little.red.boat.

Thursday, January 30, 2003

wow. it snew.

Thursday, January 30, 2003 |

Wednesday, January 29, 2003

Last night I dreamt about Freud. He was shaped almost exactly like a penis. What does that mean?"

There are few things more annoying than people explaining their dreams to you at length.
Today, however, I discovered one of those few things.
It's people explaining their dreams to you at length, and then expecting you to 'interpret' them.

Standing and waiting before my class today, I was joined by a classmate, who began her afternoon smalltalk with - "I hear you're really good with dreams..."

"What?"
"I hear you're really good at reading dreams."

"I... ah... erm... What?"

Eventually I worked out what had happened; this girl lived with another girl, the other girl had been part of the playwriting class, and at some point I'd tried to silence a irrelevant conversation between some others so that we could all get on with some work.
The conversation had been about dreams, and I rattled out some bull about these things quite obviously revealing a hidden passion for a friend, the desire to marry him and have his babies - Bollocks, all of it.
But they stopped talking and we got on with some work. So it worked.

But now I apparently have a small reputation as a seer, a reader of dreams. I should get myself a tent, a headscarf and heavy eyebrows and the transformation would be complete.

Anyway. By the time we'd worked out all this information, the girl had also managed to slip in the details of her dream, so while concienciously debunking the 'mystic' image on the one hand, it was one of those classic everyone-has-them dreams that I found myself debunking,debunking, debunking, and then reaching the end of the sentence and tacking on; -

"Of course it's a control thing, feeling out of control and such, but it ends positively, so bear in mind that... oh, it doesn't matter."

Later I had a conversation with someone from the "dreams are a meaningless resuffling of recent events and memories" school, and while I agree with that to an extent, I think the there is some interpreting can be done about how your dream self reacts and interacts with these people, events and memories.

Not over analysing, but certainly your brain at play or rest is going to come up with some things that are worth looking at.

Then again, maybe it is all about sex, after all.

?

Wednesday, January 29, 2003 |

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

A couple of months ago, a vague plan was formulated that the entire dramaturgical student body of Glasgow University (that'll be 'four', then) should take a day trip to Manchester in order that I should show off my favourite theatre in the world, and Lorainne could get some good Chinese food.

It was one of those 'closing-time' conversations, when everyone had been drinking for a while and were all feeling adventurous and fond.

And all of a sudden, we're going to Manchester tomorrow.
I'm going to see him, and some other lovely people, and I'm really very excited.
This is not a funny or interesting story.
I'm just, y'know, sharing.

Collective voice of the web: "Erm... Thank you for Sharing, Anna Pickard. Now fuck off and watch CSI."

okey dokey.

Tuesday, January 28, 2003 |

I'm extremely insert-euphemism-meaning-drunk right now.
Because of the quiz-ness.
We were all talking about dates and how I've only once been on one (it's not really the same thing in this country),
and then trying to work out where I'd ask anyone I wanted to invite somewhere to spend time with them.

[Next morning - I have absolutely no memory whatsoever of wrting this post. And while it's true that I've simply fallen into going out with most of the people I've been out with, I certainly have been on more than one date in my life. Still this was pretty good typing for a drunk person. I even spelt euphemism right. Anyway. I'm not even thinking of dating people at the moment, I'm too busy. So I don't know what I was talking about. I'll leave it in though...)

How does the dating thing work?
Do you go to bars? Cinemas? For food? The theatre? A bar? A friend's party?
What does one ask?
How?

Tuesday, January 28, 2003 |

We won

We asked the questions.
We did it.
We rule.

Even if it wasn't taxing, brain-wise, it was fun. I think. They seemed to like the bling bling round;

(Define;
1) Bootylicious
2) Booty call
3) Booty
4) Phat
5) Wack
6) marinating ("does anyone, need this contextualised? Oh, alright...as in 'I been marinating in the rizzi with my road dawg'")
7) Bling bling
8) Pop a cap (in yo ass mother fucker)
9) Benjamins
10) Tripping.)

With 2 points given if they were pretty much on the definition marked by the Dictionary of Rap, and 1 point if they were anywhere near...

And then there was the beer round, made up by Meg, a loud American and me, where you had to give the country of origin ("original origin, I don't care if it's brewed in essex now....") and which currency you would use if you were to buy it in that country.

(The beers were;
Bohemia
Efes Pilsen
Leinenkugel's
Budvar
Pacena
Flagg
Tiger
Kwak
VB
Belhaven)

And then we had a script round, since we're all studying scripts, which included lots of hard things, but my choices were;

"You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is "Never get involved in a land war in Asia." But only slightly less well known is this: "Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line." A ha ha ha ha ha. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. A ha ha ha h..."

And

"So.... so. Are you guys like boyfriend/girl-friend?
(a beat)
Steady dates?
(another beat)
Lo--vers?
(another beat)
Come on Sporto, level with me. Do you slip her the hot...beef...injection?

And a whole bunch of other, harder things. They all got the Harry met Sally one though; basically me faking an orgasm in a disinterested tone;
"mmm. mmmm. Oh yeah. mmmm. right there...."
In monotone, with pauses.

And then there was a fabulous other film and T.V. round and anagrams and a picture round from this site
and the boy band music round, which was simply fantastic.

And you know what?
We rocked.

And everyone else seems to see this as a boy-meeting opportunity... they may be right. We'll see...
At least everyone in the whole club knows I can fake an unconvincing orgam now.
Oh, hang on...

Tuesday, January 28, 2003 |

Monday, January 27, 2003

It's all about the bling bling.

So it's this quiz tonight.
I'm nervous. Very. I was scared that we weren't going to be prepared, but you know, I think we just might be.
I think, in a way, we've solved the problem of being intimidated by all these high-minded academics by producing what - I hope - is the least academic quiz that the club has ever seen.

Therefore, with the help of my fabulous sister, we've got a 'bling bling round'
(Please define and, for extra points, place in a sentence the following terms; 'Whack', 'Dope', 'Bootylicious', 'marinating in the rizzi with your road dawg', etc. In my accent they sound ridiculous.)
And a 'beers of the world' round.

