You're the bee's knees

I invented a cocktail!

2010-01-05T23:47:29Z

I bought my dad's 50s cocktail mixer for a song (Angie - Rolling Stones, if you must know), so I decided to learn how to mix. But too many drinks contain gin or Cointreau, and I hate both. So instead of a Sidecar, I'm making a Streetcar.

1 part cognac
1 part apple liqueur
1 part lemon juice

Shake, serve in a sugared glass whilst screaming "STELLAAAAA!"

Hey remember that time when my favourite colours were pink and green?

2010-01-02T15:12:24Z

So, I'm back in my old neck of the woods, good old east Oslo. After a brief sojourn in Berlin, that is. That means being woken up at o'dark thirty by my dad, asking if I want to go skiing with him (no) and if I'd like my eggs fried or scrambled (fried). It also means I get to have conversations like these at the local ice rink:

"Hey, remember that time we stuffed sand in our pants and it fuckin' hurt?"
"Hey, remember that time we had to sit in the naughty corner for planning to bring toy cars outside?"
"Hey, remember that time you beat the shit out of me with a hammer in front of 20 kids and a teacher and no one did anything?"
"Hey, remember that time we adopted a tadpole and fed it chocolate and it died?"
"Hey, remember that time you threw me naked into the boys' shower after PE?"

Yeah. My 'hood is a bit shit, but also very normal.

Upside:
1: I don't have to see those kids again, ever. Except at reunions when my job is going to be so much cooler than theirs, and I'll look awesome and they'll be too fat or too skinny and I'll be reasonably happy and they'll all be miserable. I'm not bitter! I'd just like to see them suffer.
2: Breakfast, though served early, is free and made by someone NOT ME. As are all other meals.
3: Snow
4: Mum and dad. I'm secretly a daddy's girl. Not so secret, perhaps.

Downside:
1: - 15 degrees celsius
2: My dad still thinks he gets to yell at me for eating chocolate. IT'S CHRISTMAS, I'M NEARLY TWENTY AND I LIVE IN LONDON NOW. GET ON THE CLUE BUS.
3: Was Norway this sodding expensive before I left? Surely not.
4: Everyone in the local shop knows me.

Have to get back to my busy schedule of drinking wine and watching telly with the mumster now.

It was a pretty good year

2010-01-01T14:41:38Z

In January, I wished I was back in NY and finished my UCAS application.
In February, I won a poetry competition.
In March, I turned 19, broke my laptop, got a mac.
In April, I had a million tests and hung out in parks. And I met Michaëlle Jean, Governor General of Canada!
In May, I got drunk in parks, in bed, outside school, and then had my exams. And attended a lecture in my underwear. Good month.
In June, I graduated and quit my first job.
In July, I saw HBP, went to Roskilde music festival for the first time and visited Germany, Luxembourg, France and Belgium with my parents. Good month.
In August, I went to Shanghai (and Hanzhou and Xian) and met people from all over the world. And I won another poetry competition.
In September, I voted for the first time, moved to London and started uni.
In October, I wrote some awesome essays and auditioned for a part in a play (I didn't get it).
In November, I went to Bristol and a village I can't remember the name of. There were a lot of firsts this month.
In December, I saw Regina Spektor live, partied like it was 1941, performed for the first time in ages, wrote a lot of mediocre essays and went to Berlin with my Shanghai people.

Here's to a new decade! Since I was 9-19 in the last one, it was pretty shit most of the time. I think 19-29 will be better.

I JUST SAW REGINA SPEKTOR LIVE

2009-12-05T00:38:03Z

It was the best 25 quid I ever spent in my life. She is magical. The only experience I can compare it to are my religious experiences as a child. I might write something that makes sense about it tomorrow. Tonight I'm just enjoying being in love.

The day I realized there are actual class differences in Britain

2009-12-02T12:27:52Z

People here talk about how middle class people are. I don't really get it. Everyone is middle class where I'm from, and they are all different and have different lifestyles. But then I went to Herforshire. We met a very nice couple with whom we were going to see a string quartet. They invited us to dinner with this other lovely couple, for no apparent reason. I felt a bit uncomfortable, since it was my friend who knew them and none of us knew the second couple.

They had this quite formal dinner party, we got salmon and cabbage and potatoes, and they talked about growing their own vegetables. Their conversation was so contrived and “look at my wit go”, it was quite embarrassing. They had special fish plates and cutlery, and no one started to eat before everyone had agreed by some secret symbol that it was eating time. Not even when everyone was served, because that would make sense. They had several sitting rooms on the ground floor alone. They were all in so many committees it was almost funny. Committee for growing cabbage, probably.

