you should sit with me and we'll start again.

Once upon a time, I updated this blog every three days or so. Back then, I was in sixth form, living in Kidderminster full-time, and yet seemed to have an abundance of things to write about. Now, I am older and a bit more emotionally stable, this obviously results in less compulsive reading for me, let alone you lot. Nonetheless, I miss it, and I miss people arguing with every little thing I write, so I think the time has come to start up properly again.

At the moment I'm really enjoying being in Italy, even though it's rainy and full of men who tell you to smile as you're walking down the street minding your own business. This happens increasingly often, and I feel like apologising to them because my head is not always full of fluffy thoughts of puppies and lollipops. Sometimes I have thoughts. And sometimes I like to think about these thoughts, resulting in the smile momentarily disappearing from my face. I can't do two things at once.

Currently still off the Facebook bandwagon, I felt like I needed more of a social networking hit, so I've rejoined Twitter. For those of you interested, as of yesterday, I am now Mindbopping rather than just Mindbop. They wouldn't let me reprise my account after some scallywag hacked into it (there is a pattern emerging here) so I thought I'd start again. Simple. 

The thing is, I love the internet - probably far too much - but it simply doesn't love me. Too many unpleasant things have happened to me over the internet, and my interest is waning. The few sites now that are keeping me sweet are Skype (which has made this year bearable), Wordreference and Texts from Last Night (just because). Oh and The Guardian... and Tumblr... and now Twitter... forget it, I frigging love the internet, as cruel a mistress as it may be!

I have two months left here. I'd really rather not leave, but there are definitely things worth going home for, and I'm trying to arrange my summer so that I won't be too Romesick by the middle of August.

Here is some Bright Eyes, because if don't post anything by him for too long, the universe implodes.

And here is some Frightened Rabbit, to bring you back up.

still on my feet.

This cover of Joni Mitchell's A case of you is astonishingly lovely and according to iTunes, I've listened to it fifty eight times. Sounds about right. Up until now, though, I'd never seen the video, featuring Rebecca Hall whom I have loved ever since the first time I saw Starter for Ten. She almost ruined it with Vicky Christina Barcelona which is bad. Really really bad. But this is great, so she's back in my good books. And James Blake never left them.



Due to unforeseen circumstances, I have deleted my Facebook account. I think I'll stick with it for the time being because already today, I have read an awful lot, and this has to be better for the little grey cells. No doubt I will return soon enough, but for now I feel fairly liberated.

Today, I was walking to the supermarket (I use the term lightly. Think Netto mixed with an Esso Garage and you'll get the right idea) down the street from me. I was not immodestly dressed, I wore a long sleeved t-shirt, a knee length skirt and a leather jacket. A middle aged woman stared at my bare legs in disbelief, and without even trying to disguise her abhorrence, tutted at me and mumbled "disgraceful". I would have been surprised were it not for the fact that I seem to be living in a country where they cannot tell hot from cold. Today was beautifully sunny and hit 21°C at midday which is when I ventured out. This is the equivalent of British summertime, and dammit I'll get my legs out if I bloody want to. 

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!

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...

I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else.

It appears that I am approaching rock bottom. I am sat alone on a Friday night drinking wine and watching French films about murder and adultery. Of course, to me this is pretty much the perfect evening, but soon my mum will come home from wherever she's been this time, and she will make me feel pathetic and lonely. Both she and Helen have admitted that they find being alone at night in my big, horrible house a bit creepy, but I don't mind it one bit. I'm the sort of person who needs time to myself which I haven't really got much lately while Mum has been off sick and Helen has been home.

This weekend will either be ace or a bit of a bore; I guess you could say that of anything really, so I'm sorry for talking bollocks. Last night we all stayed at Christina's for one last time and tomorrow evening I'm going to Bewdley with Hagley people which seems a bit odd, but it's close to home so I'm not going to complain. On Sunday, I'm going with Sarah to Ikea for the all important university shop. It's difficult to get excited about cutlery and pen-holders, but I do like the general Swedishness...

I really do need a phone now, but I hate spending money on things that aren't shoes or books, so I'm generally quite sulky about the prospect. Things are complicated somewhat by the fact that this time next year, I will be in Italy, making contracts and stuff tricky. I've just realised that I am writing about frightfully dull things tonight, so I can only apologise (though the phrase frightfully dull does make me feel like a prim Victorian, which is fun in moderation).

Goodnight!

P.S. watch 'Free Agents' on 4od. It's good and she's stylish. End of.