The gap year 'traveller'

(Went out for the first time ever with hair down on Friday evening. Comments on 'new look' required).
So yes, the gap year 'traveller'. Traveller comes complete with inverted commas because of the changing definition of the word that I think no longer applies to the mass tourism created by the cursed travel Industry. It used to be considered exciting and adventurous to launch yourself half way around the world and see Christ looking out over Rio, now it is part of the average twenty-somethings photo album next to their 'drunken night on Fraser Island' and 'me trashed in Cambodia' snaps. If your student room isn't complete with a miniature Buddha, a boomerang and a bong, you just wont fit in.
I've never been into this idea of seeing places for the sake of seeing them. Yes, some of what I've seen has been on what is now the standardised Tourist Trail, but this is in spite of everything rather than because of. I loathe those people who make comments such as, 'Peru! Yeah, I've been there!' as they rattle off the inevitable list: a day in Lima, day in Cusco, the Inca Trail, Lake Titicaca, Arequipa, back to Lima. Peru in a week. They then try to compare our experiences of Peru, a futile attempt to find 'something in common' which is impossible, and dear Lord if we did have something in common I'd probably throw myself from the nearest building.
What happened to individuality? Oh hang on, I know - commercialisation coupled with its inevitable counterpart, capitalism. (Ah, the wonder that is alliteration...). The majority of tourists love the fact that they can eat MacDonalds in any country (I personally appreciate the presence of such places purely for their bathroom facilities), buy Gap jeans at discount prices in certain parts of the world, and if all goes wrong then daddy's Amex card will solve the problem. Every time I go away I put myself in increasingly tough positions with greater challenges, only to have them revealed as mole-hills rather than mountains. To anyone who hasn't been to the Amazon, perhaps travelling by boat up the river for four days into the heart of the jungle sounds exciting, original, fraught with danger. Trust me, it isn't. And look at it this way - hundreds of Peruvians do this every day, and being as both Peruvians and I are mere mortals it is hardly surprising that it is highly feasible. It is amazingly annoying to go to somewhere you perceive as the middle of nowhere to bump into another blasted English person who insists on talking to you for hours purely because you were produced in the same ghastly country.
The typical gap year traveller then comes back loaded with 'experiences' of daring-do that are in reality on a par with getting the tube in London or, for those slightly more adventurous ones, standing on a Bradford street corner at 3am. Much as I like to mock them, though, I will applaud the healthy dose of cynicism that they also return with. After 'seeing the world, man, seeing how like the Other Half live' (i.e. realising that poverty doesn't mean eating a pot noodle for three dinners a week while ensconsed in your small but comfortable student room), the traveller genuinely wants to make a difference. Either that, or they want to give everything up and open a hostel on a remote Honduran beach. I can't wait to see what effect this has on the economy of countries such as the UK, who export vast quantities of these 'gappers' every year. What happens when students don't want to become accountants, but journalists? Not IT geeks, but travel writers? I love how most of the third world would love to have the chance to live in England, and all we want to do is escape it...

On waking up in a foreign land...

I don't need to look at the clock to confirm that once more I've overslept - the sunshine is scything through the slats in the shutters, slicing through the dusty air. I ease my bare legs into shorts, walk slowly to the balcony and refuge of waiting chair while pulling a tshirt roughly onto me. I decide, or it is has been decided, that I'll stay here a while, body warmed by the sun and supported gently by the aged foam of the cushions. From far below, the idle chaos of the city drifts towards me: the sound of buses wheezing up the cobbled street; children's feet slapping wildly on the pavement as they pursue an errant football; the ever-present rhymthic creak of a swing in the park.

After a while, I'll jerk myself back to reality under a cold shower. A clean tshirt will be selected for my venture into the outside world. Each morning I saunter to the bar on the corner, blissfully unaware of the surroundings, pull a book at random from the shelf under the window and, after a brief delay, will be presented ceremoniously with chocolate con churros. The waiter likes to place each item with a flourish, sweeping the cups and plates high before bringing them sharply down onto the table - the chocolate inevitably spills, giving him an excuse to fuss over me some more. Two people are arguing outside the window, poring over a map and exclaiming with grand gesticulations; the woman finally throws her half of the city plan to the man, she storms off and he has no choice but to follow, muttering. Ingleses? asks my waiter. Claro, I respond with a suitably wry smile and raised eyebrows, drawling the word, savouring the emphasis that can be placed on the finale of the first syllable. The waiter throws back his head and laughs, returns to his bar stool and watches the world moving by outside.

