don't fear the reaper.

This is a murder-themed blog post. I thought I'd tell you upfront in case you think I'm an oddball and want to leave it at that. I didn't want you to get half way through and realise that there was a recurring theme running through it, and that the theme in question was just a little bit strange. It also contains 'Sherlock' spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you.

They have Midsomer Murders here in Italy. It's called 'L'ispettore Barnaby' and is dubbed rather than subtitled. This may seem irrelevant, but it actually makes a lot of difference to some programmes. For example, Grey's Anatomy dubbed into Italian is just as enjoyable, whereas MTV's 'Disaster Date' when dubbed has all the fun sucked out of it. Inspector Barnaby's adventures seem to gain something in the Italian language, and everything seems a little bit more dramatic. I would imagine those living in big Italian cities however, find it somewhat difficult to relate to the lives of those living in quaint British countryside.

Sherlock was incredible. The last series was definitely good television, but this was just exceptional. I started watching it at home with Tom, Cait and Cindy, and finished it sitting alone in my bedroom in Rome, but both times, I was equally hooked. Anybody who doesn't find both Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch supremely attractive is maybe a little bit deranged (or likes men who are slightly less angular of face). And now the internet is buzzing with theories of how the great man faked his own death. I have to say, I was a little bit angry that he wasn't dead. I feel the BBC cheated some tears out of me (who wouldn't well up a little at the sight of a very forlorn John Watson unashamedly grieving the death of his best friend) and felt silly for getting so worked up! My anger is not enough to prevent me from really really looking forward to the next series though. I'm sure I will be just as enthralled.

This interesting collection of pictures appeared on the Guardian website the other day. I scrolled through with morbid fascination. I hope you will do the same.

The thing is, I love detective programmes, Agatha Christie novels and that Roald Dahl story where the old lady ran a B&B and stuffed all the guests. I guess what I'm asking is your opinion on whether this is really weird, or if I might indeed turn out normal rather than some vengeful, leg of lamb-wielding housewife. Comment is welcome.

I'll leave you with a pointless gif of Benedict Cumberbatch taking his scarf off. You are welcome!

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.

.

Two and a bit weeks left of holiday. Not much has changed, if I'm honest.


I've spent most of the day watching old reruns of 'Inspector Morse' interspersed with stints in the sun. It wasn't a memorable day, but unlike yesterday, I did not fall asleep outside and wake up with an unceremoniously red nose. It's odd how I always think I'm a winter person until summer arrives, but then I realise that being warm is quite pleasant really. Although wearing lots of knitwear is frowned upon when it's above 10°C.


I have sort of run out of things to say. This is because I have become immensely dull and uninspired in my old age, so I'm going to embed some short films that will break your heart, and some songs which will only make it ache a little bit. 




The Search from Phase VI on Vimeo.



That last one is a killer...







So you see, the unthinkable has happened, and I have finally run out of words.I hope your Saturday night would blow mine out of the water.

it hurts to look at you.

I'm not all that good at having lots of time off. One of the good things about university is that I don't really have the option of spending all that much time alone. I'm not exactly a social creature by nature, so it's nice that I've had to work on my people skills a bit. The third week of my five week holiday has now begun, and though I've enjoyed it so far, I'm beginning to get a little bit bored, and more than a little bit grumpy. I have no money, no car and no desire to do anything but sit and watch rubbish t.v. all day long.

So that is what I have been doing. Big time.

Firstly, I've got into 'My So-called Life', which is melodramatic and depressing and everything a teenage drama should be. It stars Claire Danes and Jared Leto back when they were completely beautiful. Danes's drawling pearls of wisdom achieve just the right level of melodrama and even at the ripe old age of fourteen, she really was a rather good actress. It's honestly quite enjoyable. If you're in the right mood.




Next up is the almighty 'Friday Night Dinner' which is one of the best things that has been televised in really quite a long time. It has Mark Heap and Tamsin Greig in it, so I was always bound to be a fan, but I'm glad i wasn't disappointed.

I've also just got into series two of Glee, and am as yet undecided over whether it is so shit it's un-shit, or whether it's just shit. Your opinions are welcome, and I think I know on which side most of them will fall, but all I'm saying is that it's fun to find an hour every week to absorb yourself in a world where people express themselves through autotune and swap boyfriends every episode.

