It has been suggested that perhaps I set up an alternative blog to list all the positive aspects of this wonderful world of ours. I considered the possibility briefly, before realising that all said aspects can probably be incorporated into a single posting. I'll try and pinpoint a few of them and see how it develops - who knows, maybe this post will be the pathway toward becoming an optimist.
Beaches. Actually, this isn't technically true. I like the idea of beaches - I spend hours imagining a suitably tropical paradise to escape to, ideally complete with monkey and palm tree. In reality, though, sand gets right on my nerves, and I cannot bear the feel of sand between my toes. I'm much more of a 'lie on a convenient rock' sort of person, although there is of course the issue of grinding my bones on that. Hm. Maybe I don't like beaches after all.
Ice-Cream. Now, surely, I can't find fault with the likes of Mr Ben and Mr Jerry, a fantastic duo who have accompanied myself and millions of other women on those inevitable tear-filled nights. The problem is, of course, it is very easy to enter into that dangerous cycle: eat ice-cream to feel better, then realise the vast quantity of calories consumed. Therefore feel miserable, and lo and behold, head back to the freezer department. Ice-cream is really only suitable as a reward for, say, running a marathon - those poor calories need replacing ASAP. Unfortunately however, I can't say as I ever run for the bus, let alone slog away for twenty-six miles. Hm.
Family Photographs. I do enjoy a good few hour session going through photographs - the ones of you and your siblings looking really rather daft, and your parents with outrageous hairstyles. (In the case of my mother, winged glasses are a prominent feature in many snaps. Most unsettling). Being child number three, there are considerably fewer photos of me than of my brother and sister - the novelty of 'cute child in funny hat', or, 'first time waddling' photos had somewhat evaporated by the time I appeared on the scene. Which does no end of damage to one's ego, realising you are the Less Interesting and Non Innovative Number Three. Sigh.
Massages. These are lined up neatly alongside beaches, I'm thinking. Something I dream about for hours but when it comes down to it, really can't stand them. First massage experience was in Jamaica: legs riddled with mosquito bites and the damn woman insisted on rubbing in some substance that burned pretty damn painfully. Risked a second attempt in Goa a few months back: thought I was getting a bargain, about five pounds for one and a half hours of personal attention. Not only do I dislike being forced to strip and then rubbed down by some random woman, but she also came close to permanently removing my kneecaps.
Complaining (specifically, on my blog). Ach, I love it. It gives me immense please to know that on a daily basis I am offending people, being annoying, insulting and cutting, all combined with a smug, self-righteous and downright arrogant attitude. I think I've just concluded that everything I thought I liked is actually fraught with hidden mini-hells, and that the creation of a 'CheerfulJane' counterblog just wouldn't work. And on that note, I'll leave you and indulge in a few episodes of, 'Family Guy'. Stewie for President, I say.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Bright Young Thing
Felt somewhat like a veritable Bright Young Thing yesterday. The weather co-operated with plans and thus allowed a trip to London in a Porsche with the roof down (at least part of the way - practicalities won over in the end), and the day culminated in attendance at the Apollo Theatre to see Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin in Albee's, 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' An excellent performance which even included interval-entertainment: the surrounding A-level English Lit. students made various 'knowledgeable' remarks about the play, bland comments and a clear misconception of the Key Points. That four people can captivate the attention of hundreds for over three hours is really rather an achievement.
'Get a teenager while they still know everything.' Those kids last night certainly thought they knew everything. I felt like turning round and yelling at them to back away from English Lit., leave it on the shelf where it should be. Shakespeare and Chaucer will not take offence if we set them aside in preference for something such as, oh I don't know, physics. Anything. Anything with a PURPOSE to it. If they aren't careful, they'll wind up writing pointless 2500 word essays for the next three years (why 2500? why?), looking for links where there are no links, tapping out iambic rhythms with a pencil and finding it genuinely exciting when a line of a poem breaks with that rhythm. And if that English Lit. student isn't damn careful, they'll wind up reading something even more pointless for a Masters - maybe even Women's Studies if they're particularly unlucky. They'll drop over ten grand on a nine month course from hell that barely makes them more employable and leads to a significant decrease in sanity.
