My two new favourite websites:

Hot Guys Reading Books

Bookshelf Porn

Nom.

Sun, sea and a salary

London Student, Volume 30, Issue 12, 16th May 2010, page 21.

(I quite like this one, even if I do say so myself).

And I have (albeit temporary) gainful employment, July-September. Hoo and Ray. Blogging is due to the fact it's impossible to concentrate, due to the man with the chainsaw outside. He's chopping down trees, not people. I hope. This is Hackney, after all.

That's it for news. Other than the fact my dissertation makes me want to run havoc with outside man's chainsaw (Disclaimer: this isn't actually true). Soon essay hell will all be over. Thank Christ.

Hiatus

It has suddenly dawned on me that I have less than a month to get all my uni work done, so I haven't got time to compose the epic blog post I've been intending to for a few days.

So, I shall leave you for now with the information that I have the greatest pencil sharpener in the world, courtesy of Simon and the Dr. When you stick a pencil up its arse, it mews. It's BRILLIANT.

Even better, unlike Shaggy it doesn't vomit on the carpet when annoyed (which is often).

I also have a job interview next Tuesday. Really hoping I get it - is only a 10-week placement, but actually pays, and will look very good on the CV. So fingers crossed and all that, even if it does destroy any of my plans for a nice summer holiday before starting NCTJ training in September.

I went to see Posh on Friday. I drank a lot of alcohol at the weekend, won the pub quiz and got sunburnt. I plan to do similar this weekend (sans sunburn). My social calendar has suddenly got far busier. Back in February/March I was stuck in most weekends. Now I must must MUST find time to write essays and keep getting invited down the pub. I'm incapable of saying no to the pub, I'm striving to learn.

I shall try and blog if anything particularly exciting happens, but shall very much be absent for the next month or so. See you all again in June.

The perils of cat-sitting

Picture the scene. 5am, I am fast asleep on the sofa when a cat jumps on my face.

Shaggy: Purr purr purr I love you Erykah you're amazing I love you by the way I'm hungry did I mention I love you?
Me: Fuck off I'm asleep.
Shaggy: But Simon and the Dr always feed me at 5am if I'm hungry purr purr you wouldn't want to upset them would you purr.
Me: No they don't.
Shaggy: Do.
Me: Don't.
Shaggy: Do. Will putting my arse in your face make any difference purr.
Me: I was told to ignore you at stupid o clock in the morning.
Shaggy: FINE! I shall go and eat what is left. Though it is probably POISON. Don't say I didn't warn you if it makes me ILL!

*om nom nom*

*huuuuurk*

Shaggy: I told you so.

--

I have temporarily relocated south of the river to look after this creature while his usual slaves are in Glasgow:



I could definitely get used to having a house of one's own; I wonder if I could claim squatters rights?

Film reviews - 'From a Whisper' and 'Rough Aunties'

'Play' supplement,London Student, Volume 30, Issue 11, 15th March 2010, pages iv-v.

Singapore fling

London Student, Volume 30, Issue 9, 15th February 2010, page 25.

Disappointingly, my photo of the bequiffed pigeon was not included. So, I shall exert sub-editing powers on my blog instead.

3 Worst Student Cities

I don't think it'll be any great surprise to anybody which crappy Leicestershire town sprang immediately to mind.

I hope to blog again properly tomorrow. Sunday has been spent recovering from a wonderful, but surreal weekend. These are, I feel, the best kind. I'll be doing it all again in a week; and the week after. I'm not entirely sure when my dissertation is actually going to get written up, but I suspect it may be improved by the presence of red wine.

Election

So the election has finally been announced as the 6th of May. In future, I would suggest that various media outlets contact me on these matters. The polling card that's been in my kitchen for the past week was a tiny clue to when the election was going to be held... Had I known this was actually news, I'd have phoned the Guardian or something.

I'm now just praying the Tories don't get in. I'm not entirely sure I can cope with entering the world of work and the start of a New Blue Empire in the same month. It's just all too depressing. I may take the opportunity to emigrate. Yes, Labour have done a lot of shitty things, but they have also:

* Legalised gay marriage
* Repealed Section 28
* Introduced minimum wage
* Equalised the age of consent
* Banned fox hunting
* Sorted out the majority of problems surrounding Northern Ireland

Though the less said about top-up fees, the better.

Keeping Labour means keeping the BBC. I love the BBC, if the Tories break that as well, I will actually cry. Labour may not be brilliant, but they're better than Cameron and his horrible friends, who'll just sell everything off to the highest bidder.

Not that it particularly matters who I vote for, as in Hackney South and Shoreditch Labour has over 50% of the vote. I don't think that'll be toppled any time soon. Obviously, I'll still be voting, but it's a tad demoralising that whatever I choose won't really make any overall difference.

Easter

Over the past few days, I have consumed a spectacular amount of wine. I personally think that's what Jesus did over the original Easter weekend: after the Last Supper he went on a bit of a bender and finally re-emerged on Sunday morning having recovered from his hangover.

On Thursday, I finished university for ever. Now only 18,500 words stand between me and the real world. HELP.

Thursday evening was spent in the pub with various Doctor Who types. The lovely Jonny lent me a select choice from the BBC Shakespeare collection, prompted by a discussion over Facebook I had completely forgotten about. Aren't my friends brilliant?

On Friday I ventured south of the river, where the equally lovely Simon and the Dr fed me hot cross buns and tea and showed me the dinosaurs. This was followed by getting lost in a maze, Simon giving me lots of advice about how to become a successful writerly-type (see, my friends are brilliant!), before retiring to the pub for wine. Then back to their house for much more wine, aubergines, and being glared at by their slightly evil-looking cat. I even returned home with another Shakespeare DVD and a free book. Although a North London girl at heart (what can I say? I like the Underground!), I'm now thinking I may have to venture dahn Souf more often in future. And, thanks to the new East London line finally opening next month, it'll finally be straightforward to get there from Hackney.

