Filed under: Uncategorized
… that I bake, therefore I am. One victoria sponge sandwiched and smothered with pastel yellow buttercream later, and I feel like myself again.
I am sick. But I am going to get better. I got a letter this morning from the NHS, offering me an appointment on July 5th – 6 weeks after this started for the fourth, and hopefully final, time. I can’t go to work, or shower with the door locked, or even really manage stairs alone anymore. I am exhausted both by doing nothing and by the absolute prospect of doing nothing.
It’s amazing how you can solve a problem by chucking money at it. In spite of my Guardian-reading, liberal, student self, I’m going private. I have an appointment for next Wednesday – almost a whole month earlier than I otherwise would have. An ugly necessity on the basis of what is now 10 days of sporadic confusion and disorientation. The doctor has told me not to drive (potential epilepsy could not conceivably make me worse at this: I nearly flipped a boat several years ago, thinking that spinning a wheel counted as steering), drink alcohol or take baths/swim. Consequently, all I want to do is get absolutely hammered and drive a car into a swimming pool. If I’d had to wait until July 5th to see someone, I probably would.
In spite of how utterly hopeless I feel, I am lucky. My friends, or at least the ones I’ve told, have been wonderful and supportive. I don’t just mean this in the ‘I have so many feelings, please be nice while I express them all’ way – I mean literally supportive. One of my symptoms is hurling myself about like a lunatic. Which looks pretty funny in the middle of Asda. I’m not much fun at the minute – typing this is exhausting me, and it’s hard to focus on the screen. Yet my boyfriend’s still on his way round to make fun of me, eat some of what is, according to my mother, a delicious cake, and help me tackle stairs.
There are good days and bad days. But even my bad days aren’t so bad, because I am not going through this alone.
Filed under: Uncategorized
… that persisting homesickness, a lack of sleep and a mountain of revision can officially send me to my limit. And induce a sense of emptiness that only most of a packet of Tesco value chocolate digestives can rectify. Following a wonderful month at home for Easter break, I am back in Glasgow – and, yes, I am aware that the name of the holidays is completely illogical since today is, in fact, Easter Sunday.
Not being particularly religious, at least not in a traditional sense, I woke up this morning (well, afternoon) in my new flat and going to church did not even enter my mind. For the best, really – they probably wouldn’t have appreciated a girl with permanent bedhead strolling in in last night’s clothes, reeking of wine. It gets better: the wine comes in a carton, and is priced at £3.80 a litre. New levels of classy. I’m currently paying rent on two separate flats: one, a tiny room in student halls; the other, a larger room with a double bed in what is essentially a house. Guess which is costing me more? Sadly, since we’re too stingy to turn on the boiler/heating/anything that is not absolutely necessary for survival, and are yet to grapple with Scottish Power regarding a somewhat optimistic bill they have sent us, the boiler is not on. Hence no hot water. Hence no shower. And, consequently, apparent walks of shame between my two homes.
Homes. It still feels strange applying that word to Glasgow, despite the fact that, with the exception of three pesky exams over the next 12 days, I’m now finished first year. Home is, and always will be, Newcastle. And it’s days like this where I miss it. In my previous post, I referenced the nostalgic effect of Greggs. This has increased exponentially. Several days ago, sleeping in the new flat with two friends, I apparently started suggesting that they go there. In my sleep. Clearly, even my subconscious wants me to go back to where people know what stotties are, and perhaps even craves the odd sausage roll. A worrying thought. The proximity of said flat to Greggs is ridiculous, about a 30 second walk, and so I can’t help but wonder if I might end up sleepwalking there. If so, I should really start wearing pyjamas. Unless being naked gets me free food. In which case, fair game. I am a student, after all.
I think I was made to be a student. Revision has reinforced my understanding that everything I study is essentially bullshit. It’s interesting bullshit, but nonetheless, bullshit. Take, for example, Philosophy: Condorcet’s Jury Theorem, which I’m being examined on, is actually the basis for the gameshow ‘Golden Balls’. Which, admittedly, helped my understanding. Genius philosopher, perhaps not, but I happen to be a connoisseur of bad daytime television. In spite of the bullshit factor, I still somehow love what I’m doing. With the exception of Classics. I hate Classics. A lot.
If home is where the heart is, then evidently my internal organs are just as fickle as my external self.
