Friday, December 04, 2009

Stop Gap

Instead of writing a blog today I'm going to fill in a rather short quiz, but which has rather in depth questions. Skip it if you're not interested, I promise I'll do a real one next time.

1. My username is usually _____ because ____

BeckyDouglas, because that's my name. Sometimes it's Unazukin, which is a kind of Japanese decision making doll. This is not because I am a Japanese decision making doll, but because I quite like silly words, and that is one.

2. My name is _____ because ______.

My first name's are Rebecca and Claire because my Dad chose them, apparently on the spur of the moment when my mum passed out after giving birth (she naturally is a very motherly figure, she's good at stuff like this).

If I'd been a boy it would have been Robin, apparently my parents didn't know that there was a feminine version of Robin. If my mother had been conscious it would probably have been Gwendolen or Cecily or something equally ridiculous, so I guess I'm technically quite lucky, though Gwen has grown on my lately.

My last name is Douglas, and that really isn't my fault. Apparently (and unsurprisingly, I guess) I have Scottish ancestry, and my Grandad did trace us back to the Black Douglas, though I haven't seen the full family tree myself. I am neither proud nor ashamed of this, it is just something that happened. Being proud of your family history seems silly, you haven't been involved in it yet.

I do however quite like that a very old nursery rhyme features our family, and goes

Hush ye, hush ye
Little bairn ye
The black Douglas shall not get ye.

kind of cool 'til you find out that "Douglas" is derived from the words for "black water." So that last line is "The black black water shall not get ye."

Scots are weird.

3. If my life were a book, it would be titled ____ because ____.

I don't know, I gave "Ruining it For Everybody" to Harry as an album title for an album he'll probably never make, so I can't use that. It has recently been pointed out that "Coming Up For Air" was taken some time ago by George Orwell, which is a massive shame, everyone who ever wanted to write anything should be bitter about that. Except Orwell, I guess, but he was already bitter about a lot of things.

Maybe something like, "A Book of Lies", since if I ever wrote an autobiography, that is what it would end up being. I really don't know, I'll have a think about this one.

4. If the book was about my friends, it would be called ____ because ____.

"Minions and Maniacs." Not an entirely representative title, but somewhat amusing. Most of my friends are at least somewhat odd at any rate.

5. My profile picture is ____ because ____.

A cartoonish version of me. I look a bit like that, I didn't want to use a real photo on my blog, it just seemed a bit of an odd idea that I would do so. I toyed with the possibility of not having a picture, or having one that was unrelated, but in the end I settled on the one I have now.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Excuse me? Hello?
Right, now that I have your attention, I have an announcement to make:

Glasgow: You are flooding.
Apparently you have not noticed.

That or the Scots just don't really mind. They're so used to having lots of water fall out of the sky, that it isn't a problem that it doesn't drain away once it's on the ground.

I noticed though. I spotted that any gradient worth mentioning has a sizable stream running down it. I realised that most puddles are deeper than they appear and that it's very uncomfortable to step in them when this is the case. (You tend to forget where the potholes are when they're full of water).

I have seen the giant lakes forming at the bottom of hills. I have seen large vehicles hurtling towards them at break-neck speeds anyway. I have seen giant sheets of murky water narrowly miss me when I'm wearing pale outfits. I have shrieked.

I mentioned this to a Scot the other day. He said, "Oh yeah, we know. We just don't really make a fuss about it. This isn't England."

Um, what? Your roads are a foot under water at certain points. Most of your cars just will not cope with that. It is now appropriate to make a fuss.

My feet are wet! Get better drainage!

Monday, November 23, 2009

Brandy Alexander

This past weekend I have been very productive. At least, I have produced many things. Some things. I made pains au chocolat and I began making Christmas puddings. I wish I'd started a couple of weeks ago, but I didn't have the perfect recipe. Fortunately there's two puddings, we'll have a young one this year and a mature one next year. It will be perfect.

One of the things you need for Christmas pudding is brandy. I don't drink brandy, not really. I don't even have brandy glasses. So I have no experience in choosing it - I selected the cheapest Waitrose had to offer and went home to be productive.

Archie tried the brandy and told me it was better than the last cheap bottle he'd bought, but not actually good. Archie likes to think of himself as someone who "appreciates dark spirits." He even drinks whisky. No one knows why. Either way, I am inclined to trust his assessment, I have no reason not to.

Later, after mixing a large measure with dried fruit etc, I decided to try a small measure myself. In a wine glass (this must change). I do not like brandy. That, or I only like really good brandy, and I haven't tried it yet.

It was only today that I remember how much I like Brandy Alexanders. It's one of the only creamy cocktails I'll drink. Booze with milk or cream is weird, milkshakes are excellent without being adulterated like that. It's unnatural. For Brandy Alexanders, though, I will make an exception.

So, now I need one. I don't have any creme de cacao so I'll either have to buy some or go to a cocktail bar. It's probably best that I do the former. Being in cocktail bars with the wrong crowd can make me inpatient. It's hard to lean back in my seat and maintain an air of complete relaxation when your companions have been nursing the same drink for an hour and a half.

I don't want to have to stab someone to death with my heels and drink their blood while demanding a mojito with no sugar* from the terrified bar staff. It always takes forever to get the blood out of the silk. Maybe if I wear a red pair? Worth considering.

Unfortunately, I have financially crippled myself by deciding to go on a weekend trip to Budapest (this weekend! Eeeep!) As such I can't really afford to be buying liqueurs. Much less showing up in court for murdering people in cocktail bars.

Now, they say that necessity is the mother of invention and they are right. I have made a discovery. Would you like to know what it is?

Brandy with cream and no creme de cacao is dreadful. I shall give it a name. I shall call it "Necessity." I truly hope it will never live up to it.

*Mojitos are better when people don't feel the need to sweeten them. Fact. I don't care that it's not the generally accepted way to do it, it's still better. Hell, I'd rather you just gave me rum, lime juice and mint, skip the sugar and skip the soda too.

Sunday, November 22, 2009


After mild humiliation yesterday, I changed my clothes and decided I'd better brave the rain and walk to the market. We try to buy meat from the butcher there every week, because it's very cheap and means we don't have to buy rubbish, expensive meat from the supermarket. It's about two and a bit miles from the flat.

If I was going to brave the rain, I didn't want to get wet feet. I own many pairs of mind-numbingly beautiful shoes, but not one is waterproof. I own two pairs of boots that are mostly waterproof. One needs re-heeling, so I couldn't wear those.

The other pair is ever so slightly ridiculous. Also brilliant. They are viking boots, existed long before Uggs were cool and are basically here to stomp all over them. If my boots were a man, they'd be Chuck Norris, only beautiful. If Uggs were men, they'd sing for My Chemical Romance.

They are heeled (though not stilletto) black leather with fur which folds over the top of leather between my ankle and just below the knee. The fur is held in place with buckles. This never quite works because vikings have chunkier calves than me, but this does not ruin the look.

Until yesterday, I had not worn them for two years.

My outfit was carefully selected to keep me warm and dry without making me look like a mountaineer or a farmer's wife and I was ready to go. I'd made it about a mile before my toes started hurting. Secretly, I had always known this would happen.

The boots don't rub, they're not even terribly high, but if you walk in heels of even a slightly different height to those which you are used to, your feet will complain. Anyone enthusiastic about shoes knows this is worth working through. When you get home, you take them off, give yourself a quick footrub and pad around in flats for the rest of the day. You don't wear the heels for a week, and when you do, it hurts less.

Sometimes you need to repeat this a few times, but eventually, you will win. The prize for conquering the heels is being able to wear them pain free whenever you want. If you really love them, you'll do it.

Unfortunately, I had another mile to walk, and two miles to walk back when I got to the market. By the time I got there my usual swift stride had dropped to the pace of someone slowly and casually browsing shop windows. I could not persuade my legs to move me any faster.

I made my purchases, and set off home. Slowly. In the end I gave in and got the subway. A random guy complimented me on my footwear and I even managed a smile. It was still worth it.

Finally I got back, removed the boots. Stood up and immediately collapsed. My own dumb fault. Got back up, hobbled carefully to the bathroom and bathed my feet in cool water. I assessed for blisters, a few very small ones, nothing to worry about. I put on a big pair of fluffy socks and my old comfy trainers.

This enabled me to walk again. Very slowly. I had been reduced to old lady speeds. Very annoying when you want to get things done. Only my feet were unable to move quickly - meaning it would take me a full minute to get from the kitchen to my bedroom, but only a few seconds to complete a task there. Rubbish.

I remembered there was a cane in the umbrella stand. Less rubbish.

My feet are better this morning, still sore, but I can walk like someone who isn't in their 80's now. I have, however, discovered that I will make and extremely efficient and vicious old person. I suspect I'll need a little practice, though. Who wants to come stand in the queue at the post office?

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Good Morning

It matters to me that I make a good first impression. When meeting someone for the first time I replace the foul language I learned in Glasgow (read: high school) for phrases like "gosh" or "crikey.*" I only put them down if they set themselves up for it. I try to remember their name, though I stop if they forget mine, and this only lasts as long as the encounter. For the time being at least, I want them to think that I consider them important.

The fact that when I first met my flatmate Gav, I was stealing glasses from a bar is by the by. I impressed him with my brilliant wit instead. The fact that I was doing the same thing when I first met my flatmate Archie is also by the by. He was way more drunk than me, and neither of us knew we'd be sharing a flat one day.

So I may be slightly immoral. Perhaps I got out and get wasted occasionally. Sometimes I fall on my face because I'm wearing ridiculous (incredibly cute) shoes in Glasgow when it's snowing. But, I'm a basically good person, and, at least before they get the opportunity to know me better, I want a new acquaintance to believe that. I care about first impressions, I'm just not very good at them.