Which all means that taking a break occasionally and launching into that illusion of being a Bright Young Thing is essential for survival. I will of course continue to make disparaging comments about people who go armed with picnic blanket and bottle of champagne to punt haphazardly up the river and all that sort of Cliched Behaviour - but, I'm going to carry on being a part of it all. If I'm going to be in debt, I may as well enjoy the process...
'Get a teenager while they still know everything.' Those kids last night certainly thought they knew everything. I felt like turning round and yelling at them to back away from English Lit., leave it on the shelf where it should be. Shakespeare and Chaucer will not take offence if we set them aside in preference for something such as, oh I don't know, physics. Anything. Anything with a PURPOSE to it. If they aren't careful, they'll wind up writing pointless 2500 word essays for the next three years (why 2500? why?), looking for links where there are no links, tapping out iambic rhythms with a pencil and finding it genuinely exciting when a line of a poem breaks with that rhythm. And if that English Lit. student isn't damn careful, they'll wind up reading something even more pointless for a Masters - maybe even Women's Studies if they're particularly unlucky. They'll drop over ten grand on a nine month course from hell that barely makes them more employable and leads to a significant decrease in sanity.
Which all means that taking a break occasionally and launching into that illusion of being a Bright Young Thing is essential for survival. I will of course continue to make disparaging comments about people who go armed with picnic blanket and bottle of champagne to punt haphazardly up the river and all that sort of Cliched Behaviour - but, I'm going to carry on being a part of it all. If I'm going to be in debt, I may as well enjoy the process...
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Ah, Vanity
I just saw something hilarious on television that I have to share with you. A woman was quite literally ironing her hair - pulling up a section from her head, towel on one side, iron on the other. To check the final effect, she glanced into the reflective iron base.
Maybe that whole scenario is 'normal' for some of you, but it has to be one of the more ludicrously daft moves in the pursuit of beauty that I've seen in quite some time. I find it generally rather insane that everyone with straight hair wants curls, and everyone with curly hair wants it straight - and to that end, they will utilise a variety of curling tongs, straighteners and God knows what else, a lethal array of instruments. Eyelash curlers look like some modern kind of thumb screw, many women - painfully, I'll add - pluck their eyebrows into almost non existence. I would say that most women in Britain spend over two hours a week applying, removing and perfecting nail polish, and that doesn't include the idle use of emery boards to achieve the preferred shape of nail.
I have one Luxury Item for my body in my entire room, and that is my recently acquired Body Butter. Wow, that stuff is fantastic. Don't generally like wandering around smelling like a fruit basket but will give in for the silky smooth feeling on my legs, mm mmm.
So the average female on a night out ends up spending a good half hour curling/straightening her hair (this assuming that emergency 'highlights' don't have to be put in place); another half hour transforming her face into a mask of heavy black curled lashes, pouting red lips, maidenly blushing cheeks and eyebrows firmly plucked into position (sometimes so much so that they actually have to be redrawn). The shortest skirt is then drawn on over waxed and lubricated legs, the tightest top squeezed into, carefully buffed feet are crammed into tight, impractical heeled hell, and standing in front of the full length mirror the female can breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Or she could do, if she weren't sucking her stomach in while busy practicing her husky voice and come-hither looks.
The fact that said female will then proceed to get blind drunk, remove shoes on the giggling walk home, mascara probably run ever so slightly after that quick weep in the bathroom with the other girls over some guy or other, and thus be transformed from 'beauty' (disputable anyway) to dishevelled mess is of course totally irrelevant. The fact that no guys will value her above the status of Tart will not deter the evening's proceedings. For a brief moment, she will have looked her terrifying version of Fabulous and that is, apparently, enough.
I may look something of a mess half the time, what with my loose jeans, inevitable black polo-neck and sensible shoes, but at least I'm a safe option. My lack of make-up means that I can't be transformed from fairy to fright overnight, and because I don't spend time ironing my hair I will probably at least be on time for any meeting I arrange.
While I'm making snide comments about other women, I want to throw this in too. Watched some of the Commonwealth Games diving this morning - the men had fantastic bodies, 'chiselled' is the word that springs to mind. Muscle bursting out of every limb. Some of the women - 'athletes' - had cellulite. I jest not. What hope is there for the rest of us if they can't avoid the doom of the dimples?? Oh dear.