Saturday was, of course, Doctor Who day! A review of the episode shall shortly follow - I'm currently in the midst of another wave of job applications. I joined various friends in a giant Wetherspoons to watch Doctor Who on a giant screen, organised by the wonderful Jeremy Bentham.


Not this Jeremy Bentham.
Other than the episode, my favourite part of the evening was probably Helen's gingerbread Doctors. Must have taken so much time and effort, and they tasted as good as they look.

I got the last Gingerbread Matt!
Gingerbread Docs!
We didn't know each other at all, and it was only due to mutual friends on Twitter that I got to relay my thanks. This is one of the many reasons I love living in the twenty-first century. (In addition to technology, another major plus point is the fact I can do things such as vote and work and go to university. Huzzah for feminism!)

Through reasons unexplained, the pub the party was held in closed just after 8pm, despite still having several hundred people still there. So a large group of us headed to my beloved Shakespeare's Head and gave them all our beer and food money instead.

Essentially, my weekend can be epitomised by wine, Shakespeare, Doctor Who, dinosaurs and friends. I want all weeks to be like this (though I'm not sure my liver would agree).

Wandering lonely as a cloud

I bought more daffodfils. This time the little trumpety bits in the middle are yellow. Metaphorically, my life seems to be improving. Apart from the internet crashing for two days and the boiler breaking. Of course, with the central heating out of action, the weather has decided it's winter again.

Being internet-less was a hideous experience, I had to write an essay doing research in books. BOOKS! I'm used to relying on Google for all my research needs, it was very odd. I hadn't realised until now how reliant I am on the internet. And, naturally, it hit during the week all my housemates have gone home and I'm lacking in human contact.

I have one more day left of university. In fifteen hours it'll all be over - apart from the small matter of writing 18,500 words between now and the 20th May. This terrifies me. I have, however, been unexpectedly asked to progress to the second round of applications for a summer internship, which is promising. Perhaps I'm not utterly unemployable after all.

I have also decided that at some point in the near-future I want to go to Berlin. Unfortunately, I can barely speak a word of German, despite having studied it for two years at school. I blame the fact we only had one lesson a week, last thing on a Friday afternoon. Nobody had their brains in gear by that point. I managed to get an A in GCSE French, and hold a (very) basic conversation, yet the one sentence I can remember in German is "es ist sonnig." And as Germany's in Europe, I'm guessing it's not generally an accurate statement. So, I have persuaded my annoyingly-good-at-languages housemate to go with me. I also have epic plans to head over into the Netherlands to see the lovely Eric, and maybe also Prague and Budapest. But this depends very much on finances, and whether or not I actually have a job by then.

Swayed

I SAW SUEDE ON WEDNESDAY!

It was utterly unexpected; a friend ended up with a spare ticket and asked if I'd like to accompany her. Naturally, I said yes. So Wednesday night was a rather lovely evening spent at the Royal Albert Hall (somewhere I've always wanted to go). I'm now also rather in love with Brett Anderson. And just when I thought they weren't going to play my favourite song, it was their final encore. Cue one very happy Brackers. As they said - let's do it all again in another seven years...

Finished Rebecca - love it. I then watched the Hitchcock film. It was quite good, but I'm disappointed that they changed a rather vital piece of the plot. It's difficult to explain without ruining the novel for people who stumble across this blog, but I felt its removal completely sanitised the entire story.

Apart from that, though, I liked it. Even Lawrence Olivier didn't annoy me, which was a nice surprise. I know disliking him is akin to blasphemy, but I think his scenery-chewing roles in Hamlet and Richard III are utterly terrible, and he was woefully miscast as Heathcliff. Slightly repressed stuffy upper-class types such as Maxim de Winter seem to be his forté, even if he's not quite how I imagined the character.

In an ideal world, the BBC would put out a new version with Richard Armitage as Maxim and Sian Phillips as Mrs Danvers (or David Mitchell in a dress). You know it makes sense. Sian Phillips' turn as Mrs. Driver in The Borrowers was one of the great villainous roles of my childhood.

Why you should choose e.l.f. cosmetics & How to keep your skin healthy

Why you should choose e.l.f. cosmetics

How to keep your skin healthy.

My somewhat uneventful week ahead

1) Watch Bright Star for uni. All I know about the film is it's about Keats, and all I know about Keats is that he died young of TB. I strongly suspect there will be yet another case of Costume Drama Cough™, and at some point Ben Whishaw will delicately splutter into a blood-stained handkerchief OF PORTENTOUS DOOM™. I suppose, however, it does make a change for a bloke to be the tragically doomed one.

2) Finish reading Rebecca. I'm really enjoying it, the only problem being that I can't picture Mrs. Danvers as anything other than David Mitchell in a dress.

3) Start my Sensation Fiction essay on the rather-more-fabulous-than-it-ought-to-be Aurora Floyd (essentially comparing the eponymous Ms. Floyd with The Woman in White's Marian, as they are both women with 'manly tendencies').

4) If the weather stays nice, go and do some work in the park and get some much-needed sunshine. Recently-taken photos have revealed that I look like a cadaver and/or a Twilight fan. I'm not sure which is worse.

5) Avoid booze after the excesses of last night.

This makes no sense

Which is probably why I love it. It's like something from a Roald Dahl novel.

I'm spending my Sunday doing very little, as I have a hangover. Turns out drinking an entire bottle of £2.99 wine isn't the greatest idea. Who knew?

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

Haven't updated for a while and am too sleepy to compose an epic blog post. So, as I finally got my marks back for my Contemporary Literature module today, here is my almost-a-first (it got 69, I needed 70) Pride and Prejudice and Zombies review. Shame it's only worth 20%!
---
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Pride and Prejudice has a major significance within Western culture. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies does exactly what it says on the tin, a literary ‘mashup’ of Austen’s classic and a horror plot.

It’s one of those ideas that’s so simple, it’s amazing nobody’s ever thought of it before. Seth Grahame-Smith brings Austen’s heroines literally kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. The simplicity is what makes it effective. The title alone raises a smile, and the humour of Austen’s staid and somewhat repressed characters suddenly having to fight off zombie hordes works brilliantly in its bizarre juxtaposition.

