Benefit fraud

Received a letter from the TV licensing authority this morning, informing me that if I didn't contact them in the next two weeks to buy a TV license, I'd be taken to court. Er - excuse me?? Called the toll free number, that is not toll free from my phone here as the university has us on some stupid system or other, and spoke to some suitably stupid sounding cretin who supposedly sorted the problem out. The outcome is this: I will not be hassled for the next three months, and after that period an Officer will visit the premises to ensure I don't have a TV and then - having confirmed this - they'll leave me alone for a year.
Just out of curiosity, how much money is it costing them (and therefore, the taxpayer) to check I don't have a television? Why can't these blasted companies put all their resources into finding the real Fraudsters in this country? Easily done: drive around any of our council estates, and the houses with satellite TV and a car parked outside are probably cheating the benefit system. Although saying that, the amount of income support people receive in this country is now so high that maybe the presence of sat.dish and car wouldn't prove anything: they should be looking out for people with dubiously good suntans and sporting a Rolex and maybe then they'll find someone cheating the system.
Half of the people in the UK have lost any concept of pride these days. They say they get a better deal living off the state than if they were working - but personally, I'd rather work in a factory and at least earn my own wage than just take handouts from the government. Am I right in thinking that in the USA people can only claim for six months when 'out of work' then they're on their own? Seems to me that needs to be done in the UK for a while, get some people out there into the real world.
Check out the picture: kids of four years old 'working'. No, I don't agree with that at all, but I can assure you they're a darn sight nicer than the brats my country seems intent on producing these days. And you actually want to help them, rather than throw them into nearest available canal after beating them soundly with one of their multiple playstations.

Back to reality with a bump

As I tuck into my cut price milk chocolate santa tree decorations, I am decidedly disgruntled. While in Goa, I succeeded in frying my mobile phone battery - correction, an idiot of a Welshman did this for me with some blasted gadget or other that he said would do the trick. Ambled into Oxford centre this morning and after fighting my way through the bargain hunters (and what a ghastly breed of people they really are) managed to speak to an offensively ugly sales person in Dixons. Who informed me a replacement battery would be around GBP60, and that was if they could get hold of it, which they can't. As apparently my phone was only made for a brief period and discontinued. He essentially also pointed out that most people who own mobiles aren't stupid enough to fry the battery in the first place... and then tried to sell me a replacement handset for nearly GBP200. It may be Christmas time but I'm not a total sucker.
In effort to make the trip into town not entirely wasted, I poked my head into Waterstones (bookstore) who ostensibly had a Huge Sale taking place, but personally I don't want Jamie Oliver's cookbooks at any price. Nor a guide to Restoring Antiques, fascinating though I'm sure it was. (Aside: my milk chocolate santas are faceless. Disturbing. Or is it more disturbing that I'm concerned by the lack of face on a chocolate tree decoration? Oh, I don't know).
Well, the upshot of all that is: you can't contact me by phone. I haven't checked my messages in nearly three weeks so if you've texted and are offended by lack of response, there is my reason. If you want my landline number then email me and I'll send it you. Bear in mind that I have no way of getting anybody's mobile number either so I can't call even if I want. At least it gives me an excuse to be permanently online for the next few days. I'm now reminded of a great quote from Wilde that I'm going to paraphrase for my purposes: my huff has arrived and I'm departing in it.

A few quotes from Really Dumb People

I have ranted to some of you recently about my being permanently pursued by an amazingly stupid couple out here. Anyhow, I thought I would throw a few choice examples in your general direction as some of you don't entirely believe just how dumb people can be.
1. Him. 'So yeah, I wanna round up all the fookin' Muslims and put 'em all in one bloody big room and just, you know, shoot 'em. You know what I'm saying?'
Me. 'You don't think that is slightly...hmm... extreme?'
Him. 'No, for f**** sake, they like killed our white BROTHERS didnt they.'
Me. 'Um... yeah.' (Seriously, how can you argue with that??)

2. Her, reading out horoscopes from newspaper. 'This month, you will feel a lot of fatty goo.'
Me. 'Huh??'
Her. 'Fatty goo'.
Me. 'Let me see... er, you mean fatigue'.
Her. 'Oh... What's that?'
Dear Lord, if you exist, strike her down. I swear my seven year old niece knows the word 'fatigue', both in terms of spelling and meaning.

3. Him. 'Uh - I hate it when people have bad table manners. It really grosses me out like. You know what I mean?'
As he promptly spears an onion on his fork, rests elbow on table and proceeds to gnaw at said pickled vegetable.

I could go on but I want to shoot myself already at the thought of another two days in the immediate vicinity of this couple. What have I done to deserve this?

Anyway, all of you: Happy Christmas! Think of me hurtling across the world in a steel capsule, if you like, while munching into your fiftieth mince pie of the day. Hope you all have a lovely day (those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, just have a nice day in general. Eat too much and drink too much, good excuse to). And while I'm here, incase I forget, have a damn good new year as well.

Er - crikey

Was going to add a post just confirming to you readers out there that yes, I'm still doing NOTHING at all in Goa but ponce about on a beach most of the time. Was going to be lighthearted natter, with bit of a rant thrown in about couply-couples for good measure, but just saw my bank balance online and haven't the heart.
No, firmly fed up now. Will go and eat chocolate and mope.

Goa Gabble

(Well, you try coming up with a good and relevant adjective beginning with 'G').
Brief post (ignoring the German rant that should be following on from my series - will have to be postponed a while). Merely saying hola, I'm here. That would be Goa. Ostensibly India but fairly firmly agreed with everyone here that Goa is not even remotely representative of that country. Having spent a few days being ripped off in one poncy establishment, have moved down to a hut on the beach - my upturned palm tree comes complete with bathroom attached, which is rather a novelty considering the last place I was at had a bucket of water for a shower. (Which is GREAT if you've got some suitably nice guy handy to help you out...). Having a few mozzie issues but dealing with them with my mighty 100% DEET. (You people all concerned about the environment, don't bother starting to give me a lecture on the effects of DEET - personally my immediate concern rests with what the blasted environment is doing to me). Tan is not exactly doing what it should - have spent half the time quaking under a beach umbrella terrified of emerging incase I burn. However, have six days now until I am moving to a different beach with hardly any shade at all so am building up my resistance levels in that time. So far, no obvious burn patches to report... no obvious tan patches either, come to that. Huh. Grr.
Am slightly concerned by the fact I actually miss some of you guys. Am all for my Independent Travel but think I may actually have to glare at some of you next year and drag you off to a villa far away - okay, northern Spain would do it in the summertime. Greek island. Somewhere. Anywhere. Get those thinking caps on, chaps and chapesses!
No, the sun is NOT going to my brain... Dammit.
Off for dinner of some description. Could have a full english breakfast if I so desired - yeah, not exactly 'India' at all, is it.

Flirtatious French

I'll get over to the French in a minute, but first my excuses in advance for this posting. Let's just say that this morning I'm not firing on all cylinders - and having received a text at 0450 from my housemate informing me that he was still at large on the town, I dread to think what sort of state he is in. Praise be to extended drinking hours... Speaking of whom, much grr-ness going out to him, it is NOT amusing to kick large puddles of water over a girl repeatedly. Okay okay, I know I'm not exactly a 'girlie girl' and didn't have make-up or fancy hair-do to worry about, but even so. Chuh. Feel guilty. (And you can pay me back in drinks at some point). For the record, Reader, I'm nowhere near organised for India. Haven't entirely decided how I'll fit in all I have to unless shops stay open all night and I get no sleep. Hate being disorganised like this.

The Flirtatious French. I must admit my experiences of the French have been fairly positive. Obviously as an English lass, on principle I have to mock their garlic-eating, cheese-consuming, vino-guzzling habits. And also make regular jokes about the 'French Resistance', and something of a lack of it. How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris? They don't know, they've never tried...
But that aside, I like the French. Correction: I like French men. There are generally two species, and we had a representative of each in my Lancaster boatclub. There is the pale skinned, dark haired type - the one you imagine wearing a striped jersey cycling along with suitable quantities of onions and baguettes attached to the bike. He is the quieter, more subtly romantic type, the one who would have been in the Resistance and would die saying 'vive la France'. Then there is the other - taller, blonde, more Scandinavian in appearance I suppose. The one who over-exaggerates his French-ness because he knows his charm is irresistible. Many fond memories of just such a guy, who firmly retained his accent, drank wine in copious volumes, spent his summers sailing off Corsica, and charmed my socks off on regular occasions (and possibly a few other items of clothing as well).
The French seem to me to be an incredibly proud nation. And why not indeed - their capital city is surely one of the most genuinely romantic places in the world, they have beautiful mountains in the south, beaches, Cannes, croissants. For those of you have not eaten croissants as made in France, you have not eaten croissants. And going to 'La Brioche Doree' at the airport doesn't count as eating French food.
I've spent about a fortnight in Paris, and on pretty much every day there was a strike of some sort. France has more public holidays than any other country in the world (if anybody can really be bothered to count them all up and tell me I'm wrong - go for it. You clearly have no life and should not be reading my blog). The fact that France keeps on going is something of a mystery, given that at any one point a good half of the workforce are missing in action. I imagine that it would be a valid excuse to turn up to work and say, 'Monsieur, I am so sorry, but there was this charming lady - '. 'Say no more, say no more. I hope you had a beautiful time together.'
From what I understand, France is under invasion again. This time from those ghastly middle class Brits seeking desperately a 'second home' for no reason other than their kids have gone off to college and they don't know what to do with themselves. Rural France is now swarming with Brits, off to follow the footsteps of that Year in Provence. 'We will become bilingual, grow our own lavender, be beautiful and tanned'. Translation: we will speak French with a ghastly accent and believe that the smiles made in our direction are ones of encouragement, rather than the poor person trying to stop breaking out in laughter; growing lavender will become buying tonnes of that plant in dried form, and hanging it randomly from 'the quaint beams', and as for being beautiful and tanned... Lardy and lobster-like would be more apt. Much as the Brits would love to become French, we can't, and should accept this before we start.
France is a country of romance and mystery, of Sartre and de Beauvoir, the Moulin Rouge and Les Miserables. And - returning to my title - complete flirts. They know they're charming and beautiful and irresistible and play on this massively. Girls: watch out. You know you'll have a fantastic time, that your knees will melt when he kisses you, but the chances of him remaining faithful are nil. Accept that, and you're in for some fantastic 'va va voom'.