Then there's a Boy Bands music round, and quotes from really silly, non-arthouse films.

I think we'll be fine.
They might hate us, but I think we'll be fine.

Monday, January 27, 2003 |

Well, that's alright then, I'm not 'shit-with-money' anymore. I'm financialphobic.
Me and 8,999,999 other people in this country.

Monday, January 27, 2003 |

The sky's got that 'rain-pending' look.
It has done for the last hour or so, that kind of almost ultra-violet light that makes everything almost glow, that intense "It's going to rain" feeling, that tells me that the only thing it's waiting for is me stepping out of the door.
That's all.
At that point, the point when I step out of the door, there will be biblical, mythical amounts of rain.

That's right; the weather?
All about me.

Traffic too, traffic is also all about me. And the price of things in shops.
All done to inconvenience me, personally.
So now you know. It's my fault.
Blame me.

Monday, January 27, 2003 |

If anyone isn't doing anything on the afternoon of the 26th of January and happens to be in the middle of Glasgow, I would highly recommend that they go to the 'Celtic Connections' - Taste of the Festival gig at the Tron.
Yes, I realise that it was yesterday, but I didn't know it was going to be any good until I was there..
And it was good.

Where you night get bored hearing 2 hours of the same people, here, you heard half an hour, like a 'best of' or something, and then they were gone. From the most traditional of traditional music to new forms of tradtional, to singer songwriters like the incredible Ruth Martin, it was an incredible musical experience.

There were a couple of funny things.
And as always, the tips made it worth me working, Oh, the joy of cleavage.

Monday, January 27, 2003 |

Sunday, January 26, 2003

call me concierge

I don't mean to have a favourite cat, but I do. Of the two, Fin is sleeker and softer and a bit more wary, but more loving.
And I'll happily admit it, I'm really quite soft when it comes to the cats.
And particular to Fin.
He's grey, or grey-ish blue, with enormous eyes and ears and everything.
And he likes jumping up onto the shed in the back garden, and from there, parading the garden walls, all along the street.

He likes jumping onto the shed, but he can't seem to jump down again.
And luckily for him, he doesn't have to.
Because the roof of the shed leads to the roof of another shed.
And the roof of that shed leads to the sloping roof at the back of the house, which leads to the two windows of my bedroom.

The window next to my head as I sleep, and the window next to the computer.
Whatever I'm doing, and if I'm in my room, it will be to sleep or be on the computer, he sits outside the window, with one paw touching the glass, looking as cute as hell until I open the window and let him in.
This morning he did it 7 times.
3 times very soggy.
I've tried ignoring him, and I can't.

What is it about pets that leads to us turning to mush?
I wouldn't put up with a human being knocking on my window at 5.45am, just so they could tread wet footprints all over my pillow and then sit at the end of my bed licking their arse.

I'd certainly be surprised if a human being did that, and quite impressed, but I wouldn't put up with it.

God, it's hideous weather out there.

Sunday, January 26, 2003 |

Saturday, January 25, 2003

Plugging up the Derridian Vortex
(0898...)
or

'Hang on to the end, all that pseud stuff, i do have a point.'
Really I do. It's fun and all.

Y'see the thing I like about deconstructuralism is the whole sceptical/cubist/multifaceted thing.
The fact that there are an infinite number of ways of looking at everything, and that no certain truth can ever be reached, because everyone looking at it will look at it a different way, and the language that their eyes use to send the information to their brain is particular to them, and the way that their brain deals with that information will be particular to them, depending on who they are and what they know and how they know it, and the way they articulate it is particular as a fingerprint.
And then the same happens through the ear of the hearer.

Sorry. I spend all day with nothing in my head to write - nothing in my head at all, if I'm honest with you - and then, when I do find something to say, it's about deconstructivism.
Y'see, we have this class, on 'Languages of analysis', aka 'How many long meaningless words can we fit into two hours? Oooh! Bagsy me "transcendental postmodern signifier"', and friday's class was on deconstructivism.

It's just the thing I thought I would hate about this course, analytical, theoretical, academic wibbling which creates nothing, does little useful for anyone and at the end of the day means nothing.

But then I realised that it's like taking your brain out for a walk,
letting it run in circles for awhile, play with other brains, fetch ideas like they were sticks, and then letting it take a dump on a grassy verge and no, hang on, this is a stupid metaphor.

Anyway, I like it. And I like deconstructivism, what it basically seemed to be saying is that all analytical, theoretical wibbling is fun, but pointless.
That's what it said to me, anyway. I was looking over my notes from class, and the last one is;

'We cannot deconstruct everything forever - there is a principal called the Derridian Vortex, meaning, essentially, that too much deconstruction leads to disappearing up your own arse.'

Anyway, I think I've solved it.

Basically one part of the whole theory said that we all see thingsdifferently, because of the binary oppositions to which we all give different meaning. So we as cultures set up these opposites, and decide what we think on the basis of them. So you get things like;

Masculine vs. Feminine.
Truth vs. Fiction.
Sane vs. Insane.
Civilisation vs. Primitivism
Hetrosexual vs. Homosexual

As many as you can think of. And basically, different cultures, and individuals within those cultures, will view things in relation to their weighing of those opposites.
Like, for, example, western philosophical thinking has placed the emphasis on the first of all those pairs.
It's bollocks, basically.

Any way. I've found the way to solve the tricky deconstructivist problem, and a way of proving which of any pair of opposites wins.

It's Googlefight.
And incidentally, Femininity wins.

Yes, that was my entire point.
Class dismissed.

Saturday, January 25, 2003 |

Numb bum

I really can't decide who is the most stupid in this article from the Guardian;
The four people who sat for 45 minutes on minus 78C solid Carbon Dioxide, or the radio producer who thought it would be a good idea for a competition.

My favourite quote...

Outside court, Miss Terry, who has two children, said she found sitting on hard chairs too painful and activities such as horse riding and watching Aston Villa play football were out of the question.

