I've just recently acquired a taste for cider. Considering my age, it is surprising I didn't get into it earlier. Whilst most my peers where swigging cider and black at parties I could not be whined from noxious spirits such as Malibu and Archers. Yuck Yuck. How one's tastes change. Now, I will never touch a drop of anything vaguely artificial. Now I stick to fines wines (well, anything above the £4 mark anyway!) and cider or the occasional G&T.
My boyfriend brought home two mini barrels of cider tonight, both are disappointing. One is Cornish Scrumpy and is exceedingly sweet, sweeter than any of the alco-pops I used to relish. The other is Cripple Cock, which I guess suites its name - it's strong but that's about it. What a shame, there is much to drink, but no enthusiasm to drink it.
I do need something strong though, after the day I've had. I'm moving tomorrow and have only had the time today to sort out my entire flat. That included scrapping out the microwave and binning much too much unnecessary stuff. I hate 'stuff' and I thought I wasn't a hoarder, but how have I got so much of everything?
Need to relax, but I'm worried that i've missed spots that need hoovering and I desperately need my £450 deposit back in order to pay for my next set of fees. I'm growing increasingly anxious about an iron burn in the carpet of the bedroom - is there any way I can disguise it?
Who knows - I'll have to hope my land lady forgets her glasses when she comes round tomorrow!
Friday, October 27, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Myth and Mayhem
I've just finished a first draft of a story I'm going to enter into a BBC R.A.W competition. It's an on-going comp. where every chapter is written by a different
person and then the whole piece is read out on radio and published in a book. I found it very hard to stick to the word limit of 1,500 and also make something self-contained yet open to interpretation for the next chapter.
I had to do a bit of research, although the story is based on the Somerset Levels, so at least I know the area well enough to picture it in my mind. The story has an eclectic mixture of myth and current ecological issues. The theme is clear; if the sea levels rise as much as a couple of centimeters in the next few years, like predicted, the Levels will flood again, like they did many centuries ago. This could spell disaster for local communities, not to mention all the marsh habitats and wildlife. Yet developers still want to build on it, to make homes for a growing population.
The story has elements of the myth of King Arthur and the language and description of such things as 'Punky's' and 'Rhynes' are native to Somerset and used to good effect.
The deadline for this project is November 3, so I may see if I can get a few people to read it and help edit it before I submit. If it doesn't get chosen this chapter, I will still follow the story and probably submit later on. It might be easier to format the end, rather than the beginning where everything is quite elusive.
person and then the whole piece is read out on radio and published in a book. I found it very hard to stick to the word limit of 1,500 and also make something self-contained yet open to interpretation for the next chapter.
I had to do a bit of research, although the story is based on the Somerset Levels, so at least I know the area well enough to picture it in my mind. The story has an eclectic mixture of myth and current ecological issues. The theme is clear; if the sea levels rise as much as a couple of centimeters in the next few years, like predicted, the Levels will flood again, like they did many centuries ago. This could spell disaster for local communities, not to mention all the marsh habitats and wildlife. Yet developers still want to build on it, to make homes for a growing population.
The story has elements of the myth of King Arthur and the language and description of such things as 'Punky's' and 'Rhynes' are native to Somerset and used to good effect.
The deadline for this project is November 3, so I may see if I can get a few people to read it and help edit it before I submit. If it doesn't get chosen this chapter, I will still follow the story and probably submit later on. It might be easier to format the end, rather than the beginning where everything is quite elusive.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
What a Social Life!
Mum just sent me our diary of 1990, and after leafing through it for ten minutes I can conclude that I was a very social eight-year-old!
To name but a few hobbies; St John's Ambulance Badger Club, piano lessons, French lessons! Not to mention all my extra-curricular activities, which included parties, barn dances, children's festivals, theatre trips and numerous holidays with both sets of grandparents. I really ought to thank my parents for providing all these fantastic opportunities! I had a better social life then than I do now...
It was a great pleasure to flip through those memories and try to recapture my childhood. I had to ask mum to explain a few entries, things like; Did my parents have to pay for the taxi my sister and myself got to school, when we lived outside the catchment area? What was the 'Easter Eggs-hiliration' we went to on Thursday 5 April?