Arrogant Americans

Welcome to the first in a series of posts - starting off with Arrogant Americans, we'll glide gently into Flirtatious French, Jaded Germans, Sexy Spanish and Amorous Argentines. Ending on a high note with Boring Brits. I intend to be as controversial as possible, play on as many stereotypes as I can, and generally entertain myself. If you bother to take offence at any of my posts, er, I guess you don't know me so well... 'Tongue in cheek' is an apt description.

Arrogant Americans. It is a standard expression, and one I'm not entirely sure I go along with on all occasions. I mean, sure, they're distressingly loud and brash - sit in a coffee shop and if there is a single American in there, they will ensure that the entire place can hear their scintillating conversation. Being from arguably the most powerful nation in the world at present, principally because they go around building nuclear weapons while telling everybody else not to, some of the inhabitants do genuinely believe that saying, 'Hey, bud, I'm an American' will get them anywhere. America is a land that generates fads - some good, some just weird. The recent reintroduction of knitting as a 'cool hobby' mystifies me, and only a few months ago I remember reading about 'laughter therapy'. This has moved to London as well, and the basic principle is you go sit with a bunch of strangers and pay vast amounts to sit and laugh. At absolutely nothing - no Monty Python in the background or any encouragement. 'Laugh, dammit'. Huh. Weird.
The American Abroad was summed up beautifully by E M Forster in 'Room With a View', when a girl says to her father which city was Rome and he responds, 'Say, wasn't that the place where we saw the yellow dog?' Whereas some are swept away by history and artefacts - given that America has very little history of its own, having killed the natives who were busy creating it - others just don't have a clue.
Americans are a strange mix. They simultaneously love guns and power, attend rallies in their thousands to shout and chant (and be totally ignored by their President), and yet find me an American female who isn't obsessed with hair dye, nail polish, the latest Uber-Eyelash-Lift-Maxi from L'Oreal (or whatever it is that is in vogue at present). They repeatedly vote 'Everybody Loves Raymond' as a favourite show, and yet they are also responsible for 'The Simpsons'. While churning out ghastly Hollywood films, they have also been behind some of the most incredible writing of the last two centuries (Tennessee Williams springs immediately to mind).
They are enthusiastic about everything - tell am American they're going to spend the day, oh I don't know, learning how to cook a five course meal over a candle, and they will come from all over the land to attend such an event. Even a hint from their fine President that someone 'could attack at any moment' and they will take this to heart, stripping the shelves in local stores of torches, tinned food, bottled water, tape to put over their windows. Their basements - and how Americans love their basements - are permanently on stand-by as temporary home for when the (apparently inevitable) nuclear bomb lands.
One of the great things about Americans is their stupid, stupid pride. I tell you, there are many theories as to why America and Cuba aren't exactly on the best of terms. I say it is because the Americans are mighty cheesed off about the whole Bay of Pigs episode and would very much like the world to forget about it, and thus reject the existence of Cuba. Brilliant. Ignore a problem and yup, it really will go away.
Despite the fact Americans brought us MacDonalds, Coca Cola, a World League in a game that they themselves only compete in, some total lunatics (KKK and Bible Bashers for example), they did also bring us Ben and Jerrys. And for that, I can forgive them anything. God Bless America.

Schizophrenia explains it all...

Thank you BBC for providing me with a fantastic excuse for being a bit of a tart at times. (Was going to use the word 'awesome' in there but feel have massively over-used it of late, is due to being surrounded by Americans influencing my vocabulary with their appalling lower-middle class attempts at adjectives). Apparently, according to some research by the OU and Newcastle Uni, people who are 'artistic' generally have 'schizotypal traits' and this somehow leads them onto having more 'sexual partners' (aka, thump monkeys, in non technical terms). See? I have academics backing up my actions. In addition to this, people who have accused me of being mild-Aspergers (something low down on the autism scale) have further added to my strong arguments that I simply Can't Help It.
Do you think this defence would stand up in court? No, I didn't either.
I was going to lead this into a whole expose (e with an accent there) on the merits of sleeping with people, but am pulled up short - you'll be glad to hear - because I had an email the other day that reminded me of two people who read this blog and maybe, well, maybe I should stick with a more moral approach to life. (Hello J & G, I hope you don't take everything I say on here entirely literally and I haven't lowered myself in your minds).
Right - today is my day for Sorting Out India since I have done very little in that direction, down to I don't have anywhere to stay yet, no travel insurance, the batteries in my camera have died, and oh bugger, I haven't started taking anti-malarials and think I should today. Or is it tomorrow. Doh. I did arm myself with vast quantities of sun lotion of various factors in Sainsbury's yesterday (really feel that when you spend over £20 on such a substance it should come complete with Free Man to rub it into your back), and for safety's sake endless packets of diareeze for the inevitable Delhi Belly. (I say 'inevitable', since I don't eat curry and am ludicrously careful when I travel I think, fingers crossed, I should be okay). Despite increased lardiness, the bikini does still fit, and I managed to squeeze into my shorts the other day for when I'm in the tourist areas. Which I get the feeling could be a large portion of the trip as I really do need a beach, palm, monkey and book and not much else.
Somehow made it to nearly midday and I've achieved nothing. Right - off out to be Efficient and Organised. Despite my schizophrenic, Aspergers, personality. Ha.

Getting fed up with being cold...

As most of you are fully aware, I just don't 'do' cold. Terrible things happen to my body. At the moment, for example, I have the Annual Zit Convention taking place on my chin, and the blighters clearly have a lot to discuss this year as they're settling in for the long run by the looks of things. Additionally - and totally illogically - when it is cold my body gets mighty confused by everything and takes it upon itself to sweat gallons. Put me in a hot climate and I'm fine, into a cold room and suddenly GUSH, leaking all over the place. As with many others, I am forced on a daily basis to wear a hat, something I put off until the last possible moment because my already ghastly hair becomes somehow ghastlier when it has been concealed by a warm fleecy number for anything over thirty seconds. My face becomes white and pinched, my nose alternates between streaming or Rudolf-impersonating, and as a final defence invites a load of spots to come visit in an effort to, I don't know, provide padding and get warm or something.
In addition this year, I have the joy of having to deal with a bike. Gloved hands are not nimble enough to get the numbers of my bike lock code into the correct order, and therefore I start my day off (frequently at 6:30am) with a nice bout of frostbite-inducing metal-touching. This whole process is repeated every time I leave my bike somewhere, and thus I am caught between walking to avoid the bike-related nastiness, or cycling to avoid the walking-related nastiness. Neither exactly gets the whole body warm. Could really do with being able to row to lectures - now that gets every muscle group going.
I hate being cold (especially in this country, there is remarkably little point when snow is a freak occurence and generally it is cold for no reason at all), I look terrible when it is cold, and I hate having to make the decision between being warm and wearing ten jumpers in true Michelin Man style, or being cold but remotely fashion-conscious. As fashion-conscious as I get. I am a person designed for warmer climes, ideally a place that magically turns cold on the rare occasions when I want it to - you know, snuggling up by the fire with somebody (in actual fact have never DONE this, just always rather fancied the idea), playing a nicely flirtatious game of snow balling (have done that and honestly can't recommend as ended up in casualty with the other party, him having slipped and almost broken his wrist), y'know, couply wintery stuff.
No, warm places are the way forwards. That way as well you get to avoid any nasty surprises when you leap eagerly into bed with someone - I mean, a pair of speedoes doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination and you have advance warning of what are actually very narrow shoulders cunningly disguised by clothing, or such nasties as the Hairy Back.
Right - I'm off to hand wash all my jumpers. Since the only warm jumpers are woollen ones, which obviously can't go in the washing machine. Another stupid thing about this blasted time of year. GRRR.
Oh - quickly though. My brief bonus of recent days. I drove an E-Type Jag. V12 engine. Yuh huh, I did too. Think I have possibly found an activity that supercedes sex - or at least bad sex. Driving an absolute BEAST of a car. (Yes Andy, maybe you're right, sex in the back of an E-type could in fact be the ultimate experience. If somewhat uncomfortable).

Developing morals...

