you and I in a little toy shop

And now for today's main feature, 'Dentists are HARBINGERS OF DOOM' (or 'How not to populate Mother Dentistia with inexplicable children, apparently').

You may have guessed where this story is going. Well, maybe not from the second part, but nobody would guess where that's going - I was surprised myself. But just to confirm your suspicions - yes, I went to the dentist's this afternoon. No surprises so far. The dentist was a new guy I hadn't met before, but this was okay - I'm totally fine with dentists, so pretty much anyone can tell me they're my new dentist and I'm not really going to freak out about it. Well, not literally anyone. Preferably someone with qualifications. Morven: not up for casual teeth-feeling. Please take note. (That's going to be a really weird note if you do actually write it down somewhere, I realise.)

Anyway, like I said, new dentist - not bothered. What I was bothered by was the fact that he chose to make his introduction to me by firmly shaking my hand, closing the door, and saying, "We do things a bit differently around here now," in a peculiarly ominous voice. I mean, partially, it kind of sounded like he'd just offed the old dentist in some kind of weird dental revolutionary coup d'état. "Dentists of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your ..little mirror thingies for looking at the back of people's mouths." Okay, well, I'm sure he didn't butcher Marxism quite like that when he and his many assistants blatantly stormed the office, but nevertheless, there was something strange going on there and I don't want to ask questions. He might have me purged from his dental kingdom. The non-compliant ones are always the first to go. Then, having said that, he discovered that I didn't happen to have fluoride mouthwash, and his exact words were, "Oh, we're going to have to re-educate you, I see. Oops, that was a bit Big Brother, wasn't it?" Yes. Yes it was. After he'd made sure I was aware a new power had risen in Dentistland and was possibly out to get me, he then made me sit down in the chair, looked round, and said 'we have a lot of new.. technology.. in here now' in the same voice. Seriously - if there's ever a time and a place where ominous voices and dramatic pauses are not appropriate, it's when you're talking about large drills and x-ray machines, and when you want your new patient to think you aren't a raving psychopath help help let me out open the door now please thanks.

Unfortunately, no-one came to rescue me at this point. I'm currently still in his office, typing this with a toothbrush to my head - no, I kid. But I really was quite freaked out. This was not aided by the fact that we finally got to the end of the examination, when he concluded that I have gingevitis. (That's as in, 'has weird gums', not as in, 'am contagiously ginger', although both are applicable.) I told him I'd been aware of this for about, ooh, fourteen years now. Quoth he, "Well, that's very rare - I don't understand why no-one's had you on a leash before." You know, I think I understand you probably meant that to mean something about having more regular check-ups, Crazy Stalin Dentist, but that was possibly not the way to put it. I think the main reason is that I'm not a dog, and this is neither the time nor the place. Please keep any and all leashes away from me.

Also, when you want to emphasise how important it is that I come back and pay you more obscene amounts of money, you could think of better ways to convince me than what he came up with. This guy looked at me for a minute, in all seriousness, and then said, "You know, I've been reading up some reports this week, and there's a lot of research on this: you're seven times more likely to have premature babies if you have sensitive gums." Honestly. Do I look like I'm particularly concerned by whether or not I'm going to have incredibly early children right now? I mean frankly, the fact that I'm twenty, not pregnant and not even with anyone kind of makes them premature babies in itself. It possibly also makes them miracle babies, so well done them. I'm so proud of them. Hypothetically speaking, obviously. Anyway, dentist of doom, if you're trying to do a bit of scaremongering, you could have picked something more like, I don't know, 'if you have sensitive gums, you're more likely to have a sore mouth' or 'you're seven times more likely to die in an accident with a vending machine'. Okay, that might not be factually accurate, but at least it would be more relevant to me. To be honest, I'm not sure how accurate the facts were anyway; he also said that my gums were more of a threat to my miracle children than if I smoked or drank a lot. That's either lies or a fairly good advert to people with gum disease that they can smoke like chimneys and it won't really matter. Either way, that's not cool, new dentist. You disappoint me. I want the old regime back.

So, it's a week or so since I last posted, I've had a week's work experience at a newspaper and I suppose I can now officially say I've been a journalist. Admittedly, it's probably not something I ever plan to do after the past week, but you know, I could. I will obviously now add this to my list of things I could be but will not, along with 'tap dancer', 'incompetent gymnast', 'professional cross-stitcher' and 'concert xylophonist'. Actually, I'm not sure I can really put 'incompetent gymnast' on a list of things I can do, since I can't really do gymnastics. On the other hand, I really am wildly incompetent at it. My handstands did not involve hands. They involved only painful collisions with the floor. In retrospect, that's possibly what I was doing wrong. Note to self: handstands should involve standing on hands.

If there's anything I miss actually about the last week, it's undoubtedly the notepad of wonder they gave me at the start of the week. I made a lot of notes in it about things I was meant to be researching, and there were some things in it that really ought to be kept for posterity, because the world needs to hear about them. I think probably my favourite was the conversation I wrote down between someone trying to win votes for the Green Party and a would-be voter, in her seventies or eighties, outside a shopping centre in the East End. I was standing talking to the campaigner, who was in the middle of telling me about how open-minded the voters were, when the woman in question happened to walk past. The campaigner - who really was trying her very hardest to be friendly and who was giving out little windmills, albeit faulty ones - asked if the woman would like a leaflet. Quoth the woman; 'I want a party who promise to cut my hedge. Will you cut my hedge?'. You know, I now understand the reason I got such a mediocre mark for my political parties essay in my first year exam: politicians are not out to educate the public or to make policy of any kind - they are in fact gardeners. In my next essay, I will be sure to include my thoughts on the fine tuning of lawn-mowers. This will be both innovative and sure to gain me a good mark.

When I wasn't out of the office listening to oddly horticultural complaints, though, I was sitting at a ridiculously oversized desk, creating a new definition of what it is to twiddle your thumbs. Seriously, newspaper people, if you want your interns to start their job at ten o'clock, say so. If you would prefer your interns to start their work at half past two, this would also be nice to know. Said intern could then have at least taken the day to wander around Glasgow in her usual waif-like fashion, if not something more productive, rather than sitting inside, reading the same newspaper multiple times and then attempting to do the cryptic crossword. You could at least have told me I'd have nearly five hours of waiting time every day. Or, as I suspect, was it your sole aim to humiliate me by having the editor come over for a chat while I was in the middle of trying to make a ball-point pen work in order to do said crossword? Honestly, if there is ever a bad time for anyone, particularly your boss, to meet you for the first time, it's without a doubt when you're clicking a pen up and down repeatedly, approximately an inch from your nose, and staring at it cross-eyed in a way that suggests it may have insulted your mother. To make matters worse, I got not one of the clues in that crossword. Not one. The pain of it all.

I've looked back through everything else I've said recently - and I use that word in its loosest sense, obviously - and come to the conclusion that I may in fact be constructing a running commentary on buses and trains, given how often my stories revolve around them. This entry isn't going to help dispel that reputation in any way, I warn you now. I've just come back from a trip down south for the weekend, and I feel like the train I got between Glasgow and York fully merits its own report, on at least two counts.

Count number one: Several passengers competing for World's Silliest Conversationalist

I was in the middle of a not particularly interesting part of my book when the man in front of me started talking loudly on his mobile phone. I felt obliged to listen. I'm not particularly sorry. Oh, and I hasten to add that, as with most stories of this kind, the whole carriage was fairly quiet when he started the conversation. Interestingly, he chose to start it with the sparklingly erudite line, 'I just drooled on myself, but I don't think anybody saw.' There was clearly another sentence implied here: 'So I thought I should tell them all about it instead.' Seriously, I hope the girl you were clearly trying to woo was impressed by this conversational ploy, because I'm fairly sure nobody else was.

Incidentally, the reason I know that he was trying to woo said person, or had possibly already done so, was because later in the conversation, there was something very strange going on and I don't quite know what it was. I wouldn't like to speculate on what was going on at the other end of the conversation, but I'll let you imagine for yourselves. Here's what I heard:

"You bought a what?"
..
"Oh, it's for me?"
..
"You're going to do what with it to me later?"
..
"Oh, really? How big is it?"
..
"Careful now - you're on loudspeaker."
..
"Oh, now you're shy."

Yes, and now I'm slightly disturbed, thanks.

