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.

Angry

*Looks around sheepishly*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Requests for the full recipe to the usual address.

Something Awesome

Something wonderful just happened.

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

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

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

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

Uggh

Warning: Mini-rant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deutsch

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.