Second thing they asked me:
"What do your parents do?"
“Dad is an economist, mum is a pedagogue.”
“Oh, a teacher.”
“Yes, but her degree was in pedagogy.”
“Oh. Do you know what they say about economists? You can string all the economists in the world together and never come to a conclusion. Economists and madmen are the only ones who believe in infinite growth.”

I'm ashamed that I said that. My mother is a kindergarten teacher, there's nothing at all wrong with that, I just pretended she had a more fancy title than she has just because I knew they would think my dad's job was better than my mum's. I would take her job over his any day.

It wasn't that they weren't nice, they were just very formal and contrived and "let us discuss this topic" instead of letting conversation shift naturally. Just because I'm a student and a Norwegian doesn't mean you can't talk about something other than studies and Norway to me. When conversation took a different turn, they all assumed that I wouldn't understand. “Tolstoy once said-” OH DID HE? The man had some good stories, but they were preceded by this air of “I shall say something clever, and you must laugh. Hahaha!”

I don't understand. They were evidently well traveled, but then how can they be so ignorant? They dared to insinuate that Finland has no culture. They have some of the best young authors in the world! Oksanen! They have some of the best contemporary circus performance in the world, come to that.

So I spilled wine all over their table, ate with the wrong fork and hope to never see them again. I can deal with disagreeing, I just can't handle this degree of artifice.

almostlifesized @ 2009-11-29T14:01:00

2009-11-29T14:01:15Z

When people ask me what I do in my drama classes, my answer is usually "mostly we gambol". I wish that some day someone would say "hang on, isn't that a reference do that DS fanfic about Fraser being a wereotter?" but that has yet to happen. A truer answer would perhaps be "mostly we scream, laugh, roll around on the floor and invent new animals", in case anyone was wondering.

almostlifesized @ 2009-11-24T00:10:00

2009-11-24T00:10:29Z

Today was odd. RTI was amazing, discovered that half my seminar group are feminists. Came up with a new movement sequence in drama which involved me rolling around on the floor and waltzing with the bloke everyone in uni is attracted to except me. Then I decided I'd do some work, but ended up fiddling with my play instead. I might actually finish it. Then I made an arse of myself in front of the handsome bloke. Who I don't even fancy that much anymore, it's more like affection with a bit of "ooh, pretty" in there.

Him: you fancy everyone when you're younger, you're like "hello, I fancy you. Why? Because you've got a funny voice!"
Me: "Haha, yeah. That's why I fancy you."

PLEASE PLEASE WILL SOMEONE STAPLE MY MOUTH SHUT. Oh well.

Showing off

2009-11-15T12:42:01Z

On the train from Bristol:

Bloke in a nice coat who reminded me of my friend Eivind: Veni vidi vici
Pretty girl: E tu, Brute?
Ugly man: Anno domini
Pretty girl: No, no, that's only two words, too easy.
Me: What's the game, to say things in latin?
Pretty girl: Yes, but it has got to be longer than two words
Me: Quo usque tandem abutere patientia nostra, Catilina?
Pretty girl: That's not fair, you speak latin.
Me: Nope, I only know that sentence. Means "why are you wasting our patience, Catilina?"
Pretty girl: Cool. You win.

I mean, how often do you get to a) show off like that in front of pretty girls and b) actually use knowledge like that when you aren't on QI?

Poems

2009-11-11T04:37:18Z

I have too many favourite poems, but there are some that I read more often than others. Some of these are about as exciting as liking Mozart: of course you do. Poems that I have read more than 20 times:

I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.

Therapy by Walta Borawski

Unravel the obsession.
Begin here: he never
encouraged me. When I
feel pain he has not
called, when I feel
jealously toward men he
may have slept with, may
be having sex with, this
has nothing to do with
him, he’s never opened
that part of himself to
me. The man probably
knows nothing beyond I
am infatuated, write notes,
leave messages, get a silly
smile whenever I see him,
and suffer varying energy
levels

Sonnet #130 by Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The More Loving One by W.H Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total darkness sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot----
The big strip tease.
Gentleman, ladies,

These are my hands,
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do so in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

"A miracle!"
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge,
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware
Beware.