So yes, there has been lots of television. I'm not saying I haven't done anything else (just ask Baudelaire), but I am beginning to hear a Claire Danes-esque monologue in my head, so it's possibly time to get out. I went to Merry Hill earlier, but that wasn't exactly any better. Woe is me.

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.

nobody's gonna say it outright, just go, la la la...

I remember weird things. If someone I am interested in tells me their favourite song, I remember it. I could tell you what each of my friends got at A-level. I remember the face of somebody I have met once and barely even spoken to (and they never fail to forget me, resulting in an awkward, stilted conversation). I never forget middle names. I remember meaningless quotations from meaningless novels and the lyrics to a ridiculous amount of songs. However, I never retain any useful knowledge: I forget when I've arranged to meet up with my grammar buddy, I never remember birthdays or phone numbers or homework, I don't ever know the date. I wish I could use my superfreakingmemory in a way that would actually benefit me.

Today, there are many things I should be doing. Writing blogs is not one of them, but I'm back on the blogging bandwagon now and I fear I cannot be stopped. I was going to post a picture of my hopelessly untidy room, so that somebody would cajole me into doing something about it, but I am too ashamed. I'll let you use your imagination. The beginning of the week was a bit shit, but I'm getting into the swing of things today. I actually dried my hair, put on proper clothes and ate something that wasn't chocolate. Things are looking up!

I saw my mum yesterday, which is nice. If you like that sort of thing. She wasn't too much of a crazy, and even brought me my UPS parcel which was delivered to the wrong address. Good old Mum! Cait and I went to Stratford (where she happened to be), and in the space of about five minutes, my mother managed to mention the Labour Party, gender discrimination and new shoes. I fear that we may be the same person. This is probably why our relationship is somewhat strained at times.

I hope you have a lovely Thursday, and that you are more productive than I will be. I leave you with a snippet from my favourite album of the moment. Enjoy!

lord knows, it would be the first time...

So. It's 2011. It's a number that looks odd written down, and nobody quite knows how to pronounce it. Are we in twenty-eleven? Surely two-thousandandandandeleven can't be the way to go? I think we should just revert to using the last little bit of the number. It's not like we're going to get confused about which decade we are existing in, and besides, all the best years are referred to in this way ('66, '89, '91, for example). Let's just call it 'eleven' and be done with it.

Happy new year, anyway. I very much hope that it is a good year for you, that you get promoted or you get one of those baby things or you finally work up the courage to make that girl yours. Whatever it is that your heart desires, I hope that you get it, and I hope it changes your life for the better.

Of course, it's much more likely to just be another mundane year...

Last night was lovely. I had all of my old school friends over, and we just drank and chatted all night. I think we're all a lot more mellow than we used to be. Also, I think it says something about both my friends and my house that when I woke up this morning, it was tidier than it was before everyone arrived yesterday.

As it is the dawn of a new decade, I think it is probably time to lay down in writing the ways in which I intend to change (but never will). Firstly, I will get all my work done on Wednesdays so that weekends can remain free for socialising and whatnot. Secondly, I will eat breakfast every single day rather than choosing instead to stay in bed for ten extra minutes, which brings me on to my third resolution - I will get up when my alarm goes off and not lie in bed pressing 'snooze' for half an hour. I will not dread next year, but embrace it as an Italian adventure which will help mould me into a better, more rounded individual with more stories to tell. I will not eat sneaky bits of Christmas turkey when I think nobody is looking. I will achieve spiritual enlightenment. I will actually read books before seminars and do the prep. I will swap one hour of internet access with half an hour of Italian grammar every night. I will try my hardest to live in the moment, rather than over thinking everything. I will eat more fruit. I will arrive to nine o'clock lectures looking impeccably coiffed and having slept for at least seven hours. I will wear less make-up. I will lose a little bit of weight. I will watch at least one foreign film a week to make me both more cultured and a better linguist. I will not call my dog 'Crapbag' - it isn't fair to him. I will be nicer to my mother. I will be nicer to the Cretin. I will start buying newspapers rather than just reading them online. I will spend less money on clothes. I will spend less money in general. I will complain less when my feet are cold or I have a sore throat. I will cook exciting things, I will be less selfish and (most importantly) I will be kind to those in need of kindness.

That was a lot more things than I had planned. Now to slob around in my pyjamas all day doing none of these things. I feel like I need to end this with an up-beat song that will lift your spirits and send you hurtling positively into the new year, but I don't know many of those so it'll have to be The Smiths. Sorry about that...

in a town that's cold and grey...

