Down and Out in South Leam

I love the fact that on any post-pub walk back to my house, every possible take-out delight is available en-route. Fish and chips, curry, chinese, and pizza (twice). What more could anyone need? It's also helpful as a Virtuous-ometer – I know my willpower's feeling good about itself if I manage to make it all the way home without cracking, especially if I make it past the '10% DISCOUNT ON ALL FOODS' sign in the Royal. I always succumb to the Royal mainly because most of the menu is spelt right, and this pleases me more than I should probably admit.

And the guy behind the counter is friendly, unlike a certain lady in another place not a million miles away, which we shall merely allude to as Sonacsut. She always gives me this glance of 'I'm far too cool and attractive and my hair is just too damn flicky to take your order' and then glares balefully from behind the desk until my azzip is ready. If it wasn't buy-one-get-one-free from the shop, I swear I'd have it delivered just so I didn't have to face her. Maybe that's why they do that offer. It's bad enough just walking past the shop window, especially times like tonight when my hair's a bit crazy and I was sure I still had wax on my face (which I discovered later that I still did).

Yes, wax on my face. I somehow managed to splatter a candle completely over myself in the grand tradition of things, which meant I spent half an hour on the floor with a hot iron and old newspapers, trying to get the stuff out of my clothes, and another half hour picking wax out of my hair/teeth/cleavage, at which point I decided this was not the way I wanted to spend my evening. So I ended up in the Jug instead, where I got disturbed for the first time by the fact that they have the same chairs and clock as my mother has in the kitchen, and had to keep running to the toilet to check that I didn't look like I'd got some weird waxy form of leprosy.

In other news: I won back my parking spot on the street, Costcutters appear to have stopped stocking plain noodles, and my Shakespeare essay appears to have become all about hats, which will be interesting, I'm sure.

: 18 Jan 2006 00:13 |  Tags: House Random Things Whoops |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

On apologising to a lava lamp

The lava in my lamp is in a mood with me. It doesn't cheerily rise and fall any more – it merely sulks in a big pink hump in the bottom, and globbers from time to time, in the way only a grumpy lava lamp can. This might have been because I forgot to tell it to go to bed last night during my essay writing marathon. It sat up with me until 3.30am, and I don't think it's used to keeping such late hours. I am, as always, appropriately racked with guilt, and am trying to make amends, but it is proving difficult. How can I restore joy to a lava lamp? They work in mysterious ways. Hopefully, after a good sleep it will recover, though I have this feeling it may take a while.

Huh. I never have this problem with the fairy lights.

(It also worries me that I almost thought calling this entry What a Pa-lava was a good idea. I blame Jane.)

: 15 Jan 2006 20:43 |  Comments (6) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Sleeping is giving in, no matter what the time is.

Wise words from The Arcade Fire – unwitting prophets of the Essay Doom that hath befallen me.

I now have four thousand and one words, which means nine hundred and ninety nine words to go. (It's nice to know I still have elementary maths skills, if nothing else.) I will not give in, even though my bed looks tempting and cosy and is all snuggled up against the radiator waiting for me. It's wearing its special purple blanket and everything, and is just flaunting its cosiness a little too much, if you ask me. There's just no need to ever be quite so brazen with cushions. Not that I'll tell it that. After all, it wants the attention.

No, I will turn from it until I have written those nine hundred and ninety nine words. Nine hundred and ninety nine words that will be fantastic, and marvellous, and profound. Or alternatively, they'll just make sense in the cold light of Sunday, which would be nice.

If anyone wants to write nine hundred and ninety nine words on Jane Austen, Charlotte Smith, eighteenth century feminism and inheritance as a moral reward in return for homebaked goods, a large gin and tonic or my undying love and devotion you know how to find me. Just follow the scent of strong black coffee through the streets of Leamington until you pitch up on my doorstep. You can't miss it.