Right - I am frustrating even myself here. This is a combined rant of 'morals' and 'singledom', and distressingly the two are finally coming together for me. If you scroll back a few months, I remember writing a post with the pros of singledom, and this definitely included the option to randomly sleep with guys on odd occasions. Which is satisfying on a number of levels, including the fact that I could easily go beyond my standard 'physical level' as it were and ended up with some particularly delectable individuals.
Okay, just had a ten minute break to amble down memory lane. Where was my point going... Oh yes, I used to have it made. I lived on my own in the middle of nowhere, thus it was very easy to have 'gentleman callers' and nobody had to be any the wiser on university campus the next day, plus I was used to living by myself, being by myself, and was absolutely fine with that. I am now living in a shared house which means that nobody can call (let alone anything else) without somebody noticing, and also I've gotten used to having people around. I now generally loathe weekends as half the people I know in Oxford go careering off in the direction of their respective partners and leave me to twiddle my thumbs or spend time with one of the very few single people I know here. And their numbers are dwindling rapidly as more and more are finding 'other halves'...
This has a point. It definitely had a point. Oh yes. I was quite willing to settle back into a lifestyle of debauchery (housemates and their comments aside) when I came to Oxford but have found from somewhere, God knows where, morals. They are messing with my life. This weekend I was forced to tell someone not to visit on the basis that they like me too much for 'casual sex'. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?? It ultimately means I'm on the lookout for something more than that - and yet, simultaneously, I don't think I'm ready for 'more than that'. I am actually destined to be single and henceforth celibate. (Oy - some of you, stop laughing). In two weeks time I have the ultimate test of how strong my new found morals really are: I'll be hitting the tourist trail in India and everyone knows what some of the huge perks are of international travel...
So all of you get your fingers crossed that soon I either find a guy to genuinely sweep me off my feet (much as I disapprove of such dramatic gestures) , or I get over my moral-goodness. I'm starting to annoy myself with half the prudish comments I come out with these days. Sigh.

Neruda

Indeed - Neruda. I thought I'd educate some of you out there. Pablo Neruda, amongst multiple other things a fairly awesome poet from Chile. Have spent the evening cheerfully immersing myself in a deepening depression by reading through some of poems of the most undiluted misery that I know. Anyway, I thought I'd put one on here - which is ultimately, well okay you decide what it is. But whichever way you view it, unless you are a peculiarly soul-less individual, you must surely view it as a beautiful work of art. I apologise for those of you who read Spanish and are offended by the poor English translation...

Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starryand the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all.
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's.
As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body.
Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Why I curse the radical feminists...

For those of you lucky enough not to be in the know, the radical feminists were those bra-burning enthusiasts of the 1960s/70s who 'liberated' women from the role of house-wife and home-maker. I say, blast them. I could be living it up at the moment, married to some fool of a guy who charges out of the house at the crack of dawn and doesn't return until late in the evening, working his socks off so that I and our inevitable sprog have somewhere to inhabit. What were those feminists thinking - we women had it sorted. Okay, so every now and then there was the odd plate to wash, but we now have the wonderful invention of the dishwasher. And the huge bonus feature is that you don't even have to see the guy most of the time - he's too busy out and feeling important and 'manly' earning a decent wage. The joy of the fling with the milkman is lost forever as single women frankly don't have time for such delightful indecencies. They are too busy balancing work and social life and child care and household chores.
Whereas loads of women were suddenly up in arms, declaring that we wanted the same rights, I say they were the fools. 'Patriarchal society' indeed. Women had it MADE, and the guys didn't even seem to question it. We could sit around all day reading and 'bettering ourselves' by learning to play the piano, perhaps doing a spot of needlework, taking a gentle stroll about the garden and upon returning to our easy chair by the hearth arrange the flowers we found there. Constructing a cake - although not exactly my forte - is hardly classifiable as a tough day's work.
No, now I'm expected to work. To have a career. To be terrifyingly independent to the point where I either terrify all guys who daren't speak to me lest they anger me, or to the point where I refuse to speak to them for fear of giving up some of my hard-earned independence that I should really appreciate because so many women fought for it.
Damn them.
Damn 'liberation'.
I am CLEARLY designed for a life of idleness, perhaps pushing a pen about a page once in a while at a pretence of earning some money. Looking after kids? Fine by me - since my future sprog will not be attending school and I do actually want to see my children occasionally. Ghastly places, schools, full of other peoples' ghastly children. Not having my kids bullied and teased and 'stressed out, man' for the sake of their experiencing the 'real world'. They'll have to live in it some day - stave it off as long as possible. Everyone so intent on achieving and 'fitting in' (thanks, UK government, for the latest idea on guidelines for three month olds and what they should be able to do) they forget that hang on, we've only got one life, might as well at least have an attempt at enjoying some of it.
Yeah - its a grand, idealised theory I know. Will go back to university work with a view to joining the rat race before much longer...

Only a month and I get to don bikini and shorts as standard clothing once again. India, here I come. Absolutely can't wait for sun, real sun! (For all of you who are concerned reading that - don't worry, I will cover up away from tourist areas. I do have respect for other cultures...). Tanning. Wow. Heaven.  

Gossip

I remember a friend once telling me a story about some mutual friends of ours who had recently broken up. According to the story, the guy turned up on the girl's doorstep one evening with a list that included what annoyed him about her, what she could do better (strong indications that the bedroom department was involved here), and why they should break up. She promptly slams door in his face and well, yes, it was kind of over after that.
Come on - that just wouldn't happen. It was entertaining. I made the mistake in a moment of pre-lecture-boredom of telling yet another mutual friend of this episode, and within a few hours had received a complete rant of an email from the girl in the tale informing me that I was a malicious canniving bitch who shouldn't spread such rumours. I might have felt guilty except that this particular wench was instrumental in making my life hell for more than a year with regard to my personal life - and she really did get personal. No comedy stories of something that blatantly couldn't have happened. (Er - well, I'm really hoping not...).
So as a rule, I'm against gossip. I like gossip - I mean, I'm interested in people. I love knowing the ins and outs of this and that but if somebody tells me to shut up, go away, leave it, then generally I do. Because I know what it is like to be perpetually discussed and have a private life analysed that frankly has nothing to do with anybody else.
I've gotten to the point where I'm so against gossip that I deliberately go out of my way to ensure the opposite of whatever is implied actually happens - in other words, I let annoying mindless moronic idiots dictate half of my personal life. As a general rule, I don't care what other people think. And as a general rule, people don't say what they do really think about you - except somehow as regards your 'chosen partner'. Which should be the most sodding personal aspect of your world and yet it is seen as open territory to be discussed at large.
I could rant forever about this, my past experiences have made me so mad. But I'll shut up now and just leave you readers with the thought that if I choose to mention something to you, if I talk to you about something, then okay. Discuss it. Otherwise, go jump. None of your goddam business. GRRR.
NB. This is not directed at anyone specifically. Maybe warning a few of you for future reference.

U.S. Spending...

This is a brief rant - and I'm sorry, not returning to the light-hearted rants as proposed in my previous posting. I was just googling around on the internet and came across a website that informed me of the US spending on foreign aid, the figures for 1997. It would seem that America spent a massive $3284million funding overseas arms transfer, and yet managed only to expend $65million on peacekeeping forces. This means that the US spent roughly fifty times more money starting wars than trying to stop them. Anybody see any logic in this?
And just to annoy myself somewhat further, I have scrolled down the website and found some other baffling figures. Now, I know that the US does ultimately have the interests of the US at heart, but bear in mind I am looking on the website that highlights the US Spending on Foreign Aid. Implication being, what the US spent on helping a few bods abroad. $715million promoting US exports and, get this, a further $45million to, and I quote, 'Finance feasibility studies and other services for major activities in developing countries to support economic development and U.S. exports.' I believe I'm missing a point in here somewhere, but from what I see the US is doing the sum total of bugger all to help with any economy other than that of the US.
Are people really inherently selfish? I like to think not, but maybe that is just me being overly hopeful on occasion. Have a feeling Dawkins', 'The Selfish Gene' may be relevant here. Must get me a copy.
Oh - Happy Halloween, dear Reader!

Creating Priorities

This rant is brought about by my increasingly frustrating Women's Studies course and an article I read on the BBC website today (I do have other sources, honest, just rarely cite them). Apparently, China held a mass speed dating event with over five thousand people attending. The concept appealed on the basis that they have no time in their working lives to meet other people, and thus the 'speed' element was fairly essential as well.
This comes after I have been delving into de Beauvoir this afternoon (distractions of films, MSN, phones and housemates aside) and I'll quote her as it makes life easier: 'According to the Platonic myth, there were at the beginning men, women, and hermaphrodites. Each individual had two faces, four arms, four legs, and two conjoined bodies. At a certain time they were split in two, and ever since each half seeks to rejoin its corresponding half.' See - I like that concept. At the risk of being viewed as amazingly cheesy by the world at large, I would even dare to say I think it is beautiful. And frankly, I seriously doubt that the Gods intended us to meet the other half of ourselves at some government organised mass speed dating effort. Doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the story, does it?
This does relate to my Women's Studies course. Everybody has been bellowing recently about how we should have equal rights, how women should be able to go out to work even when they have children, how men should do their share of the housework. I am fed up with this attitude everybody has these days of 'wanting everything' and somehow expecting it. Plus, they want it NOW. I know I'm not the most patient person in the world, but I can hardly be accused of being a 'serial dater' - one of those girls who spends their entire time with one boyfriend or another, staying together as long as it suits, not because there is actually any feeling between them.
I like the idea of things being 'meant to be'. Not least because it takes a great deal of pressure out of life, and because it means there is no point battling against things all the time. When something is meant to happen, it will. And furthermore, when you take the step to have children it should be because you actually want them, not feel you need them as some form of fashion accessory. I've no argument with people wanting a career - go for it. Just don't expect to have the 'family life' as well.
I feel as if I've been getting overly serious of late on this blog... Hm. Must cut down on that and revert to light-heartedness or I'm going to lose a few readers, methinks.
I'm off to pop my blisters. Cursed blade handles.