I'm also not very good at breakfast. Or rather, I'm not very good at organising it. I eat cereal with yoghurt, or toast with butter. If I have neither, it's going to be a bad day for someone out there who has already passed the "good first impression" stage, and who's opinion I no longer care about. Unless it's the weekend. In which case I can spend time making a delicious and more interesting breakfast.

Such a thing happened today. I decided to make a French omelet. Not complex, but very tasty, light and fluffy, designed specifically to melt in your mouth and make you want to spend the rest of the day lounging around and drinking good wine. They don't seem to have any negative effects on me. I began, and had got to the stage where I should fold the omelet, when the buzzer rang.

Postman? I have a lifelong grudge with postmen everywhere, but we won't go into that. I casually and perfectly flipped the omelet into the folded shape I wanted, moved it off the heat and let whoever it was in. Switched on the lights in the hall, and opened the door.

The guy came up the stairs. "Hi... Is uh... Jamie about?"
The need to make a good impression kicked straight in.
"I'm sorry, Jamie? He doesn't live here, think you've got the wrong flat."

He apologised and left, I couldn't help but notice he was stifling a giggle as he did so. Weird. Went back to my perfect omelet. Sat down to eat. There's a mirror on the wall by the table, so it was then that I noticed the huge, white, eggy stain on my top.

"Omelet splash" is literally the worst euphemism I have ever thought of. Somehow I think the opportunity to make a good impression on Jamie's mate has been lost forever. On the other hand, I do have a hilarious new euphemism, so maybe it's not been a truly dreadful morning.

Perhaps though, I should stop claiming that I'm basically a good person.

*Actually, I'm just generally loving any opportunity to say "crikey" at the moment. Also "gosh," "goodness," "cripes," "blimey" etc. Haven't quite managed to pull off "golly" just yet, but I'm working on it.

Friday, November 20, 2009


Luck does not actually exist. However, unlike many things that don't exist it can be bought, sold, traded or earned*. You might feel that you deserve some good luck, or that you don't deserve some bad luck. It also seems to come in bursts - hence having a lucky streak or, alternatively, "one of those days."

Earlier this week I had a lucky day. Not the kind of luck I wanted, nor the kind I felt I deserved.

I got up and discovered someone else was already in the shower. This meant I'd have to rush my morning routine, and probably be late. During the day I lost my ring, my glasses and the stylus for my phone. In spite of this, the day wasn't actually that bad - I was even in quite a good mood, until someone I don't like decided to talk to me.

I won't tell you who it was, but anyone who knows me through physics at uni will probably suspect. Yes, that one. Incidentally, if you know me through physics at uni and you don't have a clue who I'm talking about, it's probably you. Get off my blog, you cretin.

Even this didn't entirely ruin my mood though, I was angry for a couple of hours (perfectly natural after speaking to this individual) but not lashing-out angry. Just general background simmering anger, of the kind that causes people to go completely postal every once in a while. Don't worry though, I manage my anger by buying copious amounts of shoes, and thus hardly ever go postal.

On Thursday, Harry had a much worse day than I had. He accidentally left without his keys. He lost £5, which he discovered when he wanted to buy lunch. He went to the cash point to get more money, and had his card eaten because it had expired (he should have known, because they sent him a new card and a letter telling him this would happen). He lost an ear-piece from his headphones. He lost his student card. He lost his laptop power cable. He got rained on.

He tried to call one of us to see if there was anyone around to let him into the flat, and discovered there was no money on his phone. He would have topped it up, but his card had been eaten. He could have gone to the library or med-school instead, but that would have required using his student card. He couldn't even find a cafe with wifi and email us, because his laptop was dead.

Fortunately, someone was at the flat to let him in - but it seems that was the only good piece of luck he had that day.

Naturally I found it hilarious. But, I have spare headphone earpieces. I went to find them, to see if they would fit his headphones, and found a spare stylus. Earlier I had discovered my glasses in a drawer I hadn't previously looked in.

My ring showed up in the pocket of my other jeans. Why it hadn't been there the first time I looked is beyond me. Either the mice are getting smart, and also developing a complex set of ethics, or I'm a moron. I prefer the former explanation.

So, now I'm expecting to see my other two flatmates have days that are even worse than Harry's was, approximately on Saturday and on Tuesday. They can decide between themselves who goes first, but the smartest will choose Saturday. I also expect Harry's luck to be canceled on Saturday, and everything that was lost should be found.

At least I would, if luck existed at all.

*Interestingly, merchandise based on things which don't exist is almost always bought, sold, etc, but you just try selling the actual Loch Ness Monster, and you'll see what I mean. If you succeed, contact me, I have a business proposal for someone like you.

Monday, November 02, 2009

Why I Usually...

...Wear jeans and a t-shirt. Approximately. You'll let me off for including almost any jeans and top combo here, I hope. Not sure how you'll stop me.

This morning I got up, decided I didn't want to wear jeans, and selected a day-time dress from my wardrobe. It's stripey and purple and made of wool. It's quite pretty.

I put it on with a pair of tights, since it's Glasgow and Glasgow is cold. I looked in the mirror and swapped the tights for thicker, darker tights. I looked again and decided I needed a black vest top under the dress as well.

Having added the vest I looked again. Now, I'm not showing leg or cleavage. You can see my forearms, hands, neck and face. This cannot be slutty, right? I decided it wasn't and went to make breakfast.

Post breakfast I looked one more time in the mirror. Realised the dress was very clingy. Thick tights and extra top didn't help that. Felt like a whore - changed into jeans and t-shirt.

What can I say? Maybe I should give in and buy some more jeans. I blame the parents, frankly.

Friday, October 30, 2009


Yeah, yeah, I'm not very good at updating regularly these days. I'm over it, I'm supposed to be getting a degree, remember?

Anyway, I mentioned that I might write about the other thing I discovered at some point (the first being that knowing you're angry for a bad reason only makes you angrier). So I shall.

I mentioned that my foul mood had been broken "largely due to home-made soup and a new book arriving." This was true. Interestingly, the soup made me happier than the book - I love books of all kinds, and I wasn't even that hungry.

The reason seems to be that it was home-made. Tinned, powdered and condensed soups are probably the work of the devil. Very few things in life are worse than thick, herby, hot ketchup masquerading as tomato soup - making it from scratch avoids this ever occurring.

The same is true of many foods, they taste better if you make them from scratch (assuming you know roughly what you're doing, or you carefully follow a recipe). From soup to lasagna to cheesecake, buying pre-made means buying inferior. Often it also means more expensive and less nutritious.

It's not even limited to food. When I told people I was moving into a hell-hole that needed lots of TLC, bleach and DIY, most of them immediately offered to help with the final acronym (some immediately commented on my overuse of acronyms instead, but I'm not friends with those people anymore). Based on this I'd like to state a postulate.

I suggest that doing things for yourself makes you happier than having someone else do them for you. Especially if a challenge needed to be overcome in order to complete the task, or if there is an obvious reward.

For example, to go back to food, it has long been known that baking has a massive therapeutic effect. It's not the same as cooking (though obviously I'm personally enthusiastic about that too). You don't need to do it, so it isn't a chore to do so - it's an opportunity to use some creativity - and when you're done the reward is cake/brownies/cookies/whatever.

DIY follows a similar pattern. You put in some work to improve something, and then you enjoy the benefits. Perhaps my OCD is all that makes me think that cleaning is the same, and I agree that it is much more obviously a chore, but that's just a mindset, there's no need to suggest it's the right one. Gardening works too - especially if you're growing something you can use (herbs and vegetables are more satisfying to grow than flowers, which are in turn better than shrubs).

Perhaps this is coming back to my standard rant about not liking TV very much. I think more than that it's about hating wasting my time, or being bored. I'm happier when I'm doing something productive, or more generally, when I've completed something worthwhile.

If I ever get depression it'll be because I spend too much time on facebook. The cure is to remove my internet access and give me a cookbook.

Monday, October 19, 2009


*Looks around sheepishly*

Um, hello?
Oh, er, nearly three weeks you say? Well... um... doesn't time fly when you're... um.
Anyway, back now, that's the important thing, right? Friends again?

Today I discovered two things. I'll tell you about the first one, maybe you'll get the second one later. I know how you all value my wisdom.

1. Being rational and logical about emotions doesn't make them go away.

For example, I wanted a mug of tea this morning. Not a huge ask, it's something I want every morning. I boiled the kettle, poured water over the bag in the mug. I went to the fridge. No milk. Disaster.

I remembered that because I am a ridiculous person (but in the very best way) I occasionally bow to the wills of my flat mates, as well as to my own cravings, and make pains au chocolat. One of the ingredients for which, is 3 tablespoons of powdered milk.* I rummaged in the cupboards until I found a tub of Marvel.

Marvel is a misnomer. It isn't one. Not at all - in fact, it's about as far from being marvelous as powdered milk can get. Trust me when I tell you that the competition for that superlative is strong.

The side of the tub indicated that if you wanted it for tea or coffee you should simple sprinkle a couple of teaspoons of the powder into your drink and stir well. I did so. My beverage turned grey for a few seconds. By the time I'd carried it back to my room it was dark brown again, since the powder had sunk. I stirred it with a pen, and drank quickly.

Foul beyond belief. Easily the worst cup of tea I've had in a long time.

All of this nonsense should have been hilarious to me. Or, at worst, a little disheartening. Instead, I was furious! Nothing could have filled me with more rage. I stomped to uni ready to scowl at people, angrily. Hoping that someone would say something incredibly stupid so that I could vent my anger at them (taking it out on the tea-cup seemed irrational even in my fit of rage. Tea cups are important).

