I'm going to have a lie down.

I'm stressing myself out.

Since I came home I have hardly done any work and it just dawned on me that in a weeks time I need to have the first draft of my MA proposal handed in. That scared me a little. I'm annoyed with myself because I have been focusing on other pieces of work that need to be in on the 19th and done little on the work that has to be in sooner. Gah.

I'm going to have a lie down and read my book for 15 minutes and relax.

xx

'Can't you feel the wind? You wouldn't like it up there.'

If I read my pieces for my fiction portfolio again this evening I will scream. I must have read them all about ten times today. I've decided to ditch the story about the young and the old man in the charity shop in favour of a story about a woman with a scar. I'll post the three I want to submit at the end of this blog.

Anwyay, today I woke up and got on with some work then headed to meet my friend, Olive for lunch which was very nice. Then I went to meet Ian. We were meant to go on the Big Wheel in Castle Park in town but, because of the gales, the ride was stopped. The man told us, well, Ian to be precise:

'Can't you feel the wind? You wouldn't like it up there.'

A bit presumptious we thought but he was probably just covering his back insurance wise.

Anyway, we went for a drink and then to see the Almodovar film Volver which was really gripping. We both really enjoyed it. I didn't credit Penelope Cruz as an actresss before, but now I do. She was fantastic. The story was about two sisters whose mother is presumed dead in a fire but she is actually alive and comes back to stay with them. It's very good. Go and see it. But don't blame me for ruining it for you.

So after that we went to get something to eat in the Watershed, then I came home to get on with some work and I'm pleased with what I got done.

Anyway, it's late and I'm tired and want to get into bed woth my book so here are the three pieces I want to submit for my portfolio. Bear in mind they will probably get another edit before I submit them.

Snow Angel.

What a perfect day, she thought as her footsteps crunched on the snow-caked grass. It just couldn’t have been any more romantic. She watched her breath in the air punctuate her movement and clenched her icy hands in the pockets of her jacket. Oh, it felt exquisite to know nothing could hurt anymore. No more surprise’s, no more disappointments, no more pain. She smiled at the thought and opened her mouth letting snowflakes land on her teeth and tongue. It felt like Christmas had before it became just another day to dread, another day to struggle through. Back when she and Rachel had woken in the early hours tiptoeing down the stairs to see what was under the tree; back when her father would take them tobogganing and there was nothing to worry about and the pressure hadn’t come on like a thousand ovens. Back when the simplest thing would have made him happy, just the simplest thing. She wished her father could see her now. Oh, she knew word for word what he’d say. The same he always had when she hadn’t met his sky high requirements, ‘‘Amanda, we had such high hopes for you.’’ She heard the disappointment in his voice even now; saw his shaking head and rimmed glasses at the head of the dinner table; at her sister’s graduation; at her own wedding; at the clinic yesterday. Had they all thought she hadn’t had high hopes for herself? Had they really thought that? Not that it mattered now. Nothing did.

The wind whistled in the background and she laughed out loud; a sound that shocked her. Wasn’t it funny how things like that happened? Here she was, about to take her own life and even nature was calling for her to stop and see sense. She stood still covering her mouth as she laughed and laughed while the wind cried out. How wonderful to imagine her mother and father and all the others who had put such strain on her calling out at the last moment and how reckless to be ignoring their pleas. She turned and looked at the trail of footprints she had left. Thank God he wasn’t here now with his pedantic eye for detail. Not a straight line at all! She laughed again, this time falling back in the snow looking up at a blue sky that felt as familiar as happiness. How relaxing to be lying here without a care in the world, to feel so removed from everything and everyone. Maybe this is what it’s like to be on the moon, she thought, as she put her arms out and waved them through the snow feeling the chill cover her hands like a pair of cold glass gloves. She closed her eyes and let the snow land softly and slowly on her face. Maybe if she lay here long enough she would get so cold she would die anyway. She smiled at the thought, licking the snow that had collected on her lips.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when she opened her eyes again. She saw a man peering down at her with an expression as blank as the snow. How long had he been there? And what right did he have to distract her?

‘Sorry Ma’am,’ he said, his words melting snow in the air. ‘I saw you here and you looked like you were having so much fun I wondered if I could join you.’

What a stupid ridiculous man! Fun? Fun? This is exactly what is wrong with people, she thought. They see only what they want to see. They have no idea what goes on outside of their own silly little heads. Still it was her last day, so why not humour him? She patted the ground beside her and told him to lie down. He was a funny looking man with angry red skin and nostrils you could hide apples in. He lay back slowly and carefully and this annoyed her tremendously. Why take all the care in the world when you will end up wet and dirty regardless? But then why spend years trying to make everyone but yourself happy when you end up dead anyway?

What was she supposed to say to this strange man? He wasn’t saying anything at all; just lying beside her like a big fat slug; his breathing getting heavier and heavier.

An hour passed.

‘I’m John,’ he said, his words shattering the silence like a hammer on ice. She didn’t care who he was, not a bit. But she spoke anyway.

‘I’m Marilyn Monroe,’ she told him. She had always wanted to say that, always, but never had the nerve before. He didn’t say a word after that. She smiled. They lay there, still and silent in the snow for what felt like forever. She might have been asleep or she might just have been thinking, it was hard to tell anymore, but she felt his hand wrap around hers. Very strange, she thought, for someone to hold the hand of someone they don’t know. But she didn’t move it straight away. It felt almost ceremonial.

After a while she took back her hand and put it in her pocket as she stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ the man asked without moving.
‘I’m going,’ she said completely at peace, ‘to die.’

Goodbye.

11pm
He sits in the parked car; glances at the clock and feels tears threaten. Only four hours ago he’d had everything someone else could have wanted. And he’d left it for love. Now he has nothing, nothing. But now what is it that he wants? He doesn’t know. He shakes his head, his hands on the wheel. He doesn’t know. His mind thumps with questions, questions he can’t answer. Can’t or won’t. He flicks the lights on, where can he go? Off. On, what will he tell people? Off. On, is this what he deserves? Off. On, the brick wall in front of him. Off, the brick wall gone. On. And off. Silence. On, the engine starts.

10.10pm
The silence between them is like an overdose; it pulls hard at his guts, twists his stomach and steals the air from his chest. Did he hear Mark’s words right? Deserve; secret; married; love; sex; priorities; gay; wife; kids; gesture; decision. His mouth is dry; his tongue lies flat, futile against gritted teeth. Pain rushes from his toes to his throat, chokes him like gas. No words left to say; no words will change his mind. It’s too late. It’s over. There’s no point telling him about earlier. He doesn’t want to beg.

Mark stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket, pushes in his chair. Goodbye Andrew, walking away. He nods once in response, glances up from his drink; sees the door open, sees the rain beating down, sees the door swing shut. His future, his dreams disappear into the night. Not been here since we first met, he’d said. They’d finished where they’d started - a palindrome. The voices in the bar blur in his head; blur into one. One voice asking the same question: what has he done?

9.05pm
He walks into the bar; a pool of chatter, jazz playing in the background, conversations scattered with laughter. He smiles; deep breath, Mark is there. He walks over. Memory washes over him, absorbed by every pore of his skin; two years ago, two years - was it really that long? Not been here since we first met, as he sits down. Sorry I’m late. He wants to kiss him, to hold him, but remembers one of his own rules - no affection in public. He wants to blurt it out - I’ve done it; imagines Mark’s face, imagines the future in an instant. But Mark speaks first; I need to talk to you, Andrew.

8pm
The car reverses slowly out of the drive. Rain hammers down so hard that the wipers stagger, moan as they tremble on the glass. He can barely see out of the rear window; his shirts are stacked on the parcel shelf - different coloured copies of his work self. The kids wave from the front door. He waves back. His hand drops, then raises, then drops to the wheel again. Her arms scoop the kids back inside and the door slams shut.

