Dented Nerd

An Atheist's Reconfiguration

2012-02-05T01:56:00.000Z

Five-and-a-half years have gone by since I wrote this post, discussing inter-faith conflict and how it had shattered any faith I might have had. Six months later, I followed it up by examining how those with faith see those without. A lot of things have changed in the five years between then and now, but the stance I put forward in these posts hasn't changed.

Still, five years don't often go by without some things changing. I'm older, I've graduated, I'm in a solid relationship and I'm living independently, like a proper grown-up and everything. And whilst I still define myself as an atheist, I'm arriving at this same conclusion from another angle, another direction. In short, I am an atheist with faith.

Allow me to break it down.

A Definition of Atheism

The following references are from Wikipedia. Not the most academic of sources, I know, but then I'm not trying to be academic here.

Firstly: what is atheism?

Atheism is, in a broad sense, the rejection of belief in the existence of deities.

To understand this definition, you need to understand what a deity is.

A deity is a recognized preternatural or supernatural immortal being, who may be thought of as holy, divine, or sacred, held in high regard, and respected by believers.

It's that first clause I have trouble with. A "preternatural or supernatural immortal being" - what exactly is that?

The supernatural is that which is not subject to the laws of nature, or more figuratively, that which is said to exist above and beyond nature.

In contrast to the supernatural, preternatural phenomena are presumed to have rational explanations that are, as of yet, unknown.

To me, nature covers everything that exists, everything that's real. I'm not just talking about plants and flowers and little hoppy bunnies - I mean the whole universe. All of spacey-wacey timey-wimey. I can't conceive of anything existing outside of time and space, outside of nature. If a god or gods are meant to exist above and beyond nature, then I just can't believe in them. It's not even that I won't - I can't.

That little term "preternatural", though... I'm reading that as a sort of get-out clause. That's theism saying "Well, we might be able to rationalise the existence of God one day, but we can't yet." My response is this: knowing what we now know about the laws of nature, about space and time and quantum physics and other over-arching scientific concepts, if the existence of a deity can't be rationalised now, then it never will be.

This is my explanation of my own brand of atheism, if you will. Other people's definitions will vary. I'm just talking about myself here.

Of Gods and Theists

God did not create Man. Man created God.

There are hundreds and thousands of reasons for mankind to have originated the concept of the "supernatural immortal being", but, in essence, a god is a manifestation - a personification, if you like - of will, of energy, of desire, of belief. I can put it no more simply than this: if you believe in God, only then will God exist. The more belief that there is in a god, the more power and credence that god will have. No belief means no god.

I hope that this explains why I don't look down on those that do believe in deities. Their belief makes their deity real. Said deity won't be real to me, because I don't believe in it. But that shouldn't make God less real to those who do believe. Who the hell would I be to interfere with someone else's beliefs? That's none of my business, just as my lack of belief is none of anyone else's.

Yeah, I know that because you're reading this right now, I am kinda sorta making it your business. But the underlying principle is to live and let live.

How I Regained My Faith

Now that I've provided a little backdrop to my essential beliefs, I can expand on that "with faith" part that must have looked a little contradictory back there.

Back when we first got together, Stat and I talked about religion and spirituality a lot. Stat has been pagan for a number of years, and the more he told me about his beliefs, the more they made sense to me - but not in a "wow, this is brand new thinking to me, I am now enlightened" sense. Quite the opposite, actually. It summed up what I'd been thinking and feeling all along.

Paganism doesn't concern itself with the hereafter / great beyond / life after death as much as it concerns itself with here and now. Our brief human lives are inextricably connected with the planet we live on, and by extension, the universe. When we do good, it should not be for selfish spiritual reward. It should be for the good of everything and everyone around us. Your actions have very real and very tangible results, and it is these consequences that need to be focused on.

It appealed to little old rational-headed me, so I decided to look into it. My path began in earnest on my 25th birthday, when Stat presented me, appropriately enough, with a goddess-themed tarot deck.

Here's how paganism works for me:

I have to be constantly mindful of my connection to the earth and the universe. I'm just one part of a single energy source, so it's my duty to dedicate the energy I've been given to maintaining that source and everything else that depends upon it.
I try my best to do no harm to anything or anyone. Sometimes, of course, it's impossible not to, but I have to mitigate it as much as possible.
Instead of praying to an entity beyond nature and hoping that a certain course of action will take place as a result, I focus my will and desire into real and tangible objects and actions, by means of a little thing called spell-casting. What's more, I do this with the knowledge that if what I want is not meant to happen, it won't, and that's fine.

Pagan Gods

There are pagan gods and goddesses, of course. First and foremost is the Goddess, the feminine principle. See, paganism recognises that life cannot exist with the masculine principle alone. When it comes to creation, it argues that the female has more power than the male. The Goddess is honoured above the God. (Admittedly, that was another appeal that paganism had on little old feminist me.)

But beyond the Goddess, who is the manifestation of all female divinity, and the God, who is male divinity, paganism doesn't mind how many other gods or goddesses you place your belief in. Any and all pantheons are welcome - Greek, Roman, Norse, Celtic, Hindu, Egyptian and everything in-between. The Charge of the Goddess, an invocation common to many pagan ritual forms, begins:

Listen to the words of the Great Mother, who was of old called amongst men Artemis, Astarte, Dione, Melusine, Aphrodite, Cerridwen, Diana, Arianrhod, Bride, and by many other names.

The goddess tarot that Stat gave me contains representations of many pantheons, and each goddess represents just one aspect or element of the divinity to which we all belong. Divinity isn't something we should strive to attain - divinity is what we are, and all we have to do is realise it for ourselves.

An Atheist Pagan?

Now, don't be getting your noodle in a pickle. This will make sense in a moment... I hope.

Both myself and the faith I belong to are concerned with all things natural. A deity by the definition of a "supernatural immortal being" has no place in my particular interpretation of paganism. The pagan gods and goddesses are aspects of nature and reality. Indeed, the Goddess herself is the feminine principle - a concept that most definitely belongs in the natural universe.

Yet I remain atheist. I do not believe in gods or goddesses as separate entities with their own power or governance. They are avatars of abstracts, and it is the abstract I place my faith in, not the avatar.

Put it this way: I love Statley very much. I'm not in love with a picture of him, or a voodoo doll that kind of looks like him. Furthermore, I don't love him for how he looks or dresses or presents himself. It's his quintessential Stat-ness that I love.

And so it is with the feminine divinity. I do not love the Goddess, because she is an avatar. I love that which she represents. When I consult my tarot, the pictures of beautiful ladies I see are representations of aspects of the message the tarot is trying to give me.

Goddesses and gods are extremely useful concepts. Each one represents a lot of abstract concepts, and instead of going to great lengths to describe those aspects each time we want to invoke them, we just speak the name of the goddess that represents them. It's for that same reason that we each have names. Nobody calls me "crazy nerdy cat lady who likes anime and spicy food and writes massive theological essays at stupid o'clock in the morning". People call me Joey, because my name represents me and everything I am. My name isn't me, and the Goddess isn't the female principle. She represents it, and so pagans work with her name and image when they invoke it.

...I Have A Headache.

If you've stuck with me all the way to the end, you're brilliant. That was a monster effort. Still, it's nice to be able to write about how my faith works and what my own little take on the universe at large is right now. I say "right now" because this kind of thing is always subject to change. My beliefs are far from concrete, you know? And it's probably better that way.

Joey's 2011 Review

2011-12-31T17:15:00.000Z

This post is dedicated to the furry feline friends we have lost this year: Holly, Squish and Digit.

Oh, crap. I've left it that long, huh? Well, here's a New Year's Resolution that I know I can keep, for reasons I will explain later: I will blog more in 2012. And if I don't, you can kick my little hiney from here to Manhattan, Dear Reader.

So, it's been a really weird year. It's been rough as all hell, but I feel better for coming through it in one piece. That, and Statley and I have experienced a remarkable twist of fate lately, which has caused me to question my worldview in more than one sense. If you'd asked me in October if miracles existed, I would have said no. But now, I'm not so sure.

How about a quick run-down of events this year?

January

Stat's dad got sick, and ended up in hospital for four months.

February

Manchester City Council announced their budget cuts, and the charity I worked for, the City Centre Project, was featured on an ITN report into the effect on our services and the young people we worked for.

March

I was taken into hospital myself, and was diagnosed with asthma. Also, my beloved Calcifer died, and was replaced with Haruhi.

April

Thanks to those budget cuts, I was made redundant at the City Centre Project. I haven't been able to secure employment since. Oh well, at least I had Doctor Who to cheer me up.

May

...What happened in May? I think I lost this month. In other news, John Cena became champ, and Osama bin Laden died.

June

Stat and I discovered the utter joy that is Gurren Lagann. Highly recommended, if you've not seen it already. BRO BRO FIGHT THE POWAH.

July

THUNDERCATS REMAKE. That is all.

August

I went to visit my friend on the other side of Salford, and when I came back, all hell had broken loose. But Statley's birthday came around, and he was given a new cat - Squeegee! Our cat count is now at four. If we get to five, it will officially make us Crazy Cat People.

September

Stat threw me a Doctor Who-themed birthday party, to coincide with the end of the season. I had a fez, a sonic screwdriver, Jammie Dodgers, and growed-up drinkies. It was great. Best Present Award goes to Marv for a little book he got me.

October

Purrdy's fur fell out overnight. The vets made her better, but her fur is still growing back, poor possum.

November

Stat got back in contact with his sister, who he hadn't seen for four years! As momentously joyous occasions go, this was as good as it gets.

December

We've had a grand festive season - Stat in Nottingham with his sis, and me in Shropshire with the folks as usual. But the real fun is due to start any day now, thanks to that little turn of events I mentioned. I can't say much about it right now, but a few changes are about to happen around here.

(NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN.)

I haven't mentioned the hand-to-mouth living, the meds I've been put on or the countless times when I just wanted to jack everything in this year. But with thanks to Statley and our ever-loyal gang of compadres, I've made it through - and things couldn't look more hopeful.

So Happy New Year, one and all! Even if this day looks darker than any other, I can safely tell you that there is a brighter day coming. I know, because I've been there. *hugs*

Ten Years Ago

2011-09-11T09:00:00.000+01:00

School finished and I got into my ma's waiting car. I asked if she could drop me off in town to go to my part-time job; she didn't approve of me working there, and we argued. As we waited for the girls that carpooled with us, she told me that she'd heard about a plane flying into the World Trade Center in New York. I shrugged. In my youthful English ignorance, I'd never heard of the place, and if I'd not heard of it, it couldn't be that important, could it? An image formed in my mind of an old man falling asleep in the cockpit of a Cessna and managing to break a few windows on a skyscraper.

Ma relented on the work argument, and half an hour later I was at the office. I worked part-time after school and at weekends as a door canvasser for a shady double glazing company, which essentially meant having doors slammed in my face for commission (no basic). "Exploitation" was a word that didn't occur to me until much later. My team had already left for the evening shift by the time I got there, thanks to my mother's remonstrations, but this didn't bother me. Soul-crushing as the job was, my purpose there was not to earn money or gain valuable work experience. I simply preferred being made to feel like shit by strangers in other towns, rather than by my family at home. It was an experience that would end, like almost everything at that point in my life, in disaster.

I was in no rush to get home. Someone had a radio on, buzzing with news about the plane crash Ma had mentioned. Apparently it was more serious than she'd realised - some people had been killed. Neither I nor anyone else in the office reacted to it. Even if the extent of the situation had been apparent at that moment, this was not the sort of workplace to react accordingly to major news events. The size of the plane expanded in my mind's eye, but that was all.

I talked my boss into giving me a bus fare home. An hour or so later, I walked into my bedroom, tossed my bag onto the bed, turned on the TV - and watched as all hell broke loose.

Although the enormity of those scenes took me a few days to truly realise, my first thoughts were of a psychology class I'd been in not forty-eight hours earlier. I was mere days into sixth form and A-level classes, and my first psychology lessons revolved around the psychology of memory. I remembered my tutor saying that our next lesson, scheduled for the next day, would revolve around the concept of flashbulb memory. You know how you remember where you were and what you were doing in near-exact detail when something of huge importance happens? That's a flashbulb memory, and this would become a flashbulb memory on a global scale - the term "9/11" to become as evocative as "Challenger", "Diana" or "JFK". Dully, I wondered if this was some heinous cosmic joke intended to make me pass A-level psychology.

The next day, I wore a red hoodie emblazoned with "NEW YORK" in large white capitals, and a stars-and-stripes bandana over my bunches. I hadn't bought these items in order to profess my love of the United States, but it seemed appropriate to show solidarity; I recall that my guitar teacher approved of this. My psychology tutor commented that it would be a long while before the truth of the situation would be found, before launching into Brown and Kulik (1977). (Incidentally, 9/11 would do nothing to improve my psychology grade. I failed the coursework and barely scraped a pass.) School was pervaded with a sense that something great and terrible had happened, but we were teenage girls, thousands of miles away from these events and their consequences, with entirely different mindsets and agendas. Politics wasn't high on the list of conversation topics in the canteen.

Looking back on the days, months and years that followed, it was one hell of a political awakening. On September 11th 2001, I was a nearly-seventeen-year-old with no interest whatsoever in the nonsense a bunch of suits spouted from their leather seats in London - just a vague sense that none of them was to be trusted. One teacher's earlier suggestion that I should become a politician based upon my excellent debating skills was met with distaste.

Then our country went to war in Afghanistan, which I could almost understand, and in Iraq, which I couldn't at all. I came to see Bush as a playground bully whose idiocy was only matched by his outright evil, and Blair not so much as a prime minister rather than a presidential yes-man. I began to wonder why we British were leaping on the American bandwagon, when this appeared to have very little to do with us.

And this was all before I discovered the likes of Michael Moore, Alex Jones and Peter Joseph, to name but a few.

Ten years on, I feel as though the damage caused by the "war on terror" will never cease to cascade onto innocent citizens. My vague mistrust of politicians on both domestic and global levels has fully bloomed into loathing and skepticism. I believe that 9/11 was a false flag attack, orchestrated by the American government in order to assert dictatorship-like control over its patriots, to speed the slow erosion of democracy all over the Western world, and to perpetuate false wars in order to boost global economy. I read the news every day now - which would have been unthinkable to me back then - and the headlines continue to carry its echoes: the repatriation of British soldiers from Afghanistan; legalized sexual assault in the name of "airport security"; the economy lurching from crisis to crisis; any excuse for a terror warning. September 11th 2001 was one awful day in American history, but its legacy is one of global horrors - then, now, and in years to come.

Here's a thought: when you are faced with something frightening, you can choose either to live in terror of it and be governed by that terror thereafter, or to smack it in the face, send it running out of town, and live happily ever after. The people in power on this planet would have you believe otherwise. They want you to live in constant terror of anything - any little thing - that could possibly pose a threat to you, however improbable. Myself, I don't fear the invisible things the government tells me to fear. I am scared of heights, I am truly afraid that I will never sing again, and sometimes I have nightmares in which I never see Stat or my cats again. But I don't fear being blown up on a plane, or secret cults rising up to wage war on the streets, or even total economic collapse. In terms of the world outside my front door, I have only one fear, and this fear is the key difference between the outlook I had ten years ago and the one I have today. Back then, the future was bright and full of promise. Today, I fear it.

I Saw The Salford Riots.

2011-08-09T22:23:00.000+01:00

(I originally posted this over on Tumblr.)

I was at my friend’s house in Swinton when the riots started. To get back to our flat on the Quays would mean an unavoidable journey around Salford Shopping City, or just “the precinct” as it’s known around here. The news was full of bricks being thrown at riot police, cars being torched and shops being looted. My friend wanted me to stay at hers, but Stat wouldn’t have that.

Both he and our friend Neil, who is tough and cool, met me by St Thomas’s Church, and we went through the subways and up towards the precinct. Everything seemed to have calmed down, in comparison to the pictures I’d just seen on the news. Tactical aid units were still circling the precinct, but apart from a lingering smell of smoke there wasn’t any sign of fire. With the TAUs still taking up all of the Hankinson Way side of the precinct, we walked down the other to find the road blocked not by police, but by spectators sitting on the roofs of their cars. Someone was just breaking into a newsagent as we passed.

Crossing the roundabout, we saw the source of the smoke - the two cars on fire I’d heard about, flipped over and blocking the dual carriageway, now completely burned out. The crowd seemed less interested in the precinct now though. They were moving onto Fitzwarren Street, and as we turned onto Highfield Road, we saw men in balaclavas smashing cars up in the Lidl car park.

What I didn’t see much of in the area was the police. They were concentrated around the wrong side of the precinct from all the action we saw. Even once we were back home, the pictures rotating from the news were all from earlier in the day, with the scallies throwing missiles at the police on Churchill Way. It seemed to me that the police hadn’t bothered to follow them round the corner. The helicopters are still overhead even now though. This is going to go on well into the night, and it will probably get worse before the end.

So, here’s a question: What caused the riots in Salford, Manchester, Birmingham and the Midlands, when the first riots were sparked by a man being shot in London?

I can’t speak for everyone involved, but I’m going to hazard a guess and say that these new riots today have nothing to do with Mark Duggan, and probably not a whole lot to do with suspected police brutality.

Truth is, riots of some description have been on the cards in this country for quite some time now. The economic, political and sociological climates lately have all showed the warning signs of an event on this scale. Think of Britain as a brushfire: the trees on the other side of the wood didn’t know a thing about the match that started it, but something was going to set them alight at some point.

To everyone around the world watching our country now and asking why this is happening, let me offer this explanation:

Our jobs have been dismantled. Our services have been cut back or destroyed. Our wealth has been taken from us. All this, by a government we never truly voted into power in the first place. A government who answer not to their people, but to the bankers and financiers who have no conscience about causing such chaos, as long as their own bonuses are protected.

As reprehensible and counter-productive as rioting is, there appears to be no other way to have our voices heard by those in charge.

I have witnessed with my own eyes a desperate piece of history being written today. For now, there is nothing else to do but hope that the ends justify the means.

Inventory

2011-06-26T13:40:00.000+01:00

OMG I HAZ A BLOGGER.

I know I'm bad at all this, but three months of nothing has got to be a record. Maybe I should reintroduce myself.

Hey, how ya doing, etc etc. My name's Joey, or some variation on that theme. I'm 26 years old and I live in Salford, the soon-to-be media capital of the country. I live in a cute little flat near the Quays, with my best beloved Will, aka Statley, and our three cats, Purrdy, Charley and Mischief. My likes include anime, point-and-click adventure games, and spicy food. My dislikes include hypocrisy, consumerism and the government.

I grew up in High Wycombe, and I haven't been back since my parents moved up to Shropshire four years ago. Don't really miss it, not much to miss. I have a brother called Marv, who I see a lot of, and a sister called Pook, who I don't since we stopped living together. They both live on the next street over from ours. Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe they just couldn't bear to be parted from their illustrious big sister. I dunno, you'd have to ask them.

This is the seventh year I've lived in Salford. I graduated from Salford University with a degree in popular music three years ago, and since then it's been about as much use to me as a chocolate teapot. I've spent a little over one of the past three years in employment, thanks to half-baked government initiatives and spending cuts. I was made redundant from my last job in mid-April, and I'm still looking. Meanwhile, I've lost all passion for music. I haven't written a single song since I left uni, and I haven't listened to any new albums this year. Guess my final year really took it out of me.

Can't complain, though. One of those half-baked government initiatives brought me Statley, and he's my Absolute Favourite Person. We've been together for two years, and our relationship is very peaceful. Unlike a lot of people our age (Stat is almost 26, almost a year younger than me) marriage and having kids is None Of Our Business. We don't get stressed or nag each other, and I could count the number of fights we've had on one hand. Instead we watch a lot of movies, go for long walks, run roleplay sessions and have big philosophical talks at stupid o'clock in the morning. I don't mean to brag, but what we have is as close to perfect as it gets.

Stat moved to Manchester when he was a year old (I arrived two weeks before my twentieth birthday), but he's been in Salford less time than I have. He's a Leo, an ENFP, and a fellow musician. He should be working as a security guard, but injury took him out three years ago, and government incompetence has kept him out ever since. He doesn't look like a security guard - he's skinny because he barely eats, and his hair is longer than mine. But between you and me... he's toned.

He likes horror movies, Stephen King novels and the WWE. He listens to Tom Petty, Janis Ian and Nirvana, and his console of choice is the Xbox, as is mine. He can start a conversation with anyone, and he's a great friend to have, especially in troubled times. I call him my "big kitty" because he gives great cuddles, and when I tickle him he gets a goopy face on like our cats do. He also hates when I blog about him, because I make him sound all smooshy. Don't get me wrong, he's also very tough and doesn't take any crap.

I love my cats like they're my babies, because my maternal instinct has to go somewhere. Purrdy is the eldest, and she looks after the flat when we go out. By "look after" I mean "stop Charley and Chief from tearing up the place". Possibly as a result of this stressful occupation, she suffers from a strange skin condition where the fur around her tail keeps falling out. (I sympathise with this, having grown up with eczema.) Purrdy likes to sit on the backs of chairs, and watch you do your thing. She's a very observant cat. Her favourite thing to watch on TV is the snooker - something about all those coloured balls hypnotises her. She doesn't say much unless she's hungry, in which case you get no peace until she's fed.

Charley, on the other hand, talks a lot - to the point where I can translate his meows into human equivalents. He says things like "Hi, I missed you!", "I'm sorry I knocked over your action figures again," and "Is it okay to sit here?" As a kitten he was scared of everything, and although he's a lot braver now, you can tell that he still worries a lot. For instance, he's only just realised that Sitting On Laps Is Okay. He's a soppy thing, always wanting a fuss, but he's always on his guard in case he gets into trouble. He shouldn't, though. He's very well-behaved.

Mischief isn't. The name gives her away, I guess. I call her Chief or Chieftain in hopes that she won't automatically misbehave, but it doesn't work. She spends more time in the back bedroom on a time-out than she does in the rest of the flat. Her trouble is that she hasn't learned discipline yet. She likes sitting on laps, but she'll jump up on you just after she's washed her paws in the drinking bowl. She'll jump up on your shoulder and bunt you with her head, but then she'll sink her claws in for no reason. She gets on with everyone except Charley, who she hisses at and runs away from. She wants to be a good girl, and she's got the right idea. But her execution's all off.

Our little family is dirt poor, but we're very happy. We have a lot of fun together, and we don't let the bad stuff beat us down. Isn't it everyone's wish to be happy rather than rich? Because I wouldn't trade this for all the money in the world.

Anyways, now that we're all friends again and not strangers anymore, maybe I'll start writing a bit more.

These Past Four Weeks

2011-03-27T16:44:00.000+01:00

Interesting developments this month. You know the kind, ones that put a lid on one can of worms whilst simultaneously opening twelve more. Don't worry, this isn't an angry post where I bemoan the state of the economy and all the broken promises of my youth. All things considered, I feel quite calm, if a little confused about what to do next.

It started, as always, with another fucking cold.

I've had about one a month since last August. Counting the two days I took off work at the beginning of March, I think I must have missed about four weeks' work over the past six months with being ill so often. Never mind how my employers must have felt about it - I was getting pissed off. After all, I'd been doing everything I could think of to prevent any more colds. Since my aunt was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes back in 2006, followed by my ma in 2009, I've been watching everything I eat like a hawk. My drawer at work resembles a branch of Holland and Barrett, replete with multivitamin pills, evening primrose oil capsules to iron out any kinks in my hormones, sunflower and pumpkin seeds to snack on, and raisins and goji berries to boost my immunity. For the first time in my life, I'd been eating three squares a day (breakfast? What is breakfast?) and getting in the occasional burst of exercise.

Clearly something else was afoot.

The cold went away after a couple of days, so I returned to work with a sniffle and a slightly sore chest. Trouble was, by Friday afternoon, the sore chest had developed into a full-blown wheeze and a hacking cough. "Oh crap," thought I, "it's Halloween all over again."

Turns out I was right. Stat called me an ambulance in the early hours, when the wheezing and the chest pain were so bad I couldn't sleep, and off I went to Hope Hospital. Unlike last time, where I was kept in for a suspected pulmonary embolism (eek), the doctor knew straightaway what was wrong with me.

Asthma.

I know, right? Bit weird to be diagnosed with asthma at the age of 26. Although it doesn't run in my immediate family, a few of my cousins have it. What's more, I was born with severe eczema, and I've had hayfever almost every summer since I was small. The three things - asthma, eczema and hayfever - always tend to come as a package. If you've got two, chances are you'll be diagnosed with the third at some point. The doctor at the hospital was surprised they hadn't picked up on this last time I was in hospital. *cue obligatory NHS grumble*

I was sent home after a few hours with some steroids and a set of inhalers, and spent most of the next week (I was on leave anyway, you see) in bed. I got tired very easily, and my chest took a long time to stop being so painful. Stat helped me clear out the back bedroom, to turn it into a little recovery space for when I felt bad. We aired it out, made up the bed, and moved the Wii in there so I could do my yoga stretches in peace.

My plan for the week had been to get some hardcore Warcraft play in, which would have been an ideal chance for my chest to get itself rested. But even this was thwarted when, halfway through the week, my dearly beloved computer Calcifer up and died. He'd been my faithful companion ever since Matt put him together for me on Evil Day in 2006, and he'd never grumbled, not once. Yet when I was asleep one night, Calcifer turned himself off and couldn't be rebooted. Nothing internally seems to be wrong with him, so hopefully my hard drives can be salvaged from him. We took in an old computer from some friends of ours, so thankfully I managed to get back onto Warcraft the following night, but it was traumatic to lose an old friend so suddenly. A moment of silence, please, for Calcifer - and also one for Diana Wynne Jones, who passed away yesterday and whose book 'Howl's Moving Castle' gave Calcifer his name. What a fantastic writer she was!

I went back to work the following week, feeling better overall, but also pretty delicate, as though a gust of wind could have knocked me over. Well, it turned out not to be a gust of wind, but workmen. They were replacing the ceiling tiles in reception at work, and although they did the work while I was away from my desk for an afternoon, it still went wrong. Bless those guys, they were lovely, but what on earth was the point of putting a dustsheet over my desk if all they did was shake it out over the carpet when they were done? Five minutes at my desk was all it took to set me off.

Leaving work with a great deal of pain in my chest, I called my GP first - they couldn't fit me in, and told me to go to the walk-in centre. So I jumped in a cab, and by the time rush hour traffic had let us through there I was in agony. I got to the desk at the walk-in, practically begging the receptionist for an inhaler - my reliever had run out just that morning. Timing, eh? Seeing my need, the receptionist sent me in straightaway to see a nurse, who may have been the biggest idiot I've ever met in my life. Asking me all sorts of stupid questions when he could see I was having trouble breathing, he promptly ignored my diagnosis of asthma and told me I had pericarditis. Now, I'm no doctor, but I know enough of medical terms to know that "card" means "heart" and "itis" means "inflammation". (Stat looked it up for me afterwards.) If you're thinking WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK, don't worry. So was I.

Let me tell you, sobbing whilst having difficulty getting the air in your lungs to sob is bloody painful. Not to mention that this chump insisted on crowding me. OH OH OH and he had an argument over the phone with the 999 operator who was sending out the ambulance. Just to, you know, reassure me and everything. If I'd had the energy in me, I'd have hit this fucking guy.

Just my luck that Salford was full of accidents and emergencies that night. The ambulance took 45 minutes to arrive (that's right, 45 minutes with Chump Change for a nurse and no painkillers), and the staff at Hope's A&E department were overworked, to put it politely. Or, to put it truthfully and not at all politely, they were bloody ignorant. The nurse did another ECG on me, ignoring the results from the ECG I'd had in the ambulance that I was waving at her. I asked her to call Stat for me and get him to come down. She told him that I was fine and that he didn't need to come to the hospital. The doctor I saw - once - took some blood without apologising for being "vicious" (her word, not mine). Aside from these, I was left alone for three hours. Three hours, in agony, with no pain relief, no nebuliser for my breathing, nothing.

After thinking he'd abandoned me to my fate, Stat eventually showed up at A&E. He told me what the nurse had said to him on the phone, which made my mind up. I demanded FUCKING PAINKILLERS NOW, brought in by a sheepish nurse who mumbled something about a changeover, and once he'd left the room I downed the codeine, got dressed and stormed out of A&E to a chorus of horrified stares from doctors and nurses alike and leaving Stat to explain behind me. (Stat is very good at explaining my anger to other people. I tend to lose my faculties of speech when I'm angry, which I most definitely was.)

The codeine kicked in once I was safely back in bed at home, and Stat took a call from the vicious doctor, now very apologetic about how I'd been treated, and also angry at Chump Change for scaring me half to death with the pericarditis nonsense. It really had just been another asthma attack. The next morning, I got the inhaler I'd needed all along from my now-not-busy GP, and I went back to work. Funny how getting back to work can be such a relief after a blazing trauma.

So this week, I've concentrated on getting my wobbly lungs back to normal. I had another week off work (two weeks off, but not a fortnight... long story, too dull for blogaroo) so I went down to Shropshire for a few days, where the country air set me straight, the dentist gave me a clean bill of health and I nearly ruined my folks' computer with Warcraft. When I got back to Manchester, my GP upped my inhaler dosage slightly, and Stat gave me lots of cuddles and baked me a cake. He always misses me when I go away for a few days, bless his heart.

I'm still adjusting to the idea of having asthma. Like the diabetes I'm trying to avoid, it's something I've got to live with from now on. It's never going to go away. Even now, although I feel a hell of a lot better than I did when my chest first started getting bad, I don't feel normal. I wonder if I ever will again. I wonder if I'll ever sing again. Hmm. A can of worms, indeed.

A Happy Place

2011-01-11T12:35:00.000Z

Exactly two weeks after my last post, I started my new job as a receptionist for a young people's charity, based in the Northern Quarter. It's a great place to work. I get to work with some wonderful people, and I actually feel useful, which I certainly didn't working for a certain city council. It also feels ridiculously cool to be working in the Quarter, although I don't think I'll ever be considered a true Mancunian hipster.

Do I feel silly for writing my last post now? Not in the slightest. My luck might have changed, but I'm only one person. It hasn't changed for the people that come through our doors every day. It hasn't changed for my beloved Statley either, who continues to be jerked about by that ever more useless organisation they call the Jobcentre. Oddly, yesterday I met a worker from the training company that Stat and I first met at, who told me that it's going under in the spring. Wonder who the Jobcentre are going to foist all their long-term clients onto next.

But I'm tired of talking about the worsening state of the nation. I read about it in the news every day (I've started reading the Guardian online, first drawn there by Charlie Brooker's editorials but staying for the good coverage), and every day I despair a little more. I don't want to talk about despair.

This year I could afford to get Christmas presents for everyone, including the cats, and even a few extra gifts, like a housewarming present for Pook and Marv. They've just moved into a flat that I can see from across the car park that divides us. It's a little bit creepy that they finally found a place to live so close by, as if they can't bear to be without their big sissy-wissy. (Yes, I am a big sissy. I'm comfortable with it.) But they have a very cosy flat, of similar size to ours, with a door wedge in the shape of a little man being squished under the living room door. I choose great gifts.

We spent Christmas in Shropshire as always, this year under four inches of snow. My folks got me a new printer and a stack of books, and Stat got me Cataclysm (early, of course) and a Steelseries mouse for Warcraft. I left some presents in a Santa sack back at home for Stat, our good friend Jimbob, and the cats, so they wouldn't miss out. Charley is still obsessed with his little red catnip-stuffed mouse.

The three of us had a very peaceful New Year celebration back at the flat. Going out and getting wasted isn't our style anymore, so Stat read his new Horus Heresy books with a bottle of gin, Jim played Star Trek Online with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice (I've never known a guy drink tart fuel before... go figure), and I went to the Winter Veil party in Orgrimmar with a bottle of Bailey's. Best New Year ever. No long queues, no overpriced drinks, no playing sardines in an overcrowded venue - just each of us having fun in our own way, together.