Fortunately by the time I got to uni I'd calmed down a bit, although not much. I knew my anger was irrational. I knew how I ought to feel about the tea (i.e. it was silly to even remember at this point) but I was still severely peeved.

Interestingly - and this is what I learned today - knowing that you're angry for a stupid reason doesn't cheer you up much. Quite the opposite.

I am now completely back to my unbearably cheerful self. Largely due to home-made soup and a new book arriving. I must wonder if I have a hormone imbalance. Can't help thinking that chocolate ice-cream would never make me angry, no matter how illogical I was feeling that day. Perhaps it really can solve all the world's problems.

*Requests for the full recipe to the usual address.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Something Awesome

Something wonderful just happened.

I was leaving the Kelvin Building. Imagine, if you will, a corridor with a set of double doors in the middle. I am approaching the doors from one side, four guys approach from the other, the doors are open.

The boys are traveling faster than I, and are closer to the doors to begin with. When they reach the doors however, they stop. Two guys stand at each side, next to each other, and wait for me to pass. One says "hello," I recognise him and return the greeting, then continue on my way.

They pass through the doors. I overhear one of them say "wait... why did we just do that?"

This, my friends, is power. Expect me to grin manically for a little while - I'm plotting how to use it.

Sunday, September 27, 2009


Warning: Mini-rant.

It's a fifteen minute walk from my flat to the physics building at uni. Last time I did it, I noticed something, so I started counting.

It's still only September. It is not OK for me to have been able to count 35 pairs of Ugg boots* teamed with skinny jeans. That's completely out of proportion with the way things should be. Because I was there, I also feel completely justified in saying that everyone wearing this combination was a student. Once upon a time being a "student" implied not only that you had some intelligence, but also some taste. Guess that's not the case any more.

Y'know, I don't even hate Ugg boots. I used to, but now I understand; they're actually exactly the kind of fashion I wanted to start happening. They're not screaming "penetrate me now" as a person slightly more vulgar than I pointed out (doesn't count as being vulgar if you're quoting), but they're also not completely hideous. They actually score neutral on the aesthetics front.

This matters little by itself. Clogs score neutral for goodness sake, but that doesn't make people pay over £100 a pair for them, nor does it make them wear them incessantly, nor does it make them fashionable. What works for Uggs has to be teamed with the neutral appearance: They are incredibly comfortable. Incidentally, Crocs failed for a different reason - apparently quite comfortable, but completely foul to look at.

This is actually from having worn fake Uggs. Any student who pays for full price Uggs whilst on a normal student budget should not have got onto their course on account of being an idiot.

Back to the thirty-five pairs I saw. It's not acceptable, I won't accept it. So I'll give a guideline for anyone who's too stupid to be sure of what to do. This is, after all, a slightly contradictory rant if you're IQ dropped a few points after that terrible accident. Or if you're a twat.

I won't be a bitch to you (about your Ugg boot - skinny jean combo) if you don't wear them until October 20th. Yes, even if you're living in Glasgow - this isn't the god damned North Pole. Get over it. Wear a scarf or something.

If you fail to do this I will not give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you don't have any other shoes. I will instead assume that you are a waste of human flesh that could be put to better use in a Matrix-style pod, providing renewable power for the rest of us.

When I get my degree, I'm totally going to develop those pods.

*This includes a pair of male Uggs, or Muggs as I shall be wittily calling them from now on. Not sure how I feel about Muggs, but it's definitely not a good feeling.

Friday, September 18, 2009


Some things that are true;

1. I have a friend who occasionally talks in his sleep. When he does so, he speaks German. He has never had a German lesson in his life, and I am told that the reason he does this is that he's seen faaaar too many war movies. When asked, he cannot translate what he has said (or often shouted).

2. For GCSE English lit, we studied some poetry. In one piece the poet - who's name I forget - describes being worried that she has lost touch with her mother tongue, and therefor a part of her culture. She becomes happy and relieved when she dreams in Gujarati again. I remember it being mentioned that one cannot consider themselves fluent in a language until they dream in it.

3. I watched Goodbye Lenin last night. It was in German but had English subtitles (thank goodness).

4. I can speak a very small amount of German. I used to be better, but never fluent, just good enough to get by in basic conversation.

5. Last night I dreamed in German. Unfortunately, I did not understand a word of it. Somehow, I don't think this means I'm fluent. I remember "machen sie..." but not what I was told to do, probably because I didn't know what it meant.

Moral: Don't watch German films when you've had too much Baileys.

Thursday, September 03, 2009


Tomorrow I am going to

A) Dance in sky-scraper heels
B) Cornwall
C) Hide the body and the evidence

I will

A) Break my leg
B) Play beach volleyball
C) Get caught and show up in court next week

See you in

A) Leeds infirmary
B) Seven days
C) Three years to life.

Sunday, August 30, 2009


My mother is preparing for the zombie invasion.

This may seem like an odd statement, but it's true. She doesn't know she's doing it, she doesn't believe that the invasion is coming. Fortunately for her though, her instincts are much smarter than she is, and are forcing her to prepare unconsciously anyway.

I realised this when my sister mentioned that all her friends would come to our house when the zombies arrive. After thinking about this, I can kind of understand their logic. Although we don't have a cellar, and I always imagined hiding either somewhere underground, or somewhere many floors above ground (even seen a zombie try to climb stairs?)

The most obvious reason is the food supply. My mother has a giant chest freezer, and lots of kitchen cupboard space. She insists upon keeping both the freezer and the cupboards fully stocked, even though for most of the year only she and my sister (Steve) live in the house. She and Steve eat about the equivalent of one normal person's meal a day. Between them.

Mostly they snack on fruit, cheese and crackers, ice lollies and the odd pizza. Their diet is decidedly strange, but mostly it's just limited, and they generally eat very little. Usually if the supply is noticeably decreasing week-by-week, it's either because of me, or Steve's boyfriend, who loves cooking almost as much as he loves eating.

Due to this, you could easily not buy any food for about 3 months (I calculated this careful, and didn't just make it up, not at all). Admittedly, this only works if you don't mind eating lots of low-fat baked beans, and similar things. I suppose if there's a zombie invasion, you probably have bigger things to worry about.

The food isn't the only good reason though. We live in a village. We're about 20 minutes from the nearest real city, and ten from the nearest small town. The population is tiny, and is mostly made up of old people.

Now, you may have noticed that old people are pretty slow. Zombies are pretty slow too. Now, don't get ahead of me, I'm not going to suggest that old people are zombies already, that would be ageist! No, I just think that logically, old people will make even slower zombies than young people do.

So if the majority of the population of my village gets zombified, the plan of action will often be simply to walk away. They'll follow you, but you've got plenty of time to think of a better plan before they get there. Maybe you could offer them a boiled sweet instead of your brains. Or maybe you could hit them in the face with a shovel, it's up to you.

Of course, no one can be said to have survived the zombie holocaust, unless they have a long term strategy. Fortunately for us, there's a field behind our house, at the bottom of which is a river. Two minutes away is a wood, in which live rabbits, hare and deer. My point is that agriculture, fishing and hunting will all be more than possible.

Most people would ask if there's any kind of big wall around the area, which could be used to keep the zombies out. There isn't. Don't suggest building one, not even a fence from the trees from the wood. Let it look like an ordinary deserted village. Who're we keeping out? The zombified elderly? We've already decided that we can hit them with shovels, that seems just fine to me.

All we'd be doing by building defenses, is making other survivors believe we have something to defend. Sometimes people unite against a common enemy, sometimes they attack each other for their resources. Better to let them think we don't have any, they can join us peacefully if they must.

I might be having a bit too much fun with this, but I'm totally up for building an underground bunker in the garden and filling it with weapons and ammo. Y'know, just in case it turns out that this is the kind of zombie that can run fast, because if we get those, the old people will move at a pace fast enough to be worthy of target practice.

Oh! I should build a sniper tower too! Do you think a treehouse would work?

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Why I need a job:

1. Money.
2. Experience.
3. Structure to my day.

Jobs I'd like to do:

1. Hotel reviewer in exotic city.
2. Shoe model.
3. Jet plane pilot.

Why I'll never get them:

1. There's no call for them in the current economic market.
2. I'd be scared of foot fetishists.
3. When things fly at me at high speed I shriek and throw my arms up to protect my face.

What I'll do instead:

1. Sleep in.
2. Waste time online.
3. Keep being a student for a couple of years, then get a real job.

Friday, August 21, 2009


Someone wants me dead. I must have annoyed somebody who has one of those friends "who knows a bit about black magic." Y'know, like that friend everyone has "who knows a bit about computers" and who will tinker with your laptop, proclaim it fixed, and then vanish from the face of the Earth when, inevitably, the problem gets worse a week later.

I assume they don't know much because I am still here, though it is possible that they are Toying With Me.

My fear knows no bounds.

In the past two weeks I have nearly died three times.

1. I went to plug in my laptop (which fortunately remains un-tinkered-with by anyone who knows anything about computers), and noticed that the socket was soaking wet. It's below a pot-plant, which clearly had recently been over-watered. Only my incredible powers of observation saved my from electrocution.

2. I nearly got run over by a Porsche. I only ever nearly get hit by very expensive cars, presumably because if the Gods can't quite kill me, they still want me to have to worry about owing people a lot of money.

I also quite regularly nearly get run over, sometimes the other side of the street is just too interesting to worry about looking both ways. This guy meant it though, he was going too fast, and I was at a crossing. The fact that I hadn't pressed the button has nothing to do with it.