Out of ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Beneath My Hands by Leonard Cohen

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

Upon a Dying Lady, parts II and III by W.B Yeats

Curtain Artist bring her Dolls and Drawings
Bring where our Beauty lies
A new modelled doll, or drawing,
With a friend's or an enemy's
Features, or maybe showing
Her features when a tress
Of dull red hair was flowing
Over some silken dress
Cut in the Turkish fashion,
Or, it may be, like a boy's.
We have given the world our passion,
We have naught for death but toys.

She turns the Dolls' Faces to the Wall
Because to-day is some religious festival
They had a priest say Mass, and even the Japanese,
Heel up and weight on toe, must face the wall
- Pedant in passion, learned in old courtesies,
Vehement and witty she had seemed - ; the Venetian lady
Who had seemed to glide to some intrigue in her red shoes,
Her domino, her panniered skirt copied from Longhi;
The meditative critic; all are on their toes,
Even our Beauty with her Turkish trousers on.
Because the priest must have like every dog his day
Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon,
We and our dolls being but the world were best away.

I could go on.

I've got 7 problems etc

2009-11-10T17:53:07Z

In order of importance:

1: my feet are cold
2: I owe my bank £400
3: I can't get a UK bank account because Barclays is the worst bank ever
4: I have an essay due in a week and I haven't even read the book
5: Everyone has gone away for reading week and I'm lonely
6: I accomplished nothing today
7: I'm generally dissatisfied

almostlifesized @ 2009-11-06T02:57:00

2009-11-06T02:57:33Z

I am so unbelievably dull. How did I not realize?

Tickle me pink

2009-11-05T16:00:16Z

I suddenly have the time to consider whether or not I'm happy. And I suppose I am! And in November, when I'm usually sobbing into my tea and waiting for March. Truly impressive. I've finished all my essays (though the Shakespeare one was a bit shit), I have next to no work to do over reading week, MY FRIEND EIRA CAME OVER FROM NORWAY, I have only argued with one person this week, I'm catching up on my correspondence... Good times. Though some of my friends and family are less than awesome and there's not that much I can do on this side of the channel. I'm not a good conversationalist any day, but when I'm present I can at least offer hugs and a shoulder to cry on. I can't wait for Christmas, to see snow, see my dad again, find out if he likes all the new music I've discovered/been forced to listen to over here.

Alex just came in and complained about my playlist. I'M ALWAYS PRETTY HAPPY WHEN I'M JUST KICKING BACK WITH YOU.

Eira, Alex and I are going out soon, it will we fun to go to central London with someone who doesn't live here. London used to be a bit magical to me before I moved here. I wished we did more, went to more plays and galleries and walked about more. But mostly we just sack out on someone's bed and watch things on iplayer.

In which I show how unconvinced I am by Oliver's repentance in AYLI

2009-11-01T16:31:40Z

As You Like It, 4.3, line 105 and so on, Norton p. 1670 as it really happened.

Oliver: Oh, hi there, lion.
Lion: Oh, piss off.
Orlando: *kicks lion in the head*
Lion: *dies*
Oliver: Omg, you can kill lions? We should do lunch sometime. Nevermind that thing where I wanted to set fire to you, that's just how big brothers are. My hat is nicer than yours, but that's all right. We'll be friends. Oh, you have hot babes in this forest? I like this forest. It is a good forest. I should sell this forest on ebay.
Celia: Hi, I'm a hot babe.
Oliver: I like hot babes. Let's get married in fifteen minutes.
Celia: Oh, all right, since your hat is so nice. Almost as nice as that Crusoe bloke's hat.

What I do remember from yesterday:

2009-10-31T10:13:14Z

Had a workshop at the Globe. WAS ON STAGE AT THE GLOBE. It was well good.
"Pick whatever Shakespeare line you know and say in the directions I just showed you."
"What if you don't know any lines?"
"Say: O!"
(I ended up with "If music be the food of love", but only because "O!" got a bit old.)

Went to a concert with m'colleague citoyenne . Not a hardcore headbanging rock concert, it was Händel and Mozart. And it was really good! I used to hate Händel a bit, because we were forced to write down facts about his life for music lessons in primary school, but The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba is a kicking tune, man.

Had cake in a cafe with rude waitresses. Then we took the tube home, and I went to New Globe (the pub) to make my day symmetrical. Had some bad news. A bloke bought me drinks. I bought me drinks. That's pretty much it.

I did wake up in bed, in my pyjamas, with a bottle of water on my windowsill. So that's good?

I HATE MYSELF.

Laaaaady of Spaaaain I adooooore yooooooou

2009-10-29T11:59:01Z

(I know the young master doesn't play the ukulele. But he would if he had one.)

I want to learn to play the ukulele. Why, you ask?