Now, the horse riding I can imagine, all that bouncy bouncy hard seat thing, but watching Aston Villa?
And watching Aston Villa particularly?
Would she be alright with Manchester City?
Would her bottom hurt less to watch Fulham?
What about Arsenal?

Saturday, January 25, 2003 |

Be Afraid. Be very afraid.

It's a little thing I learnt while working in another theatre bar - selling over-priced drinks to easily outraged customers.
The Manager taught me;

The customer is always right.
(At these prices) The customer is always outraged.
The customer is always right to be outraged. (therefore).

So never say 'Please'
Only say; "I'm afraid..."

You see, you take the order, get the drinks, add them up and say, with your best and nicest and biggest and sweetest smile;
"That'll be 7 pounds and Ninety pence, I'm afraid..."

Not "please", but "I'm afraid".
It's a magic charm.

It's a phrase that not only says;
"I agree with you, the drinks are too expensive at this bar",
but also;
"Unfortunately I have to charge you this amount of money. I don't want to, but I have to..."

They won't try and argue with you, because they assume by those two words that
a) You agree with them (no argument) and
b) It's not your fault (No point in argument)

Not once, in all my experience of working in overpriced bars, has anyone tried to get into a price-scandal argument with me since I learnt that phrase.
Why does that work?
I don't know. It does work.
Always.
But why?...

Saturday, January 25, 2003 |

Friday, January 24, 2003

bisy. backson.

Friday, January 24, 2003 |

Sleep is for jessies

It's 2.30 am, and I reckon there's another 2 hours to go on this project.
Now, do I stay up and do it, or do I say I'm going to get up extra early and set my alarm?

If I say I'm going to get up dead early, am I lying?
And to whom?

Not sleep at all, maybe? (Only the weak sleep....)
Right then.

shuffle shuffle
taptaptaptaptap taptaptaptaptaptappy tap tap...
thud

*snore*

Friday, January 24, 2003 |

Thursday, January 23, 2003

The day was just toddling along in a mediocre kind of way, and then I think I saw a robbery and definitely did see a dog getting run over.

And someone, somewhere, is saying something about things going in threes. I can just sense it.

Well, maybe I'll trip myself up or something.
Because if the house is going to burn down as well, I'm not going to be at all happy.

Thursday, January 23, 2003 |

Can someone give me one word that means 'to all intents and purposes'.
I think that there's a word that begins with an 'e'.
My mind's gone blank.

Thursday, January 23, 2003 |

People are seriously fucked up. That's all.

You know, usually, although I check my search engine referrals to see how people are getting to the site, I don't write often write about them because they're sick and icky and euw.

I seem to have become blind to the word 'f***', when used in connection with 'my little sister', I've seen it that many times.
Sick sick sick vile nasty people out there.

Still, every now and again there's something in there that doesn't refer to icky sick people or fucking 'Sc**by D** Porn' (the amount of people out there looking for anything nefarious between Sarah Michelle Gellar and a large cartoon dog appalls me, frankly). Sometimes there's something harmless, and sometimes (although this is rare) it's even funny.

I just have to wonder about the context of;

it's girls clothes for you from now on

From now on? Tell me more.
Oh no, actually, hang on, don't.

But my favourite today is (exactly as typed);

whY IS RED VERY LUCK y

and I'm imagining that this is a pressing question as red is a prevalent colour for the searchee, sitting as he is, in a pool of his own blood whacking the keyboard with bloodied stumps, having had his hands lopped off by a malevolent tarot card reader, because that's the only excuse I can find for typing like that.

It's funny, but reading it out loud (not that I'm doing that, obviously. Who would do that? Try it though, it's good) with capitals and word breaks and all, it turns very quickly into a basic form of beat poetry. Especially the falling off at the end into the little 'y'. That's my favourite bit.

Oh, sweet lord.
I think I'm on the edge of discussing this as a form of concept art.
For fuck's sake. Ponce.

Anyway, if I'd known they were going to ask, I could have told them.
Why is red not only lucky, but VERY LUCK y?

It's because of sex.
I don't know why it's because of sex, but it probably is. Because lots of things are.
I know that in parts of Italy, they give red knickers for luck at new year.
That has nothing to do with the previous statement, it's just something else I know.

wHY IS RED VERY LUCK y?

Thursday, January 23, 2003 |

Wednesday, January 22, 2003

The greek girl at the party who was really nice but kind of scared me.

I assume she wasn't quite understanding things as well as she was pretending to.
Or perhaps she was just understanding things a little differently.
Or perhaps there's something about the Greek sense of humour that I don't know.

Whatever it was, for the first 5 minutes I was in the room I thought I must be the funniest person in the whole world.
But then I realised. She laughed at everything.

Ev-er-y-thing.
When I said things I thought were funny, she laughed.
But then when I said things that had no humour content at all, she laughed.
And not just a polite little chortle, a full, from the stomach, doubled over, Laugh. For whole minutes at a time.
I was quite scared.

I tried only saying serious things, but that seemed to make it worse.

Me; "This corkscrew is broken"

Nice but somehow terrifying greek person; "Broken! ees broken! A hahahahaha hahahahha hahahahahahaha! A hahahaha!"

And then she'd go into that 'silent rocking with laughter thing'.

Me; "Is there another corkscrew anywhere?"

Terrifying greek lady;"AAAh! Ah ha haha ha hahahahahahahaha ha ha ha! A hahahahahahaha hahahaha hahaha hahaha hahahaha ha ha ha hahahaha hahaha ha. "

And I didn't want to say anything, ask what was funny, punch her or anything, because she seemed to be having such a very good time.
The worst thing was, she only seemed to do it with me, and it started to impact on my other conversations.

Me (to nice person cooking dinner for us); "Wow. That smells really good."

Nice yet Scary Greek woman; "A ha ha ha! Aaaah! A ha ha hahahaha! Ahahahahahaha!"

Person cooking;"Anna, are you taking the piss?"

Me "Nonononono! I don't know why she's laughing! I'm serious, it smells nice."

