Sunday, 30 August 2009
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Keeping myself busy takes my mind off the fact I am 11,929 miles away from Flatmate.
Thanks to the combined miracles of teenage daughters and Facebook, I have seen the inside of his house, the faces of his immediate and extended family, what beer he drinks and where he went on holiday.
Friday, 21 August 2009
It's this blog's second birthday!
Read the very first post here, if you dare.
It's not very exciting, but a week later Flatmate (the Bridgwater Kid's younger brother) and I got rip-roaringly drunk and had sexytime and began the utterly bizarre but tender relationship that endures to this day, even though I am in Invercargill and he is in Cardiff.
BK is doing fine up in Auckland, by the way, and he would love for me to come up to see him at Christmas.
We shall see.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Monday, 17 August 2009
I make no apology for the fact I am at the forefront of trends, leading bands of bleary-eyed acolytes surefootedly through the minefield that is cutting edge nouveau.
Therefore I proudly present to you the pair of ideas that came to me last night about 3am when I couldn't get to sleep.
Firstly, this. Irritated that my MP3 player is missing loads of songs I like because I can't afford to buy them in any format or even borrow CDs from the library to illegally record from, and I am too scared to steal tunes off the interweb in case Metallica come round my house and beat me up, I had the inspired idea of recording things off YouTube just like I used to record Radio One's Top 40 countdown on Sunday nights when I was 15.
In those days, it was a shonky old tape deck. In these modernist, cutting edge times it is an Olympus WS-110 digital voice recorder.
I bought this piece of cutting edge equipment at the start of the journalism diploma and I am sure it will be incredibly useful should I ever have to interview someone in real life. But seeing as I have spent the best part of my academic year carefully avoiding this eventuality, it has been languishing at the bottom of my bag among the chewing gum wrappers, plastic tapirs and tissue scraps.
Today however was its day in the sun. I pressed its cutting edge microphone against the laptop's tinny speaker et voilà, quality recordings of all those mighty anthems we know and love (such as Beat My Guest by Adam and the Ants) are now on my MP3 along with a background orchestra of rustling pyjamas, a ticking clock, an overheating laptop, and a housemate belching and flushing the toilet.
The second idea was to start a new blog.
Yesterday I was delighted to see a tui in the tree outside my window. If BK had been handy for a game of 'Highlight Lowlight' it would've definitely been the highlight*. This made me start thinking I would like to do a daily blog which addressed only the essence of the day and not all the waffle.
I would call the blog 'One Thing' and each post would finish the sentence 'Today was all about...', so, for example, yesterday's post would have been a picture of a tui, with the title 'Tuis', even though everybody knows there is no 's' in the Maori language, and maybe I would've mentioned I saw one preening in the tree outside my window just to make things perfectly clear to those readers who weren't as cutting edge as me.
Simple, I thought, yet effective. Radical and minimalist in this age of information overload. Cutting edge, certainly. And very nouveau. Kind of like summing up in no more than 140 characters what you are doing.
*When we were a couple BK and I used to play a game called 'Highlight Lowlight'. At the end of the day we'd get into bed and BK would sing a little jingle that was a mixture of Pearl & Dean and Countdown and then we'd take it in turns to say briefly what the worst thing, then the best thing, had been about the day, thus ensuring every day ended on a positive note. Ah, good times.
PS: And if you're wondering why I don't just download tunes onto my phone, it's because my phone looks like this:
And I can't download songs straight onto my MP3 player because my MP3 player is so even more cutting edge I can't find a picture of it on google.
I think I'll go to sleep now before I have any more good ideas.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Please don't tell Gok.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
It transpires I have been upsetting Christians with my IMPURE THOUGHTS.
Not only does Satan tempt me (and others) with FOUL AND UNNATURAL DESIRES whenever Tutor Smartypants wears those really great trousers, but he also LEADS ME INTO TEMPTATION whenever I see a certain music student at school.
This music student has been blessed with a very beautiful face. He looks like a cross between Paul McGann and Flatmate and it is a joy to feast my eyes on his exquisite bone structure and wild blond curls. Some days when I stare at him open-mouthed I might actually release a little drool, but no matter. He is about twenty years my junior and has an equally stunning girlfriend.
“But I’m only looking,” I explain.
“No!” says the Christian, my most favourite of Fabulous Classmates. “It’s… it’s…”
Her face screws up in disgust.
“I can understand why you’d look at something like a bull or a sheep or a tree or a sunset and go ‘hey, that’s a really beautiful bull or sheep or tree or sunset’,” she says. “You know, appreciate it for its perfect form. But to look at another human being like that and go…”
As she is struggling to find words to express her disgust, I offer a helpful “Phwhoar?”