7.45pm
The kitchen table; the clock ticks loudly in the background. Was it always that loud, he wonders, or had we always filled the silence until now? She sits opposite him. Her eyes are puffy, bloodshot, streaming. She holds tissue to them; sniffs, sniffs, and sniffs again. The kids come in. Not now. She whips her arm; sends them away. She asks him something. He doesn’t hear. His heart is thump, thump, thumping in anticipation; drowning everything like a wave. I still want to see them. You must be joking. I’ll drag you through the divorce courts. I’ll take everything you’ve got. But she can’t. She can’t take everything.

She stands; slides the ring from her finger, drops it in front of him. He watches it roll from the table to the floor to the skirting board, watches it fall over. I hope she’s worth it. If you leave now, Andrew, you never come back. He stands slowly, walks to the door, every step stirring his heart. She crumples; her back to the wall, she slides down, her face in her knees. The door closes; her arms wrap around her legs, her body crippled with tears, the back of her head rhythmically hitting the tiles as her chest heaves.

7pm
He looks around the room, empties his wardrobe into a travel bag; throws in books, CD’s, jewellery, anything that’s his - his and his alone. The kids smile at him from inside a frame. He smiles back; places the picture carefully at the top of the bag, zips it shut. He glances at his watch – 7pm. What time had Mark said? 8pm? Maybe he’ll get away before she comes back. He’s a coward. He knows that. Of course he knows. He doesn’t want to hurt her. But he can’t keep lying, lying to everyone. He clears the en-suite; hears the front door open; hears it close - hears the kids laughing, her voice murmuring commands, her footsteps on the stairs. The door opens. She stands in the room; her face confused; her mouth open; her breath stolen. What’s going on?

7.45pm
Mark takes his phone from his pocket, checks the time – 7.45pm. What time had he told Andrew? 8pm? He picks up his book again but puts it down in an instant; he doesn’t mark the page he was on, doesn’t remember the words he read. He can’t concentrate; thoughts tangle in his mind and his head feels heavy. He loves him. He exhales, drums his fingers on the table. He loves him. But there’s no future. No future in black and white lies woven with secrets and empty promises – a basket full of nothing. He needs more than Andrew can give. More than he will give. Ice hits his teeth, slides over his tongue as he finishes his drink.

8pm
He waits at the bar. Another gin and tonic? The barmaid asks. He nods, yes, please. Double? He nods again, glances at the clock above the bar, thanks. Someone late? She looks behind her, the glass pressed to the optic; God I hate it when people are late. He forces a smile; Yeah, I’m always waiting around for him. Always. Well, least you got your book; she puts his drink down in front of him, £3.50 then please. The change falls into her hand; he walks back to his table and sits down. Looking out of the window he sees people running for shelter from the rain, their clothes soaked through, their faces distressed. You look how I feel, he thinks as he plays with a beer mat, you look how I feel.

9.05pm
He watches Andrew walk in and, smiling, walk over through the dense air of smoke, music and laughter. Even now, that smile almost works as he sits down; not been here since we first met, sorry I’m late. Almost works. But almost doesn’t count. He takes a deep breath; this has to be done, his mind is made up. I need to talk to you, Andrew.

10.10pm
Silence. He’s said it. He’s said it all. And word by word, brick by brick, a wall’s been built between them - deserve; secret; married; love; sex; priorities; gay; wife; kids; gesture; decision. Has he done the right thing? There was love there. There was passion there. Has he honestly done the right thing? The last two years flash in his mind: an amalgamation of cryptic phone calls, Christmas’ alone, awkward encounters. It couldn’t go on; he deserves more. So why is it so hard to leave? Why does he feel rooted in this seat? He stands slowly, awkwardly; pulls on his jacket, pushes in his chair. Goodbye Andrew, he walks away. Opening the door he glances back; swears he sees tears in his eyes. Never seen his tears before, never seen him cry, he thinks as he steps out into the rain.

11pm
He turns on the TV but there’s no room in his head for the sounds and the images. He turns it off, staring through the blank screen at his reflection. How had he ever let it get this far, to love? He’d known he was married. So is this pain what he deserves? He fills his glass, distant from his actions, distant from everything. It was the right decision; of course it was. His glass is empty; he fills it again with a shaking hand and falls back in the sofa.

He wakes later; he doesn’t know the time. Peeling himself from the sofa he walks upstairs.
Opening the bathroom cupboard he sees the toothbrush Andrew had left. Don’t go getting any ideas, Andrew had told him. He spits into the sink, splashes the tap on, off, walks back to his bedroom.

Lying in the dark he wills himself to sleep; he rolls onto his left, onto his back, onto his right. Don’t go getting any ideas he hears in his head, remembering that morning; don’t go getting any ideas. But he had. A tear betrays him; he had been getting ideas.

The Scar.

Standing naked on the bathroom tiles Annette Ashley wipes the steam from the mirror and stares at her reflection. Like every morning for the past two months it’s there; an imprint of a night she can’t remember, a branding she can never forget. She traces the scar from her temple to the corner of her mouth; a dark red alien curl pressed into her skin.

She should count herself lucky; that’s what they told her in the hospital. After all she’s still alive, more than can be said for Danny. Swallowing the lump in her throat she wonders if life like this really is any better than death. Living in the same four walls every day of the week, a prisoner in her own home. How can it possibly be any better? The man she loved is dead and the woman she was has been torn from inside her. Now she’s nothing but an empty shell, void of any passion, interest, feeling. A tear slides in the scar to the corner of her mouth to be met by her tongue – tears, a familiar taste now. Wiping her eyes she finishes drying herself, pulls on her dressing gown and walks to the kitchen.

Since that night Annette’s mother has brought her meals daily, sat watching her push food round the plate in silence. But her mother won’t be coming today. She won’t be coming for two weeks.

‘I just need a bit of time to myself,’ she’d told her, ‘I need a break Annette.’

A break, Annette thinks as she peers into the fridge, I could do with a break; from my thoughts, my guilt, my nightmares; myself. But it won’t happen. It’ll never happen.

She takes out a pot of something her mother left, pours it into a saucepan and flicks on the hob. Still in her dressing gown, she leans back against the worktop and glances at the clock on the oven: 3pm. She woke early today.

Sitting at the dining table Annette picks at food that looks like vomit. The scraping of her knife on the plate grates on her bones making her gag and after three mouthfuls she pushes it away and falls back in the chair.

When she looks at the time again it’s 6pm. Was I asleep? She wonders. Or was I awake? But what does it matter? Awake I feel the same as asleep – disconnected, numb, paralysed. The days become nights and the nights become days. She knows what people will be thinking: get yourself together, don’t let this ruin your life. But it’s not that simple. If only it was. She can’t even bring herself to step outside; to let people see her; to have them stare. So she stays here in the house because here she’s safe, safe and in control.

She looks out of the window, a full moon lights up the night sky. Maybe I could go for a walk, she thinks, no one would see me properly; see my face, my scar. But it was dark the night it happened, she remembers, it could happen again and I’d never forgive myself for being so stupid. Once bitten, twice shy. Oh no, she shakes her head at the window, oh no I’m not going out there again. And she smiles at having taken back control.

She’s still smiling twenty minutes later when the doorbell rings. She stands quickly, then freezes. Her smile disappears. Who is it? She wonders. No one visits. No one but my mother and my mother is away. So who could be at the door? She takes deep breaths and presses her back against the wall. Am I too late? She panics. Have they seen that I’m home? God, oh God. What should I do? She covers her ears and counts to herself: 1, 2, 3, 4 – the doorbell rings again, a nasty rasping buzz. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 – the doorbell again. Tears stream down her face. She feels sick; she can’t move; she can’t move a muscle. It’s as if her veins have run into the ground, tied around the floorboards and rooted her there. She hears the letterbox open.
‘I know you’re there, Annette,’ a female voice calls, ‘I know you’re there. Let me in.’

The letterbox closes and she feels her stomach churn and drop to the floor. The person knows her name; the person at the door knows her name. She counts again: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 –

‘I need to speak to you,’ the voice comes again, loudly and clearly, ‘I need to speak to you about November 23rd. You need to hear what I have to tell you. You need to let me in.’

