As Willow Goes, So Goes My Nation

littlered2 @ 2009-10-06T17:03:00

2009-10-06T16:05:29Z

I am back in Oxford! Sadly, I still have no internet in my room (even though everyone else in my house has, and I have received an email saying that I should; WOE). It has taken me until today to reset my password for the library computer, as I had helfully forgotten it over the summer.

This is not, I feel, an auspicious start to the term.

littlered2 @ 2009-09-24T18:37:00

2009-09-24T17:43:50Z

I just discovered the BEST ACKNOWLEDGEMENT EVER in the preface to an edition of The Battle of Brunanburh: "In conclusion, I wish to thank Professor J.R.R. Tolkien for many suggestive remarks". OH TOLKIEN. Is anyone else picturing him going around leering at all the other academics? I'm imagining him sidling up and muttering things like, "I'd be the Lord of your ring, baby" and "Want to let me give your work on the Old English phallic riddles a good going-over? If you know what I mean, and I think you do".

(No, I am certainly not distracting myself from work with this. WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT.)

Children of Earth reaction post

2009-07-10T23:09:34Z

About a year ago, I posted about my feelings regarding Torchwood. I said that I knew it was utterly ridiculous, but I had a feeling I was going to get sucked in before too long. Unsurprisingly, it came true.

I still think that, for the most part, what I know of Series 1 and 2 was ridiculous. Goodness knows I'm no expert - I have seen only a handful of episodes, most of them Series 2 after my friend Claire came round on Monday to show me it in preparation for Children of Earth. I have seen clips or read quotes and summaries for all of the episodes, but I am not someone who has watched it all and therefore my opinion should probably be taken with a pinch of salt. But yes, I thought it was ridiculous. All of the cliched, melodramatic lines! The constant undercurrent of sexual tension! The stupid, stupid technobabble. (Also - and I realise I may be lynched for saying this - I didn't like Tosh and Owen. I saw Tosh's death, and I shouted encouragement. I fully expect to have abuse hurled at me now.)

Which made it even more of a surprise when I loved Children of Earth from the start. It was very compelling as well as deeply, deeply disturbing. It was on a completely different level to any Torchwood I've watched before. Rhiannon* said it seemed a lot more like Doctor Who, and I agree, although obviously much, much darker; Doctor Who as it would be if its target audience was older. It reminded me of one of my favourite episodes, Turn Left (and one of my favourite Buffy episodes, The Wish. I like terrifying dystopian worlds, it would seem) - bleak and disturbing, and without the comforting reset button Doctor Who provided.

I know a lot of people have problems with various elements - Ianto's death, gender/sexuality issues and so on - but I don't feel in a position to address them: I'll leave that to people who are more experienced at this than me. I felt there were areas that dragged more than others. The technobabble again, for instance. But on these programmes, the technobabble and pseudoscience aren't what's important; they're where you can see the strings. It's the characters and the actions that are important. The 456 weren't important except for their role as a plot device: what was important was the side of human nature they exposed. The science behind how they were defeated isn't important: all that matters is that it forced(?) Jack to have to sacrifice/murder his grandson. We don't watch for the explanations of how it all works; we watch for the consequences.

It was chilling. One of the most disturbing lines was Agent Johnson talking to Alice Carter: "The nice kids are safe". because it's not meant by her to be terrifying - it's meant to be comforting - but everything it implies about value judgements and the criteria for what makes a child "nice" (ie, the right background) and the disposable nature of those who aren't is too frightening for words.

Similarly, all of the scenes with the various government personnel making cold, calculating decisions about which children should be disposed of was very disturbing and very, very good. It reminded me of Terry Pratchett's "Guards! Guards!" (which I shouldn't have leant to my dad for his holiday, dammit; I need it to quote from) and the description of Lupine Wonse's face fixed in a rictus as he tries not to hear what he's saying: someone trapped in a situation far over their head where there is no good option or way of escape. Frobisher's shooting of his family and himself, as disturbing as it sounds, is probably what I would have done in his place: there is no other way out.

Jack killing his grandson; well, there isn't much to say to that except OH GOD over and over. Because, objectively speaking, it was the right thing to do - I'm thinking of Utilitarianism and the principle of trying to achieve, "the greatest good for the greatest number of people", which that did. But it doesn't work in real life; no matter how you rationalise it, it was a terrible, terrible thing to do. How can you justify that?

The series, especially as it went on, was hardly light-hearted, what with all of the death and creepy social commentary and so on. The images of children being forcibly removed from their parents and sent to be disposed of were heartrendingly upsetting. Oh, and IANTO DIED. But tehre were moments of humour, despite all of that, as well as moments of pure awesome. Such as:

- The misdirection at the start. I was sure that Cute Rupesh was being groomed to replace Owen, when he shot Jack and then got killed himself. Nicely done.

- All of the scenes with Ianto's family. Especially the fact that the kids on the estate can apparently break a triple deadlock with no trouble whatsoever. Just think of the tech they have access to now!

- EVERYBODY KNOWS ABOUT TORCHWOOD. This is what happens when you drive around in an SUV with the name of your secret organisation on it.

- Gwen and Rhys's conversation as she's crossing the Severn Bridge. "Do you have currency?" "Yes, and I've had my injections."

- RHYS. Love him so very much, and his relationship with Gwen (you know, other than the cheating and the drugging and the being in love with Jack). He took a book to read while on the run! He carried her bag so she could have her trigger finger free! Love him.

- Jack and Ianto, cockblocked by beans.

- Ianto rescuing everyone WITH A FORKLIFT TRUCK. I have to admit, I wondered briefly if they would be forced to cart Jack-in-concrete around with them for an episode or two while they worked out how to free him, which would both slow them up and a bit and be hilarious.

- Gwen's crime skillz. If I am ever on the run, I want Torchwood Three with me.

- Johnny's solution for sneaking Rhiannon out to meet Ianto.

- Alice being badass with a kitchen knife and a chopping board. She's her father's daughter.

- The men on the estate fighting to save their children, and Andy (super-significantly) throwing aside his uniform and joining them.

I don't see how there can be a fourth series. I think this was both too good - how can they top it? - and too devastating. Ianto is dead, Jack has left Earth (and is hardly in the best mental state for Torchwood, one would imagine), and Gwen is very pregnant (plus, one person does not a secret alien-hunting organisation make). I'm glad I watched this series, even if my brain is now utterly broken.

I have a feeling the reactions from fans may have broken the internet by now. Just doing my part. Apologies for any incoherency; that was somewhat intense. Am looking forward to my brain resuming function again.

*my sister, not Ianto's sister. I am not Ianto, fairly obviously as I am not dead. Jesus.

littlered2 @ 2009-07-03T23:09:00

2009-07-03T22:36:36Z

Being back at home means slowly getting used again to the things that I don't have access to at university. One of these is television - while I'll watch the odd programme on iPlayer if it particularly catches my eye, I don't have an actual TV (or a licence) and the TV room in college is too far for me to drag myself when I'm feeling lazy (that is, most of the time). Once I'm there, I can't say I feel the need for it, and when I get back home it takes me a week or so to get back into the habit of turning it on and channel-surfing. I'm slowly getting back into it now.

Tonight I ended up indulging in a slight guilty pleasure - the music TV channels. Yes, I like to listen to awful music sometimes, and there are plenty of channels which provide that. Either I had forgotten how odd they can be, though, or things have got very weird while I have been away.

Loads of channels (those which weren't playing back-to-back Michael Jackson hits, that is; the other day I counted nine at once. For some reason they seem to be focusing on the less fun songs in his back catalogue: I have seen Man in the Mirror and Earth Song more times than I care to mention over the past few days, whereas I haven't come across I Want You Back - which I maintain has one of the best introductions ever, regardless of any mockery it will get me - at all. Any world in which you can be confident of seeing the video for Earth Song somewhere when you turn on your television is, frankly, a frightening one) seemed to have as an unspoken theme, "The Cheesiest, Most Pop-tastic Hits of the Nineties (ie, Your Childhood)". I saw both Ice Ice Baby and U Can't Touch This within about five minutes. I saw two videos for ... Baby One More Time in quick succession (and yes, I watched them both. I'm not proud of myself).

One particular chart was even more bizarre. According to the Smash Hits channel, Because We Want to by Billie Piper is the 30th best No.1 single ever. I'm not going to deny that it's a catchy song, but I can't bring myself to accept that, somehow - and this is from someone who was the target audience when it was first released and has nothing whatsoever against Billie Piper. But it is madness (as is the video, which has got even less incomprehensible since the last time I watched it, years ago).

25 was Tragedy by Steps. I wasn't even pretending to understand by that point. Perhaps the meaning of "best" changed while I was away. I don't know any more.

ARGH

2009-06-04T22:37:55Z

This is quite possibly the easiest essay I have had this term. Discuss similarities and differences between the consonant systems in the phonology of (British) Received Pronunciation and General American. It's just technical, not at all theory-based, which means it's really only a case of going through and ticking boxes rather than trying to engage with incomprehensible theories that make no sense to my idiot brain. And yet I am failing hideously at it. My motivation is just gone this week; more so than usual, I mean. I have screwed up with the reading and planning, which means the essay is not going to be anywhere near as good as my tutor wants, and even though I have a plan (of sorts) now I just can't make myself write. I really don't want to be up until three again, like every other Thursday for the past month - I have a transcription and commentary to do in the morning, then my tute and a revision class for Mods - but I just cannot do this. I want to do nothing except stay in bed for the next few days.

I hate this. I am sick of feeling unmotivated and stupid and inadequate. I want to work hard and get Firsts and actually get some sort of work ethic back, as opposed to whatever it is I have now, but I just cannot make myself. The thought of the next two weeks makes me want to cry.

