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I'm currently working on a new survey, it should be ready some point soon. But I won't tell you what it's about - that's a secret!

But it is as pointless as the last.

Byee!

 
This was written on... Monday, so a little while ago.

Which came first? The blonde joke or the Essex girl joke? Unlike with chickens and eggs, I can't argue bacteria, because neither are counted as an intelligent species.

I ponder.

As I'm sure I've ranted before, I live in Romford. Adandoned by Essex County in 1964 and grudgingly adopted by City of London, Romford is the armpit of the south east. No one wants it, but no amount of laser surgery can get rid of the nasty growths that keep springing up here. I don't like this town. I don't like a lot of the people and I don't like their nasty spoilt children that they had when they were in their mid-teens. Essex girl jokes could be localised to Romford girl jokes, because they would be even more accurate.

But which came first? Most Essex girl jokes, I think, can apply to blondes, except perhaps the top-lip jokes.

What's the difference between an Essex Girl and Lionel Ritchie?
- Lionel Ritchie doesn't bleach his moustache.

Very true: I know people who bleach their top lips. But taking a quick squint at the Essex and blonde jokes I have, blonde jokes seem to be more about being stupid and an easy shag, but Essex girl jokes are more about NOT shagging:

What's the difference between an Essex Girl's fanny and a tube of glue?
- You might consider sniffing a tube of glue.

And for any Americans, fanny has a different meaning in this country.

But there are still the common local bike jokes from both:

What's the difference between an Essex Girl and The Titanic?
- Fewer people went down on the Titanic.

What do blondes do in the morning?
- Get up and go home.

Every year around mating season there is a rush for peroxide and in the following weeks the perry population at school increases 10-fold, meaning that the jokes can be doubled up. Having a perry blonde Essex girl increases the potential for amusement by us unpopular brunettes for each new one that walks into assembly in the morning.

Also, Essex girl jokes concentrate more on getting STD's, which isn't surprising because Romford has more clap than Friday Night at the London Palladium. For example:

What's the similarity between an Essex Girl and a carpenter?
- They both have a box of saws.

What's the difference between an Essex Girl and a fish and chip shop?
- You can't get crabs in a fish and chip shop.

What do you give an Essex Girl before you start going out with her?
- A full medical.

... While there are blonde jokes to do with Porsches that just wouldn't work as Essex girl jokes.

Why did the blonde try and steal a police car?
- She saw "911" on the back and thought it was a Porsche.

I don't think that's even right. Ah well.

The problem with Essex girl stupidity jokes is that last year something like 3 of the top 10 senior schools in the country were all girls schools in Essex, and jokes to the effect are not as good. But it seems to be easier to be blonde and stupid - you can't (and just WOULDN'T) become an Essex girl, but many people become blondes, which seems to boost the quota of thicko blondes. You're doing it to yourselves! For this reason, blonde stupidity jokes are more potent, often coupled with a sexual reference, and therefore perfectly formed blonde jokes.

Why did the blonde stop using the pill?
- Because it kept falling out.

Did you hear about the blonde skydiver?
- She missed the Earth!

Did you hear about the blonde who tried to blow up her husband's car?
- She burned her lips on the tailpipe.

It's pretty obvious that Essex girl jokes are English and blonde jokes American, and are thankfully pretty versatile. They both work over here because we have both, with a horrible hybrid spreading. In America, though, they have so far escaped the reach of the East Saxon county, even though in Europe I think it must be second only to Amsterdam, if you know what I mean.

 
Sorry, long one with loads of spelling mistakes. If you find any, tell me. If you know what it was that Simon Rattle actually said, also tell me.

And now it stops.

Mocks are over.

School has finished for Christmas.

I don't have to revise.

I am calm.

I thought I'd better update this as I haven't for a while, so here I am. Just got back from seeing Lord of the Rings, and it was pretty good, but I don't remember much of it. I was conscious for most of it, but I just can't remember. Is that saying something about me, or the film?

Anyways, I thought I might mention something I heard Sir Simon Rattle say in an interview. He is a sir, isn't he? He was talking about arts funding in this country, saying that Munich spends more on the arts than the whole of Britain. Then he said about how there were orchestras in the concentration camps, and to roughly quote him, "Does it take something so beautiful as the arts to make us see something so awful?"

I love the arts. I can't sing, I can't dance, I can hardly play my viola, I couldn't act my way out of a paper bag and my drawing wouldn't even qualify as bad graffiti. I don't even try to write poetry because I feel it would be greatly insulting to those who can, and I'm not to be trusted with a camera. Mind you, that's only because I take pictures of people when they're asleep to annoy and bribe them. Fun fun fun! But I do try, and I usually have something vaguely intelligent or educated to say about art, and even when it is crap I like to be able to say why I think that.

Does it take something like art to make us see the horrors in this world? Television can count as involved in the arts, and the most horrifying images of 2001 were broadcast live across the world on the 11th September. But that was breaking news that had to be covered, and was seen by journalists who had flocked there in the wake of the disaster.

A more potent example is First World War poetry. There are two main types: the poems written before the soldiers arrived ('Remember that corner called England' or however it went), which are very patriotic and king-and-country, and the ones written by soldiers in the trenches - Seigfried Sassoon, need I say more? These wonderfully constructed poems tell of the absolute horror and suffering of conscripts in muddy ditches in France. The line that I think has touched me most in all the war poetry I have read was one by Rudyard Kipling. His son wore glasses and of course, failed the eye test. Being a famous writer, he pulled some strings and got him signed up. Not long after, his son was killed. "If they should ask why they died,/ Tell them, because their fathers lied."