Many curious entries and many more to explore. I know in the holidays we were always shipped of to grandma Joan, who would usually take us away with my auntie Anita to various YMCA's around the south west. Then we'd go to Swanage at the tail-end of the holidays and stay with dad's parents. Their house was amazing, my grandpa had about four greenhouses dedicated to just about every species of cactus imaginable. He had one huge one (like the ones you see in a Hollywood movie when they're cruising through the desert) that wore comedy fake sun glasses, taking on a personality all of it's own.
Then there was the collection of random videos we watched on rainy days, (I'm presuming some were cast-offs of my dad's and his two brothers), which included; Star Wars (the old ones), Top Cat and The Sound of Music. We'd watch these repeatedly until we knew the characters and songs by heart.
Then there was Grandma's cooking. She's Danish and big on food, so she'd stuff us and then make us eat more and more puddings. But her food was absolutely irresistible! She fed my grandpa so much that he's subsequently had various heart problems resulting in a heart attack. She now over-feeds my uncle's dog. Ziggy is a lurcher and she's supposed to be agile and trim, ready to out-run a hare in a heart beat. Not Ziggy, I could out-run her at a stroll. Poor girl, she just can't resist grandma's fine cuisine. She's got dog-diabetes now. And she's on a dog-diet.
It's not grandma's fault, she comes from a country that loves food and pleasing people with it. But in this day in age it's not the sort of thing you want to promote. Having said that, I'd kill for one of her chocolate crispy bars or a spoonful of her fruit pudding...
I'm so glad my dad has taken on her culinary flare, but at least he's a bit more health conscious with it.
To name but a few hobbies; St John's Ambulance Badger Club, piano lessons, French lessons! Not to mention all my extra-curricular activities, which included parties, barn dances, children's festivals, theatre trips and numerous holidays with both sets of grandparents. I really ought to thank my parents for providing all these fantastic opportunities! I had a better social life then than I do now...
It was a great pleasure to flip through those memories and try to recapture my childhood. I had to ask mum to explain a few entries, things like; Did my parents have to pay for the taxi my sister and myself got to school, when we lived outside the catchment area? What was the 'Easter Eggs-hiliration' we went to on Thursday 5 April?
Many curious entries and many more to explore. I know in the holidays we were always shipped of to grandma Joan, who would usually take us away with my auntie Anita to various YMCA's around the south west. Then we'd go to Swanage at the tail-end of the holidays and stay with dad's parents. Their house was amazing, my grandpa had about four greenhouses dedicated to just about every species of cactus imaginable. He had one huge one (like the ones you see in a Hollywood movie when they're cruising through the desert) that wore comedy fake sun glasses, taking on a personality all of it's own.
Then there was the collection of random videos we watched on rainy days, (I'm presuming some were cast-offs of my dad's and his two brothers), which included; Star Wars (the old ones), Top Cat and The Sound of Music. We'd watch these repeatedly until we knew the characters and songs by heart.
Then there was Grandma's cooking. She's Danish and big on food, so she'd stuff us and then make us eat more and more puddings. But her food was absolutely irresistible! She fed my grandpa so much that he's subsequently had various heart problems resulting in a heart attack. She now over-feeds my uncle's dog. Ziggy is a lurcher and she's supposed to be agile and trim, ready to out-run a hare in a heart beat. Not Ziggy, I could out-run her at a stroll. Poor girl, she just can't resist grandma's fine cuisine. She's got dog-diabetes now. And she's on a dog-diet.
It's not grandma's fault, she comes from a country that loves food and pleasing people with it. But in this day in age it's not the sort of thing you want to promote. Having said that, I'd kill for one of her chocolate crispy bars or a spoonful of her fruit pudding...
I'm so glad my dad has taken on her culinary flare, but at least he's a bit more health conscious with it.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
The Voice of a Seven-Year-Old Boy
I've been a very good girl this weekend. I've resisted all offers of Oyster Festivals and Beers Festivals to concentrate on my work. (With the exception of two hours spent guiltily watching "X" Factor and several gym sessions. And a few tea breaks!) It's been hard but very gratifying. I've completed two assignments and started research on two other projects. I'm desperate to get my screen play pitch into the Nick Darke Award scheme, but the deadline is Nov. 1st and they want a twenty page sample script and 2,500 word outline! It's going to be tough, but I'm going to try and submit.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was ok and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was ok and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Safe as...