Also, I am being incredibly angsty, which is no fun for anyone. Next thing I know I will be fondling razorblades and writing terrible poetry, which isn't all that appealing.

WTF, Amazon?

2009-04-12T20:28:15Z

I have just heard from copperbadge's journal that Amazon has started to remove the sales ranking information from many of its gay and lesbian books (which means they don't appear on bestseller or similar lists and meaning they are less likely to be seen and bought). This is as part of a new policy to remove "adult" material from searches:

In consideration of our entire customer base, we exclude "adult" material from appearing in some searches and best seller lists. Since these lists are generated using sales ranks, adult materials must also be excluded from that feature.
Hence, if you have further questions, kindly write back to us.

This has affected erotica as well, but not non-erotica romance and heterosexual-focused literature. A lot of the gay and lesbian books included on the list are not adult in content: Heather Has Two Mommies, anyone?

I plan to let Amazon know that I will be boycotting them while this policy remains; if anyone else would like to, they can do it here:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/help/contact-us/general-questions.html?ie=UTF8&type=email

More information can be found here, here and here, as well as a petition here.

I had a search, and it turns out that Stephen Fry's memoir Moab is My Washpot has had its rankings removed on amazon.com (although not amazon.co.uk). I know some of you - Ros, at least - follow him on Twitter; if there's any way you could link him to this post, I would be very grateful.

EDIT - Okay, now I'm even more pissed off. They still have sales rankings for Playboy: The Complete Centerfolds, which, as the name would suggest, includes pictures of over 600 naked women. What the fuck, Amazon?

Hooray for the Easter holidays!

2009-03-16T13:31:29Z

LIstening to my brother on the phone just now:

NICOL: ... Oh my God! A blackbird just flew past the window carrying a whole apple in its mouth! Wait, no - it's a bun!

I do like being at home.

Books books books

2009-02-25T14:48:10Z

Earlier this afternoon, I walked past a large handcart that one of my college's porters had left on the pavement outside my house. When I glanced into it, I could see that it was filled with books. I swear, it took every ounce* of self-control I possessed not to grab it and make good my escape, laughing manically; unattended book-carriers have loomed large in my fantasies for many years. (I have never been able to walk past an East Sussex County Council library van without wanting to hijack it. Once in primary school I got to be the student from my year group who was allowed to go and select books from the mobile library which visited once a year; the memory still makes me happy even now.)

One day I will have sufficient space and disposable income to buy as many books as I like, the recession permitting (of course, if it gets really bad, I imagine I can just join in with the general looting). Until then, I will continue to stare lustfully at unguarded handcarts. And maybe spend another morning wandering Blackwells in a happy stupor.

*Should this be gram? Are metaphors in metric now?

Ah, university life. You can't beat it.

2009-02-24T22:41:01Z

It's half ten, I am writing an essay that needs to be handed in at midday tomorrow, and I can hear from my window a group of very drunken young men singing something which is - improbably - to the same tune as Camptown Races.

If I didn't feel like a proper student before, I do now.

And Now, a Rant!

2009-01-03T17:13:14Z

The next actor to play the Doctor is being announced this evening! I am torn between wanting to know now and not wanting to find out at all in case of disappointment. I found out recently that themightycait's dad knows who it's going to be, due to working at the BBC, news which led to me becoming slightly hysterical and trying to work out if I wanted to know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about it, or dash to her house and interrogate him. Now there will be no need for the second option, thankfully.

Hopefully I will be able to stop irritating my family by rambling at great length about it and other Doctor Who-related news. They are deeply patient, and put up with me far more than we should; we had a spirited conversation about it all over tea yesterday night, and I was quietly pleased to be part of such a geeky family.

I do hope the news isn't a disappointment, though. I had this exchange with my mum yesterday:

MUM: So, any idea who it's going to be? I heard a rumour about Tom Chambers.
VERITY: From Strictly Come Dancing? If that turns out to be true, I will resign from life.

In similarly depressing news, I hear that Mamma Mia is the top-selling DVD of all time. This seem wrong on a fundamental level - that such a record hasn't gone to a thoughtful and insightful film which could easily be called a work of art, but to a piece of summer fluff whose most notable achievement seems to be the sheer number of ABBA songs it managed to shoehorn in without being noticably jarring. It's not that it was a bad film. I went to see it, twice, and enjoyed it; the second showing was a singalong version and I found myself dancing in the aisle with my friends (yes, I am ashamed). And I'm sure it did have a message, although I'm not entirely sure what this was. If You Are a Gay Character, Your Relationship Will Take Up Approximately Two Seconds of Screentime, perhaps? (Note - this is approximately a tenth of the time devoted to showing men in snorkelling gear, none of whom we see before or afterwards, dancing along a pier for no apparent reason.) Independent Women are Great (As Long as They End Up Safely Married Off)? No, I think it's If You Ever Get Trapped With Pierce Brosnan, For the Love of God, Don't Let Him Sing at You.

I have very little faith in the opinion of the public on matters such as this. It's like when I found out about a year ago that the listeners of a particular London radio station had voted "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol as the best song ever. Really, anonymous Londoners? Of all of the songs in history - and let's be reasonable and narrow it to popular music from the 1950s onwards, as that's really what people mean when they say, "ever", could you not perhaps have chosen something with a real tune? Something with lyrics that sound as if the writer spent more than five minutes on them, and didn't just choose words based on how well they scanned? Snow Patrol aren't a bad band, when it comes down to it, but they're so middle-of-the-road that they might as well have white lines painted along their backs.

(You might wonder why I'm able to denounce these bands so comprehensively, as apparently I don't listen to them. For this, you can thank my work, and the fact that my local radio station is played there during my shifts; it is thanks to this that I have heard "Chasing Cars" a good one hundred times more than I would choose in any sane world. Its tagline is "More music variety", something it usually announces before it plays "Dancing in the Moonlight" by Toploader for the 50th Saturday in a row, making me want to shriek obscenities and hurl a brick at the radio).

Until the Doctor Who news is announced, guys, let's waste time chasing cars around our heads. If anyone can work out what exactly that oh-so-poignant image is supposed to mean.

Ow

2008-10-07T22:40:57Z

This evening there was a trip for all the first year students who were interested to go iceskating. I tagged along, because I love skating and hardly ever get to do it, so that was good news. And I remembered what I was doing and everything! Before long I was zipping around at top speed and having a great time.

Then I started to get cocky. I was smug about my skating prowess in comparison to the poor souls still tentatively hugging the wall. I even thought to myself, "I bet I'll be able to tell Rhiannon I stayed upright the whole time!".

Bad move. I had a spectacular fall. I think I was actually airborne for part of it. It ended with my crashing down hard on one knee.

(The saying, "Pride goeth before a fall"*? Literally true in my case.)

I was fine: I picked myself up and commented brightly, "Well, that was impressive" to the startled looking guy who stopped to help me up, and then tried to keep going. My knee felt a bit weird, though, so I went to sit down for a minute. It's still a bit stiff - I can only bend it a little way - but it doesn't hurt, exactly. Anyway, I register with a GP tomorrow, so I can ask for help if I wake up limping. Right now I have a scarf wrapped around it and am propping it up; sadly there are no frozen peas available to complete the RICE quaterity. I have mad first add skillz. It was just irritating because I spent the rest of the night afraid to go fast (and also, although this had nothing to do with the fall, wearing a fetching pair of mismatched skates because I realised my right one was too small).

Let's hope I don't further injure myself tomorrow. Oxford is beautiful, but I'm eyeing the cobbles warily.

*a misquote, actually, but I can't be arsed to haul out my Bible (for my course) and look it up. IT'S LATE AND I AM TIRED.

littlered2 @ 2008-10-04T23:21:00

2008-10-04T22:28:32Z

Going away is hectic, you guys. (I assume you don't know this.) Why is there so much stuff to do?

I had my final shift at work today; I got presents from my coworker Cathy (presents! Including a candle that smells of chocolate and caramel, and which I love), and Pat, my boss, gave me £50! Best Job Ever (minus the cold and the bike ride uphill and the lack of any seats or a toilet). I think it's taught me a lot.

Things I Have Learnt From Work:

How to have the same conversation about the weather ten times in a single morning.

How to find comfort when there are no chairs anywhere (it's all in the leaning).

That Jeremy Kyle is just as hateful on the radio as on television.

The Mysterious Art of Egg Sorting.

That Southern FM has an inexplicable love of Can't Fight the Moonlight by Toploader.

All of the words to Can't Fight the Moonlight.

How to tell the difference between three different types of potato by sight alone.

Things I Have Yet to Learn Despite Two Years On the Job:

What, exactly, each type of potato is good for.

The prices of white Spanish onions.

How to cancel a transaction when I have seriously fucked it up.

How to handle eggs in deepest winter when my hands are freezing without dropping and breaking a good third of them.

What the people at Southern FM can possibly be thinking.

I got to see my favourite adorable customer couple, who wished me luck and told me that they met at university (Sussex) - he was Sciences, she was Arts, but they met in a crypt under a church and never looked back. I had to restrain myself from letting out an "aw".

The rest of the day has been a frenzied packing montage. My to-do list, had I committed it to paper, would have looked something like this:

ABBA Gold?
Save fanfic.
Find sock!
CUTLASS.
Sleeping bag? YES

I have now assembled all of my stuff, but it's not yet packed; the sofa and dining room floor have all but disappeared from view. My parents have decided attempting to pack is a task best left for tomorrow; who am I to question them? I foresee a heated discussion in the morning about exactly how many books constitutes a reasonable amount.

Also, my sister Rhiannon is at home! She went to the wedding of a guy from her work today, so she's here tonight. :) It's like she's never been away. I think the cats are confused by all of this coming and going, though; they're roaming about the house, staring confusedly at the piles of Things To Pack. My dad lit a fire for the first time this year and Dandelion rolled delightedly in front of it, completely oblivious to the fact that her paw was pressed against the metal fireguard. I had to squawk and drag her away.

