Justification

I accidentally bought a new hoodie last week. It was too expensive, but then, suddenly it was in the sale. Still too expensive, but I'd wanted it for ages, and my will was broken. I caved in and bought it. Incidentally it is now my favourite hoodie. In general I don't really like or wear the things, but this is 100% merino wool, which makes it ethical and super warm. It's also beautiful.

So, the only thing I feel guilty about is the price (which I shan't share with you). Now, I know that guilt is bad for you and that it can give you heart problems. I wouldn't want to die and make everyone sad, so I'm doing what I can to alleviate my guilt. I have (very responsibly) formulated a cunning plan. I think you'll like it, because you can probably implement it yourself and use it to justify all kinds of purchases.

Every time I wear the hoodie I shall make a note of the fact, until I have worn it as many times as it cost in pounds. That way, it only cost me £1 per wear, which sounds pretty cheap when you think of it that way. See? The perfection of the plan is in its simplicity.

Of course, I wouldn't want to stop there - I know when I'm onto a good idea after all. Also, I might not want to stop wearing it after... um... that many times. So, once I've got to that point I will start putting £1 in a jar (or rather, my savings account) for every further time I wear it. Later, when it's starting to look a bit sad, I can use the money to buy a new one!

Admit it. I'm a genius.

When can I be rich?

Elegance

Last January my flatmates got me a beautiful calligraphy set for my birthday, along with a book for practising in and an instruction book. It's probably my mother's fault that I like calligraphy, but it's my flatmates' fault that I'm now a little more skilled at it.

Writing lecture notes in a range of hands with different nibs and inks is always fun. It also means you end up producing a set of notes that you don't hate looking at. Oh, and because it takes so freakin' long you've basically learned everything you've written down by the time you're done. I'm at a speed now where I can write notes in calligraphy during the lecture - provided it's not a lecture where the whole time is spent writing.

I've learned a range of hands - from the relatively basic and pretty such as French Ronde to the complex and and elegant (if somewhat illegible) Black Letter. I've wasted many a happy hour carefully pencilling out guide-lines until I get the hang of sizing letters with a new pen and carefully removing them afterwards so no one can tell. Adding squiggly, curly, dotty designs and colouring things in is also entertaining.

I am a kind and giving person, so I'd love it if my skills could help others. Up until now though, I haven't had the confidence in myself to share them. What if I offered and then it all went wrong? I should be mortified.

Imagine then my glee when Harry volunteered me for making posters for the uni's Red Cross group. Not just any posters either - these are for the world AIDs day call to action event. It's a band night. They just want fairly basic things, some slogans written on card. I've been practising, and I don't actually think it should give me any trouble. (Plus I get to use my poster pen, which is very exciting).

I'm just slightly unsure. Do I really want this to be the first public display of my work, as it were? After all, the slogans are... well, see for yourself.

• "Wrap it before you tap it."
• "No balloon? No party!"
• "Listen to your granny, protect your fanny."
• "Condomise then womanise... or sodomise."
• "Protect your winkle before you sprinkle."

Somehow I don't think that a hand that is based upon the lettering commissioned by Emperor Trajan in Rome in around A.D.114 is quite appropriate. Maybe bubble letters? Perhaps graffiti-style text? No? Well, they're having none of it either.

I don't think I'll be signing them...

Get innocuous

Innocuous, adj, not harmful or offensive.

I'm not an enormous fan of LCD soundsystem; I consider most of their music to be a unique blend of whiny and dull. I do like the odd song, maybe two or three per album, and I seem to remember not hating get innocuous. However, I couldn't tell you how the song goes, I don't know what any of the other lyrics are, I can't hum the tune.

Maybe if I heard it I'd be able to say "oh yeah, I remember now." Maybe not, I wouldn't like to put money on it. I think perhaps Soulwax did a good remix of it.

Anyway. The phrase, not the song, not the idea, but the phrase itself has been stuck in my head for a good two weeks now. Every now and again the impulse the say it allowed occurs. Thus far I have resisted (in public). I'm told that getting words and phrases stuck in you head is not normal, but I'm disinclined to believe this. I feel fine.

