pour a little salt we were never here...

Hullo there.

Following the triumph of last year's lent for which I gave up eating meat (and carried on for a long, long time until some floor ham made me see sense about a month ago), I decided that like last year I would give up something that would really challenge me. It's more fun that way. So I thought long and hard (but not really, it's just a turn of phrase) and I thought it would be a good idea to steer clear of alcohol for forty days and forty long nights. More than anything, I think it's a good sociological experiment. Is it possible to be a first year student, to go out and actually enjoy it without drinking a drop? It's also perfect timing because I was drinking a bit too much and it was affecting my sleep patterns, results and general wellbeing.

So tonight I headed out to the potentially wonderful Top Banana, fuelled only by orange squash and a vague sense of determination. It was actually alright. Of course, there was the first weird hour when everybody was somewhat inebriated, bad songs were playing and I was dancing self consciously. But then I got into it a bit more. I suppose if everyone else is wasted, they don't really care what you look like, do they?

In all, I will save money, calories and dignity and still have an okay time. Hopefully. It's pretty tricky though.

I miss gin.

Music time!

Firstly, I am a massive fan of this lovely song by Fossil Collective. It's a bit Band of Horses-esque, and just generally quite pretty.



Next up, a Bon Iver cover. I'm not sure who by. I like it though. I think.



And finally, Blind Pilot. We saw them supporting the Decemberists the other night, which was definitely an added bonus. I fell a little bit in love with them and their lovely beards. Sigh...

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury...

I love it here. It's seven thirty and I'm yet to go to bed. I opted instead for staying up all night chatting to flatmates in the kitchen, after having watched Black Books and drunk wine. I have a seminar-type-thing at ten, so I'll probably flop into bed at some point after that. The perfect time, then to put on my beautiful new headphones, open up the Guardian website and Tumblr and Facebook and waste some time on the internet.

The film 'Howl' comes out tomorrow. I probably won't see it any time soon, but I'm sure I'll get around to it eventually. I ordered the slim little book a couple of years ago on a whim. I didn't know anything about it, but when it arrived, I remember feeling a little disappointed. It was really quite small (although it did have quite a nice cover). I opened it up and started reading. I finished, made myself a cup of tea, then read it again. I read it once more for good measure, then decided I probably liked it quite a lot. The thing is, it's a very overwhelming work which strives to convey anything and everything all at once in a rush of catharsis, so it's hard to take it all in. I've read it many, many times, and I still have no idea what it means. I know that it's wonderful, and I know that I love it, but I couldn't tell you what on earth it's about, nor why I like it so much. I think it's the frailty that comes through even though it is an assault. I think it's because I become too interested in people's lives and this man had a particularly interesting one. I think it's because it's one of the most brilliant things ever written.

Everything is a chore this week. I can't work and I can't cook and I can't sleep. I can't wait for the weekend when things will be good. I might also stop being a whingey cow, because who can be moody on a Friday night? Particularly when this Friday night holds the promise of dressing up like an old lady and drinking gin. Actually, this could be most Friday nights. Sigh...

you can stand under my umbrella ♥

Right, so it's Valentine's day. I bet you're all thinking that I'm about to go off on some bitter tirade about this stomach-churning, pernicious money maker, but that would be a little bit too obvious, wouldn't it? Besides, this year I'm not feeling all that resentful. I don't actually mind this day that much, though I'm sure this comes as a surprise. I do not think, however, that February 14th should be a day for smug couples, but a day for declaring our secret love (in an anonymous, harmless kind of way) through the medium of shitty cards like we did in first school.

So in celebration rather than derision of this weird concept, I give you my top ten love songs of all time.