“Yes!” she cries. “It’s that – it’s that ‘phwhoar’…”
She shudders with revulsion.
“It’s like… LUST,” she says.
“It IS lust,” I say.
There is a pause as we consider this.
"So you shouldn't even look at other people, even if they're really really beautiful?" I ask.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
The lesson is dull, and we know he intends to keep us here til 4pm. On a Friday! He is explaining the minutiae of his craft with a keenness bordering on zealotry, and it is hard not to fidget. But seeing as he's giving up his Friday afternoons to share with us his passion for page layout, surely the polite thing to do is to sit still and at least look like you're listening. Feigning interest is a necessary journalistic skill after all.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
I reckon songs get into your head for a reason.
Unless the song is Poker Face by Lady Gaga, which gets there by sorcery or witchcraft or other foul and unnatural means.
The song I've had in my brain for over a week is Coldplay's Trouble.
But only the bit that goes 'here am I in my little bubble'. Hmmm.
On Sunday night, after my weekend of shame - I read for approximately twenty seven hours, and slept for thirteen - I felt completely detached from reality, not even slightly worried by the fact our tutors expect us to write fourteen news stories of our own making this term, on top of all the classwork.
This had panicked me greatly the week before but now I was awash on a sea of warm fuzzies, smiling benignly at fate, knowing that whatever happened, everything would be all right, which was a bit of a bargain seeing as no drugs were involved in achieving this altered state.
Last week had been like this:
Monday. Fourteen stories! Too awful to contemplate. Could start working on one but it's more fun to sit around with Fabulous Classmates gassing about how difficult it will be to write fourteen stories.
Tuesday. Fourteen stories. Could start working on one but feel huge imperative to sit around moaning to Fabulous Classmates about how much I hate journalism because it is too pressurised.
Wednesday. Fourteen stories. Could start working on one but the person I need to talk to has probably gone home for the day and there's no point leaving messages because nobody ever gets back to you because everybody hates journalists because journalism is intrinsically dishonest because all they want to do is sell papers and where's the integrity in that? I will not be a slave to capitalism. Instead I will sit and chat to Fabulous Classmates about how annoying some people are.
Thursday. Fourteen stories. Could start working on one but it is much nicer to help Fabulous Classmates with theirs. I think I would be a better sub-editor than reporter because I am good at tidying up other people's copy and I nearly did a graphic design course once. Reporting is very difficult and I will probably never be any good at it. I will somehow probably manage to produce my fourteen stories at some unspecified point later in the term using a method that has not yet become clear to me. My inability to take the bull by the horns is entirely the fault of my parents as I have their wastrel, procrastinating DNA coursing through my genes. I am destined to be a sad sap loser and must accept my fate. Fancy a coffee?
Friday. Fourteen stories. Does not compute. La la la la lah. Oh look - shiny!
But on Monday my first waking thought was 'the only way out is through'.
"Blimey. Where did that come from?" I said to Downstairs Monkey. He gave a little simian shrug and went back to sleep.
So I skipped into school and demanded my tutor give me a Wednesday deadline* and I think, I think, I have succeeded in pulling my head out of my arse and the first of the first fourteen stories is done.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
I did a bit of a weird stalky thing over the weekend.
I am writing this post to apologise to the subject of my weird stalkiness who will be no doubt rubbing her eyes in disbelief at her stats counter.
A new reader dropped by recently, and I thought her blog looked interesting. 'I'll have a look at it properly, when I get time,' I told Downstairs Monkey, who is the only person I talk to outside of school these days.
On Friday evening I picked up the book Tracks, by Robyn Davidson. It proved such a gripping read I didn't put it down until 3am.
When I woke on Saturday morning, I picked it straight back up and finished it off. It was that good. Really. You should read it immediately.
Anyway, this put me in a readingy frame of mind.
So I switched on the laptop, which now has tinternet again - hurrah! - and caught up with a few blogs I've neglected of late. Then, and it must've still been quite early in the day, I clicked onto the interesting-looking blog I'd told Downstairs Monkey about.
What time did I get off it? Erm, check that stat counter, it must've been around 6am Sunday. Sorry dude. Stalky. Stalky stalky stalky. I felt weird and embarrassed being on it for so long, but still couldn't tear myself away. Not only was the subject matter well-written, truthful and absorbing but there were cats, booze, poetry, weather, mad relatives and so many brilliant links to play with, after I'd finished reading absolutely everything I felt like I'd been on holiday.
I read the whole blog, right back to the first entry in 2005, because I just... recognised what was being said. Every word of it; every up, every down - I'd been there too in my life. I won't link to it to save the author's embarrassment and to the author I will say this: feel free to block me if you're now a bit creeped out.
But - well, wow.
[UPDATE: ok, seeing as she's fessed up in the comments, it was Pomgirl]