I don't know any music that tells of something horrible or terrifying, but it must exist. I know there's an enormous painting in a Paris gallery that depicts a shipwreck, we studied it in year 9. I think it starts with a 'G', and it is basically a painting of a shipwrecked crew floating near-hopelessly on a raft or piece of wood, and the horror and pain in their eyes... you can see the hopelessness of these men as they cling to their dying crewmates, and stare longingly at the meat on the dead ones. It is based on a real wreck, and only about 14 people survived.

Nasty.

I don't know if it is art that makes us see these things when we otherwise wouldn't, or if it's because it is accessible enough for a wider audience to see, but it does bring thing to the world more than numbers and statistics ever could. With many things I doubt we will ever see the true horror in them if we weren't there, but maybe art makes us appreciate it more than we otherwise might.

 
And I'm sure you'll all be thrilled to hear I just got my advent calendar! Only a few days late. It's the Tweenies!

 
This was written on Wednesday, by the way.

Mmm, listening to Loudon Wainwright III, it'll be Rufus next. I love that man.

Anyway! Sorry I haven't updated this one or Thing for a few days... a few weeks, it's been revision revision revision. Mocks - need I say more?

Eek I SO haven't done enough revision, but you need to have been taught the stuff first right? Well, on the maths paper today, I'm pretty sure I've never seen a good 20% of it before, or I have and glossed over it because it wasn't on the revision list which, may I add, we were only given last week.

I'm going to keep this one short and clip it, with only a few more bits.

1. Superbus - they rock. Listen, misunderstand, and enjoy. And don't complain that they're French. No one ever complained that Rammstein are German.
2. The meanings within meanings of Hallelujah. Consider this and bring your observations to class next week.
3. I should be revising now. I have the music exam tomorrow, and after fluffing stats and IT, I think I'm going to actually revise or else lose the last ounce of credibility I have at orchestra.
4. Never, ever, EVER agree to do three Christmas concerts in 5 days. Last night was the last one, after doing school last Thursday and Magda's on Saturday. I'm still feeling pooped.
5. I might join a travelling freak show with my 3-D skin text. I wowed people at the concert last night by being allergic to myself. I knew I was weird all along, but now I have people who have seen. But I could have used a better word: I wrote 'Hel'. Should have done 'Blob' or 'Raa' or something.
6. And finally, my right hand went dark purple today in the maths exam because the heating was too low and my blood couldn't circulate properly. Have they never heard of warmth? I know they're all machines and stuff, but come on!

 
Written on Tuesday. Damn this machine!

OK, I've had enough. I felt SHITE on Sunday, I felt BOLLOCKS yesterday and I feel PANTS today. It's the usual so I knew it was coming, but does it have to be so rubbish?

Sunday was that thing with the London Mozart Players, and I was hoping I wouldn't have to sit next to one of these god-like creatures seeing as I can't really play either of the pieces. But I had to, because of the way we had set ourselves out. The day was really good, it was a good experience to be playing alongside them (yada yada yada), and it would have been better if I had not been ill.

I felt fine when we were on the bus. I felt fine when we got there. I even felt fine when I was hopelessly trying to play the Glinka. But about an hour into the first part of the rehearsal, something turned in my stomach and that familiar affliction... afflicted me. My right arm (my bowing arm - rather important) began to quiver and my mouth was slowly filling with saliva. Not as much as when it's full force attack sick mode, but enough to make me feel pretty crap. We had a short break not long after, and I cautiously drank a cup of mineral water.

Feeling like a rabid, wet rag, I sat on the floor where I was. Because only Helen was taking me seriously, I had a plastic cup put on my head by an unknown contributer. Standing up slowly, I dry-heaved* once, I dry-heaved twice, we ran to the girls'.

Our cunning plan failed. We ran into the blokes', and laughing at our mistake sent the bile back down my throat.

We went back in, and my arm was shaking again, making it even harder to play the fast bits. Cutting to lunch, I was feeling better and was able to eat my food, but I avoided offers of jaffa cakes. We went, I began to get a headache and increasingly tired, and by the second break I was tired enough to have a fleeting sleep on the most uncomfortable plastic chairs known to man. This would all have been fine had I been able to take one of my pills, but those things take precision timing. I couldn't take one because it would have made me sicker - that was just the warm-up.

This is basically a self-centred 'pity me' story, but you would want pity too if you got this regular as over-efficient clockwork. It continues:

Yesterday, Monday, I was prepared. I knew it was coming. The warning signs were there: the spit, the general feeling of mankness, the lot. I popped a pill at break, then proceeded to dry-heave for most of the middle lesson. I felt pretty damned awful today as well, but that was reduced by the fact that it was teacher strike and we didn't really do anything.

Harumph. Why do I have to feel so sick? What did I do?

But on Sunday, in response to a query of what was wrong with me, Helen told someone that I 'got it every month'. I was avoided for the rest of the day. I feel empowered!

*Dry-heaved as in my throat prepared itself to be sick and tried to cough up on me, I wasn't actually throwing up.

 
Yes, it's true. I thought it would never happen, but it has this last week. I am totally, utterly, completely addicted to Super Noodles. I'm currently eating beef flavour, and they're lovely.

Sometimes I walk from my school to the bus stop at Halfords, which takes about 25 minutes at my Friday afternoon speed. The route I walk takes me past a few office buildings, the kind with the shrubbery (Nih!) at the side, and it is this clump of bushes that my post concerns.

Today, walking slowly under the train bridge and approaching the start of the bushes, I peered ahead to see if there was anything interesting there. To my disappointment there was only a shredded porn magazine and a 'Men at Work' sign. On another occasion I was walking past and spied a microwave, there has been a shop sign (as in from above the shop) that I think was Londis, and a selection of T-shirts.