If there really was a competition for World's Silliest Conversationalist though, I'm not sure who I would give more points to, that guy, or the woman shouting at the other end of the carriage. She and her friends were clearly having an intense conversation down the other end of the train, when she suddenly exclaimed quite loudly and in a very frustrated voice, 'My son's a vegetarian, but he doesn't eat meat or fish'. I really have to empathise with her; I have problems like that all the time. For example, I live with my housemates, but I don't live on my own. My fruit is an apple, but it isn't a banana. I mean, really - what is the world coming to? I just don't understand.

(I would have turned round and told her I didn't eat meat or fish either and - imagine the coincidence - was also a vegetarian, but I felt this may have made her brain explode in some way, and I couldn't have that. After all, I'm a pacifist, but I don't believe in violence.)

Count number two: 'I will pull my Tai Chi Kick Boxing Movez on you' man.

This boy was really something special. In fact, so special, that he might easily win a prize for Silliest Conversationalist as well as having his own little bulletpoint. Much like my drooling friend from earlier in the journey, he was from the school of thought wherein, if a carriage is quiet, it must be filled by the noise of you talking on your phone, no matter what you happen to be saying at the time. Of course, what he happened to be saying was more stupid than your average conversation. He appeared to be talking to a friend at home, and by the way, everyone on the carriage knows exactly where he was from and I'm only keeping it secret for his own benefit, and the friend had made some kind of comment about his ability to pull girls. Cue the following line:

'Mate, you couldn't pull if someone stuffed a rope in front of your face and told you you were in a.. what's the name of that game where you get two people tugging on either end of a rope? Tightrope? Tug? Tights.. You know with the rope and the tugging?'

This is, incidentally, the far cleaner version. Imagine, for the purposes of reenactment, that in front of every noun is the word 'fuck' and in front of every verb is every other swear word you can think of, rotating on a regular basis. Also imagine that some words like 'and' and 'with' have just been usurped by words I can't even type. If it doesn't make a lot of sense and you're vaguely confused or disgusted, you've come to grips with the basic vocabulary we're talking about. In the mean time, he probably still hasn't remembered that the name he was looking for was 'tug of war'. He did, however, move onto saying 'I jumped on your mum's face last night', which I'm sure proved his point adequately enough.

By now, though, the rest of the train were beginning to get annoyed with him. Clearly, the minority of people who found him kind of amusing was limited to just me. Seriously - you know people on a British train are really, really annoyed when something actually gets done about it. I mean, usually, the tactic is just to sit and ignore it like there's nothing happening. There's someone lighting your clothes on fire? Ignore it. Someone's lighting the person next to you on fire? Ignore it even more. Actually, if it doesn't concern you immediately, it's like it's not even happening at all. But not so this time. The authorities were called. People were informed. Words were had. Not all of them were swear words. Oh, and by the way, when I say authorities, what I mean is the snack trolley man. The guy was given a stern talking to by someone paid to walk up and down the aisle with overpriced sandwiches and not bat an eyelid at anything else. He was that bad. I'm pretty sure that in terms of provoking neutral parties, that's like making Switzerland invade you. And did he listen? Oh no. Cue next line of the conversation to friend, about another friend hitting on his sister:

'I've just been told to stop swearing and stop being so loud. But like I was saying, I'll break his fucking face in six fucking places. I know Tai Chi. I'll break his face.'

It's at this point that I, along with Drool-Man incidentally, started laughing quite obviously. Snackman came back and reprimanded Tai Chi Boy again, then went away. Quoth Tai Chi Boy:

'Seriously, people on this train are complaining a lot.. Yeah.. Yeah, but still, I don't want to say it too loud or anything - but there are some fit girls on here.'

To be fair to the guy, he did lower his voice slightly for the last part, but I think the tragedy for him was that lowering his voice meant lowering it from REALLY BLOODY LOUD to ONLY SLIGHTLY LESS LOUD. Dear, your chances of pulling on this train are about as likely as if someone put a rope in front of your face and told you were playing - what's that game called again? Oh yes, I remember now, it's called 'Shut Up or Get Off the Train Before the Ticket Conductor Physically Drags You Out'. It's got a bit of a long title, but I think it'll catch on.

And lo, there was another holiday from university, and lo, I came crawling back to LiveJournal. It's come to my attention that if it wasn't for my last entry, I wouldn't have written in this since last summer. Last summer, when I wrote a sudden onslaught of nonsense in a completely unsubtle attempt to make up for hardly saying anything at all in term time. Oh, how times haven't changed in the slightest. Okay, I should probably clarify that I do say things during term-time - I just don't say them in diary entry format. I'm not some form of strange seasonal mute, I promise. That said, my university life might be a lot more interesting that way - I could make all my tutorial presentations in the form of interpretative dance. Okay, so the one I gave this term on the representation of sex in D.H. Lawrence's work would have the potential to leave me, my tutor and any and all onlookers horribly, horribly traumatised. In fact, that's not really so much potential as it is a racing certainty. Moving on.

Actually, before I do, that's something I wanted to mention: why is it that whenever something comes to my notice with the possibility of being cripplingly embarrassing, I immediately rise to the occasion and volunteer for it? Saying I would give a fifteen minute talk to my tutor and my classmates about Lawrence's fixation with sex, women, animals, sex, men, animals, sex, beetles, sexual tension, beetle sex, and, for some obscure reason, a chapter-long metaphor comparing people to large boats, has to come pretty close to that time when I agreed to be in the Rocky Horror Show and thought it couldn't be as bad as people said it was. Why must I bring this torment on myself? I don't believe I ever wanted to use any of that language in daily conversation, nevermind academically discussing what does or does not constitute a subtle reference to a codpiece. Seriously. Also? It was completely not subtle. Lawrence, I am not remotely impressed. Self, I am even less impressed. Cease your tomfoolery and gain some form of self-censorship. This also applies to such phrases as 'yes, I would like to live in the box room and no, I don't mind paying the same rent', 'yes, I will taste that orange and purple concoction I can smell from here', and 'yes, my vegetarianism leaves me happy to take care of the fourteen day old salmon that has leaked suspiciously all over the kitchen table'. In retrospect, it's not really that surprising that a complete stranger in a shop the other day turned round and made me take out my earphones so that she could tell me to stick up for myself more. Prescient woman, you are absolutely right. And yet I happily took my earphones out to listen to you. Oh, the irony.

Another lesson I learned this year: it is perfectly acceptable to hand in assignments without any actual knowledge base in the subject, and may in fact be preferred. Over the Easter holidays, I spent three weeks trying to write an essay, failing to find anything of substance to say despite knowing my subject, changing my question numerous times, then finally despairing and writing what can only be described as a 5000 word piece of ill-researched philosophical nonsense the night before the deadline. I then followed this up with an exam where I may or may not have actually made up examples of educational improvement in Latin America. In fact, I may have made up entire countries in Latin America. Conversely, I had another exam and essay that I respectively studied for and finished writing for well before the deadline, where everything was well-researched, footnoted, and referenced to the point of being almost neurotic. You'll never guess which ones got me my best assessed marks of the year. And then I walked into a French exam, having been at a party until nine that morning, didn't revise for it in the few hours I had in between party and exam, fell asleep during said exam, made up at least two areas of Paris, and then walked out with a mark over 70%. Actually, between Latin America and Paris, I'm beginning to think that maybe they were giving me marks for incredible geographical discovery. I'm like Christopher Columbus, but now with added utterly delusional mentality. Oh, look, here are five acres of undiscovered land in the middle of the capital of France. Wibble. Please give me marks. Wibble.

I think it's probably time I went back to York, now that I've pretty much outstayed the period in which my neighbours might fantasise that I've gained a measure of sense while I was away.

(Note: yes, my neighbours fantasise about me. It's a dead-end street and there is nothing else to do. You can't even watch cars going past, because if they're going at anything more than two miles an hour, they're about to crash into a house. That would admittedly be interesting, but only in a completely morbid way. Unless you wanted to make a career out of saving the lives of speeding motorists by leaping out and warning them of their imminent doom. This sounds like a job for Super Culdesac Girl! Saving the world one traffic diversion at a time! In conclusion, unless you're a redundant superhero, you know I make my neighbourhood go round.)