Greek lady:"A ha ha ha ha! Ahahahahhaha! Ahahahaha! Ahahaha!"

I ended up sitting there, just staring in stunned silence.

I'm beginning to think she was doing it on purpose. If she was, it's a bloody good trick.
I might try it myself. It's a fantastic way to really confuse and disorient someone.
Probably therefore quite good for job interviews.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003 |

Miracle in the west end.

Popped out to the bank, and then to the deli to pick up some anti-nausea snacklets (pretzels and ginger beer) - it sounds like I'm just cataloguing my day here for contents sake, but bear with me, I have a point - with my long cardigan thrown over my 'pootling about at home and feeling sick' clothes, my hair roughly bundled on the back of my head, no make-up, a sickish pale (if not green) tint to my skin, and a small coldsore on my top lip, feeling like dopey poo,
and I got chatted up.
Me.

Now, either I've met the only man in Glasgow with a jones for train wrecks, or I'm not looking as bad as I thought.
Still though, I do feel better.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003 |

I've just been to a vegetarian Burns night supper (4 days early),
Granted, we did have a vegetarian haggis, rather than the traditional 'lips and arseholes rammed into another critters innards', but otherwise it was a pretty traditional Burns thingie.
We had the address to a haggis and everything.

And lots and lots of whisky.
Who's the drunkest person in the room?

(I'm the only person in the room...)

Wednesday, January 22, 2003 |

Tuesday, January 21, 2003

Incidentally, if anyone reading this is also the kind of person who might usually ring me on my mobile, it's kind of broken (cut off) for the next week or so, due to completely unknown reasons (forgot to play the bill again).
So you won't get through.
That was just for information's sake.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |

What are webrings?
Should I?
What's the point?

Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |

right place, right time...

It would seem that the only criteria for being my future boyfriend is your attendance in one particular bar at Glasgow university.
There are, it seems, three fantastic women all on the hunt for my new boyfriend, but their only reference point, and their only hunting ground, is the post-graduate club we all lunch at.

Every man walking through the door or to the bar is victim to their 'good-enough-for-anna?' scale.
"What about that guy?"
"Naw, too short/too hairy/looks like he wouldn't appreciate bad eighties John Hughes movies enough...."
"Him?"
"Bad trousers"

I'm really touched.
Apparently, they do it even when I'm not there, it's like a mission from God or something.
But the worst thing is, when they decide on the perfect guy for me, what am I supposed to do about it?
Go up and tell him?
It's not the spotting of people I have the problem with, it's the next bit.
The scary chatting people up bit.

But still, I like their looking.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |

M.O.R.

Tonight we came sixth in the pub quiz.
Again.
It's always sixth, or fifth, or seventh, out of ten or so teams.
I tell you, I'd rather come last.
There's a certain dignity in being the least knowledgeable person in the room, and there's a certain dignity in being the most. But who wants, really, to be mediocre?

The funny thing is, with a lot of these quizzes, I don't really want to come first. Proudly stating that they're quizzes made by geeks for geeks, I often feel like shouting out after each question; "Who cares, at least I have a life"...

However, next week, we're taking the quiz.
Next fucking week.
I've prepared my questions, well, sort of, anyway. I've got a 'dead or canadian' round, and a 'beers of the world' round, but still.
I feel unprepared.
I want an angel to come down and drop the pub quiz of the Gods into my lap.
I'm asking questions to people who are, y'know, clever and stuff.
How do come out of this not looking like a prick? Or worse, a real-life geek?

Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |

Thank you.

Thank you to all the people that read this thing.
Thank you for commenting even when I've not said much that deserves comment.
Thank you for e-mailing, even though, because I'm depressed and shit at that kind of thing, I seldom reply.
Thank you for coming back.
Thank you for making me feel like someone that has something to say.
Thank you for not minding that I don't say thank you as much as I should.
Thank you.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003 |

Monday, January 20, 2003

It's a propos of nothing, it matters none, but, for interest's sake, what do you call yours?
What's your favourite term for, you know, bits?

I know I've discussed it before, but humour me for this short time and tell me - what are your favourite terms?
For, y'know, your private, thingie, doo-dah, mmm-hm, special, foo-foo, y'know, what-d'y'call'it's.

I don't mean the terms that you think you should like.
I mean the ones that you do.
For example - I use the terms 'twinkle' and 'Y'know', and 'thingie', and 'cunt'
My boyfriend (as was) used to refer to his 'dingle', his 'dangle', his 'friend', his 'pal', the 'dude'...
Well? What's yours?

Monday, January 20, 2003 |

mhm.

Monday, January 20, 2003 |

Sunday, January 19, 2003

In a fabulously creative juncture, some anonymous lovelies have decided to slag me off in verse form in my guestbook.
Quite extensively, in fact.

It's nice that they at least put some effort in.
It's good to see that people who abuse you for having no 'real life' have so much time and energy in theirs to spend composing abusive poetry.

I'm really very touched.
It's very well-structured, and these clever and witty people, whoever they are, they've certainly a flair for poetry (as well as a bad attitude and an enormous grudge, obviously).
I encourage you to read it though, it's very good.

But read it in the next 12 hours.
Because I'm sick of that fucking quest book.

And if anyone wants to give me any grief over any of this, you could at least do yourself the dignity of putting it in an e-mail.
Again, as I've stated before, writing this thing is my choice, reading it is yours.
If you don't think it's any good (and I would agree with you that most of the time you have more than fair point, lot of the time I write shit), then the choice would seem to be an obvious one.
You should just go away the way you came.
Leave the door open on your way out.
Others might come in who might not mind.
They might like it.
If you don't, you might just...

Excuse me.

Sunday, January 19, 2003 |

Thursday, January 16, 2003

Merry Christmas

Because not everyone could be there for christmas christmas, we're celebrating Christmas again this weekend in a little house in a glen.
Me and my family and their others.
huzzah.

I'm going away for the weekend.
Have a nice time.

Thursday, January 16, 2003 |

Forward this to more than 50 people and you will become immortal and have nice shiny hair and your dog will be immortal too.