But the most worrying was when I walked by and a black lacy bra was strewn negligently across a privet. What do they get up to at these offices? I think it's a JP Morgan office at the moment, I thought they did credit cards!

So yeah, only a little one today. Compared to my usual, at least. Too tired. Night night.

 
Today I feel like talking at you about homophobia. As I see it, there is about as much wrong with being gay as there is being straight, ie nothing. And I find it highly hypocritical of people to say homosexuality goes against God, because there are a lot more homosexual priests than the Catholic Church is ready to admit.

I myself am not gay. I have never been the subject of homphobic abuse, and I have never administered any. But I know people who are gay, who are bisexual and who enjoy wearing high heels, even when the assistants in Linzi give him funny looks.

I was thinking about this this morning when I was getting up, so only about an hour and a half ago actually. It seems unnatural to me that anyone should be attracted to anyone, when you think about it.

In the days of pre-evolution yore, back in the days when we were hunter-gathering and living in tribes, there was no marriage and no awful love songs. In those days, and this kind of thing can still be seen among other animals, it was a case of shag and go. The father never stayed around to watch his little bundles of joy grow up. What I'm basically getting at is, it's strange enough for man and woman to be attracted to each other and want a relationship, so how is it any stranger for man and man or woman and woman?

I don't really care about in holes and out holes, it makes little difference to me. No one has the right to tell someone else that their sexuality is the wrong one, they should spend more time doing important things.

Harumph.

I have new stomping boots, they're great!

 
The previous post was muffed, that's why it's taken so long to appear.

It may not be soap suds, but I feel like plugging Catch 22's song 12341234. I haven't heard much of their other stuff, but man, I could listen to this all day... I did when I was ill. It's that good! But if you aren't a fast-paced ska-punking kind of person, never mind.

That does say punking, not puking. OK?

Anyway! What to say, what to say... Just watched the last 'Model Behaviour', I can't believe Nathan won?! No! He's a moose! But at least Camilla won for the girls, we like her.

But I write to you today (all 6 of you) about scrimping. Let's face it, no one likes our year at school. This is despite us being much nicer than the year below us and far less pregnant than the one that preceded us. But no, they don't like us. I'm mainly peeving over music colours. The year below us got them, and they are also getting more prizes tonight. See, we didn't have a prize giving thing last year, and that is what is happening tonight. But it is not only our year, it is all years, even though they had their own. And why now? These are year 10 prizes, and we kissed year 10 goodbye in July. Me no understand.

OK, I'm making no sense to you. The school likes to be traditional. Maybe that should be with capitals... The School. Like The Law, or The Way, or The Voice of God. They sometimes hold themselves in importances like that, it's all institutional big-headedness. But every July in the last week of term, we have prize giving. This is a painful ceremony that involves many a book voucher and numerous sweaty handshakes. There are prizes like 'Attainment', 'Progress' and 'Form Prize'. One is awarded to one person in every form. There are also 'Attendance' and 'Sports Colour' prizes, and last year they introduced a 'Music Colour' prize. Only problem was, last year there were prize givings for years 7, 8 and 9. Year 10? "Who?" I hear you strain? Indeed!

What is occuring tonight is 'Speech Night', and is apparently "the most important night in the school calender", a quote from the horse's mouth, so to speak (they must have a really boring social life). It is usually a day for last year's leavers to come back and collect their certificates, get special prizes and generally have GCSE or A-level closure. That is all happening tonight, along with a handful of other prizes. They are, tonight, giving out a grand total of approximately 15 prizes to us former year 10's. What happened to one in each form? No one knows. There is a single attainment prize, a single service to the school prize and a single music prize. There are numerous attendance prizes as well, which makes up the sum.

Have you seen any of these prizes?

10F Progress 10F Form Prize
10B Attainment 10B Form Prize
10B Progress 10E Attainment
10E Progress 10E From Prize
10L Attainment 10L Progress
10O From Prize 10O Attainment
10O Progress 10R From Prize
10R Attainment 10R Progress
10S From Prize 10S Attainment
10S Progress 10W From Prize
10W Attainment 10W Progress

If sighted, please tell the deserving souls.

But what I'm really picking at is the music colour thing. I've been the entire viola section for quite a while, and I didn't do it for bloody nothing. It just really annoys me. Saying this now, we are bound to be told at some point that we are getting them actually. But let me do a quick sum for you, to show why I think I deserve a music colour, and not only to stop the twitch. I'll count this year as well, I'm not going anywhere.

2 years lower school orchestra + 5 years upper school orchestra + 5 years string ensemble + 2 years junior choir = 14 years of guts slogged for the music departement.

I'm only 15. Facky hell, I didn't go to all those practises just for a pat on the back. Music is one of the things that I feel real doing, because I'm not brilliant at it and I can apply myself and I get the real satisfaction from getting something right and doing something reasonably well that I don't get in many other subjects. I was so pleased when I got my grade 5 because I really had tried hard and I did a lot better than I thought I would.

The few people who are getting prizes really do deserve them, anyone who disputes it will have numerous fists to answer to, mine among them. But this is just another thing that frusrates me. I'm so bored in some lessons, it's silly. I'm slowly beginning to fidget and play up in small ways, especially in maths lessons. I'm sitting there, bored witless considering matters of philosophy. For crying out loud! I found the tree outside so much more interesting today, and I was gazing out the window for most of the lesson. I'm letting time slip because I'm so fed up of it all. This is why I want out. I don't think they really believe me when I say I'm going somewhere else, so many say it without going. But I really need to get away. Thank God it's Friday.

And by the way, 'facky' is my word. Don't steal.