But now, the jig is up. The word is out. The cat has well and truly extricated itself from the bag. Not only do my neighbours know that I remain a complete nutter, liable to take photos of my own socks and climb the six foot tree in the garden, but now my complete surrounding neighbourhood are also aware. Everyone is onto me. I didn't exactly help the case by running out of the house at midnight on a very wet New Year's without shoes on, but really, events got just beyond my control yesterday.

See, I was walking home from the hairdresser's, contemplating whether or not walking in and out of a shop without buying anything gives you some kind of bad karma, when my necklace exploded. This does seem to suggest that there is some kind of existential problem with inadvertently teasing corner-shop owners, but also, what? It just exploded. Well, not literally - there weren't any loud noises, flames or slow-motion jumping on my part - but the effect was equally catastrophic in jewellery-related terms. The little wooden beads scattered all over the pavement, and to make matters worse, started to roll down the hill. I should mention that this happened right in front of the barber's shop, which has a large window and presumably as-yet-un-groomed people waiting next in front of it, who have nothing better to do than stare out of said window. I don't think I'd have attracted their attention though, if it weren't for the fact that so that I could retrieve said beads, I had to start sticking my hands in puddles. The beads were small and brown and looked remarkably like rocks, even from my point of view, so I can only imagine the reaction to a girl running round outside the window, attempting to stop wet stones from rolling down hills, waving her arms around, squealing, getting covered in mud, then putting her coveted collection of little muddy stones straight into her coat pockets. Which I consequently missed, so the beads went all over the floor again. Yes, I missed my own pocket. Leave me alone.

I went home, and Dad gamely took my collection of bits of rocks, leaves and twigs from my cupped muddy hands, and pieced it back together again. I strongly suspect that this was really just an opportunity for him to play with bits of wire and solder things with matches, but he did it - and we discovered that there were seven beads missing. Cue me and my dad turning up today outside the barber's shop, splitting up and spreading out to cover more ground, like pros. That's um, pro bead collectors, by the way. I was assigned to gutter duty, unsurprisingly. The barber and his barbees - the customers, not the misspelled dolls, although this may also be possible; I don't know the barber or his inclinations - turned to stare at us again, and I think they may have surmised that the crazy girl from yesterday had apparently found a good scavenging ground and brought back-up to get more rocks, in some kind of strange modern hunter-gatherer type way. Honestly - Mum drove us past the place tonight on the way home, and Dad voiced the serious thought that all three of us get out and look for the last two beads we didn't find. I only narrowly managed to stop this from actually happening. I refuse to allow my entire family to become some kind of demented Stig of the Dump legend around the area. Just Stig and her cavedad is enough, thankyou.

Coming to you now, live from York, it’s Public Transport Girl.

Yes, I realise this isn’t a particularly catchy, endearing or cool nickname, but since I’ve already reported the details of my narrow escape from possible Turkish marital adventures, I’m back with more news of behaviour in transit. I’ve now discovered that the peculiar breeds of people who talk on buses take on new and unusual forms when encountered south of Hadrian’s Wall. Apparently, there’s a variety of people in Yorkshire who, when on public transport, feel inclined to comment on other people’s sartorial choices; namely, on what underwear they might or might not be wearing. Not that I’m saying I wasn’t wearing underwear, you understand – I’m categorically not saying that, in fact – but you know, these people might also like to pass comment on passers by who happen not to be.

Anyway, here I am, minding my own business at the bus stop the other day. Picture the scene: having just bought food to take home and make for dinner, I went to go and catch the bus home. Demurely dressed in a top that had neither a particularly high nor a particularly low neck-line, I checked the timetable. Next to me, a woman was observing the wall in front of her. I don’t know how much interest there was to be found in this wall, but judging by what happened next, it clearly wasn’t enough. I found the time for the bus I wanted, and was just about to sit down next to the woman, when she suddenly piped up in a disgusted voice, ‘Are those your boobs I can see, love?’. Now, maybe it’s just me here, but the etiquette of such a conversation escapes me. There’s just no appropriate way of answering. I mean, do I say no, and claim that it’s a convenient place in which I like to store things? Do I say yes, and risk her holier-than-thou-and-thy-female-hormones wrath? I just don’t know. In fact, this is what I told her too. I believe my exact, wildly flailing words were, ‘I don’t know – is it?’. I’m now painfully aware of how much I appeared to be having an existential chest-related crisis, but really, what are you meant to say? I’m at a loss.

To make matters worse, after I got over my gibbering incompetence, she started giving me fashion advice. Oh, and I started blatantly lying, because I clearly have not and will never get over my gibbering incompetence. Nonetheless, she started giving me fashion advice, and the exact advice was this:

‘You should get one of those nice lacy camisoles, love. Then you can see the nice lacy bits out the top of your collar.’

So, run this by me again. Woman stares at my chest, through a t-shirt. No cleavage is on show, unless said woman has super-powers – what is she doing wasting her time at bus-stops? – and she can see through things. Woman takes offence at my being female and being unable to disguise it. Woman has lace fetish. Woman attempts to use this ostensible opportunity to try and make more people dress up in her fantasy of a world of lacy vests, while appearing self-righteously old-fashioned at the same time. You know, I’m as easy-going as the next girl, but I object to becoming a pawn in a lace-promoting agenda. That’s all I’m saying.

By the way, if this is remotely incoherent, then I blame my housemates. One of them baked a giant Jammie Dodger this afternoon, and I’ve spent the last half an hour flitting between the living room and the kitchen to stare in wonder at its brilliance. And eat it. Okay, mainly to eat it. My main purpose in life is to furtively steal other people’s baked goods. And to dress up in lace underwear for people at bus-stops.

I'm meant to be going back down to York, but you know, I think I've just had a better offer.

I was sitting on the bus into town with my mum this afternoon, and two stops before we were due to get off, a load of people got on in front of one of the high-rise flats in Gorbals. I was wondering why everyone who got on the bus was having a little smile to themselves, but in retrospect I think it was probably something to do with the woman who got on last and decided to sit in front of us. The bus pulled out of the stop, and we got as far as the traffic lights before she turned to talk to us. Now - I don't know if this applies anywhere else, but for people not from Glasgow, our bus etiquette pretty much dictates that that firstly, you talk to no-one and secondly, oh yes, you talk to no-one. It's well accepted that if you're talking to someone not sitting next to you, you're a) a toddler, b) on a mobile phone, talking as loudly as you humanly can or c) drunk. I'd add a fourth option, 'all of the above' for comic effect, but a drunken mobile-phone-toting two year old on a Glasgow bus is just a little bit too close to being possible for me to make a joke about it. But anyway, this woman was none of the above, and yet, she started talking to us. Well, a lot of it was really more talking at us than to us. It went like this:

Woman: This is your daughter? She has beautiful eyes.
Mum: ..Thank-you.
Woman: Yes. You have very nice daughter.
Me: ..
Woman: Very nice. You're married?
Mum: Yes.
Woman: Very nice daughter.

This went on for quite a while - I'm not really entirely sure I merited it, all things considered - and then the conversation took a new turn.

Woman: You have a very nice daughter.
(We were running out of ways to respond by this point, so I'll let you imagine what you will.)
Woman: I have a very nice son.
Mum: Oh?
Woman: Very nice son. Not married. He's twenty one. Still not married.
Mum: I'm sure he'll find someone.
Woman: You have a very nice daughter.

Unfortunately, at this point, we got to our stop and had to get off, but I'm starting to think that it's entirely possible that if I'd been on the bus any longer, I might have ended up in an arranged marriage to a boy from Turkey. If Jane Austen had grown up in the suburbs of Glasgow in the late 20th Century, I'm sure she'd have written about parents arranging marriages to suitable boys through the medium of meetings on bad public transport. Obviously, her books would be entirely different if the protagonists were sitting on double decker buses - possibly next to a drunken pensioner and a woman with badly dyed pink hair - but there's definitely some literary merit to the idea, I think. Obviously, Mr Darcy would be distinctly less attractive after stepping out of the River Clyde in a wet shirt, though. He'd also have cholera, probably. And he'd need a tetanus jab. And he might or might not be wearing a shell suit and a turned up cap. This idea is getting less appealing by the minute. Woe.

Just so you know, while I'm writing this, I'm watching Nick Toons. The Rugrats, in particular, and I'm unashamed of this fact. Okay, maybe just a little bit ashamed. But not enough to stop me from telling everyone, apparently.