Maybe that whole scenario is 'normal' for some of you, but it has to be one of the more ludicrously daft moves in the pursuit of beauty that I've seen in quite some time. I find it generally rather insane that everyone with straight hair wants curls, and everyone with curly hair wants it straight - and to that end, they will utilise a variety of curling tongs, straighteners and God knows what else, a lethal array of instruments. Eyelash curlers look like some modern kind of thumb screw, many women - painfully, I'll add - pluck their eyebrows into almost non existence. I would say that most women in Britain spend over two hours a week applying, removing and perfecting nail polish, and that doesn't include the idle use of emery boards to achieve the preferred shape of nail.
I have one Luxury Item for my body in my entire room, and that is my recently acquired Body Butter. Wow, that stuff is fantastic. Don't generally like wandering around smelling like a fruit basket but will give in for the silky smooth feeling on my legs, mm mmm.
So the average female on a night out ends up spending a good half hour curling/straightening her hair (this assuming that emergency 'highlights' don't have to be put in place); another half hour transforming her face into a mask of heavy black curled lashes, pouting red lips, maidenly blushing cheeks and eyebrows firmly plucked into position (sometimes so much so that they actually have to be redrawn). The shortest skirt is then drawn on over waxed and lubricated legs, the tightest top squeezed into, carefully buffed feet are crammed into tight, impractical heeled hell, and standing in front of the full length mirror the female can breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Or she could do, if she weren't sucking her stomach in while busy practicing her husky voice and come-hither looks.
The fact that said female will then proceed to get blind drunk, remove shoes on the giggling walk home, mascara probably run ever so slightly after that quick weep in the bathroom with the other girls over some guy or other, and thus be transformed from 'beauty' (disputable anyway) to dishevelled mess is of course totally irrelevant. The fact that no guys will value her above the status of Tart will not deter the evening's proceedings. For a brief moment, she will have looked her terrifying version of Fabulous and that is, apparently, enough.
I may look something of a mess half the time, what with my loose jeans, inevitable black polo-neck and sensible shoes, but at least I'm a safe option. My lack of make-up means that I can't be transformed from fairy to fright overnight, and because I don't spend time ironing my hair I will probably at least be on time for any meeting I arrange.
While I'm making snide comments about other women, I want to throw this in too. Watched some of the Commonwealth Games diving this morning - the men had fantastic bodies, 'chiselled' is the word that springs to mind. Muscle bursting out of every limb. Some of the women - 'athletes' - had cellulite. I jest not. What hope is there for the rest of us if they can't avoid the doom of the dimples?? Oh dear.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Furious with fake illness
It is inevitable with some of my rants that I tread on a few peoples' toes, but this one is definitely going to leave some of you fuming. Excellent.
I'm here to complain about the proliferation of mental illnesses. Let's take ADHD first - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dear Lord, just look at those terms all clumped together... its incredible, isn't it, how many more kids have been diagnosed since this illness has been 'discovered'? It essentially boils down to bad parenting, and that is frankly the end of the matter. Kid is brat, parent can't cope any longer, parent goes to doctor, doctor says, 'oh, looks like another case of ADHD to me' and throws ritalin at the child. Ritalin is a controlled drug, which basically means parents with children taking it are given grants from the government to assist in 'care'. Additionally, if that child needs the ritalin during school hours it is a nightmare having to go to certain people to dispense it appropriately. Parents are willing to have their ghastly children dosed up to the eyeballs for a bit of peace and a few quid a week.
Next on the agenda: bi-polar disorder/manic depression. I feel qualified to speak on this subject for a number of reasons, the first being that I used to know a guy who suffered from depression and it was real, very real. I've been to the Bipolar Organisation website this morning and from what I can work out, I suffer. I mean, heck, I have mood swings like nobody's business, and strangely enough they seem to come at particularly stressful times in my life... What, you think, dear Reader, that you may have it too? Funny that, eh. I think its called 'being human'. (Read the first chapter of 'Three Men in a Boat', the narrator is disappointed to find out the only ailment he doesn't suffer from is Housemaid's Knee). Guess what - if I amble along to a psychiatrist and say sheesh, check me out, I go mental sometimes and I can't control it, he'll potentially whack me onto a load of drugs and just for kicks I'll get money from the government to support me.
