fuzzyedges

Exam times = very little joy, but I've been brightening my days with some 80s wonder:









Hahahahahaha my mum had this (on vinyl, obviously) when I was little and I loved it. Please turn this up and picture me aged four, with my amazing home-cut fringe and my favourite red dungarees screaming "She is cruel and heartless, to pack me for Gordon...Gordon is a moron, Gordon is a moron!" I was also a big fan of Elvis Costello's Alison and would sing "I think somebody better put on the big light" when entering a room. I know, I was delightful.

Oi, Keira Knightley, are you making it the specific purpose of your career to ruin every book I have ever loved? Hmm?
On the plus side, yes please to the rest of the cast. I am giving you a chance, Andrew Garfield, even though you look nothing like Tommy. Partly because I liked you in that Doctor Who episode and Sugar Rush, and a bit because sometimes my image of characters from books is formed a lot by more my imagination than actual description in the book. And also because you can't be worse than Knightley.

In this week's news: I picked my options for next year, and they basically involve as little law as is possible in the final year of a law degree. JOY. I went to Cuba, it was beautiful and amazing and fascinating and in some ways a little sad but really interesting. Then I came back to London in a sulk, because Havana was so colourful and friendly (and poor, and with problems, obviously, but that's another post) and London felt so grey and miserable. But, like all true loves, everytime I think I am bored or tired of the place it throws up something new to surprise and delight me - this week there has been dancing to a swing band in a kebab shop,  playing balderdash in the kind of pub where everyone knows all the words to Heart of Gold and Thunder Road, and snogging at bus stops like a 15 year old. Oh, and completely ignoring the concept of revision.

'Under no circumstances should one pay attention to those who tell one: 'Don't crticise, since you're not capable of carrying out a reform.' That's ministerial cabinet talk. Critique doesn't have to be the premise of a deduction which concludes: this then is what needs to be done. It should be an instrument for those who fight, those who resist and refuse what is. Its use should be in processes of conflict and confrontation, essays in refusal. It doesn't have to lay down the law for the law...It is a challenge directed to what is'

Michel Foucault, 'Questions of Method'

My dissertation is due on Wednesday and all it says is "he was wrong, and she was wrong, and they were really wrong..."

...Happy International Women's Day!

I suggest you celebrate it by reading what my amazing cousin has to say on women in politics (she's Miss Alcroft, whose first comment on seeing herself quoted in a national newspaper was irritation that they hadn't called her Ms.)

Simple pleasures #1: watching the Masterchef final whilst eating your own lovingly prepared dinner of beans on toast.

The BBC is ON IT at the moment :
season two of Mad Men and Damages, amazing american imports that presumably channels four and five would have killed for

Party Animals, presumably being repeated because Matt Smith is just a bit more high profile now...  I missed it the first time around, I think it must have been whilst I was in Australia, I am loving it. Shelley Conn is the hottest tory ever.

Being Human. Initially I wasn't sure about the recastings but its getting better and better - I can't believe there's only one episode left. My sister objected to its description as a "comedy-drama", and it is pretty dark and sometimes upsetting, but in the last episode a character described the vampire community's plans for "recruitment and revolution" as very New Labour. Don't tell me that isn't funny. (Also massively enjoying jeeshee 's reviews of Being Human here)

In short, iplayer is ruining my degree and people need to stop bitching about the licence fee.

Things I have done during reading week:

- Agreed to go to the Rio's Sunday double without even asking what was showing, because it always involves breakfast beforehand, vegan chocolate cake inbetween the films, and drinks afterwards. It turned out to be two 60s Pinter films: three hours of slow burning tension, covetable clothes and Dirk Bogarde's lovely face. Afterwards we went to the world's friendliest bar, and eventually had to move from our battered sofa so a jazz duo could set up. I'm not a jazz fan, but this made me think maybe I just need to learn more about it - just a saxophonist and a drummer, mostly improv, but it was so captivating. Halfway through I went to buy another drink and their card machine was broken, so the barman gave me a round "on account" and told me to pay when I had some cash. This was so unlike all my experiences of London that I thought I must have misunderstood him. Later I went back with cash and he gave me a free coffee and some cake "for my honesty". Must go east more.