When I am a bit gloomy and the world seems to be failing me a little, I like to revert back to the things that are important to me: family, friends and books, for example. Today was a good day because it combined all three of these things, and as a result, I am in a very good mood. I awoke on Sarah's floor, having stayed the night after a lovely night out in a somewhat icy Birmingham. I then went downstairs and had a good old chat with her mum over tea and toast, before heading to Hay-on-Wye to meet my auntie and uncle for lunch. Hay is one of those places that is so beautifully unreal that you could never really live there. It seems to exist solely for the occasional visit in order to fill yourself with tea and your bookcase with Penguin Classics. I also got to hear people speaking Welsh, which always reminds me of my youth. I was glad to find that it still sounds a bit made-up.

My new favourite band is a little group named Clarensau. They are fairly adorable and make pretty music. Their album 'Until Our Lungs Give' is lovely (and all on Spotify).

It's time to do some work, but the thought fills me with... not dread, exactly but certainly not joy. Sometimes I wonder whether I made the right choice taking the academic path, but then I think about going home to university in just over a week, and that thought makes me happy. I certainly couldn't live here for any extended period of time, and if my spell at Morrisons has taught me anything, it's that I really hate Morrisons. I would imagine that this sentiment would apply to most retail/catering/mundane jobs, so that choice doesn't really appeal. At the end of the day, I am just a disgustingly lazy human being. If I was a cow, I would be shot.

face after nameless face...

I'm not a very sentimental person. This may shock and appal you, but alas, it's true. But you'll forgive me, I'm sure for coming over all poetic just this once.

This site is nice. It's full of pretty words that don't mean anything and pretty pictures which don't really match the words all that well. It's a pointless way to pass some time if (like me) you have Italian essays to write and gifts to wrap.

And I like this site a lot. The basic concept is that people send in pages torn from books which they have whittled down to a few words that mean something (or not as the case very often is). Lovely.

So I haven't posted for a couple of days, and it's already one in the morning, so I doubt anyone will read this. This means I won't feel too bad about telling you what I've been up to over the past couple of days. On Tuesday night I went with Helen and Chris and the woman who calls herself my mother to see 'Matilda', performed by the RSC , with songs written by the beautiful Tim Minchin. I can wholeheartedly say - without reservation - that it was the best thing I have ever seen on stage. Possibly tied with Les Mis. It was just brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, that I have just bought tickets to go and see it again with my university friend Cait (who was dying to go).

The perfect evening was marred, however by the fact that due to the snow, we had to stay in Stratford for the night. There are many worse places to be stuck, I know, but I had to share a hotel room with she who must not be named, and this was not without consequences. I could spin an exaggerated but amusing tale about my night, but suffice to say that I ended up in the hotel lobby reading my book from five onwards. It was disconcertingly quiet, so when it hit six-thirty, I decided to go for a wonder in the deserted town. It was quiet and snowy and my feet got wet. Beautiful though...

Today I went to a very busy Birmingham with the lovely Sarah Dixon. It was great to catch up. I miss her insane amounts. I spent too much money. I got a cab back from the station with a driver who looked like Jarvis Cocker's fat cousin.

I believe I have run out of things to say. I would wish you a merry Christmas, but who am I kidding? I will be posting tomorrow. G'night!

pursuit of happiness...

So, I don't really understand what's going on in the Ashes. I don't really understand cricket. I think you may be disappointed if you thought I was going to comment on bowling technique and wickets and suchlike things. One good thing about this quite dull competition, however is that some cricketers are quite pretty.

Firstly (and most importantly) is young Mr Alastair Cook. He has a nice face, and as far as I can tell is pretty damn good. This is his face. Mmhmm, yes.




Then there's Stuart Broad. Injured, but still hot. In my mind, he is the Draco Malfoy of cricket. They look quite similar, no?


I don't think we need another example (mostly because that would involve looking up more cricketers and frankly, who can be arsed?).

I'm back home now, and missing campus life dreadfully. I also miss the oddballs of flat 33, amongst whom I never lose my temper or raise my voice. I miss my highly uncomfortable bed and stash of seasonal alcohol. I miss watching grainy Jonathan Creek on Youtube with my flatmates before staying up in the oppressively small corridors all night pretending to be appalled while the boys talk about poo.

