing up vomit, cutting and burning and bruising myself all over the place, cleaning fish juice out of bins, being polite to impossible customers, cleaning some sort of bright pink bacteria off the dishwasher, chopping, probing, sweeping, mopping, wiping, smiling... the list is pretty much endless. Of course, there were some things that made it possible to bear it for such a long time. Some of the staff were awesome. I'm trying to think of something else but it's just not happening. Suffice to say that it wasn't all bad!

Anyway, I've been thinking about it, and I reckon there are a limited number of jobs I could do and actually be satisfied. My friend Charlotte and I always say that our greatest fear is mediocrity, but I don't think I'd mind being mediocre at a job I actually found rewarding. Unfortunately, I am not easily pleased, so here is the (somewhat limited and delusional) list of jobs I would really like to try:

• Journalism - I've always said it and will probably never quite give up on the idea. I think if I could somehow find the money to do a post-graduate diploma in journalism, I might not be all that bad. Even if I just worked for a local paper writing about jet-skiing budgies or primary school fetes, I would think that there are worse jobs.
• Translation - Is lovely. As I plan to become fluent in a couple more languages before my degree is through, I should be at least a bit desirable. It's possible that once more I would have to do a masters in translation, but this wouldn't be the end of the world. I'd get to travel and I really do rather enjoy working in foreign languages so this is a definite possibility.
• Teaching - Now don't get me wrong, I don't want to teach as such, but it's hardly the worst option. I think teaching in a sixth form college would be ace, and I'd be quite content teaching French to others, I think. Maybe...
• Politics - I love politics and I am fairly sure that my allegiance to the Labour Party will never falter. I am a realist. I know that politics is stressful and unforgiving, but I'm pretty sure I could hack it. I could be the next Harriet Harmon. Okay, maybe I'm not that much of a realist after all...
• Writer - Of books. At a push, I am probably articulate and imaginative enough to write the kind of lame beach reads we know and love. I am not arrogant enough to think I will ever have the substance to write with critical acclaim or great success. Surely though, the life of a penniless writer is much more appealing than number crunching and office parties?
• Waster - I shall do my degree, then I will do a masters, then a PhD, then I will travel, then I will do a bit of tutoring, then I will travel some more, never really getting a proper job but working when I can simply no longer afford food and a bed. This is one of the most appealing options...

I have run out. I will never be successful in life, simply because I never want to sit in an office all day long, drinking espressos and bitching about 'Tracy from personnel'. Money will never motivate me and I am doomed to live in squalor for all eternity. Splendid.

Tory glory...

Have you ever seen Oliver and Company? The film is lame, but when I saw this, I couldn't help but think that this dog is a bit like the streetwise main character (also a dog. This could explain the resemblance). The thought of a politically active, thrill-seeking dog is strangely comforting on this day of mourning and general woe.

So we are effectively without government. It's quite exciting, though it was a disappointing night for everybody really. Of course I stayed up all night so I'm well and truly shattered today. I'm also dealing with the realisation that I now live in a Tory constituency. The West Midlands itself is almost entirely blue, with the important exception of Birmingham. It's places like Halesowen and Dudley which are the real surprises. I can think of nowhere more working class, so it seems odd that the majority voted Conservative. I can't really imagine that their community will thrive under right-wing rule, but maybe it's time for someone else to be under constant public scrutiny for a change.

One good thing has come out of this election, however. I have discovered that I really quite fancy David Milliband. My crushes seem to be becoming more and more middle aged and
demure. In my opinion this is no bad thing, though I'm sure there are a few psychologists in the world who would disagree...

"Ah elle aime bien ça les stratagèmes! En fait, elle est un peu lâche. Je crois que c'est pour ça que j'ai du mal à saisir son regard"

Yesterday, after the exam from hell, I retreated to my home from home (the little room in Languages. It has a kettle and a microwave and some French magazines. As a result I probably spend more time in there than I do sleeping. It's a sorry state of affairs...). I was so annoyed with myself for being rubbish that I did the unthinkable. That's right, my friends, I rang my mother. She answered the phone and I croaked pathetically at her because this damn cold isn't going anywhere. I told her about my woes and she said the one thing I didn't want to hear; "Well I think you should be doing English anyway...". Since that moment, I can't stop thinking about my choices. On top of it all, I'm not even sure I want to go to university at all!

I'm not sure whether what I'm feeling right now is actual hatred of the French subject or whether I'm just being my typical, indecisive self. Let's see, shall we?

Rubbish things about French:

• Speaking - The exams are stressful and in my opinion, 20 short minutes cannot give an accurate representation of the student's prowess as a whole. Also, have you ever spoken French to a French person? It's really not all that good for one's ego...
  