After my morning ritual has taken place, I'll probably wander over to a park somewhere. Lie on the grass beneath the trees, head resting on hands and body flat against the cool shade. Maybe today I will take a train, venture towards the area somewhat optimistically referred to as the 'lagoon'. I can take a boat then to an island. Hear nothing but lapping water. At night, I return to the plaza where the bar is. I can stay at the little round metal table until sunrise, drinking wine as I watch the city sleep and wake. See the elderly couple dance together under the lamplight, his arm tight around her waist, her head on his shoulder and eyes closed to the rest of the world. The raucous party of backpackers will leave by two in the morning, heading off to whichever pounding club they have to be seen at that night. I'll talk to my friends if they come by: the woman who sells her carved wooden angels, the man who hands out his stories to passers by. We'll share the wine, he'll walk me home, entreat me with whispered amor amor to let him come up with me. Its a game we play - I walk off with my fingers pressed to my lips, sending him a kiss as I approach the stairwell, he'll stand with hand on heart before grinning, waving, thrusting hands into pockets and leaving.

For now, though, that reality is far below me. I'm in my chair - the one where the dull yellow tufts of foam fight their way through the worn red velvet - and I'm alone. I am at once separated from and connected to the world. I choose my presence or absence, my action or idleness. Nobody need know if I spend the entire day here, just listening to that creaking swing. I have nobody to justify myself to, nobody to interrupt and drag me into reality before I am ready. To be totally isolated in a city of millions of people: surely there is no greater felicity in the world.

----------------------

And people wonder why I want to go back to Buenos Aires?? That is my best explanation. Unless you've lived it, you can't know. Everyone is so intent on going places, doing things, having grand 'experiences.' What happened to taking the time to stop and smell the flowers?

On solving the Education Crisis

Years ago when submitting a thesis, my mother proposed the idea that the best teachers should be placed with the youngest children. And what a damn good idea that is. Instill the blighters with some enthusiasm for - well - ANYTHING, and then post them off to secondary schools with a desire to learn, rather than a desire to terrorise the hell out of anyone who wears glasses, or whose skirt is too long, hair too short.
The problem in England is that the majority of new teachers are basically really rather useless. They are the ones who didn't quite make the grade in university, can't work out what to do with themselves, and are drawn in by the offer of £6000 just to complete a teacher's course. We thus end up with people entering the classroom who never enjoyed work themselves, never tried particularly hard, and even if they did, didn't really get very far at all. What use is that to a budding Einstein?? Teachers are basically so darn thick these days that the government has had to come up with grand new methods of teaching - so that the TEACHER can understand what is going on, never mind the kid. Additionally, there is no space for any flair or originality that a teacher might possibly have had a hope in hell of bringing to a classroom, as every hour of every day is carefully planned by some idiot in Whitehall who clearly hasn't a clue. I bet Waterstones and Co. love it: they can just order the syllabus and then stock their shelves with the relevant guides as parents, in last minute essay-panics (yes - parents, kids rarely do their own work these days), charge around for some additional info.
And now everybody is up in arms about 'selection' by some schools. Here is what should happen: every child should take an exam at eleven years old, and the best ones get grouped together in one school, and the worst ones in another. This is not to say that the 'thick kids' are lumped up - it just means some of them take longer to learn than the brighter ones who did better in the exams. It is totally unfair to force the bright sparks to work at the pace of the slow ones, as all that can possibly be created is a bunch of mediocre students. Any enthusiasm the intelligent children had at the beginning of their academic career is knocked out of them by endless repetition and extreme boredom being forced upon them. This is the fault of the teachers, the schools, and that damn curriculum.
What should happen is: teaching should be made a prestigious profession. It should be an honour, not a last resort, to become a 'facilitator of learning' (as the government now likes to call them). The students who graduate with the best marks from university should have the option of signing up to be a teacher for a maximum of, let's say, four years. With decent pay, and none of this training rubbish. This way, there is a constant influx of fresh ideas being brought into schools by the most intelligent people - dear lord, if that doesn't inspire children then nothing will. Throw out the curriculum but set loose goals. Children should be able to read and write and perform such and such mathematical manouveres by a certain age, and beyond that, a little bit of freedom for the teacher. Why force all history teachers to plod through the same period time and time again - as long as the child knows something about history and is interested, well, isn't that preferable? And while we're at it, throw out this obsession with 'make learning fun'. I am by no means advocating that angle. It is patronising and pointless. My niece recently experienced 'Africa Week' that included her having to purchase one of those Make Poverty History wrist-bands, and tour the supermarket looking for Fair Trade Food. Additionally, they sat in a straw hut for a day at school. If you can't see how wrong that is, there is no way I can explain it to you...