There are some people that I really like, in fact there are quite a lot of people that I really like, love, in fact, but then there are people that I've considered friends for a long while who I speak to only intermittently, and don't really know if I have much in common with anymore.
It's the second set of people that send me things with the subject heading;
'fwd; fwd; fwd; fwd; this mantra will change your life! Seriously!'

I never read them, usually, just delete them and quietly seethe at these people that I no longer spend time with but who I still want to remain in contact with. I just wish the contact wasn't completely composed of mantras that could possibly change my life.

So this latest one, apart from having the usual horseshit about thinking of random things and random colours and these signifying specific people and what will happen between yourself and them, horseshit, obviously, contained also, the usual - forward this message on to as many people as possible and your luck will improve!

Except, hilariously, in this one, the people/luck ratio was quantified;

SEND THIS E-MAIL MANTRA TO AT LEAST FIVE PERSONS AND LIFE WILL IMPROVE
0-4 persons: Your life will improve slightly
5-9 persons: Your life will improve to your liking
9-14 persons: You will have at least 5 surprises in the next
three weeks
15 or more persons: Your life will improve drastically and all
that you have always dreamed will come true

What if I forward it to 40 or more people? Will flowers sprout out of my head? Will President bush and Mr Blair Spontaeously combust? Y'know, people think you have to do all this work with depression, medication, therapy, all that stuff, but no! They're wrong! All you have to do is forward this e-mail on to more than 15 people and your life's problems will be solved for ever.

Fucking Marvellous.

Y'know I wouldn't even mind if the people that forwarded these things were doing it in an even slightly comedic or satirical way.
But I've a terrible feeling that that just isn't the case.
For fuck's sake.

I'm a bit cross. Can you tell?

Thursday, January 16, 2003 |

Things that rhyme today.
(or yesterday, gosh, look at the time...)

Fringes and windy weather don't go together very well, I spent most of the day wandering around looking like a Cockertoo. Fringes and wet windy weather go together better; it may be plastered to your forehead and dripping rainwater into your eyes, but at least you're not wandering around looking like bad-decision-uber-hairspray-80's-fringe woman.

Hinges. Ever since I came back after being away, my bedroom door has been squeaking horribly, which it didn't before, which was rather indiscreet when I was being pukey. I'm not being pukey anymore, but I could still do with some WD40.
The door could do with some, that is. Not actually me.

Whinges;
1. It's coooold.
2. I've got no money.
3. S'not fair.

Twinges, nostalgic ones.
I keep missing Manchester. Haven't lived there for 3 years and all of a sudden I miss it. So we're taking a day trip in a couple of weeks. That should sort me out for a while.

Oranges. Or more specifically, clementines and satsumas. I love them, they make up more than 80% of my diet and I keep running out, unsurprisingly.

Syringes, the things that will be used when I go for blood tests tomorrow.
I don't mind though. I'm not scared of needles.
Or blood. (Which is a good thing, because I just saw Gangs of New York tonight and there was lots and lots and lots of blood. Everywhere. Fab. The film wasn't that fab, but there was, at least, lots of fighting and blood.)

Minges are another thing that rhyme.

Binges are large influxes of food, drink, or other such things. Now, I'm going away for the weekend with my whole family, and I will be eating and drinking A Lot. But I don't think that this counts as a binge.

Thursday, January 16, 2003 |

Wednesday, January 15, 2003

My lucky knickers worked!
They really are lucky!
I'm going to wear them every day.

Or maybe that will not be lucky.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003 |

Too much information

The presentations start in less than an hour.

I'm wearing my lucky knickers and everything.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003 |

My improper state

So I was wandering through the internet, as you do, and the one journal article that would be useful for my presentation on Judith fucking Sargent fucking Murray
(which is going very well, thank you for asking, I'm slightly confident, but don't want to say too much until it's over. When it's over in approximately 10 hours time. Do I have to sleep?)
was available by subscription and credit card and everything.

It said you could have a 7-day free trial, but you needed a credit card and all, just in case.
Knowing I was only going to sign up, print the essay, and cancel my subscription again, I dug out my credit card (cut into bits several years ago for good reason, never used) because it wouldn't accept the false one I made up the first time.

So I filled in the form, Name, fine good, know that, e-mail, sure, address, sod it, some address in London, I don't need to be on any junkmail lists.
State? I don't have a state. I thought I'd leave that one. 'None selected'
Country? Scroll down the long long list... 'United Kingdom.'

Submitted the form....
The form came back.
'Please complete the fields marked'
State.
I don't have a state. Apart from sober. And Single.
I live in the UK. I said, already. We don't have 'states', certainly not the ones on your list, which are all states of the US.
But that was the only field marked as wrong.

So I picked a state.
Any state.
Tennessee. London, Tennessee; sounds good.

The form came back.
'Please complete the fields marked;

And next to the country I'd picked; the United Kingdom (where I live and are from and stuff), it said, in red 'please pick a proper country'

I tried lots of countries, but the dear little thing, it wouldn't let you have an address without a 'State', and the only country it would allow, although it gave you the pick of many (apart from the UK, I spotted Iraq, Afghanistan, and Belgium) was the United States.
With any other place, you were told;

'Please pick a proper country'

A hahahahahahaha.

So I put in my London address, said it was in Tennessee, in the US, and that was fine.
Oh, the faith I have in these things.

You know, I don't know if I want to live in a 'proper' country.
I'd much rather live somewhere improper.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003 |

Tuesday, January 14, 2003

"Message... deleted. mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

British Telecom offers a free answerphone service, which is all well and good and fine and everything.
There's a woman, who gives you the information; -
'You have... Two... New messages, to listen to your messages, please press... One'
Posh bird, you know the kind of thing.

Anyway.
Every house I've lived on for the last ten years or so (apart from the one in California, she didn't come with us), I've had this posh bint taking my messages, which is nice of her, and I'm very grateful.
But I'm starting to get the impression that she's not contented with her work.