Life is good right now. Amidst helping Marv move in to the new flat over the weekend (Pook's already been there a little while), I finally managed to get my big TV and the rest of my books back. Ma gave us the old entertainment centre to sit it on, which hasn't been used since the folks left Wycombe. The boys are happy, because they don't have to squint at a tiny screen to play Smackdown vs. Raw 2011 anymore (Stat's Christmas present from Jim and me), and I'm happy because all the shelves in the entertainment centre are housing my mountains of books. (Marv asked me at Christmas why I didn't just go to the library. I told him I prefer to own my literature, at which my Aunty Sue cheered.)

Thanks to my brilliant new job, the bills are paid, the fridge is full, and I'm feeling fulfilled. Admittedly, I'm trying to stave off the January blues - Manchester does get a little gloomy this time of year - and I'm writing this whilst off sick from work with a cold. I did get ill a lot last year, especially at Halloween when I went to hospital, and when I took almost two weeks off work with the flu, not long after starting. My health had better improve this year. But right now, that's my only major bugbear. What I want more than anything in 2011 is to keep these good times rolling, as long as possible. I have a wonderful partner who I adore more than anything, a gorgeous flat to live in, a fantastic job, and everything we need.

I never normally make New Year's Resolutions, and this year I'm even less inclined to do so. There are a lot of things I want to do, just like at every other time of year, but nothing needs resolving. For once, I will be very happy if things stay just the way they are.

One Brush Tars All

2010-11-15T12:48:00.000Z

This time tomorrow, I shall be claiming Jobseeker's Allowance once more. Back to being a mere statistic, one of the millions of casualties of this recession, taking the punishment for a situation not of our making. Yes, I'm bitter. Six months ago, I was led to believe that, once completing the Future Jobs Fund program, I would have a job. That's what the name implies, right? Well, the day I started the FJF, the Labour government of this country ended, giving way to the ConDemNation. I'm under no illusions that any changes the coalition bring in will actually change things for the better, and so far, I've not been proved wrong.

Take Iain Duncan-Smith - former Tory leader, turned Minister for Work and Pensions. Seems he's had a chip on his shoulder since he was booted out of the Tory leadership by a vote of no confidence back in 2003. Like a playground bully with an inferiority complex, he's seized on the opportunity to make himself look big by taking his frustrations out on the weakest members of society. Among his vast, sweeping changes of the welfare system is the notion that the long-term unemployed will be forced to undertake unpaid community work, in order to keep claiming their benefits. In plain English, Duncan-Smith wants you picking litter, cleaning toilets and shovelling shit, or you don't get the money you need to live on.

So, the average jobseeker, hunting for a job that doesn't exist because, holy shit Batman, there's a recession on, will be punished even further by this situation that they had no hand in creating. They will be demeaned and humiliated, not just by the nature of the work they will be forced to undertake, but by the fact that they will not be paid for it. They will suffer and weep as Duncan-Smith gloats about his victory, not just over welfare reform, but about the lazy, idle 5 million people in this country whom he believes shouldn't be claiming benefits in the first place. The bully reigns supreme.

That's the crux of it, isn't it? This move will be popular not just in government, but out on the street and in the real world too. We're made to believe that everyone claiming Jobseeker's Allowance or something similar is gleefully draining society, happy to live on taxpayers' money and never having to work a day in their life. Let's ignore the recession and assume that there really are enough jobs to go around. Aren't the unemployed awful?

In this age of ConDemNation, it seems that any and all groups of people shall be judged solely on the merits and reputations of their worst members. There's no better example than last Tuesday's student protests in London - another vulnerable group, bearing the brunt of recession misery. The media chose to ignore the peaceful parts of the protest, both in London and elsewhere, and instead chose to broadcast the footage of the anarchists - not students - who seized upon an opportunity to get one over on the Metropolitan Police, by smashing windows and throwing fire extinguishers. Never mind that the majority of students comdemned this action. No, the media was determined to paint an image of all studenthood as a gang of violent thugs. Aren't students awful?

Or last Thursday's poppy-burning protest during the Remembrance ceremony. Another group of anarchists, this time under the name "Muslims Against Crusades", chanted "British soldiers burn in hell" during the two-minute silence. Once again, the media ignored that Islam is essentially a religion of peace, and tried to convince us all that Muslims the world over want to defile the memory of our fallen soliders - soldiers who died protecting their right to protest.

Disgusting and deplorable as these acts were, they have been used to misrepresent vast swathes of people, rather than the minorities responsible. These are the people who ought to be rightly punished. Instead, we are told to attach inaccurate adjectives to the labels we give these people. All students are violent. All Muslims are racist. All the unemployed are lazy.

I really, really hate this country right now.

Skill vs. Experience, or Why Younguns Are Screwed

2010-10-20T19:47:00.000+01:00

So my World of Warcraft server is down for some hasty maintenance, following the massive up-fuckery of Patch 4.0.1. Come back online soon, Hellfire! Anywho, it suddenly occurred to me that I haven't written here for a little while, so here I am, to share some thoughts I was thinking earlier today.

Right now, I'm jobhunting. Yes, again. My six-month placement is coming to an end, which in many ways I am grateful for. My experience of this Labour-government initiative to get young people* into work, the Future Jobs Fund, has been far from positive. Take, for example, the placement itself. I haven't worked for Salford City Council since the beginning of September. Turns out they don't discriminate when they treat people like shit, up to and including their own employees. Long story; maybe later.

Right now, I'm working for a careers advice service for teenagers. I really like it, and it pains me to leave them so soon, especially as the experience I'm gaining through working with these young people is going to be of great benefit to a future career option I've got lined up (again, maybe later). But this particular placement has given me a golden opportunity to add a skill to my CV that I've been sorely lacking for some time - the golden word "receptionist".

For the life of me, I cannot understand why all - ALL - employers in these parts insist on hiring "experienced receptionists". How the hell is a new receptionist going to gain any experience if she's not going to get hired BECAUSE she's got no experience? Did nobody ever stop to think about this? It's a meet-and-greet, first response kind of job. We're not developing a cure for cancer here.

It's not like I've never had the skills either. I was an expert with Microsoft Office before we were even taught it in school. I was writing my own computer programs when I was eight. I write for a hobby, and I was the first person in my family to have an email address. My ma was a civil servant back in the day - she taught me everything I know about "phone voice" and the subtle art of the stroppy letter.

Yet it seems employers still place experience over skills.

In short, those of us screwed over by the recession continue to be screwed over because of this skewed perception that it doesn't matter what you can do, but how long you've been doing it for. If I hadn't struck lucky with this placement, I wouldn't have been able to apply for half the jobs I've applied for this week. I could be have the best receptionist skills in Greater Manchester, but if my CV still didn't have the word "receptionist" under "work experience", it wouldn't count in the eyes of potential employers. Yes, my friends, that is the stench of bullshit clogging your nostrils.

Trouble is, what can be done about it? It's not all the employers' fault. They're looking for good employees that they can retain as long as possible. The recession hasn't just hit the jobseeker, after all.

But it's still not fair. Everyone needs to grab every chance they can these days, what with all this talk of government budget cuts to... well, to just about everything they could possibly cut. They'd be taxing us for breathing right now if they could justify it. But being denied the chance to do a job you know you'd be good at and can prove you'd be good at, just because someone else hasn't offered you the chance first, is tantamount to denying you the career, and even the quality of life, you want for yourself.

In a way, it's a form of discrimination. It's not as morally wrong as racism, sexism and all those other isms, but it unduly punishes the young, the long-term unemployed and the downright unlucky among us. Perhaps if a few more employers considered this, they'd think twice before adding the magic sentence "2 years' experience in a similar role required" to their vacancy adverts.

Anywho, wish me luck. Hopefully I won't be back on the dole by mid-November.

* Apparently I am still "young people" at the age of 26. This, I like.

Hacked! A Horror Story

2010-09-04T11:51:00.000+01:00

I know it's a little early for horror stories, what with Halloween being two months away. But yesterday I saw a kid running around Morrisons with an Advent calendar, and if that isn't scary I don't know what is. So gather round, dim the lights or switch them off if you don't have dimmers (ten points to Gryffindor if you get that reference) and listen to my tale.

I hadn't been on World of Warcraft in a while. A long while. March was the last time I logged in, and I only remember that because the Armory tells me that Ruka, my main character, had got one of the Lunar Festival achievements. Makes sense that I haven't played since - Stat and I have gone through a hell of a lot since March.

Anyhow, I got my first inkling that something was wrong when my little achievement tracking Facebook app popped up on July 23rd. "Professional Grand Master"? Since when? I checked the Armory, and Ruka was fine. Guessing it must just have been a blip in the system, I ignored it.

Oh, foolish child. Why did I not check then for my other characters? Hindsight is a whore.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to early August, and I was doing one of my regular Firefox geek-outs - tweaking my settings, playing with the interface, clearing out the bookmarks... you get me, right? I found my Battle.net bookmark, and thought "Hey, it's been a while. Let's see what's going on with Warcraft." So I entered my login details.

"Authenticator Code Required."

Um, what?

I'd never owned an authenticator, yet here was Battle.net telling me that one was assigned to my account. So I spent fifteen minutes on hold to Blizzard Support, who reset my password for me and said they'd check to see if my account had been compromised. I didn't hear anything back, so I assumed everything was fine.

Oh, cruel Blizzard. You said my characters would be safe.

Fast forward again to September 1st, Wednesday just gone. I was dying on the couch. Stayed home from work with a chest infection and the sneezes. When I wasn't trying to cough up the cigarette filters that some unkind person had clearly shoved into my lungs when I wasn't looking, I was trying to stop my sinuses from feeling as though they were being eaten from the inside.

Can't have a good horror story without a gnarly descriptive passage.

Ever the gentleman, Stat went out to get meds for me. What I didn't know was that he also had a cure for my dejected state of mind too.

He came home with Wrath of the Lich King for me.

Now, you have to understand the magnitude of this gesture. Stat HATES World of Warcraft. I let him roll a death knight so he could try it out, and he hated it. Well, he quite likes the lore behind it, but he can't stand the gameplay. He plays Warhammer 40,000, which is as diametrically opposed to Warcraft as it's possible to get. He calls Ruka "that stupid cow-person", and laughs at me when I tell him that the tauren are a noble race, and that they've squished people for lesser insults. His reasoning is that a squad of Space Marines could take the Lich King down in seconds. Yeah, whatev.

So, for him to actually spend money to get me an expansion for a game he can't stand is... well, I told him that it was flat out the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me. I have the best boyfriend.

It was back to Azeroth for me then. I installed it, renewed my subscription, spent 45 minutes downloading all the new patches, and logged in...

...to find all but two of my characters gone.

(I shall pause here to let the pain sink in.)

Ruka was there, praise the Earthmother. My other tauren, a low-level shaman named Makota, was also there. Six characters were missing. In their place was a level 1 orc warrior named Scpprr, with no gear and over 300 gold. What tore me up most was that Ruka was in Dalaran. I'd planned to make my grand entrance in Dalaran by levelling through the Wrath quests. The little scrotum sucker who had hacked my account - which was, of course, quite apparent now - had deprived me of that. Ruka's bags were full of high-level ores, which was odd considering that she's a leatherworker and skinner, not a miner.

I spent 45 minutes on hold to Blizzard Support this time, unleashing my panic and fury onto an unsuspecting tech support guy named Pierre. (He had a voice like melted chocolate. Darn those French and their sexy accents.) He said he'd get Ruka's gear back to her and restore my poor deleted characters as soon as possible. Merci, Pierre!

My characters still haven't returned. I think they'll reappear after server maintenance on Tuesday night - if not it'll be another freaked-out call to Blizzard. And their hold queues are farking redonkulous.

A moment of silence, if you please, for my lost characters:

Aramantine, feral night elf druid, last seen in Outland
Aramanth, shadow night elf priest, the first character I ever rolled, last seen in the Wetlands (I need to get her out of there before Deathwing levels the place)
Anareya, a low-level human warlock, who I was never that fond of
Aeriya, a low-level draenei mage, who I wasn't getting on with
Therru, a low-level blood elf paladin, last seen in Silverwing City
Ahrimann, Stat's death knight, who had only just got past his starter quests

There is an upshot to all of this. Once I'd mailed all of Scpprr's gold to Ruka and deleted the little fucker, I took all that ore and shiny stuff to the auction house. Let me tell you something - Ruka is now LOADED. She's powering through the Howling Fjord, keeping up with the Outland dailies, and working through some low-level dailies to get a raptor mount. Nibbles, her trusty devilsaur pet, is still as hardcore as ever. Devilsaurs have the best DPS output of any hunter pet in the game. Fact.

And to that little hacker fuck that's lurking out there... joke's on you, pal.

Five Years On

2010-08-29T16:34:00.000+01:00

It's been five years to the day since Hurricane Katrina levelled New Orleans. According to the BBC, President Obama is due to pledge his continuing support to the rebuilding of the city.

What still chills me, five years later, is that virtually nothing was done to prevent this level of destruction. How can a government do that to its own people?

Here are some statistics:

Katrina was predicted in 2001. No extra measures to protect New Orleans were taken before Katrina hit.
The levees protecting New Orleans were breached 53 times. Some conspiracy theories claim that the levees were dynamited to divert the floods away from the rich, white neighbourhoods.
Over 80% of the city and its surroundings were submerged in the resulting floods - over twenty feet high in some areas.
1,836 people died as a result of Katrina - 1,577 of those were in Louisiana.
$81 billion worth of damage was caused, making Katrina the costliest natural disaster in the United States to date.

And what of the US government's response? Help did not start to arrive in New Orleans until September 2nd - four days after the hurricane. It took then-President Bush a year after the disaster to feign interest in the destroyed city. Is that not the very definition of disenfranchisement? Over a fifth of the population of New Orleans has not returned. The entire East Side of the city remains abandoned. Can you blame them?

Five years ago, it appalled me that this was allowed to happen. Today, I write this knowing better. No government places the best interests of its people at the top of its agenda. The Zeitgeist movies go into great detail about the kind of slavery we are subject to, without even realising it. Loose Change reveals the huge cover-up surrounding 9/11 - it's not a stretch of the imagination to see how easily New Orleans was abandoned after Katrina by comparison. Even the Story of Stuff films, although more light-hearted and eco-oriented, show how little governments care for their own.

This was a disaster waiting to happen. The rescue and recovery of New Orleans was not so slow to start by mere accident. Bush and his administration simply didn't care.

Knee Fit

2010-08-17T20:55:00.001+01:00

My knee is borked. This would be news if it hadn't started, oh, six years ago or so. Back when I was working in the Mythical Land of Percy's, before the Time of Uni or the Coming of the Cats, I started getting inexplicable pain in my knee. The doctors didn't know what to make of it. I had blood tests, X-rays, exams and all sorts, everything came back normal. They were about to refer me to a specialist just before I left wicked Wycombe for mighty Manchester.

As suddenly as it started, it stopped for a long time. I'd get the odd twinge, the rare sleepless night with it, but I wasn't constantly on medication. (Boy, do I miss the Cocodamol days. The world looked so shiny and electro, like the inside of Vince Noir's brain.)

Then I got with Statley, and all of a sudden it came back. It was aching one day while we were watching a rerun of Doctor Who. I went to stand up from the couch, and SNAP! It sounded like a gunshot going off. I didn't move from the couch again for 48 hours, and since then it's been constantly painful.

Things came to a head about a month ago when my hip started giving out too. Getting up and down stairs was bringing tears to my eyes. I started getting weird looks at the photocopier at work for letting out involuntary squeals. Back to the doctor I went, for another round of X-rays and exams. The verdict this time has come back a little differently - soft tissue damage.

I've been referred to a physiotherapist, but I've got no painkillers this time around. Anti-inflammatories weren't touching it, so my doctor's taken me off all meds. So what's a gal to do in her hour of need?

Turn to video games, of course!

While I'm waiting to hear from the physio, I've borrowed Marv's Wii Fit and got back into yoga and aerobics. I like Wii Fit a lot. Sure, it relies too heavily on that bullshit BMI theory for its measurements (health is not something that can be measured by statistics!), but its focus on balance and posture is really helpful for me at the moment. I've been feeling like I've been limping and throwing my hips at an angle to compensate for my knee pain. Even the Wii Fit trainer tells me that I need to work on my right leg's stability.

FYI, I use the female trainer. I don't trust guys with widdly little ponytails.

Stat thinks it's hilarious. His line is that Wii Fit makes people look like idiots in the comfort of their own homes. My response would be that I'd rather look like a tit in privacy than surrounded by people at a gym. There's something about it being a video game that makes it that much easier to get to grips with. I've been in gyms and been scared away by all the freaky-looking equipment and the trainers that Take This Shit Seriously. Eep.

I don't want a personal trainer that yells at me and makes me do push-ups! The Wii Fit only gives me encouragement and tells me nice things. My Wii Fit age is always close to my actual age (today it's bang on), and despite my knee trouble, my balance is really good.

Besides, I don't mind doing yoga stretches if there's only Stat to laugh at me. I'm just dreading the day I fall over mid-exercise and land on one of the cats. Oh, man. Dreading it.

The Importance of Being Cool

2010-08-13T20:47:00.000+01:00

I haven't listened to any new music lately. The last two new albums to enter my music rotation were Anais Mitchell's 'Hadestown' (whose brilliance I am obsessed with) and Hanson's 'Shout It Out' (for reasons that really ought to be clear by now). I've been listening to these for about three months now. Three months, and nothing new since.

I wonder why.

You see, PMR ended two years ago now. I could count the number of gigs I've attended since on one hand, up to and including the only one I performed in. I haven't seen or spoken to a lot of the folks that were my buddies at uni for a very long time now. Hell, I can't even remember what Incassum look like.

A lot of that may be to do with the demise of Ben-and-me as a single unit, but that would be a digression I don't want to go into right now.

I still sing, and I still play guitar. Stat and I are always messing about with songs. It's nice, but I haven't learned anything new there for a while either. I haven't got the slightest inclination to get out and perform again, to join another band or a choir, or even to record one of my old songs.

A few months ago, my lack of spark was worrying me. I thought PMR had killed it. Making music had become a chore instead of a passion. But now it's gone even further. Gigs no longer interest me - even if I could afford to go, I probably wouldn't. I shrug at the new releases and recommendations the intarwebs tries to tempt me with.

I wonder why.

Well, I have a theory, and it goes like this: I don't want to be cool anymore.

Now, you know and I know that I've never outwardly identified myself as cool, not ever. It's "Dented Nerd", not "Ice Cold and Bang On". The general definition of cool has never applied to me. I've always made my own version of cool. Being geeky is just another version of coolty, if you want to look at it like that.

Inwardly though, I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could be cool... if I chose to be. I'm the perennial outside, partly by circumstance, partly by choice, and it was that choice I wanted to explore. If I could be popular, a lead singer in a band, a performer with style and trend, I'd be cool. I used to crave popularity because I thought that was how a person was measured - by the number of friends they had. I wanted to be able to choose popularity, if I wanted to.

Turns out I don't.

Realising how far my paradigm has shifted has taken a while, but I think I can finally make sense of my complete self-removal from the music scene. (Ugh, I hate that word.) I did prove it, to myself and everyone else. But in the end, it wasn't what I wanted. Keeping up with trends, trying to stay with the in-crowd - how is that important? Does it really improve your self-worth? What is that sort of "cool" but a never-ending cycle based on the fear of rejection?

Now that I'm firmly back on the outside, I feel a lot more at ease with myself. There's no pressure to impress anyone. I've got my little family, and right now my sole focus is to look after them as best I can. Being cool is no longer important. I may as well have dropped off the face of the earth as far as my uni friends go, but I don't feel the need to remind them of my presence. They know where I am if they want to hang out with me. It doesn't cost the price of a gig ticket or a night out to be my friend. There's no dress code at my door.

Being cool was a front for me, and one that I couldn't keep up past uni. I can only be myself. And if that means listening to the music I want to listen to, at my own pace, that's what I'll do. Gone are the days when I cared about how people perceived me. I know I'm on no-one's radar right now, apart from those that I really care about and who care about me in return.

It's a very liberating experience, to not have to live by other people's standards. I'd recommend it to anyone.

You've Heard This Rant Before.

2010-08-01T22:32:00.001+01:00

So it seems that recently, I may have offended a few people with my overt distaste for everything in and around the 'Twilight' series. Namely, by posting this:

I'm sure experiences like this are far from unheard of. A lot of people seem to have an obsession with the phenomenon, many unhealthily so. Now, I used to be a fangirl. Heck, even now, just the mere mention of Hanson makes me gooey. But they're real people. 'Twilight' is fiction. That's why it's starting to scare me when I'm suddenly offending people by expressing my opinion. (You know how I hate to offend people. It makes me ill sometimes.)

However, I'm not going to apologise for how I feel about it. It's not going to change, even if someone tries to change my mind. I'm just going to explain the reasons why I cannot enjoy the series the way others do.

1. It's not Stephenie Meyer's best work.

Have you read her novel 'The Host'? It's much better, I assure you. The concept and the storyline are very clever, and the characters are developed so much more fully and realistically. In fact, the characters of Wanda and Melanie are written in such a way that their collective vapidity and insecurity (which I'll get to in a moment) works for the story.

2. Twilight's characters are generic.

It's clear to see why Meyer wrote the main characters so as to give them absolutely no personality whatsoever. It's so that it's easier for people to relate to them, to fit into their shoes and imagine themselves as a character in the story. Unfortunately, this approach doesn't work for everyone. Yes, it may be the reason why the story is so undeservedly popular, but it's lazy storytelling at the end of the day. When trying to inspire readers' imaginations, the writer should give them something more to work with beyond an empty shell.

The Oatmeal makes this point much more clearly than I ever could.

3. Anne Rice writes better vampire fiction.

Personal bias, perhaps. But 'The Vampire Chronicles' don't read like bad fanfiction. Besides, there's plenty of dramatic tension among the vampires themselves without dragging werewolves into the mix. If you've read my last post, you'll know that I'm not happy with werewolves at the moment.

FYI: Lestats in order of preference: Stat*, Stuart Townsend, Tom *spit* Cruise.

4. You don't mess with tradition.

It's a given that exposure to sunlight kills vampires. It's as intrinsic a part of the vampire mythology as it's possible to get. Rewriting a centuries-old tradition just so your characters can get smoochy after school is Just Not Kosher.

It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth just talking about this stupid series. I'm sure I've not added anything new to the argument against it, but I really had to get this off my chest. As I've said, a lot of people out there are taking their love of 'Twilight' to scary lengths, and it's just not right that I'm sitting here feeling like crap for having offended people when I'm perfectly entitled to my opinion, and they've taken theirs too far.

To wrap things up. here's a horror story to sleep on.

*Where else would he have got his nickname from?

Grumblecakes

2010-07-20T19:37:00.000+01:00

I has grievances. Let me show you them.

Firstly, Stat is ill. This makes me grumpy because there is not a bright blue thing I can do about it. I hate to see him suffer so.

Secondly, this stupid weather is really aggravating me. It's nearly 100% humidity in Manchester right now. I thought only crazy far-off places like Dubai got 100% humidity, but here we are, dying of the closeness... and it's RAINING. Did we get some other country's monsoon or something? May and June were two of the hottest and driest months on record, and then July comes along and tries to both suffocate and drown us all. BOO YOU, JULY.

Thirdly, I ordered Pook and Marv's birthday presents ten days ago from Play.com, and they haven't showed. Their birthday was last Friday. (Also, Marv graduated last Thursday. He got a 2:1 for his English degree. That's a nice un-grumpy thought.) This is not the first time I've heard of Play magically losing orders and keeping the cash. I sense some strong words coming on.

Fourthly, we mooched all the way over to Longsight and back again for a meeting with our solicitor earlier. We got precisely zip done. It's not really the getting-zip-done that annoyed me, but it was the missions we went through to get there in order for aforementioned zip to get done. Precisely, a two-hour round trip on public transport to get zip done. Did I mention that Stat's ill today too?

Fifthly, actual grumblecakes, by which I refer to Homestar Runner. What's with the freakin' hiatus, Chaps? Mama need her sbemails!

Sixthly, I wish Charley would chill the eff out. If he's not sleeping or eating, he's howling. He's not a dog and there's no full moon, yet if he's left to his own devices for more than two minutes at a time lately, it's this constant "MAAAAOOO! MAAAAOOO! MAAAAAAAOOOOOO!" Even Purrdy's taken to giving him the STFU stink-eye.

Seventhly, I'm currently reading 'A Thousand Sons', one of the Warhammer 40K Horus Heresy books. Council of Nikaea, anyone? Next time I meet a Space Wolf, I'm gonna punch its back-stabbing, Twilight-looking, fuzzy ginger lights out. FUCK YOU, RUSS. Mortarion too.

Eighthly, World of Warcraft is getting seriously fucked about with in my absence, to the point where I'm wondering if it'll be worth my while getting back into it once Cataclysm comes out. 31-point talent trees? Mastery? WTF??

Ninthly, congratulations, Boise, Idaho! You get to see Hanson on my birthday, you mean lucky people. Where are their plans to tour with their new album in Europe? Boys, seriously. I will learn your crazy dance, I will buy your merchandise, I will even get my boobs out if you want. Just come back to Manchester, prettiest of pleases?

Tenthly, I feel a bit silly writing all this. Not but a few months ago, I had serious grievances, the kind that puts a whole life on hold. Most of these are just little dramas of my own making. My flat is still awesome, my job is still awesome, and all three of my kitties give me all the cuddles I need. Is it just part of the human condition to seek out negativity where there really isn't any?

Hello, Sunshine

2010-06-15T23:29:00.000+01:00

It was always going to be a long hiatus. Some situations insist on getting darker and darker before that drastic change you've needed makes itself known. We've known that for a while round here, haven't we? Change was never so sorely needed.

So you'll be glad to hear that I finally have some good news. Masses of it.

Like many situations, things first had to get worse before they could get better. April 6th was the day things really went to hell. Stat and I were kicked out of the flat I used to love, but had come to hate. I really can't say a whole lot about the circumstances surrounding it, except that our eviction was far from kosher.

We crammed our cats and mountains of stuff (95% mine, it must be said) into the front room of a tiny flat in Eccles belonging to a very generous friend of ours. We slept on a fold-out couch that was broken at one end. Stat, being so much more worldly-wise than I, didn't think twice about roughing it, but I quickly grew claustrophobic and miserable. Purrdy and Charley grew restless at nighttime, so sleep was patchy at best. I had internet withdrawal symptoms. Simple things like privacy and rest became precious commodities, to be snatched at elsewhere.

But then, on May 10th, the turnaround. I started a new job.

You'd never guess who with, so I'll just tell you.

One of my many nemeses. Salford City Council.

It's a good job too. I'm working in children's services, which is an odd little twist on that PGCE idea I had. (Still, fuck you, fuck you forever, Liverpool Abandon-All-Hope.) I'm an admin assistant, and I'm finding that I'm pretty good at it. I guess I have a natural knack for being organised, which makes me wonder if I was ever really cut out to be a chaotic musician. The people are great, all mad as a box of frogs, and I've already been on a team-building excursion with them all.

In short, I'm enjoying myself and getting paid for it - enough, in fact, for Stat and I to move to a new flat. A bigger, nicer flat than the one we left behind, with balconies and a huge garden out back. We're still moving our things in, piece by piece, but the cats love having so much space to run around in, and windowsills to sunbathe on. Stat wants to turn the back bedroom into a recording studio. I'm planning to plant a herb garden.

The four of us are happy again.

Love 1, Valentine's Day 0.

2010-02-15T03:06:00.003Z

So I've just spent a very pleasant February 14th with a very handsome man. We spent the day in bed watching horror movies, eating stir-fry to celebrate the Year of the Tiger and getting pounced on by ever-growing kittens. We were chilling, just like we always do on a Sunday, indulging in each other's company without any great celebration or fanfare.

Not one card has been exchanged, nor a single rose, nor even the tiniest crumb of chocolate. Know why? Because Valentine's Day is fucking GROSS.

This pseudo-religious festival, long since appropriated by the corporate demons in charge of restaurants, greetings cards, flowers and confectionery, is a noxious social institution that detracts from the very thing it has been designed to promote. V-Day isn't about love - that all-consuming, fundamental human emotion that supposedly makes the world go round. Hooo, no. It's a 24-hour guilt trip. The single are made to feel guilty for not having anyone, and the poor saps that are actually in stable relationships are made to feel that they have to "celebrate" their love by buying naff tokens and overpriced food.

"Happy Valentine's Day! Let's boost the economy by getting sozzled on champagne and forgetting each other's names! I WUV YEW XXXX"

Blech.

So, last time I checked, love existed on the other 364 days of the year. It sure as shit does over here. Stat and I have been together over nine months now (leading me into the weird analogy that, if our love were a foetus, we'd be changing nappies by now... sorry, carry on), and not an hour goes by where one of us doesn't say "I love you". The reason for this constant affirmation lies somewhere between my beloved's naturally affectionate nature (which is freakin' AWESOME, let me tell you) and my unabashed neediness. Yes, yes, I have issues. You know this by now.

Any-dang-way, why in the name of Hayao Miyazaki would we need to suddenly up the smoosh factor one day in a year? Why would anyone in a relationship* like ours? Surely sending a Valentine would be a person's way of admitting "Okay, I realise that I don't show you enough love, so here's a dumb cartoon and some words to make up for this fact for one day. Please don't dump me." My friend, if you need to be reminded to show more love by fucking capitalism, you do not deserve to be with ANYONE EVER.

By all means, buy chocolates, send flowers, and shovel down those £30 T-bone steaks. But don't do it because you're being told to do it. And more than just once a year, for crying out loud.

All things considered, this rant sounds like it's coming from a bitter singleton who's spent the day in bed reading 'The Vagina Monologues'. And yes, I used to be that singleton. But today's actually the first February 14th wherein I've had a boyfriend, and things haven't gone spectacularly wrong. Today's the first Valentine's Day in my 25 miserable little years that I haven't felt the slightest pressure to shower someone in manufactured, sugar-coated, plastic-wrapped affection.

My affections are homebaked and are available 365 days a year free of charge, thankyouverymuch.

Let me leave you with this little gem: as I write this, Stat is upstairs trying to sort out what was a very loud and emotional-sounding argument between the Bad Musician From Upstairs and his Strangely Coiffed Girlfriend. All's been quiet for the past half-hour, so I assume he's working his Statley magic. Who needs Thornton's with a guy this good, eh?

*Earlier today, Stat said the word "relationship" was wrong for us. He deemed us a "coalition", based on our time-together-to-argument ratio. For a couple of nutters, we get on awfully well.

On Second Thought...

2010-02-06T02:48:00.002Z

...maybe I won't quit Blogger after all.

Yeah, I decided to stay. I upgraded this site to Blogspot, redesigned the dentednerd.com front page to have all my site feeds in one place, then transferred the new design over here. Can you smell the lemony freshness?

Really? You can? You really shouldn't be using Mr Sheen to clean the inside of your computer, you know. (Sorry. I'm full of the bad jokes lately. The boys have had me hanging my head in shame almost every hour.)

I'm glad I decided to stick with Blogger. I upgraded at first just to test the waters and see what Layout settings were like, and I was impressed with how pliable they were. The widget concept wasn't so hard to get my head around, and it's not hard at all to get your CSS and widgets working together. I was expecting an awkward beast, but I've found a friendly interface. How sweet!

It also keeps my blog away from my horrible ISP. They've got my domain name hijacked and tied up in a corner somewhere in Silicon Valley, so redirecting it - even transferring it to another ISP - is completely out of the question. Knowing that this blog here would be moving to a new address, the only answer was to create a splash page for the dotcom itself. Due in no small part to the wonders of Feedburner, I've pulled together this blog, my new tumblelog, and my Twitter feed into one place.

I've been resisting this change for so long, but it's actually been a lot of fun. I feel like that little guy from "Who Moved My Cheese?" (Heh. Marv got me a copy for Christmas.)

So I'll still be ranting here from time to time. I like posting tidbits over at Tumblr, but sometimes you've just got to write it all out. Whatever "it" is. And as long as someone out there's reading this (hi Tim) it won't be completely pointless.

And besides, this redesign has been my vehicle of revenge. Last week, Stat widowed me for 24. Today, I've left him for sweet, sweet code, and he's been pining for me all day. Teehee! But now it's almost 3am, and I think I owe him a snuggle. Hasta la vista.