Wish me luck for tomorrow, guys. I am going to kick Oxford's arse! (With luck, anyway.) Hopefully when I give in my essay (WHICH IS NOW FINISHED, BEST MOMENT EVER), my tutor will not say "MADE OF FAIL" or "Essays. You're doing it wrong" and hand it right back.

littlered2 @ 2008-10-03T15:45:00

2008-10-03T15:16:28Z

An article like this is not at all helpful for combating my fears about starting at Oxford. Thanks, Tanya Gold. I read it yesterday morning, went in a daze to check my email and was instantly confronted with an email warning me not to read the G2 on any account because it was ALL LIES. My friends and family have rallied round comfortingly and have been thoroughly denouncing the article. I am considering erasing my memory of it by banging my head against things until the trauma takes care of things for me.

I know that it was just one person's experience, and that it was fifteen years ago. I have college parents at Merton, two second-year students who sound absolutely lovely and both say that they're very happy there. It's just that the article seemed scarily similar to all of my deepest fears about university, which I've been trying to suppress. Still. Never mind.

I'm trying to get ready for leaving on Sunday, and things are going okay. I have a tentative attempt at a pile of things to pack, have written my Essay of Dooom at long last, am still ploughing on (monumentally slowly) with the reading list, and have been doing various computer-related admin. My family had a shared PC for years; then eighteen months ago my dad bought a shiny new Mac. We also had a shared laptop for the purposes of three children doing coursework at once. My task for the last few days has been to track down all my files that I want to keep from these computers and transfer them to Donna, my laptop. It's now all done, and I'm organising them all. I find tasks like this oddly relaxing, so it's been fun.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my friends Fiona and Eleanor, the only ones left at home, with a trip into Brighton to have a meal and see the singalong version of Mamma Mia. This was awesome, as yesterday had been a bit trying until then. I just got new lenses for my glasses (because I have become even blinder) and found out that they couldn't swap the lenses on one of the frames (thankfully, I now have two) because something weird has apparently happened with them and they're warped. Or something. This was deeply irritating. Then, as I prepared to leave the house to catch the train to Brighton, I went to take out my contact lenses and swap them for glasses. One came out without a hitch. The other, not so much. I spent ten minutes clawing at my eye (which hurt, and got mascara everywhere) and then had to run for the train. Not fun.

Similarly annoying things seem to have been happening to others over the last few days. I feel lucky compared to the wonderful copperbadge, as some of you probably already know - his account was hacked and all of his past posts deleted. :(

I saw this morning that sarahtales's final installments of Drop Dead Gorgeous are up. I can't bring myself to read it, you guys. The prospect of no more fic from her ever again fills me with despair (and also, if this ends unhappily I will hit something).

On a lighter note (well, if you have a slightly warped sense of humour), the front page of my local paper had a story on it this morning about a man who cut his own arm off with a chainsaw. (I'm not laughing. No, I'm really not.) While this is, of course, horrible, I can't help finding bits of the story such as this unaccountably hilarious.

While they were doing that I went over to find the arm, they didn't tell me to I just knew we needed the arm.

It was laying in the garden, I put it in plastic bag with some frozen pastries and gave it to them.

PASTRIES. He put it in a bag with PASTRIES. *howls*

Ahoy, Me Hearties!

2008-09-19T13:45:09Z

In the last ten minutes, I have had the following exchange with two people:

VERITY: Do you know what day it is?
OTHER PERSON: International Talk Like a Pirate Day!
VERITY: AYE!

I love my friends. Enjoy the day, maties!

littlered2 @ 2008-09-17T23:41:00

2008-09-17T23:29:42Z

Yesterday I made a journey up to London to see a performance of Wicked with some of my friends. This was great fun; I could tell the trip was going to be a good one when I stumbled across a discarded Mills and Boon book in the railway station toilet. Naturally I made a dive for it and carried it back triumphantly to the group, whereupon we amused ourselves by reading out the most hilarious bits and cackling. Passers-by started giving us a wide berth. I cannot honestly say I blame them.

This also gave me the opportunity to share with (or inflict upon) my friends the worst euphemism for the male genitals I have ever found: Gallifreyan Meat Hammer. This was courtesy of a horrified post on fanficrants; I read it at least a year ago, but it has burned itself irrevocably into my mind due to its sheer awfulness. *shudders*

The train journey itself was equally enjoyable. Being around my friends usually means large quantities of food will appear, a characteristic of them I love. (I had a sleepover on Sunday and bought popcorn. Foolishly, I thought I had bought far too much. It turned out to be just the right amount, although my kitchen continued to smell of it for some days and I'm slightly concerned about the health of the microwave.) Despite the fact that we were going to have a picnic once we arrived, we had plenty of train food, including fused-together, still warm cookies. It was brilliant.

That was, of course, just to warm us up for the actual picnic, which took place in St James's Park. In addition to eating, this included singing along loudly to ABBA songs played over an iPod dock, a heated game of Uno and an extremely loud and somewhat inappropriate conversation. Again, this seems to be becoming a regular theme. I found myself hoping that our voices would manage to carry all the way to Buckingham Palace as we launched into that perennial favourite: if forced to decide, which of the two young princes would you sleep with?

VERITY: Neither.
ELEANOR: That's not an option!
V: Well. William, then.
E: He looks like a horse. And whinnies.
V: *thoughtfully* I could take my glasses off. And put an iPod on.

However, we were not arrested by the palace guards (even when we had a loud and cheerful conversation about anal sex, which lasted for some time), so I think we weren't quite loud enough.

After all of that, the musical was just an added bonus. I enjoyed it very much, although perhaps not as much as the members of our party who burst into tears and continued to weep intermittently during the journey home.

I also went free hugging last week. This, I hasten to add, was all the_mighty_cait's fault, who came up with the idea after the group of Free Huggers we saw in Prague. Admittedly, we did have fun with them. We saw them at the Charles Bridge, a major tourist spot, but couldn't quite work up the nerve to approach them. Then, after much dithering, we saw them turn and begin walking (sadly unhugged) away.

This encouraged a few members of our group to break rank and hurl themselves at the huggers. I joined in. We stampeded along, laughing wildly, scattering bewildered tourists in our wake, and hurled ourselves at the huggers. I am not too proud to mention that I managed to hug the hottest one twice (wholly accidentally, I swear!).

So we decided to give it a go. I suppose Brighton is a reasonably good city to do this in; you're probably less likely to get stabbed there than in most. And it was fun, once I stopped feeling uncomfortably like a prostitute. People were very friendly, on the most part, and it felt really nice to see the looks on their faces after a hug.

There was the one girl who walked past us and muttered, "Oh look, it's the Jesus Army." Let's not go into that.

We also got adopted by two small children, who wouldn't leave us alone. One had arms like steel, and kept coming back for more hugs. Then she took a "Free Hugs" sign from one of our group, causing me to almost have a panic attack (especially when a man hugged her).

VERITY: *hissing* Rose! Rose! Get your sign back before anyone accosts her!

They stayed with the group until everybody left. Clearly their parents thought nothing of handing over their children to a group of somewhat dubious-looking teenagers.

Today, I have been tackling my university health forms. These are fun, but bring out an utterly paranoid side of my personality. Like the question that says, "Do you have anything further you wish to tell us?". I had to sit and think about this for a good five minutes. Did I? Is there anything else I feel the health centre should know? Should I have talked about my worrying scores on an internet mental health quiz, for example? Should I perhaps have told them about my most secret hopes and dreams? Should I have included a detailed personal ad on the offchance that my perfect guy happened to work there?

In the end, I left that bit blank.

I hit another snag when I came to "What birth control do you use?". Technically, none. Because I haven't had any opportunity to. But saying "None" makes me feel feckless and irresponsible, and saying "Not applicable" seems like the worst kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. (Hey, staff at health centre! Your birth control question isn't applicable to me! Because I will never be having any sex! Ever! Don't you fret yourselves over that aspect of my health.)

What I really wanted to put was "None, as yet, as I am not currently having sex, but hopefully the question will become applicable at some point in the future. Not too near, though, as I would like to establish some form of relationship with someone rather than fall into bed with the first person who'll have me, but I'd like it to be applicable soonish. And then it'll probably be condoms with some sort of backup because I have a deep dread of pregnancy. Thanks for asking!" But that wouldn't really fit in the space provided.

As evidenced by the Music section of this post, I've been listening to the Doctor Who soundtracks lately, as mcgates kindly copied them for me. I have also been spending far too much time pondering them. For instance, comparing Rose's Theme, Martha's Theme and Donna's Theme. Rose and Martha both get somewhat epic pieces, all swelling strings and high emotion. Donna gets madcap caper music. (Which is, admittedly, great fun to listen to while walking anywhere. I've been listening to the soundtracks a lot whenever I'm on my way anywhere, and am enjoying seeing how my walk changes as I do so. The fearless strut it produced at one point did mean I nearly walked straight into a car today, though.)

Must really go to sleep now: I'm up early tomorrow to go shopping for university necessities with my mum. Apparently, Merton doesn't provide bedside or desk lamps. Lamps! This seems slightly insane.

Possessed by a Ghost

2008-09-04T21:43:07Z

HOLY CRAP MY REMOTE. *deep breathing*

Just now, I was sitting on the computer while Rhiannon was on the sofa, watching Buzzcocks together. From behind me, I heard the channel change.

No matter, I thought. Clearly, Rhiannon has decided to change to something else. I'll just turn around and oh my god, what the fuck.

Rhiannon had left the room. The remote was lying on its own in the middle of the sofa.

And it was changing channels by itself.