3. I got followed by a gang of mods back from Ikea. I was with Euan. We are rockers (technically). Mods hate rockers. We nearly died. Only the decidedly un-rock-and-roll nature of his mother's car saved us from taunting and swift death.

Fortunately I don't think they suspected us, thank goodness the ancient automobile doesn't have a CD-Player, or there's a good chance we would have been playing Boston or something. Now we are safe I feel quite confident in mocking them. I only wish I was cool enough to ride a Vesper.

To whomever is trying to have me killed: Your wizard isn't very good, his attempt at hexing me has failed, ask for your money back.

In future I'd suggest a ninja.

A Quick Comparison

...Of Mathematics and Hard Drugs

The way I see it, mathematics is a lot like opium. That's a bold statement, so allow me to explain a little.

As with opium, most people never use mathematics at all, and rarely come into contact with it. Sure, kids are taught to count and add up, the same way they're given Calpol when they're ill - there's nothing wrong with that - it's even a good thing. However, just as no one would compare Calpol to heroin, no one would compare adding to calculus.

Some people only use mathematics when they have to, and the experience is rarely enjoyable. It may bring some relief, and help to overcome a problem that could not be surpassed without it, but that doesn't mean they'd consider themselves a mathematician. A user.

In the same way, if you're in a great deal of pain, you may succumb to morphine or Vicodin. You don't want to, and you don't associate the use with a happy experience. You do need to though, and there's no shame in that, it'll help you recover faster.

Finally we come to those who use it all the time. Mathematicians are maths junkies, just like heroin addicts are opium junkies. Unable to function properly in society (watch as I carefully avoid making mathematics-based puns). Never being quite accepted by their peers, although clearly many feel sorry for them, and would like to be able to help.

Interestingly, both mathematicians and junkies tend to live for their poison. They are also very concerned with the purity of their experiences, as well as their ability to transcend all else.

It isn't just the users of mathematics and drugs from which a stark parallel may be drawn. Consider also the history. The development of both drugs and mathematics has been propagated by outlaws and rebels. Mathematicians rejected by the church for questioning God and pushing the limits of perfection, addicts were equally rejected, though generally less memorably. Both often went mad.

I may have mentioned before that I'd be good at coming up with conspiracy theories. I only hope that no terrifying Christian cult finds this argument and starts attacking mathematicians for their "over-pure" thoughts. Although, it is quite clearly unnatural.

Consider yourself warned. Mathematics can be dangerous to your health and your social life. Just say no.

P.S. Fiona's allowed me to put a link to her Vet Science blog. It's in the link section with the others. She's a very occasional mathematics user, and needs your support.

Wednesday, August 05, 2009


I'm rubbish at counting calories. I don't own a set of scales. I do a little exercise (to the point that if I miss it it ruins my day) but nowhere near as much as is probably required or recommended for the amount I eat.

As far as I'm concerned I'm thin enough if my jeans fit and fit enough if I can run up the stairs without getting out of breath. Both are true almost 100% of the time.

I have a lot of rules about food, mostly I make them up as I go along, but they seem to do the job. For example;

1. Anything I eat whilst standing up doesn't count.
2. If I break it into smaller pieces it's better for me.
3. I can eat all the chocolate if I've left the flat and eaten a stick of celery - not necessarily at the same time.

Also, if I think really hard about being thinner, I usually feel thinner. Mind over matter and all that jazz. I'd like to believe that my mind was good enough to actually destroy matter - I only wish it worked on everything else. Imagine the fun I could have!

I'm going on holiday to Cornwall in about a month (exotic, I know). I would like to be able to wear cutesy surfer shorts and a bikini top to play games on the beach. Maybe even just the bikini, and if I'm honest, I'm probably confident enough to do it, so long as the weather's good. But I feel guilty that I don't feel obliged to diet or do more exercise in order to prepare.

I also feel guilty that I can eat as much as the guys I live with (occasionally more) and not be the size of a rhino. I do sometimes skip lunch, but that's more out of forgetfulness than a concern for my calorie intake.

I am better at feeling guilty than doing anything about my guilt. I am also better at thought than action - since thought rarely involves me having to organise anything. I hear it's the thought that counts. So I'll be thinking very hard about being skinny.

One day my metabolism will crash and I'll put on six stone in 48 hours. It's all I deserve.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Up for Review

I've started a new blog, it's for reviewing things; restaurants, bars, clubs, markets, delicatessens, gig venues, hair-dressers, etc, etc. Basically whatever I fancy.

For now I'm going to update it quite a lot, to get a bit of content in there and make it worth looking at. After a while this will drop to one review per week. Before then, though, this place is probably going to get neglected again. Not much, just a bit - I won't be looking for things to write here, I'll be looking for things to write there instead.

Have a peak at the new one if you're bored and have the time, and feel free to leave a comment. I'll put a permanent link to it in the links section later, once it's been running a while.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Not My Genes

A couple of weeks ago, when we first moved into the hell hole, it became obvious that I would need some clothes I didn't really care about that I could do extreme cleaning and DIY in. This was a problem. It turns out I don't own any clothes I don't like.

If something is to old I either throw it away or give it to charity. If it's too ugly I don't buy it in the first place. If it's the wrong size the same is true, and since I've been the same size for clothing since I was about 14 the only way anything might not fit me is if I managed to shrink it in the wash. Too large isn't a problem for DIY, too small is.

However, I do own a lot of clothing, so after much deliberation and rooting-through of my wardrobe I discovered a couple of items that I don't wear much and wouldn't really miss. Especially if their destruction produced an opportunity to go shopping.

Among these items was a pair of dark blue, plain, straight leg jeans. From Gap. I worked at Gap for a while last Summer, and the discount they provided me means that it's not unusual for the odd piece of their produce to be in my wardrobe, even if it's not the kind of stuff I'd normally buy. So finding them did not shock me, I even seem to remember buying them.

What is shocking is that they're plainly not mine. They're about 6 inches too long (I like my jeans a little long for me, but that's just silly). They're too wide at the waist and practically skinny fit at the calf (I assume they're made for someone who's a weird shape, rather than assuming that I am, and I'll thank you to do the same). They're also suspiciously... male-feeling. There seems to be more than the necessary quantity of fabric in... certain regions.

Now, I don't know many guys who wear that style of jeans. I'm certainly not good enough friends with any to have them drop by my flat and change, or to borrow jeans from them. I'm not in the habit of borrowing clothing from guys anyway - I might borrow a belt if mine broke, or a pair of gloves if it got cold, or maybe like a hoodie or something, but always with the intention of washing and returning the next time I saw them.

But Jeans? No. I almost never leave the flat without jeans or the equivalent (read: skirt, trousers, shorts or whatever). So I now don't know what to do. I have somehow acquired these, I am quite certain they are not mine, and I have no idea who they belong to.

If you left a pair of jeans at my flat, or know someone who did, or indeed, if you're in the habit of breaking into people's flats and hiding your clothing in their wardrobe, like some kind of demented fashion-cuckoo, then tough. I wore them for painting, as such, they have been painted.

Guys jeans are weird though. It gave me an unusual perspective on what it must be like to be a guy. I suspect it feels a little...unbalanced.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Third Circle

So, I moved into a new flat about 10 days ago. It's around twice the size of the old one, the bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom and hall are all much larger - which is excellent. Naturally I was pretty excited by the prospect.

However (if you've spoken to me at all in the past few days, you'll already know this) the previous tenants were all completely insane. They lived there for two years, and I don't believe they ever cleaned. Ever.

There are signs that they planned to. There was a cupboard full of recycling, behind which we found cleaning products. This tendency to start with good intentions and excellent plans, and then just give up on them is evident throughout the flat. For example, it seems they were into their music, abandoned speakers were in every room, and they'd all been wired up so you could control them from a single point in the kitchen, or individually. They'd started the wiring well, it was neat in some places - in others they'd pretty much dropped the wires on the floor and pinned them to the nearest wall.

That's another point leading to the suggestion of insanity actually; they've left behind tonnes of technology. As well as the speakers they abandoned a classic mac (complete with floppy drive, but no usb ports), an unused 3-in-1 printer, a projector, a handful of amps (if you happen to have massive hands), a tv, and much more!

It's like a shit treasure trove. We even found a couple of lobster creoles. I quickly vetoed the guys suggestion that we keep them as conversation pieces. I reckon I can talk about lobster creoles, even if I've thrown them out. Hell, I'm blogging about them.

After spending a full week cleaning and working our way through the general carnage that was our new abode, we were in a position to use it without breaking into screams of despair every few minutes. Which was nice.

We're now on the DIY stage. Having thrown out most of the broken furniture (no idea why the last people wanted to keep it) we're sanding down and staining the good items. Not doing so would have resulted in splinters. We're also painting walls, ceilings, skirting boards, doors and any other surface that requires it, read: all of them. Soon we'll be able to sand and varnish the floors.

So, I'm asking myself two questions about this place.

Firstly, how exactly did the "people" who lived here before not get extremely ill from living in their own filth and die? Instead of moving away, did they in fact simply "move on?"

Secondly, how much money can I get out of my landlords for leaving the place in such a state? If we didn't have a week's overlap where we had the keys to both the new, and the old flat, we would have needed them to put us up in a hotel for a few days. If we all worked full time, we would have needed them to employ cleaners, joiners and painters.

I'm thinking that we probably deserve the deposit the last tenants paid when they moved in. At least. So, I'll be visiting the landlords at their office next Friday afternoon. I'll be asking for a long list of things, and I won't leave until I've got all the ones I actually want. Could be a looooong day.