Bless this Age of Technology

As a general rule, technology and everything that goes along with it (instruction manuals the size of small dwellings, the potential to lose entire essays in the click of a button, the development of such ailments as 'repetitive strain injury' adding unnecessary strains to the over-stretched health service) annoys the hell out of me. Today, however, I'm more inclined to thank part of it - despite having completely lost my voice courtesy of a particularly vicious cold, I'm still able to rant to you. I could rant that too much effort has gone into the creation of this technology allowing me to post to worldwide readers my frustrations with loss of ability to speak, and not enough effort has gone into ensuring my voice stays with me at all times. But frankly, I don't have the energy.
So what has Technology really done for us? It has removed the necessity of washing dishes - replacing this relatively calming activity with the requirement to bend and lift, bend and lift, as you empty the dishwasher (RSI resulting). It means that we can hurtle around the world in a capsule and arrive in Australia less than twenty four hours after leaving home, thus replacing that three month cruise where people used to meet and form lifelong friendships. On the flight we are provided with eyemasks and earplugs to block out any thought of the presence of others. Whereas years ago people would walk down the lane to a barn and dance the night away with their close-knit community, we now travel potentially miles and miles to launch ourselves into a room filled with glaring lights flashing erratically and 'music' being forced on us at such a volume we are unable to speak to those immediately next to us. Technology means I can talk to a coffee farmer in Jamaica more easily than my next door neighbour; I can form friendships with people across the Atlantic more readily than with others in my home town. Everybody who uses the likes of MSN knows that it is remarkably easy to say things that you wouldn't ordinarily in conversation - to some extent you are distanced from your words as you type them. While some say this is a positive, I say otherwise: you can end up in situations that you would never normally have intended, having convinced yourself that somebody 'knows the real you'.
Technology has essentially allowed us to become increasingly disconnected from the world around us as it strives to demonstrate just how connected it can make us. A three year old boy sat with the dead body of his mother for two weeks in Scotland recently: nobody knew he was in the house, or that she had died. My God, what has the West become?

Like a fish needs a bicycle...

Well okay, I hold my hands up and admit this post actually has nothing to do with fish - I just always liked that expression and have an excuse to use it, given that I am embarking on a rant about bicycles. Focussing primarily on the inability of particularly female cyclists to ride safely around this city. I am fed up with ambling along merrily in my cycle lane and coming up against any of the following:
a. somebody 'pulling out' into the lane without stopping to check if anybody is already hurtling their way along it. Much slamming on of brakes (which reminds me, really should make it so that my bike brakes at least pretend to function).
b. some prat of a person stopping for no reason. No reason at all. Maybe they thought their phone was ringing, maybe a particularly colourful butterfly was speeding past, or maybe they just thought hey, my legs hurt, I'm going to stop for a minute. Someone behind me? Pah, their problem.
c. I was cycling along yesterday behind a girl who I had been trying to overtake for a while but she kept swinging out a tad too far, then, just to add to her obvious stupidity, she randomly pulled onto the pavement and carried on cycling. Awesome - I speed up to pass and she suddenly slams back off the pavement into the cycle lane, causing me to go out into the road and virtually into the path of a car.
There are multiple other scenarios I could detail, but essentially what I'm saying is this: everyone who comes to Oxford with the intention of cycling should be given a road-safety test. And if they fail, they can damn well walk. And have the walking-safety test while they're at it - i.e. LOOK FOR BIKES COMING. Good God, for a city of supposedly intelligent people, there are some mighty dumb ones as well.

Inconsiderate Garden-Goers

Being a member of Oxford University has a few advantages - one of the possibly more minor ones being that you are granted free access to the botanic (botanical?) gardens here. After talking about them last night with a particularly drunk example of a Swede, I was reminded of my aim to 'see the ivy', as is done in 'Brideshead Revisited'. Anyhow, yes, I headed there early this afternoon to sit in the sun - armed with, for good measure, some of my course reading and a large bottle of water in an attempt to rehydrate my body. (The course reading obviously to rehydrate my mind rather than the more literal flesh and blood). Digressing. Right - found a nice bench on which to perch myself and ponder the imponderables of existence, and settled down for a good hour or so of doing remarkably little while pretending to do an awful lot.
Not five minutes after delving into those thoughts one only has in moments of distinct solitude, my peace was interrupted by a group of overgrown children. Specifically, women out celebrating the birthday of one of them and this apparently necessitating much squawking, fake laughter, and multiple air-kisses, that ultimate demonstration of the sophisicated mind in our day and age. After enduring the pointless and overly loud chat for a good ten minutes, I stalked off muttering loudly about quiet, rest, and the role of the recluse in gardens today. I doubt they took the hint, they were so busy exclaiming over a tea pot shaped as a country cottage. Delightful.
Just as libraries are kept silent, so perhaps gardens should be the outdoor version of a haven. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm not in a city and it is a bit difficult if people insist on being loud and brash right next to me while waving multiple carrier bags and passing round the cigarettes. Maybe I'll go back mid-week, should be quieter then... If not, will resort to the museum and spend my time among the dinosaur bones. How 'improving'.

Blithering Idiots

Yes, I know that I generally believe there are multiple categories of people who can be classed as Blithering Idiots. This particular rants refers to those whose bizarre intention in an interview is to make you feel about two inches tall (impressive for someone starting off at six feet) and as if every idea you ever had was stupid, pointless and a waste of thinking time. Honestly, I have never come across a pair of such arrogant IDIOTS in my lifetime. For those of you not in the know, I was trying to change from my MSt. Women's Studies to an MPhil in Development Studies. Seriously though, after the interview I doubt if I'd have taken it had it been offered, I am so MAD at the two who did the so-called 'interview'. It generally takes quite a lot to reduce me to tears but they damn well managed it. What is the point in establishing fairly firmly that NO, I do NOT have a 'social sciences' background and then proceed to tell me that none of my views are valid as a direct result of this. Additionally, how can you ask someone to constantly come up with 'data, quantifiable results' when they have asked my opinion on something. And what is the point in asking someone who is 23 and hasn't oddly enough studied the structure of levees, governmental spending, and all that rollocks, why Katrina happened? Heck, if I knew I'd be earning a bloody fortune right now.
I HATE that they ended up forming the image of me as somebody with a trust fund, a daddy's girl, a bit of an idiot who has faffed around with voluntary work at some point. How dare they? How dare they get it so wrong and not give me a chance to defend myself because every time I created a point or formed an opinion, it was knocked back on the basis that I clearly was stupid as hadn't done a social sciences undergrad?
Wow. Yes. So Women's Studies may NOT be the most glamorous of Masters to be taking, and half the people on the course may be classifiable as total and utter ejits, but at least dear God they are generally nice to one another. The course directors are personable. They are, in some capacity, human. So I'll hang around in Oxford for a year, end up with a Masters and frankly I no longer care if it is a distinction as I do NOT want to be around academics for any longer than I have to be. And at the end of a year, I'm moving to a tropical island and staying there. I don't care if that is selfish, everybody else bloody well is and I'm fed up with trying to think otherwise.
On top of everything else, just to add a GRR factor, they got my name wrong. How tough is it to remember to call me Jane when everything I sign says 'Jane', my email address is janethomas_uk and half the time I wear my Jane 'Schumacher' Thomas jumper. I mean, REALLY.
GRRRRRRR. Grr.

Tropical Storm Stan

Welcome back to the world of a genuine rant. No pictures to accompany the words today. Out of curiosity, dear Reader, have you heard of Tropical Storm Stan? Those of you in the UK might have heard a mention, or had you delved into the Americas section of the BBC news website you'd have found a few small articles mentioning its existence. Strange, isn't it, how a disaster that is very much in the process of happening at this moment, is receiving less coverage than something that happened weeks ago - namely, Katrina. The simple answer is that we are all amazed by how America was not prepared for the storm, but somehow aren't so amazed - or apparently concerned - that the same, or arguably worse, has happened in the likes of Guatemala and Honduras. At least America had the resources to effect a rescue operation even if it didn't employ them suitably; the countries devastated by Stan are using everything and everyone they can and still don't have anything like the equipment they desperately need. So wouldn't it have been, well, NICE if America had said hey, we messed up on ourselves, but dear God we aren't going to mess up for some of our closest neighbours. We'll prove that we do know what we're doing, restore the faith of the American people in our emergency services.
Oh, but what we do have on the websites - just by the by - are endless photos of the horror and destruction that Stan has caused. Admittedly not as many as were used to illustrate the unfolding nightmare in New Orleans and surrounds, but enough to show us that oh look, people are suffering. We'll take photos. That makes for real 'impact' photography. How damn fake the whole thing is.
I am sitting here quietly seething about this. Just annoyed myself further by wandering around the internet trying to find a charity that would be accepting donations to help with the victims of Stan. There isn't one yet - not one. Within days of Katrina, we had appeals even in the UK for aid. The American Red Cross is still pushing for donations. They've all gotten so caught up in helping America they seem to have forgotten anybody else.
Anybody else hate this world we live in?

And there was this gorgeous guy who was just so happy to have won and just so absolutely huggable...  

Yes, well, Argentina HAD just won... this clearly needs to be celebrated in highly stylish hats and by vigorous flag waving. 