Incidentally, while I was watching the advert break a minute ago, there was an advert for some new form of baby princess Bratz dolls, who're 'living it large and royally in charge', according to the voiceover. I have to wonder how in charge - royally or otherwise - a baby can be, or how large they can live it, for that matter. Admittedly, they do get to have waist-length blonde hair - I'm not going to comment - and crowns, and for some reason, magic wands. The makers obviously feel that the link between royalty and magical powers is self-evident, so they don't explain it as the doll turns someone's brother into a cartoon frog. They do however feel obliged to add the disclaimer at the end, 'Wands not really magic.' I don't know what I'm more appalled by - the fact that they think people might not otherwise realise that plastic pink sticks don't turn people into amphibians, or the fact that the disclaimer doesn't also add 'Dolls not really babies' like I prayed they would. I forgot to mention; in addition to the hair and the tiaras and the inappropriate Harry Potter-esque skills, these baby dolls are walking around in mini skirts and crop tops. This is oh so wrong in oh so many ways. On the bright side, the advert for Cookie Crisp - woo, product placement! - is still exactly the same as when I could legitimately watch this channel, so I don't feel old. Overdressed and a little bit too practical, but not old.

The people who're meant to be building my neighbour's garden finally came today. Well, maybe building isn't the right word - they're not sitting out on the lawn, constructing bits of grass. 'Growing'? Yeah, they're growing my neighbour's garden. Totally. Builders, builders, quite bewildered, how does your garden grow? With drills and bricks and big pointy sticks, that's how our garden grows. Honestly, they're using a pneumatic drill just next to the back step of my garden - I know not what for - and it's shaking the whole house. If this was handwritten, my writing wouldn't make sense. Yes, I know, it doesn't make sense now - you can all sense the self-deprecation coming and preempt it with your own mockery. Go ahead. The builders are probably mocking me as we speak, because my little house is quivering in its very foundations, and I don't know what on earth they're doing. I don't want to go and look, because then I'll look like some nosy, prying neighbour, staring judgmentally out of our tiny window at them with my nose turned up and my spectacles perched on the end of it, waving my knitting needles at them and tutting to myself. Not that I'm wearing spectacles, and if I was, they wouldn't perch. They'd sit at a rather jaunty - read: squint - angle, and make me look gormless. I realise that picking to deny only the spectacles out of that long list of things I just wrote is somewhat ridiculous, but then people would start to be like, 'the lady doth protest too much' and suspect that I really was a cranky old woman in my spare time. And anyway, we really do have tiny, tiny windows.

I'm starting to notice a pattern. Every time I think we've gotten as opportunistic, predatory, destructive and generally stupid as we possibly can, someone goes out of their way to plumb new depths and prove me wrong. In fact, in this case, they're about to plumb them both literally and figuratively. I was watching the broadcast from the Arctic that's going on on Channel 4 this week, and at the risk of sounding righteously angry, I'm not sure I could possibly be more disgusted. And not by Jon Snow, by the way. As sartorially dubious as his socks and ties might be, he really doesn't compare to this. In fact, he's not even wearing a tie tonight, what with his being in the Arctic. I don't think I can cope. It's like my world is coming to an end.

No, seriously, I think it just might be. They're talking tonight on the news about 'the new Cold War', 'a new world order', and suddenly, everybody and his dog are staking a claim on the North Pole. Presumably, the dogs are wearing those little taste-deficient dog-jackets to keep them warm. Anyway, expeditions are wandering around all over the place, Canada wants to build retaliatory military bases, and Russia are throwing flags around. Okay, maybe just the one flag. Probably the Russian one. It's not like they've gone all the way to the Arctic to stand there and throw flags at people. I hope. The way everyone's suddenly gone all colonial, I wouldn't be surprised. Is it just me, or is sticking a flag in a bit of seabed and claiming the entire Arctic belongs to you the global equivalent of a three year old spitting into a tub of ice cream? Not that I ever did that. I was a hygienic child.

What concerns me though - other than the idea that toddlers are running around spitting into other people's desserts - is that in the good twenty minutes or so of this report, there was scarcely any mention of exactly why they're fighting over all this now. Okay, we all know it's because there's oil, gas, diamonds, unicorns and possibly the Holy Grail up there, and goodness knows we can never get enough of them - especially the unicorns - but that's not why we're deciding to do it now. It's not like the Arctic's always just been flying under the radar and we've just noticed it. It's kind of a big thing not to spot, and it's not particularly well-camouflaged. The giant white things (icebergs, polar bears - take your pick) are difficult to miss. But we've only just now decided to start fighting over it. Channel 4 News decided to acknowledge that part with the following sentence:

'The 25 per cent of the world's untapped deposits of oil and gas that lie beneath these wastes are becoming ever-more retrievable, thanks to global warming.'

Maybe it's just me, but despite what might be coming across from the sudden transnational macho posturing, that's not a good thing. It's not something we should be squabbling to get a piece of. 'The icecaps are melting' is hardly a good argument for going after the things that melted them in the first place. What we don't completely ruin is going to melt after we start using the fuel comes out of it. Why are none of the leaders in these countries recoiling in horror and talking about using less gas and oil, not more, if that's what it does to the planet? This is like saying, 'You know what? Now that I've accidentally burnt my house down, it's so much easier to go out for a cigarette.' The UN definitely should be looking into giving everyone their fair share, but what we need dispensed is a modicum of common sense, not the property rights to the Arctic circle. And by the way, I'm talking the kind of common sense here that a two year old exercises in not smashing all his toys for the sake of a minute's worth of fun. Even I had that kind of self-restraint, so how world leaders are lacking in it is beyond me to imagine. In fact, I'd imagine most people find it hard to picture someone with less common sense than me.

Also, I'm surprised they would broadcast a report like that at seven in the evening, when children might be watching. I know I'd have been worried when I was young to hear that '2000 tonnes of rock are being blasted from this hole every day' in relation to a site at the North Pole. You might get a wealth of 'conflict-free diamonds' from blowing up the Arctic - and incidentally, it hardly seems conflict-free when you're planning military bases - but where's the postman going to put all the Christmas wish lists? And while we're at it - Russia, Canada; I'm looking at you - I think you'll find that Father Christmas got there first, so hands, and flags, off.

My mum bought a German phrase book today. Having read it, I think my whole outlook on Germany may have changed as a result. Clearly, I've been misguided in thinking it was a fairly normal country, because in amongst the standard holiday vocabulary like 'Where is the bus station?' and 'How much is that?', Lonely Planet feels that tourists ought to know the following:

- 'What is your occupation?'
'I am a drag queen.'

- 'I have to tell you before this goes any further: I'm an accountant.'

- 'I'm drunk/high', followed immediately by 'I really, really love you.'

- 'I can't eat that for philosophical reasons.'

- 'I'm younger than I look.'

- 'I don't like period dramas.'

And my personal favourite, clearly to be used frequently in daily conversation:

- 'I'm sorry, but I can't get it up.'

I should also mention my slight concern at what might be going on in the average German dental surgery, because apparently, when at the surgery, you should always be listening out for people yelling, 'Wait! Come back! I'm not finished yet!'. This is, according to the book, frequently said by dentists and thus to be committed to memory so that you recognise it when you inevitably hear it. Are there a lot of patients fleeing their dentists mid-check-up in Germany? And if so, what on Earth are these dentists doing to their patients? Surely if they leave early they don't get the sticker to say they've been good at brushing their teeth? Actually, I never got those stickers and I was always a bit bitter about that. It wasn't because I didn't brush my teeth, mind - just because we happened to go to the only dentist within a twenty mile radius who didn't give them. The injustice. Then again, maybe I got off lightly, if this phrase book's anything to go by.