I witnessed a very amusing incident early this morning, on my way to the gym. I was walking up Killigrew Street, which is very steep and a mission to ascend with a full backpack on. In front of me I notice two men trying to shift a large green object down a ramp from a house. As I approach, I realise it's a safe. A cast-iron safe, emerald green, both ancient and decorative. An old man watched anxiously from the door way. I looked around to see where they could be taking it to and spotted a removals van at the crest of the hill. I really didn't envy their task. If they were struggling to get it onto the pavement, they had a lot more pain to encounter. I wanted to know what was in that safe. I wanted to know why someone on Killigrew Street (just a regular house with no grandeur) would need to keep such a big safe?
I am moving out next Saturday and can't believe the time I've wasted today trying to cancel all my bills and direct debits. Every time I phone one of those hideous call centres I either run out of options and end up being disconnected or get told there will be a 15 minute waiting time and give up. I've spent over eleven pounds of phone credit this morning and have not resolved anything! These companies don't want you to lose your custom, and so they do their damned hardest not to tell you how to jump ship. I'll now have to keep trying and just hope someone answers my call before I seriously lose my temper. I'll cut them all off at the source - the bank, we'll see how they feel about that! But I want to be courteous and give them my final readings - just in case I'm entitled to a refund!
I've got to pack everything, clean everything (believe me when I say there are some dark and murky corners that have not seen the hoover or a dust cloth since I've lived here!) Fun, endless fun.
I am worried about not having time to complete my work and Luke's birthday is on the 29th, so I'll have to think of something special and inexpensive to give him.
Must start Bill's piece today and check to see if mum and dad have had a chance to find me some 1990 inspired memories.
I am moving out next Saturday and can't believe the time I've wasted today trying to cancel all my bills and direct debits. Every time I phone one of those hideous call centres I either run out of options and end up being disconnected or get told there will be a 15 minute waiting time and give up. I've spent over eleven pounds of phone credit this morning and have not resolved anything! These companies don't want you to lose your custom, and so they do their damned hardest not to tell you how to jump ship. I'll now have to keep trying and just hope someone answers my call before I seriously lose my temper. I'll cut them all off at the source - the bank, we'll see how they feel about that! But I want to be courteous and give them my final readings - just in case I'm entitled to a refund!
I've got to pack everything, clean everything (believe me when I say there are some dark and murky corners that have not seen the hoover or a dust cloth since I've lived here!) Fun, endless fun.
I am worried about not having time to complete my work and Luke's birthday is on the 29th, so I'll have to think of something special and inexpensive to give him.
Must start Bill's piece today and check to see if mum and dad have had a chance to find me some 1990 inspired memories.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Beauty wasn't so pretty after all
Turns out my attempt to re-write Beauty and the Beast wasn't quite as successful as I though. But at least I enjoyed the exercise and got a lot of helpful feedback. For next week I've got to write a piece in the first-person, with a strong 'voice'. I haven't experimented with the first-person much in my fiction, so this will be good practise for me.
Joe can't get away with parking in the Tremough car park any more - it's too risky, what with the near death threats they inflict on you if you leave your car some where inappropriate. So... we've found somewhere non too original to park, I won't tell you in case you (or someone you know) decides to steal it. Believe me, it's that difficult to find some where without being clamped, slapped by locals or have things smashed or broken off your car!
But anyway, we had a few drinks after a very long day at the office and then had to stumble through the halls of residence and then down the treacherous gravel hill descending to the old entrance of the college. It was a proper trek and two others, who shall remain nameless very nearly rolly-pollyed all the way into the river at the bottom. The river (well, it was more like a ripe stream), remained to be the last hurdle before we got to safety. With mobiles on to promote some much needed light to distinguish the sparse stepping stones, we all miraculously got across without even a soggy toe. This was only the first day of many more of these outings, so I will not pretend that it will get easier. But it sure beats getting the bus and it's nice to get some fresh air and adventure before being trapped in rooms with slidng walls, stark lights and contrasting climates all day.