The Writing On The Blogger Wall

2010-01-23T14:56:00.003Z

So this morning Blogger announced that, as of late March, they're ceasing FTP publishing on all their blogs. It makes me a little proud to be part of such a small percentile - only 0.5% of Blogger blogs still use FTP - but the ol' Nerd is one such blog. (I suspect that this has something to do with Google's troubled operations in China, what with FTP publishing being the only option for bloggers over there, but whatev...)

At first I was a little bit worried. "How am I going to publish my blog?"

But then I stopped. "Do I even want to blog anymore?"

Let's face it, I barely update this old thing anymore. It's a nice little distraction when I'm bored, and I can geek out and mess around with code and graphics to my heart's content. But writing all these big long spiels once in a blue moon, just for nobody to read them? Is that fun? At the last count, only two people ever read this. Tim? Matt? You guys still with me?

Assuming you are, here's what I'm doing. I'm moving. I'm jumping ship and switching to miniblogging. So far (as in the past few hours), it's been a whole lot of fun. I'm thinking my life these days suits a more stream-of-consciousness style. It breaks my heart to leave Blogger behind me - I've been here since frickin' forever - but there are plenty of reasons.

My crappy, ripoff, useless ISP wouldn't let me choose the Custom Domain option here, even if I wanted to.
I'm a lot busier these days than I used to be, what with protecting my family from the ever-growing chorus of morons and, just this week, embarking on an entirely new direction. Blogging little snippets on the fly suits me more than blabbing a page of nonsense once a month.
My new blog ties all the threads of my internet presence together quite extraordinarily. I have no need for a clumsy, constantly broken "lifestream" page. My new blog is my lifestream. Much neater.

So I'll still be around, just maybe not here. Even if I can somehow manage to redirect dentednerd.com to the new blog, I might not even want to be Dented Nerd for much longer. I've had this net moniker for eleven years now, so maybe it's time for a change. Just about everything else is changing...

I'll more than likely make one last post over here before wrapping things up for good. But in the meantime, check my new crib out!

Out With The Old, In With The... Oh.

2010-01-05T00:57:00.004Z

So how was your festive season? Fun and frolics? Hope for the new decade? Tears for the Doctor? (Don't be ashamed to admit it. We sobbed like schoolgirls over here.)

As for me, I think I'll let my little boy sum up the last month for me.

In a word: boring. Maybe I'm getting too old for this saccharine crap, because the spirit of the season just didn't find me this year. I downloaded masses of Christmas albums in 2008, yet barely a single one of them came through my speakers in 2009. I didn't even listen to 'Fairytale of New York'. Not once. I only got five cards too, and one of those was from a crappy Indian takeaway whose chicken pathia made me sick. Go figure.

Or maybe events just conspired against me. A week before Christmas, Will went into hospital for an operation on his mouth. Since coming out he's not been able to eat solid food, he's had to sleep upright on the couch, and he's been in excruciating pain. So I've been running the flat on my own, fending off the chorus of morons and being the perfect little housewife. And you know what? I'm actually really good at it. The flat's freakishly neat and tidy, the kittens are getting bigger by the second, and my best beloved gets everything he wants while he recuperates. Perhaps this is years of suppressed motherly impulses coming out, but I'm enjoying playing wifey far too much. I'm scared...

Leaving Will to spend another neurotic Christmas in Shropshire was hard. I was afraid of all sorts of drama among the family, not to mention all the things that could go wrong at the flat while I was away. But Christmas came, and there was no drama, no hi-jinks, not even many presents. (I got money instead, which has come in a lot more useful.) It was just a very quiet, placid Christmas. And back home, Will slept through the whole day, which was just what he needed.

New Year's was even more uneventful. We got the beers in, we got our little party all set up... and we fell asleep. We woke up just in time to see the fireworks, hear the chimes, and stare up at the gorgeous full moon. Simple pleasures, eh? My only resolution for 2010 is to recycle more. I let the recycling slip towards the end of 2009, and I felt guilty about it. But it's a resolution I know I can keep.

I've got a lot of hopes for this new year too. In 2009, the only real success I had was meeting Will, who, even as he's still recovering, continues to be a shining example of The Perfect Boyfriend. Hopefully my chances of finding a job, or at least a new direction to go in, will recover this year too. Drifting like this wouldn't be such an issue if I didn't have a little family to protect now. It would be a nightmare for Will to find a job before I do, and for him to pay all our bills single-handedly. I can't stand the thought of being kept, even if circumstances prevent it from being any other way. Taking care of the flat has kept me grounded, but it wouldn't be fair if Will paid for me to stay at home.

The cynic in me keeps reminding me how well the word "hope" treated me in 2009. But it's a new year and a new start, and hoping is all I can do.

December 1st, 2009

2009-12-01T23:27:00.002Z

good things that happened today

Took a wander around the Christmas market in town. It never stops being awesome, year after year. Got some gift ideas.

Made it around town without my knee flipping out on me. This was nice, after being housebound last week with chronic pain.

Had some naptime to counteract a night of insomnia. It's not often I get to do that.

Saw the Coke advert for the first time on TV, which makes the countdown to Christmas official. December 1st is an acceptable date for this. Mid-October is not.

Went on a computer-fixing mission to save Marv and his girlfriend from uni assignment hell. Hugely impressed by the work they're doing.

Observed ultimate cuteness when Charley fell asleep in my coat.

Cooked a chicken madras. Been a while since my last curry.

Discovered that Glassjaw are coming to the Academy for a gig in January. Insanely excited at a rare chance to see my idol Daryl Palumbo again.

bad things that happened today

Signed on. The Jobcentre never stops being lame and tedious.

Queued for twenty minutes outside Greggs in the cold to get sausage rolls. (They were yummy though.)

Nearly killed by a fruit smoothie Marv made. Stupid allergies.

Logged into Warcraft, then logged out again. Nelf druid at level 56. Pre-Outland quests are boring as shit. Really, really want Wrath.

Will has been asleep since we got back from town. He didn't sleep last night either, and he won't tonight from the looks of things.

Realised that January 24th is ages and ages away. It'll be worth it in the end, but I'm all fangirl-bouncy and WANT GLASSJAW NAO PLZ KTHX.

Learning

2009-11-06T22:31:00.005Z

This Wednesday just gone - November 4th - marked the anniversary of a pretty ignominious event. Friends, I have been unemployed for a year. I'm not at the fifty-two week mark as far as benefits are concerned just yet, due to the combined efforts of the Got-No-Jobcentre and Liverpool Abandon-All-Hope University earlier this year. (In fact, the Jobcentre seem to think that I'm freshly unemployed as of September 15th, but I've got enough pickles in my pantry right now, and this one isn't mine.)

A shit state of affairs, you might say. From one perspective, you'd be right. But the education this past year has given me isn't the kind that can be found in academic establishments - and it's given me some of the most valuable life lessons that can be had.

Lesson #1: money isn't everything

It's true that having money does make things a lot easier, and the cost of living certainly isn't getting any cheaper. But money can only buy you stuff. It can't buy you freedom or love, and it certainly can't bring you true happiness. But when I compare the person I was a year ago to the person I am now - a miserable little misfit slaving away for other people's ideals, versus a person happy in the knowledge of what she wants, having all her basic needs cared for - I'm so glad that life has taken me down this tempestuous little path. In money terms, I may be poorer than I was (and only slightly poorer at that), but every other aspect of my life has gained from this year.

Lesson #2: know who your friends are

Even when I could afford to go out at the weekend, I had a sneaking suspicion that a few of the people I was hanging out with wouldn't stick around if and when things went sour. It sucks to be proved right with things like this, but to some people, not showing your face in the right places makes you persona non grata, despite all your unanswered texts or emails to them. Real friends are the people that will still make the effort to visit, call, or send the occasional shout over Facebook. I've learned not to waste good energy on people still living with the high school "be there or be square" mentality, and spend more of it on the peeps I care about most.

Lesson #3: our government really doesn't care about us

To the PTB, we're not people with real lives and real troubles. We're not even faces with names. We're just numbers in a database. The Jobcentre don't consider your future career, nor do they want to help you get the right training, but they do want you to take the first shitty little job you find that'll make you worse off than you are right now - but at least you'll be off benefits, right? Meanwhile, at Salford City Council the people resemble the computers they spend their days in front of - programmed robots with plenty of script but no skill in human interaction. "Never mind that you're behind with your rent - a computer error has messed your benefits up and delayed everything by another two months. Never mind that you're angry about it - we'll keep feeding you misinformation without the slightest hint of an apology. Never mind that we've underpaid you again - we'll keep overcharging you for something else in the meantime." Heck, I'm tired of bitching about bureaucracy. Let's move on.

Lesson #4: the value of education is forever diminishing

I swear that the biggest flaw on my CV is my degree. I'm certain that employers look at that one little achievement and decide that I'm either over-qualified, wrongly qualified, or a stoner. (Holy shit, Batman! Only people that smoke pot would ever want to study popular music! *facepalm*) It's my opinion that degrees do nothing for your prospects these days - perhaps even work against them. Employers are only looking for work experience, not for people that can drink for fifteen hours solid and still see straight. (I wish...) And yes, I'm aware that I'm admitting that four years of my life have apparently been a total waste of time. Seems some people think that the lessons I learned at uni were nothing compared to the lessons I could have learned slaving away behind a cashdesk.

Lesson #5: never put all your eggs in a basket with holes in it

Deep down, I think I knew I could never be a teacher. I had too many doubts; I was too insecure about going back to the classroom. Yet that was the only future I'd planned for. I knew that it would give me a stable career and fix all my financial problems, potentially for the rest of my life, and that was what I chose to focus on, whilst ignoring that niggling little question of whether it was what I actually wanted. Since that all blew up in my face, I've learned that huge choices like these should only be made if you're completely comfortable with them - and definitely not make a decision just because it seems like the right thing to do. If there's any question about it, however small, it'll be for a good reason. Don't run with it unless you're absolutely happy with it.

Lesson #6: never do something to please someone else

I think that getting my degree and trying to get into teaching weren't ideas I would necessarily have gone for, had I been thinking solely of what I wanted out of life. I figured that choosing this path would gain me the pride and respect I wanted from certain people. Well, it hasn't, so I felt like a big disappointment as well as a failure. Losing it all in September was a big wake-up call for me. The reason the way I was going had suddenly become blocked to me was because it wasn't the right way for me. I'm an adult with my own dreams and ideals; why the hell should I be trying to please someone else? I didn't realise this until it was pointed out to me, but this simple question has caused a monumental shift in my perspective. Don't worry, I'm not about to become self-centred and demanding like some petulant diva - but I've learned that I need to place myself a little higher on my list of priorities, especially when it comes to the big life decisions. Do you see anyone else living this life?

Finally, Lesson #7: never, ever work in a call centre

It will destroy your soul. How do you think I became so miserable in the first place?

Have You Met My Buddy Turmeric?

2009-11-02T18:26:00.002Z

This season, I was the first to get the sneeze-nasties. It's not for me to say whether I got it the worst, but I'm responsible for starting it spreading amongst my peeps - making me the head vampire, if you will. I'm glad nobody staked me, thinking it would cure them.

Tip #1: no staking.

So all my recent experience of fighting of the evil bugalug has left me full of good advice for would-be cold warriors. As well as the usual cold symptoms - bad nose, throat and head, along with chills and a high temperature - I got a chest infection that felt as though I was trying to breathe through wads of cotton wool stuffed into my lungs. Passing along all these nasties made me pretty unpopular for a few weeks, I tells ya.

Tip #2: lots and lots of hot toddies.

Even before I got sick, my beloved Will developed a toddy recipe that works wonders. It involves a mug of boiling water, a spoon or two of honey depending on the size of the mug, about the same amount of lemon juice, a shot of whisky, and, if you're feeling brave, a Beechams powder. Stir it all up and drink it down before it gets cold. As well as warming your chills, the lemon and whisky act as antiseptics and general bug-killing devices. The honey soothes your sore throat and makes the whole concotion taste a lot nicer.

The powder - the best on the market, better than Lemsip - should only be added to the mix when you're feeling super-crappy, because the nice floaty feeling you get from the combination of booze and medication is highly addictive in your fragile state, and cannot be recommended by anyone. Nosireebob. Nuh-uh.

Tip #3: as much hot curry as you can handle.

Come on, you hardly think I'm going to pass up an opportunity to recommend the food of my ancestors, do you? I can, will, and have already waxed lyrical about the numerous health benefits of a well-made curry, but when you've got a cold, I recommend the hottest one you can eat. The hot spices will clear out your sinuses, and the main ingredient, turmeric, is an antiseptic and anti-inflammatory to stop you getting blocked up again. Cumin will boost your immune system, and pepper will help you to sweat out your cold.

Make sure you eat a big one too. Remember the old saying: "feed a cold, starve a fever." Go on and smother that nasty ol' bug with food. I went through bucketfuls of chicken madras to squish those sneezes. Ah, perfection.

Tip #4: stay indoors at all costs.

The biggest mistake I made was leaving the house in my condition. Once the cold air got to my lungs, it was game over - I ended up being kept awake all night, wheezing and spluttering. If you really need the fresh air, open a window and wrap up as warm as you can. Exposure to any sort of cold is a bad plan. Big quilts, hot water bottles and sweaters that are five sizes too big - all good. Cold drinks and ice cream - bad. Which leads me to...

Tip #5: avoid dairy.

I know from experience with hayfever that dairy does bad things to a sniffly nose - namely, blocking it up good and proper. You don't want that. If you're going to drink milk, warm it up first and sprinkle a little cinnamon over it. (I discovered whilst ill that this will certainly cheer up a poorly soul.) But stay away from chilled or frozen dairy! I had a tub of Half-Baked sat in the freezer for two weeks because I wasn't well enough to eat it. Torture.

Tip #6: rest, rest and more rest.

You're not going to get better if you're up and about, worrying over things that are ten times harder to do because you're ill. The sooner you feel better, the sooner you can get things done, and the quickest way to get better is to do nothing at all. So wrap up, get as much sleep as you can, do some light reading (happy stories to keep your spirits up), watch some DVDs (hours of stand-up worked for me, particularly Bill Hicks and George Carlin) and concentrate on nothing but feeling better.

I was in a bad way for a good couple of weeks, but with the state I was in, I would have been ill for a lot longer if it hadn't been for all these little remedies. Straight-up medication hardly ever cures the sneeze-nasties, so it's good to share around the homemade fixer-uppers when cold season comes a-knockin'.

(Inspired, for the first time in a while, by Plinky.)

Book Me Till I Burst!

2009-11-01T21:28:00.003Z

In the absence of anything positive to write about my life that isn't kitten- or boyfriend-related, I've got a list for you instead. It's a list of all the books I've got lined up to be read. Hugely nerdy, but I've recently started to read again at the rate I did when I was a kid, so I don't reckon it'll take too long to plough through this... erm, mountain.

Firstly, from my DS's 100 Classic Book Collection:

Pride and Prejudice
Uncle Tom's Cabin
Lorna Doone
Jane Eyre
The Pilgrim's Progress
The Secret Garden
The Woman in White
The Adventures of Pinocchio (I'm certain there's something Disney's not telling us)
What Katy Did
The Three Musketeers
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
Les Miserables (which I'm dreading - started it once before and hate Hugo's style)
Sons and Lovers
The Call of the Wild
White Fang
Moby Dick
Black Beauty
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Gulliver's Travels
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Round the World in Eighty Days
The Picture of Dorian Gray

(Notice the absence of Dickens and Shakespeare. I'll get round to them eventually.)

Then I've got a few serials to tackle. I used to make a big fuss about not getting sucked into the whole Harry Potter fever, but maybe, just maybe, they'll be worth a read. A gajillion people can't be wrong, I guess.

...Philosopher's Stone
...Chamber of Secrets
...Prisoner of Azkaban
...Goblet of Fire
...Order of the Phoenix
...Half-Blood Prince
...Deathly Hallows

The World of Warcraft lore should be promising, but Richard A. Knaak's sketchy start has made me put it on hold until I've read other things.

The Well of Eternity
The Demon Soul
The Sundering
Rise of the Horde
The Last Guardian
Tides of Darkness
Beyond the Dark Portal
Day of the Dragon
Lord of the Clans
Of Blood and Honor
Cycle of Hatred
Night of the Dragon

On the other hand, what I've read so far of the Horus Heresy series, the lore preceding Warhammer 40,000, is brilliantly written.

Horus Rising
False Gods
Galaxy In Flames
(I've already read Flight of the Eisenstein out of sequence...)
Fulgrim
Descent of Angels
Legion
The Dark King/The Lightning Tower
(...along with Battle for the Abyss.)
Mechanicum
(Then, when they're released, A Thousand Sons, Prospero Burns and Nemesis.)

I'm halfway through Garth Nix's Abhorsen trilogy:

Lirael (literally, halfway through it)
Abhorsen

From then on, the list gets a little sketchy. Will wants to get me into Clive Barker and HP Lovecraft, as if getting me role-playing Call of Cthulu wasn't enough. I'm still trying to muddle through the very esoteric The Only Planet of Choice (I'm honestly trying, Matt, but it's such a headfuck!), and I keep getting threatened by various Stephanie Meyer books. Right, like I'm going to touch any of this Twilight nonsense with a fifty-foot pole.

That about wraps up my list, but I can recommend a few books that I've recently finished:

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
The Long Walk, the first of the Bachman Books by Stephen King (only got as far as that one before it went back to the library)
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Yep, it's a random library I've got at the moment, but it's not like I've got much else to do at the moment, eh?

Bigger Babies

2009-10-22T13:45:00.002+01:00

Purrdy and Charley are getting so big now. Just three months ago I could sit one kitten in each hand, but now it's almost impossible to pick them up single-handedly without them wriggling free and running to hide under the bed. That's their favourite hiding place at the moment - since Will and I moved the double bed into our room after Pook's departure (yay!), they like to run about between the storage boxes in the morning and wake us up with their chirruping - not meowing, not purring, but that in-betweeny noise they make.

Recently, Charley has taken to mewing "good morning". Well, not necessarily in the morning, but whenever he wakes up. He'll blink sleepily, have a big stretch, meow twice, and demand affection for a few minutes before reverting to his usual skittish, nervous self. It's a big development for a little guy who's usually so quiet and people-shy. Up until just last week, the only regular sort of affection he ever wanted from us was to cuddle up to us when he wanted a nap.

Purrdy, on the other hand, mews more frequently, but for a different reason - she answers back when she's being told off. At least once a day she'll be found up on the kitchen worktops, where she knows she's not allowed - we'll yell "PURRDY!" and she'll turn around and mew back at us before jumping down. Purrdy knows she's the queen of the castle around here, and like all little princesses she's given to backchat when she's being naughty.

(That's right. Purrdy surfs with Firefox.)

Purrdy's usually the first to seek attention, to jump up on laps and take a look at new people, but both cats get jealous when they see the other getting fussed over. If Charley is sat on my tummy first thing in the morning getting tickled, Purrdy will jump onto my chest and get right in my face until she gets some tickles too. If they're in a super-cute mood, Charley will clean Purrdy's ears for her while they're being fussed over. Squee!

Most of the time, though, they're too busy for affection. They're still kittens (and still intact at the moment, although next week's trip to the vee-ee-tee will change all that), and they still run around playfighting, exploring the already-familiar house, poking their noses into everything and chirruping to wake us up. Like all kittens, they like to chase little objects, attack dangly things, and run so fast that their paws skid all over our hardwood floors.

Yet they've got their quirks too. Purrdy has the habit of raising one front paw off the ground when she wants to look innocent and cute, as if to say "who, me?", and Charley is a nibbler of fingers, toes, and most recently, Marv's girlfriend's knees. Riddle me that.

I'm going to miss them being so small when the grow up, but they're both going to be gorgeous cats, and well-trained to boot. Just the other day, Purrdy jumped up on my shoulder without being asked to, because she knows that we like her and Charley to sit on our shoulders. They're both learning when to sit on our laps and when not to, but Charley's still got to get the hang of not getting in the way at bedtime - he likes to sleep right in the middle of the bed, just to be awkward.

Heck, they're so adorable.

A Month in the Life

2009-09-30T20:38:00.004+01:00

Five Mondays ago

I was in sheer panic. Despite the security of a career plan and future financial stability, going back to school seemed like The Worst Idea Ever. What the hell was I thinking of? Working in the kind of place I'd spent my childhood trying to escape from? Had I lost my mind?

My inner twelve-year-old was screaming at me at night. Memories of being surrounded by kids hurling abuse and heck-knows-what-else were never far from the front of my mind. Becoming a teacher would mean facing all my fears on a daily basis. I felt like a sacrificial lamb, putting myself through all hell just to see my family* looked after. Scared to death didn't cover the half of it.

Four Mondays ago

So, after the early start and the awkward commute, things were actually looking okay. I had a timetable, a structure - something I'd not had in a while and didn't fully realise how much I'd been missing. I had a life away from home, something to talk about and plan for. I had a future, and it wasn't looking as dark as it had been a week ago.

The panic hadn't entirely dissipated. I still wasn't sure that teaching was for me. Sure, I was good at it - amongst people that wanted to learn. I'd be teaching groups of people that wouldn't give a flying squirrel about the subject I was passionate about. Could I take that sort of knock without taking it personally? Music being such an intrinsic part of my personality, right there along the kind of emotional hypersensitivity that could only be a by-product of such an odd life, wouldn't I just burst into tears at the drop of a hat?

That, and the kids on the train in the morning really freaked me out. They all seemed like scary aliens, secretly priming their shiny insults to throw like spears.

Still, after that first day I was starting to put all this to one side. I was going to be okay. Things weren't going to be so bad.

Three Mondays ago

Despair. Total, black despair.

I was out. Gone. Finito. All see ya later and don't come back, like some unpopular Big Brother evictee. You remember those impossible conditions of my entry? Well, entirely possible, according to the Hope PTB**. So no teaching career for me. Out the door with a big muddy bootprint on my behind.

Think of the highest high you could ever reach. The adrenaline rush from a skydive. The most potent narcotic in your bloodstream. The best sex ever. Something like that. Now think of the exact opposite. That's where I was, crushed in a little black pit of grief and despair. The kind of depression I'd hoped to never see again.

All plan, all security, all bright and rosy future snuffed out because of "university policy". Hope - the Don Corleone of all misnomers.

Two Mondays ago

And then, a little spark of joy.

Pook, constant source of frustration and bad blood, finally made plans to move out. A house with Sharl and Jim is all lined up, and on October 10th she will be gone - living just around the corner, but no longer in my life.

This was great news. Will and I had been planning for weeks now to officially live together, along with one of his best friends, and what with Pook's plans now set in stone, we were free to continue with ours. Now, you're probably thinking that choosing to move in with each other only four months into a relationship would make us several sandwiches short of a picnic. In most cases, I'd heartily agree. For most couples, that's suicide. But here's the truth: we're already living together, and not in a "coming home to one another after a day's work" kind of way. I mean the "24/7 inseparable joined at the hip" kind of way. We've spent a whole summer constantly in each other's presence, and neither one of us is bored or frustrated. He continually amazes me, and he tells me he loves me all the freakin' time, which exactly what perma-needy self-deprecating little old me needs and wants and craves. When the university rejected me, I couldn't have asked for anyone more supportive and comforting. Will's the one I've been looking for, my equal and my complement.

Monday just gone (two days ago)

I turned 25. No big celebration, just a few beers with my nearest and dearest. A housewarming party is planned for next month, to properly celebrate.

The best way to describe the aftermath of my 25th birthday is a feeling of weightlessness. I don't feel despondent or hopeful. Right now I'm existing completely in the present, taking each day as it comes. I'm jobhunting again - this time with far more success than usual, oddly - but not for a career in my chosen field. The whole ordeal with Hope was a sign to me, so teaching is clearly off the agenda, as is my usual creative process whilst I get my head back on straight again.

Other avenues are creeping out of the undergrowth like nervous rabbits. I could be a writer. (I have a novel planned with my beloved.) I could become a qualified web designer with a real nice paycheck. (That wouldn't be hard at all.) I could set up my own business. (I have that planned too.)

All the choice is nice, but a little unexpected. My head is surrounded by the clouds of recent and upcoming events, and making sense of anything is a chore right now, let alone my future. But as my honey keeps reminding me, all is not lost. As long as there are kittens in the world, everything will eventually turn out just fine.

*By "family", I mean Will and our current and future family. I'm pretty sure my biological relatives can take care of themselves.
**That's Powers That Be, for those not familiar with that little piece of Angel trivia.

Babies

2009-08-03T12:52:00.006+01:00

Gather round, everyone, and I shall tell you a tale of how two quite separate tragedies led to two joyous bundles falling in our laps. Feel free to toast your marshmallows on that bonfire over there.

Our story starts on July 19th. It's a day that my beloved Will and I have been preparing for all week, and discussing excitedly as though it were Christmas just around the corner. Everything has been organised, my room's been tidied in honour of the day, and all that's left to do is make the collection trip. I announce to Facebook: "It's kitten day!"

A friend of Will's has a litter of kittens, one of whom has been picked out by my honey weeks since. She's a little black and white girl named Kirjava, after his namesake's daemon in the His Dark Materials books. I've agreed enthusiastically to raising her in my flat as a co-owner, as I've never had a cat to call my own before. Yes, at 24, this will be My First Pet. We're the two happiest cat lovers in Salford this morning.

So we walk up to collect her, knock on this supposed friend's door, and... nothing. No answer, despite the whole thing having been organised and confirmed days in advance. We knock, then we hammer. There are people inside; we can hear voices whispering "Don't answer it, ignore it." We can see Kirjava sitting right by the door, looking straight at us, but we can't get to her.

See, what this Jeremy Kyle wannabe doesn't realise that causing this level of bullshit has immense consequences. Will is so distraught that he can't be in the same room as the litter tray and food bowls that we've laid out so carefully. Seeing my beloved in this state causes a reaction that happens increasingly rarely these days: Little Miss Sunshine Sees Red.

Anyhow, there's nothing we can do. Kirjava is lost to us, and we can only consider other options, such as adopting from the shelter.

A week passes, and Will hears that a friend of his has split up with his girlfriend. It's a sad time for them, and sadder still that their numerous cats have to be rehomed because they can't keep them anymore. But it brings us a good chance to bring some comfort to two bad situations: Will and I can have a kitten, and our friends will be happy that whoever we take home will be drenched in affection and taken care of more than any other cat has been.

So who did we pick?

On the left is Charley, our cheeky little tabby boy. On the right is his slightly older sister, the tortoiseshell princess Purrdy. They're just over four months old, and I'm here to tell you, folks, that I've never met two more adorable creatures in my life. They've already attacked one of their dangly toys to death, and it's hilarious to watch them chase each other around my room. They've made their bed in the little shelf space in my bedside table, and at bedtime all you can hear when you're trying to sleep is two sets of purring in your ear.

We're such happy kitten-parents!

Please be warned, dear reader, that I will now be prone to frequent random posts about any and all acts of cuteness perpetrated by our fuzzy babies. Squee! They're so adorable!

Enter Chorus of Morons, Stage Right.

2009-07-31T01:33:00.005+01:00

We interrupt your regular blogging schedule to bring you this conversation, based on true events. Names have been changed to protect the fucking moronic.

Our Heroine: Okay, here's a chance to get myself back on track. Uni, will you help me become a teacher?

Uni: No problem. All you gotta do to get on the course is get some classroom experience in before September, and attend a week's training over here before we start.

Our Heroine: Sounds good. Hey, Jobcentre, will you send some extra cash my way to cover travel expenses? My benefits won't stretch to it.

Jobcentre: No, but here's what we'll do. We'll cut your benefits entirely.

Our Heroine: ...Uh, what?

Jobcentre: Well, you won't be jobhunting whilst you're on this training course, right?

Our Heroine: But this course is helping me to get an excellent job in the future! That's what you do, isn't it? Help people get good jobs?

Jobcentre: Nooooo, no. We help people get crappy jobs to get them off benefits as soon as we can. We don't help you to train for a good job in the future.

Our Heroine: So what exactly do I live off while I'm on this course then? How do I pay my rent?

Jobcentre: Not our problem. *looks away*

Our Heroine: Well, I'm not going to let you schmucks ruin my future. *attends training*

Rail Network: How's it going? We're going to charge you extortionate rates for a piss-poor service that's going to leave you stranded for hours at a time in the middle of a heatwave! Enjoy that heatstroke you're having.

*pause whilst Our Heroine pukes her guts up mid-training*

Council: Hey, the Jobcentre tells us you didn't qualify for benefits whilst you were training. So we're going to stop paying your rent.

Our Heroine: Don't remind me. Will you help me get my claim restarted?

Council: *long pause* We need to see proof of your income.

Our Heroine: That's my problem. I didn't have any income when I was in training.

Council: *long pause* We need to see proof of your income.

Our Heroine: What proof? How can I prove something's non-existence?

Council: *long pause* We need to see proof of your income.

Our Heroine: Stuff this. Let's see about getting this classroom experience booked. Hey, Local Schools! Can I come visit for a few days? I'll be real good, I swear.

Local Schools: (in unison) Fuck off.

Our Heroine: Come on, I'm trying to become a teacher here! Won't you help me out?

Local Schools: *deafening silence; the summer holidays have started*

Our Heroine: So now I've got to incur more travel expenses whilst I go further afield looking for schools that start term in mid-August. Goodbye, benefit check. Hello, rumbling tummy.

Bank: Hello there, it appears you're flat broke. We charge for that, you know.

Our Heroine: [this space intentionally left blank for you to imagine a high-pitched wail of frustration]

Deus Ex Madre: *sigh* Here, I got you covered. *deposits large sum of cash in Our Heroine's account*

Our Heroine: But Ma, you're retired! Why the hell should you be filling in the gaps these government departments have made with your pension?

Deus Ex Madre: Because they're assholes, kid, assholes that do more harm than good. Don't worry, I've written to our local MP to find out where these fuckwits get off. But don't forget, you're going to have to start paying me back once you're rolling in the benjamins again. I'm not working anymore, remember?

Our Heroine: *sigh* At this rate, I won't be able to save for my own damn retirement.

FIN

And all this before I turn 25. Roll on, September 7th. When I go back to uni, this will all have been a bad dream.

Hope

2009-07-18T11:54:00.003+01:00

Things are finally getting busy around here again. It's as though I stepped through some odd trans-dimensional portal back in June, and I got my life back. It feels similar to the end-of-year rush for assignments at uni, which I hated at the time but miss like an ugly but well-meaning friend now. Stupid rose-tinted brain.

So, to appease my hunger for Creating Fond Memories of Terrible Events, I got back into uni. Liverpool Hope have accepted me on their music PGCE course starting in September. A week after I went to the interview, I went on a nine-day booster course with a whole bunch of my new uni friends. It was an immense amount of fun, and it reminded me of just how much I've been missing music in general on this ill-planned year out. A spark that I didn't even know had gone out has been reignited.

Unfortunately, there's one big downside to starting uni in Liverpool when you live in Manchester - trains are not your friend. Who the hell do Northern Rail think they are? Getting there in the morning isn't the problem, because the trains haven't been given a chance to run late yet. But getting home in the evenings is a new and exquisite torture. Trains don't seem to run from Liverpool back to Manchester late in the day, and if they do, they're not on time. On one evening it took me three hours in the blistering heatwave to get home, when I had to make all sorts of ridiculous changes and stops because of trains saying they were going one way and then taking a completely different route. That little experience left me with heatstroke (I came home and promptly threw up) and a day less on the course.

Meanwhile, the "Job"centre continue to be about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Oh. they'll help you to find employment in the short-term, no problem. But will they help you to secure your place on a course that will guarantee your future employment hereafter? Will they fuck. They stopped my benefits. They refused to provide assistance with travel costs. They refused me any and all grants to help me with training. My ma is currently in contact with her local MP to find out just where these fuckers get off.

And don't even get me started on Salford at large. After all the crap the council have put us through this year (demanding money from us when they owed us ten times more), now I've discovered that schools in the area are run by rude, useless twats. Part of the condition of accepting my place at Liverpool Hope is that I get seven days' observational experience in a secondary school. Now, I knew this would be a chore, what with my application being so late and all, but I was expecting at least a little understanding. Instead, I've actually found myself wishing that they'd simply said "fuck off", which would have been far less offensive. So I'm looking further afield, for schools that go back in August. The course at Hope starts on September 7th, which gives me no time to check out schools that start around that time.