• Literature - We are studying Maupassant. He doesn't like war. He uses nice language. He fights for the French people. I should love his work, but actually it's a load of long-winded, overdescriptive, hippie drivel. In French.
  
• France isn't all that great, is it? Okay, the south is gorgeous and sunny, but have you ever been to Calais? The Alps are cold, Normandy is grim, and Paris is full of tramps.
  
• Grammar - Trawling through textbooks doing question after question is not how I like to spend my evenings.
• Teachers - well one teacher actually. The less said, the less trouble I can get in.
  

Things that make me love French:

• Translation - Yum, yum, yum...
• Literature - Despite my indifference to Maupassant, the French brought us Les Misérables, The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Beauty and the Beast. Now, I have never exactly read any of these but the songs sure are catchy...
• France - Paris, Nice, Paris. Actually, I can't pretend any longer, I love France. It has Kristin Scott-Thomas, and Marion cotillard, and Carla Bruni. It has PARIS; the Pompidou centre, Amélie's café and Le Marais.
• Grammar - It's like algebra but with words!
• Teachers - The other two French teachers are nothing less than lovely and they took us to the Med, which was quite nice really...

So in conclusion, I both love and hate French in equal measure. Maybe this is what true passion for something is? Loving it so much that you really can't stand it. Maybe I really should do English. If I made a list for English, I'm pretty sure there would only be one point in the 'cons' column; my teacher has given us NINE hours of private study to be completed this week. Insane...

I just voted and intend to stay up tonight for as long as possible. It's very cloudy, perhaps this is pathetic fallacy?

Lost in Coventry...

Today has been terrible. I completely messed up my French exam and as a result I have been in a foul mood all day. Yes, I know you thought I was delightful all the time, and that I live my life with all the grace and charm of a unicorn, but I'm afraid I must disappoint. Today I have all the grace and charm of a sloth. An old sloth. In pyjamas.

I had a complete panic on Monday night with the realisation that my history coursework was due in the next day, not today as I had been convinced. This resulted in a distinct lack of sleep on Monday night. Propped up with Lemsip and caffeine, I managed to make the deadline. I spent the weekend with my smelly big sister in Leamington. My mum and I went for a meal with her and we made a quick visit to Coventry Cathedral which was lovely. Luckily I didn't stay with Helen on Monday night as I had intended. I really would have been in quite a lot of poo...

Tonight I'm celebrating the fact that all my coursework has been handed in and I don't have any more exams for forty eight days. As a result, I'm going to watch Lost In Translation which always calms me down (particularly when, like today, mean, bullying men make me feel about as big as a flea). It's just so good! I love Scarlett Johansson at the best of times, but in this, she is just wonderful, Bill Murray is a definite old man crush and some of the locations are just ace... It seems that in most of my favourite films, nothing really happens, and this is no exception. Right, I'm watching it!

Also, if you get the time, listen to Antony and the Johnsons. They have a really unique, lovely sound. 'Hope there's Someone' is gorgeous and my favourite song at the moment...

grinning bobcat...

When I was little, I thought Pocahontas was the greatest film ever. I used lipstick as war paint in a bid to look a little bit like a native American. I sang the songs all the time. I played the video at least twice a week, much to my sister's disgust. Best of all, I was convinced that the climactic song 'Savages' was in fact a roaring chorus about... sandwiches. I hang my head in shame.

In my opinion, the greatest Disney film is The Rescuers. Its value is greatly under appreciated, but its appeal is vast. Honestly, it has everything! Firstly, it is terrifying. The nice, little orphan Penny is kidnapped by some scary people and has to make the hazardous trek down a mine to find a diamond or she will be eaten by some alligators (Sort of. I haven't seen it for a while...). Luckily she is rescued by some adventurous mice and finds a home, living happily after. Then there's the second film. Not quite as good, but certainly not to be dismissed. The villain looks just like a Kidderminster cabbie. This once led to a terrifying journey home from Morrisons...


The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast are obviously classic. Snow White is annoying, The Hunchback of Notre Dame is full of brilliant songs and a satiric juxtaposition of religion and sex, and Mulan has to be the most aesthetically pleasing film in existence...


I hate to sound like a grandmother, but they really just don't make them like they used to, do they? Watch a Disney film now and there are no spontaneous songs or soundtracks written by such national treasures as Elton John and Phil Collins. The humour is more laboured and much less subtle. And just as a parting comment, if you are lacking in things to do this rainy bank holiday weekend, watch the Jungle Book. It is obscenely brilliant. I swear I never appreciated it when I was a kid. Unlike Pocahontas...