My good friend Kate sent me this earlier, thought you'd appreciate it:

 

 

 

 

Lily's had the alcohol talk today, which I'm still pretty amused about because she's just stopped short of swearing teetotalism for the rest of her life - see how long that'll last, Mrs. Ellerby, I haven't been this proud of you since you gave us that quiz in the third year; "List ten good reasons not to have sex."  On the other hand, though, I feel slightly sick.

 

There is a reason that fairy tales are set a long ago in a land far far away, and that is that they don't generally happen here and now.  Some people would do well to remember that, especially over the coming week.  We don't live happily ever after, that's just not how it is.  There's no such thing as a fairy godmother.  And if you click your heels three times and wrinkle your nose, it's not going to give you a happy ending.  Live and learn.  Live and bloody learn.  The rest of us have to.

 

Oh, and in reference to either two entries ago or something else entirely - and I imagine probably the former but it's always nice to have a bit of ambiguity, isn't it? - there's nothing wrong with a good poet now and again.  Is there?

*sigh*

 

 

And if I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight.

I read somewhere about how the amount of irony used by the English is partly because of the high value they place on words.  One of these days, I will write Coming Down After A Party as a collection of diary entries directly after most of the parties that I have been to, and maybe you will nod knowingly and recognise some of the entries from your own experience.  Or maybe you won't.

 

I have come to the conclusion - and obviously there are exceptions to this so don't get horribly offended - that men fall into two categories.  The same can probably be said of women, some of whom can be placed in the same categories, but being one myself I find it a bit more difficult to classify them (any help appreciated), and anyway, there seem to be a lot more exceptions/hybrids who are women.  Gross exaggeration but if you think about it... actually pretty accurate.  These two main categories of men, then, are (*drumroll*) poets and bastards.  I am not going to elaborate on these for fear of embarassing or offending people, and of course I seem to know a lot more poets than bastards and most of them I don't want to hate me.

 

There's nothing wrong with being a poet, or a bastard, just as long as you don't take it to extremes, okay?

 

Out of interest, this bears very little resemblance to last night, I was just thinking about it at the time and decided you might like to know and wondered if some people might recognise what I'm talking about...?  (No, not you, I've offended you enough, I was actually thinking about C.)

 

Oh, and decide between you, but I think I'm a poet.

I know I've been moody the last few times I've written in this blog, but I don't care, I'm going to just have a go at a few more unsuspecting mortals before going back to my usual... erm... demure self.

 

*OKAY RANT OVER YOU CAN ALL GO HOME NOW - NO DON'T WORRY, I DELETED IT*

 

 

Today has been a getting-back-on-track day.  I've reminded myself of my goals, and just listened to comfort music and read Nick Hornby all evening.  Which has calmed me down no end.

 

I am slightly worried for H, so if you think something is wrong with her please look out for her and be there because I can't.

 

It occurred to me this afternoon on the bus home that I am almost exactly where I wanted to me when I was younger.  I had visions of how I wanted to be when I was sixteen... socially, and work-wise... and it's gratifying to think that I've managed a lot of it, even if not all.

 

So I'm happy.  And even when I'm not, I'm happy being unhappy.

 

All the better for Saturday night.  Thank you.  Sometimes a quick outpouring and affirmation makes you so much more comfortable in your own skin.

I am, I think quite deservedly, put back into place by the last person who commented this blog.

 

Thank you to Stephen who has obviously never been to Southampton and therefore believes me representative of some very lovely people who are not warped cricket-haters at all, and who has unfortunately failed to leave a contact address so that I can get back to him and apologise in person.

 

Cricket is, I am sure, a wonderful sport, although I have never really paid it much interest.  It seemed just so absurd at the time that a game - and yes, it is *only* a game, no matter how seriously you take it - should get what RADIO FOUR (so kill me.  I like it.) described as a "high level enquiry" when corruption at a national or international level remains swept under the carpet.  This, in the mind of a PMSing 16-year-old girl who has not had particularly much sleep recently, evidently got out of proportion.

 

It is unlikely that Stephen, whoever he is, will read this, but I think we all need to reexamine our senses of proportion.

 

I would also like to say that I have nothing against organised sports, but that given the choice I would much rather be doing - or watching - something else.  It's a matter of personal taste, and maybe we will never see eye to eye, but at least we should take a moment to understand each other's point of view.