P.S. Sorry for neglecting the blog and not being especially funny lately. What with moving, work and study there seems to be little time. I promise to try harder in future ;-)

Friday, July 03, 2009


My excuse for not blogging much lately:

I've been working and organising a flat-move. The new flat is huge. The last tenants were apparently completely insane. Also probably quite ill.

Don't ask me about the move unless you have time to hear me rant. Trust me, I'll be ranting about it here soon.

Sunday, June 21, 2009


A little over a month ago I was appointed President of PhySoc (the Glasgow Uni physics society). Naturally enough I was most pleased, and have decided to set about abusing my powers as soon as possible.

So far, among other things, it has been agreed that the title "President" will be changed to "Empress." I'm happy with this, but it does make me think I ought to start and "empire" of sorts. Control of a single society may not be enough. I intend to start by controlling AstroSoc (the astronomy) from the inside, until such as point as they are ready to call me their leader.

So, I have made sure everyone on their board agrees with me on important points, and I have appointed Martin the position of AstroSoc Rep within my board. Although, clearly a better title would be AstroSoc spy. If there was anything interesting to spy on them for.

I can only be president for one year, which alarms me. So once the year is through I intend to give someone else (of my choosing, none of this silly voting business) the title of "President." I shall continue as Empress, simply telling people that it's a largely meaningless role, and that I'm really just there to help out.

Of course, the "President" will be nothing more than a puppet, happy to do exactly what I suggest.

We are currently working on a greeting that makes me look slightly less like Hitler, and a"goodbye" that makes me look slightly less like a trekkie. But, you know what, I'm working with physicists here, these problems were always bound to show up.

In addition to this, I've decided that I get 10 votes for each member of my committee, and I'm going to install a lion pit in the Kelvin Building (to throw people who irritate me into).

I'd make an excellent dictator. I've even told you my evil plans before I'm certain there's no way you'll survive. They'll make a Hollywood movie about me one day, but only if I give them permission to do so.

Friday, June 12, 2009


There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who feel the need to lick their finger before turning a page, and those who do not. I suppose technically there's people who believe that there's two kinds of people, and people who actually know there are many more. There's also people who smell their clothes before putting them on, and those who already know all the clothes in their wardrobes are clean. I don't know where these groups intersect.

When I turn a page, I do not first lick my finger. I wash my hands regularly, I have a keen knowledge of where my hands have been, and yet I still do not lick my finger. I have always found that the pages turn without that being necessary. I cannot help considering it "icky" to have saliva on the pages of anything I'm going to read.

Mum is a licker, dad is not a licker. They should have known from the start that it would only end in tears.

I do not judge lickers. There's nothing necessarily wrong with being a licker. Some of my best friends are liquors. So long as you don't want me to handle your document after it's been moistened that's just fine.

It's also important to note that some things are OK to lick. Envelopes are fine, so are stamps, lollipops, and the tops from yogurt pots. It's OK to lick your fingers if there's food stuck to them, though, in most cases this should be done with minimum fuss and no seductive gazes at people across from you.
Especially if you're a guy. And/or in your 40s. And/or clinically obese. In which case failure to comply may mean that I'm forced to sterilize you. Sorry, it's the rules.

It's OK to lick salt from your hand before a shot of tequila (another excellent liquor, possibly because it makes other kinds more bearable). Though you should only do so if there's lime wedges handy.

Perhaps I am more of a sucker than a licker. It seems that anything that can be licked is likely to be better sucked. At least that's what I'm told. It's certainly true for the lollipop.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009


It occurred to me that last time I talked about moving out, we were looking for a luxury castle for the three of us. This is no longer the case. We've found a cute flat for four of us, including Archie, the newbie.

After testing him in several ways, we decided he would do, although he did seem slightly timid, we thought we could fix that. Also, he seemed to have no specific music taste, which meant that he probably wouldn't try to play anything dreadful, and if he did, he wouldn't get too upset when we turned it off and played something better.

I feel we've done a rather good job in choosing a new someone suitable, so, because I am kind, I've decided to develop a guide for others. It's a little sketchy at the moment, but my faithful blog-readers may have a sneak preview. I should probably mention that the "sneak preview" is likely to be the only bit that actually gets written, since I'm fair to busy and important to sit around writing nonsense all day. Obviously.

So yeah, that makes you even more special.

Five ways to test a new flat mate:

1. Interview:
It's an obvious choice, though some people get it wrong by going too easy on their candidates. All current flat mates should be present and sit at the opposite side of the table to the prospective newbie. Then ask the meanest questions you can think of. Do not laugh, if they maintain their confidence that you're just joking, even when none of you are laughing, you'll know they're sharp enough.

2. Cake baking:
I'm aware that not all students bother with a cake rota like we do, and as such it may not be quite as essential in other flats. However, even if you don't regularly make cakes (and you probably should) you have to admit that having a new flat mate who can is an advantage.

3. Absorbency.
I'm sure I don't need to explain this.

4. Ability to fight a bear.
The smart person will chose both their weapons, and the bear they wish to fight carefully, since clearly you don't want to look like a coward, but at the same time you'd also rather not be mauled too severely.

5. What would they do if...
This could go in the interview section, but there's some really important questions of this type which people often forget to ask, so I felt it deserved it's own section. Those questions are
-...There was a zombie-velociraptor outbreak?
-...You needed to destroy the population of the world with a genetically modified virus?
-...Vladimir Putin turned out to be your great uncle?

The answers to those questions really will tell you a lot about a person.

So there you go. I urge anyone considering taking in a new flat mate to follow these steps carefully, goodness only knows what kind of person you might end up living with otherwise.

Sunday, May 31, 2009


The weather at home is beautiful at the moment. I'm told the same is true in Glasgow, and I really hope it still is when I get back.

Yesterday, while reading in the garden, I fell asleep. I was woken by my mother about an hour later and told to go inside to avoid burning. I did so, and fell asleep again (perhaps I should point out here that I did have a rather heavy night the previous evening, I'm not simply suffering from some weird sleeping sickness).

When I awoke, I was the wrong colour. At least 30% pinker than I should be. This did not please me. Especially since Today I am going to meet two of my best friends, Jenny and Hannah, who are always expertly groomed, seemingly without effort. We'll giggle and gossip and probably shop for shoes, and though I'll be the only one in heels, I'll feel very short in comparison to them.

Add this to having bright red arms, and you can see my concern. Giggling is fun only when it's not about my bright red arms. However, as usual, I have a cunning plan. I remembered hearing that they paint hospitals green to neutralize the colour of blood.

Blood is red. I am red. Hospitals are painted green to make the blood look less red? Actually, that's a really odd idea. Surely if someone's bleeding in a hospital the last thing you need is attention taken away from the fact? I can't help thinking you need certain people to notice, say for instance, doctors. I wonder what colour they paint the walls in Bupa hospitals.

Having said that, if there is a chance that it works, I'll go for it. I am now decorated like a hospital (by which I mean, I'm wearing green). Let's see if it does the job...

[Edit, 22:52] Not a chance.

Friday, May 22, 2009

I'm back!

As promised.

If only I'd had the discipline to stop the rest of my procrastinating, as well as that associated with blogging. Never mind. Exams are over, Summer may begin, as well as my Summer project, which I'm now really looking forward too.

But, unfortunately, I have nothing to say. I will write a real post soon, this one is just to keep my promises (sometimes it seems like a good idea) and let you know I'm not dead.

I'm not.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Study Leave

I know I've not written a post for a few days, so it's a little poor of me to be writing this one now, but, well... tough.

Unless anything particularly exciting/alarming/interesting/hilarious occurs I'm going to avoid posting here for a while. I've got exams to pass and this is just a giant encouragement of procrastination.

No idea how long I'll manage to go without writing anything, but I'll definitely be back when all my exams are done, if not before.

Feel free to talk among yourselves.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Supermarket Retard

You know those people who don't seem to be able to cope with grocery shopping? They're perpetually surprised, incapable of finding anything, doomed to be the one to drop the eggs.

Today, and only Today, I have sympathy for them. Today, I joined their ranks for one evening only.

I ran to the Tesco across the road to pick up a couple of extra ingredients for dinner. Due to being a giant food snob and refusing to do things like buy ready meals or jar/packet sauces or frozen pizza, I often have to run across the road for tomato puree, or oregano.

Off I went. I ran into three people I knew and was surprised surprised to see each of them. I'd possibly go so far as to say I was "taken aback." I then walked straight into two people I didn't know. I was incapable of finding anything I wanted, with the exception of tights (I can leave the house in a skirt again!)

I don't trust automated check-outs at the best of times. They've managed to short change me before, and they're stealing jobs from our chavs and students. It's just not on. Even so, I decided that the queue for being served by a real person was too long, and I thought since I was forewarned, I'd be able to check my change carefully.

The machine hated me. It just didn't work. Nothing would scan, it couldn't tell when I'd put the items in the bags (which took me a good minute each to open). It kept repeating itself, as if I was a retard. I started to realize that it had a point.

Eventually I left, paying with card without checking the price. No way it can short change me now, right? Right? Aw sh*t.

Having made dinner I decided I needed to bake a tasty treat. Started off OK before discovering we were ought of strong white flour. Had to go back to Tesco. They were out too, I asked some one to go see if there was any left, the guy found some right at the back of the shelf. Again I felt like a moron, but not as much as when I dropped it. Or as much as when I saw him standing in the queue, turns out he wasn't working, just a guy in a blue shirt.