Newcomers' Dinner

I had the privelege and honour (cough, cough) of attending the Linacre Newcomers' Dinner yesterday. This was supposedly an opportunity to meet my college tutor and a few other students, but was yet another Oxford evening of vast quantities of free alcohol masquerading as a sensible and purposeful event. Honestly, I've no idea how anybody here gets any work done if occasions such as this carry on for the entire term. I was sitting in the immediate vicinity of an American mathematician, riveting conversation opportunity there, and also a Durham maths spod who clearly wished he was affiliated with the likes of Brasenose/Balliol (the poncy old colleges for those not in the know). Opposite a total lunatic from Sweden who, despite never having been to Africa, is reading African Studies. He proceeded to get increasingly drunk throughout the course of the evening, which was disturbing in that sort of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cherub-faced way. People who look like that should stick with the knitting circle.
Anyhow.
Not much of a rant really... Could rant slightly about my total ineptitude with a blade on the water this morning - was ignoring all my commands and doing strange things that I didn't appreciate at all. No, I've very little to say and have spent a good portion of today avoiding reading - to the extent that I've convinced a girl from B.Aires to send me seemingly endless photos of a night out there and I thought hey, I'll put one up on here. Why not. It is the night where Argentina beat Brazil in the World Cup Qualifiers, and as a result 'happy hour' carried on throughout the night... The results are fairly obvious.

Misiones, Northern Argentina. Just because I can put photos up now... 

Quotation

Ah, good evening. I decided to delve into one of the five billion books I have to read before next Friday and found something that I thought put a few things, well, rather nicely. So thought I'd expand your knowledge, dear Reader, and let you in on it too. From Mary Wollstonecroft, 'A Vindication of the Rights of Woman'. (And can I just add that I've found someone with more of an affection for the humble comma than even I, who enthusiastically throws them around the place to adorn my sentences).

Love, the common passion, in which chance and sensation take place of choice and reason, is, in some degree, felt by the mass of mankind; for it is not necessary to speak, at present, of the emotions that rise above or sink below love. This passion, naturally increased by suspense and difficulties, draws the mind out of its accustomed state, and exalts the affections; but the security of marriage allowing the fever of love to subside, a healthy temperature is thought insipid only by those who have not sufficient intellect to substitute the calm tenderness of friendship, the confidence of respect, instead of blind admiration, and the sensual emotions of fondness.
This is, must be, the course of nature. Friendship or indifference inevitably succeeds love... Passions are spurs to action, and open the mind; but they sink into mere appetites, become a personal and momentary gratification when the object is gained, and the satisfied mind rests in enjoyment.

Well, I liked it anyway.

Isla Mujeres - damn, I'd like to be there now... 

Reconnected with world

I could probably quite easily create a rant for you all this evening, but I'm choosing not to. Firstly, look up to the rather nice photo of Isla Mujeres just above and you'll see that I really am genuinely in a good mood when I say that I'd love to be there right now, but am actually quite happy where I am and wouldn't necessarily change it.
I am living in a house surrounded by rowers. My future coxswain is two doors away (curses, no opportunity to miss those early morning outings by alarm, er, 'not going off, honest guv'), a world champion and future Oxford Blue rower is on the floor below me, and on the first floor I have the Linacre boatclub treasurer living with the Linacre boatclub president. Yesterday, I erged next to an Oxford Blue (who is a good two inches taller than me and about two stone lighter - how this is actually possible I can't quite imagine, plus just to add to the 'you really can't exist' element, I discovered she had a baby a few months ago. Wow). I am surrounded by rower-y goodness, the boathouses are all absolutely fantastic - I know, I walked down by them today.
In addition to this, I have my first 'drinks' invitation from my department, and also a formal dinner occasion at the college next Tuesday, gowns to be worn. My social life is starting off with a bang, it seems, and for the first time in years I am starting to feel as if I actually belong somewhere. My first few days here in Oxford were spent curled up in a quivering ball, thinking that I was making a huge mistake and trying to work out ways to back out; I'm now in what I hope is an ever-growing positive mood and can't wait to see what is going to happen next. I've been provided with my Bod card - granting me access to the finest places in Oxford - and a poncy new email address, and am beginning to think that maybe there wasn't some horrendous clerical error after all. Perhaps I am meant to be here. Maybe, just maybe, I do belong. Damn, I hope so.

Dense Housemates

And I already have my second posting of the day... knew that living with people would give me endless opportunities to rant, but really didn't think would happen quite so quickly. Will keep this brief. Essentially, one of my male housemates has packed every item of clothing ever belonging to him and his extended family into the washing machine. Guys - why don't you understand this?? Nothing is going to be properly cleaned if you do this! And then, to just leave everything on in the morning and bugger off for a day in the college with all your washing still in machine - er, hello?? If I get even a sniff of a complaint from anyone for having dumped his clothes on the side, they can go boil their heads.
Courtesy of yesterday's incident involving a leaping bike chain, my jeans were covered in oil and thus I had a washing emergency. And needed washing machine.
Sigh, I knew I shouldn't have opted to live with people...

Noisy Housemates

Oh, there are so many topics for me to choose from today to rant about... but I shall adopt this one on the basis that I wouldn't be awake writing this at the moment if I had nice, quiet, sensitive-in-the-morning, housemates.
The trouble is partly that two of them are on the same course, and just my luck that one of those is right next door to me. So there was the whole, 'early wake up call - ha ha, you were late yesterday weren't you, ha ha, that wont happen again'. Then the unnecessary clattering about in the kitchen, which is on the other side of me, with - for added bonus this morning - an element of singing. Or something I believe was meant to emulate that action, anyhow.
The clumping up and down the stairs, the slamming of the doors (those cursedly heavy fire doors that go slow and then WHAM! slam loud enough to literally shake the entire building). In addition to all this, just to ensure I'm not let off from the noise once they leave the house, my window overlooks the bike-secure area. And I get all the rattle of chains, the squeaking of brakes, the merry conversation that all of this obviously entails...
So in a few weeks when I start rowing at 6am, I have no qualms whatsoever about crashing doors shut, coughing as I hammer my way up and down stairs, and generally ensuring the entire house is awake by being whatever the opposite is to 'silent as the grave.'
A positive thought to end this on: at least I finally have internet so I can rant once more.

A bone to pick...

Dear Somebody in the NHS,

could you please explain and subsequently justify the reasoning behind the following two facts:

1. If you live in Wales, you only pay £4 for a prescription. As oppose to over £6 in the rest of the United Kingdom.

2. If you live in Wales and are lucky enough to be under 25, you get a free prescription. In the rest of the United Kingdom, this is only true for those under 18 (oh, and in full time education).

Seriously - there is no logic to this. It is English-ist, Scottish-ist, and N.Ireland-ist. I am exceedingly cheesed off with the situation.

What is the point in having a democracy if people are going to be treated differently? HUH?

Please could you also confirm if, whenever I need a prescription, I can merely pop over the border into Wales and collect it, thus saving a noticeable sum of money.

Regards,

Ranting Jane.

Boredom has a use, then

Well - a brief post to accompany the photo that should be appearing beneath this. I finally decided that look, for goodness' sake, this adding pictures to a blog business couldn't be so hard as it had appeared on first attempt. So I devoted some time to work out how to put on here a fairly awful picture of me, taken a mere six hours ago in fact. Hot off the press. The dress is one I may have blathered on about to you, poor dear Reader, and is looking decidedly creased in this photo; accompanied with my eyebrows raised for no apparent reason and sun shining (yes, even in England) at a particularly annoying angle so you can't see the colour properly, I thought I'd add it despite all this. Well, it was considerably better than the photos taken earlier of me in full sub fusc - that would be the poncy gear you have to wear at Oxford on various occasions. And yes, I look like a total duffus, muppet and clod all rolled into one.
This is exciting - I can now add photos of 'around the world' to go with my posts! Oh, arent you oh so lucky to be living in this technological age!
P.S. And I'm not blocking your ability to post Comments in fear of evil remarks coming from anyone, rather because I seem to be getting 'Spam Comments'. Anyone have any ideas why, and how I can stop this?? Unless you'd LIKE to see random remarks on things such as renting limos in LA...

New formal dress 

Goodbye, Mini...

Yes - tomorrow, Mini and I shall part company. Mini is being replaced by a somewhat disturbing pillar box red VW Polo. Anybody who bothers to add comments saying, wow, fun car - go away. I am in mourning.
On another note, I was introduced to my residence for the next ten months. On the top floor of a three storey building (and that is a depressingly high number of stairs that I am going to be lugging boxes of books up shortly), thankfully with sloping ceilings to add some element of 'character', I have a very - er - 'yellow' room. With somewhat worn red carpet and faded blue curtains, but with a spot of my usual decorator-designer flair (add as many books as possible) it should be liveable inable. I'll be installed as of next Saturday, the 24th September, giving me a week to build myself up to anything work-related.
Speaking of which, I'm absolutely terrified. Had an email from a course convenor saying that we, the future Women's Studies people, have a meeting for an hour and a half the first day of Fresher's Week. Made the mistake of googling some of the names - some of which are darn obscure I can tell you and I seriously hope there are two bods wandering around with that title because otherwise I'm up against an Indian published author and a journalist who is the editor of a paper.
CRIKEY.
Any spelling mistakes, put down to the fact I'm only wearing one contact lens. Am squinting at the screen and doing my best here.
Tough life, eh.

A quick recommendation...

Just thought I'd make use of blog space to recommend a movie to you all. Not for the faint-hearted or those in need of being cheered up, as advance warning. 'Hotel Rwanda' is one of the more incredible films to be produced in recent years (in my not so humble critic's opinion), and I defy any of you to watch it without at least coming close to tears.
Watch it, learn from it, maybe even do something about it. Check out the report published today by the UN on International Development if you're really interested. Use this link:
http://www.undp.org

I have a home!