Joe can't get away with parking in the Tremough car park any more - it's too risky, what with the near death threats they inflict on you if you leave your car some where inappropriate. So... we've found somewhere non too original to park, I won't tell you in case you (or someone you know) decides to steal it. Believe me, it's that difficult to find some where without being clamped, slapped by locals or have things smashed or broken off your car!
But anyway, we had a few drinks after a very long day at the office and then had to stumble through the halls of residence and then down the treacherous gravel hill descending to the old entrance of the college. It was a proper trek and two others, who shall remain nameless very nearly rolly-pollyed all the way into the river at the bottom. The river (well, it was more like a ripe stream), remained to be the last hurdle before we got to safety. With mobiles on to promote some much needed light to distinguish the sparse stepping stones, we all miraculously got across without even a soggy toe. This was only the first day of many more of these outings, so I will not pretend that it will get easier. But it sure beats getting the bus and it's nice to get some fresh air and adventure before being trapped in rooms with slidng walls, stark lights and contrasting climates all day.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
When I was eight...
Just got the strangest assignment today, but strange in a good way.
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
There are Not Enough Hours in the Day
I have to admit, I'm finding it hard to prioritize my time at the moment. I've got so many exciting ideas and projects to complete but it seems like I have no time to actually execute them. There are a few writing projects not part of the course that I would love to enter, but I have to prioritize with my primary focus: course is king.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Sunday- no longer a day of rest...
So much for Sundays being a day of rest. Although I admit to having a lie-in today, boy did I feel guilty for it and boy did I have a lot of work to do. I got very very drunk last night and have suffered. But the magnificent roast my boyfriend just cooked for me certainly got my stomach back in line. It was a fun night, actor Steve Mc Fadden was in Toast, much to our amusement. He was shorter than I'd expected and out with some quite dodgy looking chums. I have a funny opinion of celebrity spotting. I'd love to strike up a conversation but I am a) to nervous to approach and b) want to leave them alone because they get far too much attention as it is! I swear he looked at me when I left though...
Went for a relaxing swim, although it quickly turned a bit hairy when about half a dozen children filtered in. Luke and I vacated to the Jacuzzi which has beautiful views over the hotel's grounds and the sea beyond - bliss. We struggled to stay in the sauna longer than five minutes, both of us looking like over-cooked lobsters.
I really enjoyed writing my fairy tale story, a re-hash of 'Beauty and the Beast'. It turned quite dark, but that's OK because it's for an adult audience. It's all about corruption and greed. Beauty dies and her father dies of a broken heart after that. It would have been quite hard to stick to the original with the tone that I took to it. I enjoyed writing in this genre, having not breached it before, other than in reading. I also got the ground work done with my other assignment. It's not looking great, but I can improve on it tomorrow.
There are a number of competitions I'm desperate to enter, but I just don't know if I'll make the deadlines with everything else I've got to do. I'm signing off now, not because I've got nothing more to say, it's just that I need a break after being in front of this screen since twelve noon.
Tomorrow is the beginning of week 3 and it's going to be a good one...
Went for a relaxing swim, although it quickly turned a bit hairy when about half a dozen children filtered in. Luke and I vacated to the Jacuzzi which has beautiful views over the hotel's grounds and the sea beyond - bliss. We struggled to stay in the sauna longer than five minutes, both of us looking like over-cooked lobsters.
I really enjoyed writing my fairy tale story, a re-hash of 'Beauty and the Beast'. It turned quite dark, but that's OK because it's for an adult audience. It's all about corruption and greed. Beauty dies and her father dies of a broken heart after that. It would have been quite hard to stick to the original with the tone that I took to it. I enjoyed writing in this genre, having not breached it before, other than in reading. I also got the ground work done with my other assignment. It's not looking great, but I can improve on it tomorrow.
There are a number of competitions I'm desperate to enter, but I just don't know if I'll make the deadlines with everything else I've got to do. I'm signing off now, not because I've got nothing more to say, it's just that I need a break after being in front of this screen since twelve noon.