Really. As I watched, it kept pressing 777. Nothing was touching it; it was the right way up. I have no idea what was causing it.

My reaction went something like this:

VERITY: AUGHHHHH! AUGHHHHHHH! RHIANNON! THE REMOTE! DEVIL REMOTE!
RHIANNON: What's the mat- OH MY GOD!

She rushed off upstairs. I remained shrieking. As I watched, it switched from 777 to 774.

The shrieking began to rouse my parents.

DAD: What's going on?
VERITY: *semi-incoherent through laughter* THE REMOTE! THE REMOTE!
DAD: WHAT?
VERITY: THE REMOTE! IT'S POSSESSED! OR IT'S A GHOST! OR IT'S POSSESSED BY A GHOST!

Eventually it stopped. I have no idea what was going on, but am now watching it warily for other odd actions (not to mention my family members for speaking in tongues).

littlered2 @ 2008-09-02T22:56:00

2008-09-02T23:12:43Z

Today, my mum seemed to have a slight panic over the fact that I will be leaving for university in a few weeks and am still completely incompetant at ... well, nearly everything. She tried to teach me how to iron.

Yes, I realise how deeply spoiled this makes me sound. In my defence, I care very little about whether my clothes are crumpled or not. And I have ironed. Once or twice. Some years ago.

The lesson did not go particularly well.

VERITY: *manfully trying to avoid ironing hand* How's this? Um. The creases aren't really coming out.
MUM: Put down the iron.
VERITY: No, I really think I'm getting the hang of it now-
MUM: I really think that in a moment I might strangle you.
VERITY: Ah.

I think I inherited my impatience when it comes to teaching from my mum. Neither one of us can stand to see someone doing something badly. I remember trying to help people with maths in the past.

VERITY: ... and so that's the answer.
CLASSMATE: Why is that the answer?
VERITY: What?
CLASSMATE: I don't understand.
VERITY: *through gritted teeth* What do you mean? It just is. That's how it works.
CLASSMATE: But why?
VERITY: *restrains self from throwing rubber at classmate's head*

I am a horrible teacher and should never be given control of a class. (Seriously, don't ever let me. I think you can see from this that I would be abysmal at it.) For a while recently I tried tutoring a younger girl in French. This was perhaps not a wise move. For me, trying to teach someone basic French is hard. There isn't anything to be explained; it's all a matter of remembering things (vocabulary, basic conjugation of verbs, past participles and so on). I cannot remember things for someone.

Unsurprisingly, the tutoring did not last long. I think that was for the best.

I also have another Europe story! You can probably expect a few of these. Sorry to everyone who is already bored of hearing about it, but I can't resist.

On our last night in Prague, we had a very heavy rainstorm. Being English, this probably shouldn't have been quite as exciting as it was, but for some reason it inspired Caitlin and I to rush down three flights of stairs and begin dancing. In the rain.

Just as we were starting to think about going in (it was raining hard), we were joined by Phoebe and Eleanor, which of course meant the dancing became even more crazed. We ended up making our way around the corner, where we spotted a somewhat shady-looking guy lurking under a bridge: presumably, the friendly neighbourhood drug dealer.

SHADY GUY: *in a conspirational whisper* What do you need?
CAITLIN: The rain!
SHADY GUY: ... I see.

Caitlin talked to him for quite a while after that, while the rest of us tried surreptitiously to edge away and not to think about how the rain had made some of our clothes slightly seethrough. But we made it back into the hostel alive (and only slightly drenched); go us!

Sorry for talking about it a lot. It was just a really great time. It was one of those things, I think, that you know you'll remember for years; fifteen years down the line, I hope I can still talk to people about the crazy trip I took to Europe with my friends the summer before university. I hope we all still are friends.

Ever since I read The Amber Spyglass, I've wondered what stories I would tell about my life as payment to the Furies in the land of the dead. This trip, like when I went to Australia eight years ago, has probably provided a few.

In other news, in the last few days it seems that all I've been hearing about is Sarah Palin. It's weird; I only heard of her a few days ago, and it already seems like I have done for years; the constant news stories make it very easy to get used to things. Like my reaction to the ridiculous names of her children, which I only heard for the first time a few days ago.

SUNDAY: Oh my God, who names their daughter Bristol? That's one of the stupidest names for a girl I've ever heard.
MONDAY: I suppose Bristol's not that weird. At least it wasn't Liverpool.
TUESDAY: Oh, so Bristol's pregnant? Huh. The name seems perfectly reasonable compared to everything else now.

It's so easy to adjust sometimes. (Please let this hold true for university. *crosses fingers*)

Across Europe Without a Fork, Or The Exploits of Seven Slightly Insane Girls

2008-09-01T21:26:39Z

I'm back! My trip thankfully lived up to my high expectations and was absolutely fantastic; I want to go again immediately. And I'm so very sorry; this post is far, far too long. I couldn't help myself. I don't blame you if you take one look and back away. Please forgive the long-winded rambling!

In addition to myself, our trusty band consisted of my sister Rhiannon and our (lovely if insane) friends Phoebe (The Human Radiator), Fiona, Caitlin, Eleanor and Abi. We met up at the ferry port late the night we left, all in a state of high excitement; I pity the other passengers who had the misfortune to be there at the same time as us. We started the trip as we meant to go on, too. On the ferry shuttle bus, we talked slightly over-loudly about a documentary called The Perfect Vagina, getting some very dirty looks. People using the metro in various European cities looked horrified as we all charged with our giant rucksacks to the carriage they happened to be in and threw ourselves in through the doors. One woman was seen to desperately press the Close button on a lift as we all made a dash for it (sadly, she was a few seconds too late to escape). One of us may or may not have used to term "cunnilingus face" to describe a scene from Bring It On. Poor, poor Europe.

In this state, of course we were unable to sleep on the four-hour ferry. I tried - we all did - and ended up copying Rhiannon's bright idea of donning my hooded sweatshirt backwards and settling the hood over my face as a rudimentary blanket. I have a vague fear that someone has photographs of this.

Nobody was sick on the ferry! Having spent years travelling with Rhiannon, this was a happy event. Past ferry trips have always involved stockpiling sickbags (a few still lurk ominously in our house, prophesying doom) and desperately praying for France to miraculously appear.

Arriving in Dieppe at six in the morning was surprisingly fun, despite having been up for nearly 24 hours; I have a feeling the copious amounts of sugar we were eating had a hand in that. We arrived in the town itself just as the bakeries were opening and headed for the station to catch a train to Rouen. I had to nerve myself to use my shoddy, shoddy French (in France! To an actual French person who could mock me) and it didn't go hideously badly! I managed not to lose my head and start saying anything nonsensical, and even got complimented on it by the kind (and lying) woman in the ticket office.

From Rouen, we headed to Paris and made it there for about half ten in the morning. We had most of the day to kill before catching our next train, and some of us were definitely flagging at this point. However, we soldiered on, depositing our bags and heading for Pere Lachaise cemetery. The metro stations everywhere were full of posters for an incredibly creepy campaign for Orangina. In it, cartoon animals sprawl suggestively on half-melted ice cubes, fellating Orangina straws. In one, a giraffe licks itself. In another, a bear has a sixpack and a figleaf (covering the crotch which it's thrusting towards the viewer). Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but we were transfixed.

VERITY: Is this advertising bestiality? Is that what the French are into?
RHIANNON: I think they have them in England as well.
VERITY: *disturbed* Dear God.

After a few hours of trudging around Pere Lachaise, Rhiannon looked somewhat zombie-like. We made our way back to the station where we them proceeded to sit against a wall for some hours, lethargically trying to dodge pigeon poo from the roof. Fiona fell asleep on my shoulder, which meant I had to spend the next ten minutes desperately trying to keep her head in place. Amazingly, she didn't wake up, despite my grabbing at her face and constantly accidentally poking her in the eye.

After a train to Germany, where we had an hour to run amok in the food court and gorge ourselves on the myriad of fast food available (and I got a sudden energy boost, despite having been awake for about 36 hours, and began manically pogoing. With my Rucksack of Doom) we wearily boarded our night train, ready for some much needed sleep.

It turned out to be somewhat different to my expectations.

I had never been on a European night train before. Somewhat naively, I think I was picturing scenes from Murder on the Orient Express (well, without the murder part). A modest room (I wasn't insane; I realised we were going to be on an actual train and so wouldn't exactly have a ballroom-sized space in which to frolic) with some comfortable bunkbeds and maybe a few bedside tables. There would be room for all of of to fit inside without any inapropriate touching.

How wrong I was. If I discover pictures of the couchette, I will post them, but I have a feeling none exist due to the fact that there was no room to take cameras out. It was absolutely tiny. There were no charming bedside tables or cheery decor. There were three fold-out bunks on either wall with a narrow aisle of about half a metre in between. Cramming ourselves in with our bags and attempting to fold out the beds was a Herculean challenge; I dread to think what it would have been like with a group of strangers.

Perhaps ill-advisedly, Caitlin and I ended up cramming ourselves into the tiny bathroom together to brush our teeth. This may have not been the best plan in the world.

The room was just big enough so we could both fit; not, however, without being jammed together slightly intimately. Then I dropped my handy pair of clean knickers (I had been wearing the same clothes for 24 hours. I was ready to kill for pyjamas) onto the floor and, unable to bend, had to do a sexy drop to the floor, putting me on eyelevel with Caitlin's crotch. Not ten seconds later, she did exactly the same thing. You guys, I could actually hear the porn music in my head.

I had a secret fear that there wouldn't be room to open the door and we would have to be freed by a member of the train's staff. Thankfully, this fear was not realised and I was able to sidle out, hoping nobody would see and start asking awkward questions.

Finally, we got the sweet release of sleep, although not without a few alarming moments when we were awoken by booming announcements informing us that the train had stopped at various destinations, none of them ours. Eventually, the train stopped for good and we all tumbled out into Prague.