Anyway, I think the main point to be made here though is that a lot of the book seems to be in denial of the fact that it's attached to a torrent of inane conversation about bus timetables and where to find the nearest tourist information centre. For instance, there's an entire section clearly pining for more highbrow conversation, entitled 'Politics and Social Issues'. Don't get me wrong - as a Politics student, I'm amused at knowing how to say 'Do you support the Communist Party?' and 'Who do you vote for?' in German, but I have to wonder how far you can really take it. If your language skills are as limited as owning a pocket-sized phrasebook suggests, how productive is it exactly to know how to say 'How do people feel about euthanasia?'? Maybe it's just me, but I'd put fair money on it that if you don't know the words 'equal opportunities' without looking it up, you're unlikely to keep up your side of an indepth conversation on the intricacies of the issue. Especially not when one of the only things not phrased as a question in the section is 'I support the socialist party.' Somewhere in Germany right now, there's a tourist having a conversation like this:

'Well, now that I've expounded the virtues of why I think we should legalise abortion and you've developed a glazed expression, what's your opinion on animal rights? Do you think we ought to give a lot of credence to extremist protesters?'
'I am a Communist?'
'..'
'..I agree with that?'
'...'
'I'm drunk. I really, really love you.'

I've just come back from Edinburgh this afternoon, having been traumatised for life. For that matter, I think I might have been traumatised for any and all future lives, if people's theories about karma and rebirth turn out to be true. A thousand years from now, there's going to be a little caterpillar wandering around somewhere, making shapes that say 'help help help help, my eyes, they burn' out of leaves and twigs. I'll be the stunted leaf in the corner that even a demented insect thought was a bit too defective to use. Just so that no-one else ends up like me - a runty-looking bit of plant-life, apparently - I'm going to give you all my advice about the Edinburgh Festival.

1. If you're going to engage in potentially disease-incurring activity, keep it to yourself, both conversationally and physically. Especially around me.

We were waiting outside to see a show last night, and the family in front of us were having a conversation that they decided to share with innocent bystanders. Nobody wanted to share it, mind, but we weren't really given any option. Usually, I have some vague scruples about retelling the conversations of strangers, but in this case, it might be for the good of the world. We were just standing idly by when one of the family, who I assume was the mother, suddenly appeared and promptly began extolling the virtues - or lack thereof - of the venue's bathrooms, which were apparently 'rancid'. In particular, she went to great lengths to stress that there were no sinks. At one point, quoth she, 'Was I supposed to put my hands in the toilet and flush it?'. I wanted to interrupt to tell her that the answer to this is always no, and that I worried both that she voiced the question and that she ordered the question thus - was she going to flush it with her face? - but I thought better of it. Mainly, this was because it was quickly becoming apparent that there were bigger things for me to worry about, since, having talked through this particular deficiency in the venue facilities, the woman proceeded to eat a packet of crisps. I'll just let you all process exactly what I'm saying here and leave it at that.

2. Street performers are great in small, well-contained amounts.

We had some time to spend hanging around not doing anything, and there were a lot of street acts around to keep people entertained. We decided to stop and watch one of them, mainly because he had interesting hair. Yes, my reasons for most things are utterly shallow - deal with it, move on. So, I'm not sure how we got from watching interesting-hair man, to watching a man bouncing around on a corner just off the Royal Mile inside a giant balloon, spitting feathers, before inexplicably emerging as a superhero known as Toothbrush Man, but nevertheless, it happened. I'm beginning to suspect that something about my very presence in any situation turns everything into utter lunacy, like some kind of deranged Midas touch.

On the subject of being deranged, we stopped to watch another street performer yesterday, who was from Canada and who happened to be balancing flame torches on his face. As you do. No, really, as far as Edinburgh Festival behaviour goes, it's about as frequent as people sticking flyers in your face. They'd really be onto something if the street performers could figure out how to advertise plays via smoke signals. Maybe they already do and it's a subliminal thing. Do you get such a thing as subliminal smoke clouds? 'That man just put a bonfire in his mouth while riding on a flaming unicycle. I think I'm going to buy a Coke.' Well, anyway, this act - subliminal or otherwise - wasn't working on one particular guy in the audience. He interrupted everyone clapping whatever was going on - and to be honest, most people seem capable of clapping pretty much anything, as proved by Toothbrush Man - and then commenced screaming unintelligibly at the guy. In amongst what was the most xenophobic rant I've ever heard was the standard racist phrase 'go back to your own country' and the somewhat more off-the-wall but at least factually accurate 'this isn't Wales or England', before finishing off with the absurd and legislatively tricky 'Scotland will make sure you don't come back'. I have to say I'm appalled anyone was voicing that kind of vitriolic rant at a celebrated arts festival in our capital city, but I think I'm even more appalled by the fact that the audience responded by yelling 'boo' in much the same way you'd respond to a panto villain. There's a racist behind you, Cinderella. We're just that amazingly articulate about why violent xenophobes should be ostracised. Oh no we aren't? Oh yes we are.

3. Despite what anyone may try to tell you otherwise, never ever see any show where the title involves the words 'origami' and a part of the male anatomy.

I have nothing more to say on this subject.

4. Being the only people who turn up for a show is never a good sign.

I should hasten to point out now that when I say we were the only people who turned up, I'm, for once, not exaggerating. We got to the venue, were directed to go downstairs by the barman, and proceeded to sit by ourselves in the second row - hard to say why we chose the second row of a completely empty room - for fifteen minutes. Not even the person meant to be the entertainment turned up. I knew it was a free gig before I got there, but I'd still expected there to actually be a gig of some variety. Obviously, this was misguided, but the gratuitous silence was both comical and life-affirming. I give it five stars. Afterwards, we went outside and had some free oxygen and even a bit of complementary cloud. It was amazing. I've still got whole bags full of the free sarcasm they gave us. I'd offer you some, but I'm quite enjoying throwing it out left, right and centre now. I can only assume the barman was also enjoying a good (free) laugh to himself at our expense. Well, not really our expense because we didn't pay for it, but at our metaphorical expense. Oh, and the actual expense of the glass of water I paid for. I'd ask for a refund, except that I did kind of drink the water. Grudgingly.

You know what? I think I'm just not meant to save lives. I mean, obviously, if the opportunity ever arises for me to jump in front of a bus in heroic fashion, I'll give it some due thought. Well, actually, I'm not sure how I could save someone by jumping in front of the bus, but never mind. Actually, I'm not sure why my life-saving imaginings involve buses at all - clearly, there's some inner bus trauma in my subconscience somewhere. But if I did jump in front of a bus to save a kitten or something, then at least I'd feel as I could do it without cocking it up in any spectacular way. Unlike when I went to give blood yesterday.

First of all, when I got to the hall, I showed the nurse my card to prove that I was indeed a genuine blood donor and wasn't trying to sneak in uninvited. I'm not sure if underage blood-donating is frequent, but clearly, someone has to stop the delinquent youths from running amok, giving their blood to everyone. Okay, so that's not what the cards are for, but it should be. The woman looked at my card disdainfully, then asked where I'd got it. I said England, and she responded with, 'Yes, but have you ever given blood in the West?'. I'm sure what she meant to say there was 'the West of Scotland', but the jury are still out, and if I haven't been giving blood in the West, then where have I been giving blood until now? I don't think I've ever travelled East in my life. Except maybe to Edinburgh, but I don't think that counts. Is there some strange middle place that no-one gives a name to that's half-way between East and West? I mean, there must be a middle point somewhere between them that you can't call East and you can't call West, so what is it? Weast? And does it have a phone number I can call to find out where my blood went? If I've been saving lives up until this point, the people all live in this strange middle place, and I demand to know where it is. Is my blood just floating around in limbo somewhere? Can I have it back?

So, after we got past that small geographical issue, I got to actually give blood. A minimal amount of blood, but I'm hoping it's the thought that counts. Even though it's entirely possible that my thought was 'I think I may keel over and die now, thankyou'. The woman stuck the needle in my arm, and this was fine. Fine obviously being a relative term in this instance, because there's only so fine a large pointy thing in my puny little arm can be. It was fine for a few minutes or so though, and then the woman came back over and looked at me quite intently, and I started to be concerned. Quoth she, 'I think we're going to have to move this needle so that your blood doesn't stop.' You know, I think if I was to make a list of things I don't want to hear about my own blood, then following any proposed action with the phrase 'so that your blood doesn't stop' is probably right up there with 'I can't find any,' and, 'Oh dear, should it be coming out that fast?'. Possibly also, 'I vant to suck your blood', but I'm hoping that one isn't voiced too often by NHS employees. Especially not when that includes my mum. Anyway, the needle was moved, the woman was still looking unimpressed and then she said this, in a vaguely accusatory way: 'You know, this just happens sometimes - you have small veins.' I kind of felt like saying to her, 'You know what, I'm a pretty small girl - how big do you want my veins to be?'. She was obviously expecting my arms to be bigger on the inside. Like a TARDIS with freckles and pointy elbows.