: 14 Jan 2006 23:16 |  Tags: Course Related Gubbins Dear Jane House |  Comments (6) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Back in the Pink of Things

If I was still at home about now I would have been enlisted in the grand debacle of the Taking Down Of The Decorations, with all the traditional little ceremonies of Not That Box, You're Packing Them All Wrong, Who Ate The Last Tree Chocolate? and Somebody Take The Lametta Away From The Cat, Now, Please, Before She Chews It Up And Dies.

However, I am not, due to the university's bizarre notion of what actually constitutes a 'week,' so this ritual will have to take place in my absence. The cat must take her chances with the lametta alone, and I must return to speedwriting essays, staying up far too late for no good reason, and also, more importantly, bring an end to Tales Of Festivity. Alack.

So I thought that as a lovely way to sum up my Festivities, and also provide both my conscience and my reading not-that-public with the illusion that I really blogged more than I did this holiday, I would do an edited highlights list. Sort of like Davina does for the crap Big Brother contestant of the week, but there's less nudity, less swearing and less sex in this one. The U version, if you like, though some bits of this may be disturbing for children under eight or those of a highly sensitive nature so we better make it a PG, just to be sure.

Further Tales of Festivity

1. Drove the M6 and didn't die.
2. Converted everybody I'd ever met and everybody my friends had ever met to the joy and wonder of putting cream cheese in a mince pie.
3. Made 1243057272435782059 of said mince pies, and didn't poison anybody.
4. Didn't, in the week I was on my own, either (a) perish from loneliness, or (b) develop an imaginary stalker who was almost definitely watching me from a secret peephole in the inexplicable hole in my ceiling. (I'm not imagining the hole. The hole is most definitely there, and it is, most definitely, inexplicable.)
5. Got given purple wellies. And fingerless gloves. And an Austenesque hat. Now I can wander over campus in the most extreme climes looking like 'a high-class tramp,' as one of my illustrious acquaintances has it.
6. Didn't let the guilt of having done no constructive work get in the way of Christmas.
7. Danced with my grandmother. It was fantastic.
8. Homemade sushi!
   
9. Drove the M6 again and didn't die.
10. Avoided Christmas television entirely. Apart from Doctor Who, which doesn't count because it would obviously have been great any day of the year and was obviously completely arbitrarily assigned to Christmas day, obviously. I may also have seen the end of Mary Poppins with all the kites and singing and all that jazz, and about ten minutes of Liz Taylor being Cleopatra in lots of gold chinky chains but that was only because I was waiting for Neighbours to start.
11. Haven't bought a single unnecessary bargain sale item. Yet.
12. Got paid, which made the huge bellowing monster that is my overdraft into a slightly smaller bellowing monster who is almost kind of cute.
13. Walked on the beach New Year's Day, because it was such a beautiful blue-sky day, it was that or be hungover, and it's been too long since the two of us last did that.
14. Watched an entire costume drama serial (Bleak House) without knowing what was going to happen, and my goodness, it was tense.
15. Did a snow dance. It didn't work. I maintain it would have worked if it had been done on the beach. Or maybe we did a rain dance by accident instead, which would explain a lot.

So there you have the highlights of the Tales, each of which is probably a tale in its own right. And I've also managed to think up a fairly plausible reason for there being fifteen, in that I was at home for fifteen days in total. You see, there was a plan. And if I had more time and fewer essays, I'd probably have expanded on a few of them. But rest assured, they would have been fairly dull in their complete niceness.

Though not as dull as my half written essay. Hmmm. The somewhat sickly smell of procrastination is in the air once again.

: 06 Jan 2006 11:49 |  Tags: Tales Of Festivity Television Whoops |  Comments (5) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Things That Get My Goat: Fitt the First

It's nine o'clock tonight, the roads are getting a bit icy, visibility's a little poor and my tyre treads and my demisters on my dear little Clio are not exactly what you'd call state of the art. And I'm on a university campus 20mph road, with the odd pedestrian/bicycle that will suddenly loom out at you, and flashing lights everywhere telling you to go slow.

So what speed am I doing? Just ticking over 20 nicely thanks, Mr Arrogant Tosser Backing Up My Arse Honking His Horn Every Thirty Seconds.