I loved Prague. I have a feeling my friends could tell this, because every few hours I would collar one and have this exchange.

VERITY: I love Prague.
UNFORTUNATE FRIEND: Mhm.
VERITY: No, I really love Prague. Really.

I sounded like an annoying drunk girl at a party. This was fine, though, as Prague is (to me, anyway) the city equivalent of that hot boy who everyone at school secretly lusts after, and more than worthy of my quasi-drunk adoration. The buildings were all lovely, the people were friendly and polite enough not to laugh at our almost non-existent Czech, and the food was delicious. (I have lost my soul to potato dumplings. Oh, Central European cuisine, I wish I knew how to quit you.)

Our hostel in Prague was so much better than what I expected: more like a nice apartment than anything else, with access to our own kitchen. Our room had one other person staying in it, who was absent when we arrived. Looking at the stuff he had strewn about (surface layer only! We're nosy, but not that nosy) we determined he was male and possibly German-speaking. We called him Fritz.

Fritz still hadn't made an appearance by the time we went to bed the first night around midnight. The next morning, he had magically appeared; all we could see of him, however, was his back. He only got up after I had been to the supermarket, bought some breakfast and was was in the kitchen; apparently his phone went off and he was unable to feign sleep any longer (poor thing; trapped in a small room with several teenage girls staring lustfully at his back). He only stayed a short time more, and I just saw him for about 30 seconds. Sadly, his name was not Fritz; he was Italian, which would have made this difficult.

The rest of the time, we had the room to ourselves, which was great. We wandered around Prague in the daytime; I saw sarahtales's exploding church, which was somewhat less explosive than I was led to believe (although gorgeous) and walked regretfully past the Imperial Cafe, where, once upon a time, it was perfectly possibly to spend a merry lunchtime hurling doughnuts at your dining partners. I saw the cathedral (the first of many) and have a blasphemous photograph of myself and others joining a crucified Jesus in a YMCA (and was not hit by a bolt of lightning, to my great relief). We bought tickets for the Jewish Museum and wandered around various Judaism-related museums and synagogues (again, the first of many).

There were also the unexpected things. We stumbled across an anti-nuclear weapons demonstration and signed the petition (getting stickers for our pains). Rhiannon immediately added one of the organisers to her ongoing Hot Guy List. Later that day, after visiting Prague Castle and having a much-needed drink, he was spotted again nearby. Rhiannon immediately leapt up to stalk him.

She returned, triumphant, about ten minutes later, having tracked him to the protest and spoken to him. She has mad stalking skillz.

The next day, we were walking innocently (well. Relatively) along a quiet Prague street when we heard disembodied pipe organ music. Of course, we had to find out where it was coming from. A church was having organ practice; we slipped in to take a look around.

The cathedral, despite having had psychedelic Art Nouveau windows, was somewhat restrained in a Gothic kind of way. This church, however, was Baroque to the utmost. It looked like there had been an explosion of gold inside, or as if the designer had had some kind of brain meltdown while designing it. Everything was gilded. All surfaces were liberally plastered with mosaics and statues, each with more gold on top. I think the planning meetings went a little like this:

DESIGNER 1: Hm. That west wall's looking a bit bare; I'm not really sure how to approach it.
DESIGNER 2: Have you put a statue on it yet?
DESIGNER 1: No.
DESIGNER 2: That's where you're going wrong. Make sure you slap on a bit of gold to accentuate it. And perhaps a mosaic or two.

Coupled with the still-disembodied organ music, it all felt pleasingly insane. I loved it.

On our final night, we stumbled across a fine display of folk dancing. By that point, we had all come to accept it.

On to Vienna! Our hostel here was far more hostel-like; no kitchen, no Fritz, but a basic room and a cafeteria downstairs. The showers, too, were something of a contrast. I braved them first.

CAITLIN: How was your shower?
VERITY: Interesting. And by "interesting" I mean "cold and horrifying".

We bravely struggled on, though; I eventually managed to get a shower which didn't remain cold for the entire duration, which I seized upon as a Triumph.

The hostel was on the outskirts of the city, so we got the metro in every day and did the tourist thing. This included many museums and art galleries (and at least one cathedral!) all of which were running themes of our trip. Other girls go to Europe for the parties; we go for the Old Masters. (Well, I did. We had a pretty even contemporary/fine art split.)

In one of our many museum trips I saw a few-bored looking adolescent girls, clearly dragged there by their parents. I imagined telling them we were old enough to travel to Europe on our own and had actually chosen to see museums. There would have been screams.

One day, half of our number went to a punk exhibition; I went with Phoebe and Fiona to see the Hofburg Imperial Palace. We were able to see the imperial silver service, an exhibition about the Empress Elisabeth, and the imperial apartments. I realise all of this sounds incredibly dull, but it turned out to be fascinating.

Luckily, all three of of are tableware fans, so had a blast in the silverware section. (I know this sounds insane. But cutlery shops have the same effect on me as stationary and hardware ones; I wander around staring at everything longingly.) When it comes to solid silver crockery, we were all sold. I ended up pressed against the display cases, staring lustfully at plates.

I also found something called a duck press. This is not, in fact, used to press ducks. Instead it's used to press the bones of ducks to make a rich sauce.

The Empress Elisabeth (or Sisi, to her friends) didn't use hers for this purpose, however. She used it to press raw meat and extract the juice. Which she then drank. Raw. Unless you listened to the Sisi exhibition upstairs; there they had a similar duck press, with the note that it was used to make "a nourishing bouillon". Lies!

We enjoyed the whole thing very much - reading extracts of Sisi's unquestionably emo poetry, speculating loudly on the mechanics of imperial booty calls while viewing the living quarters. I recommend it to you all.

Vienna was a great city. Not, for me, as great as Prague (be still my heart), but lovely in its own way. One night we ate at a restaurant with the friendliest proprietor imaginable, who kept bringing us water without being asked and gave us a free bowl of chips for no apparent reason. We watched a performance of the New York Philharmonic projected onto a screen on the side of the beautiful Rathaus. It was a warm summer's evening and we were sitting under the stars listening to a West Side Story medley. How could anyone fail to be happy in those circumstances?

We also made a trip to the Prater, Vienna's most famous park, and rode on the giant ferris wheel, the Riesenrad. Before we could get on it, we were had to pass through an area with a mock-up of a wall from one of the cabins. There, we were accosted by an employee with a manical smile and a camera.

MANICAL WOMAN: *latching onto me* Stand in the middle and lean your arm on the window.
VERITY: *obeys*
MW: Now the rest of you!

Everyone duly did so.

MW: Now lean out and smile! *click* Look up! *click* Look over there and say "Wow!".
GROUP: *obediently* Wow.

We were then led to a counter where we could buy our photos. Expensive as they were, this was tempting; we all looked completely insane. Honestly, the wheel itself was a bit of a letdown after that experience; nothing could live up to the wonders we all must have imagined for the "Wow" shot.

There is far too much to detail in Vienna; I imagine most readers have given up already. But it was busy. We ate Sachertorte in the Sacher Hotel and were inappropriately loud; I tried the interesting-sounding chicken strudel in a cheap Turkish cafe. Phoebe was kissed on the back by a tramp, at which we all promptly fled. And we discovered that crossing roads in Vienna is a world away from crossing them here.

In the UK, cars tend to stop at zebra crossings. Drivers acknowledge the right of pedestrians to be there and politely wait. Not in Vienna. There, they actively try to mow you down. And then you've got the bicycle and tram lanes to contend with. We had a few narrow escapes in the middle of roads, including once with a very attractive male cyclist who considerately swerved to avoid us and was promptly added to the Hot Guy List.

Budapest was, unsurprisingly, different again. We had a slightly nasty shock not long after we entered Hungary.

Our Interrail tickets covered most train journeys. For longer ones, we had to buy a supplement and sometimes book tickets. Before catching the train to Budapest, we had carefully checked to see if that was the case there. No, said the Internet and the Viennese train station personnel. Your passes will be fine.

So we cheerfully boarded our train at Vienna and waved it goodbye. Once in Hungary, we had to change trains. We found the right platform, leapt aboard and lugged our bags around accidentally hitting people on the head, as we searched for empty seats. Eventually we settled for the smoking carriage.

After five minutes, we were accosted by a guard.

GUARD: *unintelligible Hungarian*
GROUP: *frantically* Caitlin! Where is your phrasebook?
CAITLIN: *in Hungarian* Um. Do you speak English?
GUARD: *in Hungarian* No!

At this point, we were stumped. We stared around aimlessly at each other, hoping we weren't about to be thrown from a moving train. But then a young Hungarian guy from a few seats over shyly ventured towards us and offered to translate.

It turned out we did need to pay a supplement after all. Thank you, Viennese officials. We duly paid up, and Rhiannon gave Shy Hungarian Translator a biscuit for his pains.

The problems, sadly, continued once we reached Budapest. For a change, we had booked an apartment to stay in - a cheap and tiny one, but an apartment nonetheless. The arrangement was that we would phone the woman who was handing our keys over to let her know we had arrived, and meet her at one o'clock.

I called. The phone beeped and went silent.

VERITY: Um. Guys? Slight problem with the phone.

We found the Hungarian code and tried that at the start. No good. We tried the first number again. Nothing. Eventually. we decided to walk to the apartment; after all, we were meeting at one. If all else failed, we could be there.

So we successfully navigated our way through the streets of Budapest, discovering as we did so that the Budapest drivers share a very similar attitude towards pedestrians and red lights as the Viennese ones did. No matter. We arrived in one piece, just after one, and settled down to wait.