Well, there we go. I think I solved the crisis. The children who have parents who are rich enough to afford to send them to private school? So what, send them. I have the government cutting out all that pointless spending on endless text books that are never read, chairs and tables that are damaged, fancy 'interactive white-boards' or whatever they have these days. Pen, paper, and inspiration. The savings can go on sports facilities and better libraries, which means the private schools wont have that many advantages anyway.

Dear me, perhaps I should send my blog address to Mr Blair himself.

Coffee Queues, and a brief pre-Valentine's warm-up rant

I met a friend for coffee this afternoon, and I jest not when I say that it took considerably longer to acquire the brewed beans than it did to consume them. Blackwells (to name and shame) has contained within a notoriously busy coffee shop, and you'd have thought that on a Sunday they would manage to have more than two members of staff available, one whose mastery of the English language was so appalling she eventually quit taking orders and resorted to being in charge of Emptying The Dish Washer. This whole 'coffee culture' we have going on, apparently something to assist in making the average human being more sociable but, in my view, achieving the opposite effect. Whereas in previous days a woman would wander around to her friend's house to have a cosy chat in the parlour over a pot of tea, where one's intimate thoughts can be discussed in such a safe haven, we now launch ourselves into the bustle of a cafe where we can be overheard, 'checked out', and generally be 'moved on' if we spend too long clogging up the place. How is this positive? How? I'm not personally a coffee-drinker, but I understand from those better informed that the genuine Coffee Appreciator would never set foot in the likes of Starbucks unless dragged kicking and screaming. So why do we do it? Because we're expected to? It gets us through the day? Honestly, it is a ghastly, impersonal experience that seems wholly unnecessary to me.
Moving onto my first rant of the season regarding Valentine's Day (I predict many more to come). I detest the fact that virtually every shop I enter right now immediately welcomes me with some suitably hideous display of hearts, roses and - inexplicably - teddy bears, all with ridiculously unnecessary price tags just to crank my blood pressure that little bit higher. Valentine's Day is commercialised hell, as good a marketing scam as the 'coffee catch-up chat' now I come to think about it. Yes, I know what you're all thinking: bitter Jane, disliking Valentine's because once more the day looms large ahead of her without a hope in hell of being, oh I don't know, whisked off to Paris. It isn't that (and nor is it that I'm generally a practical sort of lass on occasions like this, and mid-week dashes at ridiculously over-inflated prices don't fit in with work schedules anyway), it is just that I hate the way it is thrust in my face. Catch 22 situation: if you don't have a Valentine, then for an entire day you are basically a social pariah, and if you do then you are forced by the cursed media to remortgage your house in order to afford an appropriate volume of gifts.
Seriously, the wrapping paper from the Christmas presents is still in the bin...
The one positive: at least I can be fairly sure to get rapid service in a coffee shop on Valentine's Day, as everybody will be focussing on Getting Ready To Go To Dinner. That is, assuming that the girl serving me doesn't have her mind equally as distracted and does manage to acknowledge my existence.

A possible return to Buenos Aires?

(Photo: Opera Bay (club), Buenos Aires). Yes, I'm all fired up with enthusiasm for my latest slightly demented scheme. A few months ago, I read somewhere that properties in Bulgaria are remarkably cheap, and subsequently spent an afternoon happily hopping about the internet in pursuit of the idyllic abode. Indeed, for a mere fifteen thousand pounds, one can have a home in the mountains that is not unlike pictures frequently seen on the front of chocolate boxes (albeit with a decided lack of functioning bathroom, but all fixable). In one of my inspirational flashes yesterday, I suddenly realised that hang on - I don't actually have to get a job when I finish university in June, nor do I need to scrabble around applying for funded Phd placements. I could invest my time, brains and energies in a far more worthwhile and productive project: buy a property in Bulgaria, sit around in it for a few years, and then sell it at a profit. Flawless.
This plan obviously rapidly developed to me living in a suitably sumptuous villa on Capri, but I managed to reign myself in and think logically about this. I don't want a job - not your ordinary 9 til 5 office-oriented job, nor can I see myself working as a 'landscape gardener', joyfully embracing the outdoors and associated elements. Neither am I desperate to launch myself into the loving arms of academia, where I will shuffle dejectedly from conference hall to conference hall, raising my head briefly to try to inspire a group of undergrads who care even less about Chaucer and Chekhov than I do. Obviously, I need to find a third alternative (a realistic one - I'm guessing that 'winning the lottery' and 'marrying rich' aren't really that likely). Investing my money - and a portion of some of my relatives' bank accounts - in an apartment in Buenos Aires is absolutely the best idea to date. I get to live in what is simply the most awesome city in the world, surrounded by delectable people, and an entire continent begging for me to explore further.
And before you start to turn your nose up, dear reader, and complain about such and such - remember this, you could get free accommodation out of me. So be nice. Trust me on this one, Buenos Aires is absolutely worth it.