To cut a fairly gross story short, they ended up having to stop halfway through, partially because the woman clearly thought that at the speed it was going, my blood was about to start flowing backwards, and then partially because I maybe almost kind of fainted. Twice. Possibly. I told you I wasn't meant for saving lives. Various different members of staff kept coming over to talk to me, and I think all of them gave me different reasons why I'm not good at blood donating. The excuses ranged from 'You haven't had enough to eat today,' to 'Some people can't do it until they're older,' to, 'Your body's obviously gotten into a schedule and this was too much for it.' That last one amuses me most, I think - my little cells being just as neurotic as me, squealing things like, 'No, she can't do that! It's only August 13th! She can't do that until September 29th! This just wasn't part of the plan at all! We've got so much still to do!' and running around with their hands over their eyes, trying to pretend that if they can't see it, it's not happening. Okay, so my cells have eyes and a penchant for denial and exclamation marks. What can I say? They know what they like. Clearly, being put into a plastic bag and labelled with little plus signs is not one of those things.

I think the moral of this story is that I'm never giving blood in Scotland again. Especially not after one of the many nurses came over to talk to me, said I was still looking peaky, then conceded that I'd 'always looked like that'. I mean, really. That's just mean. Just because I'm cultivating a 'pale and interesting' look is no reason to make fun. That I nearly passed out on top of a tray of biscuits probably is, though.

You know, I'm beginning to wonder how on earth I've managed to glean any kind of factual knowledge out of anything I did while I was growing up. Obviously, it's a disputable point that I actually have any knowledge, but if I do, then I have to say I think it's been entirely down to sheer fluke luck, because judging on the past day or so, my entire education may have been based entirely on a set of very strange fabrications and spurious made-up characters.

Exhibit A: Anastasia, one of my favourite films when I was younger, which I always thought was based on a true story. I'm not sure why, in hindsight, because having watched it again today, I have to worry about exactly how much credit I gave it as a factually accurate representation of Russian history. I mean, I know there are limits to how much reality you can fit into a cartoon once you've included the mandatory cute animals, but really, people. I think the moment when they blamed the entire February Revolution on Rasputin and his flock of evil fluorescent-green bats putting a curse on the royal family, may have been the moment I realised my faith in Anastasia's educational qualities was misplaced. If it wasn't, though, then that moment probably came in the scene where Rasputin sold his soul to the underworld and proceeded to construct an undead dance routine with a talking bat and some unlikely singing bugs. By the way - meanwhile, in some distant place, they'd probably just had a little bit of a revolution to do with communism, I think. I'm not sure though. Actually, I really feel like Lenin could have gotten to power a lot faster if he'd had some musical insects and a catchy dance routine. Then again, according to Anastasia, it's open to debate whether Lenin ever came to power at all, bug cabaret or not. I know it's a children's film so it doesn't really have to have a lot of basis in fact, but it was gospel truth as far as my ten year old self was concerned, so I worry. I really do. Obviously, not as much I used to worry about revolutions led by glow-in-the-dark bats and zombies with bad facial hair, but the point remains - I based my historical education on this, and no-one told me otherwise for another six years. I hope I realised it wasn't true by the time I was fifteen, but I don't have a lot of faith as far as my gullibility is concerned.

In retrospect though, it's amazing that I even got far enough to develop any kind of concept of history, factual or otherwise, given the way I learned the fundamentals of the English language. Does anyone else remember Letterland? I don't know if this work of genius was just a Scottish thing, or even just a Glaswegian thing, but we were talking about it last night, and I'm a little bit agog. Don't get me wrong - making little characters with stories to represent all the letters of the alphabet is a great idea, but I have to question the logic of some of said characters. My particular favourites have to be 'Kissing Cousins' to stand for X - with no actual X to speak of but with added incest to make up for it, clearly - and Ippy Ink, where there obviously aren't enough words or names that begin with the letter 'i', so they have to introduce new ones to people just learning how to read the words that already exist. Also, there was Ticking Insert-name-here for 't', whose name was either Tom or Tess, depending on your version of the book. Am I the only one who finds it slightly concerning that at least a small percentage of our generation base their understanding of English on incest and androgynous talking clocks? I'm not really all that surprised it was us who came up with text speak, now that I think about it. Probably the more letters you can miss out, the smaller the chance of violent flashbacks. Who on Earth came up with the idea of making an excessively hairy deformed man with a hat fetish - Hairy Hatman, I'm looking at you - to teach small children what 'h' is? I hope it wasn't the same person who taught me that Rasputin was a zombie bent on world domination, because if it was, they're going on my list. As long as I can remember how to write it without looking at the letters too much.

Bonjour, mes amis.

Right, I've just been to Normandy for two weeks, so I thought I'd get the obligatory what-I've-been-doing reference out of the way through the medium of demonstrating a fast and loose grasp of the French language. I do in fact speak reasonable French, but I thought some kind of elaborate sentence involving the future conditional tense and a spattering of reflexive verbs might be both wasted and uncalled for. If anyone wants me to display this much grasp of another culture, let me know. I barely grasp my own culture, so this may or may not be highly ill-advised.

Incidentally, while I've been cultivating this new cultural outlook, I've been contemplating our own language, and I've decided that, in recognition of some previously unvoiced but apparently well-known mutual understandings, we need this new addition to the English dictionary, just to clear things up:

'Vegetarian':

1. (n.) An irrational species who eat no meat for no discernable reason.
2. (adj.) Eats only peppers at every meal, but will accept aubergines and blue cheese if pushed.
3. (adj.) Strangely extroverted; willing and eager to cause a scene in every restaurant by asking for things not on the menu.
4. (n.) An idiot, deserving any and all forms of mockery of which you are capable.
5. (adj.) Used to describe food which may or may not contain meat, at the discretion of the chef. See also: surprise meat.
6. (adj.) A serving of the garnish found at the side of a steak, but without the steak.

This may possibly be a touch excessive as a dictionary definition, but I suppose that, at a push, we could shorten it to this one:

'Vegetarian'
(adj.) Does not live in Normandy.

If I sound bitter, I apologise, but really, the restaurants we went to should just be thankful that I'm relatively tolerant as vegetarians go. I'm not a crazy militant who demands recognition of the fact that cows have feelings too, or who continually yells 'dead fish' when within a mile radius of a tuna sandwich. I do however like a little bit of recognition of the fact that I exist. We walked down an entire avenue of restaurants - and I'm talking a dozen or more here - and we found a grand total of two that actually had a vegetarian option on the menu. One of the options offered was a green salad, which did exactly what it said on the tin - this being a metaphorical tin and not an actual tin of salad, you understand, because I'm fairly certain that doesn't exist - and contained only green leaves. Mm, shrubbery. Okay, it may have been lettuce, but I'm still not entirely convinced that there isn't a direct relationship between lettuce leaves and garden hedges.

There were some restaurants that served pizzas or salads called 'la végétarienne', that listed either ham, beef, or both in their ingredients. 'Vegetarian' in the non-literal sense, clearly. I wasn't aware of vegetarianism lending itself to dramatic irony ploys until now, but I stand corrected. I'm going to write a play wherein the main character goes round persuading everyone to support animal rights. He rises to power in an uprising of vegetarians, but his unfortunate but inevitable downfall obviously lies in the fact that he labours under the misguided impression that ham is a kind of pink cabbage. Only the audience knows the truth in the lead up to the final act's climactic revelation that he and his following were really meat eaters all along. Like Planet of the Apes, but with more salad dressing. And I may be taking some artistic licence with regard to certain chefs and their understanding of the concept of vegetarianism. They're not really that deluded; they just like to get my hopes and then let me down. Oh, cruel meat-eating world.

I did actually enjoy my holiday, really. I just like to make Oscar-worthy wailings out of fairly minor problems. Scottish restaurants are just as bad for catering to vegetarians. Still, when I starve to death, you'll all be sorry. (Except possibly that one waiter who served me a salad with well-camouflageded covert ham lurking in it, when I'd had a whole conversation in French with him about how I was vegetarian. He'll probably be quite pleased that I'm gone, the evil mastermind that he is.)