She didn't turn up. We waited in the heat with our giant bags for some time; nobody. People began to give us curious glances. Eventually, Phoebe and Fiona intrepidly set off to find a phone box. Success at last! She seemed slightly shocked to hear that we had arrived, which set a few alarm bells ringing about the arrangements, but set off to meet us. After a further half an hour, we were being let into our apartment.

I have to say, the woman showing us around (Tunda) seemed slightly confused. We were let in, and that was about it. Rhiannon then began asking her some questions.

RHIANNON: So, what should we do with the keys when we leave?
TUNDA: Hm ... well, I suppose you could open the top windows above the door and throw them in after you go out.
RHIANNON: ... Couldn't we just use the letterbox?
TUNDA: Oh! Yes. Good idea.

She also seemed a little unclear as to the whereabouts of the airport and how to get there. Never mind.

That evening we decided to cook a celebratory meal, due to having our kitchen. It was only when we returned from the supermarket that we realised we had no cutlery to speak of.

Phoebe and Elly soldiered on, cutting up onions and peppers with plastic knives and manfully frying things in margerine. I had bought an incredibly cheap bottle of Hungarian wine, only to realise that we had no corkscrew; after some contemplation, I came to the conclusion that the only sharp object we had was a pair of nail scissors. We used these to hack away at the cork until it fell through into the bottle, and then sieved the wine. I wish I could say it was worth the effort. Before we ate, we came across some more cutlery: a bag of plastic spoons. We sat there, some on the floor, spooning up our pasta and heroically attempting to drink our sieved and acidic wine. The next two nights, we ate out. (The restaurant we went to - both times - was fantastic. In the Jewish Quarter, it had amazing food and gorgeous decor. Cheesegrater lights! Lampshades made of forks! A giant matchbox on the ceiling! On our second night, we were seated by a large open window, which I of course took the opportunity of exiting by.)

Like the other cities, Budapest was a strange mix of the expected and the unexpected. We visited museums, cathedrals, galleries and synagogues as previously, but we also saw a camel with a wonky hump outside the Opera House. (None of the Budapest passers-by seemed particularly interested in this. Perhaps it's a normal thing for Hungary.) One of the museums was a park of Communist statues, which included a room with Soviet training videos detailing how to break into people's houses and search for damning evidence (including information such as "Do not answer a ringing telephone while there. It may be the owner or somebody wishing to speak to said owner."). I could hardly tear myself away. We also visited some of the famous spa baths and, again, were somewhat over-loud. It was all brilliant.

All too soon, it was time to get on the plane and fly home. It felt as it we'd just left. We were all a bit dejected, but we still managed to have fun. Some of us did some victory dancing at the airport for getting through Arrivals faster than the rest. We did a loud cheer once all of our bags were assembled (by this point we had stopped caring about people staring, thankfully). We were extremely loud.

It was surprisingly upsetting to split up at the airport. I excepted there to be more friction, but we all got on very well; it was hard to leave. And coming home, while a relief in some ways, feels very different. I have found myself missing all of the cities in different ways, and my travelling companions badly. I want to go again!

In non-holiday-related news, I realise I have said this before, but I think it's too late for me to resist Torchwood's siren call. Rhiannon will disown me, I know. But I can't help it. You know you're beyond hope when you walk past a coffee shop and think "Ooh, Ianto would like that" or get indignant when someone expresses surprises that Jack would be allowed to run Torchwood. Send help. Please.

And, to add insult to injury, now that I know I am going to become obsessed, I hear that next year's Torchwood will consist of five episodes only, screened over the course of a week. What the hell, universe? Are you mocking me? I finally accept that I will like something - against my will and after much agonising resistance and soul-searching - and then you don't let me have it? That's just cruel.

Like a Chicken With its Head Cut Off

2008-08-18T19:49:19Z

It turns out the exam worry was for nothing: I ended up with four As. This, I have to say, is how the cycle has gone for the last threee years: I panic about revising, I have several sessions of hysterical crying over the fact that I am too stupid to take these exams and am going to fail miserably, go into the exam terrified, spend the time waiting for my results fretting over failing, pass with flying colours. Repeat as needed. I don't think the worrying about failing will stop - I have a very low opinion of my exam capability - but this is still comforting, especially in light of current university terrors.

In a few hours I am leaving for Europe with my friends: ferry to France, train through Germany and then a week and a half exploring Prague, Vienna and Budapest. I can't wait. Right now I am in a state of packing frenzy, having spent the day running around the house in a state of high excitement trying to assemble everything I need at the same time as signing and sending off university contracts, opening a student bank account, printing off vital booking information and ensuring there will actually be someone to meet us with the key to our (cheap) apartment once we arrive in Budapest. Rhiannon has been doing much the same; everyone else accompanying us appears to be too, judging by the volume of email sent between us over the last few days. Some us us (well, me) seem to have been afflicted by the CAPSLOCK virus and are prone to overuse of exclamation marks. My bag is now stuffed to bursting and weighs about as much as a small child, but it is packed. (Well. I think it is. Although I fully expect to arrive somewhere - hopefully not outside the UK's borders - and realise exactly which essential item is lying on my floor. Rhiannon just wandered into my room, announced "I know I've left some stuff, but I don't know what yet" and wandered out again.) None of us speak any Czech or Hungarian (I attempted to read Czech phrasebook, but gave up when I got to the section that calmly informed me that the language has seven different cases, and the number of objects affects what case they end up in).

I can't wait. XD

T-minus 11 hours before Apocalypse

2008-08-13T21:31:03Z

Tomorrow is, as I have a feeling you all know, Results Day. It deserves the capital letters. It deserves a few more, really, and bold text, and possibly some kind of dramatic musical cue. (I'm thinking Beethoven's Fifth, or possibly Ride of the Valkyries.) A Level results, as we have been told over and over again by teachers, are what will decide our university entrance, and hence qualifications and jobs and ALL FUTURE HAPPINESS.

In case you cannot tell, I am a little tense. This is partly because I don't even know which outcome I would prefer at the moment: for the last few weeks I have been going through a barely-controlled university freakout. This is thanks to a number of things (my less-than-firm grip on my sanity a significant one), but mainly the Oxford reading list. It is long, and full of books which I am reading very slowly and somewhat failing to understand. But I was holding it together; until I chose my course for the first time and received a reply from the senior tutor containing many more books and the title of my first essay, to be written in time for my first tutorial. This hammer-blow to my confidence was then added to by a quote from an English student at Oxford in an article in the Guardian (pointed out to me by my dad. My dad. Is he insane?) that claimed students have to read seven books a week. Seven. Apparently I thought university would be all LJing and punting, because this caused me to have a slight breakdown over the fact that ohgod it would all be TOO HARD and I would hate it and why had I even chosen English anyway when I would hate every moment? This has died down a bit, helped by Charles Dickens, whose books I may not fully understand, but I certainly enjoy. Thank goodness. (He is the subject of my first tutorial/essay.) Please continue to be awesome, Mr Dickens. I much prefer you to Elizabeth Barret Browning, who I now feel (somewhat uncharitably) should DIE IN A FIRE. (Despite the fact that she is already dead, and yes, I loved number 43 of Sonnets from the Portuguese. Have you tried reading Aurora Leigh?)

Also helping is distraction. This doesn't help with the actual getting through the list, of course, but helps to keep me from screaming. Luckily, I have many fandom-type things to distract my mind with. As my Doctor Who thing has now spiralled into full-blown obsession (I know. It's terrible. But I can't help myself; obsession it is), I have been spending time musing on that. A lot. Did you know the programme was originally created to teach children about science and history? That's why Ian and Barbara, two of the first companions, were teachers of those subjects.

I'm sorry, but I find this fact hilarious. I have watched next to no Classic Who, so I can't vouch for that, but the information the current programme has imparted to me has been, I feel, less than accurate. Take science. Science in Doctor Who has included:

1) A metal called "Dalekanium" which Dalek casings are made from.
2) A cure for all possible diseases being made by mixing together IV solutions for them all (or "food dye in plastic bags" if you're a crew member), putting them in a disinfectant-infused shower and spraying the infected people with it. IT'S SO SIMPLE! *slaps forehead* WHY DID NOBODY SEE IT BEFORE!
3) Being struck by lightning conducting one's DNA into the gene solution at the bottom of the lightning rod. (Or, um, Empire State Building.)
4) A computer being instructed to operate at "two hundred percent" and it not apparently finding any fault with this. (I'm sure it goes without saying that this is a sentient alien computer, and therefore able to respsond. I doubt that my laptop would kick up a fuss no matter what percentage I told it to operate at.)
5) Burning off a massive amount of toxic gas in the atmosphere, which does nothing more than destroy the harmful gases and has no apparent effect on oxygen levels or air temperature or a myriad of other things.

I could go on all day, but I'll restrain myself. History, by comparison, has got off lightly. I now cannot shake the vague impressions I have that Queen Victoria was a werewolf and the court of Versailles was menaced by alien clockwork droids*. But really, for all we know that could have happened.

Many things do end up sounding ridiculous when you come to describe them, however. I tried to describe the basic plotlines of Angel to my sister recently, and asked her to stop me when she thought it sounded absurd.

I got halfway through the first season before she started to criticise. As we went on, her initial complaint (and what's wrong with a superfast demon pregnancy, anyway?) seemed more and more tame.

V: So starting with series two, there's a demon who can read people's futures by hearing them sing. He runs a karaoke bar. There are a lot of karaoke moments; Angel and his team go there when they need advice about something. And they sing.
R: *silent horror*

It was worse when we got onto Darla. And then Connor. And then Jasmine. And then I had to explain season five, which was frankly beyond my capabilities. I found myself saying things like, "And it really picks up towards the end; I was so surprised, considering all the things people have said" and "Yes, the episode where Angel is turned into a puppet is commonly held to be one of the most popular and innovative ever". She just looked at me like I had chosen to wear a live seagull as a hat.