Filed under: Uncategorized
… that studying for a degree in English Literature inevitably catalyses a hatred of reading. There’s a pile of 13 books on my desk, my reading for the semester, contributed to heavily by my other subjects. Last time I posted, about a bajillion years ago, I was considering swapping Classics for Philosophy. However, my brief love affair with French ended after two weeks, when I realised there are only so many times one girl can be taught the alphabet. Especially when she first learnt it aged 11. So au revoir French, and hello Philosophy – it might be an enormous pain in the face, but at least it’s interesting.
First blog post of the year… first since September, actually. Whoops. The past few months have been a blur of nights out, subsequent hangovers, naps and inhaling books as quickly as is humanly possible. I seem to have found a lovely group of people who mostly don’t like other people, but do like tea, bad television and getting smashed. So basically my friends from home. With weirder accents.
There are days where I miss Newcastle, so much so that the sight of Greggs on Byres Road is liable to send me to tears and the sound of Cheryl Cole on the X factor makes me want my Mum. But mostly I love this place, in all its heroin-addict, rats-outside-my-building, yes-you-might-get-stabbed glory. As a boy in my Lit tutorial so eloquently put it, “Glasgow’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole”. I think there’s more for me here than there.
So hungry. The downside to living away from home is that no one reminds me to eat, or makes me food. In the fridge, I have a chicken kiev, some strawberry jam and half a packet of tortellini. Should probably go to Tesco… or read more books and attempt to coerce my lovely boyfriend into doubling up as a bag carrier and waiting until he visits at the weekend. And, until then, live on beans. In my last entry, you might recall me mentioning making meals from scratch in a very healthy and responsible fashion. That lasted two weeks, at which point I realised that I’d rather have a nap than contribute in any way to my 5 a day, and became addicted to toasties instead.
It has been suggested that I could, post-University, open an art-house toastie shop. My current criteria for making them are:
- Is it delicious?
- Does it fit between 2 slices of bread?
- Will the toastie maker still close?
You’d be surprised what you can do with some bread, a semi-empty fridge and a desperate desire not to go to the shops. And, as for my toastie shop… I suppose it’s one useful thing to do with my English degree.
Filed under: Uncategorized
… that ‘erechtheion’ is not, in fact, an insanely quirky euphemism, but is simply… well. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Picking Classical Civilisation as a minor with little to no prior knowledge on the subject was a rookie mistake, and one which I’m regretting so much that I might swap it for my ‘beloved’ Philosophy. Apologies for the serious amount of absence (not that anyone bar the people I talk to constantly reads this anyway…) but I’ve had a brief affair with blogspot.com – check out http://cauliflowerdisco.blogspot.com/to fill in the gaps!
Serious amounts have changed since my last, post-Paris blog. I’m now 18, living in Glasgow and studying for a degree. Or at least so I’m told… I completed my first book an hour ago, and finished my first drink about 3 hours after arriving at University so it’s fairly apparent which I’m more successful at. I’m hardly helping the Northern stereotype with my miniscule skirts and binge drinking but I am having an excellent time. Aside from minor disasters (our freezer is broken, there’s a miscellaneous smell in the hallway and I undercooked my hotpot in a way only I possibly could), I like to think I’m doing reasonably well. Screw the ‘student’ diet of beans and beer, I made leek and potato soup from scratch yesterday! Some things never change.
As cities go, Glasgow feels like home. People keep telling me I look Scottish (because ginger people only come from Scotland) and the cashpoints keep giving me Monopoly money, but otherwise it’s really pretty excellent. My major dilemma at this point is whether I’d rather join the pole-dancing club, the feminist society, knitting group or kickboxing, since they all clash. I’d like to think this makes me a well-rounded, complex person, but in truth I think I’m just a bit odd really.
Homesick, of course. My Mum has been begging to visit and I’ve been turning her down. She’s coming up next weekend. Apparently I’ll say yes to almost anything if I’m promised steak. Still, plenty of time to hide any unsuitable things I might have lying around my room and give the kitchen a good clean. A small mercy of our broken freezer is the sheer fear we have that University staff will come in, so tidying up won’t be too bad… especially now we’ve stopped using the fire extinguisher as a coat rack.
I’ve been taught the alphabet twice this week in beginner’s French. I think it might be time to swap minors, although I am loving actually understanding everything, which is more than can be said for Lit or Classics. Clearly my fickleness extends to University, but it’s comforting to know that I still love poetry like no normal person would. The amount my bloody books are costing me, however, is testing the boundaries of my love – especially since I’m still waiting for my student loan. Which was due a week ago. Not that I’m annoyed. At all.
But, not to be bitter. I’m being given the opportunity to read books for four years. There is literally no way I can complain about that.