BECAUSE IT IS VERY COOL. All the cool kids do it. Want proof?

Thus.

This post was brought to you by: my essay suddenly makes no sense and is too ranty and is due in three hours.

Some of the notes I made while watching 40-year old virgin

2009-10-28T11:49:20Z

Men don’t like romance, it’s girly
Being girly is bad. Very bad.
Manly men aren’t gay
Women: also known as “some pussy”
Women: you can’t sleep with them and respect them at the same time, because only dirty women will sleep with you anyway.
“you’re just putting the pussy up on a pedestal,”
Having a good time with other men involve smoking weed and proving that you’re a man by fucking bitches
Men need to masturbate, women shouldn’t
People being made fun of in this film:
People who are in any way shape or form feminine
Actual women
Transvestites
People who are not Seth Rogen
“You punch her in the head emotionally”
HAHAHAH GAY IS FUNNY, MEN CAN’T SHOW EMOTION BECAUSE THAT IS GAY BAHAHAHAHAAH
Women come along. In exchange for the pussy, oh, I mean sex, men need to grow up for some weird reason. Stupid women and their demands!
Why is the woman so cute, why is she in this film? Run away, cute woman! Run away!

THIS FILM IS SO BAD. Now I will analyse its ideologies and beat it with a Marx-shaped cricket bat. Suck it, Apatow.

Grit in a sensitive instrument

2009-10-26T09:43:25Z

I think I might be the tiniest bit in love. I usually am, but with a higher intensity level than my crush on the librarian, Callum Keith Rennie or even my friend from back home. He reminds me of Cartwright and Durham, hardly a good sign. I keep doing this. I have a tendency to fall for people with sexualities that don't match mine, people over 40, fictional people, historical people, people in relationships, people who hate me. In this instance, most of these fit. This is a very predictable and boring defense mechanism to keep me from getting hurt again. Since this is all happening inside my own head, it's difficult to hide it from me and I caught on after only three years.

The worst thing is that if it turned out to be mutual, I'd have to breathe into a paper bag and maybe jump off a building because that would be awful. But this unreciprocated whatsit, I'm good at that. It makes me emotional and nervous but also productive and creative and it's all right. Proper love makes me dull and dependent and unable to cope. It doesn't appeal to me.

(No, this is not about my Shakespeare seminar leader, though he is awesome and I dream about bicycling around in France with him.)

CHOO CHOO HERE COMES THE SEXY TRAIN

2009-10-17T18:07:44Z

I got tagged by thebirdmachine to make a list of sexy people. I didn't obey the rules, though, because they are not in order. THEY ARE ALL SO LOVELY.

Rules:

1. List 10 (or 15!) celebrities you would have sex with without asking questions.
2. Put them IN ORDER of your lust for them (15 to 1; 1 is the hottest).
3. Supply photos for said people.
4. Say which movie/show/thing it was that hooked you.
5. Tag 5 people: citoyenne and... can't be bothered.

Stephen Fry, first because of ABOFAL, then because of everything he has ever done in his life.

Hugh Laurie, Blackadder. Yes, George IV is dead sexy.

Callum Keith Rennie, because of Ray Kowalski.

Olivia Wilde, have only seen her as thirteen, which was the first time I agreed with House re: women, apart from one notable exception.

Alive!Steve McQueen, because of his gun holster in Bullitt.

Lisa Edelstein, the notable exception.

Maggie Gyllenhaal. One word: Secretary.

Regina Spektor, first because of Prisoners, then because everything about her is magical and lovely and I want to hold her hand and smell her hair. I'm going to see her live in December. OMG!

Lady Gaga. First because of Poker Face, then her general coolitude.

David Tennant, for being the best (and the prettiest) Doctor Who ever.

Judy Davis, for being a brilliant George Sand.

Snape from Harry Potter, for obvious reasons. Picture of Rickman, because he is hot like something that burns.

Lily Allen, because I saw her at Roskilde, and she is something else.

August Strindberg, because he has a certain charm. I know he was a misogynist prick, but he was a talented misogynist prick.

Théroigne de Méricourt, because I read about her in Liberty by Lucy Moore. Wiki sez: "she appeared in public dressed in a riding habit, a plume in her hat, a pistol in her belt and a sword dangling at her side" and if that does not turn your crank then your crank is broken.