Grahame-Smith turns the class tension between Lady de Bourgh and the Bennets into a believable snobbery on the former’s behalf over the suitability of the Bennets’ Chinese rather than Japanese martial training. Developing the sisters into highly skilled warriors also gives the women some agency, which most of Austen’s heroines traditionally seem to lack. Elizabeth et al. actually have something to do other than worry about how soon they’ll be married off.

However, the joke soon wears thin. While the conceit would work well as a short story or perhaps on a sketch show, the novel drags considerably. By directly interacting with Austen’s original text, Grahame-Smith shows himself to be an inferior writer – I often found myself longing to reread the original novel free from Grahame-Smith’s scatological obsessions. At times the humour veers towards to the puerile, though as the target audience for zombie novels is teenage boys, this is perhaps not surprising.

The novel felt very rushed. Admittedly zombies in Pride and Prejudice is in itself an Americanisation, but the humour here is supposed to come directly from this unusual splicing of genres. Scenes such as the Bennet sisters wandering through the English countryside, encountering skunks and racoons are jarring. It seemed as if Grahame-Smith had done very little research into Regency England. This is regrettable, as the novel’s central conceit is effective. Had Grahame-Smith’s input been written in a way that better emulated the style of Austen, it could have been funnier. Lizzie and Mr. Darcy making crude innuendo to one another is one of many incidents that seem decidedly out of character. What’s so frustrating is that the idea had the potential to become a brilliant novel, and falls short due to sloppy writing.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was an instant bestseller, and its influence is already being seen. In the eight months since its publication, we have been greeted with Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters and Mr Darcy, Vampyre. As a joke that only (barely) works once – due to its originality, it’s hard to see what these homages will bring to the literary world. As its eponymous monsters, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies seems to have unleashed an unstoppable terror upon us.

Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Quirk: Philadelphia, April 2009, 320 pages, £8.99.

Dear Helena Michie

I know you're a feminist critic and like to show off how clever you are. However, if you are going to use concepts such as "synecdoche" and "metatrope" in your essays, please be so kind as to remember a lot of us are thick and have absolutely no idea what the hell they actually are. It would particularly help those of us who are expected to give a presentation on your work at stupid o' clock on a Wednesday morning.

Love Brackers.

PS: Not even Google seems to know what "metatrope" is. And Google knows everything.

PPS: I've always been taught at uni to EXPLAIN EVERYTHING that the reader may not know. Epic fail, Ms. Michie.

NCTJ

Friday went better than I thought. I have been offered a place on the News Associates NCTJ course, starting part-time in September! Woo, Hoo, and everything in between.

I am now going to draw the curtains and do a victory dance around my bedroom.

Dinosaurs and Monuments and Shakespeares, oh my!

3 things every student should do in London - though everyone else should do them too, regardless of student status.

I can has moar Shakespeare!

I don't care if it's rubbish, I don't care if he only contributed a single line.

I WANT TO SEE DOUBLE FALSEHOOD!

I find it quite impressive that Ol' Shakey's been dead for four hundred years and is still managing to complicate my "see every Shakespeare play performed" plans. Good for him. With any luck, I'll get to number 38 and someone'll dig up a box with Love's Labour's Won and Cardenio nestling inside.

A childhood mingmong in Loughborough

Still trying to hunt down that somewhat important file. I did, however, find proof that I've been a sad, lonely and pathetic Doctor Who fan practically since the womb.

We had to make our own entertainment back in the mists of time (well, the 1990s). None of these shiny Doctor Who toys in bright orange packaging, or the internet, or mobile phones or non-terrestrial TV back in my day, y'know. (Well, the latter three did exist, they were just Very Expensive and we couldn't afford them). And TV used to closedown every night and start up again every morning, and if you got out of bed too early you had to sit through the testcard or Teletext teamed with lift music until the cartoons started. The SNES was the height of technology and Gameboys were the size of bricks with a two colour screen: black, and the bits that weren't black. None of these touch screen full-colour with a rechargeable battery wotsits. Basically, things were a bit crap. The Tories were in power back then, as well. Coincidence? I think not.

(c) Me, circa 1992-4 (Click to enlarge).

L-R: The Fourth Doctor, Romana, K9.

L-R: The Melkur (I think), K9, Me, The Fourth Doctor, the TARDIS, a Dalek.

'Fun Greetings of Dr Who'.

'How Dr Who met Erykah'

My artistic talents haven't particularly improved since the early-1990s.

I also discovered this - also from Doctor Who Magazine - which I'd completely forgotten about and means I can now technically include 'interviewing David Tennant' as one of my journalistic achievements. Excellent stuff.

What a spectacularly unexciting answer. For the record, an 'Erykah' cocktail would essentially be a Kalimotxo - not only does it contain two of my favourite things, but it's red, it's fruity, and has a bit of a kick to it. Though the Erykah-themed version would probably add a shot of absinthe in order to get everyone appropriately trashed.

Surviving

I just spent a very long time trying to hunt down a file on my hard drive. Naturally, I couldn't locate it. I did, however, find these cuttings from Doctor Who Magazine, dating back to sometime in 2007. Somewhat miraculously, two photos of myself that I don't utterly detest were chosen to delight/shock/repel/insertadjectivehere the nation's Doctor Who fans.

I look so young! It was only three years ago, I can't have got that old and haggard in the meantime, can I? I bloody miss being a fresher, though. Those were the days... I have no recollection of ever dying my hair black, but the photographic evidence is there for all to see. Very odd.

Survival is available from all good DVD retailers. The fan commentary for episode three is an unrivalled beacon of analytic skill and wit.

Oh, who am I kidding? They got four Doctor Who fans who could string a sentence together (one being the lovely Niall), locked them in a room with lots of wine, recorded the results then released the drunken ramblings internationally. I have only now, for the first time in three years, realised there's an empty wine glass on the table in front of me in that picture; it's such a common occurance. I don't even drink that much, I just seem to continually end up in photographs with empty alcohol vessels. I suspect that even at my graduation, I'll still somehow end up clutching a bottle of wine rather than a scroll in all my official photos.

