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!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
'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!
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!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
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.
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.
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