Disclaimer: this entry contains more squee than sense

2009-10-08T17:14:14Z

Just came back from seeing As You Like It at The Globe. It was completely amazing. They made a brilliant (if weird) text even better, and made the sounds of helicopters flying above blend in naturally. Jamie Parker was brilliant as Oliver/the evil brother who for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture decided not to be evil anymore. Also, he is handsome. Dominic Rowan made Touchstone a very Blackadder sort of fool, and was rude and funny and had some awesome moves. Jack Laskey as Orlando made me feel embarrassed that the performance was being filmed, in case my staring and sighing was caught on tape. He is intense in a very David Tennant sort of way. I want to have his babies. If the word delish was in the dictionary, his picture would be next to it. And the girls! Even though Celia's part is a bit more in the background, Laura Rogers really made the most of it. I hadn't heard of her before, need to check what else she's been in because she was excellent and very very pretty. And the boygirls! The transformation from Rosalind to Ganymede was perfect. All it takes to be a bloke is a complete shift in attitude and shorter hair. And a leather outfit. That was a GREAT leather outfit, people.

IF YOU ARE IN LONDON, GET TICKETS, I THINK IT CLOSES THIS WEEKEND!

Robin Crusoe, how did you come here?

2009-10-05T07:55:36Z

Robinson Crusoe is the worst piece of literature I have ever read, and I have read Bridget Jones' Diary.

Robinson Crusoe in five minutes:

I am from York. I want to go to sea. My mummy says no. The middle classes are cool. They are not too rich, nor too poor. I go to sea anyway. It goes horribly wrong. I keep doing it. I become a slave. Then I sell my friend as a slave, because I am a bastard. Then God punishes me for being a bit of a twat by letting me get shipwrecked. I take a toothpick, and tobacco, and my cutlery, and a bible, and everything else that I might need from the ship. I describe these things in detail, twice. I write in my diary like a fourteen year old girl. I get sick. I get religious. I get better. I stop being religious. I make the island into my own little plantation. I start being religious. I kill animals. I make bread and think that I invented it. I make a hat. I tell you about my hat for 60 pages. The hat, oddly enough, has all the functions of a hat. I see a footprint. I think about the footprint for a very long time. I assume it's the devil. I discover that there are cannibals on the island. I describe their customs with very, very many adjectives. I consider whether or not to kill them. I save a man from the cannibals and kill some of them, because that is how I roll. I decide to name the ex-prisoner instead of just asking him what his name is. I decide to own him, because he is black, though with no afro, and that is how I roll. I make him a hat. I describe his hat in great detail. I make my slave convert to a religion I don't really believe in myself. I kill some more savages and meet some marooned blokes. Then, in an unlikely chain of events, I am saved and return to England. I then get filthy rich, fight some wolves and a bear, and send some ladyfolk to my colony for wifemaking purposes.

There.

A bullet point list of what I have been up to lately:

2009-10-01T23:21:52Z

Bought a lamp
Made soup
Read Romeo and Juliet
Generally basked in domestic bliss
Helped two wasted people get in bed
Chilled out on an adult-sized shrimp costume (it was nice and squashy)
Shared a bed with another Irish person (She was fab, we talked about tits and I fell asleep giggling.)
Lost my keys
Found my keys
Offended all my neighbours
Pissed off the cleaning lady
Failed to purchase a bike in Brick Lane
Purchased a cup with TWO HANDLES instead (cool.)
Watched five dvds and a bit of Xena the Warrior Princess
Spent too much money
Made an arse of myself
Met the most clichéd posh bloke ever
Wished I still had my headkicking boots (the two were related)

I will not make a list of the things I didn't do that I was supposed to, because that will just depress me. Best British bank, anyone?

almostlifesized @ 2009-09-30T15:19:00

2009-09-30T14:22:04Z

I tried to post a bunch of links, but livejournal won't let me. Everything turns blue and bold and looks like crap, even though there are no open B's in the html. What am I doing wrong? Livejournal won't let me ctrl+z it either, twat. I will go smash something now.

Why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?

2009-09-29T16:26:57Z

Second day of lectures today. Lived in London for a week now, starting to settle in. It's starting to feel like home. Helps that I have citoyenne withing ceiling-knocking distance. The crowd in Maurice Court where I live are all very nice people, though none of them seem to find me very fascinating. My neighbours are lovely, Emily who lives in the room next to mine is one of those sparkly people with cooking skills and bright smiles, and Callum who lives upstairs has great taste in music and thinks pasta with ketchup is dinner. Poor lad. After just a few days an Irish pub was established in the courtyard, meaning that we hang out outside Irish-Johnnie's kitchen window (in which there is a huge Irish flag) and drink. A lot. There are a lot of Irish people here, like Terri from Derry, who is awesome and with whom I went to a fancy dress party. As Bosie to her Oscar Wilde. It was deadly.