1. The Kinks - Lola - A song about falling for someone who is wrong for you (in this case a transvestite with a preference for young boys who have "never kissed a woman before". Genius.).
2. Jeff Buckley - Lover, you should have come over - A song about painful youth and the uncertainty and intensity of adolescent love. Probably. It's well good, anyway...
3. Adele - Someone like you - Because I love it more than most things in the world. It's about habouring feelings for a man who no longer feels the same (we've all been there). Don't listen to the album version, because it is a pile of poo. Opt instead for the Jools Holland live version and you will be weeping into your overpriced roses in no time. 
4. Bon Iver - Skinny Love - Harrowing and heart-wrenching (just like every good love song should be).
5. Aqualung - Strange and beautiful - Creepy. In a sweet way...
6. Maccabees - Love you better - "I will love you better". A desperate plea from a spurned lover - excellent stuff.
7. Bloc Party - Flux - "We were hoping for some romance, all we found was more despair". It's probably the most upbeat song in my CD collection because of its 'fuck it' sort of attitude. It never fails to make me smile. And dance. But mostly smile.
8. Rhianna - Umbrella - Who needs intricate, poetic lyrics when it can all be summarised in the selfless act of letting someone stand under your umbrella (ella, ella, eh, eh...)
9. Coldplay - Shiver - Before he met Gwyneth and got all smug. I bet they are having a sickening Valentine's day.
10. Joy Division - Love will tear us apart - mmhmm.   

So happy Valentine's day, everybody! I will be spending my evening having a roast dinner with my mother and my sister, both of whom will be seething because they cannot be with their boyfriends tonight. Teehee... 

all about the fire in your life on the evening news...

There is blossom on some of the trees, therefore, it is Spring. As a result, I bought a flowery dress today. I will probably not be able to wear it for some months, so it will sit in my wardrobe [floor] and I will forget I ever bought it. How exciting though!

I am writing this on the floor of the lounge in the house my mother owns in Wolverley. I spent the day getting my hair cut and shopping in Birmingham - what a girl! Haircuts are always so blooming awkward. Maybe this is just me because I'm a bit of a socially inept being, but I never know how to act. First, there is the haggling over the amount of hair for the chop. I wanted lots and lots cut off because I'm spontaneous like that, but the silly man talked me out of it in his passive-aggressively persuasive, pretty way, so I only had quite a lot chopped off. It looks irritatingly good - I hate that he was right. Next comes the awkward hair washing 'can he see up my nose?', 'should I keep my eyes open?' 'do we really have to talk about the X-factor?' phase of the game. Then you're made to feel like a terrible person for buying shampoo from Tesco rather than paying twenty quid for a bottle of organic-nourishing-split-end-busting super hair redeemer. You are offered a cup of tea, but there never seems to be a convenient moment to lean forward and pick it up, so it sits and goes cold and separatey. Hairdressers always seem to think you want to discuss your personal life with them. And then they tell you about theirs! And then suddenly you're entangled in a bitter tale of heartbreak and despair, and all you can bring yourself to say is 'Erm, I'm sure she'll come round eventually'. It's a minefield. Honestly.

I have something exciting to tell you. I will be spending the next academic year in Rome. The very thought of this is enough to fill me with dread and fear and excitement and dread. I completely backtracked on my 'small town' plan, because - well why the hell not? Rome happened to be under subscribed, and I couldn't resist. It will very possibly destroy me, but there is a teeny tiny chance that I will come back in July skinny, tanned, fluent and sickeningly stylish. I can dream...

I plan to spend the next few days drinking tea and reading beautiful prose by Jon Mcgregor. The house will be empty and my tummy will be full. It's going to be immense. It's been a bit of a shitty week lacking in sleep and abundant in alcohol. I am feeling the effects.

Yesterday, I had a slightly spiritual musical experience. But not really. But sort of. I borrowed Cait's iPod and rediscovered Paul Simon's 'Graceland'. I realise I'm completely ridding myself of any dignity I had left by writing about this, but honesty is key. The thing is, it was always one of our 'car tapes' when we were little, and it turns out that I still know every word. 'Crazy Love' is a genuinely brilliant song. Honestly.