Perhaps it's a sign. Not sure what for. Maybe I should obey it - I'm not sure I could currently claim to be either harmless or inoffensive, perhaps I ought to change my ways. On the other hand, if I do I'll be obeying the voices in my head. That probably is a problem.

Upside? I now have a good reason to avoid being harmless and inoffensive. Not that I needed an excuse, but I'm damned if I'm not going to use it now it's here.

Identity Crisis

Over the weekend I have been:

• A pirate
• A drunk
• A cowboy
• A fund-raiser
• A willing volunteer
• A cook
• A zombie
• Asleep.

I haven't been the vampire I planned to be on Saturday night, but these things happen. I also haven't been much like a dedicated physics student - but these things happen too. Besides, I get to be a student all the time.

Life would be much more interesting if dressing up were more acceptable on a more regular basis. There's a good chance you had a dressing-up box (or at least a dressing-kit) as a child. You were happier back then, weren't you? Let's go back to that.

Happy Hallowe'en.

Addict

My Amazon recommended list under "Books":

-Concepts in Thermal Physics - Stephen J. Blundell

-A First Course in General Relativity - Bernard Schutz

-Introduction to Elementary Particles - David Griffiths

-An Introduction to Modern Cosmology, 2nd Edition - Andrew Liddle

-Schaum's Outline of Optics - Eugene Hecht

-Lectures on Quantum Mechanics - Paul A. M. Dirac

-'What Do You Care What Other People Think?': Further Adventures of a Curious Character - Richard P. Feynman

-The Pleasure of Finding Things Out - Richard P. Feynman

-The Character of Physical Law - Richard P. Feynman

-Atomic Physics - D. C. G. Jones

-The Meaning of it All - Richard P. Feynman

-Mathematical Techniques: An Introduction for the Engineering, Physical, and Mathematical Sciences - Dominic Jordan

-Introduction to Fourier Optics - Joseph W. Goodman

-Particle Physics - Brian Martin

-An Introduction to the Physics of Nuclei and Particles - Richard Dunlap

That isn't edited, that's just the first 15 books (i.e. the first page of recommendations) that comes up. I'm willing to accept that I may have a problem - but I dispute any suggestion that I have some kind of Feynman addiction. I only own the 2nd volume of his lectures and his Easy and Not so Easy Pieces (not including the rest of the lectures on audio-book, or the copy of Surely You Must be Joking Mr Feynman that I picked up for the physics society library)

I just ordered a physics text book from amazon - hence noticing my recommendations. Principles of Optics by Born and Wolf if you must know. I ordered it because it was recommended as being useful for my project (which is on solid state physics, not optics, but nevermind). I don't have a copy, the society's library doesn't have a copy, the main library has three - but the only one available for long-term loan won't be back 'til November and I've never been cruel enough to request books back. Ordering it was my only option.

That's how it happens.That's how you wind up in a situation where you have more books for your course than you have books of any other kind - including fiction. It starts by getting the main recommended text for each course. Next you pick up any other text mentioned more than once because "it might be useful to have alternative explanation." After that you'll buy anything recommended at all, provided you can find a copy for under £10. Before you know it you're acquiring books by accident and you're running out of shelf-space.

Add this to the fact that I'm acting as the society's librarian this term - giving me full and constant access to the library - and I'm still buying books, and you'll understand the gravity of the situation.

I am an addict. I am ready to admit that. At least it's not crack.

Influence Map

This looked like fun, so I put one together. The idea is you find pictures representing things that influence you and then use it when you need inspiration later. Of course, realistically an unfathomable number of things influence us, so a "map" like this can never be complete. Still, they're quite entertaining to make.

Summer Scorcher

I have enjoyed summer. I have completed a Summer project. I have holiday-ed in London and Cornwall. I have chilled with family and friends in a number of locations. I have returned to Glasgow and I have found employment within nine days (no doubt I'll talk more about that in future posts).