November 23rd? November 23rd; that’s the date; that’s the date it happened she thinks as she feels blood pump through her body, tingling from her toes to her legs to her stomach to her throat to her face. It’s as if she’s been brought back to life.

Before she knows what she’s doing she’s opened the front door. She doesn’t care what happens now; she needs to know what happened then. The pale face looking back at her is familiar but she doesn’t know why. The woman steps inside locking the door behind her.

‘Thank you,’ the woman says, ‘can I sit down?’

There's no good line in this post to use here. Sorry.

Right, this has to be quick or else I will actually fall asleep at my desk. I need to get to bed and read my book but wanted to get something on here before then.

So, today I went into town with my friend Laura which was alright, busy but bearable. One upsetting thing though was that when we were in Ann Summers we saw two kids who must have been about 11 looking at the dildos and porn. I don't know how they managed to get in since there is a 'bouncer' at the door. Horrible.

Anyway, I came home with a new pair of trousers and a couple of shirts, and got on with some work. I tackled that piece I was moaning about yesterday, the one about the record. I've now decided to write it in a first person perspective which I think gives it more style and, since we are seeing everything through one character's eyes anyway, makes more sense. I am happier with it now but think I need to develop the character of Greg more. I think something needs to be going on in his life that is reflected in the old man/the opposite of what the old man is going through. I'm going to think about that tonight and hopefully have some ideas by tomorrow. I really need to get it finished soon. I feel better about it though. I like the idea behind the piece but the way it's written I'm not so keen on. It doesn't seem to have as much voice as my other pieces. BUT this has happened before, I just need to work through it.

Other than that, today has been kind of uneventful. I got a bit panicked earlier about my work placements and have decided to spend tomorrow morning emailing magazines hoping for a response. I also need to look into going to London at the end of next week. OK, now I'm just rambling. I need to go to bed.

Oh, but watch this. It's Amy Winehouse singing drunk with Charlotte Church Michael Jackson's 'Beat It'. Good old Amy. I love her.



xx

I was a lesbian but got saved through the salvations of Jesus Christ.

I have the DREADED BLOCK again...

For some reason, every time I sit down to write I just can't get into it. I have been working today on some of my portfolio and I'm really unhappy about one of the pieces I am submitting. I think it's because I have found a style that I like writing in and I think works well but I need to be able to show that I can write in different ways too so I feel obliged to include this piece. But each time I read it I feel a bit embarrassed and unhappy with the words on the page. I think I just need to fine-edit it and pick out what works and what doesn't. I'll paste it here and you can let me know what you think.

Anyway, yesterday was a really nice day. Ian came over and we gave each other our presents. He liked what I gave him and I liked what he gave me. His gifts were very well thought of and very 'me.' We went down to feed the donkeys with my sister and my Mum but they weren't there so we had to just throw the stuff into their area and hope for the best. Some thoughtful soul had hung a plastic bag of food on the gate, which we threw away for fear of them eating it and dying. Following that donkey disappointment, we walked home and played games until the evening when I went out with some friends and Ian went home.

I met my friend, Perham, in the pub last night and bumped into some people we know too. There was this guy that I haven't met before with them and he was really drunk. Nothing wrong with that, but he was just going on and on and on and on to Ann-Marie about his brother and his girlfriend, Becky, who is a friend of hers. He was saying how bad a girlfriend she is etc but kept saying the same thing over and over. It was horrible to listen too and I jsut kept thinking that he wasn't making her look bad, but instead making himself seem like a complete twat. No one needs that in their life. So then Perham left and I stayed with the others for another drink. We walked up to another pub in Clevedon, the Campbells Landing, which was too grubby for us to stay in so we went to Amy's house and drank there. It was really nice, because I rarely see her and it was great to catch up. I was still there at 3am this morning so wobbled home and fell straight asleep still with my Ipod on.

So, today has been kind of uneventful. I went down to Perham's house and had lunch with her and her family and then we played some games before I came home. I tried to get on with some work but it wasn't really happening so instead I did some research into similar books to my novel on Amazon. The idea being to get a grasp of format, publishers, market etc. It was worthwhile and I feel better for having done something work related. I am a bit worried though because I haven't done too much since I came back to Bristol but I have a battle plan for the time that I'm home. Tomorrow I am going to send off some more emails for work experience. That's the thing that's worrying me the most because, although there's a lot I can do, it's also down to someone else to say yes or no. It's not the same as the rest of my work if that makes sense.

Anyway, while I was researching similar books, I found this gem which someone actually handed to me at college once:http://www.amazon.com/Setting-Love-Order-Healing-Homosexual/dp/080105186X/sr=8-1/qid=1167248434/ref=sr_1_1/002-3131900-3748069?ie=UTF8&s=books

If the link doesn't work for some reason, the book is called 'Setting Love in Order: Hope and Healing for the Homosexual.'

The review highlights include:

Too often, I do feel that gay men are disrespectful towards people curious about our sexuality. Why?

^^That doesn't even make any sense.

I was a lesbian but got saved through the salvations of Jesus Christ. This book honestly tell the TRUE story of how the author became a gay but later saved by Jesus Christ.

^^ Both of those sentences are amazing. That lucky lady, saved from the grubby, grabby hands of lesbians. And the book tells a TRUE story. A TRUE one! About A GAY! Imagine!

I can't see why a book like this exists. Not at all. I can understand that some people may have difficulty coming out but for someone to say that a gay person needs hope and healing is ridiculous. It makes me so angry that religious people say things like this and just shrug it off as 'what Jesus would have wanted.' Why? If the Bible/Jesus had one message, from my years in Catholic education, it's that we need to love and respect each other regardless of our differences. But now, people read what they want to from it and use it as a weapon. Things change and this kind of reliance on religion is just stunting acceptance and diversion. Ugh, I can't even think about it without getting annoyed.

Fuc*ing book.

Anyway, I have to stop now. My friend is on her way round. I might add some more to this later.

Oh, but here is the piece I am a bit anxious about. COMMENT ON IT!
xx


Back to Happiness.

Connecting the speakers for the donated hi-fi, Greg looked up to see the old man still flipping through the vinyl in the corner of the shop.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ Greg asked, leaning over the counter.

The old man glanced up and shook his head quickly before his eyes fell again on the box in front of him.

Greg was a people watcher. He could spend hours creating characters from the customers he dealt with in Oxfam; the people with stories to tell as they bought a fourth hand Catherine Cookson novel, a salt shaker in the shape of a snowman, or a jigsaw of the Queen’s face with seven missing pieces. It was the older people he liked to talk to; the regulars who came in after collecting their pensions, spending the little money they had on a treat for themselves.

He watched as the old man lifted out a record – ‘Patsy Cline, Love Songs.’ Turning it carefully in his hands as if afraid it would break, he lifted it to his face and smelt the sleeve.

‘You found something then?’ Greg asked as the man approached the counter, nodding as he handed over the record. He reached into his coat pocket as Greg rang the price into the till.

‘£2.50 then please,’ he said as the old man patted the pockets of his cream coat with urgency. Greg watched as embarrassment and shame filled every wrinkle of the man’s face.

‘Can you not find your wallet?’ He asked.

The man shook his head, his cheeks flushing the colour of mistletoe berries. His eyes stared down, fixed on the glass display cabinet of jewellery. It wasn’t just his wallet he was looking for,
Greg thought, but his dignity. How awful to have your mind and body betray you with age. He looked at the man standing before him and it broke his heart. Imagining himself in the same situation, he handed the record back.

‘Here, take it,’ he offered, ‘free of charge.’

The old man shook his head firmly but said nothing, only raising an out turned hand to signal his refusal.

‘You can pay next time you come in,’ Greg suggested, sensing the older man's pride. The man shook his head again before pointing to the vinyl, then to the hi-fi.

‘You want me to play it in here?’ Greg asked.