Tomorrow is the beginning of week 3 and it's going to be a good one...
Friday, October 13, 2006
That Friday Feeling...
I've just got home after sharing a bottle of wine with two other Prof. Writing friends, and I'm starting to feel sleepy. I've got that Friday feeling, I want another drink, else I'm going to fall asleep. I shouldn't have a drink, because I've got too much work to do, so I'll try and get that Friday feeling outta my head.
There, its gone.
Now before I had the wine, on the terrace, in front of the Maritime Museum, I attended a 'Writing for Business' seminar. It was very informative, with a varied assortment of guest speakers. The one speaker I wanted to know more about, got cut short before he had chance to finish his intriguing talk. It wasn't helped by the fact that it was nearly lunch time and he was talking quietly and at some speed. I had the feeling that the charts and diagrams he showed us were a trade mark 'box of tricks' belonging to his company, a formula that he may not have really wanted to give away to his rivals and a pack of thirsty-for-knowledge students (me included) at the back of the hall.
I'm thinking I should have approached him and poached him to give me a work placement, but I think pretty much everybody else in that hall had the same idea, either that or they wanted to ask for a writing job with his company. I really need to grow myself some balls and make up some really impressive business cards- then get on a networking mission.
So the weekend approaches, do I allow myself a day off tomorrow? I haven't had a day off in two weeks and I desperately need to do something other than reading/writing. I think I'll go swimming and maybe, just maybe, read a quality newspaper. OK, I know that's reading, but its just news.
It was lovely to go back into the Maritime Museum today, I haven't been in there since it opened. The boats suspended from the ceiling are still a very unique sight to behold. I insisted on taking Joe and Frea to the top of the tower, so they could spy on the posh houses across the water at Flushing. We all picked which one we'd chose to live in when we're rich and famous. Probably in about fifty years...
There, its gone.
Now before I had the wine, on the terrace, in front of the Maritime Museum, I attended a 'Writing for Business' seminar. It was very informative, with a varied assortment of guest speakers. The one speaker I wanted to know more about, got cut short before he had chance to finish his intriguing talk. It wasn't helped by the fact that it was nearly lunch time and he was talking quietly and at some speed. I had the feeling that the charts and diagrams he showed us were a trade mark 'box of tricks' belonging to his company, a formula that he may not have really wanted to give away to his rivals and a pack of thirsty-for-knowledge students (me included) at the back of the hall.
I'm thinking I should have approached him and poached him to give me a work placement, but I think pretty much everybody else in that hall had the same idea, either that or they wanted to ask for a writing job with his company. I really need to grow myself some balls and make up some really impressive business cards- then get on a networking mission.
So the weekend approaches, do I allow myself a day off tomorrow? I haven't had a day off in two weeks and I desperately need to do something other than reading/writing. I think I'll go swimming and maybe, just maybe, read a quality newspaper. OK, I know that's reading, but its just news.
It was lovely to go back into the Maritime Museum today, I haven't been in there since it opened. The boats suspended from the ceiling are still a very unique sight to behold. I insisted on taking Joe and Frea to the top of the tower, so they could spy on the posh houses across the water at Flushing. We all picked which one we'd chose to live in when we're rich and famous. Probably in about fifty years...
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Thursday
So, it's nearly the end of my second week on MA Prof. Writing. Boy, what a wake up call it all is. I've been fuddling along for the past year, not doing an awful lot of anything. Now, I feel kind of like I've been projected through the air, information pouring through my ears, eyes and brain. Then I've been set down on the floor again and told to walk, talk and write like a professional!
I don't know know how I'll remember everything, but I am determined to keep it all in and refuse to let anything important escape. It's just as well by boyfriend and three cats have moved back to Somerset because just looking after myself is proving too much in itself. There are not enough hours in the day to do want I want. But course is KING and I am merely a player, I surrender myself to it for the good of my future.
What have I learnt today? I've learnt that I do not remember certain fairytails as well as I thought(or maybe they just have a different meaning when you're doing a course like this!) 'Little Red Riding Hood'- did the wolf really swallow her and the granny? All I remembered was the dialogue when the wolf's in granny's bed, "All the better to EAT you with..."