Home sucks. Home really, really sucks. In the past hour, the words "Stop that fucking coughing" and "What the fuck have you bastards done with the paracetamol" have been screamed by my mum who is in a particularly pleasant mood. I'm not sleeping either because of this "fucking cough", so I'm in a bit of a grump.

No matter, have some pretty music:

Goodnight everyone, may you sleep well and dream sweet dreams. Of Cricketers...

well, the bells out in the church tower chime, burning clues into this heart of mine...

I'm a little bit emotional. Tonight (as you probably know by now) was prizegiving, and not only did I see my best friends in the entire world, but beloved teachers and my excellent school with which I have a bit of a love/hate relationship. My old French teacher made me cry, my old English teacher roped me into organising a Christmas reunion and my (very) old maths teacher helped me find my mother's coat when she was being inept.

We're all going to see Harry Potter tomorrow and I'm disproportionately excited. The books, while a little lacking in stylistic narrative are brilliant. The films are obviously less good, but still offer a better cinematic experience than most other films around at the moment. I'm sure many will disagree...

I am getting on oddly well with my usually tempestuous mother at the moment. This is probably because we haven't spent more than a couple days together since I started at university. The thing is, despite what I say, Mum and I were always going to work things out eventually. We are simultaneously the same and completely different. I'm quite a practical person: I can change light bulbs and fix the electrics and get dead mice out of traps. None of these things are particularly tricky, but my mum is a woman and is therefore incapable of completing these menial tasks. It's partly a generational thing, I think. We're also quite different in our attitudes to men, music and friendship. But I begrudgingly admit that we are SO similar: we're both pretty left wing, we did the same A-levels, neither of us are stupid and we both really like food. I think we both really needed a break. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and I certainly resent her a little less.

I've taken up drinking coffee which I used to really hate. Tea doesn't quite cut it when you need to stay up because you've left it a bit late to do that essay, so I've upped the caffeine stakes. I'm also very much aware of my looming year in coffee-mad Italy. I don't want to seem like a complete tourist. I'm sure I'll be gulping down espresso in no time...

In the past couple of years, my music taste has definitely become a bit more abstract. I like quite obscure bands and melancholy melodies, but I've tried my hardest not to become too pretentious or take my music too seriously. There's nothing worse than a pop snob. Often pop music is popular in the first place because it is genuinely good. An example of someone who has lived up to the hype in my opinion is Ellie Goulding. I really liked her album, and now this gorgeous cover has emerged which I can't get enough of:



And this is the thing that converted me in the first place:

can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all...

I am too tired to get up and make tea.



Very, very tired.



Unfortunately, I am unable to prioritise. Instead of cracking on with all the essay work I have to do for the morning, I am doing this.



Slowly.



I am wearing four jumpers and life is sweet. I have to go home again this weekend, which is a bit unfortunate. It is prizegiving, which is also a bit unfortunate. It'll be odd going back to Haybridge but on the upside, I do get to see all of my wonderfully brilliant friends once more. My guess is that I will spend much more time in various Stourbridge establishments than I will at home, and this is fine by me.

This is pretty...



As is this...



And now it really is time to go and make a cuppa before retreating to bed with my 'Ecrire pour convaincre' textbook and walter (I'm not sure if normal people use this term or whether it's a Morgan thing. A 'Walter' is a hot water bottle. Just thought I should clarify. I'm not sure where it originated from...).

Anna Mary: an outsider's view...

Hello everyone. It's reading week and it's really really cold and boredom has set in, so I agreed to let my lovely flatmate Tom write a post. I feel I should write a short disclaimer, but that would betray the trust inherent in this very act. So here it is, this one off guest blog. Enjoy!

Well we have been at Warwick for just over one month now, and although i live in the same flat as Anna i have only known her for 3 weeks. I Feel i must take full responsibility for the two weeks of awkward hellos and silences in the kitchen, this is because of my built in defence mechanism when getting to know new people which is to be over confident and loud which, understandably Anna did not take to. However after two weeks I felt comfortable enough to grow up and talk to the girls in our flat and not just the boys. So for all you regular readers of this rather fine blog, I'm going to give you a brief glimpse of what life is like in our flat and an outsiders opinion on what Anna is really like.

So, life in our flat, well its normally fairly harmonious, the kitchen is always messy and disgusting, bathrooms are fairly well kept and everyone seems to get on with each other. So I guess we really are lucky to live where we do...

Now here's what i have learnt about Anna from 3 weeks of getting to know her and reading her blog.