I'm mildly concerned this is the type of thing that may well come back to haunt me in fifty years time. I could win the Nobel Prize for Literature and still be asked if I really did want to marry Matthew Waterhouse when I was five. (Answer: yes. But then I reached the lofty heights of six years old and switched my affections to Sam West instead. He was in Dimensions in Time AND The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, I still would be madly in love with him had he not also aged fifteen years and started to look a bit too much like his dad).

Interior design

I went to the pub last night and drank an awful lot of red wine.

This morning I discovered a massive purple handprint on my bedroom wall.

I think these two may be somehow connected.

Despite it being fantastically artistic, I suspect my landlord is going to kill me.

Back to the drawing board

(Would my job hunting be more successful had I an actual drawing board to return to? It may be a wise investment. Could I find a job as a drawing board? This could be a line of enquiry worth investigating).

Graduate schemes have been an epic fail. I know I'm amazingly awesome and fantastic (modest, too), but it's hard to prove this in a sea of 1,000 other applicants.

So, I'm currently now applying for admin jobs in a variety of exciting locations (NB: this is a rare instance where I am not actually being sarcastic. I'm going for the cool admin jobs rather than working for a double-glazing company). I know it's not often the words 'admin' and 'exciting' are used in the same sentence, but I'm a slightly strange person who actually enjoys tasks such as photocopying and putting things into alphabetical order. I think it's my inner pedant asserting itself.

Why do you want to be a journalist?

"Because, if television has taught me anything, being a journalist means I can spend my days drinking wine, reading the Guardian, and perching on dry stone walls. Admittedly, the latter needs work, but I've got the first two down to a fine art."

I went for my NCTJ interview/exam today. I'm not entirely sure how well it went, I managed to completely forget I'd done work experience at the BBC and instead waffled on about relatively unimpressive stuff. Arsebiscuits.

Though I would recommend the free workshop at News Associates to anybody interested in writerly things - and you don't even have to sandwich it between an interview and a test, as I did. On the subject of sandwiches, News Associates even provided us with food. I think they're wonderful.

Daffodils

When in Tesco the other day, I noticed the flower section. "Oh," said I (internally, I'm not a complete nutter). "I shall buy some daffodils. For it's still cold and grey outside. Whereas daffodils are yellow and happy, and when I go into the kitchen they will brighten up my miserable mornings by being a lovely ball of otherwise-absent sunshine."

The bastards have turned out to be albino.

When did my life start to be written by Katherine Mansfield? I'm now worried that falling down the stairs the other day (yes, again; no, I hadn't been drinking) is a deep and meanigful allegory that I'm yet to grasp the significance of.

I wish...

...the Pevensie children had just turned Aslan into a nice rug.

All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl.

All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl. All work and no wine makes Brackers a dull girl.

The 3 Greatest Student Cities

are London, Brighton and Edinburgh. In my humble opinion, anyway.

Will hopefully add something with slightly more depth to this place in the next couple of days. Distracted due to having a dissertation progress meeting on Tuesday, which means I need to get all the thoughts in my head onto a bit of paper. Also need to transfer my notes into a form that is actually understandable by a normal human, and not just me, in order to prove I have actually done something. Fun times!

Top tips for backpacking part 3

Click me.

My life in song...

If anyone can answer that burning question, I'm all ears.

Unless you suggest teaching, in which case you can fuck off.

A moment of showing off

This is where my dad lives:

Yes, it's smack bang in the middle of absolutely bloody nowhere, doesn't even have a pub, and is quite possibly populated by nutters, but it's very pretty.

And it has puffins. Everybody likes puffins.

They seem to be discussing something, I wonder what it is? My money's on world domination. Or shrimp.

Top tips for backpacking - part two

is here.

Hiatus-ish (again)

I have two essays and three articles due before this time next week.

So I'm putting the blog down and stepping away slowly.

5 CV mistakes to easily avoid, and Top Tips for Backpacking - part 1

5 CV mistakes to easily avoid. (Yes, I'm aware of the irony).

Top Tips for Backpacking - part one.

Worries

I'm not generally a worrier, but two scary dates are starting to loom. The first is 17th May, when I have to hand in my dissertation. Thanks to the weighting system, it's worth the equivalent of my entire first year of university (joyously, QM is one of the few places where the first year actually COUNTS). So, no pressure there, then.

The second, and even scarier date is 20th July, where I shall don a ridiculous hat and pay a ridiculous amount of money to get myself photographed clutching a rolled up piece of paper (to clarify, I'm graduating, not going to Glastonbury).

I have no idea what I'll be doing post-May. I'm desperately trying to find a job, but as I'm up against nearly 1,000 other people, my optimism is gradually diminishing. In a sea of Oxbridge graduates, I have no idea if a degree from a lesser-known college of the University of London makes me stand out for good or bad reasons.

Apparently, the graduates from 2009 who've already got their rolled up bit of paper and a year's work experience under their belt are also aiming for the decent jobs, so while there may be more jobs available than last year, there's also even more people to fight for them. And I have no idea how to make myself look better than everyone else.

It's at times like this that being best mates with the Queen or my dad owning a newspaper would probably come in useful.

What worries me is:

1) I have no idea if I'll be able to get a job.

2) I think I know what I want to do, but may turn out to be horribly wrong.

3) What I want to do is related to, but not actually, the thing I really want to do. But there's no way I'll ever make a career out of the latter, as - to be blunt - I'm simply not good enough. So I'm having to settle for something I know I can do, and hopefully enjoy.

Then of course there's issues to weigh up. I want to travel, but also would quite like to get out of rented accomodation one day. What do I put my money towards? Do I concentrate on having fun or establishing a career?

It's a big, wide world out there, and unlike most graduates I don't have the option to run away back home for a few weeks when it all gets too much. So I'm on my own. Which, to be honest, terrifies me. At the moment I've got the support network of uni, but that'll all be gone in a few short months.