A cheerful Jane logging in this evening to say, hey folks, I have a home! To clear up any possible confusion there - you can wipe out images of me curled up in a cardboard box for a start - I haven't actually been homeless, it was a potential issue in Oxford.
To cut a long, wittering story short: my college emailed me today and said that a room had come free (some poor sod had been unable to get the funding required and thus couldn't go. I will take full advantage of this and leap eagerly into their designated spot). I'll be living wonderfully close to the college boathouses - so close, in fact, I fear that I may be dragged for 'early morning runs' rather than sitting on my bike and letting it guide me in the right direction. Hmm, will have to put my foot down firmly from the start here.
I've never shared before (a brief, hellish experience in Australia I have attempted fairly successfully to block from my mind) but - being the total snob I have been accused so frequently of being - think this will be fine because it is a, with Oxford University students and b, more specifically, with Linacre students. Both factors coupled together mean I'll be co-habiting with graduate and postgrad students, who are forking out tidy sums to get a damn fine further degree and are therefore in the vicinity for one reason in particular: get that degree. I'm therefore fairly hopeful that requests to 'turn that music down, I have an essay due tomorrow' will be listened to and fully understood. Plus, and this is one of the best parts, because Oxford students are generally useless on practical levels, we have a housekeeper to look after us - clean the kitchen, bathroom, do our washing, that sort of thing. Wouldn't like such tedious chores to get in the way of our 'little grey cells' functioning, would we.
Anyhow, I'm remarkably happy - and on the money saved by NOT spending a fortune living on my own, I fully intend to take multiple short breaks. Plus, I now have the means to go to India for a month at Christmas: fantastic. Not only will this give me a much needed sun tan boost, I'll also be a darn interesting place work-wise. (University work - not 'real world' work. Heaven forbid).
Right, I'm off to plan a brief sojourn in Guernsey with Mum. We've both decided we need a break and deserve one so will pop over there. I'm intent on heading to the beach with a pile of books, and she can - I don't know, sit in a hammock. With a pile of books.
After a few days (dare I say weeks) of a life verging on pure hell, it seems I'm coming out the other side again. The Gods remembered me. Whoop whoop!

Changing the world

This evening, I settled down on my comfortable couch in my cosy pyjamas to watch a group of children describe the indescribable. For those of you who can't guess what I'm talking about (and that certainly includes anybody not in the UK), I watched a television documentary that interviewed some of the children of Beslan, survivors of the Russian school siege of a year ago. Part of me is angry that someone came up with the idea of creating a TV programme, using the kids to provide entertainment for the likes of me in our safe environments - sitting watching with horror and the odd tear, maybe it'll be talked about for a few days, the odd line quoted. And then we'll move on.
There's the other part that thinks yes, okay, it is important to talk about these events, make them known. There is the argument that we can't change otherwise. But dear God, if we haven't changed as a result of all the films of all the atrocities that have taken place already, one more painful hour of footage isn't going to make the difference.
Take the American high school shootings. Would there have been more than one if the first had never been reported? Take England at the moment - there seems to me to be a bizarre spate of horrendous killings: we have people being killed by axes, by knives, by guns in the hands of children. Is this just that for some reason the media are suddenly picking up on these occurences more, or because it is actually happening with alarming frequency?
What - we have to ask - is wrong with our world??
I remember a line I heard once: 'We have not inherited this world from our grandparents, rather borrowed it from our grandchildren'. If everyone were not so intent on getting more, having more, principally because 'others have it so I should too', we'd be fine. It is the greed of a few that cause the suffering of many. Did you know, and this is true, that the eight richest INDIVIDUALS (i.e. single people) have more wealth than the forty-six poorest COUNTRIES put together? Read that a few times and tell me there isn't something wrong.
But then there is the inherent corruption in the Aid agencies. The BBC recently published some figures for how aid money in Malawi has been consumed in contractors fees, entertaining bills, hotel stays. The people who desperately need the food that money could have bought get a little bit hungrier and the supposedly 'good' people of the agencies get a little bit plumper. I loathe this attitude, and I despise anyone who works under the shadow of an Aid agency and brings them into disrepute - particularly those major ones, such as the UN, WFP, MSF. People DIE, they literally give their lives, to alleviate in some part the suffering of others. And other people who barely deserve a place on the same planet, mean that those who die have done so for politically motivated aid efforts, or because the people at the top simply didn't care enough. This angers me and simultaneously terrifies me: it is the area of work I hope to go into, and to be surrounded by hypocrites would be suffocating. And evidently pretty damn dangerous.
There are various people out there - some of you reading this, you'll know who I mean - who make comments along the lines of, there is no point my trying to make a difference in the world. I argue that however futile my efforts, however apparently insignificant any changes I procure, I would rather come to the end of my life and know that hell, at least I tried. I didn't give in at the first hurdle.
I have met people who will never have any opportunities in their lives and I have sworn to them and to myself that I will do what I can. And no cynical, snide comments from anybody are going to alter my view that it is the duty of those who have more to help those who have less. We live in a world of bitterness, revenge, anger and mistrust. Those of you who just accept this: how, and I don't ask flippantly, do you sleep at night?

Back by popular demand...

Well - I didn't realise until I stopped posting just how many people actually bothered to hop on here from time to time with the intent of reading through my woes, rants and general complaints.
I'll just give you a brief summation then of my recent few days in Oxford. Seeking desperately for some form of accommodation that is acceptable at least to the point that I'll not want to kill myself each evening upon heading home. There are some seriously depressing houses with rooms available: Oxford seems to specialise in dark, pokey terraces that in all honesty I never dared enter to check out the rooms, but then my soul would have been destroyed within days if I had to go into one of these places on a regular basis so it would have been a pointless exercise.
After a day of trudging around the streets becoming increasingly disillusioned with the world, the option became available - never mind how - that perhaps I would be able to get a one bedroom apartment. All to myself. Me. Just me. Nobody else's hairs in the shower, nobody else's dishes in the sink. In other words, what I'm used to and - frankly - what I'm sure you'll all agree I need. A further day's searching, starting out with bounding enthusiasm and ending in crushed drunkenness, resulted in total failure.
I am currently clinging to the hope that the nice lady in my college wasn't lying through her teeth when she said there was the remotest of remote possibilities that I could still live in Linacre accommodation.
On the other hand... I do rather fancy living on a narrowboat. Remember reading an article in National Geographic years ago about a Cambridge student doing this, which proved that what I'd thought of years before that was feasible. I've just spent the evening getting overly enthusiastic about some beautiful little numbers with my Mum and the aim of tomorrow is to convince my lunatic of an aunt that she wants to invest in one of these. Mooring fees seem to be cheaper than paying rent anyway - and come on, who wouldn't live on a houseboat given the chance??
Currently having lovely images of being moored right by the college boat house; someone can just give the porthole a tap when they've arrived and are ready to row and I'll ease my way out of a suitably snuggly bed and set off in an eight.
Not entirely sure about car parking for narrowboat owners... Hmm...

Hurricanes...

If any of you are paying ANY attention to what I say on here, or anywhere else for that matter, you will be aware that I have a hurricane rapidly approaching the place I am staying. In order to set aside any fears you might or might not have, I thought I´d drop a quick note to say don´t panic - I managed to get a flight out of here. On Sunday morning, I will escape to Atlanta - original flight was on Monday (absolutely TYPICAL, of all the days of the year I choose, I choose the one with a hurricane scheduled). Despite originally being told the change was impossible, I have friends in High Places who managed to organise it for me. So a big round of applause going out to those people.

No, I didnt anticipate being maimed/killed/hurt by said hurricane, but I was fully aware that flights out of Cancun for the days immediately after the storm were going to be a nightmare and wouldnt have ended up with any time in Atlanta with friend there. Plus would have been stuck in Cancun, shudder, for last few days which would have finished me off even if the hurricane didnt.

I HAVE A COLLEGE!

Finally, I feel a part of Oxford University. Linacre College - complete with fantastic boatclub (men's and women's crews in 1st division) and beautiful accommodation in buildings old enough to suit even my requirements (yet complete with the modern facility of car parking). Brief post just to say I am busy bouncing about here - don't expect many of you to understand the significance of this for me, but trust me: it is very exciting news.

Off to Eat Cake and Celebrate.

On Golden Sand

Decidedly little to report but thought would hop online to say that. Baggage did arrive, by the by, albeit forty-eight hours later than myself. Have since spent days generally collapsed on a beach getting burned in a variety of places and to various degrees of painfulness. Isla Mujeres can hardly be defined as the ´Real´ Mexico but the heat and sunshine are real enough to keep me here for another few days at least principally because I just can´t be bothered to gather the energy to move. Today, I forced myself to venture forth and go snorkelling - nowhere near as impressive as Cuba and Jamaica experiences of a few years ago but then perhaps I was spoiled there. One should generally find parrot fish, barracudas and purple waving fronds of coral pretty damn awesome, at a guess.
Ah, the jaded traveller...
Torrential rain forecast for two days´ time, perhaps as well as skin is in need of a break from being slowly cooked under the palms. Although that does mean will be incarcerated in a hostel with a group of people principally consisting of girly girls (shudder) and guys who wander around with their shirts off, chests puffed out (what little element of ´chest´ they are in possession of), and endless exceedingly dull conversations to tune into.
But hey, it is better than England. Mustn´t grumble.

On a beach without a bikini...