. She likes tea.
. Shes fairly feminist.
. Shes political.
. Shes driven.
. She like harry Potter
. She doesn't like home very much
. She writes very well

In essence she is everything i am not (apart from the tea and Harry Potter) however if you don't know Anna personally its easy to get the wrong idea of what she is actually like. From her blog you may think she is a bit emo slightly lesbian and not that great to be around. I too thought this for the first two weeks of being at Warwick, but in the last three weeks I've realised she is actually very pleasant to be around and very easy to talk to, and if every so often she has a grumpy day, who can blame her?

So in true "mindbop" style i will leave you with a song...

you are my sweetest downfall...

It's a little too late to be doing this, but I was in the mood, so doing it I am. I'm yet to decide whether that sentence makes sense.

I'm home. Home in Kidderminster, that is, not campus home. We had a bit of a bonfire last night, which could have been much more shit than it actually was. There was food and company and beer. I was satisfied.

Tonight, we went to a Diwali celebration at a friend's house in Kidderminster. Sparklers never seem to lose their appeal. Helen and I spent lots of time playing with funny filters on Ajay's fancy camera while the boys played some kind of duller than dull football game. Again, there was lots of nice food and I feel thoroughly stuffed.

I love Regina Spektor. I have for a long time. I went to see her a few years back at the height of my obsession. Since then, I have discovered lots and lots of bands and my music taste has changed quite radically, but she's the one I always find myself coming back to. She's just so cool with her Soviet charm and unique voice. I. Love. Her. Anyway, because she's so prolific, it's easy to discover something of hers that you've never heard before.

I must have listened to this at least twenty times in the past few days since hearing it in my coffee-filled state at some obscene hour of Friday morning when striving to finish my abysmal essay on Annie Ernaux's ambivalence to her past (yes, I know).

This one is pretty...

And this one's just plain odd...

Happy listening, and good night! ♥

I have just realised that everything in this post has been positive. It even contains a heart(!) I can only apologise, and promise to be more like myself next time!

she's got everything to gain 'cos she's a fat girl with a lisp...

I only ever really write a blog post when there's something important I need to be doing. Something other than writing a blog post. It's reading week next week. Expect lots of blog posts.

Today has been a good day. I feel like I have been fairly productive despite the fact that I have done nothing. Which is an achievement in itself. My stomach muscles have also just about recovered from the amount of laughing I did while watching 'I Love You Man' last night. The film wasn't even that funny. The cackles of my flatmates enhanced the experience 100%.

As I said, next week is reading week. This can only mean one thing - there is no longer a valid excuse to not go home. It's not even like I live far away or the train journey will be expensive. If home wasn't so unpleasant approximately 73% of the time, I'm sure I would be looking forward to it, but while other people are looking forward to returning to their warm houses full of wholesome meals and welcoming parents, I am not. Last winter, our house was not heated at all; the central heating had broken and Mum chose to wait until May to get it fixed. Right now, my house does not have a functioning shower, certainly will not have any food - other than soft biscuits and curdled milk - and contains my mother.

Now, don't get me wrong, if she was around all the time, I would complain about that, too. She is a very difficult person to live with, and it's nice that she isn't always under our feet, however, it would be nice if sometimes she was a little more maternal. I actually can't remember the last time she cooked a meal, or the last time we all sat at the dining table. It's funny how family dynamics can shift so dramatically.

This month is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I am not partaking, but I love the idea of a bunch of young writers pushing themselves to find ways of expressing themselves by putting words onto paper. I would have loved to have given it a go, but as I can barely complete the work I already have, I thought it best to leave it until next year when I will surely be bored and lonely in Italy. I also feel like I would be incredibly ashamed of whatever I managed to come up with. Novels just don't happen at the age of eighteen, do they? So while one day, I will almost certainly come up with a pile of literary shite full of all my deepest thoughts and fears, I'm far too happy to do it now. We all know that books written by the content are always atrocious. I'll wait until I'm miserable again.

Sigh...

you have to suffer to be well-read...

Because my books seem to breed when I leave the room, I have had to purchase a new bookcase. This has been my day today:

• Went into town with Helen and Mother to look at bookcases.
  