Back to DW quickly - I am still angry and upset over what happened to Donna (and am dwelling on these feelings rather than my terror over university; I would far rather cry at something fictional than my actual life). I liked her. And that was a shock to me, because I had no plans to do so; I have hated Catherine Tate's comedy with a passion for some time, and was not overly enamoured of Donna in The Runaway Bride. I remember expressing the very loud opinion, a year ago, that she would ruin series four, and my god, what was RTD thinking? And then she turned out to be awesome, and won me over utterly. This is either a testament to Catherine Tate's mad skillz or an indication of my fickle nature, which will quickly grow to like anyone simply because they're there. (Case in point: I have found myself becoming a diehard Rose fan. It is developing into Rose/Ten 'shipping; please do not kill me, I cannot help myself.) Anyway: thanks for that, Mr Davies. I hope you're pleased with yourself.

Good luck to all AS/A2 people for tomorrow. I'll be thinking of you.** If the exam results are all good, I will have to accept that university is a very real reality, and one approaching fast. (It disturbs me to realise that the period of time I have been referring to for ages as "next year" - as in, "What are you planning to study next year?" - is now a matter of weeks away.)

I find it hard to comprehend the idea that I am officially old enough to be released into the wild and left to fend for myself. I feel deeply incompetent. This is not helped by the fact that I seem to be unable to grasp a number of things that will be very important next year (I mean IN OCTOBER). Finance, for instance. My dad had to explain his plan for my finances (as I have none of my own, for I am incompetent) by presenting it in diagram form, after I explained to him that I didn't understand what he was talking about. I don't know why this is. I can do maths - at least, I could last year - but my brain switches off when thinking about Important Financial Issues and starts yelling, "LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" at me. This may be, in part, due to the many finance talks I have sat through at school which go into great depth about how your life will be utterly ruined if you mess if up. I had one talk - I swear this is true - which included a story about a student who, through the mismanagement of debt, ended up in a Thai prison. A Thai prison, people. Is it any wonder my brain is shying away from all of this?

*which reminds me - I recently found out that the French title for The Girl in the Fireplace is La Cheminée des temps - The Time Chimney, or possibly The Chimney of Time. Either way, I find it very funny.

** Actually, this is a lie. There's nothing like receiving potentially life-changing information that encourages selfishness. I will be thinking of myself quite a lot, with probably some mindspace to spare for my siblings. That is all.

ETA - I am about to leave the house and pick the results up. Radio 4 just announced that not only are A level results out, they are the best ever. Charlotte Green, I think I love you.

Just a quick one ...

2008-07-20T21:29:01Z

If you haven't already (and only if you actually care about Joss Whedon and/or musicals, otherwise this may be pretty uninteresting), I want to urge anyone reading this to have a look at Doctor Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. It's a new three-part supervillain-themed musical made by Joss Whedon, and is brilliant; unfortunately, it's going offline in a few hours, so if you get the chance, give it a look.

Also, this is probably of even less interest to people, but my mum, seeing my excitement over it, insisted that I "put it in my blog". So: My mum can not only remember plot details from Doctor Who episodes shown two and a half years ago, but also quote from them. *cheers* It seems geekiness is genetic. I was so ridiculously proud when she did that! I acted like my brother does towards me when I make a music reference.

My brother, actually, is reasonably geeky himself; he just hides it. Case in point, watching Doctor Who a few weeks ago; he came in to mock and then ended up staying for the whole episode. The next week, not only did he come in, but we had this exchange:

TOTALLY FANBOY BROTHER: The Medusa Cascade? Is that the thing where you can see time and space and people are taken to look at it and go mad?
ME: No, that's the Untempered Schism. But good anyway!
LONG-SUFFERING SISTER: *eyeroll*

By the third week, he threw an angry hissy fit when discovering we hadn't called him downstairs and the episode was already fifteen minutes over. And yet he continues to mock me for fangirling. Hypocrite.

littlered2 @ 2008-07-17T11:43:00

2008-07-17T11:19:56Z

I went to see Mamma Mia last night, and as much as it shames me to admit it, I loved it. Crowds spontaneously breaking into perfectly choreographed dance routines! The shoehorning in of utterly unnecessary subplots just to include another ABBA song! James Bond bursting into song apropos of nothing! I may have sang along a little bit.

Planning for Europe is now almost done. Holidays, it turns out, involve a surprising amount of work. No wonder my parents get so insane whenever summer rolls around. We're all diligently getting on with it, though, helped along by travel guides. One of these in particular is hilarious. Written for Americans, it contains such gems as, "It is considered rude to go up to someone and start speaking in English, expecting them to understand you" and "If dealing with the police, do not shout, 'You can't treat me like this! I'm an AMERICAN!'". Nice work in erasing the stereotype of American tourists, guidebook!

As long as we can refrain from acting like any cultural stereotypes, it should be fun. I'm looking forward to tracking down sarahtales's exploding church in Prague. And spending time with my posse, who are awesome. After spending 17 years with no apparent social life, I had started to suspect that I was incapable of making friends, but no! Apparently my school just suffered from a dearth of similar people and I should have been looking a few miles down the motorway all along. :) I feel like I've been out more in the last week than I have in the last six months (getting up to such hijinks as the aforementioned cinema trip, and throwing caution to the winds and graffitiing apostrophe-less public signs with apostrophes. It needed to be done).

Of course, we will be going off to different places in a few months, for which I am kicking myself. Bad timing, Verity.

In other happy news, I have a laptop (a promised 18th birthday present from my parents, fulfilled at long last) to be my companion while at university. Her name is Donna; please don't mock my fangirlishness, I'm doing enough of that myself. But I couldn't call her anything else; Donna it is, and will be forever. I can take the mockery.

littlered2 @ 2008-07-04T21:46:00

2008-07-04T20:46:34Z

Since Monday, I have been in Barcelona - the city, not the planet. I got back this afternoon. It was meant to be a much-needed break: much-needed because I think all of us (my siblings and I) had had our brains a bit fried from the exams. While discussing how 'subtext' and 'buttsex' are anagrams, my sister sagely pointed out that it's only the case if you're spelling 'sex' with an x. There was a long pause while I tried to work out how best to point it out. (After intense essay-writing, my spelling usually goes out the window. I'm not sure why, but somehow that part of my brain start to switch off in all the panic due to trying to write faster than I can think. It's a worry.)

Unfortunately, Barcelona wasn't quite the break we had hoped. This may be because it was a family holiday - likely to be our last. Now, I love my family dearly, but holidays don't show us at our best. Somehow, instead of being a relaxing break. it turns into an ordeal. Holidays are always the times of the worst arguments; sometimes, after the holiday in question is safely consigned to the past, we reminisce. Like about the drive back from the South of France, a few years ago, when my parents got into a huge fight about which way to go on the motorway outside the Paris which culminated in a brief tussle in the front seat over the map while my siblings and I cowered in the back, sure we were about to meet our horrible fiery death. We can laugh about it now. This year had nothing on that scale, although the first night was a little strained; after spending an hour wandering the streets of Barcelona, looking for somewhere to eat, my dad burst into a furious rant about how it was always the worst part of the holiday. He has slight issues about needing to feel as if he's looking after his family, which means whenever anything goes wrong he takes it to heart and his mood takes a turn for the worse.

All of this does make my family and the holiday sound far worse than the reality. My family are lovely, most of the time, and I liked Barcelona. In particular, the Palau de la Música Catalana, which was gorgeous and had me gawping like an idiot throughout the entire time we were there. Last night, we met up with my friends Phoebe and Fiona, as well as Phoebe's parents, who were there for a wedding; it was great to see them, and we had a really good time. I also felt proud (far more proud than the occasion warranted) of the fact that I plucked up enough confidence to manage to order our drinks in Spanish. And, yes, we ended up being given drinks that were slightly different to what I'd asked for, but I sorted it out in the end, and still, I find it hard enough to speak to people in English. Let alone a language I don't speak; I kept wanting to lapse into French. Shamefully, I only know a handful of sentences in Spanish: "Hello, my name is Verity"; "I don't speak Spanish", and "Where is the Hellmouth?", none of which are particularly helpful. If I could pick a superpower, it would be automatic fluency of any and all languages; I always feel hideously ashamed to be unable to speak the local language when I'm abroad, especially when people there shame me further by speaking perfect English.

My parents are still away; they were in France for a week before we met up with them, and are in the process of driving home, so won't be back until tomorrow night. This sounds good in theory, but sadly means all household work cannot simply be left to parents and actually has to be done. This, combined with a lack of sleep and a delayed flight, led to my becoming somewhat hysterical this evening. My sister was out at her last ever cello lesson and my brother decided he needed to sleep because he was "ill", and I managed to fail spectacularly at my attempts at making the house habitable, tripping myself up several times and dropping a tray of chips all over the floor. Well done, Verity. I also am getting increasingly hysterical about the books i have to read for Oxford by the time my course starts; I need to read quite a sizeable list by the end of July in order to let them know whether I'll be taking Modern or Victorian Literature as a course. I am currently a third of the way through my first book and seriously doubting my ability to function there. In my darkest moments, I've found myself wondering whether the colleges might give an offer to one clearly incompetent student every year as a joke.