 
Recently, we were discussing various conspiracy theories. Did man really land on the moon? Martian devoutly believes not, I don't know. Who really killed Kennedy? And who's been killing them all since? Then we got onto some even less serious ones. One involved the Pope, but that was just weird. Another involved the Sunny Delight and why they have to test it on animals, and if there are any orange cats wandering the cells of an RSPCA home somewhere. I really don't like Sunny D, in case you hadn't noticed. And then I thought of something that had been bothering me for a while now...

Last night, as I made some strawberry milkshake for my brother, as I often do, I pondered its pinkness. I was stirring it, and I was stirring it, and I was scraping the glaze from the bottom of the mug trying to make this milk pink. It would not go! I sprinkled a bit more in, and it affected an off-white colour. Wondering if there was something wrong with it, I sipped it and could definitely taste the strawberry flavour. But where was the colour?

It has been gradually decreasing over the past few years, a phenomena uncommonly known as...

The Nesquick Conspiracy

Over the past eight years I have noticed that it takes more and more milkshake powder to make the milk pink. It used to be one spoonful and it was a soft pastel shade. Then that gradually developed into one and a half. That has now grown to two plus VAT and you're somewhere close to a colour. They have been gradually reducing the amount of food dye over the years, meaning you put more in to satisfy little Jimmy's want of coloured milk, making you run out faster and spend more money on buying more packets.

This also brings up to the surface some home truths about little Jimmy, if he likes the colour pink that much...

But his teeth! The more powder, the more sugar, the less teeth. Not good when little Jimmy wants to wow all the boys with his perfect smile. Tonight, when I make Nick's milkshake, I'm putting pink food colouring in it. Nick doesn't mind that it isn't pink, but it isn't fair to constantly give him poorly coloured milk.

So next time you make strawberry milkshake, just bare in mind how much powder you're putting into that mug. But the same isn't true for chocolate milkshake, the struggle there is in getting the damned stuff to dissolve...

 
Today's topic of conversation is respect. R E S P E C T work out what it means to me, sock it to me baby yeah and so on.

Aretha Franklin had it sussed, but what I'm talking about is that respect that our 'elders' expect to be there automatically just because they are older than us.

Stuff that! I was always taught that respect is something to be earned through actions, words and the way we treat people. And mutual respect, whereby both parties respect each other because they have earned it. This leads to happiness and feeling generally alright.

I moan about this because today, as I stood in the line to get on the bus with Helen I was abruptly pushed aside as two old ladies climbed on in front of me but behind Helen. I had stood back to let them on but they still pushed through like they were determined to get on before me. However, they let Helen on without any problem.

So what's wrong with this picture? This: I was in school uniform, Helen was not. But consider. Helen was clutching her school bag, as was I. Helen is still in full time education, as am I. Helen does not wear uniform, but I do. I guess this is also about prejudice - they pushed past me like I was scum, yet let a non-uniform wearing pupil go without any fuss.

Our school tries to be traditional and prim, and they do this with rules like 'standing up at the start of assembly', 'standing up when a teacher enters the room' and 'standing up when a teacher leaves the room'. This is supposedly in the name of respect... balls! It seems a bit of a power trip to me. But that doesn't mean we disrespect all our teachers. For example, we had this excellent maths teacher for three years running. She taught us well, gave us practical examples and explained things on our level. When she said 'shut up', we shut up. When she said 'do this', we did it. It was mutual respect. If we said 'give us an example', she gave us an example, if we said 'we don't understand', she would make us understand even if it meant her lesson plan went out the window. It was great! Mathematical bliss preveiled and we all did well in our year 9 SATS.

Then we got a new teacher who expected us to automatically respect him and be good. I'm sure you can guess how that turned out. We are still in a bitter struggle with him to be taught properly. No one bats an eyelid when he screams for silence, because none of us respect him. Respect should be earned, it cannot be dealt out like school dinners.

Which brings me back to those two little old ladies. They were there first and I was happy to let them on, but they did not seem happy that I was waiting to get on the bus. I've never seen either of them before, yet they thought I should respect them as they disrespected me while they had no problem with my sister. When we were safely up the stairs, I pointed it out and Helen said she had seen it. She said she had pushed in front of them to get back at all the times that she was metorphorically spat at by nasty old ladies, and I don't know if I can condemn that. But, as someone once said, the young do know everything, the old just won't admit it.

I want to end on a light note... I can think of one thing that's had me smiling since Friday, maybe I'll save that right to the end because it isn't topical or anything. Hmmmm...

Nope, nothing.

And finally, following on from my mad use of capitalisation last week, HE LIKES ME! HE LIKES ME HE LIKES ME HE LIKES ME! Might see him briefly on Friday, I don't know because it all depends on many factors. But I've been boring various people with my starry-eyed happy thoughts since Friday. Maybe next time I'll tell you about the gig, that was really good too... apart from all the sweat. Tatty b-b for now!

 
This was written on Wednesday but something went wrong :s

Hmmm well that was the day that was.

I was supposed to meet people today, but that all went wrong and I ended up wandering the windy streets of Romford. We got to the new hall, the spiritualist church hall, and the lady wasn't there to open the doors for us. And then it started to rain.

I know I don't usually take things like spiritualism very seriously and stuff, but they couldn't have made that place spookier! It's a gorgeous hall, don't get me wrong, but sheesh! The blokes' loos spontaniously flushed, the floorboards creeked like coffin boards and shadowy figures kept passing the windows.

Auntie Charlotte, can you hear me?

I'll take that as a no. But I have finally realised that I'm head-over-heels, arse-over-tit, inside out and totally nuts over someone. He's so cute! But he's a fagend. But be my fagend!