I think it's time to break open that bottle of banana beer. And hide under my duvet until the real world buggers off. I may be here some time.

Abroad thoughts, from home

I need a holiday. Not for any particular reasons of rest or relaxation, but I've forgotten what the sun actually looks like. Even my pasty Celtic skin needs occasional UV rays, and I suspect I may be about to develop rickets. Britain is still lingering through the coldest winter in 30 years, and while the snow may not have been particlarly apocalyptic here in central London, it's been grey and cold and wet and miserable for a depressingly long time. Usually by now we've got a few signs of life such as snowdrops or a few confused trees bursting forth in blossom, but everything outside my window (not that you get much in the way of nature in Hackney) is resolutely dead. I'm hoping that when the spring finally gets here, it'll be akin to Aslan's return to Narnia: I'll wake up one morning to a glorious and magical transformation. A girl can dream.

There was no trace of the fog now. The sky became bluer and bluer, and now there were white clouds hurrying across it from time to time. In the wide glades there were primroses. A light breeze sprang up which scattered drops of moisture from the swaying branches and carried cool, delicious scents against the faces of the travellers. The trees began to come fully alive. The larches and birches were covered with green, the laburnums with gold. Soon the beech trees had put forth their delicate, transparent leaves. As the travellers walked under them the light also became green. A bee buzzed across their path.

"This is no thaw," said the dwarf, suddenly stopping. "This is Spring."

C.S. Lewis - The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

In other news, I'm still applying for jobs. Graduate schemes are looking increasingly impossible to elbow my way into, so I've started looking at more general admin work. Providing I remember to wear my glasses (which it pains me to wear as reading glasses seem to be associated with people at least twice my age), I have no problems with sitting in front of a computer all day. I'm a student, it's what I do best.

I saw a wonderful friend of mine today from the Netherlands, who brought me over a 600g packet of hagelslag. And bought me a vegetarian fry-up and coffee in Wetherspoons. This is why I love him. Hagelslag is a rather marvellous invention: chocolate sprinkles that you pour over hot buttered toast and eat for breakfast. The Dutch are truly amazing. It was also great to see him and have a catch-up. Last time I saw him was in June for my birthday, and I'm eternally grateful he was randomly placed in room 424 while we were both hostelling in Melbourne.

The eagle-eyed among you may have spotted that my profile picture has changed. Today I hit 1,000 site views (it may be a negligable amount to most, but I'm quite proud of it) and decided nothing says "celebration" quite like sparkly silver deely boppers.

Marriage

If I ever find someone insane enough to want to marry me, I insist on having this:

I cannot comprehend being unhappy with any man who appreciates the sheer awesomeness of a stegosaurus engagement ring.

Available from Lost at Sea.

Last week I...

* tried to put mascara on, missed, and managed to get my eyebrow instead.
* punched myself in the face while brushing my teeth.
* spilled the same pint over myself twice.
* burned two fingers and my arm in three seperate cooking accidents.

I've changed my mind, and am just going to spend the entirity of reading week in bed. At least if anything tries to attack me, I'll be warm and comfy and less likely to care.

In fact, I may just stay here for ever. It's less scary than the real world.

If anyone needs me, I'll be hiding under the duvet.

Nine things I will do this week

It's reading week. A significant number of my friends are buggering off to LA for something to do with some sci-fi show I've never heard of (what kind of title is Doctor Who anyway? I bet it's rubbish). I have no money. Therefore, I am at somewhat of a loose end and am even considering being productive. Stranger things have happened.

So - the all-important nine things to do in my last ever reading week.

1) Stop being scared of phrases such as "last ever reading week".

2) Read more than 50 pages of a Victorian Sensation novel without falling asleep.

3) Write an essay on said novel for Victorian Sensation Fiction.

4) Write a review of Goodbye to Berlin for Crisis of Culture.

5) Comprehend that I have a 10,000 word dissertation due in less than three months and get a bloody move on with it.

6) Drink Banana Bread Beer.

7) Write a short story. Where things may happen and characters may do things.

8) Apply for some more jobs, in the hope that someone, somewhere may see me as Quite Obviously A Very Good Person To Hire. Yes, I'm talking to you. (Please?)

9) Go to The worst condition is to pass under a sword which is not one's own at the Tate Modern. No idea what it'll be like, but it's a required part of my course. Though it has Darth Vader in, so it can't be all that bad.

Or, more realistically, I'll spend the week watching endless repeats of Come Dine with Me and Top Gear. It is, after all, one of the last chances I'll get to waste time with impunity...

Any excuse

Nosing at my blog stats, I have noticed a significant number of people stumbling (no pun intended) across this place due to Googling 'Richard Armitage'.

Firstly, you have good taste.

Secondly, in order to maintain neutrality in this blog (and not wanting to look like a complete obsessive when it comes to a certain Spooks actor), here is a picture of the very lovely Aidan Turner:

'Tower' Hamlet

Off to the theatre tonight, for the first time this decade! I'm very glad about this, as I've been suffering withdrawal symptoms.

In fact, I was getting so antsy about how long it's been since I visited the theatre, I sat down and worked out I went 23 times in 2009. This starts to explain the ever-increasing negative balance of my bank account, though thanks to the wonder of the Arts Council, I've not spent nearly as much as I should have. Multiple shows, and £5 stall tickets for the RSC. Wonderful stuff. And all I have to do is be under-26. For now, that is incredibly simple. Loving it!

Besides, I think a theatre addiction is probably cheaper and more rewarding than a crack habit.

I blame Shakespeare, personally. I hate reading plays, and love Shakespeare, so am on a mission to see every one of his plays performed on stage. So far I've reached 20, with eight more planned this year - Measure for Measure at the Almeida, King Lear and Antony & Cleopatra at the RSC, and, somewhat wonderfully, Macbeth, Henry VIII, Henry IV part one, Henry IV part two and The Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe. Words cannot express just how much I'm in love with the Globe for putting on Henry VIII. Is this how most people feel about football?