For those who want to know, by the way, I still haven't lost the knack for bringing out the craziest in a country. After the German stalking debacle and various other holiday hijinks and adventures abroad - both alliterative and standard - our trip to Honfleur was no exception. See, it was raining one night, so we decided to nip into a bar down the road from our house instead of going along to the harbour. Upon entering said bar - which had a flashing neon saxophone outside it for reasons I've not yet fathomed, given that it played no jazz music - I was promptly accosted by one of the bar's other patrons, who rattled off a good two minutes worth of rapid one-sided conversation at me in French. I managed to catch only the words 'I was running from the chemist' in all this, by the way, and why she was fleeing a chemist is anyone's guess. It's entirely possibly I misheard. After she'd finished, she finally realised that I wasn't quite with her and returned to her boyfriend, who was looking a bit jealous. Maybe I missed something there. Maybe I'd just been party to a dodgy French chat-up line that involved something to do with chemists and prescription medicines. They are, of course, the obvious subject choice to break the ice with a prospective romantic interest. Anyway, having left me to my own devices for the rest of the evening, the girl turned round to yell at us as we left. I'm not sure if this is the only English she knew or if I'd once again missed a trick, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that when someone leaves a bar on a rainy mid-July evening, screaming 'Merry Christmas and happy New Year' after them is rarely appropriate. Just out of good manners, I wished her the same, but I think my complete bemusement probably obscured any genuine well-wishing sentiment. I'm as much about Christmas spirit as the next person - in fact, probably the next three or four people put together - but there's no need to get so forceful and mouthy about it in midsummer. Even if the person in question did spurn your chemistry-related advances.

Before I start rambling at you, here's a quick prefix to summarise the last two months:

Dear all,

Apologies for being quite so lax in writing recently. Going to university has addled my brain. (Yes, I have one. Oh, the witty jokes.)

Lots of love,
Me.


To be fair, I should really be apologising for even writing at all just now - the only reason that you're getting to witness my late-night thought processes is because I'm up to my eyes in revision and need an outlet of some variety. I'm using you all like so much used - something. You know, I'm sure there have to be plenty of similes out there for used things that don't involve me finishing that sentence with either 'toilet paper' or 'tissues', and yet I can find none of them. It's a sad reflection of my life to date that I've been reduced to five-year-old's-humour-related imagery.

Then again, I think that might be to be expected, considering the people I'm living with. I ventured forth into the hovel that is our kitchen before I started writing this, and when I went to the cupboard to get my banana milkshake powder - mm, childish goodness - there was a can of tunafish sitting there. You know, we've all been living here long enough now to know whose cupboard is whose, so I can't even give whoever it was the benefit of the doubt that they just got the wrong cupboard. In any event, I would presume that they at least know which cupboard is their own, so why they'd be donating cans of tuna is anyone's guess, even if the other person wasn't vegetarian. I suppose the tuna could have gotten there by itself, but if it did, then we've got problems worse than people not remembering their own cupboards. Like people being on drugs. Me, namely. By the way, please note I managed to steer clear of using the godawful pun 'we've got bigger fish to fry' just now, when there was a clear opportunity to do it. I feel I deserve some kind of award for that. An award that involves no canned fish of any kind.

Anyway, this is just one more thing to add to the many ways in which my flatmates have tried to persuade me of the errors of my ways this year. In fact, I think I ought to make a list just for posterity, since we're all moving out at the end of the week.

1. Putting a bag of raw liver under my nose.
2. Variations on the question, 'Do you not just miss meat?'.
3. Variations on the phrase, 'You know what that needs? Meat.'
4. Variations on the phrase, 'Mm, meat.'
5. Commenting on a salad that, and I quote, 'it looks like what I used to feed my Giant African Land Snails.'
6. Who owns Giant African Land Snails?
7. Really, though?
8. I think the mental image of the snails puts me off eating again ever.
9. 'Oh no, you can't have Mars Bars. Whatever shall you do?'
10. Any and all donations of fish.
11. I can't think of anything else; in my head, I'm still on the snails.
12. Not literally. I am not literally on the snails.

On that note, I'm going to bed. If I'm lucky, someone might donate me a can of Economics-related savvy by tomorrow morning. And if I'm really lucky, I'll have forgotten about the snails. Woe.

I've come to the somewhat delayed realisation that I haven't posted in quite some time. To anyone who's reading it, I offer my sincerest apologies, because the only excuse I have is that the past three months have been a bit crazy, and that's hardly any excuse at all, because everything I've ever posted in here is also crazy in its own special way.

So, I haven't posted in about three months, so here's a quick run-down of things I've done since, um, before Christmas:

1. I had Christmas and New Year's. (Oh really? Yes, really.) There was much rejoicing. And presents. And no heating, for anyone who wants some continuity; the central heating man didn't arrive until two days before New Year's.

2. I went back to uni. Having been on the train down for three hours then dragging my bags across campus, I got to the window of my kitchen, banged on the window with my free hand to get two of my flatmates to let me in, and they just peered at me for a minute, looking confused. After this initial stare-match, one of them piped up with 'Oh, it's you. I thought you were a crazy old man.' This was hardly the welcome back I was expecting, and Dom never did explain.

I know that I've only listed two things, but I did say it would be a quick run-down, and that was not one word of a lie. Mainly because everything else I've done's just been lumped into the category of 'Spring Term' in my head, so I can't tell you about things happening in a chronological order because I have none. I am orderless and anarchic, as is my usual habit. The rest of what I've done just spews forth in a deluge of nonsensical ramblings, and you're going to have to sort it out yourself. I apologise.

I've had quite a lot of nonsensical ramblings in the past two months, actually; perhaps even more than is normal. I think a large part of that's probably down to my joining the craziest societies on campus and being consequently sucked into the madness. Judging from both high school and my first year at uni, somewhere in my subconscious mind I can sense randomness from a mile off and am drawn to it in inexplicable yet inevitable fashion. Since I last posted, I've been part of a singing entourage in numerous public places, ridden around backwards on a badly-driven trolley, been on a radio show as a Victoria-Sponge-loving librarian, had my shoes stolen twice, practised my public speaking whilst dressed as a hot-pants-wearing superhero, won an election I wasn't at, and engaged in a debate about the merits of divorce law with two guys from Cardiff who were drunk on complementary wine. How do I get myself into these situations? I mean other than by signing up and giving people my email address and phone number and saying 'Yes, I will do anything crazy that you ask me to. Even if it involves public humiliation. I know no shame.'

Well, I say I give them my phone number, but at the moment, that isn't going to be of much use to anyone. Particularly not to me. Allow me to introduce you to the Phone of Doom Saga, otherwise known as 'Morven Rages at the Injustices of the World in General While Everyone Else Likes it or Can Shut Up'. It's a working title. It works more than my phone does, though.

( The Phone of Doom Saga continues. Abandon hope all ye who click here. )

And so it came to pass that Morven came home for the holidays. And when she did, she brought with her a great many mischievous pixies, who set about their wicked amusements, including stealing her house keys and breaking the central heating system. Morven was displeased by this because it meant that when she finally did get into her house, it was no warmer than outside. Admittedly, outside didn't have tinsel and chocolate - inside, one: outside, nil - but Morven did not feel that this was quite the point. In fact, it is now unclear whether Morven felt anything at all, because it is so cold that she has lost all feeling in her toes, and is now talking in the third person. Hardly a new thing, but concerning nevertheless.

The central heating man still hasn't come yet. I felt a sense of doom coming over me this morning when Mum phoned to tell me to hang around because he'd be over at lunchtime. It's never a good sign when the service guys don't give you a specific time. It's like when they say, "I'll be there between eleven and four," - that sentence should always be followed by, "probably, but there's no guarantee I'll show up any time before half five, at which point you will have had to spend your entire day waiting around, because some of us like to play fast and loose with our timekeeping." Being told that would be somewhat depressing but at least you would know what to expect, and could plan your day accordingly. Failing that, you could always - oh, I don't know - pick another of the many hundred numbers in the phone book? Seriously, heating man - next time you're not going to show up on me, I want to know about it, so I can go and pillage the attic in search of thermals. Honesty - and at least two pairs of socks - is the best policy. I'm not a big fan of the 'I regard lunchtime as being at quarter to six' school of thought right now, if for no other reason than because mealtimes give me stability. What next? Breakfast at midnight? I ask you, people. I also ask you to go and find me more socks.