Pointless research (and random pic of me and pals in Amazon)

The BBC website today is informing me that scientists have discovered the world's smallest fish. Apparently they're particularly pleased as stocks seem to be dwindling (due to all the horrible things humans are busy doing to the planet) and maybe we'll be able to save this creature from extinction. A few questions are posed by the study: a, who the hell funded it, b, how do we know its the world's smallest fish if we haven't found 'em all yet?, c, why on earth would I care if a fish I never knew about until today becomes extinct? Dammit, I wont be able to show my grandchildren the fascinating sight of a 7.9mm long fish. Somehow, I think they'll cope.
Which led me to thinking about all the totally pointless research currently going on out there. Surely in many areas of study we have reached Information Capacity - for example (choosing examples from my field to limit the potential number of arguments from readers), Jane Austen, poor lady, has been Done To Death. There is no more to be said about her or her books. And frankly, why would we want to? Yet I can guarantee that somewhere out there, some poor sod of a Phd student is desperately seeking originality within the arena of Jane A's criticism. Surely this is merely research for the sake of research? Why can't we focus on a few biggies, get all these doctoral students doing something useful - y'know, cures for cancer, that kind of thing. And simultaneously, we can have a bunch of them working out what the heck to do with the resultant increased population.
Trying to come up with Original Thinking in my field is becoming increasingly difficult. The trick is basically to take a theoretical viewpoint and a novelist that haven't been combined before and, well, mash them up in the form of an extended essay. Ignore that approximately three other people in the world will read it (the poor sod delegated with job of marking it, the second marker and, of course, your mother), and getting through the four years shouldn't be so bad.
Ultimately, it really is all a total waste of time though. Saying that, I'll probably end up doing a Phd one day. If only because I want the free upgrades on flights that come with having 'doctor' before my name.

Dating Hints and Tips

A friend has suggested I head forth to Birmingham in a few weeks to attend a 'Singles Event'. I would like to point out that I have never graced such a place with my presence, and to do so would be merely out of speculative interest rather than because I am - yes, I'm saying it - That Desperate. Honestly, if I'm ever reduced to actually going to these events with the serious intent of finding a guy, you have my permission to hunt me down and shoot me.
Some will regard that as an overly unsympathetic attitude towards the poor sods who genuinely need assistance in the ol' Dating Department (and frankly enough have commented of late that I do to make me begin to think about worrying. Four years to go and I'll be a Speed-Dating Addict, I'm sure, retracting all my negative barbs in favour of remarks along the lines of, 'it is refreshing and scintillating, an opportunity to meet a diverse range of characters.' Hah).
Anyway, I'm diverting from the main point of this post. Which was to analyse - and mock, of course - half of the 'dating tips' provided by these, well, dating companies. I can't believe there are groups actually making money out of the misery of singletons, but there we have it. Dog eat dog world in which we live. 'You are single - must be something wrong with you. Come get a date! And here is how...'
1. 'To be very approachable women should stand with their feet no farther than 6 inches apart with toes pointed slightly inward'. Dammit, that is where I've been going wrong. Think I allowed my clodhoppers to stray more than seven inches apart on occasion (banish those dodgy thoughts all of you), and pointed inward? With no intention of offence here but doubtless causing it somewhere, I wasn't aware that looking like a retard was attractive.
2. 'Studies show that men associate the scents of cinnamon and vanilla with love. To make the scents work for you, try baking some ready-made cinnamon rolls about an hour before your date arrives'. I am genuinely curious to know how many women read this and then rushed out to their local Asda to purchase the necessary comestibles.
3. This is from a guide men can purchase that assures them 'any man can get any girl'. The whole thing is compiled implying a relationship is the goalpost but: 'How to get into one-night stands with ease, and get out of them even easier, should you need to - without anyone getting hurt.' A woman has created this masterpiece, apparently. I am unable to comment due to being in state of shock.
4. 'Have a good think about what your dating goals are and timescales. Do you see yourself married within 2 years? If you do then approach dating accordingly. ' How on earth can you 'see yourself married within 2 years' when, by the sound of things, you aren't presently dating anybody?? Essentially, this tip ascribes to the view that people are merely commodities and only have to fulfill a few essential roles (typically: attractive, intelligent, GSOH) (Good Sense Of Humour to those of you untrained in the mystifying language of singles ads). Wow.