- Watched the whole first season of Mad Men (I'm not the only person who gets halfway through a box set without noticing, right?). It is so stunning! Beautifully written, complex, stunning costumes. I've vowed I would watch season two on iplayer, one episode a week, but I'm not sure how strong my resolve is.

- Finally saw Revolutionary Road. I was apprehensive about the film because I loved the book so much. It's visually stunning - the bit at the end when K.Win stands in front of the window (I'm trying to be non-spoilery), with all the clean whites and creams and then the shock of red? Wow - but ultimately its failings made me realise why the book is such a masterpiece. The book is about the way that everyday things build up and up until they drown you, and it shows those thousands of boring things without being boring. A film doesn't have the time to show you those day-after-day repetitions - or if it could have time, this one didn't make it - so actually a lot of their sadness and the way they treat each other didn't make much sense to me. But it made me love the book even more than I did, and K.Win's face was worth the ticket price. Even when they were trying to make her look exhausted and miserable her genetic structure was saying fuck you, I'm gorgeous. 

- Spent all day in bed with a boy I might write some more about soon. He cycles everywhere, grows herbs (no, for cooking) and doesn't have facebook. He might be perfect.

- Finally got a new passport! That isn't really exclamation mark worthy - they're not that difficult to obtain - but I'd been dragging my feet, refusing to admit that I'd actually lost my old one (I had).  Presence of new passport meant I could finally book to go to Cuba at easter - I think that actually is exclamation mark worthy - !

- Decided to open an underground restaurant. Yes, this might just be a ploy to get Zoe Williams to be my friend. Would it be weird to email someone you don't know offering to babysit the child they write about in a weekly column in a national newspaper? I'd do it for free.

Things I have not done during week:

- Much reading.

A good week for 50s/60s clothing (all this period drama has started to affect how I dress, plus I am yearning for Joan Holloway hair, can you get that colour through dye? I'm thinking not really), a very bad one for my vague ambition of actually getting a degree some day.

Places I would rather be than London in the rain...
( sunny day porn )

In short, I'd rather not be here.

Mes amis,

Having made a grand total of 12 entries in the last 24 months, I've decided to start writing in here again. I'll spare you my pretentious reasons why, because I am kind and good. Welcome back! Those of you who are still writing, it has been a pleasure keeping up with your lives over the past couple of years. I bloody love the internet.

Step one in my rehabilitation: what are your essential check-every-day bookmarks?
I start by picking around The Guardian (to counter the free paper dross I'll inevitably accept on the tube) and usually check The New York Times - I think I developed this habit during the presidental preliminaries and kept it up.
Other hangovers from the election: Open Left and the hilarious Wonkette, which lead me to Gawker media in general and in particular to Jezebel, a potentially unhealthy addicition (as much as it can be interesting, informative and delightfully bitchy, its also infuriating and engineers a weird  but unfightable obsession with celebrities). I can't be doing with Perez etc, but I the girls at Go Fug Yourself are funny funny, not bitchy and underminey funny, (and are currently liveblogging the Golden Globes, which I may or may not be watching live on E! Entertainment. Like I said, weird but unfightable).
I also love Krisatomic's beautiful photographs and quirky drawings, Kate Beaton's adorable historical comic strips and the general feel of Gala Darling. She's slightly mental but her daily outfits are inspiring. I also read David Osbourne's legal blog so I can pretend to myself that I'm working, and The Times' blog of a pupil barrister to reassure myself - if this idiot can become a barrister, I can definitely make it.

THAT'S RIGHT, there have been a few life changes. Next time, amigos, next time. Your blog recommendations, svp.

The east coast of Australia is just beaches and beer. Which is fun for a couple of weeks and then kind of dull, but t'was lovely to get some sun and I have a camera full of delightful sunset pictures/bartime pictures. Awesome to be back in Sydney, even if it is absolutely bloody freezing after the lush tropicalness of Cairns. Getting into Sydney felt worryingly like coming home and...oh, I don't know. If I wanted to stay here I have two jobs that just sitting waiting - both well paid jobs that would take me a couple of years (and a degree) to get at home. And it's such a beautiful city. And I've met such amazing people. But...but it's so far away from everything, and living in London next year would be cool, and lots of other reasons that I can't just up and move to Australia. 