I can never go back there. But at least I've got every potential item of shopping related embarrassment out of the way for at least six months or so. Maybe I'll just stick to shoe shopping, I am more than adept at shoe shopping.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Domesticated Violence

I am exceptionally handy around the flat. I can change all the light bulbs I can reach (read: the one in my desk lamp). I can get things from high shelves if I stand on a chair. I know how to clog up a drain. I do most of the washing up out of the goodness of my heart, OCD and having found beetles in the past has nothing to do with it.

I cannot wear a skirt again until the giant bruise on my knee heals. Unless I go out and buy more dark tights. All my dark tights got holes in them, I don't know how his happened, but I suspect that drinking more rum would help make sure it never happened again. I hear these things cancel out.

I finally got my bravery back after the last kitchen fiasco. I had cleaned the curtain, dried it, and folded it up neatly in one of the cupboards. But it bothered me, it needed to be back in its proper place.

I knew the step ladder was not safe for people who weigh more than the average seven-year-old, but I'd skipped breakfast and lunch. I figured it was worth the risk. In hindsight I should probably not have tried it with heels, but they're so slimming.

I got to the fourth step before the ladders started to slip. I froze. It stopped. I took a deep breath and slowly started to move back down. Our windows are huge and the curtains are long. It caught round my heel and I missed the step completely. I twisted like a cat (only much more elegantly) and attempted to jump forwards off the ladder. My ankle caught the last rung. I landed on my knees.

Two seconds later, the ladders landed on me. I doubt my knee is the only thing that's bruised. But at least I didn't break a heel.

You'd think one of the guys would be a gentleman and fix this for me, but only if you'd never met them.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Moving Out

A couple of weeks ago Amy (one of my flat mates) announced that she would be living with either her boyfriend or her parents next year, she has a really close family wants to be closer to home so she can be with them and help them out.

No really, it's got nothing to do with her hating us. I'm quite certain. We're all delightful people, I'm sure the only reason she hasn't been crying about it is because she doesn't want us to take the piss see how sad she is to leave.

This means that we need a flat for three, as it'll just be me Harry and Gav next year. Now, I thought maybe we could be sensible about this. We'd work out our price range, have a look at a few flats near the uni, visit them, and decide which was best.

For the first ten minutes of browsing online, I was right. We bookmarked a couple that looked quite good, that we could afford, and that were within walking distance of everything we would need.

Sadly though, the same data bases that hold stuff for student-style flats, apparently hold stuff for penthouses in the Merchant City. Trust me when I tell you that I have now seen more than enough beautiful penthouses that I absolutely cannot afford the rent on, even if I don't pay bills, or eat.

It didn't stop there. Here's a link to what the boys are now considering our ideal property for next year: most ridiculous suggestion ever. It's not even for sale! It's in Germany! Now they're bitching because I haven't won the lottery!

Perhaps Amy had the right plan, maybe I should get out now before the boys ruin me completely.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Good Morning

Lately I have been waking up earlier than usual*. I think it must be because I'm having extra exciting dreams (not like that! pervert!) So I need to return to normality early before I tire myself out.

Like last night I dreamed I was in a knife fight (told you it wasn't like that) and the winner got to keep the knives. I won. This is not the first time I've won knives, though it is the first time I've dreamed about it.

A few of years ago I entered a competition in a magazine. The first prize was a TV and DVD player, they looked cute and I thought they'd go well with Sam (my elderly CD player). It was a cross-word, I knew the answers. I cut it out of the magazine and found an envelope. Then I noticed the website address that you were supposed to send the answer to. I logged on, entered the competition and immediately forgot about it all.

Two months later there was a knock at the door. It was a parcel for me. I love getting post, even if it's just a bill. Parcels are amazing fun to receive, even if I ordered them myself. This one was a mystery. I signed for it and then googled "How to tell if a parcel is a bomb."

Once satisfied, I opened it. It was a set of kitchen knives. Apparently that was second prize. It at least explains why my postman looked so surprised that a kid signed for them, and may go some way to explaining my life-long difficulties with postmen ever since.

I have to say, it's much more fun to win them this way than to win them in a knife fight. This way they were a surprise, and I didn't need to clean them up when the competition was over.

*I look angelic in the morning, really I do. Brings a smile to my face. The angles my hair can stand at before 9am occasionally defy Euclidean geometry.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Wassup G?

When I was around 13, I went through a period having gangsta friends. This was a surprise to me, since I'd always been the quiet kid everyone picked on (at least until a couple of years later, when I learned the art of ganging up on a gang of people all by yourself - worth mastering if you can manage it).

It happened simply enough. One of the gansta girls who got my bus home from school was shouting about needing a muthaf*ckin' tissue before the bus arrived. My mother had bought a bunch of special edition mini-packs of Kelvin Klein Kleenex (best phrase this week so far). They were to raise money for charity. They were also hideous. Even then I had enough sense of style to be ashamed of having them in my bag. I mean, leopard print Kleenex? Seriously? I respect Mr Klein, but he had lost it.

I gave the whole pack to the gansta chick, they matched her handbag, and she recognised the designer. I was an instant hit. She and her friends made other people get out of my way so I could sit at the back of the bus.

I was taught the language. The music was shared and explained. I got respect and they miraculously started getting A's in all their homework assignments. We were excellent influences on each other.

Then, the rest of the popular people started noticing. The balked at first, and pointed out that I was a nerd. But the gangstas did not care, they stuck by me through everything. We were homies, no muthaf*ucka could stop us, biatch. 'Cept some chick's ex-boyfriend who she was still into. Damnit, but I was terrified of that guy, not interested - he was twice my size! Word got around that he liked me. I left the group before I was forced to.

Popularity dropped again. I was banned from using the words "homie", "bled" and "shizzle." Frankly, it's probably for the best, I always sounded ridiculous. I couldn't get whiter if I was caught in an avalanche.

But in a weird way I miss it. I understand gangsta rap, even if I never actually liked it, and can even explain why some rappers are better than others. Why everyone in hiphop actually hates soulja boi. What I can't explain is why anyone in hiphop is... well... in hiphop.

But then, I listen to a combination of death metal and French electro, what do I know?

P.S. My spell checker went mental on this post. I've left it as is, but there's no way I'm adding "shizzle" to it's dictionary. It'd just be a bit too far.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


A couple of months ago, I picked up an audio book. The title was "Rapid Russian." My plan was to learn Russian, Rapidly.

I have listened to it maybe four times, but not at all for a couple of months, so I've forgotten quite a lot of things. I already knew how to say "yes" and "no," so I have to admit that those don't really count.

Because I have my priorities right, I also know how to say;
-"I would like a small measure of vodka."
-"I have lost my keys." and,
-"A bottle of red wine, please."

I would fit into Moscow perfectly and would definitely not get mugged. Nor would I find myself in a situation I wasn't fully equipped to handle.

My German has always been better, presumably because I studied it properly for two years. Among other things, I still remember how to say:

- "Yes, I would like another beer."
- "Oh look, a guinea-pig!"
- "I'm sorry, is this your boyfriend?"

And the ever helpful phrase:

- "I think that women is an evil witch."

I've been toying with taking up Spanish next year. It's easier than Russian, and Harry speaks it fluently, so he would enjoy being a true hindrance to my learning. I'd hate to deprive him of that.

The main reason is that I'd like to get drunk in Spain, and so far I don't know any Spanish phrases that would get me slapped or mugged. Once I am drunk I'm likely to start reeling off everything I know. This means that the study must be very careful and specific, because I tend to remember things better a) if there's only very few situations in which they could be appropriate, and b) if they sound hilarious.

Perhaps I should just speak very slowly and loudly in English regardless of the country I find myself drinking in.

Sunday, March 15, 2009


My friends' visit this weekend went off with only one hitch, and it wasn't my fault. They got on the wrong train and showed up two hours late. It should really have been expected. Nice girls, but not to be trusted in navigation.

On Friday before they showed up I got a call from my mother. Having updated me on stuff going on at home she told me that she had a present for me that she was going to send up with Jenny and Hannah. She refused to say what it was, hinting only that it wasn't pink or fluffy. Though she also said that she was quite excited about sending it and that she thought I'd like it.

By the time the girls showed up I had forgotten all about this, terrified that they'd get it wrong again and end up in Northern Scotland. A place in which they surely could never have survived. We got back to the flat, they had a wander round, enjoying the opportunity to be nosy. We drank hot chocolate and gossiped and shared rumors that were only occasionally true, but which we will now spread as indisputable fact.

Then Jenny remembered and said, "Oh, your mum wanted me to give you something. I think it's a lump of meat."

Turned out to be a pork joint. Admittedly not pink and fluffy. Admittedly I liked it (roast dinner for the win). However, even with those clues, I would never have guessed.

The fact that this is not a normal thing to do is completely lost on my mother. This women brought me up. My continued ability to function semi-well is one of society's great unsolved mysteries.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009


I've made a lot of mistakes. Cutting my hair to an ultra-short bob was a mistake. Blue eyeliner was a mistake. Lots of my ex boyfriends were mistakes. Thinking my best friend couldn't get me drunk on three shots was a mistake.

It seems I have not learned from my mistakes.

I've made two new ones recently.

1. I've told my father he should blog. While I was home a while back he showed me an email he apparently sent to a couple of friends at work. Apparently it developed into a chain email because it's full of in-jokes about the job, which were naturally lost on me.

He got into trouble for it, but wants to write more stuff. I have no idea if he'll go through with the blog, but I told him it'd probably be a better plan then sending more emails.

It has now occurred to me that he had a hand in raising me. He knew me as a child, and as a teenager. He has access to photos of me... pre-braces. I'm sure he'll remember that I was always a delightful kid, and never did a single thing wrong. That I was never stroppy or bitchy or difficult, because I understand how hard parenting must be.