Nothing worth having ever came easy, I guess. Well, except for my boyfriend. You know, Will and I have been together six weeks now, and I'm having real trouble finding anything to dislike about the guy. We've spent a grand total of three days out of each other's presence, and we haven't fought or needed our own space at all. Instead, we're writing songs together and talking about long-term possibilities. This is where I'm certain the trans-dimensional portal comes in, because guys like Will sure didn't exist in the universe I came from. Did I miss a trick, or is this freakin' sweet?

Anyhow, in-between sorting out the uni nonsense, preparing for future arrivals (more on that soon) and skinting myself on errant siblings' birthdays (Pook and Marv turned 22 this Thursday... yikes), I really need to ground myself more in my writing. I sure do miss Plinky.

The Start of Something Huge

2009-06-16T15:11:00.002+01:00

My arms are covered in pinch marks. I keep expecting to wake up from this dream I've entered, but it's been ten days now and there are no signs that this is anything but real. All the shit I've been through these past six months has been a prelude, a trial I had to suffer in order to be given this fantastic reward. In hindsight, it all has meaning and purpose now. You can't climb a mountain unless you start in a valley, after all.

Allow me to explain.

On May 26th, I began a Gateway to Work program. It's a government-funded heap of bullcrap that you have to attend once you've been out of work for six months. I was ashamed to blog about it, because it represented a new low. That first morning, sitting small, nervous, and totally overdressed in that classroom, I noticed the people that had arrived before me. Amongst the typical assortment of Salford scallies, one guy stood out. He had his head buried in 'The Subtle Knife', one of my favourite books, and with his shades and lip piercing, I immediately pegged him as an instant ally.

Introductions were made. I soon marked myself as a complete outsider - ridiculously overqualified, with hopes of becoming a music teacher. My soon-to-be friend was named Will, and although he had been working in security, he wanted a career in music. I had to talk to this guy.

Our first conversation, during our first cigarette break, was about cats. I'd been talking about Plum inside, and he told me about his cat giving birth out of the blue some years ago. The more we talked, the more we found we had in common. When the subject of Warcraft was inevitably brought up, he told me about his love of dice-based roleplaying games and Warhammer. We talked endlessly about music and each other's work. When things became tedious over the course of the fortnight, we kept each other sane. On days when he didn't come in, I was sad.

When the course ended at midday on June 5th, we went out for one last cigarette and one last dig at our tutor (as clueless ginger twats go, he was rather epic). Will invited me to his brother's for a game of poker, which naturally I couldn't refuse. We met his brother Spider on his way to the precinct, and Spider's greeting - "you must be Jo!" - confirmed what I'd been secretly hoping: Will had told his friends about me.

Going back to Spider's was a lot like following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. I found myself surrounded by a colourful group of new friends in a tiny little flat at the other end of the Crescent from mine, whooping ass at Texas Hold 'Em and having an absolute blast. I should have felt like a complete stranger, but instead it felt like a homecoming. When Will walked me home at stupid o'clock the next morning, with an invitation to play Call of Cthulu at his place the next day, my head was reeling from all the laughing I'd done, and my amazement that I seemed to have slotted myself into place with a group of new people, like the missing piece of a jigsaw.

One crazy mission to Eccles later, having widely impressed with a few of my songs and kicking ass in my first session of Cthulu, Will and I stayed up all night talking. (Just talking, you dirty horndogs, nothing else!) We confessed that we liked each other, and by sunrise we were officially a couple. Yay!

Friends, I take great pride in telling you that I am in love with one of the finest men I have ever met. Will is a true gentleman, as kind and courteous and chivalrous as I could have ever imagined. He's intelligent, sharp-witted and fiercely protective over the people he loves. He's a Leo, a pagan, and a brilliant songwriter. His sense of humour is caustic and tangential, and I have laughed more in ten days with him than I have in ten months before meeting him. He calls me his princess, and he is my prince. I feel as though I have known him forever, and that we've just been waiting for life to draw us together. In the few aspects of each other's personalities where we're not similar, we complement each other perfectly.

But what's amazed me is the circumstances that brought us together in the first place. If I hadn't forced out of that stupid call centre, I wouldn't have been unemployed so long, and I'd have never been on that course. If Ben hadn't been such a dick to me, I wouldn't have even looked at another man, let alone wanted to speak to one. If I hadn't been so miserable, I wouldn't have been able to appreciate this love for what it is. Will doesn't make me feel useless or second best. Instead, he's someone that I can make proud, someone to motivate and encourage me, someone to come home to and feel instantly gratified for everything I do.

I'm in love!

Telltale = God.

2009-06-01T20:32:00.003+01:00

Friends, my prayers have been answered. So many fond memories, so many questions left unanswered... but today, only joy. Telltale be thy name.

Allow me to explain a little. In the beginning, there was Lucasarts. They brought us Maniac Mansion, Day of the Tentacle, Sam & Max Hit The Road, Loom, Grim Fandango, and some small-time series named Monkey Island. (I don't like to mention the Ar-stay Ars-way crapola. Hate the franchise.)

When Lucasarts abandoned development on a much-awaited sequel to the game Sam & Max Hit The Road, a company named Telltale sprang up from the ashes. Now, Telltale knew how to do it up right. They released the new Sam & Max game - games, rather - in episodic form. Five separate games released monthly, with an overarching storyline to tie them all together. Groundbreaking? Fo' shiz.

Now, Telltale won my heart fair and square last summer when they made a game based on my very favourite website - Strong Bad's Cool Game For Attractive People, or SBCG4AP. It was an unexpected slice of awesomeness that made me incredibly happy over the five months of its release. I couldn't get Strong Bad to read one of the many, many emails I've sent him, but I did make some awesome Teen Girl Squad comics.

Last week, with Telltale's fifth anniversary giveaway, I decided to buy Sam & Max Season Two and the SBCG4AP DVD so I could get the extras, fangirl that I am. When my coupon codes went a little squiffy, their tech support was fantastic about it, giving me exactly the right help I needed, in almost no time at all. Can't ask for more than that, eh? So I was brimming over a little with love for Telltale, especially considering the fairly crappy couple of weeks I've had.

But today surpasses all of this.

You see, right now, I'm 24. Eighteen years ago, the Thunderkittens and I borrowed a certain Lucasarts game from our cousins to play on our Amiga 500. (So adorably retro, even then.) I had to read the dialogue to Pook and Marv so that they could understand the game. We only got half the humour - I was six and they were three, so the typical George Lucas references were lost on us - but we played it incessantly. When the sequels came out, we devoured them one after another. Now, nearly ten years since the last game, we had all but given up hope.

But there is no need for hope anymore. Friends, Guybrush Threepwood sails again.

...Yeah, I know. And before you ask a silly question, of course I've preordered it already!

To coincide with this, Lucasarts has another special treat for we hardcore - should that be 'arrrrd-core? - fans. Can we say special edition?

I'll leave you to rejoice. For, after all, if you're not rejoicing, you can hardly be called a gamer.

Up In The Air

2009-05-31T21:30:00.002+01:00

If you've found me, here at http://dentednerd.blogspot.com, congratulations. It's not cool to have to write your first post in a while at a completely different address, so I'll explain everything that's been going on, not just with the domain, but with real-life me too.

Firstly, dentednerd.com still exists. However, right now that domain is entirely in the hands of my former ISP. According to WHOIS, dentednerd.com has expired, yet all the contact details are the ISP's. How handy. Since before it expired, I've been trying to get the domain transferred to my new ISP. My old ISP are simply not playing ball. I'm trying to get the issue resolved and get my domain back, so I'll keep you informed.

I've finally got my PGCE application sent off to my referees. It's a month before the deadline, but the whole process has taken months more than it has done. I've been messed around by circumstances entirely out of my control, and nobody is really to blame, but it's felt like an uphill struggle just to get one crappy online form filled out these past few weeks.

My social life is a shambles at the moment. Having been on a few outings this week, largely skinting myself in paying for tickets to friends' gigs, I suddenly find myself ignored when they don't need my ticket money. When I have to pay to socialise with so-called friends, that's fine. But when it comes to just hanging out, I may as well not exist. Apparently I'm not worth the same effort I give them.

As for the ending of the Relationship That Never Was, it's now degenerated into a stalker-like nightmare. Constant texts and voicemails that ask nothing of how I am or what I want, but whine on at great drunken length about how shit he's feeling, how he wants me back. I hope he's reading, although part of me knows he won't - save your phone bill. It's over.

Pook's bought pets. Two duprasis, or fat-tailed gerbils. Not really selfish at all, considering that she doesn't contribute enough towards the bills, we can barely afford to feed ourselves, and we have a pregnant cat in the flat already. If she wants me to babysit when she's away, I've got two words for her.

Everyone seems hellbent on pissing me off lately. It's at times like these that I thank the gods for Warcraft, so I can just disappear and pretend it's not happening.

Being Watched At Grand Central

2009-05-20T01:39:00.003+01:00

Grand Central, favoured watering hole of the Manchester rock and metal community, was the scene tonight of one of the Battle for Bloodstock semi-finals. (Bloodstock is a metal festival; unsigned bands are competing for a slot.) Among the six bands lined up tonight were Visitor, who Pook's boyfriend Gaz plays guitar for. A whole gang of us went down to watch the show, and the night went really well.*

Now, GC is my favourite place to watch people. As you'd expect from a bar known for its heavy jukebox and regular metal gigs, the clientèle is a colourful conglomerate of extremes and alternatives. Guys that drink there often have longer hair than their female friends, and almost exclusively wear black T-shirts adorned with band names. In contrast, the girls usually make an effort to look extremely well-presented. Again, black is the colour of choice, but used to the opposite effect alongside hair of all colours and styles. The clash of scruffy, hard-looking men against perfectly-groomed, sparkly-eyed women is something you don't see in any other scene in this town.

It's always loud in GC, gig or no gig. We'll stand around playing air guitar, comparing bands and telling dirty jokes at full volume, lads and lasses alike. Here, two guys screaming in each other's faces isn't a sign of trouble - it's a greeting, usually followed by a hefty hug and another round of pints. The insanity of it all is that it's one of the least violent venues in town. I've never seen a fight break out there, despite the dark backdrop and thrashing soundtrack. You just know that the seven-foot-tall bruiser at the bar with the ponytail and the full-sleeve tattoo is a big teddy bear, just like everyone else.

Whilst I wouldn't class myself as a metalhead by any stretch of the imagination, I love the atmosphere, the music, the conversations and the people. It's the only place where I've ever been able to ask for "the usual" at the bar. Home sweet second home.

So, after milling around in the crowd, catching up with my buddies and watching the gigs all evening, I went out for a cigarette. It's then that a guy approached me, wanting to know if he could ask me an odd question.

"Did you really, honestly enjoy that gig?"

At this point, it should be noted what I was wearing: a cream skinny-strap top, long denim skirt, those brown slingback sandals (quick aside: my feet are sore, but blister-free!) and a dinky little necklace that Sharl got me for Christmas. I didn't look like I listen to metal at all. As usual, I looked like a floaty little hippy.

So I told him that, despite appearances, I live life pretty damn loud. I explained how I came to see Visitor, that I used to live with a whole metal band, and that although metal is not always my first choice of listening material, it's always a good night at GC. In turn, the guy explained to me that, because he's teetotal, he does a lot of people-watching on nights out, observing how nights like these progress as everyone gets drunker and drunker. Apparently, my presence had completely perplexed him, as I just didn't fit in with the crowd at all.

This pleased me. I take great pride in my individuality.

Anyhow, we had a chat about the bands and the scene, and eventually went our separate ways. But it was great fun to talk to someone who does exactly what I do in our beloved pub, and very amusing to know that, for once, the watcher was being watched.

*Despite a great performance, Visitor didn't make it to the final, but congratulations go to our friends in Bisonhammer, who did.

(Inspired by Plinky. Slightly edited.)

Saltwater

2009-05-14T00:45:00.005+01:00

Plinky has this creepy habit of asking particularly relevant questions with impeccable timing. Case in point: May 10th; "It's true that you shouldn't cry over spilt milk. Over what is it okay to shed tears?"

Shit went down on May 10th. My response to Plinky, two days later, was this:

It's okay to cry when you realise that a two-year emotional investment has come to an end.

It's okay to cry when it becomes clear that the commitment you were hoping for reciprocation on would never come. To love yet not be loved in return is worthy of tears.

It's okay to cry fondly over memories of good times shared, to cry bitterly at the memory of the point it all changed, and to cry with sorrow for what might have been had that day never come.

It's definitely okay to cry white-hot tears of anger at the other party's complete refusal to see how it all went wrong. When the straw-man accusations and the last-ditch attempts to instigate guilt come flying at you, there is no shame in crying then.

It's blissful to cry tears of relief at the realisation that you no longer have to bear anyone else's burdens but your own, to no longer have to play the faithful lapdog, the emotional trashcan.

It's perfectly acceptable to cry with fear at being alone again, at facing your multitude of problems without that same backup to rely on anymore.

But you know what else is okay? It's okay not to cry. As trying as the past three days have been, I haven't expressed my sadness in tears. That's not to say I won't in days to come, but an obstinate voice in my head is telling me not to waste saltwater on something that had been flawed for so long.

After all, he wasn't even my boyfriend. Still, it's over.

That was two days ago. The sadness started to creep in a little today, but as a wise hunter advised me earlier, I'm not letting the sadness make me forget why I'm angry. I mourn the loss of what was, but I'm still overwhelmed with rage at the way in which it was lost. This was something I'd fought against, an event whose inevitability I denied. That inevitability is now crystal-clear to me, but it could have happened so differently. There's hate now where there was hope only days ago. It makes me even angrier to have to admit that it is hate - that the love I had wasn't simply allowed to die and fade away, but was poisoned and turned into something awful. Maybe that's why I haven't cried; there's so much fire in me that there's no water left.

I'll be okay, but my regular posting schedule might be interrupted for a while.

Typing Words, Crafting Art

2009-05-09T21:13:00.004+01:00

I'm a perfectionist, so typing allows me to keep myself in check. Erasing mistakes comes as simply as a keystroke, rather than having to turn the pencil upside down, rub away, turn it back and write again. I'm also a habitual doodler, as my ring binders full of uni notes will testify. They're nonsensical if not illegible, and are full of stories, conversations and insults hurled at my classmates.

Come on, do you really think the average human's attention span would cover a whole musicology lecture?

At a keyboard, I can get things written down as fast as I can think them, so it's not so much a fight with my attention span as it is a battle to project my stream of consciousness into something worth reading. However, it's for that exact reason that I handwrite my song lyrics. They're worth thinking about and pondering over. Writing them with pencil and paper gives me the feeling that I'm actually crafting something tangible and meaningful. I feel as though I owe it to my art.

(Inspired by Plinky. Slightly edited this time.)

Hooray For Good Music!

2009-05-06T16:37:00.005+01:00

Today's the most important day in early May. There are those who celebrate Star Wars (ick) on May the Fourth, and many more who celebrate Mexican culture on Cinco de Mayo. But today is May 6th, and it's the 12th annual Hanson Day! Today's a little musical Thanksgiving for me - I'm grateful for the inspiration Hanson's given me, not just through their music but also the guts and determination they showed in setting up their independent label and managing their career on their own terms. Theirs is a story in which good music triumphs over money-grubbing record labels, and a kind of artistic zen is achieved by regaining complete control. This humble fan is surely proud of them, and hopes they'll tour the UK again soon (pretty please?). Happy Hanson Day to one and all!

It's been a while now since Hanson released 'The Walk', and it looks to be another little while before their next album reaches our ears. Whilst I'm wetting my little knickers in anticipation, I'm getting as much new music under my belt as possible. So in the spirit of celebrating good music today, here's a few endorsements I'd like to make.

Jill Scott

If you're a fan of BBC crime dramas, or TV adaptations of bestselling books, you'll recognise Jill Scott from her recent role as Precious Ramotswe, the finest lady detective in Botswana. I loved 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency', but what I didn't realise is that Ms Scott is an established singer and poet, with no less than three Grammy awards under her belt. How cool is that? After checking out her discography, I'm ashamed to admit my former ignorance of her work. Man, this gal's got soul. She's got this luscious, groovy take on hip-hop that's sexy and chilled, yet understated and raw. This lady's so popular that she's even got an album full of collaborations with artists such as Lupe Fiasco, Will Smith, Mos Def and will.i.am.

Yoshihisa Hirano

I've been a bad otaku of late. I haven't been keeping up with my anime, and at the moment I'm struggling to get through Code Geass. Maybe it's because I blew a funny fuse at Ouran High School Host Club, a gloriously funny take on Japanese host culture. Set in a wealthy high school, the story follows Haruhi Fujioka, a first-year female student who gets roped into the school's host club after an accident. It's a hilarious parody with an excellent soundtrack, composed by Yoshihisa Hirano. It's the latest addition to a long list of Japanese orchestral soundtracks that I love, creating an atmosphere that's the perfect balance of stately grace and comic slapstick.

Yet this isn't the first Hirano soundtrack I've been a fan of. I don't need to rave about Death Note; the rest of the internet's already done that for me. Suffice it to say that no anime, before or since, had me on the edge of my seat for so long. Hirano was responsible for this soundtrack too, and it goes to show his amazing versatility. Where Ouran is light and cute, Death Note is brooding and suspenseful, using that same orchestral sound to create tension rather than comedy. That's the mark of a good composer right there.

Jukebox the Ghost

I know I blogged about these guys last week, but their gig at the Roadhouse had me bouncing with joy for days afterwards. Ben got me listening to these guys months ago, having met piano player Ben Thornewill at another gig some time ago. (We all agreed at the gig that Bens appear to be taking over the earth.) They get a lot of comparisons to Ben Folds and Mika, but I don't think these do them justice. With a rather large penchant for the dramatic, Jukebox the Ghost have this unique brand of piano-based pop-rock that draws you in with its intricate, quirky sound, then stomps all over your brain with witty lyrics about things like the end of the world. They kinda make you want to run around with your hands in the air squealing "Yay! The apocalypse is coming!"

The beauty of Jukebox the Ghost is that, because they use so little production in the studio, they can recreate their recordings perfectly on stage. They've got presence by the truckload, and they're an absolute treat to watch. Not surprising, really, considering the amount of touring they do. If you're lucky enough to get to one of their gigs, I can't recommend them highly enough.

Tinted Windows

I can't let Hanson Day go by without a heads-up to Taylor's new project, the unlikely yet fantastic supergroup known as Tinted Windows. Ten years ago, if you'd told me that there would one day be a band, with a Hanson and a Smashing Pumpkin in its ranks, that would play power-pop to rival that of Head Automatica, I would have laughed like so many others. Yet it's true, and I've not quite managed to lift my jaw from the floor since. Tinted Windows is slicker and bouncier than a greased-up rubber ball, and some of those guitar riffs stick in your head like bubblegum in a shagpile carpet. Biased? Me? Of course. But you don't need to take my word for it when you're still singing their songs three days later.

Cats I've Known

2009-05-04T15:07:00.002+01:00

In another life, I might have been a dog person. If the street I grew up on had been populated with more dogs, perhaps, or if I'd just been around them when I was little. But the little ones that barked a lot scared me, and I discovered I was allergic to the bigger, hairier ones. Instead, I grew up on a street where three-quarters of our neighbours had at least one cat. We weren't one of those households, but we made an awful lot of feline friends all the same.

First there was Max, who would wait on our front doorstep for us to come home from school every day. He loved the attention, and didn't mind that we were little and would sometimes pull his tail. He never hissed or scratched, probably because he was too old to care. When he finally passed on - in our back yard, where our next-door neighbour had to rescue him - he was twenty years old.

Jesse liked to eat. He'd sneak into our house when we weren't looking and sit at the refrigerator expectantly, even though he knew full well he had another home to go to. After Max passed on, our neighbour would happily feed Jess too, and pretty soon he got really fat.

Then there was my dearly departed Puddy, my bestest fuzzy friend. Once he knew he had friends across the street from him that he could visit whenever he wanted, he'd howl like a werewolf at the moon to be let in. He was a grumpy old thing, mostly because of the arthritis in his back legs, but he'd sit on my lap and listen to me while I talked to him, occasionally meowing advice at me. He was very loyal. When our neighbours discovered he had cancer and had to put him down because of his age (Pud was eighteen, only a few months younger than me), I cried all evening.

When new neighbours moved in next door to where Puddy used to live, one of their rescue cats, Mima, started visiting us. She had an odd quirk - because she hadn't been weaned properly as a kitten, she would constantly knead with her paws. She'd knead the air, the floor, our laps, anything. I called her Mima-rin after an anime character. We never did find out what happened to her after she disappeared, but we think she must have gone away to die. Poor Mima.

When Pook and I moved into our flat, we inherited yet another cat companion. Our landlord could only take one of his cats with him to his new apartment, so he left Norman with some friends of his round the corner from us. But Norm liked to make sure his old territory was in good hands, so he'd come and visit us every day. He's like Max - very affectionate, and black all over. Norm hasn't come to visit in a while, but last time we saw him, he'd been in a fight and was missing some fur from his head. Hope he's okay.

We aren't sure what our current adoption's name is, but we call her Plum. She must be getting fed somewhere - she's never hungry although we can't afford to feed her - but we don't know where she lives. The first time she came to visit, she did exactly what she does every day now - came through our French doors, ran straight through the living room into my bedroom, and fell asleep on my bed. I wondered if maybe she was the reincarnation of Puddy - she's tabby on top and white underneath like him, and she likes sleeping on my bed, just like Pud used to. It took Plum a while to get used to us - at first she was nervous and hissed a lot, but now she's as sweet as sugar. She likes being tickled under her chin, and sleeping on the furry blanket I got for Christmas.

When I've got a decent job, I'll adopt a cat of my own, providing Plum doesn't mind. I like cats for their independence, in comparison to dogs - they can look after themselves, but they always come back for some affection too. Doggies are sweet in their way, but they like being told what to do, whereas you can't tell a cat to do squat.

Besides, whoever heard of a loldog?

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Here's To You, Miss Marriott

2009-05-02T15:55:00.005+01:00

Who wasn't my enemy when I was ten?

I was the class overachiever. Full marks in every spelling test, ridiculously well-read for my age, the first to volunteer for anything, the loudest singer in the school choir, the overall star performer.

Oh, and let's not forget this vital fact: because I'd been pushed around by some little prick the year before and hadn't told anyone until he was found out, I'd been told to tell an adult the instant someone gave me shit. So not only was I the overachiever, I was also the tattle-telling goody-two-shoes. I may as well have wandered around the playground with a target painted on my chest.

See? Even you hate ten-year-old me.

If it's names you're after, here's a few: there was Emma, one of the bitchy overlords of the playground, who told my on-again-off-again best friend Julia that if I was invited to her birthday party, neither Emma nor any of the other girls in class would go. Then there was Stewart, the token troublemaker and every teacher's worst nightmare, who nearly broke my finger in a hockey match and never let me forget it.

But here's the really sad part: when I was ten, my arch nemesis was my year 5 teacher, Miss Marriott. She was newly qualified, liked teaching PE best (my overachieving did not extend to the sports field), and had absolutely no idea how to deal with a kid like me. She didn't think I was anything special academically, and she believed that I brought all my problems on myself.

Yeah. Bitch.

I'll never forget that one afternoon when I came running out of school, crying hysterically, to my mother. I'd spent an entire day getting ripped on in class and being ignored by my teacher, and I seem to remember wanting to run away and die. Ma being Ma, marched me right back into school and went apeshit at Miss Marriott, who at first tried telling her that I was partly to blame.

"How dare you tell me she started it? Don't you have any idea of the grief she gets? Would you like to be the mother of a child that's miserable all the time because she's being bullied at school?" By the end of it, Miss Marriott was speechless and Ma was so angry that she was in tears. It was only the second time in my life that I'd seen my ma cry, so I was freaked out, let alone my teacher.

*snif-snif* Is that the smell of someone getting burned?

The day was saved by my to-be year 6 teacher, Mr Newell, who liked teaching music best (he ran the school choir) and knew exactly what was going on with me. He calmed Ma and I down, and no doubt had a few words to the Marriott after we left. Once I turned eleven, life got a little easier knowing I had someone in the classroom to back me up.

But here's a learning for you to take away, kids: when it comes to playground bullying, there's no bigger bully than the teacher who turns a blind eye.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

When In Doubt, Blame The Grill

2009-04-30T16:55:00.006+01:00

What's the most useless thing in my flat, eh?

My instinctive answer to this question would be Pook. However, Pook is only useless because she's never in the flat.

Conversely, I know Pook's answer would be me, as would Ben's. (He told me this, the traitor. He'll be getting no more of my magic pesto chicken.)

My next choice might be the vacuum cleaner. It has no effect on my bedroom carpet. But on second thought, it's not bad on the hardwood floors.

Then I wondered about Marv. He makes a mess, leaves my computer on, and can never remember our security code to let himself in. But he keeps Ben quiet when they play Pro Evo, so he's not all bad.

So I guess my final answer would be our grill. It's been broken for months, and not even Dad can fix it. I'm sure that having to fry everything has contributed to my shocking Wii Fit age. I hate you, Broken Grill. You made me fat.

(This part of the post was inspired by Plinky.)

In the spirit of uselessness, I've been making a few tweaks to the site lately that nobody's really going to notice. Want a little tour? Yeah, I'm sure you don't. But you're gonna get one all the same!

The links in the navbar have changed. Instead of my largely useless "other" sites, it's now a list of pages relevant to just the Nerd. "Just like a Wordpress blog!" I hear you gasp. Yeah, but this is a Blogger blog, and don't you forget it.

The left sidebar's been given some badge-like graphics (which have popped up around the blog elsewhere), and the "Latest Posts" list is now feed-based, rather than being derived from Blogger's Recent Posts feature. It now shows the five latest posts, rather than the ten posts made previously to the one you're viewing.

The Tags list has been around a few weeks by now, but it's a neat little hack of the Labels feature included in New Blogger that I dug up from the net somewhere. The Nerd still rolls with Classic Blogger, and proud to be, so this little feature's very handy for browsing.

The right sidebar's been given a whacking big overhaul. If you're on the main page or any of the navbar pages, you'll see the miniblog. It's still powered by Twitter, but it's now only the latest five tweets. Below that is my new blogroll, entitled Now Try These. But is it a blogroll? HECK NO! It's a carefully crafted mashup between Yahoo! Pipes and Feedburner that brings you the latest updates from my favourite blogs. But these all disappear when you view a previous post. The right sidebar becomes the archive list, to make it easier for you to browse through old nerdence.

Assuming you want to, that is. An assumption too far, perhaps?

That's Another Fine Mess I've Got Myself Into

2009-04-28T14:12:00.002+01:00

I'm bored.

I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

The recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

My managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

After graduating with a 2:1 in popular music last July, becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I worked my ass off for four years at university, and after graduating with a 2:1 in popular music last July, becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

The moral of the story: a degree doesn't get you jack these days.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Yum Yum (No, Seriously)

2009-04-25T23:11:00.003+01:00

In the centre of Manchester stands the Printworks, a former printing press turned entertainment centre. It's home to several eateries, drinkeries, clubs I wouldn't be caught dead in, and the Odeon cinema I worked at a couple of summers ago. You can get great cocktails at Norwegian Blue or the Hard Rock Cafe, and the food's good at Old Orleans or Nando's, but you've got to be feeling rich to eat here - the Printworks is notoriously overpriced.

But there's always one exception that proves the rule, and in the case of the Printworks, that exception is Yum Yum. It's a Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet that's not only excellent value for money, but has food that really lives up to the name of the place. Their barbecue chicken wings are out of this world, and their amazing sausage satay is the first thing I go for.

Yum Yum saved my sorry ass a few times when I was working at the cinema. In the middle of a long and hungry shift, filling one of Yum Yum's takeaway boxes for £3.80 was the antidote. Weekdays, you can eat there for less than a tenner. Yum-yum, indeed. If we're trying to have a night out on a budget, Yum Yum is our first choice for a cut-price stuffing. It's great on Wednesdays, when we can follow it up with an Orange Wednesday at the Odeon.

Then there was last Tuesday. There was nothing left in the fridge, and we needed to eat fast. Luckily my ever-wise gramma had sent me £20 for Easter, so Ben and I stuffed ourselves silly on the best buffet in town, before heading to the Roadhouse to see a fantastic band from Philadelphia named Jukebox the Ghost. Okay, I admit it: this whole post has simply been leading up to a plug for a band I really like. But they're seriously good, criminally underplayed, and really nice guys too. They have an album available on iTunes called 'Let Live and Let Ghosts' that's well worth a listen or three.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Sobriety, Politics and the Vengaboys: How To Kill a Party

2009-04-23T20:43:00.002+01:00

when the conversation becomes one guy's political soapbox

"Hey there, Sergeant Buzzkill. Yeah, the state of the nation sucks, eh? How 'bout letting someone else get a word in edgewise there? No? I guess I'll just be going then. Psst. Hey, don't let this guy drink any more."

when the Scouser gets angry

There are things that you should avoid at all costs, whatever the situation: fire, floods, beehives, the emo room at Jilly's, and Liverpudlian anger. Getting in the way of this kind of temper can only end in tears, especially for southern fairies like me.

when the ugly guy starts cracking onto you

Some of us have this curse - ugly guys immediately zoom in on us as we enter the party, and point-blank refuse to leave us alone. The words "no", "I'm taken", or "please take yourself in a northerly direction and find someone who cares" mean nothing to this most awkward of foes.

when the party runs out of booze

This is an unforgivable sin. People will start to become confused. They might cry. They might sober up! Make confession to the party fairy, and do penance for at least a week afterwards.

when the music goes from funny to nasty

'Gay Bar' by Electric Six is a perfectly acceptable party tune. 'The Vengabus is Coming' is not. There are certain songs that are just not fit for human ears, no matter how drunk you are. At this point, it's best to just run for the hills and hide until morning.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Insane in the Mary-Jane

2009-04-20T22:55:00.002+01:00

Happy 4/20, everyone.

I'm looking forward to the day when marijuana is legalised. Now, I'm not its biggest fan, and I've seen first-hand the psychological damage it can do when it's abused. (It indirectly jeopardised my final year at uni. Long story, for another time maybe.) But try comparing it to the two drugs that are legal - alcohol and tobacco. Both of these are responsible for around a quarter of all deaths in the developed world, placing an unnecessary workload on our already struggling healthcare systems. Yet their abuse is encouraged, as it provides a booster for our flagging economy.

Cannabis gets its bad reputation simply because of its common use with tobacco. However, on its own, the evidence of its medical benefits based on research from the past ten years is mounting up. It's an excellent analgesic and has been shown to effectively treat the symptoms of multiple sclerosis, arthritis and even HIV. Yet it's illegal to even prescribe it medically.

Legalising it, however, would be only one step towards regulating its production, its sale and its use. Keeping it illegal seems stupid to me - those that would control it have little to no idea who's growing it, or who's consuming it. There's a lot of money in the marijuana trade. That's money that could do a lot of good in the right hands - for instance, funding more research into its medicinal effects - but nobody knows whose hands the money's in right now.

Marijuana's not this big evil monster the government would have us believe it is. Yes, when used incorrectly it can wreck people. But I see marijuana in the same way as music downloads or DVD "piracy". The powers-that-be hate it because they're losing revenue because of it. But people will find a way of doing it, so the only sensible long-term option is not to fight it, but to harness it. The sooner the government embraces the cannabis trade instead of shunning it, the better.

Think about it: when was the last time you saw two stoned people in a fight? Wouldn't it be easier on our police forces if people were stoned instead of drunk on a Friday night? When was the last time you heard of someone overdosing on marijuana? Yes, the health implications of smoking weed are bad, but say it were to be legalised, and healthier methods of consumption were found, especially for those who use it medically - would that not take some of the pressure off our hospitals?

Legalise it. Regulate it. Tax it. Use it as a power for good. At the end of the day, it's just a plant, not Lucifer incarnate.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Questions Without Answers

2009-04-17T00:35:00.003+01:00

I haven't answered a Plinky prompt in three days. I know - WTF, right? Plinky's been my little addiction this past month or so. It's helped to stave off the boredom, and I've actually started to have a little confidence in my writing ability.

