In the words of Jeremy Hardy last night, "I've written a poem.  That's like me saying, 'I've rewired your house.'"  Never mind.  You can either like it or just not bother reading it.  Well.  Obviously there is a third option.  But I'm happy with just those two, really.  Written last Tuesday afternoon.

 

 

The worst moment isn't when we realise the time,
And get up, knowing that soon you must leave.
Oh no, I could cling to you, desperately,
Like we do that moment, forever.
It's not even when I walk with you the smallest way
And pause on the corner to say goodbye.
I could close my eyes and breathe you in,
Commit you to memory, forever.
It's not as we walk off in different directions
And glance back and catch each other's eyes.
Not at all.  I could share those fleeting, unblinking seconds,
They'd make me smile forever.
The worst bit is when you've gone round the corner,
And so have I, and still I turn round
But you are not there.
The light has faded; the joke has passed.
The point flies by and I know I've missed it.
I shiver.  This is the coldest part of the day.

Yes, you do hear me correctly.  I DID go to the gym this morning.  On purpose.  And I did stay there for over an hour.  Again, on purpose.  Not just sat in a corner watching, either.  Oh no.  They unleashed me on the scales and - hurrah! - I seem to weigh more than seven stone for the first time in God knows how long.  It comes from eating the quantity I have over the last few weeks, I think.  Ahahaha.  Lunch?  I joke.

 

And let's not mention my escapade with the weights, shall we?  I'm a weed, alright?

 

Why is it that the most useful things have the most excruciating names?  I mention only because I've spent the day in three-quarter lengths for the first time in aaaages and feeling rather tanned and lovely because of the most wonderful bottle of moisturised with the word "sunkissed" on it I can find.  There are two things I take umbrage (alright then...) at here: first of all, the sun is a burning ball of gas.  It does not kiss.  So sod off.  Second of all, I quote the name on the bottle: "Garnier NEW summerbody Moisturising Lotion Sun-Kissed Look with Camomile Extract".  Apart from being poncey and pretentious to the extreme, plus the whole kissing the sun thing and also the fact that I could have sworn that chamomile has an H in it (according to my dictionary it could be spelt either way) - where, in fact, is the chamomile?  I see no mention of it whatsoever in the ingredients list, unless it is covered under the wonderful list of deceptively scientific names that in any other context could easily be mistaken for some sort of lubricant.  In short, what the fuck is "Bisabolol"?

 

On the other hand, it is rather nice stuff, smells nice, works like a treat and doesn't streak.  So, in another bottle, I'd have no trouble with it whatsoever.  MARKETING, eh?

 

I'm going to say this here because there is nowhere else I can say it without people looking down at me.  Well, maybe they still will, but I don't care.  This way, you can't hear my tone of voice.

 

I have GOT to get straight As.  That is how it is.  I HAVE to.  There is no other way.  If I don't get an A in any subject, save perhaps General Studies, then that is it.  Finito.  End of hope of ideal degree, ideal job, end of all of it.

 

It's not the worst thing in the world.  Whatever  Maybe I can work around it.  In fact, I'm fairly sure I can.  But I don't want to have to, and I am not, repeat NOT, giving EVERYTHING UP because some people can't be bothered to turn up two lunchtimes a week.  It's alright for you.  I have no room to manouvre whatsoever.  Nothing.  So don't for god's sake make me.

 

It's lunchtime.  The reason I'm not out and about is that I can't trust myself to be sociable, and I can't trust myself to be impassive.  I want to cry in a corner without someone asking me what's wrong.  I'd quite like a hug, too, but that's impossible at the moment.  Especially without explanation of any kind.  So I'll be off to pretend I'm meant to be like this.

 

Beware of stress, they said.  I'll give you stress.  If this were only relying on MY work, it'd all be fine.

For some reason (and don't ask me how I got there, but I do swear that I wasn't typing it into Google - let's say it involved the A-Team), I have just found myself at the Wikipedia page for the word Bullshit, and come across this poem, entitled "The Triumph of Bullshit":

 

 

I just thought I'd share it with you, because it seemed to me a beautiful manifestation of the English language.

 

That is all.

Time for a count-your-blessing-style list, I think.

So the interest rate's risen.  This is going to be interesting.  Hold on to your horses, ladies and gentlemen, we may be about to hit a very good time to be saving money.  Not exactly drastic, most likely, but still.  It's been pretty boring in the world of Economists recently.  Trust me.  I've been revising Balance of Payments.  It doesn't get much more boring.

 

Not been up to much, today, admittedly, but it feels good.  It feels like I've been productive.  I've not written overly much, I've actually concentrated in Economics, for once (don't know why I bothered) and I've eaten very, very little and it's barely affected me.  So I see today as somewhat of a triumph.

 

Have a quick look at this and see what you make of it.  I found it quite interesting, actually.  Especially the graph.  See what you think.