Filed under: 1
… that there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. I mean that in a blanket sense, of course – I’m not saying that if a man with a gun walked into my bedroom right now I’d be dong my best ‘bored teenager’ expression but, let’s face it: if I can be stranded in Paris aged 17 without freaking out, I’m on the right track.
I should explain: I’m writing from England. One ridiculously expensive Eurostar, a seven hour car journey and I’m right where a 90 minute flight would’ve taken me. Bloody volcano. That said, I adored Paris: quirky side streets, beautiful buildings and a few lovely nights with some excellent people have led me to believe that it is in fact my mothership. My beautiful, French-speaking, complicated mothership. My GCSE-level, horrendously flawed French was somehow enough to get by: how I managed to order takeaway snails in a fancy restaurant at 10pm, I will never know. Where there’s a craving, there’s a way.
I’m having a bit of an intellectual day, for a Saturday: I just finished watching the debate from Thursday, and was pleasantly surprised by Nick Clegg. I particularly liked his tie. Not that I can vote this year, with my ridiculous June birthday, but I’ll be stalking the election regardless. However, my day of thinking doesn’t stop there: a few years of of confusion coupled with several magazine articles and topical Googles later, and I’ve determined that I’m a moderate lipstick feminist. I’ve always found it difficult to balance my innate need for independence with my overwhelming urge to buy shoes, and it’s comforting to know I’m not alone. Standing alone in the Gare du Nord, shielding my phone from public view with my ridiculously poofy hair, I was approached by a big scary black man under the assumption that I was a prostitute. A male friend of mine has suggested this to be a compliment: I would disagree. It seems unreasonable to me that a knee-length black skirt, flat shoes and a leather jacket could be interpreted as suggestive, and that a girl such as myself would be treated in such a degrading manner. I bake cupcakes. I inhale literature. I treat Harry Potter with more deference than the Bible. In an almost contradictory manner, I’m fairly religious. I’m pretty handy with an xbox controller. I certainly do not have sex with strangers for money.
I’m coming to the conclusion that my glasses make it easier to be invisible. I’m willing to bet that I would not have been mistaken for a prostitute had I been wearing my specs, which would suggest that they somehow define my personality. With them, I’m a nerdy girl standing in a station. Without them, I’m a harlot. Although I know I look better without the frames, it’s generally a question of confidence: do I feel brave enough to be seen today? It’s difficult finding a balance between feeling pretty and objectified, independent and aggressive, but I think I’m starting to find it. The kid is growing up. And, in my somewhat enlightened state, here are my essential tips for surviving being stranded abroad:
- Don’t panic. Not to sound like the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but staying calm is more than necessary. Or, in my case, shotgunning a bar of chocolate and suggesting we go to a bar. Not that obesity or casual alcoholism are solutions to anything (much), but you see my point.
- Phone your Mum. I am aware this won’t apply to everyone, but my parents, like me, are problem solvers. We thrive in chaos. Plus, they have a lot more money in their bank accounts than I do.
- Ignore stressheads. They’ll just get you worried, which doesn’t help anything, and then you’ll eat so much more chocolate and get fat and then what? You’ll be stuck abroad with clothes that don’t fit. And who wants that?
I’m the girl who loses pens in her hair, sets fire to jacket potatoes and got mistaken for a prostitute in the Gare du Nord. If I can get home, I am in no way worried about anyone else.
Filed under: 1
… that teen magazines which illustrate four wonderful ways to make somebody love you through the use of make-up are really not my thing, and that it’s time to eschew them with a firm hand. Or, until next time I miss a bus and want to pass the time. Ah, will power. Although it’s a failure when it comes to trashy, glossy literature, it’s doing the job when it comes to dragging me from bed to laptop after an accidental nap. It’s been one of those days where all I want to do is bake, and my mother’s in the kitchen. So, instead, I’m gazing thoughtless at the pint glass filled with daffodils on my desk, an adorable attempt to cheer me up on my Mum’s part in the wake of my exam results. English went well, but I actually paid 11 pounds and spent two weeks revising to do a History re-sit which I ultimately got less marks in than first time round. There’s nothing quite like realising you’ve wasted your time enormously to put you in a fabulous mood. But, never mind – pressure does wonders for my work ethic, it’ll all be fine.
The holiday to Malia is eventually booked! Regardless of the gender imbalance (I am entirely outmanned) it should be pretty wild. A week away will do me a world of good and, if last year is anything to go by, I will have a wonderful time with some… interesting people. Two of my best friends, a boy who I’m fairly certain is metamorphosing into a bear and another who appears to be a dental hygiene fetishist. Must admit, I hear fetishism and Macleans is not my first mental port of call. Perhaps that’s for the best!