This blog isn't really about nice things though. This blog is more often about dreadful (if amusing) things that happen to me. Presumably I deserve them for being such a shocker of an individual, but I'd rather not dwell on superstitions.

Cornwall then. Fantastic house, and let me begin by telling you a nice fact - even if that's not what this space is for. Sitting in a hot tub, with a glass of rum on the rocks, is quite simply the very best way to start your day.

Anyway. To balance things out. I took my much-beloved, limited edition, purple, ghd hair straighteners with me to Cornwall. I do tend to straighten my hair more often when I'm on holiday; I suppose it's because I have so much more time on my hands. All is vanity.

On the very last day (not the day that we thought was the last but turned out not to be) I decided to straighten my hair. Because the device is utterly adorable it emits two beeps when working; one when you turn it on and one when it's hot enough to use - which should be about 200°C. I heard the second beep, picked the straighteners up and clamped them down upon a section of my hair at the back.

This section instantly melted. Hissssssssssssssssss. Arghhhhhhhhhhhh! A quick google search tells me that the melting point of human hair varies with it's hydration, and that around 270°C is the maximum it can stand (who did that study? I should probably have saved the paper). Mine was potentially very slightly damp, although I had already blow-dried it. However, I dispute any possibility that the fault was mine.

Not only was the temperature hot enough to laminate my hair to the ceramic plates, it was hot enough to melt the glue which held the plates into the plastic. Not knowing what kind of glue they used (even though I'm an expert on the subject) I'm unable to find a realistic answer for the temperature using google. As a result I'm going to go for "it was as hot as the Sun" and let you do the googling.

In conclusion; my Ghd's ruined my hair, my day, and themselves. In approximately 5 seconds, which might be a record. If only my blog was influential enough to make them worry about their sales.

They won't though, and I know why. Even though I experienced a massive and traumatising malfunction with my set, they're still the best pair of straighteners I've ever had. I've got quite thick hair, and I've noticed it has a tendency to grow back, even if cut (or frazzled). So even though this whole ordeal was truly horrific, I'll probably get a new pair when I can afford one.

It wouldn't be unfair to accuse me of being shallow regarding this. However, after having time to calm down, I honestly feel that the most disappointing result is that I probably won't be able to find another pair in purple.

Trade

It had come to my attention that I no longer used my once much-loved Nintendo DSi. A sad thing to notice indeed. Nevertheless, I am a practical person, and if I have no use for a thing I once admired I know that I ought to give it up. I decided to trade it at Game, for credit, so that I might later purchase something I would rather have.

I took the console and my games (not trifling number I may add) to the store and gave them away. In return I received their value on a gift card. I left the establishment and threw away the bag I had been using to carry them. I wandered the town centre, picking up the odd item until I eventually found myself standing outside a different branch of Game.

I had previously decided against spending my credit that day, but I changed my mind, and entered. Soon a pleasant young man with a strong accent and a bad hair-cut was telling me things I didn't need to know about products I didn't want to buy. It was cool in the shop, though, and he wasn't being impolite, so I pretended to care about his opinions. I chose a few items (carefully disregarding his advice) and took them the the counter. A different young man was about to give me advice I didn't need on what had already chosen when I realised the gift card was gone. I rifled through my handbag and pockets: Nothing. I stammered excuses and left.

I searched my bag twice more to no avail. Then it struck me; the card must have been in the bag I had thrown away. Hellfire! I returned to the shopping centre and found a cleaner. I explained to her my predicament. She told me the bins had been emptied and it was likely that the rubbish inside them had been crushed, but radioed her comrade anyway. He arrived shortly thereafter and said he had been on his break - crushing had not yet occurred! Delight.

He vanished to the basement to search for my bag, warning me that he may be gone some time. I waited. He returned, bag in hand. I rejoiced until I opened it and discovered it empty. I may as well have simply thrown my unwanted gadgetry away. I explained what had been in the bag, and, noting my distress, he agreed to go have another look.

The minutes dragged by. I began to wonder if the card had ever existed at all. Perhaps my receipt would suffice? Doubtful. Eventually he returned, a small slip of held between fingers like pincers. "Is this it?" He queried.

