All 6 entries tagged Me Me Me

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April 09, 2006

I have not blogged because I have…

  1. been in several different time zones, and despite all my efforts with sunglasses,coffee, alcohol, slippers, and other methods designed to deceive my body clock, I lack commitment to any one sleep pattern, and hence my body clock is still confused. I think it's currently flirting with the idea of daylight saving time in Western Australia, but I can't be sure.

  2. spent inordinate amounts of time doing 'home' things, such as making chicken stock and accompanying my mother to garden centres to be seduced by patio furniture and tea cosies with flowers and cats on.

  3. watched inordinate amounts of television and now feel like the dark-haired woman floating around and laughing gaily and having her 100% pure pleasure with Appletiser and Friends and I have developed a very special friendship that ought not to be neglected.

  4. seen lots of people, whom I only managed to see briefly at Christmas when I was a little drunk. This has now been remedied so that I see them more often and drink more. This is possibly not the best solution, but this can be dealt with later.

  5. Facebook. Even now, the 'create entry' page comforts me because the design reminds me of those hallowed blue profile screens.

  6. too much work. I am currently writing something for my pracfic portfolio about late night Radio 4 and mangoes. It has all the signs of desperation such as a 'quirky' title and lots of stuff about fruit and snow and other, you know, meaningful symbolic stuff, but in a really vague manner so that it's obviously deeply subtle and well thought out. Obviously. Am trying to comfort myself with fact that may not even be marked due to strike, and might get a predicted grade that would be better than the mark I'm going to get for this obviously deeply subtle and well thought out portfolio. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

  7. a cat who has discovered that switched-on laptops are flat, warm and cat-sized, and also an effective way of getting more attention. (She also managed to accidentally email somebody I haven't spoken to for years with the message 'awssssssssssssaaaaac' which I'm sure was gratefully received.)

  8. lots more excuses, that I am not going to include because I must now go and devote my time to those listed above. The cat is waiting for her seat.


January 31, 2006

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch, who watches over you?

Hmm. It appears it has taken me all of January to find a cure for the Januaryness of the month. I could have merely waited for it to come to the end of its annual life, which you would think would be the simple solution, but being me, I had to make it difficult.

However, after 30 days of searching, I am proud to report that I have managed to reclaim a day of my life from January. Without these hallowed 24 hours, I would not be the person I am now. Well, at least I probably wouldn't be singing the songs I am now. This may be a good thing or a bad thing. I haven't quite figured out the full moral and ethical implications of January, but it gives me something to work towards in 2007, at any rate.

So yes. I have, as you may have gathered, beaten January by the power of music. And not any old music. Well, that's sort of a lie. Semi -old music (if old is defined as circa 1970, but don't tell my mother I said that). January was banished from my room and my life by the songs of my long-lost youth. The Smashing Pumpkins, No Doubt, Republica, Garbage, Dodgy, All Saints, Smashmouth and the Fun Lovin' Criminals all played their part, and the final kick was administered by none other than the fantastic and neglected They Might Be Giants. I did, truly, build a birdhouse in my soul, and somehow in the middle of this January realised it wasn't getting any attention, sulked for a bit, and then waddled off for good.

As a footnote, I also made soup, flapjack, steamed chocolate pudding and a casserole, which may or may not be connected, but they were all tasty, so I don't really care either way.


December 06, 2005

The Last Bastion of Youth

A terrible thing happened today.

No, not that. That was amazing. Even though it wasn't one of our novelty spectaculars, the sheer weight of chocolate in that cake was a wonder to behold.

It's more what that cake represents. Officially, after that mountain of chocolate had a knife sunk into it, I became the Last Twenty Year Old in the house. Everyone else has now risen to that higher plane of being that is twenty-one, and left me behind with the babysitter. They can drink in America, and teach somebody to drive. (The fact that we don't live in America and I have the only valid driving licence in the house is beside the point. It's the principle of the thing.)

And, in principle, I am now the proper baby of the house. When we pose for photographs in our graduation gowns, I will still have the smooth baby face of a twenty-year-old, whilst all about me the haggard twenty-one-ers show the lines and wrinkles of their maturity. And when I go to thirtieth birthday parties, I'll be the most annoying guest, as my mere presence will remind everyone of their woefully lost youth.

Though please don't stop inviting me to the parties. Anything but that.