I’ve been walking around like a zombie all afternoon… a zombie with particularly eccentric garb. You don’t see too many of them in AC/DC t-shirts and purple polka-dot bottoms. I would be far more open to the apocalypse if you did.
Filed under: 1
… that there’s nothing quite like that extra hour in bed, especially after you’ve stayed up til 2 watching ‘Takeshi’s Castle’ and eating slightly overcooked pizza with a few good friends. What’s even better is waking up at 7, hearing one of them leave for college, and realising you can go back to bed for a bit. I love it when my parents go away.
I’ve been neglecting this already sparse blog horribly due to an unexpected downturn in optimism. Getting rejected from my first choice of university, fighting with some of my friends and not getting a job I wanted because of my age didn’t exactly put me in the finest of moods and, let’s face it: nobody wants to read the self-pitying whines of a lower middle-class teen with very little to complain about. If you did, you’d be reading literature geared at thirteen year old girls, not this blog. However, I seem to have bounced back – particularly excited about the 3D ‘Where’s Wally?’ tournament I’m organising! Yes, you read it right – 3D ‘Where’s Wally?’. Quality.
Over the past few weeks I’ve made a few key realisations:
- I am probably doomed to a life of imperfect baking. My Victoria sponges just will not rise and, Delia wannabe that I am, this is driving me a bit mental.
- Just because I want something really badly, that doesn’t mean I can have it. I know at least half of my readership (since I’m pretty sure there’s only two of you) won’t approve, but I have faith that everything happens for a reason.
- MY HAIR IS REALLY LONG! This isn’t so much a realisation as a very proud moment from a girl who has continually sported a bob since the age of 8.
All very comforting considerations, although the last one is my particular favourite. I’m becoming quite excited by the prospect of living in Glasgow next year, not that I’ve ever been – I’m travelling up on Monday, simply couldn’t wait until the Open Day to have a look around. I’m yet to consider my plan for if I don’t like it there, since I absolutely detested the dismal urban maze that was Manchester, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Fuck it – if all else fails, I’ll get a job, go travelling and re-apply elsewhere next year. Optimism. I’m not going to lie, my Edinburgh rejection was seriously uncool – my Mum suggested to I see if I can get a place there through clearing. In spite of the impossibility of that transpiring, screw them. Not to sound proud (okay, I am so proud), but I would rather go nowhere than to a place that didn’t want me in the first place.
Tonight should be a bit lovely. The girls are coming round for a curry and an artsy chick flick – two of my favourite things put together. My parents have been gone since Monday and I’ve been living on a diet of carbohydates soaked in pesto. It’s been pretty wild. This should be an interesting month; two trips to Scotland, my January exam results (eep!), about a million coursework deadlines, plenty of plans with some quality people and, of course, getting some of my very favourites back from University for the holidays. Everything’s going so quickly at the moment – I had my leaver’s photo taken last Monday, and the yearbook photos are being collected now. I’m pretty sure the leaver’s photo was a last-minute attempt to do away with all the short people, placing everyone in height order on a ridiculously high piece of scaffolding with the midgets on the top… myself included. The photo will literally just be me staring straight ahead in abject fear and horror. Which is kind of how I feel about the future right now.
Except I’m a little more excited.
Filed under: 1
… that I will always deal with stress in the same calming way: some comfort eat, I comfort bake. My Literature A-level exam is tomorrow morning, and I’ve already baked two chocolate cakes this weekend. In my defence, the first one sank (damn you, Delia!) so the second was really just an attempt at soothing my ego and reminding myself that in a world of athletes, singers and dancers there is one thing I am good at: cake.
It’s becoming more and more apparent that far too much of my life revolves around food: I’m watching yet another generic middle-aged member of the middle class serve up a three-course meal that my Mum could do a thousand times better. God, I love ‘Come Dine With Me’. Since I probably won’t have a telly at Uni, I’m adding the Sunday afternoon ‘Come Dine With Me’ marathon to the list of things I will miss, somewhere between the lovely bus driver who looks like Santa and calls me Little Red, and my slightly creepy Amelie poster which I’m pretty sure watches me sleep.
By 11am tomorrow morning, I can officially ignore Emily Bronte, Macbeth and the very pervy short stories of Angela Carter and focus on more important things: going to town, watching the second series of ‘Greek’ and reading my way through the pile of books beside my bed. Chuck Palahniuk has not been getting the attention he deserves.
Time to make some chocolate buttercream. I might make a spare batch in case the exam goes badly. There’s nothing like inhaling calories to cheer you up.