"Yes! I can't believe you actually found it!"

"It's a bit messy I'm afraid, but you must be the luckiest person in the world."

The delightful little chap may have something there. The card was coated in grime, but it didn't bother me - I removed it with some ultra-cute tissues I had acquired during my earlier wanderings. I returned to the store and bought the items I had left behind earlier. The boy who's advice I had ignored had by now realised that I'd been ignoring him, he glared at me, I didn't care.

I may in the past have asserted that luck does not exist. I still consider this to be true. In spite of this fact, I do seem to have an awful lot of it.

Baldersgate

A junkie.

A Nazi.

A fully grown adult wearing a nappy.

A pimp.

The crossbow cannibal killer.

A person with bipolar disorder.

A domestic abuse victim.

A dead hooker.

Robert Mugabe.

Where are you if you find yourself drinking with the people listed above? Nope, not Hell, but close! You're at Archie's 21st Birthday Party: Guaranteed to ruin the prospects of anyone intending to go into politics.

Thanks Archie, I'd hate too see any of those people gain any real power. 'Cept myself of course, but it isn't as if I was going to gain power by pretending to be a good person anyway.

Certain party-goers are probably experiencing something approaching Hell by now either way. After all, we discovered this morning that we managed to work our way through all the tequila. Yes, all of it. No, I didn't pour any away - the bottle is empty. We drank it, it's gone.

The result of the party is this: Next time you're worried about looking silly at a fancy-dress party, or next time you're worried that your outfit is a bit too far, I will show you the photos from last night, and I will tell you to man up.

I can't wait for Hallowe'en.

iAddict

Disclaimer: Before you all run a mile, the "i" prefix on the title has nothing to do with Apple nor indeed Macintosh. In fact, this entry has remarkably little to do with technology of any kind.

Mostly, it has to do with caffeine, and the acquisition of it. I mentioned some time ago that I wasn't very good at drinking coffee. I run on enough nervous energy anyway, the addition of caffeine can occasionally produce destructive (if amusing) results. As I said before, if I have a cup of coffee I will shortly require a glass of red wine simply to even things out.

Since saying these things I have made two discoveries.

1. I can drink latte (and to a lesser extent cappuccino) without such an effect.

2. It may be the case that I was simply looking for an excuse to drink red wine, but apparently I don't actually need one.

So, during the exam period I needed places to study. I'm quite good at studying in my flat. I can study at the uni, provided that very few other people are doing so (which more or less ruled it out for the last month). I can't study in my flat all day every day without going completely mental - especially if earlier in the day I have had an exam.

In cases where I required a change of scene I tended to find myself, often with a flat mate, studying in one of the iCafes down the road (I told you it had nothing to do with Apple). This is not problematic until you begin to understand the sheer quantity of time I spent in these establishments. Arriving at noon and not leaving until 7pm was not rare. Clearly spending this kind of time in a cafe also meant that I was spending money in a manner that I'd rather not think about.

Naturally, then, I thought about it. After a fair bit of thought I decided it was not, in fact, all that bad. I made myself feel better about my situation - one which was beginning to look a little like an addiction.

Put it this way; I don't go out drinking very much. Maybe for the odd half here and there, but for the most part it isn't often that I find myself in a bar. I don't actively avoid them, I just don't really have the time. I tend to catch up a little outside term-time, but I'm certainly not making any effort to do so.

At the flat we have a tendency to provide for ourselves anything we are likely to want to drink - often in better style than we might find in a bar. I'm not suggesting that I don't drink, but a good 85% of my drinking is done in the flat - with friends and flat mates.

As for socialising; I can do that in a coffee shop. It's cheaper, lighter, the music is never so loud that you can't hear each other speak, the crowds are never rowdy, the toilets are always clean, and if anyone accidentally has a "drop too much" coffee, the worst side-effect I have found is jitters. No one ever got in a fight for that reason. No one sends confusing, coffee-infused text messages to friends at 3am because they've over-indulged. Do they?