Anyway, Tower Hamlet is a (slightly odd sounding) re-interpretation of Hamlet, which I absolutely adore. And as it's quite literally at the bottom of my road, I thought I should show my support.

Though, as it's supposedly a "public arts education initiative for Tower Hamlets", I do have to wonder why it's being performed in a theatre on the border of Hackney and Islington.

Nostalgia Trip #2: Maid Marian and her Merry Men

In honour of the fact that's it's Pancake Day, yes it's Pancake Day, it's P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pancake Day:

Maid Marian and her Merry Men was slightly before my time, but thanks to the fact the BBC actually used to repeat shows, I had the chance to catch it in the early 00s.

It turned the traditional Robin Hood myth on its head and brought us the supposedy 'true' version of events. In this, Robin of Kensington was a wimpy fashion designer who only joined the band due to being bullied into it by Marian, and his one great contribution was suggesting they all wear green to "co-ordinate with the trees."

Marian was a bossy, gobby feminist type (I'm starting to see why I warmed to this show as a twelve-year-old), very much in charge and certain that one day, history will tell her story accurately. Brilliantly, she scoffs at the idea of her and Robin ever being in a relationship, and thankfully doesn't fall prey to the oh-so-dull trope of the damsel in distress. (I'll stop there, lest I end up going into a several thousand word analysis about the use of the subversive to grant women agency in children's narratives. Though there's a potential thesis topic if I'm ever mad enough to do an MA).

The other, slightly ineffectual Merry Men were Little Ron (he was little), Rabies (he was even more stupid than the others) and Barrington (somewhat inexplicably for something set in the 12th century, a Rasta). The comedy mostly stemmed from the fact they were all a bit rubbish, and most of their attempts to thwart the Sheriff of Nottingham et al. only succeeded through a series of lucky accidents.

The aforementioned Sheriff was played by a wonderfully hammy post-Baldrick Tony Robinson, who also penned the show. King John was the traditional snarling baddie, while Guy of Gisbourne was a spoiled, brattish 20-something who acted like a 4-year-old.

I think, after careful consideration, I prefer Richard Armitage, ta.

It gently took the piss out of most things - memorably Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves but also Comic Relief (where they staged a telethon called 'Colin's Release' to rescue a chicken called Colin) and The Crystal Maze.

And an emminently singable theme tune as well. What more could you want?

I realise I'm starting to sound slightly obsessed with the Robin Hood mythos. I'm not, but as it's the only slightly interesting thing to ever come from the East Midlands, I have an innate fondness for it. And refuse to let Yorkshire try and steal it off us.

Nottingham's got a statue and everything:

Groping Robin Hood's manly thigh. To clarify, I'm the one on the left.

Ok ok, the East Midlands also brought the world The Elephant Man and Adrian Mole.

(For my non-British friends, an explanation of today's odd obsession with pancakes. All major Christian festivals in the UK now boil down to eating lots of food. I approve).

Dear Santa...

I've been a very good girl all year (what do you mean, "it's only February"?) I know how busy you get around Christmas time, so I've nobly decided to let you hand over my present ten months early. Purely to alleviate the hectic workload, you understand.

I would very much like one of these:

Please please please please please. I'll eat all my greens and everything.

Love Erykah

(Triceracopter found here).

Gissa job?

After the slightly mad week of job applications, I have received my first rejection letter. (Well, email). They were very nice about it, it's more the issue that they received 800 applications that worries me.

When I manage to grow a moustache, it's time to start worrying.

Five reasons why you should buy 'The Siege'

Firstly, it's good.

Secondly, it's only a fiver.

Thirdly, Mr. Simon Guerrier is a very nice man who subsidises my drinking habits. By supporting his work, you fund the many glasses of wine he has provided over the years.

Fourthly, it's narrated by Richard Armitage. Who has a particularly lovely voice.

Fifthly, and perhaps most importantly, it involves Brackenburys. And people drinking far too much wine and falling over.* Ok, that's six reasons, but this is why I do English Lit and not maths.

Buy here.

(I shall now add 'advertising' to the transferrable skills on my CV).

In related news, I think the Robin Hood Tax would get far more support from the upper echelons if it involved Richard Armitage prancing about in guyliner. I was slightly disappointed to discover it didn't.



* The characters in this audio book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.**

** Except the rather lovely cameo from his wife.***

*** Unless she is actually fictional, and hiding it well.

The Indian dishes you should try

is here. Nom.

Happy Valentine's Day!

'Campaign for Decency' - keep the hunting ban

"Polls reveal that over 75% of the public do not support a repeal of the hunting act. We believe this is an accurate reflection of a society that does not want to see a return to their cruel and barbaric past.

Now we need to show MPs that real people are behind these numbers. We need to prove that this issue is NOT: the will of one political party, a class war, town vs. country, or an erosion of human rights. It is simply about whether we as human beings agree or disagree with inflicting prolonged and unnecessary pain and suffering on animals for fun."

If you're against the proposed repeal of the hunting ban, please sign this politically neutral register and get your voice heard.

Oops...

I'm supposed to be saving money. I'm not supposed to buy any books this year that aren't uni-related. But I found this on Amazon for £3.73, and couldn't stop myself:

It's fine, I'll balance it out by not eating one day next week.

And dangerous, eh? I like the sound of that.

Nostalgia trip #1: The Animals of Farthing Wood

That isn't just a great theme tune. It's a great piece of music in its own right.

The Animals of Farthing Wood is possibly my favourite television programme. Ever. It started in January 1993, when I was four years old, and ran for three seasons. Season three was a big pile of poo (I believe they may well have been my actual words back in 1995), but the first two are sheer brilliance.

Based on a series of books by Colin Dann, the basic plot was that Farthing Wood was being destroyed by humans in order to build a housing estate. With nowhere to live, the animals travelled to the nature reserve White Deer Park, bound together by the Oath of mutual protection. Season one was about their journey, and seasons two and three dealt with life in the park.