If you are American and don't know what the English general use for the word fag is, I mean cigarette. He smokes basically, but I think I can get over that. And on the unlikely chance that he finds his way here to this site (seriously doubtful but I can try), I LIKE YOU! LOTS! But Limp Bizkit still suck. They would suck less if they got rid of Fred Durst perhaps, or they were less commercial and didn't release cop-out remix albums. That is a cop out. I was actually going to listen anyway, but the headphone got whipped away from me. BUT YOU'RE SO LOVELY! LET ME KNOW YOU! I REALLY LIKE YOU!

Yes, I have just made an immense fool out of myself.

 
This is just a quick note about the following blog: I went out on Saturday, that's when I played the box game and stuff, and I would tell you about it were there not 5 different alibi versions of what happened going around. Tatty byebyes!

 
It's Tuesday, it's raining and it's cold. But I'm in my lovely warm house so I'm sorted!

I just scanned the bag!! I'll put it on now if I can figure out how... Well I know how but I have to get it uploaded first, and I'd have to put it on Helen's site. And Helen is out.

But it's like a deluge out there! I'm waiting for my budgie to be called up for ark duty, it's that bad. Either that or God's wrath has already been extracted against us and we're all going to drown over the next 38 days.

I'm not sure what I'm going to write today, all I've been pondering is how many ways there are to make £1. There's something like 297 ways to make $1, but they have quarters and we have 2 penny pieces. Don't tell me! I'm going to figure it out myself.

But let me tell you the rules of the box game (see Thing of the Day for Saturday 19th October 2002). It is very simple, but can be quite painful if you are not properly warmed up, as I found out. You need an empty cardboard box (preferably a light one), and numerous strange pople with nothing better to do.

There is only one rule to this game: when picking up the box with your teeth, you cannot touch anything other than your feet on the ground. That means no hands, no fingers, no knees, no bums and no noses.

It was my first time playing this game, and I won! You have to pick up the box as described above, and each round you tear about an inch or two off the top of the box, making it smaller and smaller. It got down to an inch and a half above the ground, and Anne couldn't pick it up whereas I could. I picked it up, nearly in the box splits, and promptly fell flat on my arse squealing quietly in pain.

I may never have children!

And it finally dawned on me that I'm interested in meteorology. Food for thought.

 
This one has been a week of technological turbulance. This is being posted at the same time as one a week old.

Plus my site has muffed, very annoying when I'm trying to keep it updated with my wafflings. So many thoughts that I cannot bore you with!

Eeesh, where to begin? I'll tell you that... I went to the St Edward's open evening the other night, and they were so nice! Laura, Jemma and me are going to apply.

So. This week I have mostly been pondering... how we ourselves prove the existance of aliens. The fact that humanity itself exists must tell us something about the universe. That something can actually have life and purpose on an unwelcoming planet (it's cold season here in England, it doesn't usually warm up until May) surely shows that it can happen on any planet where the right gases for a lifeform are found?

I was thinking this in physics today, kinetic energy was doing my head in. That and all the pills I had to take today to a) stop myself from throwing up, b) stop myself from swelling up and going orange and c) make me able to stand up straight despite my uterus trying to eject itself from my reproductive system. But simply the fact that we exist must mean that somewhere out there (no tails of the american or any other kind) other life must exist. They've found organisms at the bottom of dark, murky pits where no light reaches them and all they have for company is slime - sounds a bit like the outside labs - but the point is that they are alive. Primitive, but alive. I don't know if there is intelligent life out there, it stands to my reasoning that there must be, but the point is that there must be something out there. This cannot be it, there must be more.

I take a similar approach to religion. I'm not a religious person. I used to be, but it kind of fizzled out. Basically, there must be more than this. There are people, there are intelligent people, there are 'dumb' animals, there are single-celled things that cannot communicate. But we are not intelligent enough for this world, there must be something greater than this. When I used to make up stories to send Rosie to sleep I would tell her about great gods that knew all and had greater minds than it is possible to imagine. Am I far wrong? I guess we don't find out until we follow the white light.

The tunnel leading to my bright white light would probably have a sign telling me that there were diversions in place and I would have to take the back route, that's the way it usually works for me.

Anyone for waffles?

 
This was last Friday, my computer is dead again.

I feel fulfilled: today I bought 2 packs of candy sticks.

But anyway. This week I've been thinking more about what I want to do yada yada yada. Should I stay or should I go? If I stay, will there be trouble? I'll stop while I'm ahead.

So this week I had my interview with the almighty Mrs. Philips. I went in, I sat down, she said that she would be 'very disappointed' if I left them for another 6th form. Should I be scared by this? Well, I'm not. But I do have reasons for wanting to go.

I have this... thing I guess you would call it. I wake up one morning, knowing that I cannot go on doing something. I woke up once in year 6 and knew I couldn't keep doing their god-awful tests, but because I had to keep on, I went slowly mad. I often do this much less seriously with breakfast cereals, I will wake up unable to eat it that morning. It isn't so much a forbidding feeling as a sense of impending doom; and that is the feeling I'm getting at FB.

The way I described it to Helen was as if I was stuck in a rutt 6' deep, 6' long and about 3' wide with someone standing over me proclaiming "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" throwing soil at me. I need out. Soon.

It is not that I have no friends there, I have loads of friends. After the recent watershed I feel much more comfortable with them, talking about things I knew that the others could never understand. I do not want to lose these friends, but I trapped in a box by what is expected of me from the others around me.

They say that we will have a 'clean slate' if we stay on, but that is in inverted commas not because it is a quote but because I don't quite believe it. Background briefing (and I mean brief): Jenn wanted to drop chemistry, the powers that be said no. She got annoyed, then annoyed the lot of them by being right. Helen's slate was clean except for 'Jennifer' half scratched out in the top corner. There is no clean slate when people have expectations of you. Even now I am expected to do things and do them well. I am expected to do all this without getting stressed.

