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.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Quiz
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.
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
Zombies
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?
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
Unoccupied
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.
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
Targetted
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.
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.
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
Skinny
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.
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.
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.
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 ;-)
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
Moving
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.
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
Empress
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.
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
Licked
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.
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
Newbie
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.
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
Lobster
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 totake 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.
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
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.
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