Next up: 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time'. Or whatever the hell it is called. If one more person tells me that, 'as a psychologist, I found it fascinating, a very real impression of what it is like to have Asperger's Syndrome', I will actually kill them. (And thus demonstrate my bi-polar tendencies in the meantime, apparently. Bonus). The only way this book can be described is in terms that I don't wish to go into on my blog, but it is appalling, degrading, and frankly inaccurate. Asperger's, for those not in the know, is essentially low-grade Autism. Sufferers are, for example, unable to judge social situations well and have difficulty reacting to people and their feelings. Heck, it seems I have Aspergers as well. More money for the Ranter.
I wonder how much money is poured out to these 'sufferers' on an annual basis? And in addition, how much in benefits is granted to those who are obese, those who can't work because they're smoked for years and now have no lungs to speak of, those who've drunk themselves half to death and are being kept alive by an expensive concoction of surgery, drugs and rehabilitation. Just think, if all that money were taken and put aside - and heck, we have to be talking millions if not billions here - we could use it for something useful. Hell, a cure for cancer maybe. More research into Alzheimers. Illnesses that are genuine and painfully real. I am sick to death of people who complain about their 'hard life dealing with depression' when they don't know the meaning of either the word 'depression' or the concept of 'hard life'. I recommend they move their self-pitying asses into a cancer ward. Go to a radiotherapy department. Self-pity doesn't bloody come into it. For all I care, you can go take your twenty-first century mental health problem and jump because all it amounts to is you feeling that you haven't had a fair deal. Life isn't fair. Life sucks. People who have worked their entire lives for the benefit of others are informed that their retirement gift is a nice dose of cancer; babies are born horrendously deformed; a young mother can be killed in a freak accident. Let's make it topical and think about those poor sods currently fighting for their lives after helping out with a medical drug trial.
Take responsibility for yourselves and be damn glad that you can. Enough said.
I'm here to complain about the proliferation of mental illnesses. Let's take ADHD first - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dear Lord, just look at those terms all clumped together... its incredible, isn't it, how many more kids have been diagnosed since this illness has been 'discovered'? It essentially boils down to bad parenting, and that is frankly the end of the matter. Kid is brat, parent can't cope any longer, parent goes to doctor, doctor says, 'oh, looks like another case of ADHD to me' and throws ritalin at the child. Ritalin is a controlled drug, which basically means parents with children taking it are given grants from the government to assist in 'care'. Additionally, if that child needs the ritalin during school hours it is a nightmare having to go to certain people to dispense it appropriately. Parents are willing to have their ghastly children dosed up to the eyeballs for a bit of peace and a few quid a week.
Next on the agenda: bi-polar disorder/manic depression. I feel qualified to speak on this subject for a number of reasons, the first being that I used to know a guy who suffered from depression and it was real, very real. I've been to the Bipolar Organisation website this morning and from what I can work out, I suffer. I mean, heck, I have mood swings like nobody's business, and strangely enough they seem to come at particularly stressful times in my life... What, you think, dear Reader, that you may have it too? Funny that, eh. I think its called 'being human'. (Read the first chapter of 'Three Men in a Boat', the narrator is disappointed to find out the only ailment he doesn't suffer from is Housemaid's Knee). Guess what - if I amble along to a psychiatrist and say sheesh, check me out, I go mental sometimes and I can't control it, he'll potentially whack me onto a load of drugs and just for kicks I'll get money from the government to support me.
Next up: 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time'. Or whatever the hell it is called. If one more person tells me that, 'as a psychologist, I found it fascinating, a very real impression of what it is like to have Asperger's Syndrome', I will actually kill them. (And thus demonstrate my bi-polar tendencies in the meantime, apparently. Bonus). The only way this book can be described is in terms that I don't wish to go into on my blog, but it is appalling, degrading, and frankly inaccurate. Asperger's, for those not in the know, is essentially low-grade Autism. Sufferers are, for example, unable to judge social situations well and have difficulty reacting to people and their feelings. Heck, it seems I have Aspergers as well. More money for the Ranter.