Listen, if you want to play it risky, then just overtake me already. I'm not going to break the law because I'm not confident that if somebody did walk out in front of me in these conditions, I could stop in time, and just because you want to act like a bloody boy racer lording it round campus in your little souped up mini, there's no reason why I should have to endanger people too. You want to play it oh so fucking cool, you swing out round me and take your chances, and if you're not man (and please please don't fail to note the poisonous sarcasm in my voice here) enough to do it, then just stop honking your little horn and get over it.

: 20 Dec 2005 00:48 |  Tags: Coco Getting My Goat |  Comments (11) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Electric Heater Haiku

Follow-up to Ode to a Sickly Boiler from Fluff And Nonsense

And in the same vein...

darling little thing
so small and squat and yet so
electrifying

NB: This goes some way to explaining why I don't and shouldn't 'do' poetry. Apart from as use as some sort of torture device to force people into giving me money and chocolate and things.

Oh, and thank you to Steve and his mother for providing me with this thing of beauty. Don't worry, once I'm warmed up there will be no more need for poetry, I promise.

: 18 Dec 2005 14:39 |  Tags: Crap Poetry House Tales Of Festivity |  Comments (6) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Ode to a Sickly Boiler

I don't write poetry. Ever. But if I did, it would probably look a little something like this (kind of the same idea as those Carling adverts, but with fewer blokey blokes and very cold fingers).

Oh boiler dear, oh boiler mine,
You know we haven't got the time
To sit and talk your problems through
Or have a cosy meal for two.

You see, my love, the truth is plain.
I can read your manual again and again.
But that will not solve our crisis here –
You have ceased to warm me with your cheer.

I see my breath before me, frozen in time,
My fingers are chilled to the marrow.
And I weep sad tears as the church bells chime,
And hop up and down like a sparrow.

Oh why to me must you be so cold?
Why must you refuse to roar?
Is it that you're getting old?
Do I not turn you on any more?

Let us talk later, boiler, love,
In a sunnier, temperate hour,
But if you refuse to start up now,
I will appeal to some other power.

So, in the name of all that is holy, sacred and true,
Warm this bloody house up, before I smash you.

And you wonder why writers always ended up in garrets. Only hark at how the creative genius is aroused in adversity. Oh the torment of the bitter chill pervading the house, and the pain inflicted by the unflattering layers of knitwear!

Or something.

Sodding boiler.

: 18 Dec 2005 13:58 |  Tags: Crap Poetry House Tales Of Festivity |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

The Austen Letters

My dear Miss Austen,

Please allow me to reiterate how charmed I was to make your delightful acquaintance these seven years past, when we two were introduced by my illustrious mother. Furthermore, allow me to take the liberty of supposing our relationship thus far to have been an enriching and enchanting one. Moreover, knowing you so has instilled great Wit and Wisdom in my life, and for that, I shall always be indebted to you.

However, my dear Jane (and might I not call you that, after all we two have shared?), recently our friendship has significantly altered, and I fear, alas, not for the better. You have become, oh dare I say this, an intrusive presence in my life. It seems as though you must always be upon my mind, and your ideas must fret me, and make my repose uneasy. I am compelled to question your Intent and your Emotions at every turn, and what is more, must even use Freud upon you, for which, dear Jane, you must forgive me.

Please believe, dear heart, that this is due to circumstances beyond my control. I have five thousand words weighing heavy upon me, and must needs find the Material with which to furnish them. I mean not that our beautiful relationship shoud be so marred by analysis and I can only pray that one day you might come to accept and forgive the actions of an increasingly desperate woman. Remember always that I love and respect you, and will do anything within my power to defend you from militant feminists and Freudian analysists, but I am only a weak and feeble undergraduate, and my much is little. Please be assured of my love for you, if nothing else, and let that stand as a Testament in the face of all that may come to pass before the Deadline is upon me.

Will you accord me the honour of a reply? You need not send me Token or Felicitations. All I ask is that you take up pen to communicate that you understand my actions, and can forgive me in time, and that after I have graduated, our relationship can resume the tranquillity and grace of those early years.