 

And speaking of which, don't worry, they're not all like me in Southampton, how could they be?  We live in a diverse society and saying that because one lives in a certain city one is inclined to lash out at cricketers is like saying that because one is of a certain religion one is inclined to blow up the London Underground, and if you believe that you have no longer any of my time, whether you wanted to in the first place or not.  Other than that, I completely agree with you, my outburst was uncalled for and hopefully I have given reason enough for it, even though giving reason does not excuse anything.

 

Besides - and this is the most childish I am going to get in this post - I have a great respect for cricketers.  They appear to steamroller everyone else at ballroom dancing and that is something I can respect.  If I could understand cricket (and it's not for want of trying), maybe I would think differently.

 

Hopefully this is fair.

 

P.S. Is "maladaptive" even a word?  If it is, I look forward to using it more in future, because it has a certain ring to it, don't you think?

 

P.P.S "Strangely weird" is tautology.

Elizabeth I

Boudicca

Jane Austen

Susan B. Anthony

Lise Meitner

Jane Addams

The Brontes

Oprah Winfrey

Helen Keller

Greta Garbo

Florence Nightingale

 

This is the list.  They have something in common (I think I can include Garbo in this... but may have to check) so be STRONG.

 

That is how it is.

The news is completely screwed up at the moment.

 

It's CRICKET for god's sake.  CRICKET.  It's not the end of the world!  Why do you need a high level enquiry if your national team isn't the best in the world?  I don't know why anyone says "we" or "us" - you weren't exactly THERE were you?  What happened to sportsmanship, to not caring if your team were beaten by someone who belongs to what used to be a British colony?  And why, for god's sake, do they need a high level enquiry?!  No joke, those were the words they used on the BBC about half an hour ago.  Now just compare this with weapons of mass destruction and a certain forty-five minutes.  High level enquiry?  My arse.

 

Speaking of which - Saddam Hussein, as he's about to die, somebody taunts him.  Nobody minds if he's taunted if he's going to be alive ten minutes later.  This is the bloke who tried something in the order of genocide.  The one whose sons we as "Allies" we are responsible for the death of.  The one who was found cowering in a hole, who was then filmed with people examining his teeth, sat in a cell, so as to humiliate him worldwide.  This wasn't meant to be filmed, but suddenly everyone's going all sanctimonious that he shouldn't have been taunted.

 

And then the Americans, bless them, tell us that they Would Have Done It Differently.  Good for them.

 

Don't make me SICK.

Happy New Year.  Bring on 2007.

 

I'm sorry, I haven't updated this for ages and ages, and only then when I was angry.  I have ten minutes before my internet shuts off to tell you why.

 

I'm writing... something.  It's got to 10,000 words, just these last few weeks, but I've been writing it for years and it's my life story.  Or rather it's not.  It's Rebecca's life story, and she's not real, not for you, but she is for me.  She is me.

 

I thought she was asleep a moment ago, but no, she's just reminded me she's still here.  I don't care.  I'm going to tell you anyway.  She's taking over my life at the moment, and this isn't some kind of spooky act just to make myself more interesting, she actually is, I can feel her flicker behind me sometimes, and sometimes she makes her opinions properly KNOWN, and occasionally, when I work hard enough that I'm about to collapse, she'll come out to prop me up.  We're like that.  We prop each other up, Becca and I, we help each other survive.  I got her to say what she thought the other day, about me, that is.  She wrote it down and it's on a file in Microsoft Word - I can read what Becca's told me herself.  Except she didn't write it, of course, that's absurd, I wrote it.  This isn't the bloody Exorcist, you know.  I just thought I'd let you know... that's why I've not been writing.  I've been letting Becca out and she doesn't like telling anyone what she's thinking.

 

I'm not making this up, you know.  You can read it.  You won't understand it but you can read it.

 

Actually, no, don't.  You don't believe me, do you?  I don't believe me any more, I did a moment ago as I was writing it but it comes and goes.

 

So I'm not working myself into oblivion, I'm finding Rebecca.  She's here, but always with me.  When I'm not here she can be on her own.  She doesn't like that but it helps me work out who is who.

 

Fine.  FINE.  If you want to think like that, I'm making it up.  THIS ISN'T HOT-SEATING, YOU KNOW.  I HAVE DRAMA FOR THAT.