I wonder how much money is poured out to these 'sufferers' on an annual basis? And in addition, how much in benefits is granted to those who are obese, those who can't work because they're smoked for years and now have no lungs to speak of, those who've drunk themselves half to death and are being kept alive by an expensive concoction of surgery, drugs and rehabilitation. Just think, if all that money were taken and put aside - and heck, we have to be talking millions if not billions here - we could use it for something useful. Hell, a cure for cancer maybe. More research into Alzheimers. Illnesses that are genuine and painfully real. I am sick to death of people who complain about their 'hard life dealing with depression' when they don't know the meaning of either the word 'depression' or the concept of 'hard life'. I recommend they move their self-pitying asses into a cancer ward. Go to a radiotherapy department. Self-pity doesn't bloody come into it. For all I care, you can go take your twenty-first century mental health problem and jump because all it amounts to is you feeling that you haven't had a fair deal. Life isn't fair. Life sucks. People who have worked their entire lives for the benefit of others are informed that their retirement gift is a nice dose of cancer; babies are born horrendously deformed; a young mother can be killed in a freak accident. Let's make it topical and think about those poor sods currently fighting for their lives after helping out with a medical drug trial.
Take responsibility for yourselves and be damn glad that you can. Enough said.
Friday, March 17, 2006
On Being Decidedly Fed Up
Well, this is my blog and I can put what I like on it. You don't have to read it.
You aren't obliged to read about how I currently hate pay-as-you-go phones almost as much as I hate contract phones, in that I've been trying to top up the stupid thing by their fancy automatic method for the past twentyfour hours and the damn service is 'currently unavailable'. I thought technology was meant to make my life easier, not raise my blood pressure through the roof.
Neither do you have to read about my inevitable work struggles, that backlog created through a subtle combination of initial idleness and eventual illness. I say idle, I don't see what is wrong with having a few days off here and there - how was I supposed to know stomach bug from hell would strike and force me to lie quivering in my bed for days, the lack of food and water leading to a brain that functions only to say, 'stomach hurts, don't eat, I'm no longer interested in Ovid and his relation to eighteenth century women poets'.
I guess you don't have to know that I'm back in the throes of one of my, dear God, what am I going to do when I graduate, depressive states. What is the point in it all? You either do something remotely worthwhile in which case you get paid either nothing or as close to nothing as government rules allow, or you sell your soul and work for some giant corporation that is hardly necessary to the continuation of health, humanity or the globe in general but has managed to convince a good portion of the world's population that its continued existence is essential. What was the argument I was having yesterday? Oh yes, the EU. Isn't it such a marvellous creation - thanks to the EU, I could go work in France or Germany with no problems at all. Brilliant. The fact that a few hundred years ago I could go work and travel wherever I bloody well wanted and didn't need the nod of some huge umbrella organisation to do so is of course irrelevant. The EU is merely functioning to bring the world back to what it used to be - but being part of this globalised hell in which we all have to live, it'll never work. Not fully.
Here's the issue. I CAN'T work for any of those organisations - the ones that actually pay remotely decent wages - even if I wanted to. Not only because I have acknowledged all the lies and its ultimately fake construction, but because of the environment. I can't get up at 6am every day and squeeze myself into the confines of a suit, ram myself into a packed tube train and get hurtled across London via the odd bomb or two into a nice and modern chrome-with-glass office. To sit around and push paper and pretend it means anything to anyone. To have to work myself half to death because that is what other idiots are prepared to do and why the hell should they get promoted if I'm not. It would kill me doing all that. Or if not me, any element of me that feels remotely alive.
Yes, today is just going to be one of those days. Marvellous.
You aren't obliged to read about how I currently hate pay-as-you-go phones almost as much as I hate contract phones, in that I've been trying to top up the stupid thing by their fancy automatic method for the past twentyfour hours and the damn service is 'currently unavailable'. I thought technology was meant to make my life easier, not raise my blood pressure through the roof.
Neither do you have to read about my inevitable work struggles, that backlog created through a subtle combination of initial idleness and eventual illness. I say idle, I don't see what is wrong with having a few days off here and there - how was I supposed to know stomach bug from hell would strike and force me to lie quivering in my bed for days, the lack of food and water leading to a brain that functions only to say, 'stomach hurts, don't eat, I'm no longer interested in Ovid and his relation to eighteenth century women poets'.