Reading, theory and interpretation scares the crap out of me, the essay assignments look incomprehensible and difficult and long. But we're doing Marx! And Freud! And Robinson Crusoe. Damn it five times around the car park and back again for another damnit. I hope Man Friday kills Crusoe. Does he? Please tell me that he does. (I know he doesn't. BUT IT IS SUCH A NICE THOUGHT.)

Making Theatre Work is led by a slightly crazy American and is based on the work of an insane group called Goat's Island. Very experimental, a bit too experimental for our first performance here, perhaps. Weird stuff. Could be cool. Could be just weird.

London, culture, performance is also led by an American, this time a woman who shares my name. I have no idea what this course is actually about even though I sat through a two hour seminar this morning.

On Wednesdays and Thursdays I have NOTHING (except writing essay, reading FUCKING ROMEO AND JULIET, etc) which is nice. And then Shakespeare every Friday. For a year. Please let us do Hamlet?

Getting ready for the fancy dress party with the history society. The party was crap, but we won a cheap plastic pool table, so there. That's Terri from Derry.

Went for a walk in Victoria Park.

Mile End road.

Alex, you are so posh. And in the East End, tut tut.

No, I don't live in the big green thing. Behind it.

Regent's Canal.

Don't live there either. Behind it.

They're always watching me. Gives me the creeps. Can't even scratch my arse without someone seeing it.

What the shrat, man?

Fanciest place in Mile End.

Local (off campus) pub. Not that great, not that bad.

Neighbour Callum getting his head shaved by flat-next-to-ours John. John reminds me of Mr Tumnus. Makes me happy every time I see him. We need to have tea some day.

BRICK LANE. PANIC!

There was a curry festival.

This pleases Alex.

I need to have a miniature boat on the wall of my house someday.

"Stephen Fry is handsome"

"Alex you are my favourite wife"

Tally ho, pip pip!

almostlifesized @ 2009-09-22T09:41:00

2009-09-22T16:45:56Z

My morning:

*BANG BANG BANG*
"Hello, maintenance!"
"Uhh. Hi."
"I'm here to fix your toilet seat."
"Sorry about the mess."
"No problem, miss, you live here, not me! Sorry to wake you up."
"'s all right."
"Were you out last night? Seems like everybody and their brother went. There you go miss, all fixed."
"Thanks. Bye!"
"Bye! Lalalalalalala..."

He was very nice! Except I hate being called miss. "Hello, unmarried little girl with no authority!" Mrs is worse, to me it's just "Hello, you are a woman of marriageable age, thus you are married". It's just a system of ownership, isn't it? Miss = your dad owns you. Mrs = your husband owns you. I know you native Englishers use it so much you probably don't think about it, but isn't it awful that every single letter I get from UCAS and my uni is marked with my marital status? I am getting a PhD just so my letters will be addressed to doctor Johanne.

I'm settling in all right, except getting a bank account here is SUCH A HASSLE. I can't go to the local branch, because it's not big enough. How much space do you need to open a bank account? You need ten pieces of paper signed and a calculator and a credit card. And it takes three weeks. What on earth do they do in those three weeks, count my money by hand, thrice? And I need a letter from QM, which I can't get until I enroll on Thursday.

I feel very grown up, buying my own bowls and a garlic press and things. Except I still don't have plates. Or a pizza cutter. But I do have some of the books I need to read. I have to read Frankenstein, which is annoying, since I did that six months ago and it was only interesting because it was TEH FRANKENSTEIN and not because it was actually any good.

I've given everyone here nicknames in my head so I'll remember their names, like handsome John, pyjama Johnnie, Starkey and Hutch Alice, not-Keith Callum and brown jacket Piers (someone told me it was with an S, you have to spell it like that, surely? Piers or Pierce.)

This post was brought to you by Too Much Time Spent With Irish People™.

HEY DUE SOUTHERS/TENNESSEE WILLIAMERS/BRANDOERS

2009-09-18T07:52:47Z

Guess who I met in Shanghai? A German girl called Stephanie Kowalski. "Do you have a cousin or something called Stanley Kowalski?" I asked her. She had to think about it, but no, no Stanleys. "So I guess there are no Stellas, either." "No, my sister is called Stella!" Hahaha. So, I asked if she had read Streetcar, or seen the film. She hadn't. But now she's going to. STELLAAAAAAA!