 

And another thing that's good - my paranoya from yesterday has all but vanished.  I mean, not completely, that would have been too much to ask for, I think - but mostly.  And with any luck it'll be alright soon anyway.  It's all about what you read in to and whether you need to do that.  I don't know.  I suppose I'll manage.  Yesterday was terrible, though, I felt awful for it.  Wish I wasn't like this but there you go.  I'm rambling.

 

My attention span has plummeted.  I'm off, to go and read a bit before I get the bus.

 

Guides tonight.  I could just do with Guides.

 

Spaced out or what?

Won't be around until later, most likely.  I'm going to get on with some work and a bit of reading, my intention is to just immerse myself in the important things in life - that is, the important things that don't answer back.

 

Going back to college tomorrow.

 

I suppose I've missed it the last few weeks, but on the other hand, I've quite liked having the time to sit back and think.  You don't know what you've got til it's gone.  Apart from one thing, and at the moment I'm absolutely certain I've got that and it's almost unbelievable.

 

If you have a moment, and feel like getting into my brain right now, shut your eyes and listen to my MySpace profile song.

 

The worst thing was yesterday evening, stood in the opressive heat on a train, jammed up against the door, sweating like a pig, holding Neverwhere up to my nose so I could concentrate on reading as opposed to my station outside the window as it sped past, or my phone as the bars representing signal decided they were sulking and weren't bloody turning up even if I begged.  It was horrible.  I was trapped, even though it was only as far as Salisbury, I mean, fifteen piddling little minutes, and then I was alright because there was a train back twenty-five minutes later - which for where I live is God or Providence or whoever at work - and a bar of Divine 70% cocoa chocolate in my bag, and KT Tunstall to listen to at top volume.  That was alright.  It's just, another of those situations where I can't get off, can't scream STOP! STOP! DON'T MAKE ME KEEP GOING, JUST LEAVE ME HERE, I DON'T WANT TO GO ANY FURTHER - maybe I give up too easily.  I don't know.

 

So there we go, then.  Just thought I'd tell you about that.

 

Other than that, yesterday was nigh on unbeatable.  All that AND Doctor Who.  I mean, creme brulee.  Perfect down to the last detail.  I suppose I must have been destined to go to Salisbury at some point.

 

I'm off then.  Maths and reading.  Later.

The thing about treading water is that it's not something that you learn.  You do it, or you die.  That's how it goes.  If it doesn't go alright on the night, there's no going round and trying again.

 

My parents seem to have mastered the knack of saying exactly the thing that is my Achilles heel and is going to have me writing pages and pages of smudged non-sentences in the diary that's going to last me another month if I'm lucky.  There's so much BAGGAGE.  So much has happened.  I've kept it since the end of July, this volume, and it's full of nearly nine months' worth of guilt.

 

The more I hear about Tuesday evening (differentiating now from Tuesday night - make of which what you will), the less I like myself and the prouder I am to be around such fantastic people.  I'd like to say never mind, people won't care, but I'm slightly worried that they will.

 

I can't wait until I'm out of this place, I really can't.  I want to make my own rules and maybe I'll crash and burn but maybe, just maybe, I'll be fine and I can manage on my own, with my own agenda, without living up to other people's standards.

 

Look, I mean, just look at this - am I drawing the wrong conclusions?  I haven't done something I was told to do.  They tell me this.  They lay stress on the fact that this is always what happens.  They then imply that, because I haven't been doing whatever I was meant to do, I was instead sat doing nothing (probably the case, but I resent the implication) for long periods of time, whilst they were out in the office working - which means, I conclude that they're impying that I am lazy.  Fair?  Apparently not.  Let's stick with the facts, shall we?  Fuck you.  Oh, no, Fiona, we're not guilt tripping you, you're guilt tripping yourself.

 

I seem to be doing a lot of that at the moment.

 

To the person who seems to be having the worst time of it at the moment: you're treading water.  We're all treading water.  I'm here for you, if you ever feel like you need it.

To the other person who thinks the above was about them: you're not alone either.  Stop acting like it.  Catch-22.

According to BBC News, which I am currently surfing as I am wont to do on a lovely morning such as today (after all, there has to be SOMETHING wring with the world), and I thought, being the opinionated sort of person that I am, and not having written much for quite a long time here, I'd give you a quick insight into the top news stories, apparently, in the world at the moment.

 

The first one that I come across is entitled "A-grade pupil banned from dance" - some poor GCSE kid, prefect, getting straight As, has been chucked off the netball team and banned from her prom.  Why, might you ask?  She's set fire to the maths department, perhaps, or punched some first year in the nose so that they've had to have extensive plastic surgery?  Maybe she's injected herself with something she found in the Chemistry cupboards, or spiked the water dispensers with vodka, or - horror of horrors - had her shirt tucked out three days in a row?  (Ah, KES, how we loved you...)  Not at all, not in the slightest.  Just read this.  http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/6546967.stm  And of course, children have no clue about stress, these days.  It's a bloody travesty.  And the thing about it is, when she's one year older, as soon as she's finished her GCSEs, if they try to so much as stick her in detention she could sue, because she's not in full time education.  Just wait until Gordon Brown makes A-levels compulsory.  Add the two together and let's all watch the suicide rate shoot up.  Congratulations.