The man nodded, still staring down.

‘I’ll give it a go,’ Greg said, carefully sliding the record out of the sleeve, ‘but I can’t guarantee it’ll work. We only got this in today.’

He placed the disc on the turntable and gently lowered the needle onto the ridged black surface.

The old man watched in anticipation, his wheezing breath the only sound in the shop.
And then the record began to play. Greg sat on the stool behind the counter as Patsy Cline’s voice breathed life into the shop.

Have you ever been lonely, have you ever been blue?
Have you ever loved someone, just as I love you?

The man listened to the song, his eyes closed. Tapping his fingers on the counter, he stepped left to right with an invisible dance partner, a smile raising his glasses. Greg felt his heart surge as he watched the man delight in the song, delight in a memory.

The old man opened his eyes as the song faded out. Greg turned the hi-fi off and, looking back at the man, saw a single tear creep to his cloud white moustache. For the first time since the man had come in, the pair made eye contact.

‘Thank you,’ said the man in a voice that sounded stale and cracked. ‘Thank you.’

Greg smiled in response, gestured to the armchair beside the counter and started the next song on the record. The old man shuffled to the chair. Sitting down he rested his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Greg watched as he absorbed the music, letting every word and every note take him back in time, take him back to happiness.

I love you so much it hurts me.
Darling that’s why I’m so blue.
I’m so afraid to go to bed at night, afraid of losing you.
I love you so much it hurts me.
And there’s nothing I can do.

Christmas over for another year.

So there we go, Christmas over for another year. Yesterday was a nice day, pretty quiet really. I spent the day with my parents, Nan, sister and her boyfriend. Everyone was happy with the presents I gave and I was with those I received. So no demanding of receipts for me!

Anyway, I haven't written since the day before Christmas Eve so I have a few things to catch up on. On Christmas Eve I had to get Ian to drop me into town because my car was in the garage (it had a bubbly tum and kept having toxic farts, not pleasant) and went to do my last minute Christmas shopping. Broadmead was really quiet and I managed to get all the things I wanted fro other people and rewarded myself by buying myself a nice shirt. You reap what you sow.

I went out on Christmas Eve and was over-served. I don't remember much about the evening other than pouring half a glass of wine into half a pint of Stella and drinking it. So, moving on...

On Friday night, not sure if I mentioned this, but I found someone's phone on the floor outside the chavtastic Lloyds on the Waterfront. I had forgotten all about it until Christmas Eve, so turned it on and wrote the 'home' number down. Then I went to the police station to hand it in but it was closed so I thought the best thing to do would be to call the home number. So I did. No answer so I left a message on the answer machine and later in the day a woman called. It was her daughter's phone and we arranged for her to meet me in town and I would hand the phone over. She turned up about an hour later and said I had restored her faith in people and stuffed a tenner in my hand for my honesty. I'm a firm believer in karma so I'm sure that stint will have done me some good. Not that that's the only reason I handed it in of course...

It's because I know how it feels though to lose things. It's horrible. So many times I've lost my wallet, phone, camera, anything really but most of the time they come back to me. Except the camera, but that's a very miserable story and I don't want to go into it. It's my wallet that suffers the most though. I once left it on a coach to London and had to gt a taxi to follow the coach to the dept, and once I left it on top of a shelf in a bookshop in Toronto and someone took all the money ($80) out of it. Bad karma for them I hope. Oh, and I left it on a train too. Someone found it and called the video shop I have a card for who called my parents and then it was sent in the post to me by the man that found it. Recently though I have been a lot more careful and, touch wood, this will continue.

Anyway, not much else to talk about really. Ian is coming over soon so I need to go and get myself washed, dressed and decent.

So on that note, I'm off.

xx

I bought her a coat but it’s tartan and she hates tartan.

I’m so tired. I know that’s the most annoying, self pitying way to begin a blog but it’s also the truth. So there.

I just got back to Bristol from London. I went with Ian to the Tate Modern (to go down a giant helter skelter) and the National Portrait Gallery (for a David Hockney exhibition). Both were really interesting and we had such a good day but it meant getting up early, very early and then waiting in the cold for AN HOUR before the coach turned up. I actually lost feeling in my feet and watched my will to live disappear into the morning. To make matters worse, we had to endure an hour with this awful Bristolian woman – Mrs Miller (she introduced herself). As you can imagine, she was no happier about waiting for the coach than us but she was a whole lot more vocal about it. Ugh, she kept going on and on. She rang Bakers Dolphin and got an answerphone message saying that the office wasn’t open till nine. So then continued to call, despite it not being nine yet and just making herself more and more irate. After a while she said that she was going to go, even though the bus was coming and said I should tell them she was, ‘climbing the walls.’ This was a lie. She hadn’t even stood on the bench in the shelter. It was annoying but sometimes you just have to accept things don’t you? Why get in such a state about things that are out of your control? Oh, we also had the company of a little Yorkshire terrier called Mitsy for a while too. She was with a human lady owner and shivering so much that her whole body shook which Mrs Miller had to comment on:

Mrs Miller: That little dog’s cold.
Owner: Yeah I know. I bought her a coat but it’s tartan and she hates tartan.

What? Why give her the choice? That’s overindulgence at its worst surely.

Anyway, after that ropey start to the day, we got on the coach and were told it was late because there weren’t enough drivers. I don’t think BD could only have found out about that today so will send in a letter of complaint from ‘Unsatisfied of Clevedon’ and see what happens. Will keep you posted.

Once we got to London I was really surprised as to how quiet it was. I was prepared fro swimming through masses of people but things were more subdued than I had anticipated. We went straight to the Tate Modern and got timed tickets to go on the slide and then went to the National Portrait Gallery. The David Hockney exhibition was great, we both really enjoyed it. It was inspiring to see someone’s work and development as an artist in one place. The exhibition focused on his very early work through to his most recent and also had sketchbooks he had worked in on display. It was great to see how he built on his style resulting in work that was unquestionably his. If that makes sense? I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I just mean that it was interesting to see how he managed to make his work stand out, how he developed sketches and drawings into his photographic work. I’m waffling, I’m sorry, I’m tired.

Anyway, I have more to talk about but I also have to eat so for now I’m off and will write more again tomorrow.

xx

I honestly would have dropped down dead.

God, I am so tired. I have no idea why either. I haven't been over-exerting myself by any stretch of the imagination but I feel like if I close my eyes for two minutes I will wake up again tomorrow.

Last night I went to The Mall with my Mum for Christmas shopping. Ugh, it was so busy it was ridiculous and so many rough looking people. When we were walking in, there were this couple of girls behind us with potty mouths to put it mildly. I turned around and saw that they were walking with a child of about 8. Isn't that nice to grow up around?

Anyway, I managed to get quite a bit done but we didn't leave until about 9.30pm which was pretty sick. It was open till 10pm but if I had stayed a moment longer I honestly would have dropped down dead. It's such a stressy time of year and everyone looks so despairing wandering from one shop to the next with a glazed over expression that reads, 'Must buy, must buy, must buy.' Waterstones was one of the best places to be yesterday for stress levels. I was queueing at the enquiries desk; the queue was pretty long and every now and then the woman in front of me kept turning around, huffing and rolling her eyes. She was doing that thing when you're trying to prompt someone else to start a conversation, so she was trying to make me say, 'Oh it's busy in here isn't it/they should have more staff/I hate Christmas,' etc. But I was wise to her game so just stared blankly ahead. Do you know what I mean though? When you're in that kind of situation, no-one wants to be the one who starts the moaning. They want you to start it and then they can just moan and moan until they get served/the bus comes/someone slaps them. Watch out for it, and don't play any part in their twisted mind games.

So, aside from that, not much to report. One of 'The Temps' (Corinne to give her her real name) had her last day so I thought it would be nice to go for a drink. I just came in and about to cook, then unpack so that I'm no longer living out of bags and boxes like a gypsy.

xx

We had a few people passing out in the restaurant.