On a less stressful note, I am looking forward to tomorrow's Doctor Who finale. I enjoyed this series very much, to my surprise. I expected to hate Catherine Tate with a fiery passion, but she has won me over. Much like the programme itself. I spent the first few years not watching it, mocking my obsessed friends for their devotion. And then, last series, I accidentally began watching it and inadvertently fell for it, not realising until I was far too involved to get out. And after tomorrow, there won't be any new episodes (minus the Christmas Special) until 2010. Damn. I have a sneaking fear I might get into Torchwood during that time, which would be terrible indeed. I have spent far more time mocking it than I did Doctor Who originally - and it does seem absolutely ridiculous at times. I had one particularly memorable conversation with my sister:

ME: *looking at computer screen, fascinated* So, there's a pterodactyl that lives in the Torchwood base. I forget why. And in one of the first episodes, one of the characters is secretly hiding his girlfriend, who is half-dead, half converted into a Cyberwoman - in a bikini - in the basement. Anyway, she goes all homicidal and crazy, and the others find out, spray her with barbecue sauce, and leave her to the pterodactyl. They then wrestle.
RHIANNON: Sounds good. *pause* You did say you made this up, didn't you?
ME: Hm? Oh, no. That really happened. I think the pterodactyl is still around.
RHIANNON: ... Torchwood is ridiculous.

Which it is. But I have a horrible feeling that it will turn out to be just the kind of thing I like, and in a few months I'll find myself hotly defending all the ridiculous aspects and furiously shrieking that the plot makes perfect sense, actually, so shut up. *shudders* Perish the thought. But anyway, less than a day until Doctor Who finale! Yay. I think.

littlered2 @ 2008-06-26T11:35:00

2008-06-26T11:19:28Z

For the last week, my exams have been over. I have spent it not doing much of anything, which makes a lovely change to the weeks of revision and hysterical breakdowns. I feel like most of the exams went fairly well; except, that is, for English, without an A in which I cannot go to university this year. This fact has been the source of most of the hysterical breakdowns. Thankfully, protective mechanisms in my brain have kicked in, erasing all memory of the exam itself and replacing it with a blind assurance that Things Will Be Fine. This feels vaguely wrong, but is so much better than constantly going over and over the exams in my mind that I have accepted it wholeheartedly. Hooray for denial and retcon!

The day after my exams finished was my school's prom. I have to admit, I did not have high hopes for this. I debated bringing a book. I debated staying at home and watching the Buffy episode The Prom, which in all probability would be more fun. But then, thanks to the incompetence of the head students, my brother got asked to be DJ (as they hadn't quite got around to booking a proper one). This meant music I would actually enjoy. So, I went along (and so did my friend Sarah, one of the few people in the sixth form I genuinely like), and, as it happened, had a fantastic time. (Don't tell anyone. It will ruin my credibility as geeky loner-type.) I spent the evening throwing myself around the dancefloor, even when there were only two other people on it. Now, I cannot honestly say I dance well. I flail about as if I'm having a seizure, or as if someone invisible is poking me with cattle prods. And I pull weird, grimacing faces as I inadvertently sing along to whatever song is playing. This is why I only dance in the dark.

I could see my teachers eying me worriedly from across the room.

My English Teacher: The poor girl. Clearly, the exam stress has been too much for her.
Biology Teacher: Should we call the ambulance now?
Head of Year: No, there's nothing we can do for her at the moment. We can only hope she's one day able to live a normal life again.

I ended the night wheezing and limping. In a good mood, though - awards were given out, and I received "Most Likely to Win a Nobel Prize". Except it was spelt "Noble" on my certificate, which made my English teacher laugh her head off (and secretly pleased me, reminding me of a certain Doctor Who companion).

The next day, after three hours of sleep (thank you, insomnia. Really) and a shift at work, I had my friend Caitlin's 18th birthday party. This was fancy dress and musical-themed, which meant I had spent the two days since the exams had ended desperately rushing about trying to cobble together a costume. I ended up going as Mary Poppins, and felt ridiculous. (Pictures to follow, if I can manage it. I'm still finding my feet on LJ.) It was a fun night, even though I felt as if I was going to pass out and my feet were in agony. I really love my friends (all of whom attend my sister's college. I still worry that they just tolerate me for her sake, no matter how many times they deny this) - they're all so great, and I have the best time with them. Why on earth did I have to begin having a social life now? This was even the first party I've gone to. But in a few months, we're all scattering for university.

Since then, I have been doing very little. Reading, lying about, rejoicing in the fact that I no longer have to get my brother out of bed for exams or revision (it's a nightmare. Really. You have to drag him out by the hair, and steal his duvet, and he still goes back to bed the second you turn your back). And I can see my floor again! During the exam period, I lost it as my floor gradually turned into a kind of swamp. I had to cross it by leaping between tiny islands of carpet, which felt nicely athletic but wasn't the most convenient.

I also went to see the Sex and the City film with my friends a few days ago. It was great. We spent quite a bit of it laughing at things that I have a feeling weren't supposed to be funny (because the only way to enjoy Sex and the City properly is to laugh at all the utter absurdities and cheesiness). On the way there, while discussing our many fictional crushes with my friend Fiona, I found out a hilarious crush of my friend Phoebe's.

Fiona: We all have fictional crushes! Phoebe keeps talking about this guy in a book ... Twilight, I think it's called.
Me: *stopping dead* Do you mean Phoebe has a crush on Edward Cullen? Edward Cullen the sparkly vampire?

After quizzing Phoebe on this, and discovering that it was all too true, I very unkindly laughed hysterically for about five minutes. I have a desperate desire to read Twilight and see if it's as unintentionally hilarious as I've been told.

I should be getting a delivery of books any time now (thank you, Amazon), so I'll go and stare hopefully out the front door until they arrive. I wonder if that will make them arrive faster.

littlered2 @ 2008-05-17T20:30:00

2008-05-17T20:44:49Z

Just over a month to go, and my exams will be over. *sighs* In my head, any dates after the 19th of June are magical days, full of happy summery frolicking. The sun will shine, birds will sing, the rivers will run with chocolate and so on and so forth. Part of me knows that this is unlikely to be the case - it's rained for the last three days, for one thing. I had to cycle to work this morning, and by the time I arrived I was nearly blind because my glasses were covered in water - but I still look forward to it the way people look forward to the heaven of their choosing after death. These holidays are my version of eternal rest.

Not that they'll be that restful. I got a letter from the Oxford English Faculty yesterday, outlining the course structure and the many books I'll need to read before starting in October. Reading about the course is slightly terrifying (and when I say "slightly terrifying", I mean "oh my god, I will be unable to understand anything or write any essays and have to sit in the corner reserved for stupid people, and then leave in disgrace after I inadvertently talk about Harry Potter during a tutorial"). But when I ignore those feelings, I also realise that I'm really excited. The course looks so interesting - I have to take four papers in the first year, which are Introduction to Literary Studies, Victorian or Modern Literature, Old English or Middle English, and a choice from a list of options. For this last, I really want to take the option of language and linguistics - I think it would be really fascinating to study. In my interview, I was seized with a fit of madness and started talking about the development of new forms of English on the internet. I talked about Lolcats in great depth. As soon as I left, what I had done actually sank in and I decided i wasn't in with a chance. Thank you, Oxford; you have proved me wrong.

To actually get there, of course, I need to pass my exams. Which won't happen if I don't revise. For some reason time seems to be flying by incredibly quickly and there is not enough time to get all of the work done. I need a Time-Turner (last year, I took subjects which didn't actually fit into my timetable, and was irrationally annoyed that my teachers didn't get me one. If it can happen in Harry Potter, it can happen in life, I'm sure). My family are being understanding of my frequent fits of hysteria, which is kind of them. A few days ago exam stress coincided hideously with PMS and I found myself sobbing over the fact that, when trying to work out my measurements to see what size clothes to order on a website, I had measured in inches and the information was all given in centimetres. This is ridiculous. My teachers, too, are being good about it all. My long-suffering Chemistry teacher has manfully put up with my wailing that I cannot do any organic chemistry and every part is as terrible as the next, which lead to this exchange:

Long-suffering Chemistry teacher: You just need to keep that White Stripes song in mind.
Verity: *after long pause* "I Want to Be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart"? *

It turned out to be Little Acorns. I am to break up all of my problems into tiny pieces and they will become manageable, and I will make it through the cold hard winter of exams and into the spring of ... well, summer, I suppose. Although as I pointed out to him, squirrels don't have to take A Levels. Lucky beggars.

I do adore my teacher, though; he's so much fun to chat to. In our last lesson he brought in the Educational Summer Sale Catalogue to show us what is possibly the creepiest educational aid ever: Smokey Sue Smokes for Two. This is a doll's head stuck on top of a jar, inside which is a little plastic foetus. When a cigarette is placed in the doll's mouth, the water inside that represents the placenta gets visibly dirty. (Not that I can see exactly what the point of that is, as all tar remains in the mother's lungs and only stuff like carbon monoxide and nicotine reaches the foetus. Never mind.) My teacher is going to make his own, as the original Smokey Sue is £99, but with a plastic dinosaur in place of the foetus: toy foetuses aren't the easiest things to find.

It's weird to think that I only have five days left of school. After 14 years in it, it's going to be strange going on to something else. I'm ready to, though: I'm so sick of the other students in my sixth form. I've just never really been able to connect with any of them. I will miss my teachers, though. Does this make me sound insane? Or like the school nerd, at least (which, okay, I am). Not seeing them again will be hard, especially as they're probably all going to be moving on to different schools; my school is getting rid of its sixth form.

I do, thankfully, have friends outside my school; primarily my sister's sixth form college. Last weekend, for my friend Phoebe's birthday we all took a trip to one of the "Magnificent Seven" Victorian cemeteries in London (Nunhead, which is apparently the least well-known but the most beautiful) and spent the day picnicking in the sunshine. We found the grave of someone called Philander Duggett, which amuses me inordinately, and a good time was had by all; except for my compulsion to completely refraining from blinking when seeing a creepy angel statue. Thank you, Doctor Who, for giving me a new paranoia. (And, speaking of Doctor Who, did anybody else see and love tonight's episode? How was last week's so terrible when this one was so good?)

*Note: Part of this exchange may have taken place in my head. I am much wittier in my head than out loud, generally.