It was so brilliant because they didn't treat young children like idiots - which was the major issue with season three. The series dealt with death, sometimes in quite horrific ways. The baby fieldmice, for example, were killed by a butcher bird and impaled on thorns:


I'm still amazed they got away with showing that at about half past three on a weekday afternoon. Perhaps the fact it's a cartoon and about animals negates the violence somewhat, but it's still an image that has stuck with me for seventeen years. I can't, for example, imagine a show where Mr & Mrs Jones come home and find their newborn baby has been stuck on a meathook being classified as 'Universal - suitable for all' by the BBFC.

In addition to that, the newt family got burned to death in a fire, the pheasants got shot by a farmer, Baby Rabbit got shot by a hunter, Fox and Vixen were both nearly killed by a fox hunt, and Mr and Mrs Hedgehog were run over trying to cross the motorway. And that's just in the first thirteen episodes.

But this was why it was so popular. It wasn't condescending to children - instead it showed the realities of life and death for a group of wild animals. While it had an environmental concern, it was never overly preachy or moralistic. And it made me vehemently opposed to fox hunting at the age of four, which isn't necessarily a popular decision when growing up in Leicestershire. (As an aside, pointing out that I went to school in Quorn for four years usually shuts hunt supporters up when they try and tell me that as a 'city person' I know nothing about country life. Stuff like fox hunting is precisely what made me decide being a city person is the way forward).

And Bold. Oh, poor Bold. Nothing on television has ever broken my heart quite so much as Bold's death. Even when I rewatched it recently - I still have my grainy, off-air VHS copies - it still made me cry my eyes out. In brief (though it's somewhat convoluted), Fox was the leader of the animals on their journey from Farthing Wood. Bold was his oldest son, and always resented living in his father's shadow. Despite everyone's advice, he decided to make it out on his own in the 'real world' rather than being constantly under the protection of the nature reserve. Unsurprisingly, this didn't go particularly well, and he was lamed after being shot by a farmer. He then shacked up with Whisper, who got pregnant and insisted they go back to White Deer Park, saying that the only reason she was with him was so her cubs would be related to Fox. They then travelled to White Deer Park, Bold reconciled with his father, and promptly dropped dead.

This was a show supposedly aimed at the same audience as Chucklevision.

My one objection to the entire show (apart from season three, but in my own personal canon, that never existed) was the fact they inexplicably killed Badger off halfway through season two. In the books, I think he lasted right up until the end.

For reasons unknown, it's only available on DVD in German and French. Hopefully, an English language version will turn up soon. With lots of shiny extras. And commentaries. It'd make the nation's 20-something year-olds very happy. I have honestly never met anybody who didn't like it. There's not many shows you can say that about.

The sound of my childhood

Forget flashy DVD menus. In my head, all Doctor Who starts and ends with the following:



I'm still quite nostalgic for the days of video. Always rewinding stuff I wanted to watch as my brother never bothered to when he'd finished with videos. Twiddling with the tracking control when the picture went all wibbly. Accidentally sitting on the remote and recording over something. The minute of black screen with the tape name in the top left corner before anything started playing. Special features being shoved at the end of the tape (if there at all) and 15 minutes of rewinding/fastforwarding to try and find the right place if you wanted to watch it.

DVD is far more shiny, new and exciting, but VHS had an odd clunky charm.

Ouch

I just paid £12.99 for a 56-page book of poetry.

My head hurts, and my wallet hurts.

For comparison, Sarah Waters's 500-page tome The Little Stranger has an RRP of £16.99, and I got it on Amazon for £8.49. To me, this makes no sense.

Word-for-word, poetry seems a more profitable business to pursue. I shall bear this in mind.

I would question why the university bookshop doesn't provide any discounts, but after being there for nearly four years I've learned that things at QM rarely make sense.

Dream dinner party

The following is inspired by one of those 'top five' things on Facebook - dream guests at a dinner party, dead or alive. Though I added an extra couple of people to make it an even split of men/women. Because it's my blog, and I can. (I've also watched enough Come Dine with Me to know how these things should be done properly).

1) Stephen Fry
Because it's Stephen bloody Fry. He'd be witty, erudite, charming, and when he wasn't looking I'd drop his iPhone in the soup.


2) Mary Wollstonecraft
She had affairs, she liked sex, she had kids outside of wedlock. Pretty subversive for the 18th century - and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman is a groundbreaking book. (She also had a friend called Fanny Blood, which - immature as I am - makes me laugh).


3) Richard Armitage
Because every dinner party needs something pretty to look at. Though if he wasn't able to make it I'd happily accept an Aidan Turner-shaped replacement.


4) Jesus on a dinosaur
He'd be brilliant if we ran out of wine. And if you're going to have Jesus at your dinner party, he may as well bring a dinosaur. ("Holy Jesus on a Dinosaur!" also makes a brilliant expletive).


5) Shakespeare
The greatest writer who ever lived. I'd also ask him to bring along a few spare copies of Cardenio and Love's Labour's Won.


6) Marilyn Monroe
I find her fascinating. Somehow she's become stereotyped as the epitome of the 'dumb blonde', but she read Ulysses. That's impressive. I haven't read Ulysses and I'm an English Lit student who focuses on the modern and contemporary. Respect to her, and it'd be fascinating to find out what she was really like (and I could get the goss on Arthur Miller)


7) Dorothy Parker
She makes me laugh. A lot. "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

Three alternatives to Adobe Acrobat

can be found here.

In other news...

...I managed to shut the fridge door on my head yesterday.

No, I have no idea how that's possible either. But it turns out it is.

Harold Pinter

Below is an article I wrote for Cub, my uni magazine. Published December 2009.

(Please note that I do know how to spell 'Harold')

Page One.	Page Two.
Page Three.	Page Four.

Birds Eye View festival preview

From London Student:

Click me.