Truth be told, the prompts from the last three days have made me sad. I know Plinky doesn't mean to make me sad, but the questions they've asked have reminded me that my life continues to suck. Writing about my past adventures has made for an excellent escape route, but I can't write about the present. There's nothing to write about.

So I'm going to do my best to answer their questions here. That way I'm keeping my whining away from Plinky.

Relive a vacation.

I wanted to write about the trip to Greece that Matt and I took in September 2005. I wanted to describe the best vacation I've ever been on - a whole week away in a brand new country, swimming in the sea and drinking cocktails without having to worry about anything. I wanted to remember that sunset cruise we took, that one perfect evening that I wanted to wrap up in a box and keep with me forever, my own little slice of heaven.

But I haven't been on a vacation since. I can't afford to. And I'm tired of the rain, of being indoors with nothing to look forward to. And I can't think of that holiday without remembering what I was clinging onto. We were falling apart at the seams even then, and I was in such denial. I just wanted everything to be okay with us. I miss Matt very much, and I feel very lonely sometimes. I know I've got Ben and we're as close as close gets, but we're not a couple. Matt and I were the package, you know? The whole caboodle.

(Sorry, Plinky, but you made me cry again.)

If all the world's a stage, and we're merely players, how does your next scene begin?

My next scene is exactly the same as the one before it, and the one before that, and the one before that. I'll wake up sometime between 10am and noon. I'll have snoozed all my alarms because there's nothing to wake up to. I'll boot the PC, read my emails and feeds. When I get to the Cheezburger pictures, I'll remember to check on the kitty. She'll either be outside wanting in, or inside wanting out. I check the job vacancies on the usual sites. If there are any changes I'll email some applications out, knowing full well I'll never hear anything back.

If I'm feeling positive, I'll bust out the Wii Fit for an hour or so. If I'm feeling negative, I'll hit the couch with a brew and Jeremy Kyle on TV. Seeing society's dregs screeching for DNA tests for their bastard children makes me feel a little better about myself.

On a good day, Ben will come over and we'll do something, often revolving around cooking and whatever good tunes we've been listening to lately. We'll watch The Simpsons at 6, Family Guy at 11. If Ben doesn't go home after Family Guy, we'll watch a DVD on his laptop before sleepytime. On a bad day, I won't move from my computer. If I log onto WoW and Matt's online, the day is made much better. If not, I'll do something pointless and web-related, like this. When I'm tired, I'll put on three episodes of Thundercats and fall asleep.

There are variations on this theme. Every second Thursday I sign on. I go out for supplies at least once a week. If Ben's got a gig on in Manchester, I'll go to it. Pook comes and goes depending on her job and boyfriend. Marv comes over almost every day when he's here, but he's been with the folks for two weeks, and to be honest I've forgotten what he looks like. I have a very, very casual job working match days at Manchester United now, but they come so infrequently it's barely worth the money.

All in all, I'd sell my soul for decent employment right now. I never expected graduate life to be so bad.

There's never enough time, is there? What would you do with an extra three hours today?

What difference would three hours make to me right now? Three more hours in bed? Three more hours of Thundercats? Of Warcraft? Of Jeremy Kyle telling some chav he should have put something on the end of it?

Three hours is just three more hours of having to live without any income at all. Three hours is three more hours on benefits. Three hours is three hours more of being screwed over by Salford Council (latest news from them - they want to take us to court over a supposedly unpaid council tax bill). Three more hours of hearing nothing back from supposed employers. Three more hours of hopelessness.

I'm sorry. I feel so utterly defeated today.

Balti In My Blood

2009-04-14T16:44:00.006+01:00

Italy has pasta, that foolproof staple of my kitchen that goes with everything. Italy also has pesto, which I only discovered, to my shame, at uni, and which has not been absent from my cupboard since.

Japan has ramen, udon, sushi, miso, gyoza... oh crap, I'll need to clean the drool from my keyboard now.

Portugal invented this little thing called piri-piri. Nando's took the magical piri-piri and made chicken taste unbelievable. Domino's took the sacred piri-piri and made a mind-blowing new pizza.

Yet all these I would happily deny for a year. You see, I'm immensely proud of my Indian roots, especially where food is concerned. (It's not like I can be proud of my British culinary heritage, is it? Almost everything the Brits are famous for cooking is either grossly unhealthy or unhealthily gross.) Give me curry, my friends. A nice lamb bhuna or a chicken pathia ought to do it. Don't forget the pilau rice and the keema naan either.

Now, before you back away in horror crying "But your mouth! Your stomach! Your arse!" please remember that I've been raised on curry. Dad had me eating spicy lentils and rice from the day I could eat solid food. In fact, I'm fairly sure my blood type is Balti Positive. So don't you worry that it'll be too spicy for my tongue, or too rich for my stomach.

As for troubles of a more southernly nature, those only really apply to skinny white boys who'll eat the hottest madras in Rusholme just to prove how 'ard they are. If they're too dumb to realise that true Indian curries are nowhere near that hot, and that that level of spice is purely a British invention (as I said: grossly unhealthy), then they deserve to get the runs in the morning.

Give me a curry a day for a year, and I'll be more than satisfied. It's the closest I'll be getting to India for a while.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

A Perfect April Afternoon

2009-04-11T14:47:00.003+01:00

It's one of those rare April days where the sun's beaming down, but the trees haven't sprouted leaves big enough to give any shade. It seems a little incongruous, having bare trees on such a gorgeous day, but it adds to the effect - days like this don't come often.

I'm sitting in the biggest greenhouse in town, working on my tan from indoors. Okay, it's a restaurant, not a greenhouse, but it's all window, if you catch my drift. I'm here to see a band I've seen fifty times, that play songs other bands have played a hundred times or more. That's exactly why I like them, and it's why they get booked to play here so often. Every other outing I've taken in the past six months has been to this place, I swear.

There's a beer festival going on outside. A lot of people are basking with pint or glass in hand, including a table of shirtless lads who keep getting up to sway drunkenly to the songs. After a long, miserable, British winter, the atmosphere here's not only refreshing, it's invigorating. It's working its magic on me too; feels like I haven't been this happy in months. Maybe that's the house wine talking, but it's certainly true.

The owner of the place comes over to pay hi; a gorgeous Danish lady that, to my surprise, recognises me every time I come in. She tells me that I look like a true groupie, sitting on my own grinning like a goon at the band. That's true to a certain extent - it helps when the bassist is your rock husband and bestest friend in all the world. Heck, if he played a gig in Australia, I'd stow myself away in the luggage hold of the plane.

See, this is my idea of heaven, regardless of my groupie appearance. I'm quite content to listen to a great band for hours on end on my own, especially in a setting as beautiful as this one. For a geeky would-be singer, that loves live music but can't get out enough to hear it, I couldn't ask for a better afternoon.

A Rather Reasonable Ransom, If You Ask Me

2009-04-08T22:37:00.002+01:00

People of Earth! All your right shoes are now locked in my basement! I want all my demands met, or you'll all spend the rest of your lives limping around and looking really stupid!

Johnny Depp, in his underpants, in my bed.

This request originally read "Johnny Depp naked in my bed", but Pook suggested I should keep some mystery in the scenario. Acceptable alternatives to Johnny Depp include David Tennant, Edward Norton, or any of the Hanson brothers.

a box of Oreos delivered to my door daily

Before you raise an eyebrow and say "Whut? Why not buy some?" please know that in my neck of the woods, Oreos are damn near impossible to come by unless you shop online. Girl's gotta have something to dunk in her milk, right?

my student debts cleared

It's somewhat frustrating to be sent out into the world, freshly graduated, and already owe at least a year's wages to other people. I'd like to be able to buy nice things once in a while - computers, dresses, Jack Daniels - instead of constantly fretting.

a purple Lotus Espirit

It'd be an expensive lawn ornament unless I had driving lessons to go with it, but it's my dream car. Someone used to drive one of these around the hometown, and I drooled every time I saw it.

a General Election, like, NOW please

It's our only hope of ending the spectacular failure British politics is right now.

no more Big Brother

The first couple of seasons were a neat little sociological experiment, but this monstrous publicity machine that now assaults us from all media on an annual basis is only an experiment in driving sensible people crazy. (I'll spare you my rant on the whole Ade-jay Oody-gay debacle for now.)

one of every model of every bass guitar in all the world

Just to keep Ben quiet.

a Ben and Jerry's vending machine in my kitchen

My waistline hates these demands. But my waistline isn't the boss of me. Now bring me my Half-Baked!

(Inspired by Plinky.)

It's Actually Pretty Easy Being Green

2009-04-06T01:24:00.002+01:00

One thing that confuses me about modern politics is why environmental issues aren't higher on everyone's agendas. If our environment cannot sustain life, then questions of crime, education and healthcare all become a moot point. Ain't nobody gonna whine about taxes when we're all dead.

Anyhow, this question of environmental concern is oddly coincidental. Last night Channel 4 ran two movies back-to-back: 'The Day After Tomorrow' and 'An Inconvenient Truth'. The former I've seen several times and like very much; the latter I hadn't seen before, to my shame, but came away feeling much more educated. Both movies, in their own ways, have the same essential message - we need to be more worried about our planet, because if we don't it might turn around and kill us.

I started worried about the planet when I was seven or so. When I wrote about giving away a vast sum of money last week, I mentioned Ma's love of environmental charities. She had me subscribed to the junior version of the WWF, and I'd take the factsheets they used to mail me into school to show my teachers. I'd march around the playground with them, indignant at the rate of deforestation in the Amazon, and proudly proclaim that 'Captain Planet' was my favourite cartoon. (Well, it was 'Thundercats' really, but hey, when you've got a point to prove...)

Now, don't freak out. I haven't grown up to be some crazy activist hippy that doesn't bathe and writes protest songs on an acoustic guitar. Political punk rock, maybe, but I never really went in for Bob Dylan. I am still concerned with environmental issues though, and though I don't march around waving WWF literature anymore, I do lots of little things to decrease my carbon footprint.

Pook and I have a pretty green life in our flat. All our lightbulbs are energy savers, and our small electricity bills come from npower, who do a lot of good work with renewable energy sources, so I'm told. Our water usage is even smaller - because our bills last year were based on estimated readings, and we used such little water overall, our bills this year have shrunk to something tiny because our water provider now owes us money. Not bad, huh?

Neither of us drive either. Pook can't afford to learn yet, but I'm holding off until transportation becomes difficult. The whole car issue is one problem I really don't want to be a part of. Our public transport links are perfect for our needs anyway, and we carpool with Ben on any big or awkward road trips we need to take. (His car, Ethel, is very economical too. She gets him everywhere on very little petrol.)

I wish I could say our council's recycling system works as well as our public transport. In theory, every household in our district is given a green box, in which we put cardboard, glass, tins and plastics. This is then emptied every week by the council for recycling - at least, in theory. We had to call Salford Council several times this month to complain because our box was somehow being ignored. But as it goes, we recycle a lot. I'm hoping they'll bring in a paper recycling system (at the moment, we save all our paper until the folks come to visit, then ask them to take it to the recycling bins for us, as there aren't many near enough for us to carry it all), and a composting initiative so we can recycle our vegetable waste.

If I have one flaw, it stems from my fear of the dark. (Yes, I'm 24 and scared of the dark. I'm big enough to admit it, a'ight?) Unless I have company, I absolutely cannot sleep without a movie playing on my computer. It used to worry me that I'd end up leaving my computer on all night, and before I'd have to force myself to wake up in the middle of the night just to turn it off. But I've now developed a finely-tuned system for uninterrupted sleep: unless my insomnia's going through a rough spot, I'm normally asleep within two episodes of 'Captain Planet' (or, indeed, 'Thundercats'). My defrag program is then scheduled to run after my cartoons end, then shut the system down for me. In the morning, I wake up refreshed and guilt-free.

Oh, and I don't litter either. Litter be bad.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Songs To Rediscover

2009-04-03T14:13:00.005+01:00

Erasing your memory is a dangerous game. 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' taught me that. You don't learn from past mistakes - you just make them again, only the consequences become worse because you don't remember what happened last time you messed up. Why would you want to set yourself up to fail again?

So my theory is to erase good things from your head, so that when you rediscover them, you get that same feeling of elation, that awestruck sensation that you lose after the first few encounters. Not so much 'Eternal Sunshine' as 'Fifty First Dates', you get me?

With this in mind, I've chosen three songs that I love that I'd have erased from my memory. Remembering how it felt to first hear them makes me wish I could hear them for the first time again.

Samson by Regina Spektor

I'm sitting at my computer with a few conversations going on MSN. Pook's got some music on, so the titles are popping up in the window. Then this one pops up, and I've never heard of Regina Spektor. So I ask her about the song, and she sends it to me.

'Samson'. I's amazing.

Completely blown away, I get onto another MSN conversation with one of my uni buddies. "Dude, you HAVE to listen to this," I tell him, sending the song on. Songs this powerful should not go unshared.

Little do I know that Regina's already a massive hit on campus, and by the time her tour takes her to the Academy, not only am I there, but half of Salford Uni is too.

The Walk by Hanson

Unlike Regina, this story starts at at the Academy. Hanson are in town, and I'm standing in a fairly good spot, way over to stage right. I can't see the drumkit at all, but there's about three people between me and Taylor. The atmosphere's great, the tunes are rocking - yessirree, I'm having a blast.

Hanson have a segment in each show where they each perform one solo song. When it comes to Zac's turn, he sits at the piano rather than taking up a guitar, which surprises me - I figured he'd sing 'Misery' from the album that they're promoting, 'Underneath'.

Instead he plays this new song named 'The Walk'. All the screaming stops, and I'm stood there with my mouth open. I'm used to being moved by Hanson's songs, but to hear this one for the first time, and live to boot, was something truly awesome.

Some time passes, and Hanson's new album is due for release, unsurprisingly entitled 'The Walk'. They come to town again, this time at the Apollo, and when Zac plays the title track this time, he fluffs it up a little in the middle, grins at us all, and carries on.

It's A Motherfucker by The Eels

You know how couples have 'our song'? Well, the Eels was 'our band' - one of our bands, I should say. Coldplay were the other one. But it was the Eels we went to see first. I got him tickets for his birthday when they came to the Apollo. When Mr E started playing this song, I cried a little. If you know the song, you'll know why.

I already knew it, of course, I'd had the 'Daisies of the Galaxy' album for a while. We'd play the Eels constantly on roadtrips, especially 'Souljacker'. Even though we had an immense amount in common, our love of the Eels stands out to me.

We're not together anymore. Circumstance and all that. I still listen to the Eels on my own, but not this song. It sums up my feelings for the whole situation far too perfectly, and I'd prefer to get through the album without remembering and crying. It's a beautiful song though, so I'd have it erased only to listen to it, then take it off my playlist again. It really is a motherfucker being here without him.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Making a Virtual Fool of Myself

2009-04-01T13:47:00.002+01:00

I was out drinking last night - for the first time in months, I might add, so it was well deserved. This morning, completely unaware of the date, I checked my feeds and email like normal. (At this point, I'd like to thank Mozilla for Thunderbird, and Google for Gmail. There's no more nutritious breakfast than the one they serve me each day.)

Near the bottom of my daily list is WoW Insider, bringing the inhabitants of Azeroth daily headlines from inside and outside the game. One of my favourite weekly columns is Guildwatch, with news of all the latest guild action - who's downed who this week, and who's recruiting who for such-and-such, that sort of thing. My favourite part is the guild drama section - people taking the game WAY too seriously, and getting into all sorts of fights and flame wars over the forums. I tell you, there's no better source of comedy.

So imagine my horror when I'm faced with this line: "But the drama is always so vicious, and no one ever seems to like it too much, so from now on, we're going to be covering a different side of the game: guild goodness." Did WoW Insider blow a funny fuse? What's going on? Don't they realise that laughing at angry nerds is one of the simpler pleasures we derive from this game? Why would they take our drama?!?

(I've reserved this space here for you to imagine a Peanuts strip, that's just three frames of Charlie Brown screaming "AAAAAAUGH!")

But then I checked the date, and the penny dropped with a rather loud clunk. Oh, Joey, you gullible little thing, you. Go fly your kite, Charlie Brown, they were just kidding. I'm such a sucker for pranks. I';d like to say that this was the first time something like this has happened; luckily, this is only the first time that something like this has happened while nobody else has been around.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Plinky Bits!

2009-03-30T17:15:00.001+01:00

As you can tell from my latest posts, I'm thoroughly enamoured with the Plinky community. It's given me a truckload of material for what would otherwise have been a very static blog (my life is not very interesting at the moment), and it's also got me in contact with many other great writers, some of whom have given me very sweet feedback on my answers. I'm starting to truly love writing again, so I'm very grateful to the good folks of Plinky.

Some of my answers are too short to stand on their own as posts on this particular blog, but that doesn't mean they're not worth sharing. So here's a few bits and bobs.

Animal face-off! Who would win in a fight between a bear and a shark?

Hello? Strong Badian security measures, anyone?

For those unfamiliar with the Homestar Runner universe, the bear holds the shark, not the other way around. This implies a certain amount of fail on the part of the shark, and conversely, a victory for the bear. Furthermore, sharks cannot hold bears.

If you were named based on your traits, habits, or likes, what would your name be?

Let's see... if I were to be named after one of the greatest joys of my life... so much to consider...

As if you need to ask. Annie Mae.

Hybrid Prius or Escalade with gold rims?

I don't drive, and I have no intention of learning while I'm living this close to the city centre. This means I don't really give a rat's left buttcheek about cars - how they look, how fast they go, how many miles to the gallon, blablabla.

If I ever did learn to drive, it would be for practical reasons. So with this in mind, I would choose the Prius, which is a much better option for the environment, and serves an excellent purpose.

Besides, what little I know about style tells me that gold rims are Tackyville, like body kits on Corsas, or that Westwood guy on Pimp My Ride UK that needs a good slap. Bleurgh. Xzibit FTW.

Describe the coolest thing you've seen in another country.

Cologne Cathedral, or das Kölner Dom, if we're going to get literal, is the most beautiful building I've seen. I was on a school trip to southern Germany, and the day we went to Cologne was spectacular for two reasons - the cathedral, and the almighty rainstorm that we had to hide inside the cathedral from. The deluge was sharp but short, so we had plenty of time to admire the gorgeous Gothic architecture.

I reckon if MTV managed to get God on Cribs, He/She would show them around this house right here.

What’s your favorite live music venue?

My favourite music venue in Manchester is the Apollo. The acoustics are great in there, far better than the Academy or the MEN. It's got a lot of character - it's the kind of place where, when you enter, you can imagine all kinds of famous people having gone there before. At the Apollo, I've been caught in a Lostprophets mosh pit, screamed at Hanson, shed a little tear as the Eels went into "It's A Motherfucker", and rubbed my nipples at The Mighty Boosh. (Gotta love Bob Fossil's School of Dance.)

Conversely, the worst music venue in Manchester is the basement at the Dry Bar. Fuck the joss sticks, can we get a little air-con down there please? It fucking stinks!

Is it trampy or is it fun?

(I interpreted this one as most Plinky folks did - the difference between "sexy" and "slutty".)

Sexy is subtle, smart and almost effortless. Sexy knows what it's doing, but doesn't want you to know that. Sexy doesn't care what you think - sexy is as sexy does.

Slutty, on the other hand, cares very much what you think. Slutty is in your face, to the point of causing offence. Slutty values your opinion of it more than its own.

Sexy is secure and sure of itself, whereas slutty is not. Slutty will put itself through pain for your perceived pleasure, whereas sexy realises how futile that would be. Sexy doesn't realise it's sexy, but slutty tries too hard to be sexy. Slutty's intentions are plain to see. Sexy is more enigmatic.

But this is all based on appearance. Slutty is probably really sweet underneath, and just going about it all wrong. Sexy might be a manipulative bitch. First impressions don't mean squat.

What will you do when the zombies come?

If video games have taught me anything, it's that when the invasion arrives, all you have to do is lop their heads off with various kitchen utensils, grab any and all weapons and first-aid kits that will appear as if by magic on the street, until you get hold of the BFG and can blow their heads off one by one, whilst sitting on your rooftop drinking your finest Cabernet.

"Can you climb, motherflipper?" BANG! "Nah, didn't think so. Ooo, this vintage is exquisite!"

(If you're on Plinky, say hi sometime! You'll know me by my screenname, radicalshorty, and my Zefiris avatar.)

Trying To Be Matilda

2009-03-28T15:37:00.003Z

I learned to read at a very young age. Ma tells me I knew my alphabet by the age of two, and was reading like a seven-year-old at age three. I became a little bookworm, soaking up page after page like a sponge, or so my teachers said. My aunty, a primary school teacher herself, was wise enough to instil a great love of Roald Dahl in me, and before long I'd read all of his books, even the more adult-oriented ones. But the first one I ever read, and my favourite, was 'Matilda'.

What a heroine Matilda is! She was the first character in a book that I could truly relate to. She's smart, but her frustration at school leads her intelligence to manifest itself in telekinetic powers. I too was frustrated at school. Being so well-read, yet being taught things that I already knew, made me bored and hungry for something to sink my teeth into. (One of my earliest teachers misunderstood me in spectacular fashion; her end-of-year report on me seemed to have been written about an entirely different child.)

I longed to be placed higher up in school, like Matilda was in the end. I remember sitting in class, having finished my sums and spellings way before everyone else, trying to move my crayons with my eyes, like Matilda could. Oddly, my wish to be moved up came true - myself and a few others were sent directly from reception (the equivalent of kindergarten, I guess) into year 2, with classmates at least a year older than ourselves.

Like me, Matilda was well-read. Her feat of reading the entire library left me awe-struck - I'd never be able to manage so many books! I tried to read as many as possible, which has led to a knack for getting through books at a ridiculous speed. A couple of years ago, a friend of mine was astounded that I got through 'The Vagina Monologues' in less than two hours.

It was Matilda that gave me a strong sense of social justice. Bad people should be punished, no matter what their age. Luckily my family, and my lovely headmistress, were much kinder to me than Matilda's, but the notion of a a young person righting wrongs committed by their elders became an important part of my morals. (In another end-of-year report two years later, I pointed out to Ma that my teacher had made a spelling mistake. When Ma told my teacher this, she laughed and said "Yes, that sounds about right.")

But most of all, the fabulous Matilda gave me hope for triumph over adversity. In the end, Matilda doesn't need her powers. She feels challenged in her schoolwork, her teachers are nurturing, and she is adopted by her beloved Miss Honey. Even book-smart, uncool little nerds like me (even back then, I identified myself as a nerd) could find happiness.

Reading 'Matilda' was one of the more defining experiences of my young childhood, so it gives me a warm feeling to remember it. Coming back to it time and again was like meeting up with an old friend, and although it would have been a treat to have a real friend like Matilda, reading her story would always make me feel a little less lonely.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Of Rock Gods and Famous Folks

2009-03-26T17:46:00.002Z

I went on a rock adventure last night. Ben had managed to score tickets to the premiere of the 'We Will Rock You' tour, and he had a spare one for me. Like any well-educated kid, I was born and raised on Queen. Having seen the show in the West End back in my gap year, I figured that seeing how the show had progressed in five years would be an excellent way to spend an evening.

So, if Stroke of Luck #1 was getting this ticket, Stroke of Luck #2 would be my instant upgrade. Having somehow squeezed myself into the very back row, right up in the gods where everyone at ground level looked like ants, a kind steward brought a few of us some tickets for unfilled seats downstairs, presumably from folks who weren't able to make it. Win.

As I and a few lucky others were being directed to our new seats, right up close to the stage, I suddenly noticed a few famous faces around us. Two seats in front of me was a guy I knew from TV, but couldn't place (whom I later discovered was Gray O'Brien, who's currently in 'Coronation Street'). Over to my left was Antony Costa, one of the lads from that old boyband Blue that Pook used to go nuts for. I spotted Paddy McGuiness over the other side of the auditorium. Ant McPartlin wandered past me a minute or so later. Then came a hefty entourage of folks, the most famous of whom ended up sitting a mere five seats away from me, leaving me totally gobsmacked. I mean, this was a guy who'd adorned the walls of my bedroom for a considerable number of my pre-teen years.

"But who was this idol of yours, sitting so close?" I hear you ask. Oh, just some lad from Stoke named ROBBIE FREAKIN' WILLIAMS.

(I shall pause here to bask in the sweet glow of your envy.)

I soon discovered the reason for Robbie's presence - his good buddy Jonathan Wilkes was starring as Khashoggi, and a damn good role he played too. (Being a total dish didn't hurt either.) I was also hugely impressed with Brenda Edwards, a favourite of Ma's from an X-Factor series, now playing the Killer Queen. Dang, that lady can sing!

But the real triumph came at the end of the show, when the gods themselves, Brian May and Roger Taylor, joined the cast onstage. Man, I've not heard a crowd scream so loud since last time I saw Hanson. For a humble nerd to witness, in the flesh, two heroes of rock music whose music has been like bread and butter to her since she was a baby, was a truly awesome moment. As Mister May cut into one of his blinding solos, I did spare a thought for my poor ma, who would be sure to be grumpy with me when I told her what I was seeing.

It's an amazing show, still as hilarious and awe-inspiring as it was the first time round. I loved the guy playing Brit, and all his martial arts hijinks, as well as the big Welsh guy playing, unsurprisingly, Robbie. (Ben and I both said that his pronunciation of "rock and roll" instantly reminded us of Ol.) There are some great new bits in the script too - I had a good giggle at the "Facebook poke" skit near the beginning, and the reference to Big Brother later on. "What a bunch of wankers!" Quite.

If you do go and see it, as all good rock fans should, I can't guarantee you'll be in the company of such famous folk. Indeed, it's a great shame that Brian and Roger can't play every night. But what I can guarantee is one heck of a show. I reckon that somewhere, the sorely-missed spirit of Freddie Mercury was sitting back and having a good old chuckle at last night's performance.

I came out of the Palace, almost tripping over two of the Loose Women on the way, ecstatic and ready to brag about my good fortune to Ben, who'd also been upgraded but not as close as I was. Ben came out, and instead of waxing lyrical about the show his favourite band had just performed (he likes Queen even more than I do, if that's possible), launched into a twenty-minute diatribe of everything the bassist had played wrong throughout the show. Some nerds, it seems, are not so easily pleased.

Pffft... boy wouldn't know a rock spectacle if it jumped up and bit him on the arse...

Before The Bucket

2009-03-23T19:27:00.003Z

Five things I want to do before I die, eh? Aside from swimming with dolphins and climbing a mountain and all those other clichés? Let's see...

get grade 8 on at least one instrument

When it comes to musical solo endeavours, I have the attention span of a goldfish. Throw me in a group or a band, and I will work my butt off from dawn till dusk (providing rest of said band has the same mindset). But when it comes to individual instrumental studies, I've not yet maxed out my potential. I could easily have passed grade 8 in classical guitar before I finished high school, but with so many other distractions going on - academic exams, alcohol, boys - I only managed grade 7. A couple of years before that, I was hitting a proverbial brick wall on the piano around the grade 5 mark. But I know that if I knuckled down to it now, I could easily make the grade. A few months ago I came across some Italian arias that my vocal teacher at uni had had me singing - arias that Ben told me he'd sung in his grade 8 vocal exam. That's hopeful, right?

Trouble is, what would I choose first? Vocal? Piano? Classical guitar, or electric? Bass, even? It's nice to have so many strings to my bow (if you'll pardon the pun), but I don't want to be a jack of all trades, master of none - I can master a few, right?

visit Tokyo

No-brainer, this one. Sure, I'd have to save up enough spending money to buy, like, ALL of Akihabara, but I sure would die a happy otaku.

officially, legally, own a cat

Cats love me and I love them. I wouldn't mind dogs if it weren't for my allergy, notwithstanding the cute 8-week-old wiggly woofle that we're currently puppy-sitting for the night. Cats are elegant and independent and so gosh-darn gorgeous.

Now, I've never actually owned a cat myself. My family never had pets, but back in the hometown we lived on a street where just about every other house had a cat. As we were friends with our neighbours, so their cats were friends with us too. We'd have cats wandering in and out all the time, and now I'm not living in halls in Manchester, exactly the same has happened. Something about me must scream "FELINE FRIENDLY" to nearby cats.

But I feel bad for not being able to treat my kitty companions how I'd like to - feed them, set up a litter tray for them, NOT kick them out at night when they're curled up so warmly on my couch. I'd just like one of my own to fuss over.

write my magnum opus

I'm keeping this one deliberately vague. I'm not sure which format my greatest work will take - musical or literary - but I do know that it will take me frickin' years to write. Take my final-year composition portfolio for example, completed less than a year ago. At the time it sounded great to me, the best thing I could have produced and had produced to date. Six months down the line, I took another listen, and a lot of it sounded like barf.

Now, I know that in theory, that's a good thing - it means you're progressing to bigger and better things. But it all comes down to my short attention span yet again. I probably wouldn't be able to keep my mind to it once I started. There are always too many possibilities to explore, too many distractions of other, shinier things. In terms of non-musical writing, I'm even worse. I've started so many works of fiction before, the kind I could whip out at a moment's notice at primary school, that I've quit somewhere around the middle of the first chapter. Starting things is my forte; finishing them is not.

But one of these days I will. I'll create something amazing, that I can be proud of after it's done. That great concerto of mine, perhaps? Or my memoirs? Or a children's book about a talking cat that makes me the next JK Rowling?

make a little person

I'm 24 years old. I'm done with uni, with going on drinking benders, with being crazy (all the time, that is). And I have to admit that I'm becoming somewhat broody. It'd be nice to have a little mini-me running around my feet, that I can teach all my learnings to and have fun with.

My plan - if you can ever plan such a thing - is to take four years to get myself settled, preferably with a man (I hear one is still needed to create a baby these days, am I right?), and get some semblance of a career going first. But that's a totally ideal-never-gonna-happen-world situation. Still, if and when the time comes, I think it'd be a great adventure to be a mama.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Stomping Ground: A Song For The Hometown

2009-03-12T22:44:00.007Z

After the 7/7 bombings in London, police raids took place on several houses around the country, including four in my hometown, High Wycombe; one of them was just up the hill from our house in Downley. Any initial shock soon gave way to a kind of bleak resignation - surely it was no big surprise that there were terrorists in Wycombe. Racial tensions have always been high, and not even the monstrous presence of a new shopping mall could mask the urban decay.

I'd already escaped by then. Wycombe's not the ideal place to launch a music career from, so by August 2006 I'd been in Manchester for nearly two years. Don't get me wrong - in many ways, Salford is a lot worse than Wycombe. It's a little easier to brush under the carpet here, with the big city on your doorstep, but High Wycombe is a good twenty miles from the outskirts of London, so escaping isn't so easy. It's a commuter town, so it's the people that are just passing through that are important. Who cares about the folks actually living there?

Well, I do. Not in the way Michael Moore loves Flint, Michigan, but in the way anyone thinks fondly of the place they grew up in, be it Wycombe or Withington. Nothing's left for me there anymore - I have a handful of friends and family left there, but my folks moved north eighteen months ago - but hearing the sort of "same shit, different day" stories, hearing the lack of progress despite the aesthetic rejuvenation, made me sad. To me, the hometown's like an alcoholic relative, hellbent on destroying itself, and while you care desperately about it, there's nothing you can do except watch.

Me being me, I wrote a song about it: 'Stomping Ground'.

Back on the old stomping ground
They're starting fires behind closed doors
But when you ask nobody's sure
And all the kids chasing round
Grow up to fight old wars
But they don't know what they're fighting for

Back in the old school's where I learned
You're only safe if you keep quiet
If you don't you'll start a riot
Another kid dead, another house burned
Out of sight and out of mind
So everyone in town's gone blind

I was going through a political phase of songwriting with the band I was in at uni, so painting a picture of the place I come from fitted the bill perfectly. It's been performed a few times too, with the band and acoustically, which is more than can be said for a lot of my songs. I was even thinking of busting this one out at one of Ben's jam nights. (It's been a while since my last solo performance... eep...) There's a couple more verses, inferring that leaving it behind was the only thing to do. But I saved my favourite lines for last:

I click my heels together three times
There's no place like home

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Kiss Me, But Please Don't Snog Me

2009-03-09T16:20:00.003Z

Having been a fully-fledged member of the Spelling and Grammar Police since I was around five years old, it pains me to see the English language misused. Textspeak? That's worthy of capital punishment in my book. The word "like" as filler? My ears are bleeding. When Bush pronounced it "nucular"? Incite me to suicide, George, why the hell not?