I don't have much to talk about tonight but I feel a pang of guilt if I don't write something. So bear with me while I scrape the barrel of blogging. I went to a pub quiz with some friends from work last night, which we did pretty dismally in. I think we were probably the worst there, which is a bit depressing. Still, it's not the winning or the losing but the taking part. As all losers say.

Anyway, the pub we were in was boiling hot with all the radiators on full blast so I let one of the barmaids know -

Me: The radiator's on full blast and we're all a bit too hot.
Her: Yeah, we had a few people passing out in the restaurant earlier in the week.
I'll go and turn it down.

WHY HAVEN'T YOU TURNED IT DOWN BEFORE NOW THEN?

Wouldn't people passing out be an indicator that maybe the heating was bordering on nauseating? Ugh, it was unbearable. Even after she said she'd turn it down, it took about an hour to get back to a humane level. Honestly, I felt like a Christmas turkey in that place. Obviously, I didn't suffer in silence, every five minutes declaring I was too hot and tugging at the front of my shirt. It's the best way to deal with things like that and to ensure everyone else is as irritated as you. More from your actions than from the heat, but still.

Other than that, not much else to say really. I haven't done much work on my portfolios but am going to pick up my pieces again at the end of the week to look them over them and spot all the problems I had missed on the first 47 readings.

So, on that note, I am going to have dinner with my housemates (parents) and then head to Cribbs Causeway to do some late night Christmas shopping. I can't wait. Honestly, I just can't.

xx

Sonic is quite a speedy game to keep up with with a hangover.

First day back in the job I had before I went to Falmouth and it felt like I was never away, in a good way I mean. It was really nice to see everyone and just be able to slip back into things.

Anyway, I haven't written for a few days now but, to be honest, there isn't too much to say. I think I last wrote on Thursday after I had stayed up for hours writing that piece about the Mum whose daughter goes missing. So, yeah, Friday I stayed in the house all day and did lots of work and then went to Frea's in the evening to do Sing Star and play Scrabble. She won at both and I was out-Whitney'd on Sing Star by her boyfriend, Andy. Other than being the loser of the night, it was a great time. I couldn't believe it though when I looked at the time. I thought it must be about 12am or something, looked at the clock and it was 3.30am! Not long after that I fell asleep/passed out on the sofa after a few glasses of wine and champagne cocktails. It was a really nice evening.

In the morning I woke up because the sun was shining right on my face. Horrible. I went into the kitchen and then played Sonic on the PlayStation with Frea's son, Oz. That was a nice way to wake up but we ended up playing the same level about seven times so after a while I started feeling a bit sick. Sonic is quite a speedy game to keep up with with a hangover I have learnt.

So after that I headed home and jumped in the shower to make me feel like I only had the one layer of skin, (I always wake up feeling like I have a horrible alcohol-based film over my skin when I wake up with a hangover). Then I went down to meet Kath in Falmouth and start Christmas shopping which was painful to say the least. I managed to find a few decent things for people, but the whole process was a bit hectic. The town was busy and I just wasn't in the mood to be buying things. I ended up feeling like I was just wandering aimlessly so in the end I bought a bottle of Baileys and headed home to watch Crash on DVD and finish reading Catcher in the Rye.

I woke up on Sunday feeling like I didn't want to get up. Not because I had drunk a horrible amount, but because I knew I had so much to do. I packed my stuff up to come back to Bristol, cleaned the house, made sure the heating was all set so that the house wouldn't dissolve and then had to race my stuff to the car before someone blocked me in. I then got just out of Penryn before I realised I had left keys in the house so had to drive back. After that though, the journey was pretty straight forward.

So there we have it. That has been my life for the past few days. The next few days will be busy too. I am working till the end of the week, need to do more Christmas shopping, am going to the theatre on Friday night and London on Saturday. Oh it's Christmas madness!

xx

Time is just flying by.

I can't believe it's 5.15pm. I feel like I woke up about an hour ago despite getting up at 8am to go to the doctors. Time is just flying by at the moment which is really nice and exciting but kind of scary too.

Anyway, today has been really productive. I have practically finished Catcher in the Rye, did all my laundry, washed up, cleared out and vacuumed the house. Then I came onto campus and ran some errands so maybe that's why time seems to have raced by me; because I have been so busy.

It's funny, I stayed up last night till about 2.30am working on a piece for Bloc but when I woke up this morning I didn't feel at all tired. I was really into what I was writing last night and, after a few edits, was really happy with it. It's strange though because when I read it over I felt quite sad, because of the subject matter. So I hope it has that affect on people that read it cold. I'll post it at the end of this entry so feel free to comment if you wish.

I'm really excited about all the work I have to do over Christmas and today broke it down into smaller parts so that it seems more manageable. I need to produce three portfolios of 3000 words each, that all need a 1000 critical rationale with them. I need to finalise the content of my website, write a 12 page story following a certain structure and write a 1000 word essay on rhetoric. Ah, it's going to be a good holiday.

Anyway, I have to go and eat before I collapse. Have a read of the below piece and let me know what you think.

Cheers.

Torn Apart.

I hope it never happens to you, to you or anyone that you know. Because if it does then you’ll know the real meaning of heartbreak, just as I do now.

She hadn’t come home after school that day. I’d waited and waited; watched the hands of the clock casually turning as panic rose within me.

4.30pm, still not home. Maybe Denise had picked her up with her daughter, Kate, and they’d got stuck in traffic.

4.50pm, still not home. Maybe she’d gone to a friend’s house and forgotten to tell me.

5pm, still not home. Maybe she was at a Nativity rehearsal that had completely slipped my mind.

Maybe, maybe, maybe; a lot of possibilities but only one fact lay acidic in my stomach - my ten-year-old daughter wasn’t home.

I called the school first.

‘Hello. Yes, this is Trish Taylor. My daughter, Caroline, is in 5C, Miss Davis’ class, and she hasn’t come home. No. Can you tell me if there was a Nativity rehearsal tonight? There wasn’t? Can someone there let me know if she went home with someone else? Thank you. Yes, I’ll hold. Hello? Yes? No. Thank you. Thank you for your time.’

Then I rang Denise; Caroline wasn’t there; Kate didn’t know where she was either but she knew she’d got on the bus; they’d read Smash Hits together, divided up the free stickers.

The moment I hung up, my heart thumped from my chest to my throat making it almost impossible to breathe. I dialled 999, was silent for a moment before I could say the words no parent ever wants to: my child is missing. The person at the other end spoke as if from a script.
‘I’m sorry Mrs Taylor, we can’t file a missing person’s report until the person has been missing for at least 24…’

I hung up. I couldn’t listen anymore; I couldn’t listen to a cold person for whom Caroline was yet another missing child, another number, another column in a newspaper.

Those 24 hours were the longest in my life. Every car that went by, every knock at the door, every phone call, every child laughing outside prompted the same question; was it her?

That night I lay in her bed staring at the clock illuminating the pink bedroom, willing it onwards; time fuelled my imagination making the sheets damp with cold sweat. If I began to doze I woke immediately, swearing that I’d slept for an hour at least. But only five minutes had crept by; minutes that turned into hours so gradually, so painfully that my whole body ached in longing.

When I rang the police the next day I answered all the questions the woman asked. 14th of March 1997, 10 years old, shoulder length brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, probably her school uniform – blue dress, blue cardigan, black Clarks shoes, black tights, a pink Bratz bag, a birthmark on the back of her left leg. She normally walks home from the school bus, usually home by 4pm and I last saw her about 8.30am yesterday.

When I hung up, I went to the bathroom and vomited until the only thing left in my stomach was guilt. This was real; this was happening to me. I lay on the bathroom floor and must have fallen asleep.

When I woke it took a couple of moments to realise where I was, and why. How had I fallen asleep? What if someone had called? I raced to the kitchen, picked up the phone; checked it for messages - none.

For the rest of the day I sat by the phone, picking it up every few minutes to check it was working; to check that someone, anyone could get through and let me know my daughter was safe; that she was coming home.

