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...

the ghost of corporate future...

I write all the time. It's a disease. When I was in Europe, I had to buy myself a little notebook because I missed jotting things down and turning my silly thoughts into silly words. I have so many exercise books in my room (mostly robbed from the Languages staff room) filled with endless description and unsuccessful metaphor. This is why I will never be able to do anything else with my life.

I was looking at graduate jobs earlier. Just for a laugh. A lot of them, although not requiring a particular degree stated that 'money driven' candidates were required. Funny then that I would rather eat a leper than consider myself to fall into this category. I am always poor. I gave up my part time job when I started being given a pension around a year ago. Had I continued to sell my soul to a supermarket, I could have been quite well off. Had I not spent so much time being self sufficient this summer, I could have saved up quite a sum. Had I any sort of entrepreneurial skills, I'm sure I would never have to scrape every ten pence piece in my purse together just to buy an ice cream from the village shop.

The thing is, it's all bullshit, isn't it? To become 'money driven' is to sell your soul to consumerism. I think we all do this to a point, but surely it's best to earn just enough to scrape by in life, going on as many holidays as possible and working as little as we can get away with? If we spend all our time at the office, we spend all our time away from our friends and loved ones. If my short life has taught me anything, it's to spend as much time as possible with the people who matter most, and I don't care how lame that sounds.

Perhaps my bohemian attitudes reflect my age and there are more experienced people reading this right now marvelling at my naivety, but that's okay, because this is my idealist manifesto, and things never turn out quite like the business model. I guess my point is that we are all so rich in comparison with the rest of the world, and that should be enough. Those who strive for millions have very little sense of self. Money can't buy me love, etc.

Goodnight.

P.S. the picture is a letter from Virginia Woolf. Just because she was a writer. And I like her handwriting...

Shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't keep from, got me singing like 'na na na na' every day, like my ipod's stuck on replay...

I am a rubbish teenager. There are many reasons for this. For example, I think a cup of tea is the best thing in the world. I barely drink. I have read at least three Maeve Binchy novels. I don't think we need a fourth reason... My excuse now is that I have turned eighteen, and so I am technically an adult, therefore I can wear slippers all day, read the Guardian and complain about those younger than myself if I so wish (which I invariably do). I like to think, however that my ownership of GHDs, my addiction to the internet and my ability to sleep for fifteen hours running all show that in fact I am still young (though my hands are creepily wrinkly).

If I wasn't so hellbent on being a writer, I'd probably become a translator. Translating is the one form of homework I can stand. I enjoy putting my own spin on the text, and not sticking rigidly to the meaning, embellishing slightly. If you don't like languages, you probably don't understand, but I think it's ace!

Tomorrow is Mothering Sunday. I haven't as such bought anything for my Mum. I used to go to loads of effort for such occasions, but we're not exactly close anymore. I think we're going to Birmingham to see Helen, which will be nice. The three of us shopping does tend to end in tears, however. We are all so similar, and equally stubborn. It could go either way...

traduire?

I should be writing an essay on the changing influence of public opinion on the conduct of warfare, or at the very least trawling through a truly horrific amount of French translation, but it's a Monday night, and as such, I am watching Glee. I am also quietly celebrating the return of my wireless connection, so instead of freezing my metaphorical balls off in Helen's room, I am nice and cosy in the lounge, drinking endless cups of tea to keep me sane in the face of all the trouble I will get in tomorrow due to the general lack of work I have done this half term. This year in fact. I really need to step up my game, get back on track and any other sports metaphors you can think of.

Now I know I do tend to ramble on a bit in my writing, but I have finally found a way in which I can channel this misdirected enthusiasm. Anna Muggeridge came into sixth form earlier having bought two Mills and Boon books for her mother's birthday. I was leafing through in my usual, cynical manner, expecting the books to be poorly written, but they weren't. They were abysmally written. I even spied the phrase "He whispered stuff in her ear." Then, to my horror, several of my friends admitted to reading these books without any sense of irony. One of these friends, I won't name names, is eighteen in two months, and it hit me. For her birthday present, I am going to write my very own romance novel. My friends and I set out the rules. It has to be as cheesy as possible, but I'm not allowed to be mocking. It will genuinely be my best effort at a story that the birthday girl will actually enjoy. Who knows? I may have found my calling... I hear those substandard authors are loaded!

Five days into the veggie thing, I have had my first proper meat craving. I was lusting over a greasy, disgusting sausage roll this morning. I didn't even eat those when I was eating meat! Nevertheless, I am determined to see this through. I haven't cheated at all!

Chickpeas and Wayne Sleep...

I've always loved writing. When I was a little girl, I would spend hours creating elaborate beginnings to stories I would never finish (I'm no novelist) and create heroines who were, without exception, cooler versions of myself; everything I wanted to be. As I grew up a bit, the stories became love stories and as I turned older still and read more bitter, feminist literature, the twee fairytales became cynical tales of heartbreak, almost always without the happy ending I had previously craved. In between these stages came essay writing, an obsession with Les Miserables and a dabble in the twisted world of Fanfiction. I am aware that this confession earns me no cool points.

So this is where I find myself. Eighteen and, in the immortal words of A-ha, slowly learning that life is okay. This last year has been a tough one and I'm sure I have changed beyond recognition, but there is no point dwelling on the past and letting it mar the future. Something somebody said to me earlier made me realise that I have it all going for me. I've got in to some of the best universities in the world and rarely feel out of my depth in conversation. Sod the little stuff. I've realised that happiness isn't something we just stumble upon, it's a frame of mind. I'm not saying that from now on I will be miraculously happy, but it's time to stop being so miserable and move on with my life.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm listening to the Cabaret soundtrack. I went to see it a couple of months ago with my friend Robyn and her friend Lee in Malvern, not having seen it before. The songs are brilliant and though I think its main competition in the dark Nazi undertones, The Sound Of Music, may trump it in terms of classic status, Cabaret seemed to tick all of the right boxes and I enjoyed it immensely. Sally Bowles was played by the understudy who put on a very strong performance; consistently very easy to watch, with a brilliant speaking voice. The male lead was magnetic and charismatic (by this, of course I mean he was HOT). The second half as a whole was slightly patchy in terms of storyline and showstoppers, but I left feeling that I had had a very good night, enhanced by the fact that my ticket was a mere £8 due to the scheme to get young people into the theatre (I intend to take advantage of this again with The History Boys and La Traviata later this year).

Finally, giving up meat is turning out to be a doddle, though my house is chickpea central. I think this could be the beginning of a healthier me, mostly due to the fact that they simply do not make any decent vegetarian ready meals.