P.S. Happy Birthday Steve!


October 30, 2005

'So pass me by, I'll be fine, just give me tiiiiime…'

Yes. That's right. it's a Damien Rice sort of evening. You know the sort. I'm ill enough that I can't be bothered to stir much further than the kettle and feel like the world is against me and I'm some sort of useless unloveable lump, but not yet ill enough to be confined to my room in a duvet, making yucky noises that convey the horrible depths of my illness. One of my other housemates is similarly afflicted, another spent the day asleep, and the third has packed her bags and scarpered to the country, probably because she saw this coming.

Plague has struck this house, though not in a Romeo and Juliet fashion, not least because if some amazing mystery man tried to climb up to my window he'd probably fall straight through the plastic living room roof. So sorry, Mr Milk Tray, no romantic surprises for this one. Anyhow, I'm probably more of a Clarissa Explains It All than a Juliet (which, by the way, while we're on that, a ladder leading to your preteen daughter's bedroom window is extremely bad parenting).

So I'm feeling sorry for myself, and am still in a state where, if I could be a teeny bit more bothered, I could go and find someone, and because I was trying to be acceptable and interesting company, take my mind off me. However, somehow the effort this entails seems like just a little too much, and so I'm going to sit here on my bed, and burn incense, and listen to the fireworks and feel like everyone is having more fun than me. I may even drink alone. Yes indeed. And of course write the requisite angsty self-pitying blog entry, and listen to Damien Rice, who is, according to my mother, 'this generation's Leonard Cohen.'

I suppose it's somewhat comforting to think that people have been doing this for years, and even more comforting to think that however bad it gets, at least I don't have to listen to Leonard.


June 13, 2005

Fourteen Hours…

… is the amazing period of time for which I was hung-over yesterday.

Let me just say, I'm not really into hangovers. On balance, my body prefers the muzzy stumble and fall into sleep of the slightly inebriated, waking only with a sudden desire for a shower and somebody to bring it a large cup of tea. It's not so much a hangover as a hanger-on. You notice the presence of some unusual forms of behaviour, but it does not really impact on your daily life.

So imagine my surprise to wake up at 6am, feeling really really rough. At times like that, there is one instinctive sequence of thoughts common to every human being, triggered as you stare into the toilet bowl, and it goes a little something like this.

Oh shit. (Yes.)

But how did this happen? I didn't drink that much last night. (Liar. Think back, my son or daughter, think back to that halcyon period between that civilised glass of wine and the full-on let's finish the dregs of everything situation. Remember?

Oh yes... bollocks. (And don't forget the absinthe.)

And I've just remembered what I said/what happened... (Hehehe, that was funny. You should have seen yourself.)

I am never drinking again in my life. (Liar, again.)

No, really, this time I mean it. (Well, I wouldn't worry, after what you said/did last night, you might not have the opportunity to do that again anyway.)

Oh shit. (Yes.)

And so on and so forth. It's a beautiful insight into the soul of Hungover Man or Woman.

(Of course, if you're foreign, imagine the above translated into your language of choice. I doubt many Greek people collapse over their toilet in the morning conversing with themselves in English. Because that would just be weird. And too clear thinking and clever. And would also signify they weren't quite hungover enough to qualify as part of my hugely intellectual study. So they wouldn't count anyway.)

For the record, that was the worst hangover I have suffered in my short and sheltered existence. I'm sure I used to spend nights like that quite happily at age sixteen, and wake up in the morning with birds singing and sun shining, and me hunched up in my duvet going 'ngggh' (but that used to happen as a matter of course every morning and was really nothing to do with sobriety or otherwise).

I warn you, I am growing old and decrepit and willl soon be spending every night tucked up in front of the six o'clock news with my mug of Horlicks with cats handpainted on it (which I did myself in my weekly cat-mug painting class, right between my 'Cross-stitch IS Fun!' and 'knit-your-own-slippers' sessions.) I may also start collecting numbered magazines about historic houses and china dolls, and would get very excited if they featured it on Have I Got News For You's guest publication slot, only I wouldn't be watching it because it's past my bedtime.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to wind some wool and listen to Terry Wogan. See you at the slipper-knitting circle tomorrow afternoon.


May 05, 2005

This must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

I overslept, have eaten half a packet of biscuits, and I'm not even dressed yet.

Gah.


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