In the last few months I've noticed that the vitriol with with she proclaims message DELETED' is growing, until, of late, she's started to sound a little bit like a mafia don.
("(Your) message, (like lidle mickey mudface, has been) Deleded!")

She says it like it's a challenge;
"(Your) message (has been) Deleted. (What the fuck are you going to do about it? hm? hm?)"
She really is sounding more angry about it than she used to.
I'm sure she is.
Maybe it's just me.

I realise that quite a lot of people aren't going to have a fucking clue what I'm talking about. So I'll shut up now.
I'm supposed to be doing my presentation anyway.

Tuesday, January 14, 2003 |

Another misplaced act of bravura on the part of Pickard minor.

It was an incredible act of overconfidence, bravura, (bullshit), willingness to please, a simple;

'Yes of course I've read all these plays'

that led me into researching one of the least chronicled and performed playwrights in the history of the theatre.
(Judith Sargent Murray)


(That was a brief pause for you to say "Who?")
I wrote about it a couple of weeks ago.

I had another one of those rushes of sounds-like-confidence this evening.
On coming home to find an e-mail asking whether it would be alright to move the presentations on our chosen (ha!) playwrights from late next week to wednesday morning. This wednesday morning. Wednesday morning just coming. 36 hours away wednesday morning.
Would it be alright?
No, of course it wouldn't. Don't be ridiculous.
Having no facts to go on, I'm doing a full analysis of the text and I was kind of counting on this extra week and a bit to feel confident and happy about presenting the play.
Also, I've just had, y'know, things done to my mouth, and talking isn't exactly one of my strongpoints this week.
And also no one knows anything about the play.
And the theatre it was produced in burned down two years after it was put on, so no one knows anything about that either.
And, all these other things aside, it's rubbish.

So, of course, bearing all these important argument in mind, I wrote back.

And I sent an e-mail back saying, and I think these might have been my exact words;

'Wednesday morning? Fine by me.
Did I say fine, I meant perfect. Wednesday morning would seem just the perfect time to do these presesentations.
Did I say perfect? I meant ordained and blessed and most marvellous.
If I was to have picked any time to do these presentations, I would, also, have picked wednesday morning. Well done.
Because I'm so, so, so, so, So ready.
You bet your ass.

Anna Pickard.'

I might have just said it was fine.
I can't remember. It was all a bit of a haze.
Anyway, I've now got two days solid in front of a computer, getting all the information I have on Judith the Obscure (three pages) into some format that will fill half an hour.

Ahahahahahahaha...

Tuesday, January 14, 2003 |

I was just on the phone to a bar manager in Manchester, and in the background, in the bar, I think I may have been able to hear Mr Galligan singing karaoke.
Does this count as a blogmeet?

Tuesday, January 14, 2003 |

My gap is sore.

And that's realy not as rude as it might sound.

Tuesday, January 14, 2003 |

Monday, January 13, 2003

Abcess makes the heart grow fonder

I went to the dentist.
It was an abcess, and he fixed it. He mutilated my mouth, but he fixed the pain.
He was calm, and reassuring, and quick, and quiet.
He made me feel like dentists were good people to have around.
He didn't even mention the fact that I was trembling so hard I was only really 50% in the chair at any one point.

I went to the dentist.
Let that be our last word on the subject.

Monday, January 13, 2003 |

On the fourth day she fell over again because it really really hurted.

Only eleven and a half hours to go 'til my dentist appointment.
I have to keep reminding myself that it's 12.15 I've to be there, and not 2.30 like I keep telling people (because of the old joke? Ah, forget it...)

Still living life in six minute bursts between peaks of pain, so if I start going owowowowowow owow ow ow OW OW OW OW OW fucking OW, OW OWOWOW. OW. ow owowowow ow ow, you'll know what that's about.

I've always hated dentists, ever since that severe woman with long black hair that insisted on giving me all the details of her complicated and rather messy divorce (with stresses and puctuation) while drilling holes in my teeth.
I was 7.

I kept crying.
She called me names.
Ever since then I've been a complete wuss when it comes to teeth, which is a shame, as I inherited my mother's weak enamel (she didn't want it anymore), and dentists and I have been regular playmates ever since.

I say playmates.
Playmates only in the sense that they play, I scream and cry and stuff.
So not really playmates in any sense at all, really.
Sorry.

I didn't realise quite what a scaredycat I was until, while paying the bill, I caught sight of my notes folder at my last surgery, which had the words;

'BE NICE. VERY VERY NERVOUS'

written in red ink all over the front.
I knew they were nice to me.

I thought they just liked me.

Anyway, so I'm going to a new dentist tomorrow.
Not a 'new' dentist as in 'new to dentistry', or at least I fucking hope not.
New as in 'new to me'.
He'll learn.

Am I scared?
Interesting question. Well, I'm bigger and braver than I used to be, and really, as a mature 25-year-old woman, I should really say that ow. owowow. OWowowow ow owow ow. OW OW owowowow ow OW OW OW. ow ow.
ow. OW OW OW Ow Ow Ow Ow.
OW OW OW
OW Ow.
Ow.
ow.

I want my mum.

Monday, January 13, 2003 |

Sunday, January 12, 2003

I demand sympathy. Please.

I now have a temperature, a headache, the sweats, nausea, and still the fucking toothache.
I'm ordering myself to stay in bed, but having to get up for cold compresses, sicking, lots of water and tangerines.
Most of all, I am feeling very, very sorry for myself, and dread to think what will happen if I'm ever afflicted with something worse than a mild infection, toothache and/or flu.
I'll probably explode with self-pity.

Now will somebody, somewhere, somebody else please say 'aw...poor little you' ?
thank you.

Sunday, January 12, 2003 |

Incidentally, in the middle of feeling sorry for myself, I forgot one important thing.
I came home to find a parcel from amazon containing a christmas present from my wishlist.
Thank you mrtn for the book. I will take myself off to bed now and read it, and resume feeling sorry for myself.
But thank you. That was a lovely surprisey thing.

Sunday, January 12, 2003 |

Saturday, January 11, 2003

And the answer to today's experiment is no.