Last time I posted, I told you all about the swans that attacked me on my way home one night. You'll all be glad to know that they never left after that, taking up permanent residence outside our flat. I feel at liberty to tell you more about them now that I'm at home, because I know they're not peering through my bedroom window and plotting how to deal with the swan snitch. They could be doing that; they really could. Their names are now Spartacus and Caesar. Well, actually, our records say 'Ceaser', but that's just because one of my flatmates didn't quite fully grasp the intricacies of the Romans and their silly ways of spelling things. That said, Ceaser sounds appropriately ominous for these swans. "This is Ceaser - of your life, puny girl thing." (CHH.) Anyway, Caesar has a little white bit on one wing, and that's how we tell them apart. Also, unlike Caesar, Spartacus is fickle and is wont to leave our window if he finds that there may be food elsewhere. Or alternatively, if there's someone around for him to chase. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. While I was revising for my exam last week, I heard someone screaming outside, and when I ran to investigate, there was a girl being chased straight across the quad by two very large flying swans. The other two who were in the kitchen with me were shaking their heads in that amused sort of way you would if you had a relative who always got drunk at Christmas parties and sang 'I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts' before passing out on the table. I was half expecting one of them to say 'ah, that Caesar, he's at it again'. In the background, the girl was still screaming, and the birds were shrieking and flapping their wings at her. We finally attempted to distract them with some bread, and she got away. Our swan mascots are going to turn on us one day, you know. I'm secretly hoping they're gone when we go back, but that hardly seems to be in keeping with the swan-supporting flat spirit.

Not that we have much of a spirit, to be honest. I've been entirely unable to spread the Christmas cheer round our kitchen - and if I can't spread the Christmas spirit, you know no-one can. I even got into trouble with one of them for playing Christmas music on the first of December. I mean, really. I've managed to move into the campus Scrooge flat. During the elections, we had a sign in the window that said 'No posters - we really don't care', and one girl almost burst into tears trying to get us to take one of hers. I ended up leaning out of my bedroom window and quickly taking them in from people in secret, before my flatmates could realise that they had a mole in the camp, flouting the rules of their poster lock-down. One girl commented to me that our flat had to be the most exclusive in our college - which was possibly why everyone kept on trying to win our votes. One of the candidates for college secretary managed to blag his way into our kitchen somehow after the flat upstairs let him in, and then he promptly gave us all sweets. I think we somehow became some kind of strange prize to be won: if you could get the anti-social flat to vote for you, you were headed for victory. I think we've further cemented our reputation as hermits by being the only block not to have any Christmas decorations up at all. Even E Block at least used snow spray to draw a festive giant erection in their window, surrounded by some tasteful snowflakes. We had nothing. Not even snow porn. My Christmas sensibilities were grossly offended, and I insisted on putting up our Christmas tree at home hours after I got in the door, just to make sure I didn't bring the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future home along with whatever broke my central heating this morning. I wish I'd brought the central heating man home with me. He's still not here yet.

Once again, I attempt to venture into the big world of grown up people and once again my efforts are thwarted. Today, I went to the Christmas market in town, where you literally could not move for people standing, making idle comments and pointing at hanging painted glass objects. This was fine with me - I'm happy for people to become annoying tourists in their own city, as long as it's in the cause of spreading Christmas spirit. That's what I'm all about. What I'm not about is trekking all the way back through campus afterwards, laden down with shopping bags, to be attacked by a killer black swan outside my front door. I'm not even exaggerating. I was just about to put my keycard in the lock, when there was this sort of 'chh-chh' spitting noise next to me. (By the way, if you don't spit like 'chh-chh', then there is obviously something wrong with you - don't complain about it to me because I'm right. Chh-chh.) I looked round to find that a large black swan, with its neck extended so that it was just below my shoulder height, was rapidly advancing in my direction. And it was spitting at me. I didn't even know birds could spit, but this one would not stop. Every time I tried to get round it and go in the door another route, it would chase me round and then spit some more. I didn't manage to get in at all until one of my flatmates came into the kitchen and distracted it by knocking on the window. Then I went into the kitchen and it was standing at the window, flapping its giant wings at me. I think I may have offended the swan population in some way. Maybe it was that one lying on the grass last week that I thought was a bin-bag. A spitting bin bag, with vindictive bouncer-like tendencies, but a bin bag all the same.

I just found a piece of blu-tac on the bottom of my slipper a second ago, so I thought I'd experiment. It turns out that you actually can stick a slipper to a wardrobe and make it stay, in case anyone was wandering about that.

Speaking of wardrobes, I turned on my television earlier. This does have a connection other than 'they are both household objects' by the way - I wasn't just being pathetic. Well, I am being pathetic, but not in that way. See, I turned on the television earlier in an attempt to escape the journal I was supposed to be reading about new forms of political participation, and the first thing I heard was the following conversation:

Random aristocratic man 1: Sorry to be late, but as you must have heard, some lunatic was hiding in my closet.
Random aristocratic man 2: Rousseau?

I'm not sure where I'm meant to start, except to say that I now have the sudden image of Jean-Jacques Rousseau leaping out of my wardrobe, screaming about the Social Contract and telling me that the state finds it expedient that I should fold my clothes before I put them away, and then being knocked out by the blu-tacked slipper falling on his head. I realise that there was probably some actual context to what they were saying, and it probably wasn't anything to do with hiding political philosophers in your wardrobe - and it was definitely nothing to do with slippers as projectiles - but this is what my imagination has automatically come to. Insanetown, population: me. And possibly Rousseau the Closet Lunatic.

This just in: apparently one of my darling flatmates has been holding bits of bread up to the window in front of the swans, getting them to peck the glass. Does anyone know how to tell a swan that this was all just one big misunderstanding? 'You've got the wrong girl.' 'Chh-chh. The black swan cares not. Chh-chh.' 'In fact, you've got the wrong gender. You want that taller one with the short hair who's standing in the kitchen, whipping empty beer cans with a wet dishcloth.' 'CHH-CHH, puny girl thing, CHH-CHH.'

Sometimes I can't help but feel that the world is ganging up on me to produce unprecedented amounts of silliness. It's the only way I can explain my day today.

My economics lecture was running along fairly smoothly - as smoothly as lectures from people who draw diagrams of toffee apples feasibly can go, anyway - when suddenly we ended up going off on a random tangent to Sillyville. I don't know how, but one minute we were being told about monopolies, then the next thing I know, the words 'LIFE IS A' are written up on the board, and our lecturer's asking us what word comes next. I'm not sure which thing is more worrying - that he seemed to be goading us into saying 'bitch' to him just for kicks, or that someone then answered him with the word 'furdge'. Well, I say 'word', when what I really mean is 'total nonsense'. Furdge? What on earth is furdge? 'Life's a furdge and then you make some torffee'? The entire class was utterly bemused by the whole thing. And then it got worse, because the lecturer, apparently inspired by the sheer idiocy of all this, decided to make up his own words. Just so you know guys, from now on, instead of being gender-biased and saying 'bitch', we're all now to say that life's a 'gnu'. What's that, I hear you say? No, I'm sure you're not really saying it, because I wasn't either. I'm only telling you too to spread the against-your-will love. Anyway, a gnu is a 'gender neutral unpleasantness', according to our lecturer. We're apparently supposed to get that printed on t-shirts and tell everyone we know to spread it around. So, I'm telling you all now on the understanding that you never use the phrase in my presence, ever. Let us never speak of it again.

But that is not the end of the silliness of my day. I went to French class later, to be told that today, we were going to translate the lyrics of, and then listen to, a French song. That seemed fair enough to me, because at least it was a change from the usual reading newspaper articles/listening to contrived conversations about environmentalists and wind farms/trying and failing to sound like I can even say 'hello' in French. This sounded like it might actually be worthwhile to look at. But nothing could have prepared me for the ridiculousness of obscure French pop. Not even the name of the song, which was 'I think there's a woman living in my house', by the way. I'm going to give you a translation of some of my favourite lines now.

I open the fridge, horror, it is madness!
There are lots of vegetables!
There is even fruit!

There is a drape on the window!
What is that, it is that, oh my God,
it is a green plant!

There are details that can't be mistaken,
I think there is a wo