But mispronunciations and bastardisations aside (is "bastardisation" a word?), there are some words, mostly colloquial to these supposedly fair isles, that I simply cannot stand. Observe.

snog

Whoever thought that combining the words "snot" and "bog" to describe something as sweet and intimate as the act of kissing needs a slap. It's bad enough that we have so many vulgar terms for sexual intercourse, but this is the main offender. Whatever happened to good ol' "smooch"?

Thinking about it, I hate the words "snot" and "bog" too.

minge

Still on the sex theme - it's a vagina. It's not minging. Almost everyone came into the world through one, and every straight guy on the planet spends the rest of their lives trying to get back into one. "Minge" simply demeans one of the greatest sources of pleasure we as humans have. Worse still, you know there's no equivalent, in terms of implied disgust, to describe the penis.

soz

Excuse me? Are you trying to apologise? Yet you're negating the authenticity of your apology by abbreviating it? You may as well just take a dump on me.

globule

This word is the most legitimate on the list, but it makes me nauseous to see or hear it. Perhaps it's just the implications this word has that causes this aversion I have to it. I'm not fond of similar words like "blob" or "pustule" either. Bleurgh.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Tales From The Karaoke Mic

2009-03-07T18:41:00.005Z

I don't fear karaoke. I'm a singer, after all, and karaoke is a Japanese invention, so I'm all over that like Kenny McCormick on a railway line. The word "karaoke" is actually derived from the Japanese meaning "to sing badly", but I don't let little complications like that affect my performance. I'm a pro, don't you know?

My first three experiences of karaoke were pretty... uh, memorable.

Hit Me Baby One More Time by Britney Spears

Two friends of mine at high school had a joint 18th birthday party, held in some underheated village hall in the middle of nowhere. The cab took my boyfriend and I to some remote part of Wycombe I'd never been to before or since, and the fare was extortionate.

The party was a lot of fun though. It was a karaoke party, and what with most people in attendance being musicians themselves, none of the performances caused any headaches. If only all karaoke parties were like that...

My eighteen-year-old self was nowhere near as confident as I am now, so I chose to go on fairly late on in the proceedings, with a by-then overplayed Britney song, so that I would be instantly forgotten. My performance went to plan, and I had the satisfaction of getting up on stage without anyone really noticing.

My boyfriend later went on to slaughter 'Sweet Child Of Mine'. He was one of those guys who thought he was God's gift to singing. But then he was one of those guys who thought he was God's gift to everything.

Don't Speak by No Doubt

The Antelope is a pub just off the high street in Wycombe that was the scene of just about all my earliest drunken escapades. On a Friday night you'd be guaranteed to find a fairly large contingent of the sixth form of both our high school and the boys' grammar school opposite, dancing on the tables to Bon Jovi and equally tacky pub DJ fare.

The karaoke night I went to there came after I left school, when I was on my gap year and working in the music store I miss so much. By then, the Antelope had been completely refurbished. Gone were the dingy decor, the tables studded with stiletto indentations, that strange Rasta guy that was always the first to start dancing by himself in the corner. When I went there with my coworkers for a few drinks less than a year later, the karaoke screens had been set up in the back room, painted light and airy, with a shiny new shot bar and none of the grungy charm I'd been surrounded by during my teenage corruption. It sucked.

But everyone was taking their turn to sing, and one of my work buddies had brought along a cute friend that I wanted to impress (Sweet Child Of Mine had been history long since). So I sang 'Don't Speak', one of my favourites, and that was that. I did hook up briefly with Cute Friend some weeks after that, but I like to think that my little performance helped things along a tad.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart by Elton John

So I hear, the Pav is one of the biggest student unions in Britain. It's not one of the best by a long shot, but it was on our doorstep and it was ours. Tuesday nights were karaoke nights, so a few of us girls from that first house where we were crammed in, twelve apiece, went down for a laugh.

The first housemate I had met upon moving in was a lass called Tracey. She studied English, talked a lot, but never had a bad word to say about anyone. In a household of twelve girls, she was a great antidote to the bitchiness that had a tendency to fly about sometimes.

Tracey abso-freakin'-lutely loved karaoke. Give her a mic and she'd hog it all night if she could. Trouble was, for all her enthusiasm, Tracey couldn't sing a note. Like good friends and housemates, we'd cheer her on, but we'd cringe a little once we'd realised what we'd encouraged to happen in front of a crowded student union.

At one point during one of those karaoke nights, Tracey wanted to sing one more time, but she didn't want to do it alone. Genius that I was, after six or so vodkas, told her I'd sing. We decided on that old Elton John and Kiki Dee duet (I'd be Elton, of course), and we took the place by storm. In a way.

Our housemates told me afterwards I'd been the better singer, but that it was my dance moves that truly had to be admired. That's one memory I'm grateful for not possessing.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

The End Of Childhood

2009-03-05T15:53:00.002Z

"When you grow up, your heart dies." When I first heard Ally Sheedy say that in 'The Breakfast Club', I swore that it would never apply to me. No matter how far I was sucked into the grey and bleak world that adulthood seemed at that age - sixteen or seventeen, from what I recall - I would never forget my dreams, my passions, the jolt of electricity that kept my heart beating from one moment to the next. I made a promise to myself that I would never forget what it was like to be a child.

So far, I've done pretty well. I watch cartoons, I play video games, I get strung out on sugary drinks and end up crashing and grouchy. I play on the swings in the playground. At 24. And a half.

I love children. I love being around them. A cynical side of my head often wonders if it's because I spent too much of my own childhood trying to become adult, and now that I realise what a mistake that was, I'm trying to capture some of it back. But a more realistic part of me realises that it's just because I miss the simplicity of a child's world. Everything seems to take care of itself, so all you need to worry about is playing, making friends, getting dirty, exploring, maybe learning a thing or two. Adulthood is when life becomes so complex that the simple act of playing becomes an alien concept. I hope I never become that grown-up.

But this isn't about not becoming an adult. This is about the moment I realised I'd passed the point of no return. It makes me sad to think about it, because it's one part of my life that I loved so much, and that I can never have back.

When I was young, I had an insanely vivid imagination. You could give me any two toys - stuffed or plastic, human or animal, big or small - and I could tell you a story. It could be any kind of story, depending on how I was feeling that day (and, according to my mother, what book I'd been reading lately). They weren't linear tales, but more along the lines of character studies - each one of my fictional characters, brought to life in fabric, foam, plastic or paper, had a personality, a backstory, a motivation. They interacted to form this world that I didn't even know existed in my head until the second I put these figures together.

Every school holiday, we would visit my gramma and aunty in Shropshire. When there was nothing good to read or to watch on TV, my favourite pastime was to gather up my gramma's stuffed animals - a kangaroo, complete with joey (obviously named Kanga and Roo), a knitted Tom cat (no Jerry though), and assorted teddy bears and rabbits, depending on whatever Pook and Marv's preferences had been in the five minutes before we left home (the fluffy striped doggy-looking guy from Rainbow Brite was a favourite of Marv's) - sit them all underneath the dining table, dig out a pile of ratty old teatowels from the kitchen drawer, and talk to myself for hours on end. It wasn't just a matter of playing house with these creatures - playing house was for girls at school that didn't read much and didn't know better, in my humble seven-year-old opinion. Sometimes the table was a cave, our heroes' only protection from the wilds outside, and their tale was of a struggle for survival. Sometimes they were all dying of the flu, huddling together under the towels, and Rainbow Brite was the only one who knew the cure. Sometimes Tom was a superhero, rescuing the hapless Roo from pitfall after pitfall and returning him to his ever-frantic mother.

But these stories didn't end there.

It was a long standing tradition, that didn't end until our early teens, that each of us would get a Lego set for Christmas. Not just any Lego set, either - we each had our preferred line. Marv collected the pirate-themed sets; Pook always received the Paradisa theme, which revolved around beaches and horses - very soap opera. But until that one sad year where I had to swap to Technic and discovered basic engineering, my chosen Lego sets were Fabuland. Every year I would get another building to add to my growing town - the village store, the fire station, the funfair - as well as more of the cute anthropomorphic animals that came with them, with names as creative as Max Mouse or Bonnie Bunny.

I loved the everloving crap out of Fabuland. I didn't even need to imagine the scenery with these guys; whole stories jumped out of the brickwork - brickwork I had constructed myself, no less - and my ever-active mind was immersed completely. I kept it all in a gigantic cardboard box, and as all the bricks became mixed up with each other, even building the scenery itself became an adventure of epic proportions. The animals all squeaked and squawked at each other in their own voices, and the stories wrote themselves.

I don't remember when the balance between reality and fantasy shifted. Who does? Growing up is something that sneaks up on you, and by the time you realise, it's already been too late for a long, long time. But what I do remember is the last time I played with my Fabuland.

It was another holiday. I was at home in Wycombe, for possibly the last time. There was nothing good to read or to watch on TV. I don't know what possessed me to take on the task I would have thought gargantuan ten, twelve, fifteen years previous, but there it was - I was finally going to sort my Fabuland.

I got the box down from my brother's wardrobe - no long gigantic, just a non-descript, tattered old box, rattling with what I remembered as a world waiting to be built, tales eager to be told, if only to myself. I remembered the fun I had had so many years ago.

The box came open, and I started assembling each building, one by one. Only, it was happening far too quickly. Each piece was easy to find. There was no epic struggle, no complaint - just the simple click-click-click of each Lego brick into the next.

I picked up each character in turn, Max, Bonnie, the others. They were just plastic cartoon animals dressed in painted clothes. I sat each one down in the building they belonged to. They were still and mute and dead. No voices spoke. No stories unravelled. A thousand lumps of plastic stared back at me, devoid of life.

I searched frantically for the child I used to be, the magician who could conjure up these fantasies out of thin air. But that little girl was seven years old, and I was twenty-two. I had grown up, and the little girl was long gone. Part of me had died without me even knowing. Life had become complicated enough for me to forget the child I used to be.

I have mourned her ever since.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Inheritance

2009-03-03T22:39:00.005Z

Earlier today, Ben received his latest eBay purchase in the mail - a pair of retro spectacles from the 60s. Like most things that fall under Ben's definition of "cool", they're a little cheesy for my taste. Think Harry Hill, Ronnie Barker, Austin Powers... you get the idea. I can't take him seriously in them at all. Having collapsed into a fit of giggles when he first put them on, he then proceeded to place them on me, which invoked one of my gormless Napoleon Dynamite facial expressions. It was his turn to laugh.

Ben: You look really Indian. You look like your dad. (Please note: Ben thinks my dad is cool, which is how I know Ben's definition of "cool" is somewhat skewed.)

Me: What?!? (I drop my jaw. More giggles ensue.)

Ben: Now you look like your mum!

(I give up and hide my face in my hands.)

He's right, though. I am a pretty even mix of my parents, whether I want to be or not. It's true of the Wilykittens too. A couple of years ago, Ma, Pook and I went to visit an old work friend of Ma's in Stockport. Upon seeing us for the first time in around ten years, she told us that I was my mother with my dad's colouring, whereas Pook was Dad with Ma's colouring. Pook and I are polar opposites in a lot of ways - my parents are very different people, in both appearance and personality, and it just so happens that our individual combinations of our parents' traits contrast wildly. Marv is an odd sort of middle ground - both Pook and I have a lot of common ground with him, whereas we don't with each other.

So which traits do I have? Firstly, I'm short. Compared to the 'Kittens, I'm really short - I'm 5'2'', and they're both six feet tall, not to mention that Pook wears heels every day, and I can barely walk in the things. Apparently our height genes both come from my dad's side - Dad's dad was the shortstop, but Dad's mother had the height running in her family.

I've already mentioned that I have my dad's colouring. A lot of folks pick up on my mixed heritage straight away, but it's not so obvious with Pook and Marv. They were both blond as babies, and have paler skin than I do. As for having my mum's build, it's her fault that I whine about my boobs as much as I do. The narrow back/huge rack combo comes directly from her, and she had the same problems in her youth that I do now.

My personality traits are a little harder to pinpoint. Believer in astrology as I am, sharing the sign of Libra with my dad makes for a few similarities there. We both smile a lot, especially when we're nervous (his nickname among friends and family is Smiler), and we're both very placid and easygoing. Ma is also very laidback, although I've learned in recent years that I've inherited her temper too. Unlike my mother, I'm a bit of a hard nut to crack on first meeting. I'm shy at first, just like Dad, but once the ice breaks I turn back into my mother and start talking for England.

As for my passions, Dad's always been into computers and technology, so that's where my nerdy side comes from. The music thing comes straight down Ma's side - Gramma was a singer in an operatic society, my aunty used to play piano in school assemblies, and Ma herself did a lot of singing in high school. Dad should probably take a little credit too, though. A fair chunk of my cousins can at least play guitar, as well as my drumming cousin Matty.

Being mixed-race makes me stand out a little, gives me a little edge in the quest to carve out one's own unique identity. I dread the thought of becoming too similar to either of my parents - my dad is a little too quiet and introspective at times, whereas Ma can be a little too brash - but I do like being the product of two such disparate personalities. Sometimes I wonder how my folks even got together in the first place... Guess it's true what they say about opposites attracting, right?

Meanwhile, Ben's decided that the frames are too small for his face, and he's going to bid on another pair. I really hope Ben's future children don't inherit his addiction to online auctions.

By the way, guys, this is the first post that I've written using Plinky. I've just discovered it, and maybe it'll encourage me to blog a bit more often. Also, this is my 170th post! Good times!

A Nerd In Azeroth

2009-02-17T18:45:00.004Z

As the storm clouds of real life show little signs of abating, it's important to focus on the things that keep your spirits up. My choice of pick-me-up gets a lot of stick from friends and folks alike, with claims that it's lame, nerdy, and that it removes you from reality. But what do they know? Something so detailed is definitely not lame, I was nerdy in the first place in case you hadn't noticed, and a little escapism is exactly what I need to stay focused right now.

Ah, World of Warcraft. How I love you so. Now, before I begin gushing, it's only fair to warn you that this game comes with a lot of jargon that non-players probably won't understand. I'll do my best to explain it as I go, but it might be worth your while reading this if I stop making sense.

Starting Out

I've been playing WoW for two years now, on and off. I first started playing halfway through my third year at uni, when a certain ex of mine clearly thought this level of distraction from studying would be a great idea. From behind Salford University's ridiculous system of firewalls, the game took nearly two days to download, and nearly 9GB of my totally unprepared hard drive. I grumbled to Matt that this game had better be worth it.

It certainly is. The game is crafted in such a way as to be equally entertaining to both casual and hardcore players, and with such a rich experience it's easy to become completely immersed. Some folks call it "Warcrack", and I can't deny that that's an accurate description. It's dangerously easy to become addicted, and for regular players, balancing the game and real life can sometimes be as challenging as the game itself. If you've not seen South Park episode 1008, 'Make Love, Not Warcraft', you should. They really weren't kidding; you can't kill that which has no life.

The setting

Caveats over; here's what life is like in Azeroth (that's what the "world" of Warcraft is called). Firstly, the lore surrounding the game is superbly crafted. You get a real sense of purpose from it, even if you're not roleplaying. It's not as though the Alliance and the Horde are opposed to each other because they've got nothing better to do. There's all sorts of history and politics and factions within factions, but it's also close enough to real life for you to be able to relate to it.

For example, take my favourite race in the game, the tauren. In terms of aesthetic and ethos, they're based on Native Americans. They live in close harmony with the land, and their spiritual culture surrounds druids, shamans and hunters. They're hard as nails, but they prefer not to fight unless absolutely necessary. Each race in the game has a very definite cultural identity and purpose like this. It's the little things I love the most: how trolls tell you to "stay away from the voodoo" in their Caribbean accent, or how the hierarchy of power in the night elf world is almost entirely female. It's these nuances that go a long way to creating an entirely new reality, hence the game's immersive effect.

Gameplay

My main character is a tauren hunter. She's a lot of fun to play; you get the damage in from a distance while your pet tanks* the enemy. The quests are also really good - the tauren starting zone is my favourite starting zone, and The Barrens, the level 10-20 zone for three of the five Horde races, is my favourite zone in the whole game. The quests are fun, it's good to look at, and there's that strange phenomenon known as "Barrens chat", which you'd have to experience to understand.

Oddly, my least favourite class that I've played so far is the warlock. In basic terms, warlocks are the caster version of hunters - they use spells at ran.ge whilst their minion tanks. Yet for some reason, I just can't get into the mechanics. No disrespect to all the fine warlocks out there, but when I play mine it just feels wrong.

(I guess it doesn't help that I rolled a human warlock; humans are my second least favourite playable race. Not sure why - maybe it's the lore, maybe it's because they're too close to reality. I like undead less though. They're just humans with less body parts.)

My overall game strategy is to have a character for each faction and party role - tank, DPS and healer. So far my line-up goes like this:

Horde:

tauren hunter (DPS; marksmanship)
tauren shaman (healer; enhancement)
blood elf paladin (tank; protection)

Alliance:

night elf druid (tank; feral cat)
night elf priest (healer; shadow)
draenei mage (DPS; frost)

Some notes on my characters:

The night elf priest was my first character; the draenei mage is my newest.
I think of my night elf druid as my sub-main. There's about twenty levels between her and my next highest alt, the priest.
My Horde characters' names are all derived from the names of anime characters. My Alliance characters' names all begin with A.
My healers' specs** are for levelling purposes. When dual spec comes in, I'll give them full healing spec for group play (holy priest and restoration shaman).
Being on a European server, I get several foreign players asking me where I'm from when I'm on my main. Apparently my tauren hunter's name is Czech for "hand".
I've only just respecced my hunter to marksmanship from a hybrid beastmastery-marksman build, and I'm kinda regretting it.

Socialising

Randy: You've been on your computer all weekend. Shouldn't you go out and socialise with your friends?

Stan: I am socialising, r-tard. I'm logged on to an MMORPG with people from all over the world, and getting XP*** with my party using Teamspeak!

Randy: [dejectedly] ...I'm not an r-tard.

(from South Park 1008 'Make Love, Not Warcraft')

While soloing is a lot of fun, you can't get the most out of WoW without playing in a group. Getting a better understanding of roles within group play is the reason I have a character for each party slot. It really helps to know exactly who's doing what and why when you're taking on instances, and it's great to experience such a massive game from as many angles as possible. (Starting to see where the addiction arises yet?)

Even though I had a lot of fun soloing as a noob with my night elf priest and getting to grips with the game, my WoW experience really kicked off when I rolled my hunter and started partying with Matt Horde-side. We were in a great guild, and we did a lot of questing, grinding and instances together. Besides chatting whilst playing, sharing equipment and loot makes for an easier and more entertaining game.

Getting nerdy wit' it

There's a lot of possibilities in this big old world of ours, and luckily there's a lot of online resources to help you out. If you play fairly seriously, as I do at the moment, you're going to want to do a fair bit of research into the game. Here's some of my favourite sites to do just that:

WoW Insider brings you all the latest news on the game. As well as answering player's questions and providing tips on strategy and gameplay, they'll also have the latest updates on patches and in-game developments. They have excellent guides to the various in-game events, and their roleplaying column is well worth a read, even if you're not on an RP server.
WoWWiki is my bible. Their articles cover everything in and around the game, such as detailed descriptions of each zone and subzone, real-world references, and discussions on talent builds.
Wowhead has the hard and fast facts on each quest, item and NPC in the game. It's great if you're looking for that one mob you just can't find, or if you're wondering what reagents you'll need for that enchantment. Thottbot is a great alternative that provides the same service, but Wowhead's my favourite.

So I guess you can see why I'm not tearing my hair out with stress lately. I've got a whole alternative reality to sink into. Sure, you may not think it's cool, that it's all statistics and number crunching and Leeroy frickin' Jenkins, but there's one fact you should bear in mind: 11 million people worldwide play WoW. That's more people than live in Portugal. Azeroth may as well apply to the UN to become an official country.

Hey, there's an idea...

*tank: to tank is to engage in close combat, known as melee combat. A tank is a character who specialises in this. The best tanks are protection warriors and paladins, feral druids and death knights.
**spec: specialisation. Characters are awarded talent points as they level, which they can spend in talent trees to maximise certain abilities. This is where the game can get really complicated, as different talent builds can play vastly different roles, especially in endgame content.
***XP: experience points. Each quest grants experience points, which you gain to increase your level and take on harder enemies. When you reach max level, quests grant you money instead.

Expecting Change

2009-01-31T19:36:00.000Z

I'm not going to lie to you: I hate January. I'm glad it's ending. It's the worst month on the calendar. After all the promises the festive season makes each year about starting over, it's always about now that the ol' memory kicks in - that promise never came good last year, or the year before, or the year before that. People will go back to being shitty to you, just like they were before Christmas. Unless you're Scottish, Chinese or Australian, there's not a whole lot to look forward to in January. No matter where you go, there you are. Same shit, different year. They may as well rename it to Hangoverary or Depressionember.

Me, I've got a few things going on. Unemployment still looms large over my head like a stormcloud pissing on the parade I should have had at Christmas, had I not been dying of the sneeze-nasties. Let me tell you, this particular exercise in futility, with an extra credit module in How To Blow One's Benefits On Postage Stamps, is heartbreaking. Come on, world, four years at uni for this? Has the whole process been nothing more than a practical lesson in how to obliterate nearly twenty grand? Does the neat little BA (Hons) printed on the CVs I've been mailing out to the world and his wife mean anything? Out of what must be a hundred applications since I got rejected from a friggin' call centre, for fuck's sake, I've had one reply. That reply was to say that I would hear from them if I was successful. I never heard from them again.

I can't make up my mind whether they think I'm overqualified or wrongly qualified. But I'm fairly certain that my skull is fractured from banging my head against so many brick walls. People keep telling me it's the recession - nobody's hiring, pickings are slim. But my response is "so what?" - I've spent a sixth of my life and a lot of taxpayers' money (which I have to pay back eventually, somehow) trying to secure a better means of supporting myself. If only someone had told me that employers don't think that way, I wouldn't have bothered.

I have my thirteen-week interview at the Jobcentre next week. They're going to review my case, see whether I still qualify for benefit, and probably end up taking more drastic measures to get me either employed or off their hands by some other means.

So the government's on my back, Joe Employer won't cut me a break, and to make matters worse, I'm living with someone whose own twin brother calls her a Nazi. (Am I cursed to shitty housemates forever?) Oh, and it's freaking JANUARY still. So Little Miss Sunshine is having a hard time finding the will to break a smile all of a sudden...

...I won't go into the past two weeks too much. It involved communicating solely through the medium of Warcraft, and culminated in losing my temper pretty fucking spectacularly. I'm a little in awe of myself, because I have absolutely no regrets about what I did. I mean, if you were in my position, and someone decided to push you, wouldn't you snap?

Turns out that feeling like you're loved despite the rain on your non-starting parade is a BIG antidote to this sort of thing. It's funny - when it's just you worrying about you, and you don't even like you that much, you tend to lack motivation. Throw someone else into the equation and your life becomes this crusade against all the injustices of this world, even if you still don't like you. If someone else tells you they actually do give a flying squirrel that you're moping in bed and choosing MMORPGs over food, you're all of a sudden able to move mountains.

Now - hopefully at not too obscure a tangent - that does mirror a situation that a certain group of people now find themselves in. This group of people had a government on their backs too, a government that didn't really care what they thought or what they had to do to get by. They ended up miserable, despondent, divided. But now someone else has come along, someone who cares about their lives and their thoughts, someone who wants to drag them out of bed and away from their video games. And now these people are saying that they really do want to change for the better, even if the effort demanded of each of them is monumental. But they're going to do it because they know that this one person really does give a flying squirrel about each and every one of them.

So while those folks are digging themselves - and maybe a few others - out of their rut, I've got some work to do getting out of mine. You can want change and hope for it and pray for it every minute of your day, but you need to make the change in order for it to happen. Expectation requires motivation.

Tomorrow is February 1st. Some shadows may still loom large, but at least things are moving forward. And I'm only getting more and more employable.

Hooray For Trogdor!

2009-01-14T01:30:00.017Z

It's that time of year again where we celebrate everyone's favourite dragon. (Come on, I didn't get much of Christmas or New Year this season. Let me celebrate something.) Yep, Trogday is upon us. As you know, I'm a huge fan of the Burninator. The star of two video games, Peasant's Quest and SBCG4AP, an unlockable in Guitar Hero 2, and even a reference in the final episode of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' - Troggie is the guy all other dragons want to be.

To celebrate the burninate, those lovely Telltale folks that brought us SBCG4AP had an arts and crafts contest. Now, they picked a good winner, but I liked this runner-up so much I just had to share.

Kudos to Krin! Happy days in Free Country, USA! Long live the Brothers Chaps! Happy Trogday!

The Mother Of All Ear Infections

2008-12-29T11:22:00.003Z

In all fairness, I brought it on myself. Whilst everyone else has had a sneeze or a cough so far this winter, I'd managed to escape them all. Yet, as I woke up on Christmas morning and realised that I was leaking from every facial orifice and I could barely move, the Pook-beast was first to remind me of what I'd said some weeks earlier: "I'll probably get it for Christmas, won't I?" Thanks, Santa. No sherry for you next year.

My folks thought I would be in it for the long run, but the aches and sneezes only lasted a couple of days. Well, almost all. The damn thing's settled in both my ears. Ear infections aren't new to me. I'd get one every six months like clockwork when I was a littlun, and Ma would have me miss a morning of school to take me to the doctor, get a prescription for good ol' Amoxycillin, and have me back to normal in a day or so. It's been so long since my last one that I'd almost forgotten the unique sensation of an inflamed eardrum.

Oh, foolish child.

This time around is a first in many senses. Both ears are inflamed, and both have an insane buildup of wax, which I've never had before. My inner ears are under an immense amount of pressure, so as well as experiencing pain as I've never known it (imagine an elephant trying to stick its trunk down your ear), I'm almost completely deaf. When people talk, I can make out vowel sounds, but I've had to learn to lip-read fairly quickly. I can't watch TV without subtitles. Worst of all, I can't hear music properly.

I know now how Beethoven must have felt: Really Freakin' Depressed.

The pain inside my head, as intense as it is, caused another new experience for me two nights ago - hallucination. Picture the scene: it's the early hours of the morning, I'm fully medicated with eardrops and painkillers, none of which are taking any effect except for my eardrums' regular and agonising attempts to pop themselves. I'm exhausted but unable to sleep. I started to feel like my ears were having a tug-of-war over my head, and my head would explode if they pulled too hard.

So all of a sudden I could see myself in bed with a stretched head being pulled between two giant arguing ears. The best way to describe it is to think of Stewie Griffin with elephant ears that can talk. My left ear, the more painful of the two, had the voice of a crotchety old woman, complaining to her husband, my right ear, at great length and volume. The old man would grumble every so often, but she didn't stop crabbing for hours. In short, that night was the most warped and distressing episode of Family Guy I've ever seen.

The worst consequence of all this is that I won't be able to sing tomorrow night. I was supposed to sing with Ben and the boys like we did last week, but with no sign of this beast letting up, I've got to pull out. "Gutted" doesn't do it justice.

I was supposed to be back in Manchester tonight, but now I'll be staying with my folks until tomorrow. Ma's taking me to the doctor this afternoon (I can taste the Amoxycillin already... mmm, bananas), and my dear gramma will be rustling up her famous turkey pie for us lucky souls. Genius.

Oh, and to end on a happy note, I got some great presents this Christmas. Most appreciated was a blanket from my folks, all brown and furry like a kitten. It helped me feel better. They also got me a steam cooker for me to make sushi with. Pook got me The Mighty Book of Boosh, and Marv got me the Anime Encyclopedia (a fantastic book, but their entry on 'Fruits Basket' is so inaccurate it hurts). I got lots of books, necklaces and fancy underwear, all of which made me happy in spite of the sneeze-nasties. Hooray!

Season's Thinkings

2008-12-23T19:48:00.005Z

Well, another Christmas in Shropshire begins. Pook, Marv and I are chilling with the folks before the annual mayhem kicks off. That's our Christmas tree up there, with all its twinkles and sparkles.

Now, at this time of year we're supposed to spare a thought for those that are worse off than ourselves. The spirit of giving is what the season's all about. But it's that spirit that's making two very important things the poorest of all: trees and birds.

Fir trees are the obvious casualties of the festive season. Our tree's a decent fake, and I prefer it that way. But when you look at everything else, the arboreal murder is everywhere. What about those cards you're writing? What about that giftwrap you're covering your presents with? Paper isn't made at Santa's workshop, you know!

And how about our feathered friends who suffer in the winter? The humble turkey, the goose, the duck - all put to death in the name of festive gluttony. Now, I'm no vegetarian, so I can't entirely condemn the traditional Christmas roast, but I'd hate to be a turkey at Christmas. (Not to mention all the other little birds that escape the dinner plate. They've got no home to go to because we've cut down all their trees to make cards.)

So, my thoughts for this Christmas are these: Recycle your cards and wrapping paper! Turn your tree into a birdhouse for the spring! Give thanks for the sacrifices our turkeys make for us!

But seriously, have a great Christmas, to all my reader. All one of you.

Ben Is Coming Down With Something.

2008-12-22T00:29:00.005Z

About ten minutes ago...

Ben: (pointing at screen) I want to stroke him.

(I look at the screen and start to worry.)

me: You want to stroke Homestar Runner?

Ben: Yes, I want to stroke him.

me: But he's not real.

Ben: What?

me: He's an animation.

Ben: He's what?

Lying on the couch with olive oil in your ears whilst trying to make sense of 'Blue Harvest' is a confusing experience, however healthy you feel. But Ben is showing early symptoms of the flu, which is the last thing he needs before this gig tomorrow. (Ben and I are fronting the band of young rockers he teaches in front of 300 people tomorrow evening.)

So help me, if I have the slightest tickle in my throat tomorrow, I'll flatten him. Rock marriage be damned.

Meh, Nobody Reads This Anyway

2008-12-19T11:30:00.001Z

Since September, then:

Turned 24. Got a twister stepper from Ma. Horrified at the implications about my weight. Got a widescreen TV from Ben and Pook. Forgot how fat I was for a bit.

Nothing happened in October. Became very miserable. Got a Sailor Mars outfit for Halloween, but caught a cold and had to go to bed early anyway.

Got shoved out of my job in early November. Two days of blind panic ensued. Still jobhunting, but doing okay. Recession sucks though.

Now: poor but happy. Helping Ben teach a band of small peeps on Wednesday afternoons. Imparting rock wisdom is fulfilling. Gigging twice around Christmas. Getting everyone little tiny Christmas gifts. Rediscovering arts and crafts. Totally not smoking (by choice, not finance).

Levelled my tauren hunter to 60. Ignoring all the Wrath talk until I level my nelf druid to at least 50 and get Burning Crusade. Confusing Ben by using terms like "nerf" and "debuff" in everyday speech. (He's lucky that's all I'm guilty of.) In other games, Dr Kawashima says my brain is exactly as old as I am.

Barely watching anime. Drifting through Code Geass and Last Exile. Awaiting Ponyo. Didn't think much of South Park season 12, although Cartman getting beat up by Wendy was awesome.

Oddly happy, if somewhat sleepless. Thinking about getting a cat when I'm stable again. Twister stepper appears to be making my butt bigger.

I Have Not Been Sleeping Lately.

2008-12-16T02:24:00.003Z

Last Saturday, in Ben's room while he's decorating:

Ben: Wake up, lazy!

me: Mmmmf.

Ben: It's half past one.

me: Mmmmeh. (suddenly) WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING OVER HERE?!

Ben: What?

me: I WAS SLEEPING AT THAT END! WHY AM I OVER THIS END? AND WHERE DID THESE PILLOWS COME FROM?!?