I've decided I'll go to New Zealand, as originally planned, and ski a bit and work a crappy job and see where my head's at by August. (So, yes, I've basically decided not to make any decisions yet).

Since I'm a whole six days from starting my second year of English at Oxford, shouldn't I be capable of writing more than 176 in an hour? A whole hour. 176 words. 16 of which were the bloody title. Surely this should be getting easier? 

Oh well. I have some vox invites, if anyone's looking for yet another procrastination tool/way to communicate with the world. Comment. It's like livejournal plus youtube plus myspace. A bit. Comment if you'd like one. Especially if you can offer 2000 words on The Canterbury Tales in exchange.

Dear all the people who are confused as to how the Pope can be infallible since he just made a mistake then apologised for it, 

He's only infallible when he sits in the special chair. Duh. 

Love, 

reluctant Catholic*

*The thing about being a Catholic is, you're always a Catholic. You can convert to Islam or insist you don't believe in God or pretend to be gay just to shake them off, but it won't happen, they'll still send you rosary beads and insist you got through your exams because they prayed for you, and no matter how hard you try you won't be able to shake off the inexplicable love of really awful religious tack (eg: glittery statues of Mary that change colour according to the temperature; plastic 3D neon versions of The Last Supper; holographic stickers which switch from the Nativity to the Cruxifiction - all these I own) or the guilt over pretty much everything, especially if it's fun. But mostly the tack.

How is a girl ever supposed to get her Chaucer essay written when BBC4 insist on showing repeats of Pride and Prejudice? Most unfair of them. 

"If I had ever learnt, I should be a true proficient!" Me too, Lady Catherine, me too. My attitude to pretty much everything.

Next term I will definitely absolutely start writing proper letters. 

Ooooooh Darcy's just come to tell her he loves her. I wonder if I could persuade the boy to start wearing breaches. And carrying a cane. 
It seems unlikely. 

Awww, he ardently admires and loves her! Yay. 

Right. Chaucer Time.

Interesting sleeping patterns, once again.

The boy is going to go to London to corporate whore for some people who are apparently quite famous if you know about that sort of thing (I make it a point not to). They have a flashy website which says delightful things like "We see the essence of our work as a virtuous circle of insight, impact, and trust", and has inspiring (but presumably irrelevant) background pictures of people climbing mountains or canoeing through ice. 

But what exactly do consults do? I want to know. 

Go into businesses and...improve them, replies the boy, which I find somewhat unsatisfactory. 

"The boy in the white shirt does up his tie and says have you seen my black shoes to the girl. 
No she says, and she turns and says your tie's not straight.
The eyebrow boy turns round and says where are you going dressed up like that and the smart boy says new job, telephone helpline at a mortgage company.
The boy with the pierced eyebrow slaps the palm of one hand with the back of the other and makes a loud noise in the back of his throat. He says, for fucksake, didn't our parents used to make stuff for a living?"
from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor - it's really a beautiful, extraordinary book.

No results yet, English faculty clearly being total slackers. I know I go on about hating the place but now I'm home I miss it - I really hope I've passed. 

The boy got punched yesterday and has half a front tooth. It's hilarious, trust me. 

I've really fallen for him...this isn't like anything I've been in before...and it fucking terrifies me. The worst/best thing is every time I get completely freaked out and try to get rid of him he knows what I'm doing and he calms me down and makes things okay. This is serious. Shit.

It has recently occured to me that I was a spoilt child. Not spoilt with toys or sweets or too much television, but with argument and encouragement. My dad, ever the lawyer, had a policy of negotiation. If I wanted something I had to argue for it. If you were convincing, you could have it. Clothes and toys and holidays - nothing was ever an outright no, it was always a why? I didn't grow up thinking I could have whatever I wanted, mindlessly, but I have always believed I should get whatever I can argue for. 

But sometimes in the real world I have wonderful arguments for something, and they are ignored, and I don't get my own way. There's no logic behind it, no superior reasoning which trumps my own. I just don't get what I want. And it appalls me. And it have only just occured to me that I was a spoilt child.