2. I've invited my two best friends Jenny and Hannah (whom I'll be referring to as Jennizzle and Hannelore) to join me for a night out in Glasgow on Saturday. Do not expect me to remember any text messages I might send you. In fact, don't expect me to remember if I bumped into you in person.

Jennizzle can get me hammered on three shots. I might as well give up the fight right now.

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Nice and Clean

OCD comes in bursts. I'm not generally obsessive compulsive, apart from the odd tendency, the most obvious example being that I have to eat my food in the right order. It's impossible to know what that order will be until I am presented with the food, but it's very important anyway.

Today I spent five hours cleaning my kitchen. This may seem like typical OCD behaviour, but it's actually much more complicated than that. I do not often spend more than half an hour cleaning anything. This was sparked by an experience that I might never truly recover from.

About a month ago, my flatmate Gav accidentally pulled down one of the curtains in the kitchen. We tend not to close them anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. Today though, I decided it was about time someone put it back up. It had been left on the floor, and I picked it up to work out how I could do this. It was a little damp, but I figured there was no reason why it shouldn't be clean, and that it would dry when it was hanging in front of the window again.

I went to get the step ladders. I put them up. I gave them a push, and instantly decided that I was far to important to actually put any weight on them, and that I would wait until one of the boys came home. I decided to wash the curtain, just in case.

At this point I noticed that the floor where the curtain had been was a bit dusty-looking and could probably use cleaning. I moved the table out of the way to get a closer look. At this point the worst thing that's happened to me all week occurred.

I found an exoskeleton.

From some kind of bug.

With lots of legs.

I wretched. Then I cleaned for five hours. Muttering "nothing crawls in my kitchen," under my breath.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009


Don't have much time for a post, supposed to be studying for physics tomorrow, decided to take the day off to do so, and as such I can't really justify wasting too much time blogging.

Oh, and I've just caught myself half-way through making a cup of tea. Supposed to have given it up for lent, seems I am on auto-pilot. At least it's only the first time I've slipped up... as far as I know.

OK, that's a bit too weird. On with the mini update:
- I've unwittingly been making tea.
- Insomnia seems to be just about gone, but somehow I'm still very tired, must be because I'm working so hard.
- When looking through some note last night, I noticed that I'd managed to spell "therefore" as "theirfore." I set the notes on fire. No one will ever find out (except anyone who reads this).
- I am definitely not loosing it, not even a little bit.

Oh, and a couple of my friends have started writing blogs too. I have to assume I inspired them, that or they realised that if I was already writing one, I couldn't take the piss out of them for doing so. If I was mean I'd say they were just copying me, but because I am lovely, I have put links to their blogs in the new link section (scroll down, it's on the right somewhere). Imitation is the greatest form of flattery, and flattery will get you everywhere.*

If you write a blog and you suspect that a) It's not an entirely awful read, and b) I don't hate you, let me know and if you're right I'll link it. Of course, if I don't link it, you'll have to spend the rest of your life wondering which reason it is. Up to you to decide if it's really worth the risk.

*Unless you try to flatter me by buying the same shoes/clothes/bags. In which case it won't get you anywhere you actually want to be.

Friday, February 27, 2009

Parcel Wars

I ordered a case of wine from because I got a voucher sent to me, and it seemed like a pretty good deal. Especially since they said that the would definitely deliver it the next day, and if I wasn't in they'd leave it somewhere safe. This seemed like an even better deal because they also mentioned that should it get stolen, they'd replace it for free.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you what my cunning plan was. It was very cunning, but very simple, and in its' simplicity lay its' beauty.

Anyway, I got back and found a card from Parcel Force saying they'd left the wine with a neighbour. The card also said


Now, I don't know if my Parcel Force Guy (PFG) doesn't trust my neighbour, or if he doesn't trust me and thought I might try to run some kind of scam to get more wine (as if!) Or perhaps he's just feeling guilty for smashing a whole case last time he made a delivery, and wants someone to notice his skills are improving.

It could be any of those things. Just in case it's the last one, I'd like to say this:

Thank you PFG. You bring my deliveries on time and in tact. You successfully leave them somewhere safe, and tell me where that somewhere is. You never break any of my things or try to lie to me. For this I truly appreciate you.

Would you be interested in taking part in an epic battle with The Postman? (I assume he is your arch nemesis).

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


I had a meeting yesterday with the staff student committee. I am the student representative for ExCos, which is a dumbed down version of astronomy. I was not forced to take the post, I volunteered. I did this because I really care about the other students who take it, they can't speak for themselves, most of them are art students, they communicate through clicks and whistles. This would not be understood at the meeting.

I also did it because I'd like to give something back to the University. It has nothing to do with wanting to add stuff to my CV whenever possible.

I sat next to the chairman, I don't know his name, but he seems like a nice enough man. I think he used to be very ginger, there's still some ginger in his beard. After noticing this I realised that he had more facial hair coverage than any other man I've ever seen. I don't mean that he had the biggest beard I've ever seen, I've been to metal gigs, it would be a ridiculous claim. Rather, a greater proportion of his face had hair growing out of it, most of which he presumably shaved off. He had hair growing on his earlobes. Seriously.

It occurred to me that one of the worst things that could happen to a guy would be getting really hairy when you're really old. I mean, shaving must suck as it is, but hair on your ears? Like some kind of rodent? Totally not up for that. You know what though? It'd be easy enough to solve. Maybe I've got the odd OCD-like tendency, but I know where the nearest three pairs of tweezers are, and they're all within reaching distance.

Yes. Three pairs of tweezers is the optimum number. What if you suddenly realised your eyebrows were the wrong shape and there wasn't a pair in your handbag? What if it was dark? Definitely need the ones with the light. What if you needed false eye-lashes? You just going to try to glue them on with your fingers? I know I wouldn't put glue anywhere near my eyes unless I had my needle-nosed tweezers to do it.

The hairy old chairman would look amazing with false eyelashes. At least in that I would be amazed.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Nature vs Nurture

I was thinking about my childhood, and I reckon there's a chance I was groomed for academia. It surprises me, because when I was in high-school I asked my parents if they'd ever had any thoughts on what career they I'd eventually have, or what they'd like me to have, and they said no, and I thought no more about it.

I now have reason to believe that they lied to me. This is not unusual, if you look back on your life you discover that as a child people lied to you constantly. Incidentally they simultaneously try to teach you that lying is wrong. No generation to date has been successful in passing the virtue of unwavering truthfulness onto the next.

Anyway, it was thinking about the differences between my sister and I that lead me to this conclusion. We're a lot a like, both in general personality and appearance, though she's smaller than me and tends to die her hair red these days. Our parents claim to have tried to treat us both the same as they were raising us, and in the respect that they spent equal amounts of money and time on each of us both, they're claim is valid.

However, I'm on my way to becoming a physicist and she's on her way to becoming a photographer. I was always the academic one, and she was always artsy. I reckon its got a lot to do with the season in which we were born. I'm January, she's August. So when it came to birthdays she'd get a swing-set, or a sand pit, or a trampoline. I tended to get microscopes (yes, plural), chemistry sets and electronics sets to play with.

One year Steph got a Barbie and a "Make your own lipgloss kit" for Christmas. The same year there was two dictionaries amongst my gifts. An OED for students and a "Dictionary of Difficult words." No wonder I didn't mix well with my peers. I'd ask for a remote controlled car and get a book called "My First 100 Science Experiments." I didn't even know Fisher Price did such a thing!

And yet, as a child I never noticed. I pointed out the unfairness that I never got anything as cool as a trampoline, and was told I could always use Steph's and that it was only because you couldn't use trampolines in Winter. It made sense. So I absorbed all of it. The interactive encyclopedias, the 1000 piece world map jigsaws, all the books I could get my hands on. Lessons disguised as toys.

When I was home at Christmas last year, my Dad looked at a pile of my notes. He called me over and asked me to explain what they meant. It was some basic stuff on the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. I did my best, but the conversation ended like this:

Dad: Let me get this straight, not only are you doing maths when you should be doing physics, you're doing it with letters instead of numbers, and the letters are in Greek?
Me: Yes.
Dad. WTF?

Serves him right. I'm still bitter about that trampoline.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009


Alright, my last blog apparently left me open for attack. At least judging by the complaints this morning. Martin was the most hurt I think, because I gave him grief for buying an ipod a while ago. Poor ickle Martin.

You might have guessed, this is not an apology. I'm bad at apologies. They always start off well, but they tend to end badly. An example of me apologising might go like this.

"I know I upset you the other day when I called you a fucktard, and I probably shouldn't have. Not that I'm wrong though, you are a fucktard, it's just that I didn't expect you to be sad when I pointed it out. Actually, the fact that it bothered you at all leads me to believe that you're an even worse individual than I at first anticipated. So yeah, sorry. Not for what I said, but that you have to live with that."

See the problem? Frankly it's amazing that I have any friends at all. Perhaps it's because I avoid making friends with fucktards, so that kind of thing doesn't happen often.

Aaaaaanyway. I have a statement to make:

I have never bought an Apple product. The shuffle I own was a free gift. I refuse to use it for anything other than audio books, and I absolutely will never download anything from itunes. I have been debating getting an iphone, but simply because I'd quite like a nice phone that I can get online with, there are alternatives, and considering that I can't afford a new phone at all yet, by the time I can, I will have done my research well enough to choose something better.

Apple is probably evil. Microsoft probably is too. I don't know how to use Linux. I hope this goes some way to absolving me.

(Martin still shouldn't have bought his ipod though. Pretty silly thing to do. What? I'm just saying).

Monday, February 16, 2009


I have another confession to make that might surprise you. I own an ipod shuffle.