Ben: I moved you so you wouldn't bang your head, remember? And you were complaining about your neck hurting, so I got you those pillows. Move over, I'm gonna put a film on.

me: Mmmrrr-zzzz.

It later transpired that Ben had been drilling holes in the wall, and had made an extension lead explode, and I hadn't so much as twitched. But I can happily report that his new sofa bed is both extremely comfortable and very reasonably priced in Ikea.

I, Poopsmith

2008-09-14T17:54:00.003+01:00

Before we begin: this is going to be one of those posts. And I hate to break a two-month silence with one of those posts, but that's how it is right now. Feel free to skip this one if you're looking to be cheered up.

So, after the promise of my last post, it appears I didn't really have anything to write about. I'm still in a state of flux - that much is true - but at the moment the valleys are seeming deeper, and the mountains harder to climb. Don't get me wrong, though. There are still many great things in my life. The flat, for example, whose novelty may have worn off but which is still as gorgeous a pad as ever. Or Ben, who I am not and will not ever go out with, no matter how many people say we should, and who lives up to his title of "rock husband" exceedingly well, because he is my rock, and because I nag him like we're married sometimes.

These things, and more besides, are great and precious to me. Yet I'm miserable, almost every day.

The main offender? My job. Now, in theory, it's a great job. I'm sat on my arse all day in front of a computer, talking to people without having to come face-to-face, and getting paid a wage that's pretty respectable for a fresh graduate. In practice, however, I may as well just wear a toilet on my head. I am being paid to be shat upon, mercilessly and relentlessly, by the human race I used to place so much faith in.

You know what this job has done to me? It's convinced me that people are shit. We're self-centred, pedantic little arseholes who love nothing more than giving a battering to some faceless entity in order to make ourselves feel better. We assume that the systems our society is based on are perfect, and that when they fail, they were designed to fail just for us, and isn't that our lot in life, to be constantly failed by the rest of the shitty fucking world?

Yeah, that's how much I think of people at large right now. Now, the people I work with are fantastic. I respect every last one of them more than I respect myself, because it doesn't (or doesn't seem to, at least) get under their skin as much as it does mine. I don't take being constantly shat upon too well. To my customers I'm just a voice, but I represent the whole company and all of their failings - as I belong to the department that deals with screw-ups. These screw-ups are nothing to do with us - they're caused by people that we have no contact with, yet more phantom faces that we can't control. If this were Freetown, USA, I'd be the Poopsmith. Heck knows where this shit came from, and heck knows where it's going to, but I've got to shovel it, nonetheless.

That's the long and short of it, I guess. I'm not a poopsmith. I didn't spend four years in uni to end up in a job that's essentially turning me into my dad.

There's a few other straws to add to my camel's back lately, just to cause me even more grief. I turn 24 in four days, which should be a cause for celebration (and I have my extended weekend bender planned out already, thankyouverymuch), but which has caused an unexpected case of the birthday blues - whether it's a cause or an effect, I don't know. Also, we're two days away from the first anniversary of the last time I spoke to... well, you know. I don't have to say his name. It was also around a year ago that The Situation came into effect, and I damn well know I don't have to go into that. Back in the present day, Pook's employment status is giving me grief, not to mention the fact that she's seeing more of my friends than I am. But that's another tale in itself.

The Tohru Honda in me is telling me not to complain. There's a lot I have to be grateful for. But the Light Yagami in me is bored senseless and pissed off at the world. Don't worry, I'm not going to proclaim "Kira desu" anytime soon, but mankind's got some work to do if my faith in it is to be restored.

New Beginnings Part 3: The State Of Play

2008-08-07T20:40:00.003+01:00

Getting paid for doing nothing. Not feeling as though I'm truly earning anything. Feeling guilty.

Drinking lager. Not drinking alcopops. Feeling mature.

Playing X-Files, Sam and Max, and anticipating SBCG4AP. Not playing Warcraft, Mashed, or Quantum Redshift. Feeling adventurous.

Experiencing a very odd strain of man trouble. Not entirely sure what I want anymore. Feeling surprisingly happy about it all.

Being the head of a household. Not being the 21-year-old moocher on the couch. Feeling how a certain ex must have felt a few years ago. (Sorry.)

Watching Neon Genesis Evangelion, Beck and Ouran High School Host Club. Not rewatching Brigadoon, Scrapped Princess, or any Studio Ghibli. Feeling entertained.

Listening to a lot of new music. Not writing anything at all for once. Feeling the batteries recharge.

In a constant state of emotional flux. Not feeling bored or lonely. Feeling like I have something to write about for once.

Intermission: People On TV

2008-07-25T16:42:00.004+01:00

First, watch this.

[Okay, there was this video. Now there isn't. Not sure what to do with this one.]

Back in our first year of uni I was in a band with Ed (right guitar) and Mike (drums), only Ed played bass in that one and I was on guitar. It was a lot of fun, but being in that band made me realise how much I truly suck on guitar. Also, Owen (left guitar) was in my composition class last year. I was lucky enough to witness With That Knife's beginnings in ensemble musicianship class a couple of years ago. For some reason, whenever uni gigs rolled around, whatever band I was fronting always ended up on the same bill as these guys. Their tunes are awesome, and they're lovely guys to boot.

Also, I discovered last week that my landlord is a presenter on bid.tv. He's cool to watch, but I'm getting seriously tempted to buy all sorts of things I don't really need, like three-piece luggage sets, or cute little labrador figurines. Must... resist...

New Beginnings Part 2: Service With A Smile

2008-07-10T19:31:00.003+01:00

One of my last acts in the rabbit hutch was securing myself some employment. My plan was to get a stopgap job, one that would pay the bills whilst I figured out what to do with myself. After one disastrous "interview" for a "job" in which I was dragged out to Blackpool to watch two girls force people into signing up for credit cards they didn't need (somehow they expected a graduate to work for commission only), I was offered a sweet little position in a call centre. No, not THAT kind of call centre. It's a customer service line - no selling, no advertising, just inbound calls from people who need some assistance with the packages they've already been sold.

I've been out on the floor for a little over three weeks now - training took a fortnight - and I'm doing fine. A lot of the people I started with were worried that they were going to get yelled at by angry customers. Truth is, it's easy to forget in this job that the person that the other end of the phone is really just another human being, whether you're a customer or an advisor. The customers aren't overbearing monsters who will eat your firstborn if you can't resolve their problem RIGHT NOW. And we advisors aren't unsympathetic robots who don't care about other people's problems. People are just people, people! It's easier to get angry when you're just dealing with just a voice in your ear, but that voice still belongs to a person.

As stopgaps go, this job isn't a bad one. Sure, it gets a bit boring when work is slow, but I'm sitting down all day in front of a computer, talking to people, solving problems and contributing to other people's lives. That, and working a thirty-five hour week has killed off every last trace of my insomnia. Bonus!

New Beginnings Part 1: A Place Called Home

2008-06-29T21:46:00.004+01:00

Friday the 13th is always a day of extremes. If my dear ma's birthday, August 13th, falls on a Friday, then it ends up being an extremely good day. But more often than not, it doesn't, and it almost always ends up being an extremely stressful day. And I'm not even superstitious.

June 13th was no exception to this trend. I woke up expecting just another day - one of my last days in the rabbit hutch, but just another day nonetheless. I was planning to stay in halls an extra two nights, so I could move into the new flat on Sunday.

What I hadn't banked on, however, was one last stroke of dickotry from the powers that be. Never mind that they'd charged me a full year's rent, even though I moved in a month later than everyone else. Never mind the shit I'd dealt with from security. Never mind the noisy flatmates, the excuses for cleaning, blablabla... Nope, they wanted to charge me rent for the extra two nights.

Once I found this out, I called Ma, and we both decided: "Fuck that."

I spent the next two hours frantically packing while Ma and Marv drove up from Oswestry. I hadn't had time to think about throwing things out, or how best to pack my boxes to maximise space. By the time they'd got there and we'd finished packing all my belongings and ourselves into the car, I was squashed up against the window like Bugs Bunny hitting a sheet of glass at full speed. In hindsight, a picture of that moment would have been great.

Going the long way round actually didn't turn out so bad. It gave me a chance to sort through my things properly, to pack the essentials and then move bits and pieces back and forth between the folks' house and the new pad. Sure, it may have taken two days to move just around the corner, but it was worth it.

Sunday the 15th seems like forever ago, so warped is my sense of time lately. But three and a half weeks in and I'm still as excited about the flat as I was on the day I moved in. I love this flat.

Firstly, it's so big. You could fit the rabbit hutch in here six times, at least. The open-plan living room and kitchen is painted in lemon, with pine floors and glass-panelled doors that open out onto our small but beloved patio. It's airy and calming, but also brilliant for entertaining (which I do a lot of now that I've escaped the hutch). It's just the sort of place I've always wanted to live in.

The best things about our flat, like everything in life, are the little things. We have a little dishwasher to make cleaning easier. We have a little beer fridge (specifically for Guiness, but stocked with Carlsberg and Fosters at the moment). We also have a little TV set in the wall just above the bath. My favourite new pastime is to sit in the tub with a cold one on a Tuesday night, watching '10 Years Younger' and silently congratulating myself on living in such a fantastic little place.

But you know what my favourite little thing about this flat is?

One of the things I missed most, from the moment I moved to uni, was not having a cat to talk to. Back in Wycombe our neighbours' cats were welcome all the time, and I promised myself that once uni was done and I was settled enough, I'd adopt a feline friend of my own.

No need for that, as it turns out. Our landlord has two cats, but he could only take one of them with him, so the more outdoorsy of the two moved in with a friend of his just round the corner. The little guy comes to check up on Pook and I almost every day. And by "check up on us", I mean "sniff around our fridge and fall asleep whilst stretched out on our floor cushion".

Once again, I'm not superstitious, but crossing paths with a little black cat every day sure makes for a lot of luck.

Another Ten Things To Ten People

2008-06-08T14:15:00.003+01:00

I like Sundays. When I was little I used to hate them because nothing much would ever happen - that, and I had a great aversion to roast dinners. These days, I like roast dinners, and Sundays have been made great by one of my favourite sites: Postsecret.

I'm a fan of Postsecret on Facebook, and one of the extra secrets posted there today reminded me a lot of a post I wrote just over two years ago entitled Ten Things To Ten People.Things have changed a lot since I wrote that post - new circumstances, different people - and I reckon it's time for a new list.

So, as before: List up to ten things you would say to ten people. Do not identify, nor should you confirm or deny their identities in comments.

1. The last message you sent me, which was some time ago now, had the tone of a mother reproaching a child for throwing a tantrum. That pissed me off more than anything that came before it. I just wanted you to start taking some responsibility for yourself, instead of seeking constant attention. Face it, nobody likes a Negative Nancy, not even you.

2. I feel bad for you. I think you were a casualty of a really shit situation, and it wasn't easy on anyone. But now that things are on the upswing, don't be a stranger. Come over any time. I'll even cook your favourite.

3. I'm trying SO HARD to hate you, really I am. But a geek can recognise another geek from fifty yards away, no matter how cool they pretend to be. I hate the you that you want everyone to think you are, and I hate it when you don't understand that I need to hate myself sometimes. But I still can't completely hate you, and I hate that.

4. I miss you! I hope that all these weeks of not hanging out together aren't a sign of things to come. When I finally grow up, I want to be just like you.

5. It's been nine months, and I'm still waiting on a goodbye.

6. It took me a long time to come round to your way of thinking, but even though it didn't work out I'm glad. We've already got something special enough. You've been my rock this year, and I'm a bad person for not appreciating you more. I'm so glad you're my friend.

7. She's right around the corner, I know it. And she'll totally fall in love with you, because you're awesome, and you'll write one of your amazing songs for her, and the two of you will run off to Vegas to get married. And I'll pretend to be jealous but really I won't be, because you deserve it.

8. Yes, I am a grade-A numpty for not calling you. But I think it was because I was kinda nervous about working with you. And I'm fairly certain you know why!

9. The excuses were lame. The blame was unnecessary. But I wish you well regardless.

And finally...

10. I check the site viewing stats near enough every day. I'm fully aware that you've been scouring my blog for incriminating evidence. It's over. Let it go and get on with your life. We've all got more important things to do now.

What Do You Want To Do Before You Die?

2008-06-01T01:05:00.004+01:00

About five minutes ago I was asked a very good question. I didn't expect to find something so thought-provoking on the front page of Youtube, but pleasant surprises are always welcome. See, I was asked by the guys of The Buried Life: "What do you want to do before you die?"

The Buried Life is 4 regular guys on a mission to complete a list of "100 Things To Do Before You Die" and to help and encourage others to go after their own lists.

- The Buried Life

It's the timing of this question that's struck me first. It couldn't be more relevant. I've just finished my formal education, possibly forever, and as it stands now I don't have a clue what to do with it. Up till now my life's plans have been based on a mix of spontaneity and sheer luck, and I've never really had to think too far ahead to the next milestone. Right now I'm running out of milestones, and that bothers me. Get a job, get a flat... then what?

Sure, I've got things I want to do. I've got a profile over at 43 Things. I'm doing pretty well at some of what I think are the "lighter" goals - I've unlocked Redshift mode in Quantum Redshift, I've got a good length of scarf going (though I haven't knitted in a while), and I own all but one of the Ghibli movies. A few others are going to take some time - learning Japanese won't be easy - but it's a start.

Trouble is, I'm bound by financial constraints. I've got a lot of student debt to clear, and finding a well-paid job in my chosen industry is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I've been looking at secretarial and retail positions - I'm good with people, and I've got the experience - but I can't help but think that it's going to take a while to become financially stable enough to tackle some of my personal challenges.

(Which brings me to an excellent point, challenges aside. Remember Epic Win #4, my successful first-stage interview? It ended up as a Hugely Epic Fail. Management training scheme my ass. They wanted me to wander around other people's stores selling credit cards to the public. Worse still, they wanted me to work for commission only. The whole setup reeked of an old job of mine - begins with Z, ends in -enith - and after TWELVE hours of being treated like shit by the worst potential employer I could have come across, I stormed out and rejected all their phone calls. I would have left earlier, but for some reason I spent the day in Blackpool. Long story.)

I know that I want to get as much out of life as possible. It's been my personal philosophy since long before I heard of The Buried Life. But I guess I'd never really thought about how to go about it all before. The plans that I do have, albeit with the potential to rake in that phat cash, also require cash to get started. For the record:

Plan A: become a qualified web designer and get a neat job
Plan B: train as an electrician, in case times get rough
Master Plan: Totally Top Secret. Only Pook knows what it is, but suffice it to say that it involves starting my own business, and, like all good Master Plans, has the potential to become Really Really Huge.

Even so, all these plans are means to an end - securing myself a comfortable living. The last thing I want to do in life is merely get by. Heck, one of the songs I wrote for my composition portfolio contains the lyric "this life is but a one-shot deal, you don't get another go". Going through life thinking you'll get a second chance at some point isn't living at all. I know that it's everyone's great wish to reminisce about their life well lived on their deathbed, but how many of us are proactive about this?

I can sense that this is starting to sound corny, so I'll go back to the idea of the list. My list at 43 things only has 13 goals on it right now - with 9 completed already, that makes 22. But TBL's list has a hundred things on it. Granted, some of these things are huge and might never be possible, even for them (see their #100). But I don't know if I'm limiting my list by setting my goals too realistically - perhaps even too low. It's weird for a big goofy dreamer like me talking about being too realistic about things, but this is another of my worries - I don't want to ever stop dreaming. I want to do crazy things. I want to sit the grandkids on my knee and tell them stories that they'll barely believe. Dammit, I want to skid into my grave on my pants screaming "what a ride!"

Hmmm. I think I'll make my list as wacky as possible. No doubt I'll post it once I've thought of a hundred things.

Epic Winz, Epic Failz

2008-05-24T19:05:00.005+01:00

My head's spinning. This week feels as though it's lasted a year, and I can barely tell which way's up as I write - although this may be because of the bottle of wine I've had to consume whilst being assaulted by the annual horrors of the Eurovision Song Contest. (Love the music, hate the voting... more on that later.) It's been a week so full of triumphs and disasters that I could have mistaken it for a seven-day ride on the Big One at Blackpool. Here goes.

EPIC FAIL #1: my last performance exam

As you know, the performance module has been my biggest bugbear all year, and this final exam was no exception. It's been fairly rough all round this time, what with the change of venue (to the one place I'm not welcome - how convenient) and the mass panic surrounding everyone's last hurrah. I figured I'd make things simple for myself, playing some old songs of mine with my excellent buddy Ben by my side.

Heck no at all. Firstly, my exam slot was moved from mid-show Thursday to first thing Monday - essentially opening the whole four-day tunefest. Less rehearsal time, condensed panic time. I was a nervous wreck on Monday morning. Secondly, our tutors failed to inform us that instead of observing from the back of the venue like normal, they'd have a desk RIGHT UP FRONT. Consequence? I just could not stop my knees from shaking for the entire twenty-minute set. Every time I hit a note I thought was dodgy, I only had to look up slightly to see them scribbling it down - which only made it worse, which turned it all into a disaster. Luckily, very few people were there to see me throw away my last chance at a first.

EPIC WIN #1: my last assignment

After getting hideously drunk to banish the shame, I had one more task before I could celebrate properly - the business logbook. Now, I've actually enjoyed this project. I've had a giggle being project manager to four boys who were never going to listen to me in the first place, and writing up this logbook to cover our project was amazingly easy compared to that last assignment. Even at 3am with double vision, I was still typing merrily away (and making sense too!). So, at 10am on Tuesday morning, I handed in my last university assignment. There was no fanfare, no celebration. Nobody else from the course was in, so I just went home and went back to bed to briefly nurse my hangover.

EPIC FAIL #2: Ma and Pook steal the bacon

I was rudely awoken by Pook on the phone: "We're coming up!" No advance warning, just thirty seconds in which to hoist myself out of bed and make my awkward way to the front door to let them in. Now, I know they're family and they're here to complete our Mission Improbable - to get Pook and I a flat and employment - but they can be hard work to look after, especially when you're poor and don't have much food. Bacon butties and brews* on demand are fine, but not when they're coming out of your own limited supplies. And what happened when I asked for a butty and brew of my own? I got whinged at. So much for this being "our" mission.

EPIC WIN #2: jobs for the girls

But for all the lack of ceremony (and bacon), Tuesday didn't turn out half bad. The Arndale branch of Pook's old workplace was looking to hire new folk, so with a little luck Pook might get her old job back. (We've not heard back yet, but hope is important in these things.) Meanwhile I handed mine into an agency, who wanted me to sign up online so I could get myself a better chance of employment. The next morning I dutifully uploaded my CV, filled out my profile, and got to applying to as many positions as I liked the look of. I'm not fussy at the moment - I just need some cash, you know?

EPIC WIN #3: in which a party happens

Pook and Ma had hopped back to Shropshire for a couple of days at this point, so I went to a barbecue on campus with some of my fellow muso-types. Not much to be said for this one - good food, good tunes, good times. The usual end-of-year fare. I came home seeing double for the second time this week. Hope the parties don't dry up now that I've been cast into the big wide world.

EPIC FAIL #3: illness strikes

Thursday morning started with a sniffle. I didn't think much of it, at first - I was having too much fun (heh) sending off emails to potential employers and calling potential landlords to view their flats. In two hours of searching, I lined up three viewings for next week. Not bad... but after those two hours, something wasn't right. I was aching all over and the sneezes had me bad. So I went back to bed, called Pook and told her to get me some Lemsip, and finished watching Escaflowne once and for all.

And what sympathy did I get for my condition? None whatsoever. When Ma and Pook finally arrived, the demands for brews and butties started all over again. Never mind the fact that I now had to haul ass to uni for the final roll call (I was on packdown duty for the gigs - failure to attend would mean failing the module), and that I could barely see for sneezing.

But I sucked it up. After coming back from an hour and a half of shifting gear and making my excuses to my buddies for not coming out for drinks afterwards, I was kept up until 2am because Ma was busy on my computer doing research for her family tree. I hope she catches my cold.

EPIC WIN #4: oh hai can i haz job plz?

Before the sneezes took hold of me that Thursday, I got a call offering me an interview for a management training scheme offered by a marketing firm in town. Now that I know I can do management, I was all for that. So the interview was scheduled for Friday. Now, this was all well and good, but between my cold and the ongoing disappearance of my bacon, I honestly didn't know if I was up for it. But, trooper that I am, I sucked it up once more, downed as much Lemsip as I could take, got my best pinstripe suit on and marched on into town.

I had no idea what to expect when I went in, but I came out grinning like a Cheshire cat. Why? Because the guy that interviewed me used to live in Japan. When he saw that I had "Japanese culture" down on my CV as one of my interests, I talked solid otaku for a good five minutes. Result being, I got a call a few hours later offering me a training day and a second interview. Cold be damned!

EPIC WIN #5: groupie status

Now, I'd promised Pook and Ma that I'd take them to see Twilight Robin eventually, and Friday night was the perfect opportunity. They were playing at just one of the many venues involved in the Maps festival, and when we arrived I'd never seen the Dry Bar looking so full.

Successful job interviews and graduation from university aside, there comes a point in a person's life when you realise your crowning achievement. Friends, my moment came after our boys came offstage. I'd been dutifully holding Ben's beer for him - after saving my ass on Monday, it was the freakin' least I could do - so when I found him to give it back to him, I asked him what I'd suspected for a while now.

"Am I a groupie?"
"Yeah."

I might have spent the past four years getting a music degree, but finally being awarded groupie status is the pinnacle of all my endeavours.

Pook and Ma loved the gig too, which always helps.

EPIC FAIL #4: Euroshambles

This part is a whole other post in itself, so I'll just leave you with the thought that it's about time the UK pulled out in protest over what should rightly be named the Eurovision Popularity Contest.

That brings us to today, which is an epic win in itself. I have nothing to do except that which I do best - nerd out. Got 'The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya' queued up in my player, just finished a chicken rogan josh, and for now I haven't got a care in the world. Here's to next week being just as insane.

*For those who don't speak Northern, a butty is a sandwich, and a brew is a cup of tea.

Endgame

2008-05-14T19:00:00.004+01:00

The road I've been walking these past four years has finally arrived at its destination. The mountain has been climbed. The battle has been fought... eesh, I'd better change tack. This post is already cheesier than a Domino's Double Decadence.

You'd be forgiven for thinking that I was still suffering from the trauma of discovering my true bra size some three weeks ago. I've had no time to dwell on such horrors though, because work's been afoot. And when I say afoot, I mean up to my neck in panic.

Yesterday was hand-in day for the composition portfolio and the performance evaluation. It would have been the deadline for everything, but the powers that be saw fit to give us an extension on the business assignment, for which we're all exceedingly grateful. My all-nighter, starting at 10am Monday, was busy enough.

Let me tell you, perfectionism flies out of the window when you're jacked up on caffeine and scoring songs like your life depends on it. Normally I'm thoroughly anal when it comes to presenting my work, but when you've got to evaluate each track you've recorded over the year, not to mention bitch about your terrible experience of your performance elective, you have to be prepared to let stuff slide.

That said, I reckon my portfolio will be a winner. The brief mentions the need for "creative flair and personal expression", which I have in bucketloads, and "evidence of special interests". That was the easiest part of the evaluation - I opened with a long paragraph about how Nobuo Uematsu and Joe Hisaishi cream my jeans, and how I Want To Be Just Like Them When I Grow Up. The evaluation of each track gets shorter and shorter as you go along, mostly because I was running out of both time and things to say.

The performance evaluation was a crock of shit. After last semester, I don't expect to get a high grade, so I just couldn't be bothered with it. They wanted around 3000 words - I doubt if I broke 1000. Essentially it was a list of all the things that went wrong with the band last semester, and why I'll work a lot better in a two-piece this time around.

Which brings us to the gig. It was meant to be on Thursday afternoon, which meant there was plenty of time to get it ready after finishing business. It's been brought forward to Monday, the day before the business deadline. It'll be fine - I've written all the material this time, and if I've learned one thing this year, it's that having creative control does wonders for your confidence as a performer. When it comes to giving a performance I can be proud of, I'm a control freak. I didn't have it last semester, but I do now. Still, expectations are fairly low. The high grades I'm aiming for in composition and business should pull me up to the overall grade I want.

Results day is June 18th. Graduation day is July 16th. That's two months and a whole world away. In the meantime, I shall leave you for now with a clip from one of my new favourite TV shows. This song not only gives me horrific giggling fits, but is also the description of the week I'm about to have. Enjoy.

Boobs.

2008-04-22T00:51:00.005+01:00

To quote one of my favourite Tenacious D lyrics: "this one's for the ladies - but fellas, listen closely."

Breasts. Boobs. Tits. Whatever you want to call them, they're great. And whatever your personal relationship with these most fascinating female organs, you can't deny their impact on your life. I like to think of them as the givers of life - they attract the guy in the first place, and once the process of procreation is done and you've got a littlun, you've got two built-in one-stop snack shops right there. Yep, they're assets, alright.

For us girls, our boobs are often the source of much insecurity. Too big, too small, too perky, too flat... I know that we, as women, have a lot to say about our personal appearance in general, but we all seem to have a special reservation about our blessings (or curses, perhaps?). Sure, guys love boobs whatever the weather, but then they don't have to live with them attached to their chests 24/7, do they?

Now, I have a love-hate relationship with my own particular set. See, an awkward shape runs through our family that causes us no end of problems. We have quite ample blessings, but very narrow backs, so that we end up in a bra size with a small band but an astronomical cup size. Underwear shopping is a total bitch.

In fact, the reason I'm writing this post in the first place is because of the somewhat traumatic shopping experience I suffered on Monday. Now, I was fully aware that I was among the majority of women that wear the wrong bra size - statistics vary from anywhere between 70% and 95% of the population - but I hadn't been properly measured in a long while. I'd been fairly comfortable in a 36DD, with only the occasional case of what I like to call "hamburger tit" (call it overspill, call it what you want, but it ain't pretty, so "hamburger tit" it remains in my head). But I figured it was about time to get my girls some proper support - as a confidence and comfort booster, if nothing else.

Image via Wikipedia

(This is a great tit. It's still smaller than my pair.)

I went to Marks and Spencers, probably the best place a girl can get a bra fitting these days. I had a lovely measuring lady who brought me bra after bra, all of them gorgeous and exactly to my taste... but what I did notice was that the cup size was going up and up, whilst the band size was going down and down...

Friends, in the space of ten minutes I went from a 36DD to a 32G. Yes, that's G for Gigantic, Gargantuan, Good-Golly-Miss-Molly-Them's-Big-Boobs. I wasn't prepared for exactly how wrong I'd been.

Luckily I now have some gorgeous underwear in lemons and pinks - I've been in all-black underwear since high school, so it was time for a change - and my boobs are perkier and cosier than they've been in years and years. It's weird that I have such a massive cup size, but can still fit into size 12 clothes. My narrow back has a lot to answer for.

That said, I've always been fully aware of the big problems big boobses can cause - physically and emotionally. Never mind that breasts this size often cause back problems and can wreck a girl's posture. No, there's worse than that. There's dirty old men who stare into our cleavages as though the meaning of life's hidden there, before trying to begin a conversation with them, mostly about how big they are and how they'd like to fuck the unfortunate sap that owns them. I cannot tell you how many bars I've stormed out of, and how many nights I've had ruined, by perverts like that.

And it's not as though we get much sympathy from our own. Other lasses with smaller endowments decry their jealousy at much volume, completely unaware of how lucky we consider them. With boobs my size, these other lasses are made up of just about every girl I know. That's a lot of Joey-envy. But I'd give my right arm to trade places with them for a night, to go out wearing whatever the hell I want, without feeling the need to cover up, and not get perved on.

My ma, bless her heart, had had enough. Ten years ago she got a reduction for those exact reasons, and has said ever since she wished she'd had it done ten years earlier. When my own came in with a vengeance, I wondered if I ought to go down the same route. Of course, no guy I've ever been with has complained, but I did broach this subject with a certain ex a long time ago. I told him I was sick of being stared at by guys. His response? "Other girls would say 'at least you get stared at'." I was angry at him for that. True as that might be, it's hard to understand the problems unless you're living with them every moment of every day.

I'm feeling a lot more comfortable with my little handfuls these days than I have in a while, especially now that they're being supported by such pretty giftwrap. When the gallies get jealous, I list all the reasons why they don't want boobs this big - the back pain, the dirty old men, the scarcity of such awkward sizes on the high street and the expensive price tags on the ones you do find. I've also come to realise that the dirty bastards that judge a girl solely on the size of her chest probably all have tiny peckers, so I tend to laugh in their faces instead of running out of bars these days. I've turned it into a game in my head - if I can get to know a guy and like him without him drawing attention to my breasts at all, he's one step closer to unwrapping the prize. But it's a long and stringent process... I'm still single, after all. Not all well-endowed girls are sluts, contrary to what lads' mags would have you believe. If anything, I'm more choosy because of them.

Change Of Plans

2008-04-11T12:08:00.003+01:00

From now on, I want you to ignore the list.

Why, you ask?

Because I want a Wii. I must have a Wii. I NEED a Wii.

Once again, why?

I simply HAVE to play this. Not only does it feature my favourite non-anime characters, but it's made by Telltale Games, the amazing people that brought us Sam & Max.

I'll do ANYTHING for a Wii. Well, almost anything. I draw the line at sexual favours.

Gotta go, business meeting in progress.

Resurrection Of A Phone

2008-04-09T18:18:00.003+01:00

Friends, today is an excellent day - a triumph for good technology over evil, and further caution against rip-off-ery disguised as customer service.

Remember when my Sony Ericsson k800i died? It was a real tragedy, and so soon after Christmas too. Both Orange and I figured that the void could be filled with a shiny purple Samsung U600. But oh, how wrong we were. The Samsung U600 is A Giant Pile Of Shite. The menu system is confusing. Texting takes forever because the dictionary system has a mind of its own. The games are rubbish and badly translated out of Japanese. The camera is useless - 3.2 megapixels means nothing when you have to wait for ten seconds between pressing the shutter button and the flash going off. It's marketed as being all touch-screen and fancy, but there's nothing fancy about having to hit the call button five times before the phone starts dialling. I couldn't recommend a phone any less. Well, unless you're unfortunate to have a brick-shaped monster that pukes down your ear every time you answer a call.

So a few weeks ago, I'd had it. It was time to resurrect the Sony. I missed being able to text in ten seconds flat. I missed Tetris. I missed knowing if I had voicemail or not (something the Samsung never informed me of). So, two days ago, on my Last Loan Day Ever (an occasion of mixed emotions), I took the Sony to the Carphone Warehouse. The guy I spoke to seemed bored and not interested at all in helping me. I explained the situation, and that I didn't have a receipt for the phone, because Orange had inexplicably taken it when I'd got the Samsung. He told me to get an invoice for it and bring it back.

I trotted a hundred yards up the road to the Orange shop. Now, remember the problems I had last time? I spoke to eight people, one of whom was a grade-A retard, and all of them told me different things.

Not so this time around. I spoke to one guy the whole time I was there. Sadly I can't remember his name, but he actually seemed to give a crap about my poor Sony. He said he had the same phone himself and just couldn't part with it, no matter what sort of upgrade he got - just how I felt! He actually ran some tests on the little thing, and came to a very different conclusion to what his co-workers surmised back in December. My Sony wasn't dead. It was just the battery that had a major malfunction.

Of course I was happy to know I'd get a working phone again. I wasn't so happy that I'd been without a decent phone for four months because of a stupid battery, but that wasn't his fault. I'm immensely grateful for his help, and a cheap and easy solution to all my worries.

The trouble lay in procuring a new battery. Orange didn't sell them. The sourpuss back at the Carphone Warehouse said they didn't stock them either. (Not going back there any time soon. You don't have to like your job, but the least you can do is pretend, jeez...) I tried the Sony Ericsson website when I got back home - no dice there, either.

But this wonderful little seller on Amazon provided me with a fully functional battery for just over five measly British pounds. I ordered it Monday night and it arrived today. My Sony is alive and well, still with all my old photos, contacts, games (Tetris!) and pre-New Year texts intact. Oh, it's so wonderful to have the phone I love back in my life!

The Samsung's going on eBay. I don't want much for it. It sucks. Viva la Sony Ericsson!