Filed under: 1
… that selling books is a lot different to buying them, and that your dream job is not necessarily all it will crack up to be. Factor in a mass of Christmas shoppers and a 7 hour shift on the tills of a bookstore, and you have my fabulous fabulous day. Still, that’s always preferable to yesterday when I priced so many notepads that I felt like a human sticker machine. And spent 3 hours with a £12.99 sticker on my back. With my slightly sexy lacy underwear on. Visibly protruding from my jeans. It’s always good to look like a prostitute at work. Errrrrm.
So, tonight, as I sit here with my hair like the ears of a damp cocker spaniel and acoustic music on repeat, writing a blog, the majority of my friends are out drinking and dancing. I am, essentially the life of the party. Last night I even made fudge! It’s good to know I’m not wasting my youth.
Before my slightly more exciting friends went out, a couple of us watched ‘Up’. Seriously, I did not realise a film about a man with a house and A LOT of balloons could be so moving, but I was nearly crying. Perhaps that was the wine. Oh lordy, I have been too drunk too often these past few days. Saturday was quite fabulous, although it’s always disturbing to run into a creepy guy you used to know… even moreso when he looks you up and down as if you’re his for the taking. In his case, the taking would be accompanied by my kicking and screaming, and probably a bloody nose on his part. I find him alarming, but I’m probably the most dangerous of the two of us.
I just went to delete some texts from my phone and realised how very close we are to a new year. In my case, this year will change everything. Provided I don’t fuck up most magnificently, I’ll be leaving home for a new city. Regardless of my potential fuckuppery, I’ll turn 18. Eventually. I’m going to Paris, and hopefully Cyprus, and I intend to be very amused and very cultured and very drunk and very relaxed and (most importantly) very happy as often as possible. The potential that this year has alarms me, in a way, but it also really bloody excites me. I think it might be more than a bit wild. Wilder than today, at least, which can be fairly summarised by:
Pros:
- I can wear my flowery skirt to work
- The boy in the stock room is reeeeally pretty, and plays Biffy Clyro very loudly
- I learnt how to order from other stores on the really quite complicated computer
- I earned about £42. Which is approximately £31.70 more than I have in my bank account.
Cons:
- I just remembered that I only have £10.30 in my bank account
- The queue was ridiculous, all day. I like being busy but that was crazy!
- I have to keep trying to sell people Jamie Oliver cookbooks. I DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM.
- Every time someone buys a Twilight or Richard Dawkins book I want to hit them
- My Dad ate my broccoli (this is a con because I had to eat cauliflower instead, ew)
- I AM SO VERY VERY VERY TIRED.
I think, really, the only way to balance this list is to have a cuppa and sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Or, alternatively, pull a sickie tomorrow and bake to my heart’s content. Hmm. Tricky.
Filed under: 1
… that Edward Cullen is essentially the Heathcliff of the modern age and that this is quite fabulous if you’re into casual misogynism in literature. Take two heroines who are throughly dependent upon men who are, let’s face it, absolutely awful to them and you’ve pretty much got a plot summary of both ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Twilight’. It’s no wonder the former is being promoted as the favourite book of the… lovely couple in the latter. At this point, I should probably get off my high horse and mention that I went to see ‘New Moon’ on Wednesday and quite enjoyed it! I’m probably just bitter about the books because I’m working on a ‘Wuthering Heights’ essay with a serious wine headache. My Mum just popped her head round my door and offered me tea. I love her.
It’s one of those Sundays where the lethargy and headache are worth the night before. A night in with some of my best friends (although it obviously would’ve been better if John and Edward had still been on X factor. Needless to say, I am not over that yet) was exactly what I needed after quite a bad week. There’s nothing quite like hearing two boys sing Leona Lewis at a pitch only dogs could find tuneful. Beautiful. I’m allocating the blame for my pounding head to one of those aforementioned boys, the devil on the shoulder who kept topping up my wine glass. I woke up this morning with my previously-chipped nail varnish perfectly applied. Evidently drunk Beth is more fastidious about her personal appearance than sober Beth.
Cheesy old music (Elton John, Roxy Music, The Human League…) and the cup of tea that just arrived in my room are all that will get me through this horrible horrible essay. That, and a serious need to know how the fashion show went in ‘Gossip Girl’… megavideo cut me off ten minutes before the end and I’m just desperate to know. I am so cool.
So, to summarise:
- Three glasses of wine: drunk. Four glasses of wine: ridiculous.
- Emily Bronte had absolutely no idea what the craic was.
- Thank God for Katrina and the Waves.