I could go on but it is thoroughly disheartening looking through all the websites. I know people who have rejected others because 'she is pretty but she didn't go to university' (obviously, only intelligent people go to university. Come on, who thought otherwise?). People who gave up the whole thing because 'she doesn't have the same taste in music'. Couples who broke up because the guy 'looked at other girls the wrong way'. Which begs the question, is there a right way? If the guy looked in total disgust at all other females, surely that would be rude, embarrassing, and grounds on which to register a complaint leading to breaking up.

I've been accused myself of being overly fussy. Personally, I see nothing wrong in rejecting someone because either a, they have no interest in me other than as a sex object, b, they think that getting battered in a nightclub equates to a Good Night Out or c, they make endless sweet remarks like 'I'm so proud to be seen out with you' while forgetting the fact that I would rather slit my own wrists than head forth into the night with them again.

Anyhow. Next time you see a six footer standing in the middle of the room (demonstrates confidence), wearing an approachable smile (not fixed grin, of course), clad in dusky pink (to bring out my skin tone) and scented with vanilla (to attract all men within a ten mile radius), nodding her head in a feminine but firm way (indicates she might be remotely interested in what you are saying) and of course, constantly reassessing the distance between shoes - that could well be me. On the other hand, it could be a rather sad individual with the personality of a tube of toothpaste. Your call.

I rule. And it is official.

I would like to direct all of you towards a particular website:

www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com

And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.

The Meaning of Life

In one of those tempers today which means my mood has been oscillating between 'wow, isn't the world fantastic, let us all dance forever through fields of suitably waving daffodils' and then crashing towards, 'dammit, I want to sit on a grave surrounded by ravens with the wind making the trees creak above me.' I think this is partly due to my actually sitting down and doing some serious work today - principally because it finally reached the point of being non optional. I simultaneously had the great realisation that weh hey, I had the will power to do it and (honestly, from God knows where) the interest to continue, along with the thought that I really should have done considerably more work than I already have and how far behind I am. Think I haven't left it so late I can't catch up... Hope.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).

D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'

I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.

I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.

Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.

The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.

Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.

And I must say, I am often worsted.

On Planes and Post

I think it is fairly safe to say that I have a wide range of experience with flights. I've ranted about a few on here before, but decided after recent events that I'd sum up a few generalised complaints. I am fed up with variable carry-on baggage rules - given that the vast majority of planes are a Boeing 737 or whatever that other thing is - AirBus or something - I think the overhead lockers are going to be remarkably similar, thus able to support similar weights. Why is it I can take 10kg of carry-on with Ryanair, yet for 'safety measures' only 5kg with Virgin Atlantic? Where is the logic? And why is it I constantly see people with legs about half the length of mine nestled comfortably into exit row seats, while I need to apply the vaseline to my knees and ease my way into the two inch gap between the standard seats? To add to my usual list of grievances, yesterday I had to wait in an unnecessarily slow moving queue to have my passport checked upon arrival. What is all this rubbish about not having to fly with passport but using 'alternative forms of ID' - it just means that queues build up as the poor sod trying to establish you are who you say you are is running his finger up and down the long list of 'acceptable ID alternatives.' Final complaint (for now): good God, but they make you walk miles in airports. The worst I think was Dallas, where - I jest not - it took me close on an hour to walk to my gate. At a brisk pace. Carrying all my luggage. Do you realise this is approximately, at a guess, THREE MILES? And during that three miles, there was not a single cash point or banking office where I could withdraw American dollars and thus purchase some of the ghastly food options available to me. Much as I find it endlessly amusing to watch lardy people 'sprinting' towards their gate, I feel for them. We have to walk too far, and it is frankly bloody ridiculous.
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...

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.