PS: I just realised that this is my 150th post on this blog. w00t!

The Best Gig I Never Went To

2008-04-07T12:37:00.004+01:00

Would somebody please find these guys a slot at the Academy? Or even my next birthday party? Seriously...

I, too, am glad that The Cheat is both not dead and to the limit. And hey, there's only seven more emails to go before the 200th sbemail-versary. That's prooty awesome. They still know how to pack 'em in down in Freetown, USA... unlike in a certain mountain town in Colorado of late, whose latest season has forced me to take a vacuum cleaner to my eyeballs in order to decrease the suckage. It's like they're not even trying anymore...

But I digress. Here's the entire show. Don't forget your BMW lighter for the slow parts.

Sunshine In A Shoebox

2008-04-02T23:14:00.002+01:00

I keep forgetting how bad my cabin fever gets. In my little shoebox room, with the blind drawn and the lights on, time ceases to be relevant. I work, I procrastinate, I think about working, I procrastinate some more, and outside is only a place that there's lots of pictures of on the internet. My bedtime has somehow shifted itself to between 4 and 5am, although the battle with the mistress of mental anguish known as insomnia has been well and truly won for now. Sometimes I forget to eat, and end up being woken up by the rumblings of a disgruntled tummy.

It's not until I get outside that I realise just how boxed-in I've become.

Today was one of those days. The sun was shining, the weather was finally warm enough to go outside without a jacket, and I dragged Ben to the How Manga Took Over The World exhibition at the Urbis. After wandering around for a good hour (well, I ran around jabbering the little Japanese that I know to express my glee), we found a particularly sunshine-filled spot in the cafe downstairs. Somewhere amidst the cups of tea and bitching about the lack of tit and cock in the hentai section, it dawned on me that, even for an otaku, I don't get out enough.

Ever the gentleman, Ben said he'd found it educational. (Heaven knows how he puts up with my nerdy rampages.) However, he thinks that I shouldn't ask for my ultimate gift. Being a biker, he thinks they're rubbish. I say that both my favourite anime and my favourite live-action movie say otherwise.

Anything to make myself a little cooler, I suppose. Back in the shoebox, you know what I did? I finally did something with that fourth tab. Welcome to Listed Nerd, up-to-the-second updates on the music I'm listening to, the anime I'm watching, the things I want to get done and the stumbles I've... well, stumbled. (I moved it from the sidebar here to make way for an extended miniblog.) So in the highly unlikely event that it would interest you to know these things, it's the perfect little page. Oh, and it's entirely powered by the magic of Feedburner. (Yeah, it's basically an aggregator page... sue me...)

Maybe if the sun shines again tomorrow I'll go out. If I wake up in time for any sunshine, that is.

The Half-Birthday Wishlist

2008-03-28T15:43:00.003Z

Today is my half-birthday. I'm 23 years and six months old. I'm a little antsy for my 24th birthday to get here - 23 is a prime number, and prime numbers weird me out a bit. (It's best not to ask... just keep reading, it'll be fine.) I haven't done much to celebrate, but I had an idea just now. It's an unashamedly selfish idea, I admit, but it's my half-birthday so I get to self-indulge.

As is quite clear, you now only have six months of shopping time left before my 24th birthday. It might seem like a long time away, but these things have a habit of creeping up on us. Now, I'm not one to ask for much for birthdays, Christmases and such, but what I do appreciate more than anything is a carefully considered gift, one that appeals to my tastes exactly and has been chosen to absolutely guarantee satisfaction at the all-important moment of unwrapping. It doesn't have to be expensive, big or flashy. Remember Marv's gift of Stitch at Christmas? Exactly.

So I've decided to give you some gift ideas. I've taken into consideration the circumstances the individual gift-giver might find themselves in, because generosity works both ways.

Firstly, if you appreciate the importance of having a good MMORPG in your life, you might want to get me the WOW Burning Crusade expansion. Or, if that's too nerdy and you'd rather me not blow all my money on a monthly subscription (how thoughtful!), how about Sam & Max: Season One? I do rather love the Freelance Police, and it's been such a long time since I played Hit The Road...

If you've fallen out of my good graces and need to get back into them sharpish, The Anime Encyclopedia is the surest way to my heart.

If you don't have much money but still want to get me a little something, I'd love a copy of Castle in the Air by Diana Wynne Jones. It's the sequel to Howl's Moving Castle, and I don't need to remind you how much I love both the book and the movie.

If you want to get me something arty and thought-provoking, you could get me any of the three Postsecret books that I don't already own: The Secret Lives of Men and Women, A Lifetime of Secrets, or My Secret.

If you want me to stop being such a slacker, get off my butt and do something, I think I could learn a lot from Getting Things Done by David Allen. It's got a lot of good reviews, and maybe it'll help me organise my time better.

If you'd like to help me expand my mind and learn a new language, Japanese from Zero! is the way to go. I'd love to be able to watch anime without subtitles one day, but right now my vocabulary only stretches to "in the name of the moon, I will punish you!"

If you think I'm too thin and need fattening up, I've always wanted to try Pocky. It looks rather yumalicious.

If you want to get me a gift that combines my two greatest passions, the Beck starter set is the way to go. It's an anime... about a band... and the boxset comes with decals so you can customise it... excuse me whilst I wipe the drool from my keyboard.

If you want me to get rid of that Hanson poster once and for all and cheer my room up with something cool, I like the look of this Death Note wall scroll. Okay, it's not exactly cheery, but you have to admit it's bloody cool. But if you insist on sunshine and happiness on my wall, I also dig this one of Haruko from FLCL.

Which brings me to the ultimate gift I could ever receive from anyone. This one's only if you're loaded and super-generous. I really really reallyreallyreally want one... of these.

Now, I'm not demanding anything from this list. I'll even be surprised to find one of these underneath the giftwrap in six months' time. It's just a little food for thought, you know? Teehee...

My Last Chance To Dance

2008-03-23T13:17:00.005Z

Unless I opt for a career in teaching secondary school music - an option that I'm extremely divided on - this will be my last academic break. Ever. From here on in, my holidays will get a lot shorter. I'll have to book them myself. In a few weeks' time, writing a number one single or winning the lottery notwithstanding, I'll be working for The Man. And that, my friends, fills me with dread.

Pook and Marv, aka Wilykit and Wilykat, are displeased with me. Just before I left for my folks' a week ago, I found all the information I possibly could on my impending graduation. And what date have the powers that be chosen for this auspicious occasion? July 16th; Pook and Marv's 21st birthday. Every time the subject is raised, the past four years of my university career are dismissed by my precious siblings as being nowhere near as important as the anniversary of the day I lost all my privileges as an only child. It's not as if I chose the date, but there we go. The debate as to exactly whose thunder is being stolen rages on.

*Not content with only having a twin named Martin, Pook had to find a boyfriend with the same name.

But I realised something about this most important of dates last night, as I was being creamed by Pook's boyfriend Marty* in a long game of Monopoly. Once graduation rolls around, I'll already have been out in the big wide world for several weeks. I'll have moved out of halls and into a flat of my own a month previous. No summer holiday for little Joey - there's student debts to clear. Oh, what a joy it will be to become a vacant-eyed zombie, slaving away for the greater good...

Everyone - and I mean everyone - asks me the same question every time they see me now. "What are you planning to do after you graduate?" The answer I want to give, yet never do, is this: "Let me get my freakin' degree first and I'll tell you." Seriously, I'm having enough trouble focusing on the present, what with all these songs to write and record, this business assignment that I have to project manage, and some shoddy performance marks that I need to have serious words with my tutors about when I get back to uni. I haven't got time to be thinking about my bloody future too!

The answer I give instead is a simple "I don't know." Equally valid, but doesn't give away exactly how freaked out I am about my degree. I'd love to say that my folks did a real number on me at this point, piling on all this pressure to get a first, but really I know it's that large perfectionist streak running right through my core that won't accept anything but the best. I really know how to piss myself off sometimes.

Anyhow, I intend to enjoy my last few weeks of semi-freedom. Yes, there's a lot of work to do, but if I end up working a 9-to-5 once I actually do have time to think about where I'm going in life, I won't have much time to do what I do now. I've been very lucky to have landed the opportunity to do what I love best for so long. I just hope I can find some way of keeping it going after graduation.

I've never been so scared of anything in my life.

Shut The Hell Up And Get Back To Work!

2008-03-13T18:05:00.003Z

Tomorrow's the last day of uni before the three-week Easter break, and I haven't done any work in days. It's not unlike the mental block I had during the worst days of The Situation, but this time the causes are completely different. I'm sure you're sick of me bitching about my insomnia - believe me, I'm sick of it myself. Being constantly tired and having no motivation to do anything is a big part of my problem, but it's hard to solve when the cause is outside of your control. Lifehacker has some great tips on getting a better night's sleep, but unfortunately it doesn't have a solution for noisy flatmates.

It's a pain to deal with, because I never see them - I just hear them. I don't have time to get a chance to get to know them, because I'm (trying to be) busy with so much work to do. I've been in this situation the past couple of years, and it's no big deal. As long as we get on whenever we do see each other, that's fine. I have buddies visit me a lot, so I don't feel isolated when I'm in my room. Trouble is, my view of my flatmates grows dimmer and dimmer every night. They're very nocturnal and very loud, and being in the smallest room where every sound anyone makes in the flat can be heard, my sleep pattern has been absolutely destroyed.

The good news is that complaining to reception about the noise at night has yielded positive results. (I swear, they must be sick of me down there, the amount of complaining I've done this year.) The main offender, the one who does the most stumbling in drunk at 2am, shouting down her phone, running back and forth between bedroom and bathroom to puke, and (the worst part) very noisy sex with her boyfriend almost every night, is being moved out to another flat. Luckily for them, they don't have long to put up with her before the end of the semester. For us here, the damage has been done.

Sadder still is that the girl has absolutely no idea of how inconsiderate she's been. On hearing that she was leaving the flat, I was also told that she had mentioned feeling "persecuted". Persecuted? Now, I don't know her. I've never had a conversation with her. I've never complained to her face about the noise, nor have I retaliated with loud music or noise of my own making. She's kept me awake every night for weeks now, putting me off my work (and often my dinner, with the unwanted aural porn), and she feels persecuted? Go fly a kite, missy.

That just leaves Slammy McDoorstop, she of the 3am phonecalls on loudspeaker, to contend with. Her room is next to mine, and the art of closing a door is lost on her. My room visibly rattles every time she enters or leaves her room. And she's in and out a lot. However, I think I prefer the slamming to the shagging... I think...

Anyhow, I'm heading to my folks' for a week on Saturday, and I can't wait. Now, y'all know how noisy my family can be, but at least you know that when Ma says bedtime, you gotta shut the hell up. I plan to write a lot of songs, start cooking again (I've been living on couscous), and, most importantly, get my sleeping back to normal. Before this academic year, I seriously underestimated the power of a good night's sleep on a person's functionality.

*

In an attempt to get myself both organised and motivated again, I've found a whole plethora of little helping hands on t'intarweb. Just in case you might find them useful too, here's a few favourites...

Twitter: Yeah, I know. Eeeeveryone's already using it. I tried it out a while back, but it wasn't as useful to me first time around. However, there's all sorts of tricks you can do with it now, and I'm back on the bandwagon for reals. For instance, I can update both my Facebook status, AND that new mini-blog you can see to your right, from my phone! Outstanding!

Remember The Milk: I keep forgetting how important it is to write down everything you need to get done, so that your head isn't full of little pieces of information that stop you concentrating on getting the big things done. Having a web-based app like RTM to remind you through email and text (although it doesn't support Orange yet, so I can't get SMS reminders for now) of all your deadlines is an amazing help.

Workrave: Sitting at your computer all day and all night is bad for you! But luckily for us nerds, some other nerds invented a smart little program to remind you (and even force you) to take breaks from your screen every so often, to stop you getting headaches, RSI, and other nasty side-effects of being just such a nerd.

MeeTimer: Firefox is your friend. Heck, it's definitely my friend. But hanging out with your friends does tend to case any kind of productive activity, so that's where MeeTimer, my new favourite Firefox add-on, comes in. Whilst you're surfing, you can tell MeeTimer whether the site you're on is part of work, or if it's pure procrastination. MeeTimer will then tell you how much time you're wasting over your working week, and warn you or even prevent you from accessing the sites that you're wasting precious time on.

Of course, reading Dented Nerd isn't procrastinating. It's mind-expanding, it's liberating, it's... some other third thing...

Plomer Fuck Me In My Home?

2008-03-10T01:47:00.002Z

I just checked my stats on MyBlogLog, which is something I rarely do these days. I don't care where you came from, where you went afterwards, or even what you read while you were here - I'm just glad you're here, dear reader.

But every once in a while, as any blogger knows, you'll discover that someone found your site by the most unlikely (and often filthy) search. Therefore, I feel it is my duty as a blogger to ask this question: what was this person thinking?

If you look at the words separately, they do correlate with this here blog. For example, I say "fuck" more often than Kenny McCormick, in real life as well as online. (Aside from constantly dying and reappearing, I have a lot in common with our little orange-anoraked hero - we're both poor, small and subject to taunting by fat racist bastards. But I digress...) I can also see the connection with "Plomer" and "home". Back when "home" was Wycombe, I blogged about the terrorist raids that took place on Plomer Green Avenue, which was just a few streets away from my house.

But "plomer fuck me in my home"? Were they just looking for porn, or for actual cock/cooch? Just who or what was this plomer they were after? And why did they think they would find what they were looking for here?!?

Sadly, I don't think they were in luck this time. Even the result that seems to be the most likely that our fuck-hungry friend was after, a erotica site run by one Tara Tainton, was only returned as a result by way of the William Plomer quote halfway down the page (oddly enough for an erotica site, not a single instance of the word "fuck" was to be found). The other results either referred to the poet or to a sweet Australian surfing spot named Point Plomer.

But you know what's weird? Searches for either just "plomer" or "fuck me in my home" don't return the Nerd at all. (Well, not in the first ten pages of results, but who honestly goes that far into a porno search anyway?) Still, I hope our horny little friend found what they were looking for in the end. It ain't easy being single.

My Computer, Now With Hypothalamus

2008-03-03T01:50:00.004Z

I think my PC may be pregnant. Or maybe it's just hit puberty, one or the other. Either way, it's immensely hormonal at the minute and prone to violent mood swings. One minute it loves me, the next minute it wants to destroy me and everything I hold dear.

It's had a weird little issue for a while in that it won't power down by itself. The shutdown sequence works fine, but it gets stuck on the "Windows is shutting down..." screen. To me it's been no biggie - I hardly turn it off these days, what with all my uni work and the constant presence of my good buddy insomnia. (She's a tricksy mistress, that one. Leaves you alone for one or two nights only to return with a vengeance.) But on the odd days I leave the flat - and they are only odd days lately, sad that my lonely little life is - it's a worry.

Manual powerdown, however, is having some pretty funky side effects.

A week, maybe ten days ago, I was out for the night. Must have been a gig or something, but these days all gigs tend to roll into one, there are so many. When I got home, I powered the ol' gal on as normal, fired up the 'Fox, and went to log into the uni network. That done, I went for my bookmarks bar...

...and it was empty. All my bookmarks had been wiped.

I know what you're thinking. No big deal, right? Nothing a little Googling won't fix. WRONGO, BUDDY. I had fucking thousands of bookmarks, due in no small part to the wonders of StumbleUpon. I'm one of those freaks that, upon finding a site of interest, not only gives it the thumbs-up but also bookmarks it for future reference. You have no idea how many sites I had listed in my "web design" folder alone. All those CSS references! All those Photoshop tutorials! Not to mention all the fantastic Flash games I'd had in my "fun" folder, or the absolute insanity filed under "anime and manga".

Now, before you berate me for not having Foxmarks installed, I'd uninstalled it several months before because it was bugging out on me. It wouldn't synchronise my bookmarks to the server, so I saw no point in it. Of course, I tried it again after this disaster occurred, and it's working peachy-keen now. Mozilla meets Murphy's law.

So, earlier today (sorry, yesterday) I was in a rush to head out to Stockport to watch th'Robin play in the final of a battle of the bands thingy. As has become the usual, no powerdown from the PC, so manual it was. I upped and left, went to the gig (our boys came a very close second, I'm dead proud) and came home. Logged into the uni network - bookmarks all present and correct in Firefox. Sweet.

Thunderbird, however, had other ideas. It came up with the account wizard. All my email and feeds had been swallowed into the ether, or perhaps the black hole where my adolescent PC's heart once was. No more My Chemical Romance for you, missy.

The email's not such a big deal. I'm a hoarder by nature, electronically as much as in real life. I had folders of old emails all neatly organised, all for the "just in case" that I knew would never really happen. Hell, even those invoices for all my internet shopping instantly became redundant as soon as the delivery came, paper copy attached - and all neatly organised in real-life folders for the "just in case" that I know full well will never happen. There's a world of difference between being prepared and being anally retentive - luckily I know which side of the fence I'm on, and at least have the potential to do something about it.

Or maybe my PC's wised up to my habits itself, and was simply doing me a favour. It's seen that spring is just around the corner, and has quite rightly thought that a good cleanout was in order. In its generosity, of course, it's failed to make the distinction between what was useful and what wasn't, and has just deleted everything.

Whilst I appreciate this gift in disguise, I'm dreading booting up one day to find my entire composition portfolio erased. This is the moment where I truly love my big shiny external hard drive and all the wondrous potential of backups.

...I now realise that, on top of out-nerding myself once again, I've spent this entire post personifying my computer. Note to self: after backup is complete, find a decent shrink.

Earthquakes Are To A Girl's Guitar

2008-02-27T23:48:00.003Z

1:05am. Dozing off to sleep in what I call an early night. Early start in the morning, long day ahead. Big day and all that. Just getting comfortable and snoozy... and then the bed wobbles.

I wake up instantly. The bed is not only a heavy mothertrucker, it's nailed to the wall. Human hands cannot shift it. I hadn't wiggled around at all, fidgety sleeper that I am (when I do sleep), so this movement is totally alien.

Then the bed fucking shakes.

I sit bolt upright in bed, simultaneously nauseous and panic-stricken. In the immediate confusion that comes from being shaken awake in such a mysterious and violent way, I instantly think my room is haunted, or someone's broken into my room and somehow buried a semi-conscious body under the bed. I peek down what little crack there is between bed and wall and timidly whisper "...Sadako?"

Thankfully, no reply. Ghost check complete, I start to freak out. I hadn't heard any movement from my flatmates, and they're not exactly quiet. Late-night door-slammings and shaggings are no rare event, and being in the smallest room, I hear everything. I start to wonder if I'm insane.

1:10am. Still shaking and a little nauseous, I'm just about to tuck myself back in when Sharl texts me asking if I "felt that". I like it when people successfully convince me that I'm not crazy.

For the next hour I text/MSN/Facebook anyone who's awake with my experience of what I later discover was the biggest earthquake England's experienced in 25 years. It's an event, to be sure, but not one you particularly want mere hours before an important exam.

2:30ish. I finally make it back to bed.

3am-ish. One of the noisy flatmates I had suspected early on of causing the ruckus returns in typically ear-battering style. Raucous sex ensues. I stare at my ceiling, occasionally hammering on the wall to show my displeasure. Not only has my early night been foiled, but I have to be reminded yet again of how single I am.

8am. After finally getting some sleep - how much, I'm not sure, because I'm still not sleeping straight through - I get up and make ready for the final band practice. My outfit's been planned for days, as is the way with girls who don't gig that often. My extensive vocal warmup, followed by System of a Down's 'Mesmerize' in full, serves as my sweet revenge (pun fully intended) for last night.

10:15am. Everyone's late. I've set up the practice room for our final run-through, and time's a-wasting. I know I have the edge on everyone by living just around the corner from uni, but then punctuality appears to be a strong point only I possess.

10:25am. Everyone's in and setting up. We run through the set twice - short and long versions - with me bouncing the whole way through. I'm energised, mostly through nerves. Gig days, especially gig assessment days, have a similar effect on me to being on an IV drip of Red Bull all day. I can't stand still. I have to panic. I have to make a fuss. It's my way of coping. Luckily the energy infuses into the band, and we play a set full of a bounce that wasn't always there before.

12noon. Rehearsal over, Ben takes me out to lunch. He passed his driving test last week, so we drive to Harry Ramsden's in Trafford. I'm a Ramsden's virgin, so for me it's a real treat. We gossip like women, we bitch about this and that, and he does his best to quell my rising panic. But we have a window seat, and the sun is shining - a treat in itself for Manchester in February - and we're very happy bunnies.

2pm. We drive back to uni for the load-in. It's a simple procedure - gear out of storage, gear into van, van and people to the pub, gear into pub, set up, line check, gig. Trouble is, it's never that easy. It always takes forever. An entire PA, amps and lighting all have to get shipped down, not to mention instruments and other amps of choice. Luckily, guys tend to assume that girls can't carry much and gently steer us out of the way. Unluckily, I want to break the mould. My knees and I have an argument.

4:15pm. Surrounded by XLR leads, mic stands and kettle leads, full-on panic mode hits. I can't do this. Why did I choose this? Why didn't I just drop out of uni? I'm going to fail anyway, I can just run away when nobody's looking...

4:45pm. Ben and I pick up Ma and Pook, who've come up to see me play at uni for the first time. Panic subsided through just being busy, I make introductions at the pub and banter with the folks.

5pm. Crunch time. We're the first band on, so the line check and sound check blend into one. A few people, mostly from other bands playing, have gathered to see our short set. It's my exam. Twenty-three minutes, four songs, and the pressure to get a first is immense. But I've already gone into auto-pilot.

5:20pm. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're the Wild Seven."

5:45pm. I come off stage, immediately seeking parental approval. Ma hasn't seen me in concert since high school, so her verdict is important. "Brilliant" and "thoroughly enjoyable" are her reports. I could collapse in relief and exhaustion, but I have another show to do later on. The good thing is that I know I did good, and I gave it everything I had whilst saving some for later, when I know there'll be a crowd. Well, so said the Facebook event I set up, anyways.

6:15pm. We watch With That Knife, who musically kick our arses. They say very kind words about us though, which is awf'ly nice and all. It's Ed and Mike's exam - we were in a band called The Docile Masses back in foundation year, and I have much respect for what they're doing now. I dance a little, but my knees still hate me so eventually I have to sit.

7:30pm. By this time we've gone across the road for a drink between gigs. I start to crash - achievement buzz layered on anticipation buzz is a heavy load for anyone to bear, and I almost fall asleep. But I pull through, and we go back over the road to catch Topsy and the Boss, which somehow we have to follow, because once again we get our rockin' little hinies kicked.

9pm. "Ladies and gentlemen, for the second time tonight, we're the Wild Seven."

9:35pm. The crowd was big, and the atmosphere was exactly what we needed. The gig was a success with everyone who watched us, but only time will tell on whether we got the grades we all wanted. I buzz around the crowd like a bumblebee loaded up on nectar, swearing my tits off in relief over a job well done.

12:40am. You don't want to know about how long it took to hustle everyone out of the joint and load out and back to uni again, so I'll let you make up that story in your own head.

I'm drained, physically and mentally - once again I must remind you how little I gig these days, so the sense of fulfilment I get out of entertaining a crowd of people is pretty huge. Making sure I did a good job to get the grade isn't important to me. Knowing that people like what I do is half the battle won. I'm an attention-seeker; I crave validation and evaluation from other people. (Guess that's what happens when your childhood peers convince you that you're shit. You spend the rest of your life trying to make up for it.)

My eyelids are drooping. Earthquakes be damned. I'm going to sleep like a baby tonight.

On The Comeback Trail

2008-02-06T13:01:00.000Z

I guess January was The Hump, the Worst of It. Now that we're almost a week into February, things have turned around. Not everything, of course, but enough for me to notice a change in myself for the better. That I'm starting to get some decent sleep again is a large part of it.

Last Friday, February 1st, was the turning point. I stumbled into band practice, hungover not from the previous night's drinking but from the news I was too ill-prepared for when I received it at 2am. (It's too big a deal to go into right now.) With no time to get my head around it, dreading the band practice where surely something else would go wrong, and then an awful business lecture to finish the day, I was ready to throw in the towel - mere hours away from announcing to my tutors that I needed to drop out and repeat the year in September.

Band practice was short but sweet. Three of our songs are now completely performance-ready - our gig is on the 27th, according to the grapevine - which leaves two to nail in the time we have left. We left early and went to uni for food and a band gathering. We won't exist anymore as a band after the gig - my decision, after last semester - but it's still important to bond outside of the music itself when you're in one.

However, over my fish and chips I started worrying again, this time about business. Early in December I mentioned in passing over a Coldplay-induced outpour that I had an awful assignment to hand in for this module. Friday was results day, and I was dreading it. I was absolutely certain I'd failed. That business plan was without doubt the worst thing I'd ever written in my life. I was now within minutes of making my departure for the rest of the academic year.

So when I got to the front of the class, picked up my paper and read 75% on it, I startled a few people by squealing "there must be some mistake!". I think I startled them even more when they discovered it wasn't because I'd failed. I couldn't - still don't - understand how the biggest piece of crap I'd ever written had snagged me a first.

The relief was immense.

So, now that business is fine, and composition is taking care of itself, there's only the band to worry about, and even that's going right for a change. My final year is actually more on track than I'd ever thought. Now that uni and therefore gigs have started again, I'm seeing a lot more of my peeps, which is awesome. I've never appreciated other people's company as much as I do at the moment. TS doesn't loom as large anymore thanks to my ma's help, and also the ultimate realisation that I have been fucked over, and that it's not all my fault, as some folk would have me believe.

Yesterday I cooked pancakes. Tonight I'm cooking curry. I own a copy of 'Tales from Earthsea'. The comeback trail is a lot easier on the feet.

Being Happy

2008-01-23T00:34:00.000Z

On one of my better days last week, someone told me something that I've not stopped thinking about since. It was nothing new to my ears - the same old question of why I'm so damn happy all the time. My response was that I'm done with being upset and angry, that I got all that done in high school and I just want to enjoy myself now. Now, you know and I know that's complete bullshit, but it has made me wonder if it's time to blow my cover.

It's not as creepy as living a double life - as if I'd have the mental stamina for it. But I know full well that I've developed this persona as being happy-smiley-chirpy Joey over the past five years. It's not a persona based so much on who I want to be, but rather the me I think I ought to be around other people. After all, nobody else will deal with your shit - that's for you and you alone to handle. Be sweet to your friends and keep the bad times private. Okay, I may have overdone the sweetness part - everyone has bad days, except this me I created - but as obvious as it's becoming to everyone around me that everything isn't fine, I'm starting to pay the price for pretending otherwise.

Lately I've noticed that on my bad days (I'm swinging between the sublime and the ridiculous these days) I'm overwhelmed by loneliness. This may have been exaggerated by being surrounded by people at the performance exams last week, but who can say that leaving a crowded room to return to an empty room is any fun? That said, I'm starting to believe that Super-Happy Joey stems from my paralysing fear of being lonely. More than that, I'm alone so much lately that when I'm around people I go into overdrive. I end up enjoying myself too much (read: drink too much) and feel terrible for it. And just to add that little kicker, last week the only times I slept were after I'd been drinking, and even then only for two, maybe three hours at a stretch. I'm worried that I'm returning to my post-Matt alcoholic state.

My doctor prescribed me these little sugary pills to help me sleep and stop me stressing out so easily. They're not working so well. I have to take them for three-day stretches at a time, and I do feel a little calmer when I take them, but I'm still sleepless regardless. When I don't take them, I'm still panicky. I was scheduled to be assessed by a counsellor last week, the appointment I was given must never have existed because the surgery was shut when I got there. I haven't called to arrange another appointment. I'm a little tired of feeling messed around lately.

A good day is when I meet up with people, put on my happy face, have a few drinks and get a few hours' sleep. A bad day is when I see nobody and lie awake worrying about everything, which really amounts to nothing. The days when I don't have to even pretend to myself are the worst.

I'm not really sure what to do from here, except wait and see how things progress. Uni starts up again next week, which is a good thing. The band, as it stands for now, will be fine to perform at a later date. My home studio is now fully functional, so I can start recording my songs properly. It's not all bad... I just wish someone would tell my head that.

*

And as if things weren't already seeming to conspire against me, I hear that one of my favourite actors died a short while ago. Heath Ledger, we'll miss you terribly. Thanks for everything.

Being Angry

2008-01-07T18:48:00.000Z

I hate getting angry.

This may seem like an obvious thing to say; then again it may not. I'm sure that everyone knows someone who gets pissed off on a regular basis for no reason other than they just want to, or as if it's a conditioned response and they don't know how else to deal with their emotions. I've always been a tongue-biter, a deep-breath-and-count-to-ten sort of person. In my mind, expressing anger with raised voices and violent tempers exacerbates problems rather than solving them.

Or, at least I used to think so. Now I'm not so sure.

Over the past few days I'd started feeling happier again. Christmas and New Year celebrations gave me a chance to chill out and work through my feelings at my own pace. This morning, knowing that the uni wheel was about to start turning again, I felt stronger and calmer than I had in months. And, of course, everything went wrong, and now I'm back where I was before Christmas - completely out of control and waving goodbye to my degree.

Feeling stressed-out and put-upon is nothing new to me. Of course it isn't. It's one of our coping mechanisms through life, a way of motivating ourselves to reach ever-higher goals. However, I'm not used to being put upon to the point where I'm furious with everyone and everything, including myself. I've not had to deal with being this angry in the adult world. I thought I'd checked my anger at that door the moment I left high school. I was done being miserable and feeling at odds with all and sundry. Just a few months after leaving school and working through my gap year I was an entirely different person. Happy was my middle name, and happy was here to stay.

Of course, I'm generalising. I didn't get through my gap year without shedding a few tears, and I certainly haven't been through uni so far without wanting to tear my hair out sometimes over assignments or relationships (platonic and otherwise). But I'd learned to cope with it - to deal with it as it came and went and to always look to the positive.

Right now, uni is making me miserable. It never has done before. I've loved every single minute of it, and I know for a fact that I'm a much better musician now than I was three years ago. This year was always going to be the hardest - everything rides on this year, and I've always been fully aware of that. However, I made two bad decisions - and in all honesty, nobody could have foreseen just how bad they were - that have just about wrecked my chances of making the top grade. I should not have lived where I did, and I should not have optioned the performance module. Now, the external (The Situation) has had a huge impact on the internal (the band) that would not have taken place had the external never come about. If The Situation had never happened, I wouldn't be writing this. The semester just gone would have been a bad dream perhaps. But it has, and the fallout has been catastrophic on the band.

I know full well that I did not do enough to minimise the impact of the one on the other. I should have asked for help sooner. I shouldn't have gotten into the hopeless mindset I was in before Christmas. In my defence, however - and this is the saying I quote most often lately - There Is No "I" In Band. Where I think I went wrong in making the choice to choose performance as one of my third-year modules was effectively placing my degree in the hands of others. I have learned the hard way that not everyone particularly wants a first in their degree, and not everyone is willing to assist me in my attempts to secure mine, no matter what problems I experience. I suppose your final year does make you selfish, in a way, but in modules like these where your grade depends on group work, you can't afford to be.

Long story short: we were supposed to be doing two assessment gigs at Jabez Clegg next week. Now we are not. Personal Mitigating Circumstances forms will be filled out, and we will perform at a later date.

I am considering performing as a solo act next semester. I am considering repeating my final year with different module options. I am considering dropping out of uni altogether.

The phrase has been bandied about that I have had a complete personality transplant over the past semester. Of course I have. I haven't worked for three years straight to not end up with a degree at the end of it. I know what I want and I'm working for it. If that temporarily changes me from a cute little pushover to a neurotic control freak, so be it. But I can't help feeling as though I'm being punished, by forces outside and inside uni, for doing what I have to do. That's why I feel helpless and angry. I've come this far only to have my way forward blocked by other people.

So not only am I trying to get these problems out of the way so I can achieve a first and go out into the world as I know I should, but I'm also having to deal with the resultant frustration and fury of these situations. I have no idea how to cope with being angry. Do I scream at those I'm angry with? Do I cry on my own? Do I dump my feelings onto others who are simply too patient with me? Do I feel guilty for that alone?

I think counselling beckons again.