Two new articles:

* Top 3 internet browsers
* The Lingerie Every Woman Should Have

Haven't had much of a chance to blog of late, as two writing deadlines and three job application deadlines have ended up on four consecutive days. As is the way of the world. My head is currently full of jargon about what a wonderfully enthusiastic team player I am, and the like. It's not particularly easy trying to make an English Lit degree sound even remotely relevant to the real world.

Fortunately, I haven't managed to get the two confused, as I'm not entirely sure prospective employers would appreciate being emailed about bras. Still, the GC is currently visiting, and it gives me a valid excuse to take refuge in my laptop rather than having to feign interest in the football.

In other news, I have discovered that the Bible doesn't spontaneously combust when I swear an oath on it. That was a definite relief, I was expecting the solicitor to declare me damned by God.

Perhaps luckily, it was just the New Testament and Psalms rather than the entire Bible. Any of that Old Testament stuff about fraternising with gays, wearing mixed fibres or daring to be around other people during that time of the month, and I'd have been straight up in flames.

Things I have learned in the past week and a half

1) Bernard Cribbins thinks Great Uncle Bulgaria and Madame Cholet were at it.

2) It is possible for me to write 9,000 words in the space of a week. Not necessarily well, but at least written.

3) Sensation fiction is far too long.

4) There's an outbreak of norovirus at the moment. Despite this, the GC assures me the stomach bug he's had for the past week isn't at all contagious, and is turning up tonight. I'm legally allowed to murder him if I get ill, right?

5) It is impossible to write a cover letter without sounding like an idiot. And apparently "please hire me, I'm awesome" isn't acceptable.

That's pretty much it. The past week or so has been a fascinating combination of either essaying or sleeping - with the exception of seeing Bernard Cribbins at the BFI (who was fecking awesome, and I want him as my grandad) Also headed to the launch of Birds Eye View. They had free wine. I was happy.

Om nom nom

The GC sent me a man eating shark to try and keep me cheered during essay hell.

It's to play with in the bath (no, not like that, you filthmongers). The man (George) is attached to a pull-cord, and as a result gets chased round the bath by the shark (Sharky). I'm delighted that somebody has finally realised I quite often have the maturity levels of a six-year-old (and the language skills of a fourteen-year-old). After all, "there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes." Or, in my case, often.

Basically, it's fucking awesome.

2150AD! 2150AD! 2150AD!

Incase you didn't catch that, it's 2150AD!

Why I can't hate Auden...

"The Victorian father who said he would rather see his daughter dead than on the stage was less foolish than the modern parent who cheerfully allows his children to go into advertising or journalism."

W. H. Auden, The Prolific and the Devourer.

How to get your five a day the easy way

1) Large glass of red wine. Think of all those grapes. Healthy. Or a pint of cider. Apples are good for you. Beer is made out of hops and though I'm not entirely sure what they are, the fact they grow on trees qualifies them as a fruit.

2) Jelly Tots are now made with 'real fruit juice!' If Innocent smoothies count, so do these.

3) Pizza. Tomato sauce on the base = one serving of fruit. Bonus points if you have something like pineapple or mushroom on top.

4) Chips are potato, which is a vegetable. Unless you buy yours from Iceland, in which case I claim no responsibility for what may be in them.

5) Fruit & nut chocolate - the clue's in the name.

My university is trying to kill me

This is my schedule for May:

17th May:
10,000 word dissertation due.
2,500 word essay due.

18th May:
3,000 word essay due.

20th May:
5,000 word project due.


I'm not actually going to live to see 22.

Eek

I have started applying for graduate jobs. This terrifies me. I don't want to go out into the big bad world, I want to stay a student forever. I like not getting up until midday and spending all my time reading and being able to go out drinking any night I want. Sigh.

Real life is knocking at the door. I'm trying to ignore it.

Being Human

Last night I headed into to for a preview of the new series of Being Human. Which was, as expected, awesome. BBC3, Sunday, 9:30 - watch it. It's good.

The Being Human blog explains all. And they have the advantage of having their very own Aidan Turner, who is very pretty and therefore deserves to be appreciated aesthetically. Preferably on a cinema screen, but a brief video will have to do for now.

The only major drawback was queuing in subzero temperatures outside the cinema for an hour. I think I've just about managed to defrost.

The thing that surprised me slightly was the mix of fans. I'm used to wandering along to Doctor Who stuff, which is 95% male - the majority technically old enough to be my dad. This was full of very loud teenage girls (and their mums), which made me feel slightly old and haggard.

The advantage is that we got to go to the pub afterwards. Where the lovely Simon and his lovely friends plied me with red wine. All I really remember about getting home is falling over more often than usual. Icy pavements and drunken staggering are not the greatest of combinations.

It took me slightly by surprise - while Westminster have actually bothered removing ice from their pavements, Hackney (surprise surprise) haven't. So I walked out of Old Street station to find myself arse over tit. It would probably have been easier to just roll home.

Hiatus-ish

I will, at some point, be blogging tales of Christmas and volunteering. But sadly, I'm being attacked by essay deadlines and boring as they are, I need to write about Auden and villainous parents and whatever-the-other-one-is-it's-due-in-last-and-I-haven't-even-thought-about-it-yet.

Basically, volunteering was a brilliant experience that I want to write about properly, not just use as a tool of procrastination.

Normal service will resume (well, start) towards the end of January. Providing I haven't bludgeoned myself to death with a copy of the Complete Auden.

(Oh, and yes - we have lots of snow. Everyone's talking about it, I thought I may as well join in).

And I've got myself some FREE TICKETS to see Measure for Measure in March. I love the Arts Council.

Injuries accrued over the Xmas period

1) I somehow managed to open the bathroom door on my head.

2) During a post-Doctor Who fight with the GC over the TV remote (I wanted to watch EastEnders, he didn't), I managed to fall off the sofa, land on the coffee table, and bugger my shoulder for the next few days. I still wasn't allowed to watch EastEnders.

3) I slipped over in the shower, old lady style.

I think the first was possibly my most spectacularly stupid injury of 2009. My life basically tends to be an endless montage of the first ten minutes of an episode of Casualty.