I'm not a fan of Apple in general. My shuffle was free when I signed up for an offer for something I actually wanted. I didn't know there was a shuffle in it for me when I signed up, but then they sent me one.

I actually use it. It's only 2Gb(at least that's what it claims), it's nice and small, so it fits even in girly jeans pockets*. It's also kind of cute, in a clinical kind of way. Silver and white is a pretty unoffensive colour scheme so long as it's not on a car.

I do not have it set to "shuffle." It amused me that I could turn that function off, effectively removing what is apparently it's 2nd biggest selling point. Only apple could market a piece of technology as being especially good for doing something that every other piece of similar technology on the market can already do perfectly well.

Nor do I have any music on it. This removes it's 1st biggest selling point. Apple are actually quite good at selling mp3-players, and nobody is really surprised about that anymore. If only because it's old news.

There are five files on my shuffle:
1. Rapid Russian: A course for Beginners
2. Catch 22 (Unabridged)
3. Gulliver's Travels (Unabridged)
4. Labyrinth (Unabridged)
5. The Feynman Lectures on Physics (Volume 1)

These are audio books.

The fact is, I like using things for interesting purposes if I find out that I can. My shuffle holds my audio books. I listen to MP3s with my phone. I connect to my network with my DS, which I also now use as a synthesizer (but rarely play games on, that's the phone again).

One day, I'll be able to do all of those things on one piece of technology. Chances are I can already, if I'm willing to pay the price. The fact is, if ever someone puts synthesizer software on my phone, I'll use it for that. I'll get two cans and a length of string for when I want to call people.

*Guys, you do not appreciate your jeans pockets enough. You can get phone, wallet and keys, possibly also mp3-player in two pockets sometimes, that's incredible. If I've got my phone in my pocket, that pocket is completely full, even now I've got my nice phone back.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


Due to some of my recent actions, my flatmate is trying to convince people that I am an engineering student. It's because he's very bitter that he could never study a real science. Do not believe him, he will tell you that I failed an exam, so I've decided to start again with first year engineering, he'll tell you I'm very embarrassed about this, he might even be convincing.

Do not believe him. Frankly, I'd rather stoop to biology than engineering, hell, I'd rather do Earth science (I wonder how many people I can alienate with one blog post?) God knows that could never happen.

Watch out also for him telling you that he's studying medicine. He isn't, it's nursing. Nothing to be ashamed of, we're not living in the 1950s, if we can have policewomen we can have male nurses (though honestly, I'm not sure what we'd need them for). I suppose it just goes to show that you shouldn't believe everything you hear (or read).

Harry, you may consider yourself owned.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Refuse Collection Individual

Firstly, I've had a complaint. Apparently Fi is not a robot. To this I'd like to say "oh yes she is." Sorry Fi, but it does seem likely.

This morning I awoke early. I've been trying it out every couple of days, I'm not sure if I like it or not yet, but it does help my concentration in lectures if I've already been awake for two hours. Normally I get up forty minutes before my first lecture and stumble about the flat getting ready, but not waking up until I leave the building. This has produced odd situations in the past.

If I'm going to wake up early I have to give myself an incentive. Things like; "You can get some work done before you even get to uni!" don't seem work. It has to be more along the lines of, "just think how many times you can get changed before you finally settle on an outfit, you might not even be bored of it by lunch!"

Today, my incentive was that I'd ordered something cute from a couple of days ago, so it should be about time it arrived. I don't trust my postman, and I reckon he might knock extra quietly, so I don't hear him and he can leave a "Sorry you were out" form instead of having to carry a parcel upstairs. I planned to catch him if he tried it.

A quiet tap at the door came at around 10am. I dashed to the door to open it before postie could get away, and readied my accusing look. I yanked the door open angrily. Standing there, wearing an expression of surprise and fatigue was what I am now calling a "refuse collection individual," simply because I'm certain that "Bin man" is not PC, and I don't know what is. Also, I feel bad for giving him my accusing glance, it's not his fault my parcel isn't here.

He told me our buzzer isn't working (which I knew, and I've been trying to get our landlord to fix it for some time, but he always fobs me off saying he needs to speak to all the other landlords that own flats in our building). He explained that this was why our bins haven't been collected for some time, and asked for my landlord's number.

This is all very well and good. I'm pleased that the refuse collection individual will call my landlord for me, and that the buzzer will be fixed, and that the rubbish will be taken away. Now I won't have to persuade someone else to take the rubbish downstairs so that I don't get eaten by a giant rat. On the other hand, I was going to use the rats to dispose of the postman's body, and I still don't have my parcel.

Postman... postman... Post delivery personnel? Physical communications manager? Git?

Tuesday, February 03, 2009


It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago, and I was very grateful for all of my gifts (even the ferrero rocher from Worby, that I reckon he probably picked up at a service station on the way in. They taste the same wherever you buy them from. They taste good).

I am going home at the weekend, since my parents didn't see me at my birthday, and want to see me now. I don't trust my postman, and its best not to ask why, because the rant's a long one. Anyway, they agreed to give gifts when I came home, though that's actually by the by.

As well as the FR from Worby (bless him) Nick's parents gave me a Thorntons box. I've always felt that being fat wouldn't suit me, my ankles couldn't take it, so I put both boxes of chocolates in the kitchen so my flat mates could have some. They did, though I suspect only out of the goodness of their hearts and concern for my delicate ankles.

I like chocolate. I know some people claim that they don't, but they are lying/robots. I thought I liked all kinds, even that 80% cocoa mass stuff, that people claim is too dark, I think it's perfect. I like white chocolate too, and all the weird flavours green & blacks do, though I've never been brave enough to try the chili one, I have put cocoa in chilies, and it works.

I have one question: What the hell do they put in the pink goo in the centre of the chocolates that are suppose to taste like strawberries? Seriously? They taste like cancer. Gone are the days when I could take a chocolate without looking at the "menu card" on the box, claiming that it doesn't matter because "I like them all". Now I have to carefully try to dodge the nasties, ideally without anyone noticing, the last thing I need is people thinking I'm fussy about chocolate, or they might stop giving me it.

Friday, January 30, 2009


I am a tea drinker. I enjoy coffee, but it makes the buzzing in my head a little too loud. Shortly after a cup of coffee I need a glass of red wine just to even things out.

It also makes me talk too quickly. I already speak too quickly for some people, I put this down to them thinking too slowly, but really, who am I to judge? It seems a fair assumption, but I haven't actually done any tests yet. Either way, it's very inconsiderate of me to drink coffee if there's a chance I'll have to speak with someone who can't keep up in the next hour.

Caffeine pills are even worse. I took a couple last Summer because I was tired and needed to work. I'd had a cup of tea and it had only made me feel warm. I had a coffee (with vanilla in it, can't drink it without) and it had only made me feel warmer. I had a couple of pro-plus. Ten minutes later my heartbeat matched the bass on whichever Chemical Brothers song I chose to play.

Amusing, but also kind of scary. I was too on edge to work and instead cleaned the whole flat and cataloged my DVDs. It's a mistake I won't make again, I prefer my DVDs messy and random, the good ones stand out better that way.

Today I stopped in Starbucks for a mocha. I refuse to use their sizing system, and ordered a "small." The girl said, "you mean tall?" I said, "No."

Fortunately she took the hint, or I would've had to point out that she was being pedantic about a pseudo-Italian sizing system in an ugly Glaswegian accent. That would have been mean. I'm not allowed to be mean to people in Starbucks because of the Incident.

The coffee was good, but after it I couldn't concentrate. I was trying to buy silver shoes, but I couldn't focus. I saw nothing I wanted. At first I was inclined to put this down to some kind of horrible depression, but then I realised it was just the caffeine confusing me.

I'll never drink coffee again.

Interestingly, you apparently need 12 cups of tea before you start hallucinating. I'm up for trying that out, but I need volunteers to make sure I don't try to slice my veins out of my arms, or take flight out of my window. Anyone? Anyone at all?

Monday, January 26, 2009


I am an easily entertained person. The sort of person who notices shiny things before anyone else notices (that or no one cares about shiny things as much as I do). I am also easily distracted, though if all possibility of shoe shopping is removed from a situation my attention span can be formidable.

I should point out that a) this has never happened, and b) shoe shopping is the exception that proves the rule. I have to shop alone, no one I know has the stamina.

Naturally this means I have a talent for procrastination. I've mentioned it before, so you know I really mean it. This combined with my limitless creativity means that I can always find something more interesting to do than the task at hand. Even if that task is my maths homework four hours before the tutorial. Actually, that's an easy one, my tutorials are at 10am, the best thing to do at 6am is sleep.

People confuse this with a lack of motivation. I disagree, I have too much motivation, which is why I want to do so many things that aren't my maths homework. Surely this is the kind of wonderful logic that brought me to the sciences in the first place?

I was discussing my lack of work with Euan, and he said that the carrot method doesn't work for me because I can always find a better carrot. This is true, but he's misspelling it. Instead, he thinks someone has to be a bastard to me until I get some work done. He has volunteered, because he's thoughtful like that.

Today however I have found myself full of motivation. You'd think it was because of exam result if you didn't know that I haven't been given them yet. You'd think it's because of my super-intelligent new tutor if you didn't know I actually find her a little intimidating. You'd think it's because I've just turned 20 and I'm afraid of wasting my life if you didn't know... me.

The fact is I've no idea why it's occurred. I think it might have something to do with a certain 2nd-hand book shop, but that's because that's all I can remember from my dreams last night. If I work out what's causing it, I'm going to distill it, bottle it and sell it to large companies. I'll make millions. Watch this space.