Screw that.

But why I feel I really need to get out? That newspaper thing. They stuck me in that newspaper to (and I quote from my planner), "publicly acknowledge [my] achievements with pride." I have no recollecion of being asked if this was all right with me, and it most certainly wasn't. I didn't want to be in that newspaper. I have to get out before I start hating them like I hate Crownfields.

I want to please my parents. I need to please my parents. It is almost my duty, and I love them so much. They have to be happy or I feel I have failed. My mum was so proud when I was in the paper that I almost didn't care how much I resented them for doing it. She bought about 10 copies and sent cut-outs to relatives. My dad has a folded-up copy in his wallet that he shows his friends from time to time.

But this is not what I really want. What I want... is not this. I haven't the foggiest what I want, and I will only know I have made the wrong choice after it has been made. I will never know if I made the right choice, there probably isn't one. I just do not want to stay on.

I do want to take English Language, however, but at this rate I will be kicked off the course: I've started about 5 sentences with conjunctions. Not a crime, but still vaguely criminal!

 
This was written last Thursday, by the way.

So, the day approaches. But I'm not going to talk about that.

Oh, no.

I did have a thing to talk about, but I can't remember it now... something deep and meaningful I'm sure, I'll figure it out soon enough...

Whatifs. What if we hadn't done this, what if we had etc. We had our fist lecture on why we should stay on at FB 6th form today, the first of many methinks, and it set me thinking (oh, no!) about crappy decisions in life.

I hate desicions. Passionately. If it can be left alone, it will be. That's probbly why I came to this school in the first place: because it was predecided. It was virtually my destiny by the time I started in year 7. I had more back-up appeals than a disgraced politician if I didn't get in, but I did so there was no problem. But what if? What would I be like if I had gone to Coopers like everyone at school thought I should? Would I have fit the stereotype to a tee?

Background check: Coopers is a comprehensive that so wants to be a grammar school, but they just aren't. They used to have tests to get in and they would ask questions they weren't really supposed to in the interviews. This was only stopped a few years ago so the people taking their GCSE's this year are still in that super-intelligent clique. A lot of people that go to Coopers have an overly self-confident air about them. Not all, I've met plenty of Coopers people and they didn't all have their heads jammed up their backsides, but a significant number did. And continue to. I don't know what makes them this way, but it's how some turn out. I refused to go there because that was not who I wanted to be. The system would have loved me to, but we all know what I think of the system. Or haven't I moaned about that yet?

So I didn't go there. I never even went to the open evening to reaffirm my non-want. But it is not Coopers that I want to talk about.

At school we have finally realised a situation that we would never have dreamt of a few years ago. We have finally parted company. The group has now become about 2 and a half groups due to one argument after another basically (i's not that simple really, but when is it?).

I don't blame anyone, I think it was bound to happen and it all began falling apart not long after it came into existance. But there was a catalyst I think, someone new that made everyone reassess who they were.

I have a feeling that for legal reasons I ought to make up names, but if any of my friends ever find their way to this site then they should know who I'm referring to. There will be nothing inflamatory on here, because that is the sole function of bitching and there is time enough for that in real life. This is not real life, this is electricity.

To cut to the chase, for 3 years we had sat in our slowly expanding group, gathering friends and being generally happy. Then, not long into year 10, 'Judy' came along. Not much of a stretch really, but I can't be sued! Judy was totally different from everyone. She preached a different religion, she knew another world. She virtually spoke her another language to ears eager to hear. Some of the stuff she said I disapproved of but then I am a boring old fart. The point is, she was a breath of fresh air.

I was not her, we were too different and I knew she would never drastically alter what I did. But that is just me, a stubborn killjoy. Others needed this, they needed this release from the rigours of the group. They became interested in different things, different people and different places. Slowly at first, the cracks began to appear. These were barely cracks, perhaps fractures at most. But they were enough, and slowly but surely spread outwards.

Blah blah blah, the group split, her in one faction and me in the other. It's not like we all hate each other passionately, we still talk to them and they still talk to us, but it has kind of become a 'them and us' situation. But my fundamental question about this is this:

Would this have happend anyway if Judy had never come?

After much pondering and an English lesson not doing much, I have decided that it probably would have. I could give you the 'substance reason', but that is long and boring and would probably cause someone to keel over and die of heart failure. But I think that maybe we were all too different to begin with, we were too blinded by youth to see it. No one wants to be a loner, perhaps this is what we were afraid of. I would have sided with the neutral, middlest group in this situation, but this is what I always do, and after recently reassessing my priorities, I decided I didn't want to do this. Why should I ignore most of my friends because a few people can't get on with each other? So screw that, this time I went where I wanted to go, not where logic said I ought to. I can barely relate to some of the people in the group now, but I don't think I'm bothered. I'm happy, I'm liked, I'm considered and I'm doing what I like to do with people who enjoy it as well. Is that so wrong? Am I anywhere near my original point? I think 'no' is the answer to both of those.

 
Argh! Shite week at school! But enough about that later, I have meaningful things to bore you with!

So this week at school I heard someone say that the day she got married would be the saddest day of her life. There is background to this comment but it's not that that I want to talk about. It is why we do these things to ourselves when we know they will hurt us, why we make ourselves suffer in the eyes of others needlessly. We've all done it, I know I have. But why?

Attention seeking is one reason. As the youngest I naturally fought for attention. I don't think I ever threw myself down the stairs or anything as serious as that, but I did enjoy it when I got my sibs in trouble and I was fawned over. It's natural. But later in life I would put myself under unnessecary stress so people would feel sorry for me but I would still do well. That way I got both ends of the stick plus the bit in the middle.