You can sit in a coffee shop alone without looking like you have a problem. You can read a book in one without looking weird. You can study in one and no one bats an eyelid. Importantly, provided you keep buying drinks and the odd muffin - you can stay there all day, and no one will mind a bit. (Unless you're hogging the sofa, but tough, you got there first.)

If a caffeine addiction prevents an alcohol addiction so be it. My need is basically gone now the exams are over. However, come the next time I need to study hard, I suspect I'll find myself there once again. If you need me, look in the iCafe, just don't try to get me to leave.

Freedom

The exams are over and I am free. My experiences have left me with a piece of advice to share with you.

When sitting a maths exam do not wear a t-shirt covered in equations. It may seem like the appropriate choice for the day, but if you are not paying attention and have forgotten what is actually on it, you may look like a cheat.

Also, try to avoid accidentally affixing your question paper to your desk. This shouldn't be difficult, but believe me, the risk is very real.

Oh and, never claim that any question was "easy." In fact, don't even go so far as to say it "wasn't so bad." Either you will have got it wrong, and will look foolish, or someone else will have found it difficult and you will look insensitive. The two are not by any means mutually exclusive.

That is all. I'm going to go enjoy my Summer.

Fashion Advice

Ladies, may I have your attention, please? Thank you.

Many of you have been doing something rather vulgar lately. I am sure it is not your fault, perhaps you have been drawn into the wrong crowd, maybe you have fallen victim to fashion, or, it is even possible, that you don't know that what you're doing is wrong. So, I forgive you, and I will do what I can to help you correct your behaviour. I will not be so forgiving if I am ignored.

It is not my intention to offend, only to educate. However, if you are inadvertently offended, I am sure that I will get over it. You might, I guess it depends on your self-esteem. So, here goes.

Stop wearing tights or leggings* with t-shirts.

If the t-shirt is long enough to cover your ass even when you have to reach up on your tippy-toes to retrieve something from a high shelf, and when you bend down to pick something up off the floor, it is fine. However, only then is it long enough for me to consider your outfit decent without the addition of a skirt.

Dresses are fine, but need to be of at least the length described above. Shorts are also fine, but you must ask yourself if a hooker might wear them before you do so. It would be embarrassing to be mistaken for a hooker (unless, I suppose, you are one). Without these items though, you are simply not dressed properly.

Here's what you ought to do if you're not sure:

1. Get dressed.

2. Look in the mirror.

3. Consider whether or not you would be mortified if, once outside, I came up to you and said "Um... I think you've forgotten your skirt..." In the same manner that one would inform a stranger that their shoe-lace is untied.

4. If you can't see that happening, go about your business. If, on the other hand, it could happen, and it would ruin your day, put a damned skirt on.

The problem is, sometimes it's done on the catwalk. Sometimes it's done in magazines. The fact is, in real life, no one wants to see that. You're too fat. That's why you're not doing the modelling. I can see your cellulite through your tights. It's only 10am, and I feel nauseous.

Even if you're super-skinny it does you no favours. If I can see a panty-line I'm horrified, if I can't I'm still horrified. So is everyone else.

So, consider yourself warned. If I see anyone else guilty of this, I will tell them that they've forgotten their skirt. I will probably suggest they go home and put one on before anyone else notices. I'll give them a concerned look, as if I'm wondering where their carer is. I will ruin their day.

I won't tell you again.

Actually, while we're on the subject...

Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Thank you.

Pull your jeans up. Buy a belt. I don't want to see your ass either. It wasn't cute, endearing or cool in the 90s and it sure as hell isn't now.

Your ass is ugly, your boxers are ugly, I'm already assuming your face is ugly, and you haven't even turned around yet.

For goodness sake! Could everybody please just learn to dress themselves?

*Jeggings are also dreadful, but for different reasons. I might write about them too at some point, though only if the fad doesn't pass as quickly as I currently hope.

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.

Flood

Ahem.
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!

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.

Hobbling

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?

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.

Lucky

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.

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.

Happy

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.