... Mexican equivalent to being up the river without a paddle. For some obscure reason, my bag is in Miami. The TACA employees in Cancun are as mystified as I am as to why it ever reached there since I came to Mexico via Costa Rica.
Brief analysis of last 24hrs:
Arrive to Mexico City airport 2230 exhausted, stand for two hours to get through immigration (although better than the poor Brazilians who are herded into a seperate pen, have their passports taken, and then they are all interrogated individually) and make it through to baggage hall and distinct lack of my bag. After form filling in and a spot of ranting (and embarrassing teary moments) ended up in the main hub of the airport that is essentially a construction sight right now. Apparently for my own good - but frankly, since I will never fly there again, I cant see quite how. Embarrassing 1am call to friend in America who did his best to deal with a bawling Jane on the end of the phone. Ten mile trek around the airport - almost literally - eventually found me giving up and going to ludicrously expensive hotel. Managed to bargain a USD400 hotel room down to USD110 so that was remotely satisfying, I suppose. Shame only had five hours in it.
Early rise to get flight to Cancun and have conversation with Taca who assured me my bag still existed in their minds, if not mine. Arrival in Cancun airport and massively uncooperative staff who three hours later managed to get through to officials in M.City airport to establish that bag was in Costa Rica and hadnt been put on the flight today either. Contact with Costa Rica airport determined that bag was in Miami. No explanation whatsoever. Bag is travelling more than I am...
Apparently, it will be delivered to the hostel at some point tomorrow. Apparently. Trust Taca about as far as I can throw one of their stupid aeroplanes. Forced to buy bikini but only managed to find remotely acceptable bottom half so currently wearing that, sports bra, and new sarong type like thingie. Stupid thing obviously has no pockets so completely impractical. Oh, was forced to buy these items since - for example - is currently 9pm and about 35 degrees and dont want to think what the humidity level must be. Was obviously travelling in all heaviest clothes that are somewhat unsuitable for this clime.
So there you have it. My week of relaxing has been completely disrupted and my God Taca are going to pay for it. What with the compensation claim from them and Alitalia, will have my holiday paid for. Awesome.

Amazonian Analysis

Coming to you from the airport in Lima...
If there is a slightly disgruntled edge to this posting, it is because the stupid airline company made me check my bag. Having spent two days touring the Lakes in pursuit of the Lowe Alpine Amazon Carry-On, I did somewhat expect it to live up to its name and therefore be carryable onable. Always. The cursed airline decided to check the weight and as was a few kilos over informed me there was no way I could take it aboard with me (despite the fact that the same airline - Taca, to name and shame - accepted it Buenos Aires to Lima mere days ago). Have thus removed laptop, albeit in a black case, and am carrying that around. Not happy.
Far too much from the Amazon to report in one posting. Was a ten day stint with enough for two blogs happening each day but going to have to try to whittle it down into key elements. First one being, never take a bus on so-called Unpaved Roads in S.America, especially not for 26hours. Second one, never believe a boat-captain when he says sure, we will leave in one hour more. One hour more became, in one and two hours chunks, approximately 50hours more. Was thus trapped in a practically non-existent place called Yurimaguas for a few days, bored out of my skull (as was everybody else) but at least had the opportunity to make friends with my hammock. Dont get me wrong, hammocks are awesome - they rock, both literally and in whatever the other terms are - but in the dead of night in the middle of a darn great river, they arent exactly the warmest of bedfellows.
So I have dived in waterpools, recreating those shampoo adverts (although no talking monkeys saying they believe they have been eating the wrong fruit, unfortunately), and trekked in the middle of the jungle. Where there were monkeys, possibly talking about fruit, but more likely cackling at the group of us straggling along slowly drowning in our own sweat. I have coxed a dug-out canoe - with my usual incredible skill - and dived into the Amazon. For ten terrifying days I was also chocolate free, not by choice I hasten to add, and my brain is now buzzing lightly as a result of three Snickers bars I just ate with an element of, hmm, haste. (Well, I had the whole airline baggage scenario to get over...).
Just realised I left my glasses in check-in bag... Curses. And contact lens change is a month over-due so eyes are driving me insane. Sigh. More Snickers are called for.
I will add a few more snippets from time to time as I remember them, but that is generally a brief analysis of the time in the Amazon. Absolutely fantastic - the place is more beautiful every time I come back. To get to see the rainforest as the sun rises over the valleys, wisps of cloud nestling in the tree tops, is magical. I would say out of this world, but obviously it isnt. It is real, it is here - and everyone should go there. Electric blue butterflies as broad as my hand flash past, the most incredibly delicate orchids that nobody else has ever seen and nobody else ever will see appear randomly in the trunk of a fallen tree, monkeys chattering in the trees, birds and insects of colours that I never knew existed. It is impossible to describe the effect the area can have on you: I am actually in danger of becoming, I fear, a tree-hugger. In addition to my vegetarian tendencies I will now protect all flora.
Although since that would mean forfeiting my Mini... Yes, I will just stick to being in awe of whatever it is that created this world. And on that disturbingly positive note, I will leave you as I have a flight to catch to Mexico. Next post, from a Caribbean beach. Take care, dear reader.

Argentine Postal System, the Sequel

I had vague recollections that I didn't exactly Bond with the postal system last time I was here... had forgotten the sheer torture one has to go through in order to send a parcel. Okay, first let me deal with Box. Box and I took a cab miles away and finally located the entrance to the post office. One guy inside measured Box - exciting, intimate moment there, Box is getting more action than I am - and established that he (definitely male, as just damn stubborn and kind of annoying) was too large to post. The string of expletives that issued from me at that point essentially convinced the guy that he really should just ignore the rules on this occasion or him and Box were going to become somewhat more intimate than either of them had ever planned, and I proceeded to the counter for weighing etc. All going hunky dory until it came to paying, and for some obscure, unknown reason the Argentine Postal System doesnt accept Visa card. After establishing my horror at this revelation, I set off in pursuit of a cash point... which I eventually found. Anyhow, yes, I did send Box. Hopefully we'll meet again, some sunny day. Or rainy, not fussed.
Then today... well yes, another of those 'I should have stayed in bed' days. Set off to post small package, post office round the corner was closed due to power failure so had to walk a ridiculous distance to the next, where I was informed my parcel was not wrapped correctly for postage. Asked the lady how she expected me to wrap it, if not in brown paper with tape, and apparently - APPARENTLY - they want me to glue the paper down. Who in their right mind is going to send a parcel half way round the world that is merely glued together?? Especially one which contains a damn ball-gown?? This means I will now be carrying around in my rucsac, along with a laptop, selection of feminist books, series of Jeeves and Wooster DVDs and the other usual travelling gear, a ballgown.
Have retired to my room for the rest of the day, primarily to download as much as possible because I don't know when I'll next be able to use my laptop on the internet. Would be armed with selection of empanadas (essentially miniature pasties, to enlighten the Brits reading this) but the bakery had no vegetarian ones today. Not one. See? Just not my day.
And this is the last post on here for a week - I'm heading into the Amazon. Replacing really rather luxury hostel room with a hammock. Praying for no close encounters with either crocodiles, snakes, piranhas, bird-eating spiders, jaguars... the list is endless. Just wish me luck. And never, never come to Argentina with a view to posting anything. Words of wisdom for the day from Jane.

Argentine Postal System

So Argentina generally moves at a slower pace than the rest of the world. Well, except for the taxis and buses that hurtle along desperately competing to break all land speed records. Had a demonstration today of just how badly organised some things are though when I went to post a parcel today... Okay, in fairness the parcel is a large box - named, with great insight, Box - that has essentially vast amounts of clothing inside and the odd bean-bag (minus stuffing) for good measure. The usual stuff when you pick up when you travel, eh. Anyway, lug Box to post office, haul up to the counter, and tell the guy there that yes, I want to post it to Inglaterra. Guy informs me that there is only one post office in the whole of Buenos Aires that posts parcels over 2kg and that is on the other side of the city and closes in ten minutes.
Have thus returned to hostel armed with Box, that is mocking me gently from the corner of the room. Cursed thing.
Good news of the day: think new dress may actually work. Had my doubts, still having doubts in some part of my mind, but will get to see the completed item tomorrow and assess it properly. It is so fitted I hardly dare eat incase I put on a scrap of weight in the next few months... hardly dare eat, she says, surrounded by chocolate wrappers and yogurt pots. Close call between 'keeping strength up' and 'not becoming lardy'. Need a gym. Sigh.
As an aside: really, who does the writing for Dawson's Creek. Absolutely horrendous. Know I've written some rubbish in my time but nothing close to the overly dramatic statements and guaranteed tears-every-episode trash that is churned out here.
That's it. Off to floss. Discovered the Fun Of Flossing the other day and have rapidly developed addiction. Good stress-reliever, and doesn't have same negative impact as chocolate. Can one over-floss??

Brief addition

And justice has been done. Michael Jackson: Not Guilty on all counts. Excellent - having read through all the evidence as it came out etc. and followed the case, firmly believed he was innocent. Bit of a fruitcake, but innocent. Am very glad he's been set free from this hell. WOOHOO, in fact!

No longer connected to the world

Today has just been horrendous. With no signs of getting any better. Started off with that feeling you can sometimes get that is telling you no, stay in bed, the world is being hateful. Having Stuff To Do, I thought had best set feeling aside and so headed out in pursuit of shoes.
Innocently crossing a road, when a car appeared as from nowhere - as is their wont in Buenos Aires - evidently intent on killing me. While diving out of the way I slipped, landed with full weight on right hand and I have done something to my wrist because it hurts like hell. Decided to use the food-trick to cheer myself up so headed for a particularly nice mall where selected vegetable souffle and suitably delectable looking salad; heading for a table when some stupid bint charged into me and yup, food went flying. At this point I just want to curl up in a ball and burst into tears.
Return to the hostel where think nothing else can go wrong, to an email from someone I had a brief version of a 'thing' with. Basically telling me never to contact him again (making it sound as though I hassle him on a daily basis which frankly I don't - haven't contacted in months) because he had to make a decision between me and his girlfriend and on this occasion had to choose her. WHAT? I was not made aware that I was being decided over.
Have decided that all men I have ever known are currently in the throes of going completely mental. Am off to check out the entry requirements for nunneries on the internet. Failing that, will forward my application to St Hilda's college in Oxford and take the risk of being mobbed by women.