But was there any point? Yes, people paid attention to me, but then yes, my hair began to fall out. Was it worth it? No. Does anyone care now? No. Do I even care? Not particularly, no. But why do we put ourselves up to be knocked down by our own conscience? Do we seek that security we get from others' insecurity? Why would this girl even ponder getting married if it will leave her in torment? And so it goes on. I'm not here to question other people's ethics and plans for life, but does it come down to the aforementioned insecurity?

So many questions!

Perhaps this is a case of regret. She will regret getting married as I regret stressing myself out. There are many things I regret and that is now one of my look-before-leaping things: 'will I regret this?' Often the answer is yes, so I just don't do it. This philosophy then makes me ask, "But where is the fun in that?!" No regrets? You always did what was right? How boring that could get! Some regrets are bigger than others; never turning down Coopers is a regret of mine, but it had no real life changing effect. I was going to turn them down anyhow, It would only have given me something to boast about, and that could be worse. But what I really really regret is something like not saying sorry sooner to Laura. Condensed, we basically excluded her from the group for a silly reason and though I never genuinely hated her, I sheeped with everyone else as not to make myself an outcast from the rest of the group. That I regret. I don't know whether she trusts me properly anymore, and though she says she does I will never be able to quite believe her after how I acted towards her.

So what can I conclude from this waffle? That I completely veered from the subject, that's one thing. But I think it ended with a valid point (albeit a quite unrelated one), so that's something.

Chew on it, it might never happen.

 
It's Sunday now, but when this will be posted I do not know.

The Survey is finally published! But my computer is muffed. I guess it's a compromise. But today I put my sites into various search engines, I can expect them to be put in the directories in 2 weeks to several months, but it's quicker than my IT teacher marks practise coursework.

So this past week saw, literally, the downfall of the helium balloon. Finally succumbing to gravity, the teddy bear head floated down onto the lecturn in the middle of assembly on Thursday. But not before captivating an audience of about 800 on Monday...

It all began in Kum bay Ar (is that right?) on Tuesday. The balloon had been spotted in various areas at the front of the hall in th week before, floating discontentedly between the panels in the ceiling. These panels are painted the nastiest shade of red known to man, and I don't blame the balloon for being restless. So we stood there singing weakly as we always do, when the balloon began to slowly drift downwards, then towards the balcony, where we were, and the up and away again on the line "Oh, Lord, kum bay ar", this being the only line that anyone really knows. We are supplied with hymn books, but no one wants to sing, really we don't.

So the balloon wafted around as Mrs Tann, she of the deformed toes, gave another of her demeaning, belittling assemblies. I can't remember if this one involved fuzzy-wuzzies or not, I wasn't listening. And neither was anyone else. We were all transfixed by this single pocket of helium in the hall, floating dreamily above year 9. Lucky for us we were on the balcony, so we could watch it all t eye level.

And then it happened. After being told to ignore the balloon, and after ignoring being told to ignore the balloon, we watched, horrified, as it ducked under the front arch of the stage, only to rise again in the panels above, out of our view! Was all lost? Was the saga's ending lost forever? An audible sigh left the mouths of every upperschool girl as we lost, seemingly forever, our morning's entertainment. Never again would assembly be so amusing, and never again would a helium balloon offer us such light relief (ba-dum cha).

Or so we thought.

Thursday met us with the second half of the Africa appeal assembly, which I actually found interesting, but I think I was a minority of 1. But then, suddenly, a glint caught the communal eye. Everyone turned hteir heads slightly and there, wafting in its own, lazy style, fell the balloon, into the lap of Mr Mancey (what DOES he do? No one knows!). He hustled it off into the wings of the stage, spending longer than can be healthy with this balloon, in the wings.

And so the story ends. What fate befell the poor balloon, no one except Mr Mancey knows, and by the amount of time he spent off-stage, I'll be glad if he takes it to the grave.

 
So who was it that made Mondays suck so much? I don't think it was an act of God, I think there might be someone else to blame. The god Mandidgo? No, I don't think it was him either. By the way he is out of an actual thing so you can't steal the name. But despite him being a git, I don't think he was to blame either.

The economy? Was it the powers that be who decided to start the working week on a Monday? Was it the loner that no one likes but no one would suspect? Was it Colonel Mustard in the hall with the candlestick?

Whoever it was, I have a feeling that they are long since dead. Not being a reincarnation person, I doubt they have been born again to torment the world, and if they have it would probably have been as either a traffic warden or a blackfly.

So what have I been doing and thinking? There's the small matter of school, just an inconvenience I guess. But something that really is annoying me is my stomach. On Monday I felt totally crap, so I had one of my please-don't-throw-up pills, and I didn't throw up. Yesterday I had to have one again and I didn't throw up. Both of them were in maths lessons, I thought a pattern might be emerging. But today it was in IT, and I had to take it under the table with a swig of my drink and a bite of sarnie. But why? I don't know anyone else who gets this, throwing up for no real reason. Boys, this will probably never happen to you, and if it does I will be worried, but I'm in an all-girls school and I don't know of anyone else who get it. Why me? I'm disfunctional enough, you don't have to remind me with large quantities of vomit!

I'm sure this post had a point when I started it...

Ah! I remember!

Stoppit and Tidyup, and here's all their friends...
Comb your hair,
Wash your face,
and Hurry Up!
Go And Play (with his favourite toys),
poor little Calm Down,
and nasty little Not Now!
The two bees, Bee Have and Bee Quiet.
Sleepy old Go To Bed, and
Don't do that!
Take Care,
Clean Your Teeth,
and the big bad
I SAID NO!