I guess you don't have to know that I'm back in the throes of one of my, dear God, what am I going to do when I graduate, depressive states. What is the point in it all? You either do something remotely worthwhile in which case you get paid either nothing or as close to nothing as government rules allow, or you sell your soul and work for some giant corporation that is hardly necessary to the continuation of health, humanity or the globe in general but has managed to convince a good portion of the world's population that its continued existence is essential. What was the argument I was having yesterday? Oh yes, the EU. Isn't it such a marvellous creation - thanks to the EU, I could go work in France or Germany with no problems at all. Brilliant. The fact that a few hundred years ago I could go work and travel wherever I bloody well wanted and didn't need the nod of some huge umbrella organisation to do so is of course irrelevant. The EU is merely functioning to bring the world back to what it used to be - but being part of this globalised hell in which we all have to live, it'll never work. Not fully.
Here's the issue. I CAN'T work for any of those organisations - the ones that actually pay remotely decent wages - even if I wanted to. Not only because I have acknowledged all the lies and its ultimately fake construction, but because of the environment. I can't get up at 6am every day and squeeze myself into the confines of a suit, ram myself into a packed tube train and get hurtled across London via the odd bomb or two into a nice and modern chrome-with-glass office. To sit around and push paper and pretend it means anything to anyone. To have to work myself half to death because that is what other idiots are prepared to do and why the hell should they get promoted if I'm not. It would kill me doing all that. Or if not me, any element of me that feels remotely alive.
Yes, today is just going to be one of those days. Marvellous.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
On dreaming of a foreign land
Once more, I regret to inform those readers tuned in for a good old-fashioned Jane-style uber-rant that they will be disappointed. I am in a prodigiously fine mood and can't see it changing in the course of creating this post.
A few years ago, I spent three weeks wandering around Italy armed with a backpack and a distressingly short and annoying school companion. I'm not entirely sure what she was doing there, how she came to accompany me, but I do know that ever since this hellish experience I refused to ever travel with anyone again. I was suddenly responsible not only for myself but for an apparently wholly incompetent defenceless little girl, who accepted the advances of amorous elderly Italians with open arms. My sojourn in beautiful Italy suddenly combined the intended role of impressionable young tourist with those of protector, translator and picker-up-of-pieces. One heavenly day I finally had a break when I escaped to the island of Capri. I sat in the bow of a wooden rowing boat, armed with an Australian, a large quantity of grapes and a carafe of wine, and was rowed slowly and steadily towards the Grotta Azzurra. You enter the grotto from the sea via a low archway, that leads you into what is frankly the most beautiful place I have ever encountered to date. Our boatman was a particularly good sport, as he rowed us to the shadows towards the back of the grotto and - when there was a gap in the influx of other tourists - signalled for us to dive in. Everything turns to silver as soon as it touches the water, and there was I, fully-clothed, in paradise.
There is a point to my sauntering down memory lane. I've been fixated on the idea of returning ever since, and finally could have an opportunity on my birthday this year. Hopefully this time I'll get to actually stay on the island, a few days of escapism in the middle of dissertation production. If anybody has any great ideas on how I can actually live there for eternity, please inform me in the immediate future. I'll be sure to make it worth your while...
A few years ago, I spent three weeks wandering around Italy armed with a backpack and a distressingly short and annoying school companion. I'm not entirely sure what she was doing there, how she came to accompany me, but I do know that ever since this hellish experience I refused to ever travel with anyone again. I was suddenly responsible not only for myself but for an apparently wholly incompetent defenceless little girl, who accepted the advances of amorous elderly Italians with open arms. My sojourn in beautiful Italy suddenly combined the intended role of impressionable young tourist with those of protector, translator and picker-up-of-pieces. One heavenly day I finally had a break when I escaped to the island of Capri. I sat in the bow of a wooden rowing boat, armed with an Australian, a large quantity of grapes and a carafe of wine, and was rowed slowly and steadily towards the Grotta Azzurra. You enter the grotto from the sea via a low archway, that leads you into what is frankly the most beautiful place I have ever encountered to date. Our boatman was a particularly good sport, as he rowed us to the shadows towards the back of the grotto and - when there was a gap in the influx of other tourists - signalled for us to dive in. Everything turns to silver as soon as it touches the water, and there was I, fully-clothed, in paradise.
There is a point to my sauntering down memory lane. I've been fixated on the idea of returning ever since, and finally could have an opportunity on my birthday this year. Hopefully this time I'll get to actually stay on the island, a few days of escapism in the middle of dissertation production. If anybody has any great ideas on how I can actually live there for eternity, please inform me in the immediate future. I'll be sure to make it worth your while...
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