• Found a bookcase and a big thing in which to put my absurd amount of CDs
  
• Got the bus home because I could no longer fit in the car
• Arrived home after a fairly non-eventful bus trip
• With the help of Helen, removed both pieces of furniture from the courtesy car (necessary due to the fact that a drunk driver crashed through our wall, hitting trees, cars and houses. I told you about that, right?)
• Spent half an hour getting the bloody piece of crap upstairs, made more difficult by the fact that Helen and I have the combined upper body strength of a six year old girl, and the fact that we had to be clever due to the narrow staircase and the longest and heaviest bookcase ever made. I pulled a muscle in my tummy and laughed so much I thought my face might fall off.
  
• Moved around furniture in my bedroom to accommodate the new members of my family of furniture crap
• Spent three hours alphabetising the books by author
• Realised that in the process of all this alphabetising, my room seemed to vomit dusty crap all over the carpet
• Wrote a blog about it.
  

ten things to eat when you have no food.

I can't sleep because I'm really nervous about the car crash of results day, so I thought 'Hey, I'll write a blog!'. I would like it taken into account that it is very early in the morning, so please don't judge me too harshly.

As you know, my mother is in hospital, and I live in Wolverley which has one shop which opens somewhat erratically, so tonight, I found my fridge stocked only with rancid chilli con Quorne from a few nights ago. Nevertheless, I am a girl who likes a challenge, and I knew I could find something to stave off the hunger somewhere.

Here is a list of surprising things to keep you going when your mum is in hospital and you live in a place where Costcutter closes at eight and you are in your pyjamas so can't go further afield (besides, you don't own a car or have a license or anything useful like that. Also, you have no money, so even if you did have a car and a license and you weren't in your pyjamas, you could not afford to buy anything anyway. It's time to close these brackets.)

• nutella straight from the jar
• milk
• raisins
• nesquik powder
  
• flora (on crumpets if you are lucky enough to have them)
• slightly crinkly cherry tomatoes
• dried apricots to stop you getting scurvy
  
• an apple from the tree in the garden (though you are not sure if perhaps it is some kind of secret poison apple tree and nobody has thought to mention it to you. You are hoping for the best.)
• some gone off Quorn fajita strips which taste a bit funky
• a tin of tuna.

I ate all of these things while watching 'An Education' which is possibly now my favourite film. I LOVE Dominic Cooper and Rosamund Pike, but in quite different ways. Also, I now want to go to Oxford. This is unfortunate as I'm not even going to get into the universities I have applied for. I will accept this as my lot in life and become a squatter, caricaturist or busker (ukulele) as was intended when God made me out of a crappy bit of left over person.


Still haven't started War and Peace. I'll keep you posted...

the glory of summer...

Well hello there. I have returned from my excellent trip (see facebook if you're interested, but i won't bore you here). I am once more in the little village of Wolverley which I can't help but feel is bad for the soul. My mother has a better social life than I do, and I can't currently see any means of escape after what is bound to be a disappointing set of results on Thursday. The more I think about it, the more I want to cry, but crying is hardly productive so I won't waste the time.

While away, I read two really good books: 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith, and 'Everything is Illuminated' by Jonathan Safran Foer. The first is a light, funny book about two girls who want nothing more than to be classic Austen-esque heroines, while the second is much sadder and more poignant. It pretty much blew me away, especially when I realised how young the author was when he wrote it. This makes me feel particularly inadequate, mostly due to the fact that as I have mentioned, I am spending my time in Wolverley doing washing and making various kinds of bean soup. The novelty of being home wore off in about ten minutes. I want to be back in Munich.

The sky is about to burst, which should pass some time. I might watch 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' again. I think it's that sort of day.

Right, enough moping, I still have Edinburgh and Greenbelt (aka God camp) festivals to look forward to which should both be ace. Best of all, I haven't had to pay for either of them. Lucky swine.

detergent days...

The rain just started slamming down in noisy splats which makes the fact that I have been doing load upon load of washing today seem a little less pathetic. Today is the dreaded day of my mother's return, and as a result, everyone's a little bit stressed out. My sister and her bloke have resolved this stress by taking the dog for a walk (to the pub), while I am sitting with my laptop procrastinating. Youtube appears to be struggling somewhat today so I'm left with the Guardian website and (fully aware that I am becoming a broken record) the brilliant Grey's Anatomy. This blog is also a definite form of procrastination, but somehow it's not as bad as watching Countdown. Which I am certainly not doing.

It's working again now...

I leave for my grand European adventure a week today and I'm feeling distinctly unprepared. I have bought suncream and facewipes. Perhaps some more effort is required. This website will get me through. And books. Books will help...