You can't drink alcohol while on Penicillin, because you get a headache and you feel sick.
Or those are the results of one case study, anyway.

Glad to have been of help.

Saturday, January 11, 2003 |

On the third day she rose again

Wow, after two and a half days of wandering around like a zombie, feeling horribly sorry for myself,
and two nights sleeping in four minute bursts between big waves of pain that must have been toothache but convinced me several times that they represented a brain tumour.
And throwing up a lot.
And whimpering. And pressing cold compresses to my own fevered brow, and ... did I mention feeling sorry for myself?... Well, that too.
A lot.

At points I was considering getting a large hammer and knocking most of my own teeth out.
But then, after 40 collective minutes of sleep, I went to the dentist and told him that there was big hurty pain.
Well, told him that after sitting in the most austere waiting room you've ever seen for over an hour in the hope that he would maybe, possibly, turn up, and maybe, possibly agree to see me. I imagine it would be easier to get a meeting with the pope. But then, he wouldn't do anything about your teeth. Unless he fell on you, which he might.

He agreed with me that it sounded like an abcess.
And I've had one of those before.
And I have to go back on monday.
And I'm really not looking forward to it.

But I'm not in pain anymore.
The magic anti-thingies have made me feel alright again, and I can be upright for more than 5 minutes without yakking.

hurrah.
I don't think you can drink on penicillin though can you?

You can't drink alcohol on penicillin, can you?

Saturday, January 11, 2003 |

Friday, January 10, 2003

No. Not well at all. Thank you for asking.
I feel like something flung together at the last minute, something made out of jumble sale cast-offs and things won at fairgrounds.
Whether it's the infection infecting my teeth deciding to go wild and infect everything else while it's there, or whether the antibiotic sent in to kill the infection is killing me instead, I don't know, but no.
No, thank you, I don't feel well.
Not well at all.
No.

Friday, January 10, 2003 |

Thursday, January 09, 2003

Even though the sun is bright, bouncing off the white houses on the other side of the bay
And even though and the water is still, the tide is in, the seagulls are picking at seaweed ten yards from my window
And even though I haven't yet got as much done as I'd hoped
And even though, oh lots of things

I'm going back to the big smelly city today.
See you in a bit.
The next time I speak, I'll have a kitten on my knee.

Thursday, January 09, 2003 |

5'7 f, s, gsoh, wltm sim tdh m... (wtf?)

So I was reading the television guide this week, every inch of it, every paragraph, cover to cover (please don't ask, it's my secret vice and hidden ambition rolled into one...) and even reading the personal ads, which I've only done since a writing teacher suggested it as an interesting source of characters or possible plotlines (really, that is why I read them. It is. Really).

I never actually believed that you could find interesting people in these things.
I mean, I'd heard examples, but never quite believed.
But the more I read this week, the more characters leapt off the page at me.
And they're not even stories that I think I could write right now.

Half of them were short stories in under 25 words.

My favourite today?

Be my muse. Only so many poems can be written about unrequited love.
Break the writing block for non-smoking poet. 50's.
Age/Looks less important than willingness to inspire.

I don't even know where to start with this. Is this a lonely hearts ad or a job description?
Or both?
Age and looks unimportant? Only the willingness to inspire?
But he's looking to fall in love with you, right?
So that he can write poems about that?
And how does he... I mean, how does it... No. I don't get it.

It's the great basis for a story though.
What kind of person is going to answer this?
"Yes, I think I'm extremely inspiring. I'm happy to be around you simply because you want to artificially want to fall in love in order to write poems about it. And don't worry, I don't smoke."

Maybe he has a writing block because he doesn't smoke. Just an idea.
And quite apart from asking who is going to answer this, how is it going to work?
How will they figure out, when they meet, whether he wants to write publishable poems about her or not?
How will the relationship move on from there?
Will he then ask her to dump him when he's written enough poems about love, so he can write some poems about being dumped instead?

And if he's manufacturing this much of the falling-in-loveness could he not just make the whole thing up?
Would that not, perhaps, be easiest?

Do you need to have a muse? I don't have a muse.
Maybe bloggers don't need muses.
What does a muse do? a muse?

'lrb f, 25, 5'7, wltm amusing muse.'

No.
No, it looks too much like mouse.
I don't like mice.

Thursday, January 09, 2003 |

Five things that are not always carried with me in my handbag;

A spatula.

Laxitives.

Fish nets. Not even Dolphin friendly fish nets.

Lipstick.

The inside of a handbag.

I don't have a handbag.

Thursday, January 09, 2003 |

Wednesday, January 08, 2003

I hate early American female dramatists. (I'm pretty sure they don't like me either)
It's not snowing, (although the sun is bright, the sea is calm, and just outside my window, and it's pretty beautiful right enough).

These are not the things that are making me sulky.
It's the toothache.
The toothache is making me sulky.

I've had it for more than three weeks now, all the time I've been up here and before, I currently can't talk for the cloves shoved under my tongue and next to my gums, and I may possibly run out of painkillers.
If I run out of painkillers, I will cry.
It hurts.
I is sulky.

(And yes, I have a dentist appoinment, but not til monday... That I managed to think of for myself...)

Wednesday, January 08, 2003 |

Hang on, have I get this right?
Has everywhere in Britain got snow apart from the Isle of Mull?

Has everyone in this country got snow except me?
Is that the case?
Because if it is, I'm not very bloody happy.
Is that the case?

Is it?
Well?

Wednesday, January 08, 2003 |

Tuesday, January 07, 2003

I've had several conversations recently on the same topic;

What's the right age to stop sleeping with a teddy bear?

Later;
All right, some sort of concensus seems to have been reached.
I'll expand the question.

What's the right age to stop sleeping with;

A teddy bear?

A picture of Morten Harket?

58 stuffed toys and a china doll?

People that you don't actually find very attractive?

A gun?

Your brother?
(I'm kidding. I know this one.
It's when you get married, right?)

A locked diary under your pillow?

Your socks on?

A box of tissues?

People who aren't in love with you?