 

And while we're on the subject of civil liberties, read this.  http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/6545115.stm  Now this stinks to me of MEN, not just any men (most of you are absolutely lovely), who can't quite cope with this new egalitarian world where women have the same rights as they do, and might just be better at their jobs sometimes (and of course it depends more on the person than the gender, I'm not THAT raving a feminist - usually), deciding that there ought to be some more androcentric Balance stuck back in the system.  For God's sake.  Whatever effect one's period might have on one's ability to work is one's own business and probably negligible anyway, and not by any means to be monitored by some bastard behind a desk.  There's no real reason for it, as far as I can see, except for the fact that it is degrading and personal.

 

Arnold Schwarzenegger, bless him, seems to have got the right idea about climate change, in an utterly gaaah!-inspiring way.  http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/6546975.stm?lsm  He's asking to have the piss ripped out of him, really: 'Weight-lifting was once considered a pursuit for weirdos, he said, carried out in dungeon-like gyms by people embarrassed to admit to doing it. But with positive marketing "it became mainstream, it became sexy, attractive, and this is exactly what has to happen with the environmental movement", he said.'  Well, he's trying, and as for the rest of what he has to say (apart from the whole insulting treehuggers thing) he does have a very good point, and more power to his elbow.  Figuratively.  (And does anyone else find it amusing that he's got a hydrogen-powered Hummer?)

 

Something strikes me as not quite right about this whole Iran/sailors thing.  There's much too much media spin around, I can't get a hold on what actually happened, so I'd probably better not comment on it and how it was handled.  Don't think I'm being an idiot here.  So the boat was captured.  The Iranians say it was in their water, and say they have evidence.  The UK says it wasn't, and says they have proof.  Every piece of information I have is from the UK News - even the BBC has its own bias.  They say Iran changed its mind about where it says the sailors were picked up.  Faye Turney and the others - notice the women-and-children angle here - changed their stories drastically, something about rapists and coffins, I think - and who sells their story to the Sun if they want it to be told accurately?  I mean, really.  And that's another thing - how many of them were there?  Because I saw the picture in the papers, of all of them.  Except for one.  And with all their names.  Except for one.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm too much of a conspiracy theorist.

 

So that, boys and girls, is the spirit of the age from the point of view of myself.  Three cheers for Somerfield.  I love life.

This is the story of the girl who sat outside the bus station blowing bubbles.

 

 

"Just got back from the East Tytherley Maundy Thursday service.  I feel quiet, like all I need is a hug, a constant presence, just for a while.

 

It was so beautiful, in the dark church and the fading half-light and with the single, dim candle on the altar at the front, so far away... the flame barely flickered and it was so quiet and understated and sad, I just sat there at the end [of the service], taking it all in... until Mum got restless and I couldn't pretend to pray any longer - well, I was praying, it was more like a commentary without words unfolding in my head (poetic? not really) - and so we went outside.

 

The sky on the horizon was that pink that's almost red and everyone goes AHA, metaphor, blood-red sky, but it's not.  If anything blood-related, blood oranges.  And the gravestones outside the church looked so peaceful, casting soft grey shadows and the grass must have been newly-mown because I could smell it and it just finished the scene so perfectly...  I can't describe it other than accepting.  As in, I'd just heard about the crucifixion, and as if God was telling me via the landscape that some things happen, and they're meant to happen, and they might rip you to pieces from the inside, but some things are constant, and will always be constant and and you can always fall back on them.  Which is just, I think, what I needed to hear.

 

I'm now going to copy this last page into my blog, despite the cliches, because I feel at peace with the world and everyone should feel like this sometimes."

This is proof that √2 is irrational, that is, that it can't be written as a fraction.  Like pi.  Explanation included for the uninitiated.

 

So, first of all, say it's not, say √2 is rational, which means it can be written as a fraction that can't be cancelled down any further, say, a/b, where a and b are integers (whole numbers).  It's important to remember that a/b cannot be cancelled at all.

 

So if √2 = a/b, which I've just said that it is, then (a/b)² = 2.

 

If you rearrange this, you get a²= 2b².

 

If this is true, then a² has to be even, because it's twice b², which in turn means that a has to be even.

 

Let's imagine that there is a number c, whch is half of a, and therefore also a whole number.  So a=2c.

 

a²=(2xcx2xc)=4c²=2b² which means that b²=2c²

 

Do you recognise this?  a²= 2b² and b²=2c²

 

Which means that b is even, and a is even (which we said was true earlier).

 

So because a and b are both even, a/b can be cancelled down.

 

AHA!!!! BUT IT CAN'T, CAN IT?  BECAUSE WE ALREADY SAID a/b CAN'T BE CANCELLED DOWN!!!!

 

Therefore the whole hypothesis that √2 could be written as a/b is completely wrong, explodes in your face and... therefore √2 is irrational.

 

That wasn't too hard, was it?

 

That's beauty for you.