The day staggered by; no one called. I wondered if I should look for her myself. But then who would be home when the phone rang? I called work; told them I wouldn’t be in; that I wouldn’t be in for the next few days. They were very sorry, they said; if there was anything they could do, they said; they understood, they said. But how could they? No one could understand the pain I was going through; the scenarios that my imagination was creating; the tearing stab in my gut each time I saw something of Caroline’s in the flat.

I started getting calls from friends. I don’t know how they found out; but each time I rushed them off the phone, annoyed they’d occupied the line.

By the fourth day I still hadn’t heard anything.

The fifth day went by, still nothing.

Six days and I barely recognised myself in the mirror; my reflection looked ten years my senior.

After a week I couldn’t bear doing nothing, waiting in the house for calls that didn’t come. So I took the Christmas decorations out of the loft to keep myself busy. I thought if I made the flat look nice, Caroline would know somehow; she would know and she would come home; she would come home and things would go back to normal. I would have my family back.

I placed a stuffed reindeer on top of the television; hung tinsel from the doorframes and a laughing Santa from the clock; put up the artificial tree in the corner of the room and pinned her stocking to the wall. I emptied the five boxes of decorations we had in less than an hour, then walked into her bedroom and sat on the bed. I noticed a piece of blue paper sticking out from under the bed and reached for it with a shaky hand, smoothing it in my lap - a Christmas list. I swallowed hard and remembered last Christmas; it had been our first without Caroline’s father and she’d handled it well, better than I had probably.

‘Next year Mummy,’ she’d said to me, sat by the tree, ‘maybe you’ll have a new husband for Christmas.’

I’d laughed, said that would be lovely - a wonderful Christmas present. But all I wanted now was my daughter in my arms, the smell of her hair under my nose, the contour of her body in the bed I sat on.

Tucking the list into my pocket, I walked out of the house.

The shops were busier than I could bear; every little girl was Caroline and I envied every mother with her child safely by her side. I bought everything on the list and more, the weight making the plastic bags cut into my fingers as I walked to the car. I drove home with a mantra in my head - ‘she’s going to come home, she’s going to be safe, she’s going to come home, she's going to be safe.'

By the time I pulled into the drive it was dark, so I didn’t see them straight away. I got out of the car, opened the boot and took out the bags. I closed the boot with my elbow and that’s when I saw them; two of them, a man and a woman, stood at the door with their hats to their chests. My mouth ripped downwards, my face screwed up; tears burst from my throat and the bags fell to the floor. I ran to them; the woman held me as I shattered into a million pieces, the word ‘no’ falling from my mouth like vomit.

‘I’m so sorry Mrs Taylor,’ she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

End.

You're ugly mate.

Since my last post I've been to the gym and spent time thinking about what I wrote earlier. It made me remember a horrible thing that happened to me a few years ago. I was going out with a guy called Clovis; we met one night in Waterloo and went for a drink at which point he told me that he didn't think we should see each other anymore. It was a real shock and I was understandably upset. Anyway, I was walking to the train when a tramp asked me for any spare change. I can't ignore tramps and I always say sorry and carry on walking. So, that's what I did on this evening but this time the tramp shouted, 'You're ugly mate,' at me. Isn't that the worst thing you ever heard? Being called ugly by a tramp just summed up the evening. And, having looked at him, he wasn't exactly easy on the eye himself. I told a friend about what had happened later on and she said to me, 'People with no houses shouldn't throw stones.' Do you see what she did there?

Anyway, other than that fond reminisence today has been pretty productive; I have done some work on my website and helped Frea with hers, been to the gym and done some work on the 'family ' theme for Bloc. The only thing that is stressing me out now is Christmas shopping since I only have a couple of weekends to do it in. I am planning to go to Truro and Falmouth this weekend and then to Bristol the weekend after. I like Christmas shopping when I feel inspired but when I don't, I would rather hang myself.

Right, on that note I'm going to head home and have dinner.

xx

FORE!

A builder just heckled me. How amazing is that? One of the men on the construction site on campus shouted, 'FORE!' at me as I was walking up to the library. It's because I'm wearing these hideous black and white chequed trousers since they're the only clean ones I have until I do a wash later on.

There's a moral to this story - don't wear nasty clothes; wear dirty ones.

A house that was as warm as a crypt.

So weird; I just came out of the gym and walked to the library and there were a bunch of grubby looking people lying around on foam mats on campus. There were about 20 of them and they were just lying in silence. It was all very bizarre.

Maybe they were flash-mobbers. I was talking with a friend about this the other day and it's the funniest concept. These people go on a website and they all agree a time and place to meet and perform one action. So maybe they would decide to meet at 9.30am on a Tuesday to hit each other on the head with spoons. Maybe.

I think it can be anything (legal) they want and then they just go off and carry on with their days. I think it's quite a nice idea and it must be the best thing to be watching and thinking, 'What the hell?' I suppose it depends on what day you catch them. I mean, it would be nice to see them all turn up in leopard print and have a bit of a shimmy but you'd feel like you'd drawn the short straw if they just turned up and clapped twice. Or maybe you wouldn't. I shouldn't be so assuming.

Anyway, what a great idea. Though I don't know how the people get to meet up. I just typed flash-mobbing into Google (the theme of the day being Edvard Munch's birthday) and the only things that came up were definitions of flash-mobbings. I guess once you're in the crowd they let you in on the secrets, though it seems a bit exclusive. I would be quite keen on joining them but they're playing hard to get.

So, other than that, the day has been kind of subdued. I came back to Cornwall last night to a house that was as warm as a crypt. I'm such a dummy; I turned off the heating when I left on Friday thinking, 'Oh it's a waste of money' but then when I got in last night it was colder than it was outside. That's not right. In fact, I think it's sick. Anyway, I layered up and whacked the heating to it's peak and then cooked my dinner while stepping over all the empty boxes and bottles that are lying around in a mass grave until tomorrow. It's so annoying; the recycling people only come once a week so by the time they're ready to take the stuff away it's mounted to the height of a fire risk and stinks. But we can't just put it out else it gets wet and then they won't take it. Honestly, the things I put up with.

This man sat in front of me just asked me, 'Are you British?' When I said I was he came over and asked what the word 'couple' means. So I told him that it meant two of something and sometimes refers to two people in a relationship at which point he laughed and I felt a bit uncomfortable. He said he had been asked to a party as a couple and he wasn't sure if he should go or not because he knows a woman he could ask but isn't sure how she would react. I told him he should ask her and they should go together and then he just laughed. And laughed. It wasn't nice. I did that thing where you smile for a bit then look back at your screen and try and make yourself look busy. He didn't go away for a few moments and just sort of loitered behind me. Then he said something I didn't understand and walked away.

Isn't is weird how some people are like that? Not that exactly, but those people who just don't seem to have any grasp of what and what isn't OK to do socially. It's like those people that you don't really know that well who get on the bus and you see them and look out the window with your headphones on, but still they wave and sit down and hound you for the entire journey. I hate that. It's so rude. And the conversation always dries up in about 2 minutes once you've exhausted the one thing you have in common and from then on it freefalls into the depths of social awkwardness. I always find myself pointing at things out of the window to fill the silence and making up crap conversation. I think of this as like a commentary since you are scraping the barrel of conversation and grasping anything you can; the woman at the bus stop with a bit green hat, the bright green door of someone's house, you get the picture. I like to call this 'commversation.' The definition? A blend between commentary and conversation, usually painful and draining. I have had a lot of these encounters and that's why I hate them so much. It's not even as if I feel the need to fill silence when I am with friends, that's a comfortable silence. But when someone chooses to sit next to you for a journey, they want you to deliver. They don't want you just sat there like a sack of poo. They want chit chat all the way. Oh, and they'll always sit just that bit too close too, and maybe talk so you can't quite hear them and have to strain EVEN THOUGH YOU DON'T CARE WHAT THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT ANYWAY. Well anyway, now that's off my chest I feel I can move on.

It's weird being here at Falmouth at the moment since most of the people I know have gone home so I am kind of isolated. But I'm happy with that. It means I can focus completely on my work which is good.

Right, that's enough for now I think.

xx

The only thing I lost was my earring.

I did well; I wasn't sick on Thursday night and I wasn't sick on Friday night. In fact on both occasions I was far from being the drunkest person at the party; by quite a long shot. Anyway, so Thursday night was a really nice evening. Everyone from my course went out for dinner and then for a bit of a dance which was lovely. I think the best thing about nights out with large groups of people is spending time with people you don't normally sit with and talk to. I love the feeling after a night like that where you feel you have made a step towards a new friendship with someone, really nice.

Anyway, I woke up on Friday feeling a bit ropey and had stupidly made an appointment to get my hair cut at 10am so I had to ring the hairdressers and say something had come up and that it would be nearer 11am before I would make an appearance. I didn't think about it but I hadn't spoken a word before I rang them so had that hangover mouth which meant when I spoke I sounded like someone speaking from the other side. Not nice. But I managed to make it down and have had the hair cut and it looks a lot more presentable.

There's something about having my cut that I don't like though. I think it's the forced conversation and having to make small talk with someone you don't know. I find it a bit stressful because you're kind of trapped and the conversation is limited to say the least. I mean, what is hairdresser etiquette? What should you talk about and what shouldn't you? I expect hairdressers hear some great things; it must be a position of privilege into the insights of others. Maybe next time I go I'll be decidely inappropriate and spill out loads of personal information and see what happens; loud enough for everyone to hear obviously. I mean, what's the worst that can happen? They can't just tell you to shut up can they? Maybe they can actually. I'll let you know...

So anyway, I left for Bristol at about 2pm and the journey went without a hitch.I then went to Averys, where I used to work, and said hello to some friends. This was really nice but a bit strange since I haven't been gone all that long but long enough to miss some people. I felt a bit odd wandering around because there were new people I hadn't met yet and they must have thought I was acting like some Z-list celeb doing some weird PA. Ah well. So after that I went back to my friend Olive's house and we got dressed up: me a pirate, her a wench, respectively. Then off to the party which was really good. I even managed to hold onto all the different pirate accessories I had gone out with. Oh, except the earring but that's no great loss. Well losing any of it wouldn't have been too distressing to be honest.

So there we have it. Yesterday was great having spent the afternoon with my friend James who is really happy at the moment and with my Mum too. Even though she beat me at Scrabble. By quite a lot too. And today has been nice. I stayed at my boyfriends last night and cooked dinner together but I couldn't eat much; I hadn't eaten all day yesterday and went beyond hungry into hollow-and-will-die-if-eat-anything mode. I managed one sausage, a piece of brocolli and some mash but then had to get up and have a bit of a walk around because I felt a bit ropey. Felt OK this morning though and caught up with another friend Legs which was nice. And now I am at my parents house which feels like an oven in comparison to the fridge like house I have in Cornwall. It's kind of nice but a little stifling too.

Anyway, I am going to call it a day for now and write again soon.

xx

Drintake.

I just had that really horrible thing when you're so desperate for the toilet you use the disabled one because the other is engaged. This, in itself, isn’t so bad. But having to open the door and walk out is always awkward. I always think someone will be there looking at me accusingly asking, 'Do you have the right to use that facility?' So far, touch wood, this has never happened.

Anyway, since I last wrote things have been busy as it's the end of term. Good busy, not manic busy. Today in class was a good experience. We all had to email our tutor with a short story on the stimulus - Metamorphosis. He then put them all together and we read them out loud then gave feedback. After everyone was finished we had to guess whose was whose, which was fun and a couple of people managed to guess mine.

And now, as a celebration of the end of term we are heading down to 5 Degrees West to have a late lunch and some drinks. I'm looking forward to it and am limiting my drink intake (my drintake if you like) since I am driving back to Bristol tomorrow and can't be hungover. I have appointed Jenny to be my drink monitor and I am returning the favour.

On that note, I'm off to let my hair down. Hair which, as of tomorrow, will be tamed once again after a long needed trip to the hair dressers.

xx

Sorry, but women ARE dependent on men.

I just read the most inappropriate article in The Daily Mail titled 'Sorry but women ARE dependent on men' by Dr Neil Neave. You can read it here...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=420513&in_page_id=1879

The article talks about how women may be earning more than they ever used to and they may feel independent, but deep down they need a man to feel secure. The opening paragraph asks questions such as: 'Do you lie awake worrying your man is somewhere else? Do you check your man's mobile for love messages? Do you scan his bank statement for meals for two that you weren't present for?' So, from the way it addresses the audience, it's assuming the reader is female but I can't believe women would want to read such a sexist piece of writing. At one point Neave points out that a man's natural instinct is to have sex with a different woman each day but he has been forced (assumingly by a woman) into monogamy.

I couldn't believe that what I was reading was written in 2006. And by a doctor; not that you'd tell since there is hardly any evidence of anything but instead repeated sentences echoing the message - a woman needs a man. One of the best parts is when Neave speaks about speed dating and says that women straightaway (no evidence) ask what job a man does. He points out that this seems like friendly interest but really the woman is trying to coax out of the man his social status and earning power. Men, however, don't care about what a woman does. They just want to know if a woman is interested in sex; is healthy, and can give him children. Questions not at all inappropriate on a first date.

I think this way of thinking comes from the same minds as Chris Tarrant, who I wrote about yesterday, and at first I was offended for women being written about in this way. But thinking about it, I am also offended for straight men at being spoken about like this. I can't imagine that many men favour the idea of being seen as little more than cavemen; cavemen that Neave makes constant reference to, telling us that women haven't progressed since they were nothing more than child bearers. Oh, they might think they have with good careers, homes and social cicles. But they're wrong; they aren't happy at all. And nor will they be until they find a man that will accept them, neurotic tendencies and all.

Oh it makes my blood boil.

On that note...

xx

I could scream.

I just spent about 3 hours working on my website and for some reason it's now in a worse state than it was when I started. None of it fits properly; the menu options have all disappeared and the colours aren't changing. I'm so annoyed. What a waste of an afternoon. Still, I did my laundry and finished off my assignment for the week which I'm pleased with but still, that bloody website programme. Obviously, it's the programme's fault not mine for not knowing what the hell I'm doing. Well, hopefully I will be able to sort things out in class tomorrow. I might hang around and sit in the second groups class too to see if I can get some help. Ugh, it's just so annoying though; I could scream.

Anyway, aside from that I'm OK. I went to an open mic night last night with some friends which was really nice. The music and the atmosphere was great and it was a lovely way to end the weekend.

Yesterday I had a text from Jenny asking if I wanted to meet in 5 Degrees West for a pint and to read the Sunday papers. Having just bought The Independent, I thought, 'Yes, why not,' so text back saying I would be there soon. I headed down but Jenny was not to be seen so I gave her a call. It turned out she had sent the text about an hour and a half before I got it and just assumed I was busy which makes sense. But where do texts go when they haven't been sent? It's so bizarre? Are they just floating through the air waiting to land on someone's face/let/ear? Are they stuck behind the battery in the phone? Where are they, and what are they doing? Oh, questions, questions and I don't have any answers, in regards to that at least.

Anyway, I did have a point and I lost it. Oh yes, so I sat and read the paper and read about how Lindsay Lohan is going into rehab and meerkats are the new penguins (the two stories aren't linked) and I had a really nice hour or so to myself. I know I could have just read the paper in the house but it doesn't really feel the same. I think it's nice to make an event of something, even if it's just a small one. And besides, to get on with work I find it better if I have a bit of time out of the house.

That story about the meerkats was weird though. It was all about how meerkats are going to be in a new film in the style of March of the Penguins. It sounds nice and all but I think penguins are a safer bet. They definitely have more festive appeal. In fact I wouldn't even know which season meerkats would be most set to have a box office hit on their hands/paws? Summer? Maybe? They look like Summer kind of creatures. They could make a meerkat mission impossible. Or a meerkat Bond? I think that it's more probable though, as the article pointed out, that it would be a documentary about the beasts and their living conditions. Which is still nice. And cheaper for the special effects. And probably not so likely to land the film-makers in trouble with animal rights as a meerkat Bond would.

Also in The Independent was a really good piece by Janet Street Porter about Chris Tarrant. I didn't know much about his recent affair but I feel I have caught up to date with it now. I can't believe how ridiculous his claims have been since he was found out. He hasn't apologised by the sounds of it and is instead justifying his actions by saying it's something men do. How stupid is this man? He just sounds completely archaic with statements like this. If he wanted any respect form his family or the public that are his audience he should have, as Janet stated, put his hands up and said sorry. It annoys me when people say things like, 'Oh, it's a man thing,' or 'Oh, it's a woman thing.' In this case; no it isn't a man thing but a sign of someone who doesn't know what they want in life; and this can be as common in men as it is women. I don't know, it's just silly that someone as much in the public eye as he is believes that he would never be found out. But, saying that, maybe that was part of the thrill.

Anyway, I am going home now so will write again tomorrow.

xx

Pizza and mulled wine.

Another weekend is coming to an end and I can't believe how quickly time is flying by. Yesterday I was still hungover from Thursday night so spent the day tidying my room, reading my book and watching some more Tales of the City. Then I went into Falmouth with a friend to find a pirate costume for next weekend. The company I used to work for are having their Christmas party and asked me along. I don't see why since the last time I was at a party with them I spent most of the time being sick before I passed out. This time however, I'm determined it will be a different story. The moment I start to feel like I'm talking rubbish I will stop drinking. That's the plan, though I'm sure things will take a turn for the worse after a couple of glasses of champagne. That's the thing when you go to a party arranged by a wine merchants; the booze keeps coming. The next thing you know you're slumped in the corner with everyone trying to pour black coffee down your neck and splashing your face with cold water.

Anyway, at least I have an outfit to turn up in despitre being sure I'll have lost the sword, eyepatch and/or bandana by the end of the night. Oh, and the beard. I don't really like fancy dress, it makes me feel really uncomfortable. I never feel I look quite in character and whatever I'm wearing is getting on my nerves. I'm sure this pirate theme won't be much different, having to drink using a hooked hand and trying to get at least 50% of my drink in my mouth and not down my beard. Though thinking about it, having an obstacle like the beard might help me in the sober stakes. I'll let you know how it goes.

Anyway, enough about the pirates. Last night my housemate and I cooked pizza and made mulled wine and some of our friends came over. It was a really nice night and the food and drink went down a treat. Jenny had a friend from London to visit so we took her to the Seven Stars, the local, to experience a traditional Cornish pub. We got there about 10.40 and the door was locked so we had to knock to be let in. He was having a lock in and the cut off was 10.30. I don't see why a lock-in is called that. Surely it should be a knock in instead? That would make more sense.

Anyway, today I haven't done too much. I read my book in bed for a while and have come onto campus with Antje, my housemate, to get out of the house. I'm going to get some work done later on but until then I am going to have a proper Sunday and take it easy. I bought the paper so am going to get home and read that while having some pizza from last night and some of Antje's German tea. I know how to treat myself.

So, other than that, not much else to talk about really. I'm going back to Bristol on Friday for the fancy dress party and to see some friends, Ian, and my parents, which will be nice. Especially to see my friend James since I haven't seen him since I moved. Not that I feel distant from him in anyway though since we speak all the time on the phone. It's funny that way with some friends I think. You can be really far from them but it doesn't affect your friendship at all. I have a friend in Canada, Lauren, and whenever I speak to her or we see each other it's so easy that we forget all about the distance and I love that. With some friends, you never feel you have been apart and you can just slip back into each others lives.

Thinking about slipping back into lives, I might already have mentioned this in another post, I am going back to my old job for a week before Christmas. I'm kind of looking forward to it but it will be weird to go back after having had a leaving party and saying my goodbyes. I'm sure it will be fine though and I'm looking forward to seeing everyone. The people are great and there's no-one that, if you end up having your lunch with, you want to chew off your own cheeks. Which to me is always a good thing. But it will be odd to walk in on the Monday morning and get back to the routine that I left. It will be interesting though to see how much I write and get on with things when I am in that routine again. It will be almost like a test to make sure that I'm still in the writing frame of mind when I'm not in the same environment as I am here. If that makes any sense. I think I mentioned before that I read somewhere that it takes three weeks to get yourself into a new routine and I have been here for 2 months now. So I have no excuse.

Anyway, on that note I am going to head off and get some research done. More soon.

xx

You should all have a dead body by this point.

I feel like I might collapse. I went out last night with some friends and I think I had a bad batch because today I feel like death. I blame the wine, the beer or the gin. Whichever it was has left me feeling ropey to say the least.

Anyway, I haven't written for a few days now so I should catch up on what's been going on. We have hot water again which is good so I had my first shower of the week this morning (afternoon to be precise) and stayed in until I started to wrinkle. It was a luxury.

Yesterday I had class and we each had to read the first three pages of a Catherine Cookson novel, and the first three pages of an Ed McBain novel summarising how many paragraphs, sentences and words were in each. The purpose was to show how completely different genre books are technically the same in the way that they are written, differing only slightly. For example, Cookson had more long sentences which were very descriptive whereas McBain writes more simply. It was really interesting and a good exercise. At one point though, my tutor, Bill, was talking about the Ed McBain books and said that for as much as we'd read. 'You should all have a dead body by this point.' Isn't that the weirdest sentence you heard? I had to write it down because it made me laugh and I wanted to share it with others. So there.

This week has flown by, it's ridiculous and in a weeks time term will be over which is scary. I have so much to do over Christmas but I'm looking forward to getting on with it. Plus, I have taken a week of work at my old job which will be good as at the moment things are looking bleak financially; bleak and miserable. I can hear my account weep when I take money out. It's a sad state of affairs.

Last night was really nice though, we went into Falmouth for drinks and to see the Christmas lights get turned on. Some of my friends have kids too so they came along which made it even nicer. Then we went for a curry and for a dance. It was a good night but this morning, as I said, I felt awful. It's bizarre, when I was studying my undergraduate I would go out like that all the time and then into lectures and be fine. But now, there's no way. It was a good job I had the day off. I lay in bed eating dry crackers (the only thing I had in the house) watching Tales of the City on DVD. I suppose once you get out of that habit and lifestyle or being out all the time, when you do get hammered it takes its toll. If you could see me now, you'd know that's the case.

Oh, last night we were talking over dinner about religion and I was telling everyone about a leaflet that came in the post for me this week. On the front it had an African boy smiling, holding a copy of the Bible and underneath it said, 'There's a hunger only God can satisfy.' I'm not religious at all and perhaps that's why I found this really bizarre. In the third world people are dying all the time for so many reasons, but a lot of the time due to hunger and thirst. Not for the Bible or for God, but for food and water. The idea that people donate money to prioritise a Bible for these people over basic human needs is insane. I can understand that those who do believe in God might think that faith in Him is all you need, but I just can't agree with that. And if you had faith, then how could you see sense in all the suffering in the world? I don't know, I'm feeling too shaky to think about this properly at the moment so I'm going to head off I think and get down to Asda.

Before I forget, I saw this news story the other day and it made me feel happysad.

Drunk moose drowns.

A drunk moose has drowned after falling through the ice of a frozen inlet in Sweden, according to a local paper.
"The moose appears to have eaten too many fermented apples and become confused out on the ice," said Luleaa police spokesman Erik Kummu.
Drunk moose are relatively common in Sweden in late autumn as the animals eat fallen apples which ferment slightly on the ground.

At least it went out happy. That's a cautionary tale for any moose out there, so spread the word.

xx