A pile of work by your pillow and a book in your hand?

Your blankie?

Tuesday, January 07, 2003 |

So, some local, this evening, was trying to sell me cheap vodka.
Not even I would stoop so low
as I would have to, after drinking this stuff.

It's called...
No, I shant say what it's called. It's not the kind of name you associate with Vodka though. Perhaps the kind of name you associate with a Chip Shop, or the defendant of a murder trial, but not high class spirits.
It isn't, in any way what you would describe as a 'High Class Spirit'.

What it describes itself as, in fact, on the bottle cap, is; 'The Exciting Vodka'
No.
'Exciting' is not what I'm looking for in a Vodka.
Exciting, in this context, means the kind of Vodka that upsets your balance, stomach and mental health,
exciting means running to the bathroom every three minutes through the night to see what surprises your vodka has in store for you next...
You know what those surprises those are?

Surprisingly enough, your surprises are printed on the back label of the bottle, in the guise of cocktails.
The first is the
'Turkey Trot',
which sounds more like an accurate description of someone with runny stomach thingies than anything I've heard in a while.

The second is a perfect euphemism for the kind of vomiting you'll be in for if I've ever heard one...
the
'Yokahama Yell'...


Anyway, I've got six bottles at seven pounds each...
Anyone? Anyone?

Tuesday, January 07, 2003 |

Five things I would not put into a time capsule and bury in the earth for people five hundred years in the future to find and judge me by.

1. Super noodles. Or Cup-a-soup, Pot noodles, Kraft dinner or lunch-in-a-pot.
   No powder, dried noodle, shriveled vegetable, just-add-boiling-water foodstuff.
   I don't want to give them ideas.
   If they can't figure out how to create hangover food for themselves, I'm certainly not going to help them.
   
2. The film 'Cross Roads', or whatever it was. The one with Britney Spears. They don't have to know about her. We could keep that one quiet.
   She's washed up anyway. I heard it on the grapevine. The Isle of Mull grapevine, but the grapevine all the same.
   Still, the grapevine says she's lost her Isle of Mull audience... She's definitely washed up now...
   
3. That photo of me my dad took at my graduation.
   Oh, I'm going to bury it somewhere. But not somewhere anyone could ever find it. Ever.
   
4. Oil. Petrol. Coal. Or any other natural resource.
   (I don't want to make them jealous, now...)
   
5. That wall paper you get with chippings embedded in it that's easy to put on and hell on earth to get off. And looks horrible.
   I hate that stuff.
   Anyone with a rational mind would hate that stuff, would they not?
   Therefore, any future and/or rational society would view woodchip as a sure sign of moral and mental decay.
   Wouldn't they?
   They may be our descendants but, but it's best we don't show them the woodchip, right?

I would put in toothache gel though. And Ibuprofen. Those are good things.
They should know we invented those. And liked them.
A lot.

Tuesday, January 07, 2003 |

You know what I hate the most about being depressed?
It's really fucking boring.

Every day the same.
Down down down.
Where's the fun in that?
You'd think that whoever invented this thing would have at least built in some up-side?
No.
Darn.
Just 'dull' then.

You spend so Much time thinking that eventually something's got to give.
And hoping that's not going to be you.
Dull, dull, dull.

Next time around, at least, give me an interesting flaw, if any.

Tuesday, January 07, 2003 |

Monday, January 06, 2003

Ten people I would not invite to a hypothetical dinner party, part two;
Ten fictional people I would not invite to a hypothetical dinner party.

Not even if I had a big enough table, could cook, and they existed at all.

1. Jessica Fletcher from 'Murder she wrote' (People die when she comes to your house. That's not a good party trick.)
2. James Bond (People blow up when he comes to your house. That's a pretty good party trick, but he still ain't coming).
3. Hamlet (dour)
4. Frankenstein's Monster (Monster)
5. Disney's version of Tigger (bouncybouncybouncybouncy. Really fucking annoying. I don't want to end up punching a cartoon tigger. This is supposed to be a dinner party)
6. Bridget Jones (See Tigger. Plus, whiny)
7. Jesus Christ (Just covering all my bases, since I put him in the historicals list. Don't want to offend any atheists... Also, beard)
8. Dr Jeckyll/Mr Hyde (Split personalities fuck up seating plans. Also, murderer)
9. Forrest Gump (Or, in fact, any character portrayed by Mr Hanks)
10. Flipper (limited conversationalist. Also, removal from water would lead to his death by the middle of the pre-dinner cocktail. Dead Dolphin a general dinner-party-downer. Particularly when you're serving tuna.)

Monday, January 06, 2003 |

Sunday, January 05, 2003

The pooter's gone all weird.
Hate that.
I miss Marvin.

Sunday, January 05, 2003 |

If you could not take five things to a desert island with you, which five things would you not take?

1. A Sandbox.
2. Laxatives
3. A fish slice.
4. Electrical Extension Cable.
5. A waste paper basket.

Sunday, January 05, 2003 |

Twelve people from history that I would not invite to a hypothetical dinner party

Ever. Even if I did have a big enough table.
(And could raise the dead)

1. Oliver Cromwell (No fun)
2. Oscar Wilde (Too much fun. No one else would get a word in. Not even me. And It's my bloody party)
3. Florence Nightingale (do-gooder)
4. Rasputin (Evil. Also, beard.)
5. Jesus (No socks. I'm not too fussy about the hypothetical dresscode, but I will insist on hypothetical shoes.)
6. Anton Checkov (Coughs on food, consumptive, beard.)
7. Ghandi (Nice guy, but makes everyone feel bad about taking second helpings)
8. Tom Hanks
9. Leonardo di Vinci (I don't speak any Italian. He only speaks Italian.)
10. Marquis de Sade (Not at the dinner table, thank you.)
11. Jack the Ripper (Murderer, probably quite shouty also. Possible beard.)
12. Lawrence of Arabia(Sandy. Smells of Camel Sweat. No beard, but looks as though he may be thinking of growing one.)

Sunday, January 05, 2003 |