We read a contemporary politically correct version of the story, which was very entertaining. Woolf, Red and granny settle their differences and turn against the woodcutter, who is accused of hassling them, when they are perfectly capable of looking after themselves (as independent women).
I'm looking forward to this week's assignment, which involves re-writing a children's story, for an adult audience. I'm thinking; 'The Princess and the Pea', 'Beauty and the Beast', or maybe 'The Emperor's New Clothes.'
Tomorrow I'm going to a Business Writing seminar, which will probably be the deciding factor as to whether or not I do the unit of the same title next semester.
Just read an email sent from my mum yesterday, replying to an email I sent requesting to know how the cats are. Apparently, Columbo has taken to sitting on top of the piano as my dad plays to him. What a blissful thought, wish I was there to enjoy it too. It's very satisfying to think that my cat has such good taste in music...
I don't know know how I'll remember everything, but I am determined to keep it all in and refuse to let anything important escape. It's just as well by boyfriend and three cats have moved back to Somerset because just looking after myself is proving too much in itself. There are not enough hours in the day to do want I want. But course is KING and I am merely a player, I surrender myself to it for the good of my future.
What have I learnt today? I've learnt that I do not remember certain fairytails as well as I thought(or maybe they just have a different meaning when you're doing a course like this!) 'Little Red Riding Hood'- did the wolf really swallow her and the granny? All I remembered was the dialogue when the wolf's in granny's bed, "All the better to EAT you with..."
We read a contemporary politically correct version of the story, which was very entertaining. Woolf, Red and granny settle their differences and turn against the woodcutter, who is accused of hassling them, when they are perfectly capable of looking after themselves (as independent women).
I'm looking forward to this week's assignment, which involves re-writing a children's story, for an adult audience. I'm thinking; 'The Princess and the Pea', 'Beauty and the Beast', or maybe 'The Emperor's New Clothes.'
Tomorrow I'm going to a Business Writing seminar, which will probably be the deciding factor as to whether or not I do the unit of the same title next semester.
Just read an email sent from my mum yesterday, replying to an email I sent requesting to know how the cats are. Apparently, Columbo has taken to sitting on top of the piano as my dad plays to him. What a blissful thought, wish I was there to enjoy it too. It's very satisfying to think that my cat has such good taste in music...
October Sun
After a brief but satisfying tutorial this afternoon, I went to sit at a bench beside the refectory. I closed my eyes to avoid squinting from the glaring sun, which was still strong, even for 3.30. I remember thinking that maybe it's hot now to compensate for such a hideous August. The heat of the sun was so warming, i didn't really even need to wear a jumper. It was exactly what I needed, the sun energized me through and through. I'd like to think this abstract piece of summer was a gift, but then I remembered global warming and my smile faded a bit.
Enough about today.
I said yesterday that I would tell you something that happened a few days ago. It's not a nice memory, but I know I need to write about it. The irony about it is... the man brought it on himself, in his own private hell, desperately, longingly wishing to get away. He was humiliating himself through his own unfortunate malady; trapped wind- or the release of the stuff. He knew he was making some outrageous noises, he just didn't know that I knew about it.
I'll set the scene: I'm in Tesco's, just looking at the reduced shelves near the checkouts. I hear a loud, sputtery fart and appalled, I look around to find the perpetrator. He doesn't know I'm looking at him because he's looking in the direction of the till operator, who may have heard it to, but I'm not certain. His face is scarlet, there may even be sweat on his brow. He looks seriously ill, mid-forties, scruffy- like he'd risked nipping out of the house early, to avoid the rush. But he really shouldn't have left the house, those sausages and milk really could have waited...
He let out another one, I was sure by the sound of the next one that he was not just letting out wind. This time he was level with the cashier, she didn't flinch. He looks more and more uncomfortable, is there something dropping down his lose jogging bottoms? I hope not, and I'm trying not to think about it, but, there is something about grotesque situations that you just can't help but watch. I'm glued to the spot, feet facing the shelves, head intermittently facing the checkout. He pays for the shopping, the concentration on his face is immense, he looks too embarrassed to even talk to the cashier.