Always your loyal and devoted friend,
I remain your

Elizabeth

: 17 Dec 2005 17:16 |  Tags: Course Related Gubbins Dear Jane |  Comments (5) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Oh, the sweet smell of antifreeze in the morning!

Or How the Car Was Won and The Hubcap Was Lost

I have a new baby. By many happy coincidences, involving Australia, the AA and a backpacker brother, I have inherited a new companion. Her name is Coco the Clio, and she's small and white and positively purrs in fourth gear. And even though, alas, she lacks power steering, she does have a very cute bum.

Anyway, Coco and I are now firm friends. After three hours together on a motorway for the first time, we decided we were meant to be, and now are seldom apart. She accompanies me to campus, and the supermarket, and sulks reproachfully when I walk into town and leave her behind. It seems as if there was never a time when we two were not together. She is also beloved of my housemates, and we all co-exist in a peaceful two-door'd concord.

So imagine my feelings of maternal angst to return to her after a night on Radford Road and find her defiled. Yes, my darling was bereft of one of her precious hubcaps. There was nothing to do on the morrow but shake my chilly fist, scrape away her frosty tears and set off to Halfords with all possible haste (but keeping to 30mph, of course).

To cheer our weary spirits, I put on the radio, and serenaded her with Best Of You. Things were beginning to look brighter, and the mist was clearing from her windscreen, until we hit the industrial estate, and possibly the most confusing network of mini roundabouts I have ever seen.

For the record, I loathe mini roundabouts. They're so small that many people either don't appear to realise they're there, or think that lane priorities don't actually apply any more, because, hell, you're not on them for more than thirty seconds. If you'd like a detailed guide to How To Avoid All The Sodding Mini Roundabouts In Leamington Spa please send me an SAE and a big fat cheque. (Well, I do need petrol money to continue to fund this valuable public service). Other titles in the series include Routes With Only Left Turns, and Ways to Get Around Having To Trail A Bloody Pink Bus* All The Way To The A-Road.

Anyway, the other, more pertinent, reason I hate mini roundabouts is they are devoid of any logical signposting, particularly on the industrial estate where this adventure takes place. I found Halfords fairly quickly. Well, that is to say I could see its big pointless square tower designed to act as a beacon for all those who wish to improve their driving experience. So I took a turning off the mini roundabout in that general direction, only to find myself on another one of the things that didn't seem to go anywhere useful at all. I went round that one and picked a turning at random, only to find myself on my third mini roundabout of the day, with the Halfords sign taunting me from the middle distance, looming out of the morning mist. To make matters worse, the radio had stopped playing the Foos and had started blasting out Madonna bastardising Abba, and I had neither a free hand or free eye to remedy the situation. Hell is Madonna** on a mini roundabout system.

And of course, by then, I'd lost all sense of direction, and that's something that doesn't usually happen to me. The only other thing that will do that to me is being in Boots on a Saturday, when all I want is some cotton buds, and end up having to wander the aisles in no logical order through hair colours and tampax and plasters and face cream and hair colours again to just find them, and then repeat the whole process to get to the cash desk.

To cut a long story short, somehow I found myself outside Halfords, gagged Madonna, got some new hubcaps, and went once more into the breach, and when the mist had cleared, found myself driving along Tachbrook Road as if the whole adventure had never happened.

I still have the hubcaps though. However, seeing as I managed to gather a fairly big audience of South Leamites just by washing my car, I think the sight of me changing a hubcap might just excite them too much, and so I will leave the next stage of the hubcap adventure to be conducted in the driveway at home.

———————————

*But woo public transport… etc. It is a Good Thing, and I still value the pink monstrosities in term-time. My car is for safe late night transport, visits home, and bulk buying groceries.

**Late Madonna. Some of her early stuff is actually quite fun.

: 13 Dec 2005 19:47 |  Tags: Coco House Tales Of Festivity |  Comments (5) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

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!

: 06 Dec 2005 20:29 |  Tags: Cake House Me Me Me |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem