Gift-Giving Systems

I was going to start writing this in my Asda Reporter’s Notebook. I decided, just fuck it, I’m going to type it up. I was bringing my PC down anyway, and at least that way, no-one can start trying to read what I’m doing. It’s harder when it’s just a screen, instead of a page, on view from pretty much all sides.

I’m losing my calm somewhat as we wait for some woman to arrive who apparently received us in her house in India (in Fatehpur, my recollection of events is very hazy as I was quite violently ill at the time). As usual, my mum is going into fussing overdrive, telling me to get the best glasses and shit, in case they want some juice. ‘You can’t just expect people to sit down and eat just like that,’ is along the lines of what my dad said. No – of course you can’t, that would be crazy, seeing as how you invited them to dinner and all.

******** THEY’VE ARRIVED ********

My mum kept asking me to do stuff in an urgent voice, and then when I had served the drinks, she had a go at me for forgetting the crisps (I didn’t forget them – there wasn’t space on the tray), and said I was ‘so slow.’ I came very close to socking her in the face and / or swearing at her at the very least. When she goes into her Hospitality Mode, I often feel as if I could comfortably kill her. I generally fucking hate Indian hospitality, and I’m not even the one cooking. I don’t plan on ever being the one cooking. It reminds me of Timon of Athens, and this fucking big-deal bond of ‘obligation’ that gets created whenever anyone does any little thing for anyone else.

That kind of thing messes me up. My parents installed in me a desire to not depend on anyone (both intentionally and unintentionally). Obviously, that isn’t realistic – you have to do so at some point in your life. This kind of thing really turns me off it though. It makes me like the service industry – all you have to do is pay, and you get what you asked for. None of this fulfilling-obligations-with-gritted-teeth-and-fake-smiles. My parents actually like very few people, and their friend-circle is tiny. It’s mostly my dad’s old friends, all two of them to be precise. That means about 95% of the hospitality we offer is forced. You don’t have time to feel resentment, because you’re too busy getting everything done. Well, that’s how it should work. I feel a LOT of resentment. Right now, we’re having our dinner delayed because Flora Auntie’s fucking son Laaddi is on his way. Last time I saw him, he stared at me a lot. Or so it felt. He’s like, in his forties or something.

I want to eat, and I do not want to hear stories about how I was constantly throwing up in Fatehpur (I was there – I lived it, and I missed seeing the peacocks every damn morning). I think that going to bed at half-midnight has not helped matters any in the emotional department. But will I stop doing it? Tune in next week for the final instalment (not). Called S--- to get a bit of relief earlier, because N---- was round here, doing her thing of ranting endlessly about every conceivable aspect of her marriage. She’s so fucking blind, it only makes me more angry. She did her routine thing of berating me when I dared show a bit of insolence towards my mum. I didn’t even swear or anything, but the stupid cow jumped on me like she always does. She instantly reprimanded me for saying ‘Oh bugger’ when I realised I’d spilt some tea – instantly, a second after it left my mouth. That should give you some idea. Pedantic bitch.

I’m currently trying to ignore and reject the usual ‘major players’ in my life. S-----, I’m holding at arms’ length with all I’ve got, because I’m sick of her noncommittal ways. She’s worse than A---, and that’s more than I can take.

Ah yes. Fucking A--- -----. I started to get the feeling that I was spending too much time with him, and that I was going off him a bit before he and S--- buggered off to Bremen, Germania for almost a week last Thursday. S---’s flying back today, at about 10 p.m., and he said he will ‘call me when he gets back.’ Ha! I think not, punk. When I called him earlier, I don’t know what I was looking for to be honest. To feel a bit less shifting? It didn’t work. He got all soggy on me when I said I didn’t want to hear about his friend V-- having a love-in about A---. I feel like I might kill A--- if I come across him. All the good work of some months has come undone – but I don’t care. I shall do my level best to slowly erase him from my memory and existence. S---’s feelings were hurt, apparently, when I abruptly declined to hear about the three-way love-fest (V-- thinks A---’s cool, but not as cool as her, and ofc Father S--- loves them both). Well, to use the words of Royce Da 5’9’’: ‘Fuck your feelings.’ I’ve had enough of his issues, he can have some of MINE. In fact, fuck the lot of them.

Oh sorry, do I sound bitter? Maybe I am, because SHE gets to go and swan off with my boyfriend in Germany while I am stuck here in a grey, wet Britain. The last two days, thankfully, I went out to see Steph, and then David. It didn’t help much though. I’ve got to start going for walks / jogs on my own. I have GOT to start reading French at the very least, before I forget everything. My grammar needs revising. Some French chat and films wouldn’t go amiss either. SORT YOUR LIFE OUT, YOU WHORE! I have Balzac’s ‘Le Curé de Tours’ which does akshully look interesting though, and is topical (haha). It’s not long either.

OK, OK:

- More sleep.

- Pay dentist. Get receipt – for the clean / filling and also for my appointment on the 7^th June. I lost the original, so I need a duplicate.

- Read Balzac. Go watch ‘La Vie en Rose’ with Z----. Speak French with Z----. Try watching some TV5.

- Try and make a plan of my YA project. I’ve started it already on the home desktop – perhaps I should look up books on the subject?

- Get counselling?

- Go for walks / jogs BY MYSELF. Who needs A---? He only slows me down, and takes me into the park every damn time. Plus, he is an emotional retard, and with my current fragile state, I can’t fucking hack that.

Ha, let’s see how much I’ll actually get done. I predict maybe 3 of those things at most.

Hello There Blog!

I have totally ignored you, but that's because I've been:
a) busy
b) trying to do a journal in French. It had unexpected side-effects, such as making me totally insecure about the level of my basic French. I need grammar revision, I need vocabulary revision - AARGH!

Perhaps if I make an effort to write more complex entries, then I'll manage to improve my vocab. As you know, it is Bank Holiday Monday. My sisters are over for dinner (unfortunately). The eldest, --------, is without her husband ------ because he found a way to get out of it AGAIN. He always plays the 'work' card and avoids interacting with us. Their marriage has always been rocky, and it appears to be reaching the point of divorce now. I can't say I'm surprised, and I am keeping my involvement as non-existent as possible. Basic rule #1 for my survival and mental health? Fuck the family.

Two men I have to thank extensively for helping toughen up my emotional hide to this point are - *drum-roll* S--- and A---. I was obsessed with A--- as pretty much any of my good friends could tell you, and I still am, but now it's in a good way. It's not fear, and I don't dwell on him to the point of sounding like a loony. We just hang out and I am neurotic no more. He is one of my best friends, and in the slightly-paraphrased words of S---'s good pal M--, I know that in future 'I will still love him and need him in my life.' Haha.

Just to remind myself, I am hell-bent on going to:

- Gareth Pugh: Fashion In Motion (Friday June 15th at the V&A). I need to book free tickets which will become available on Monday 4th June (i.e., in a week exactly). I am taking A---.
- Panic Attack! Art In The Punk Years at the Barbican (5th June until... er... who knows?). Tickets are £6 online. I plan on taking S--- and A--- to this.

God, I'm such a boy-girl. It's terrible. I attract guys like a magnet, and seem to have less luck with females. That first part could be taken as arrogance - but I don't mean that because I'm so gorgeous or whatever. I just do, probably because girls treat me with more suspicion than guys. Rightly so - I'm something of a failure femalely (my coinage!). Make-up and 'pretty paints' (my coinage again... as far as I know... ha! On fire) exasperate me for the most part. Clothes are fun and all, but I often let my utilitarian streak keep my crazy-frilly-frothy-fun streak in check.

I changed my picture on Facebook to one of me looking rather pretty and got poked by two guys and messaged by two. Good Lord. It almost proves my point. A CERTAIN SOMEONE - who was obsessed with me for a while - proves the point.

Time to eat - I SHALL RETURN HENCE! I hope that makes sense. RHYME! :-D

So Much Goddamn Fear

Sorry I've been dead, o blog, I have had a good excuse. I name and shame it as two essays worth 50 and 60 % respectively. One was completed, along with its bibliography, today. The other will be significantly harder to get through, being a 4, 000-word 'project.' I feel now like there should be some pictures scanned in, or something.

But yes, the 50% essay remains. There is a lot of reading to do for it, since it is a research project, and I do not have the strength just now. I know I should - I keep doing less than I should, and feeling mad at myself for it. But I really, really can't face hours of reading critical texts endlessly. I'm a bit worried that I'm going to underperform again today, but I just can't handle it right now.The thing that was bugging me just now was how fucking afraid people are, especially as they get older. Why the fuck are we so ashamed of being honest about our feelings? It feels like there is no way to get any kind of balance - people either repress everything, or they overshare. Some would probably put me in the second category since I can be incredibly candid at times, but I say NO. I don't tell everyone every little detail of my life that ever happens.

I was just reading Kill Your Boyfriend, and then just a few minutes ago, my parents were discussing the marriage of Arun Nayer and Liz Hurley, which prompted this. My dad was saying how they could end up in jail over their wedding, and I went 'Yeah, I know. I can't believe they want to arrest them for kissing in front of the cameras. So bloody backwards-minded.' I have to admit, I found it a bit funny at first, in a Schadenfreude way... until I got to that bit. Then, I got angry. 'They have insulted our traditions.' Well, FUCK your traditions. Aren't you the lot who invented the Kama Sutra? Have you not had children? Hmmm... how did you know not to stick it in her EAR, with that great level of enlightenment you're showing?My parents were talking about it, and my dad (my mum too, I suppose) couldn't even fucking say the word 'kissing.' He didn't talk about that litle tidbit at all. My mum snarkily wondered aloud if their marriage would even last ('look at Jemima Khan...'). This was preceded by them talking about how if you want to marry a Muslim, 'first thing is convert. That's what happens if you get involved with a Muslim. You might as well die.'Oh, they're wonderful, aren't they? Just another fucking Indian couple mindlessly following tradition by being totally fucking irrationally able to handle the existence of sex and any form of sexuality. EVEN THOUGH THEY HAVE FOUR CHILDREN. And this. Don't you just fucking love it?!

Global Warming SO Exists

Well, what is there to say? Los Parentos (I know that is wrong, I don't need to be told, but the RIGHT way of writing it would be nice) have returned from Italy. They bought me a beaded purse, which was nice of them. It is in the shape of a very fat bunch of grapes, with three leaves and then the grapes all below. Unfortunately:
a) I have noticed that in some lights you can see these gold dots in the grapes (they are also outlined in gold), which makes them look like strange, periwinkle-y purple boobs. It's not even funny, just weird.
b) It's actually smaller inside than it looks. I was all excited about it potentially being able to replace my current purse, which has broken a bit, but I don't think it can fit cards, change and keys all at once without some kind of tragic accident.

Yesterday, because I had a bit of real free time for the first time in ages, I spent at least four hours tidying the house in preparation of the parents' return. I actually missed my mum, because living with my lazy-ass brother for four days does that to a girl. I hoovered the back room, the front passage, the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen (twice!). I mopped the kitchen floor. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the computer screen and dusted it, tried to clean the keyboard as much as I could, cleaned the mousemat and then the desk that it sits on. I tidied the papers round there too. I cleaned the TV and the glass shelf-thingy which houses the DVD player, Sky box and video (way to make myself sound overprivileged!), and cleaned the fronts of those appliances too. I tidied the area around the TV and cleaned the cabinet that holds our videos. I took the clothes upstairs, sorted and folded them (though there were only four...). I straightened out the sofa and plumped the cushions. I tidied the shoes, put whatever new mail I found in a magnetic clamp, and then stuck that on the fridge. I sorted all the random papers affixed to the fridge so that letters were in the clamp at the top, then random shite, then phone numbers and contact details for people below. I also wiped the surfaces in the kitchen, with spray, tidied the area near the turntable and TV and cleaned the microwave and the two racks and two metal protector thingies that came with it.

I think it is quite clear to see from that lengthy paragraph that I am Superwoman. However, my arse hurts rather a lot now. It feels rather bruised. It was a pretty wearying weekend for me when you consider all I did yesterday, plus the fact that I accidentally got up too early on Saturday (after not getting enough sleep). And after dinner on Saturday, I got really bad stomach pains due to something I'd eaten that was intent on tormenting me. I had to take Rennie Deflatine, for God's sake, and that did help, even though wind was not the problem. Something wanting to exit my stomach pronto - it would seem, preferably through my mouth - was the problem. The pain was making me writhe and sweat for a while, and I may even have prayed. Oh, the shame. Nonetheless, this has only made me more vehement about avoiding left-overs wherever possible, and heating stuff up properly. Laziness - especially when it comes to food - is unforgivable.

I shall end this rather pedestrian rant with a couple of mini-rants. Firstly, I really am not cut out to be studying Seventeenth-Century Literary Culture. Our seminar leader Rose went to Oxford, and can I say, it really shows. She's OK and all, but I just get that sense of slimy slipperiness from her that I always get from those people. I can't explain it at all. They just kind of remind me of lizards - perfectly-trained, smooth, diplomatic, hairless, CREEPY people. It is as if all the personality and individuality in them gets distilled out to make them smooth, efficient analysing machines who know lots of critical jargon but don't really seem to have their own opinions on, or passion for, what they're talking about. Rose was genuinely shocked that people in our class had come from 'such different academic backgrounds.' Steph muttered to me afterwards something about how she was probably shocked we hadn't all read the classics, or something, and I suspect she was right. Need I say any more about the Oxford / Cambridge production line? I'm sure some people must just be thinking I'm jealous and that I'd go like a shot if I had the chance, but in all honesty, even if I could go, I can't imagine staying. I could never be one of those people though, which rules me out. It makes me think of the first issue of The Invisibles, where they say something about being made smooth in their heads and between their legs, or something. It's all very Demon Headmaster.

Might I add that the major cause of my bitterness was getting 62 for a rather labour-intensive essay (trans: I laboured and laboured to make my relatively weak points, and it so showed), only to have what I already knew repeatedly pointed out to me. I pretty much always know what is wrong with my essays, but usually there is a proper reason for it. With this course however, it's because there's NOTHING I can do. I fucking HATE studying stuff that has mountains of criticism on it, it makes me seize up mentally and produce shite essays because my real control over what I say is already so diminished. It's just like Shakespeare last year. Fun to read - crap to write about. Also, the seventeenth century is really boring because - and I can just imagine legions of studious, conservative old farts spitting dust at me for this - it is so far removed from our age now, and me, as to be insensible. If you want to call our age self-obsessed, try looking at them. White men writing English epics about conquest and trying to turn London into a Rome or Athens? Women being publicly invisible? Religion virtually dominating mass culture (don't even try to link it to now, it's not the same.)? Fuck off. At least with Nineteenth-Century American Literature, we get to do people like Kate Chopin, who have more relevance to me and mines, so to speak..

A word on global warming before I go: how the hell can anyone really deny it exists now? I know that Britain's weather has always been capricious (to say the least), but suddenly going from 18-degree heat (well, apparently - I know it got up to 16 at least) and sunshine to 4 degrees this morning and sleet (apparently hail and snow will follow) is insanity. Anyone who thinks that God is sending it to punish us deserves to get sleet down their trousers. Seventeenth-Century and Milton are making me lose my already tremulous (read: virtually non-existent) appetite for God even more. Yes, he's a genius. Yes, Paradise Lost is soooo amazingly dense. So what? He's dead now, and I ain't no Puritan!

'And I Wake Up Alone...'

My title, and my mood, come from the song of the same name (Wake Up Alone) by Amy Winehouse on her fantab 'new' album Back To Black. It is excellent, please do buy it. I have been - and still am - hooked on it. It was great because I even got to see her live at Porchester House just last Wednesday - for free! I won tickets somehow. I think she might be lucky for me or summat, because I won a poster of hers as well once. We had the most annoying couple behind us, but I will post on that later if I can be arsed.

Enough digression. Since I admitted to ---- that I have felt a bit attracted to A--- in the past (not something I was happy about, I tell you. Talk about WRONG WRONG WRONG!), we went through a seriously rickety period that was the worst in recent memory for a long time, and then - we survived. It felt like there was a lot at stake here, and there was really, because we've been together for almost four years now. We are actually pretty good now, and I can't help wondering almost if we needed this in some way. I'm not trying to prettify the whole affair, but was it some kind of Fated Intervention? It has made so much difference to everything.

Par exemple, it has reminded me strongly of why only ---- is THE man for me. No-one else loves me like he does. No-one else will sit there calmly and let me rant about my work. No-one else is going to teach me how to cook, mess about with PCs or about the law. Most importantly, no-one else will make me face up to myself - and tolerate my abject weirdness - like he does. He totally gets me (God, I know, that's so Californian teenager, I'm sorry). We have a tendency to feel too alike at times, and completely alien at others, but I'd like to think we'll get the balance right eventually.

I have subconsciously been doing that thing of trying to 'replace' him with A--- (that I did while he was away). Except that now the element of attraction that derived from them being similar is not there because my hormones are under control and we are much more stable. This time, I've been constantly harassing A--- to talk to me, and then when I do get the chance, I realise I don't actually want to. He is a very good friend of mine - I'd daresay he's become one of my closest friends, but don't let him find that out! However, no-one replaces ----. It's scary to realise how much you love and need someone. I was wasting loads of time yesterday and then I was talking to A--- at 10.00 p.m., wondering why I couldn't leave him alone when I didn't actually want to talk to him.

Bingo - because the man I DID want to talk to was sleeping. I called him at 9 o'clock and he woke up and spoke in his 'asleep' voice which is heart-rendingly sweet. I couldn't bear to ruin his sleep (he NEVER sleeps that early, so he must have been knackered right out), so I let him go. However, he was the one I wanted and the one I still want. Not A---, not S-----, not any of my friends... but him. I feel a bit bad sometimes, because I do like my friends, but the way I am just means I can spend a lot of time alone quite happily, and then factor in that S--- is way more important to me than anyone else, and you get a serial friend-neglector. I have to stop being a disorganised, dim-witted flake, and then I will be better at keeping in contact with people.

Well, that was quite therapeutic. Another post may be necessary!

To close, I'll just say that you really need to be careful about making subliminal associations. I already have the terrible tendency to connect random things, which makes me a good English student. However, yesterday for some reason I was looking up that girl Kaavya Viswanathan who is my age but slightly older, and then I looked up other high-profile plagiarism cases where top-university (sorry, college :-P) students have fallen from grace, such as Aleksey Vayner. The whole thing was quite interesting to me for many reasons, like 'Why on earth do these people do these things when they are at such a high-profile place of study?' and 'If they're so clever, why do they get caught, and caught doing dumbass things?'

This all came back to bite me on the behind when my younger Jij (brother-in-law), -----, rang up pretending to be someone from my uni saying they had reason to suspect I had taken quotes off the Internet for my essay on Moby-Dick. I fell for it (!), because:
a) I had actually written a bit about that at the start of my last essay, and
b) I was trying to find the chapter where the quote I wanted was, so I Googled it and then located it in chapter 46 (I think) in my Penguin Classics copy. I was just thinking 'But that's not wrong is it?!!'
c) I was on general dumbass setting yesterday. My parents would have destroyed every last remaining shred of my self-esteem after I had myself, had they known or even been here to know.

Oh well, all's O.K and I had better get the hell going to wash my hair and maybe go to 8 Til' Late so that I can get some plain chocolate biscuits and some soy sauce. Dinner tonight is going to be good!

Vive la Rome! (Or something like that)

Can you tell I'm too tired to think up half-way decent post titles?

The parents have been safely packed off to Rome (they'll be gone until Sunday), and my brother and I are at home. How do I plan to celebrate this riotous occasion? Simple - I don't. I have been feeling increasingly anti-social over the past few days, dunno why. Maybe it is because I have a lot to do, and I want to do it, but I'm still not determined enough to devote myself to it? I have read a bit of Paradise Lost, book I though, which is all good, and I plan - yes, PLAN - on finishing the rest tonight. Tomorrow's homework on Yves Saint Laurent is so not happening.

Went to have lunch with S--- up in Angel today, where he is working for his placement. He had his hair down, as I have been pushing him to have the courage to do, and he looked SOOOOOOO CUTE. I almost wasn't sure what I wanted to do to him, but for some reason yanking his hood over his head and / or hugging and squeezing him very tightly came into my mind. What is wrong with me?!! The beauty of this first glimpse was, however, ruined by the sight of the flakage up-top. His hair is lighter than mine - well, it looks closer to brown than mine does - and is gorgeous. It is all obedient and soft, and not as shiny as mine (not necessarily to be taken as a good thing!) but this means that dandruff REALLY shows up.

Good grief, all I need to do now is lapse into my 'cool, young, female, probably a (fashion) magazine editor's PA' voice and start advertising Head & Shoulders. Instead, for my own private mirth (not that of my non-existent reader(s)), I'm sticking this in.

Anyway, we had a buffet lunch at Indian Veg Bhel Poori House (their spelling!) for £3.50. Cheap and cheerful is most definitely the right description. We couldn't help feeling smug about all the non-Asian (Indian) morons who thought they were getting something amazing, just because it wasn't the bog-standard South Indian dosa-bhel-sev-chaat jobbie. I have no problem with that particular cuisine, but I have to say, kudos to the owner(s) of Indian Veg for spotting that gap in the market. And for £3.50 - really a very good deal since you get a lot of veggies and it's all fairly non-greasy, blah blah blah. It's definitely better for you than going to many Chinese buffets, where death by grease is inevitable. However, no, it wasn't amazing, S--- preferred Sagar (though we got more potato than veg having the set lunch there, AND it cost more), and we were mildly amused / terrified by the vegetarian propaganda that was, quite literally, EVERYWHERE.


But ja, I went to see him, we had lunch, I produced my magic surprise of 'live' drinking yoghurt with peach pieces, we walked a bit, we kissed, I headed off to uni (amazingly only about 7 stops from there. If only it was 7 as opposed to 26 between uni and my home ...) and picked up my essay (worth 60%!) for What Happened To The Epic From Milton To Pope. I got 75. SEVENTY-FOOKIN'-FIVE! I was in shock - really - for about five minutes at least, and then I felt very, very tired. I don't know if I can tell Katy, my friend whom I took the course with (I pretty much took it to be with her, which sounds potentially lesbo, but I was just trying to ensure we would stay in contact somehow, living in Bow and ......... respectively (!), and I figured not many people would want to touch it with a bargepole. I was semi-right). She was well mad because Isabel 'yoh yoh' Rivers ('yoh, yoh' is how she shows assent) accused her of lying about her word count, refused to take into account that she got evicted shortly before having to write this essay and therefore could only come in once to get whatever books were left (Kent to east London is THREE HOURS!), and gave her 54.

I have no idea what to say to Katy, because I.R seems to love me, even though I was mostly just b.s-ing all the way and paraphrasing her thoughts back at her... or so I thought. Either way I have a solid First for this module, since I got 70 in the other essay. Whoa, baby. Poor Katy, I don't get why I.R disliked her so much. She couldn't even get her name right for about 5 weeks or something.

Anyway, now I shall come full circle by explaining why I am tired, and then leave because of it. I stayed up till midnight for some absurd reason last night, couldn't sleep, woke up about 5 times and got woken up to say goodbye to my parents who I think left at 7 (cue me mumble-yelling to my mum in a sleep-fogged voice: "Muh... muh. Muh! Bread and Pro-activ!" Don't even ask). I stumbled downstairs in my teddy-bear pyjamas, hugged goodbye to them (or rather let them hug me, I was still undergoing pre-wake-up rigor mortis) and mistily registered that I had to turn on the dishwasher and put a washing load in and that dinner was taken care of. Beautiful. I woke up at 9, and I have been out since. Time, I think, to take a nap and speed on (I hope) with PL book I!

Milton, Kate... and Thomas N-

Since I have not posted on here for a high old time, I figured I would today. I have un petit peu de temps to breathe, since I have pretty much given up on being super-diligent in French. Quoi faire? If I can't get the critical article on Inch'Allah Dimanche (excellent film, by the way) done, or Thursday's homework, (which looks set to be about fashion. Fuck off) then OH WELL. I have so much to do anyway. I will rant on this topic as I am now too lazy and vague to have the Life Discussion I had planned.

D'accord, well. I have to read the first book (or is the first two?!) of Paradise Lost for next Monday, plus a pack of secondary reading. Yes, that's right... 'a pack.' Moan, whimper, mumble, etc. Now, I have read Paradise Lost already (hallelujah! Hallelujah!), as anyone unfortunate enough to know me in real life knows. It was a near-deathly experience which took so long, I can't actually remember how long. I fell asleep about 20 times through though, which BODES ILL.

Ironic thus that the second book I have to read (for Tuesday!) is called The Awakening. Kate Chopin, breast-exposing woman on the front cover (no... not Janet Jackson... though you can bet those SuperBowl spectators - and Justin - sure came to their senses pretty fast). Apparently, we'll like it. We'd better, is all I can say! Still, it is shorter than The Bostonians, which wasn't actually too bad, so there is hope for me.

In between this delightful reading fun comes the shock of actually having to THINK FOR MYSELF, otherwise known as my radio project with Thomas N-. Let me take you on a little tour of Tom. He is gangling (tall-ish, incredibly skinny), very intelligent and unbearably formal. I like him, but sometimes I am caught in the desire to terrify the hell out of him by rubbing his head very very slowly. Why, you ask? Well...

The formality can be a bit much for sure. I have times where I feel like sticking my hands in my back pockets and going "Well gee Tom, why don't you lighten up a bit?" like some 1950s American-schoolkid-gone-Enid-Blyton. Tom is lovely, but he tends to be impatient - something that doesn't come across at first, because he has a stammer (I think). Thus, he takes ages to say something. Cruel people in our class (Therese, Nesh) smother laughter when he speaks up. To be honest though, I think it is simply because, like me, his brain often moves faster than his mind. In his case, MUCH faster. I do like him a lot, but sometimes I just feel like going 'Tom, I know you're very smart and etc., but please shut up a second and let me talk, and while you're listening, formulate a bit so you won't struggle to express your ideas.' He also tends to interrupt / talk over you sometimes. I'm certain it's one of those things people have constantly forgiven him (because he is sweet), thus he doesn't realise he's doing it. Did I also mention that the boy is so goddamn diligent, he makes me look like some Courtney Love-style layabout? It verges on the bureaucratic. Bad girl, you will not - no, you will not pull his ears! Aha, um yes, well, I need a bit more patience too.

But ja, this radio project basically means we have to actually prepare a script, interview some specialists, give the whole thing a proper analytical backbone (it has to make some kind of clear argument) - AND THEN RECORD IT ALL IN NINE MINUTES!

I tell you, nine minutes? I know that dear old Nicole is a bit nuts (apparently her husband was in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956...), but this takes the biscuit. Personally, I am all in favour of our being replaced by those chipmunks that can be heard when a tape malfunctions / is played speeded-up.