So he waddles out of the store, probably to sit on the loo all day. All I can say is that he shouldn't have left home, sausages and milk... are they really essential?!
Please don't think that I'm weird or perverted for posting this obscene blog, but it's stuck in my mind for some hideous reason. I intend to write something memorable that happens, something that influences my day, but i can't promise it will be smelling of roses every time.
Enough about today.
I said yesterday that I would tell you something that happened a few days ago. It's not a nice memory, but I know I need to write about it. The irony about it is... the man brought it on himself, in his own private hell, desperately, longingly wishing to get away. He was humiliating himself through his own unfortunate malady; trapped wind- or the release of the stuff. He knew he was making some outrageous noises, he just didn't know that I knew about it.
I'll set the scene: I'm in Tesco's, just looking at the reduced shelves near the checkouts. I hear a loud, sputtery fart and appalled, I look around to find the perpetrator. He doesn't know I'm looking at him because he's looking in the direction of the till operator, who may have heard it to, but I'm not certain. His face is scarlet, there may even be sweat on his brow. He looks seriously ill, mid-forties, scruffy- like he'd risked nipping out of the house early, to avoid the rush. But he really shouldn't have left the house, those sausages and milk really could have waited...
He let out another one, I was sure by the sound of the next one that he was not just letting out wind. This time he was level with the cashier, she didn't flinch. He looks more and more uncomfortable, is there something dropping down his lose jogging bottoms? I hope not, and I'm trying not to think about it, but, there is something about grotesque situations that you just can't help but watch. I'm glued to the spot, feet facing the shelves, head intermittently facing the checkout. He pays for the shopping, the concentration on his face is immense, he looks too embarrassed to even talk to the cashier.
So he waddles out of the store, probably to sit on the loo all day. All I can say is that he shouldn't have left home, sausages and milk... are they really essential?!
Please don't think that I'm weird or perverted for posting this obscene blog, but it's stuck in my mind for some hideous reason. I intend to write something memorable that happens, something that influences my day, but i can't promise it will be smelling of roses every time.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Let Me Start Again
Having got over the initial shock of posting live on line for the first time I am ready to continue in a more professional vain.
My blog is called Yesterday, Tomorrow, Today because I'm never quite sure when I'm going to have time to write. Today, I'm righting about today, but there are already a million amazing things i could tell you about yesterday. It'll probably be tomorrow by the time i finish this- so I'm covering every angle.
There will be other days, perhaps when its raining, or I've got a rare day off, I'll write about all three and some.
Yesterday and the day before, I was lucky enough to be part of a group involved in a workshop with one of Hollywood's leading script writers; Blake Snyder. He was a man of boundless energy, infinitely passionate about writing and most importantly he keep me buzzing and awake, my stinking hangover a long lost memory. He opened up a whole new world to me: I desperately want to write a script. Who'd of thought most movies follow the same simple formula and you can write a good script as long as you've follow his easy fifteen beats method!
Tomorrow I want to tell a really dirty but funny story, it happened a couple of weeks ago, but still amuses me now...
My blog is called Yesterday, Tomorrow, Today because I'm never quite sure when I'm going to have time to write. Today, I'm righting about today, but there are already a million amazing things i could tell you about yesterday. It'll probably be tomorrow by the time i finish this- so I'm covering every angle.
There will be other days, perhaps when its raining, or I've got a rare day off, I'll write about all three and some.
Yesterday and the day before, I was lucky enough to be part of a group involved in a workshop with one of Hollywood's leading script writers; Blake Snyder. He was a man of boundless energy, infinitely passionate about writing and most importantly he keep me buzzing and awake, my stinking hangover a long lost memory. He opened up a whole new world to me: I desperately want to write a script. Who'd of thought most movies follow the same simple formula and you can write a good script as long as you've follow his easy fifteen beats method!
Tomorrow I want to tell a really dirty but funny story, it happened a couple of weeks ago, but still amuses me now...
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Blog Baby
I am posting for the first time and feel very exposed, entering the blog world for the first time.
I know it will get easier, but right now: I dont know where to start...
I know it will get easier, but right now: I dont know where to start...
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