Signed soul away - well, temporarily

It is a fact of life that trips will always go over budget. However generous I am with the figures while ensconsed in a suitably snuggly duvet back in England planning an escapade, I am never quite generous enough. As a consequence of the budget for my current trip frankly waltzing off into the sunset and being completely forgotten, I have been forced to sign my soul away already for when I return to the UK. Will be working again for a legal firm back in Plymouth - ´working´ in the loosest sense of the word: it basically involves typing about an hour a day and the rest of the time I can do battle with the likes of Kristeva, Cixous and Beauvoir. While watching my inevitably formidable suntan fade slowly away...
Lancaster folk: I will be invading between around 18th and 31st August, intent on spending the majority of that time in a boat. If the weather forecasters have lied about the forthcoming heatwave, I will not be impressed.
Anyhow, nothing much to report. Have bought more clothes than will know what to do with and am off today in pursuit of shoes and - somewhat randomly - a brace of chocolate brown beanbags. Any Special Requests for items from Argentina to reach me by next Wednesday morning at the earliest as will be shipping everything back on Thursday. Recommend any designer labels, shoes, leather goods (although will not be shopping for gimp hats, sorry people - get your own) and CDs. All so bargainous it is painful to leave the place.
Rant of the day: why did the government take away student grants? With a grant I would not be needing to slave away as a legal secretary, and rather would be able to devote my time to preparing appropriately for Oxford. Well, that or spending Quality Time with my guy. Chuckle.

On Illness and Irritants

First off, I am USELESS at updating this thing when anything is actually happening. Nothing going on? I will write a post most days. So I apologise that when I do have something remotely exciting to report, it is crammed into a brief blog (brief by my standards) and seems all a bit ´busy´.
The American girls who I volunteered with actually managed to be WORSE than I had previously thought possible. Which has to be impressively bad. Ended up some days when I really could not be bothered to exchange even the most basic of pleasantries. The fact that the group I worked with were so disorganised as to not provide bedding of any kind meant that we all had to sleep wearing every item of clothing we had thought to bring (generally not much between us as northern Argentina wasn´t exactly going to be chilly), thus resulting in my acquiring uber-cold that is still causing the odd lung-related issue.
To use all the clichéd lines, it was an ´interesting and rewarding experience´ that I am glad I had. Gave me far too much to think about for a while, but along with the generally depressing conclusions I also have the inevitable ´wonderful memories´ (hate that it is so hard to sound sincere these days...) that I attempted, as do we all, to capture in photos. Actually dislike the concept of photos: invariably they are taken with a view to making something seem what it is not, unless you are snapped by some passing stranger in which case chances are you wont see the picture. Photos are planned, people poised with the appropriate look on their faces to indicate ´having a good time´. If we all had such fantastic times as our photos indicated, depression surely would be a thing of the past. We would bounce around being disturbingly happy bunnies, strolling along rose-petal strewn pathways in our floaty white skirts.
Good lord.
Additional issue of the last few days has been that an ex has attempted to re-appear on the scene, and admittedly it did take me a few days to firmly establish him in my mind AS an ex and in the future as a friend. I have my navy guy - who makes me want to descend into sickly sweet overtures on here every time I mention him but I just about manage to avoid that. I think. Don´t think he reads this stuff but if he ever did, if I´m not careful his ego will swell to an insufferable size and I will never get any sense out of him again.
Hope this finds you well, dear readers, and prospering in your various parts of the globe. As ever, I promise more frequent and more interesting updates - keep hanging in there, one will come along yet...

Argentina, finally...

And yes, I realise this has developed into more of a 'diary of Jane's somewhat disturbing thought processes' rather than the ranting that was originally intended to appear in this space. But never mind, I am sure anybody bothering to read wont actually care either way - you are clearly bored out of your skull if you still log on.
Brief summation of last few days: on Saturday, sat and froze half to death at HMS Drake waiting for 1 x large ocean going vessel to be brought into dock. Possibly in the slowest time this procedure has ever been achieved. Was well worth it as hey, got to see my guy and be half of one of those really annoying couples who wander round in the middle of the day and clearly are incapable of existence without being attached to the other half. Went out in evening which was awesome except for the first part where made total arse of self by being overly paranoid regarding a mutual friend - and you know who you are if you are reading, and I am sorry. Seriously. Blame it on mother-related stress levels. You should understand that one.
Had to return him, unfortunately, on Sunday evening - and since then I have essentially been on an aeroplane, asleep or eating. An element of rant entering here: dont you just HATE how after a long haul flight your ankles suddenly become the size of water melons? Totally disgusting. Fortunately they have now resumed normal size and can wear shoes without being in pain.
Sat next to decidedly delectable model throughout the flight (also decidedly gay) who will be taking me clothes shopping in a few days and generally recreating my somewhat dire wardrobe (although I still expect a strong focus on black, that being the way forwards in the world). Anticipate finding dressmaker to produce for me 1 x gorgeous dress for this ball thing I should be attending in August - in combination with inevitable suntan from forthcoming Mexico trip, should generally give the right impression. I hope. Dear God, am worrying already...

The Stresses and Strains of Sharing a Bed

Fair enough, this isn't so much a rant as a general observation on an area that can potentially lead to so many problems it is ridiculous. Scenario 1- friend comes round to visit you, between you a bottle of wine disappears, friend can't drive home, friend needs somewhere to sleep. No spare bedding and all that, so friend hops into bed with you. Two females? That's fine. But as soon as is a guy, there are problems. Scenario 1A - guy is somebody's boyfriend. If their girlfriend finds out about sharing bed, even if you both passed out through alcohol and snored in entirely seperate slumbers for the night, you are both in trouble. Scenario 1B - guy is single. Guy therefore thinks he stands a chance with you, due to presence of contents of bottle of wine inside him, and you therefore spend entire night panicking that he'll make some sort of move.
Scenario 1B can of course be broken down further - I mean, if you are single then it isn't such a bad deal (provided the guy is not total munter). But if you have boyfriend, then spend entire night panicking about any contact being made. Not that I have a boyfriend as such - treading in dangerous water here so will escape - but I did recently pass a night wide awake, didn't get a wink of sleep, because was terrified would either a, have unwelcome contact made by guy who was in my bed or b, I would wake up in night and think 'oh, that is _____' and turn over, pulling them to me. Therefore ended up in foul mood due to tiredness and absolutely shattered when said non-boyfriend-guy arrived the next night, thus arousing suspicions and generally being too tired to care who was in my bed anyway.
Am heading to London in a week and will be staying with a guy for two days who in the past has found excuse to approach me, and no, I'm not interested. Exchange of emails implies my sleeping there will require my being in same bed. I am already sweating gallons and panicking about this, and the thought is passing through my mind to spend a small fortune on a hotel room for myself instead.
I guess it all comes down to trust, doesn't it. Ah, that glorious bond which ties the dodgiest of relationships together. It is SO HARD to have to erase all the times that mean you don't trust one particular guy and not transfer them to a new guy; in fact, I just can't. I'm useless at it. And in all honesty, dear reader, I'm slightly concerned this could mean I end up losing someone before anything has really gotten started. Sigh. Let's all just get single beds and be done with it.

A few 'Shout Outs', and baths for oldies

Have had an extremely crazy day, filled with moments of hating most of the world followed closely by thinking everything is fantastic. (Are these symptoms of manic-depression?!). Anyhow, would just like to make a few shout-outs to people today. And in no particular order we have...
Sameena. Chica, you rock. Sam is and always will be, no doubt, one of the least successful rowers of all time (sorry girl, but its true), on occasion can be fantastically 'up herself', but as a general rule simply rocks. At uni she worked way too hard - well, she actually did work which from my view is doing a tad too much - and still managed to fit in hours at the gym each day. She is possibly the greatest ego-boost on the planet and this shout out is to say thank you so much for keeping me a version of sane, particularly over the last few weeks. Although I still haven't forgiven you for trying to drag me into Ann Summers...
Niall. Irish accent of course to die for. In addition, total charmer who manages to make me smile however cheesed off with the world I am. Has ability to talk put up with hours of MSN ranting, and Jane in the depths of depression. Can't believe am actually becoming one of those cheesy people who is being converted to the concept that 'friends make the world go round' but Niall is certainly dragging me round to that way of thinking. Cheers, m'dear.
Steph. Final one. As anybody who knows her will say within the first sentence of a description, she is an absolute lunatic. With a scary degree of German-drive and determination, she generally scares the crap out of pretty much anyone and is thus highly suited to her future lawyer-profession. Steph is possibly the ultimate person to complain to about guys, us both being massively unsuccessful in our own special ways. Don't get to see you often enough, girl, but next time we meet up we have a date in a double. (Non rowers, ignore that).

SO. Those three sprung to mind because today they've been responsible in entirely seperate ways for my not throwing myself off a cliff. Not that this would necessarily be a bad thing - yes, I heard that thought filter through your minds...

On a totally different note. 'Bath Knight'. I mean, come on, who came up with the concept that it would be a good idea to put a door in a bath? Everybody knows you run the hot tap first, then the cold to bring to right level - old person using fancy bath may not fall over getting in or out, but will receive first degree burns from sitting in boiling water for ages while bath fills. Does bring beautiful image of slightly doddery oldie filling the bath THEN opening the door to get in... Why, out of interest, can they not cope with showers? Its a mystery.