Oh, how they rule! But I'm sure that's wrong, where are Say Please and Say Thankyou? I know they exist, we have one of the books with the characters on the back. Do you know if this song is wrong? Do you know the other words? Hmm. But hardly anyone I know remembers them, and they are just so great!

But I've finally managed to start the Survey page, I just need to upload the graph now. There will be link in the side bar over there <-- somewhere soon if there isn't one now. Toodle-oo!

 
First week (well, 3 and a bit days) of school is over and what do we have to show for it? A teacher who looks like Hannah Gordon, a ton of coursework and a lecture basically on how stupid we are. Encouraging, I'm sure.

But what is the point of sending us to school at 1:30, just to send us home 2 hours later? There is none! All we got was a planner and rough book - no, 'General Work Book'. What is with that? We don't do general work in it, we do rough work, crappy French exercises and scribble about how much we hate certain teachers. No general work in sight! But that took an hour to give out counting the continual lecture we received, so that basically left a whole hour. Ample time for form tutors to be given locker keys to give out. But no! The school has to do it the complicated way on the second day. Why? Because they're silly.

Lessons, nothing much happened. We went back and heard tales of drunken roudiness from some of our friends while we just caught up on stuff we'd seen and read, rumours about things (like Farscape, how can they do that?!) and working out who was lending what to whom.

There is also a helium balloon trapped on the ceiling in the school hall. We're trying to decide if it's a dodgy monkey or a strange teddybear. But it's on the ceiling and it's showing no signs of coming down.

I'm not going to talk about *that* first anniversary or Iraq bacause I have earlier, instead I'm going to talk about 4 minutes and 33 seconds. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you may as well leave now because I'm not going to explain it.

But is 4 minutes and 33 seconds a show of musical power or dramatic power? No one would have dared speak because they didn't know what was going to happen next, if something would move or play, if this was an introduction or what. I guess by about the third minute they'd have been getting a bit pissed off, but at the start it must have been captivating. And the fact that the conductor had that much power over the audience to keep them curious that long. Then we come onto the whole thing about how there would be no music if there had not first been silence. But that's for another day altogether.

Or was it a display of dramatics? It must have been amazing to watch, no one could look away in case something moved or it finished. Was it even classable as music since there was no noise? Where can we draw the line? But it could have been more of a display of drama than a musical performance. Did the crowd break into rapturous applause at the end, or did they all settle down and whisper amongst themselves about how obscure it was? But then that depends on the kind of people who went to see it.

Mind you, playing a classical instrument, I don't find some of this contemporary stuff very good. We once played a modern version of Peter from 'Peter and the Wolf', an it was bollocks! It sounded awful, I never was a dissonances person. But it was just the way it was ridiculously fast and clashy.

And then there is Berlioz.

 
Not much to report, but you remember Mr Gaud? The mystery householder? He's a doctor! A letter came this morning addressed to 'Dr U Gaud'. Very posh!

 
OK, so 2 little ducks is 22. But at least I admit I'm wrong.

I did have a post for the 3rd, but it buggered again so I lost it. I also had the first bit for my Thing of the Day, but I think I lost that too. And remember, if you have anything good that you would like put on there (including a plug for your site), just bug me. I enjoy being bugged, except by those Spanish weirdos who keep sending me viruses. Quittit!

So what have I done these last few days? Umm... coursework. Maths, and it hurts. Yesterday I had to count words and word lengths in articles about Anna Kournikova's exit from Wimbledon. Oh, the pain! The immense pain! Damn you Edexcel for your stupid coursework!

Counting newspapers. It is completely pointless, completely ridiculous and completely and utterly not going to get me my expected grade.

On a lighter note though, I was on the radio today! I had Drops of Jupiter played on Virgin. I requested it!

So apart from that? I've been making a ... no ... THE bag. It's a beaded thing, peyote stitch round a tube, and it's going to be the best bag I've ever made. Cooler than the Ladybird, funkier than the Snail, this will be the bollocks of all bags!

Maybe not, but it's bloody good and will take bloody ages. When I'm done maybe I'll scan it in to show it off. If I haven't written it already on here, I have a thing with bags. And a lot of bags to feed that thing. About 30 at last count, but that's mine and my sister's combined collection.

Now I'm talking crap, and this is supposed to me talking about what I've been thinking about, hence being called 'An Outlet for my Mind'. I have been wondering who is the real power behind George Bush, because he definitely isn't running America. But I can't really talk about that in case I get arrested for spreading politically volatile infomation. But when he talks he does look like someone has their hand up his backside.

So I guess we can't ignore the up-and-coming 1st anniversary of September 11th. I remember the day well, it had all the qualities of a bad time in the making from about 9am. Bear in mind we're a few hours ahead over here. I had IT, always a drag, and found out that I had knits. Lovely, I know. My head was itching like bitten hell, and I had come on without any pads. Even lovelier. I was behind on my viola practise so would spend the evening playing that. Then I got a text message that America had been attacked. America, impregnable fortress of the west, had been hit. I'm the kind of person who reacts to things like that by feeling physically sick, and when the words '30,000 body bags' were uttered I had to leave the room. I got no practise done because I was glued to the telly, news breaking every moment. Most wanted man in the world hidden in a cave, suicide pilots trained in America, sveral flights still unchecked. It was the nightmare that was never supposed to happen, only in Hollywood blockbusters, where Bruce Willis came and saved the day before it all went wrong. Had Hollywood finally predicted its own destruction like a hell-sent prophet? Everything buzzed round in a whirr of dust and trapped victims beneath the rubble of the World Trade Centre.

And now we get the trashy programmes about it. Dramatic reconstructions and tales from survivors, we are told about how George Bush and Tony Blair engage in a war on terrorism, which they do by killing their own troops in helicopter crashes. No Osama Bin Laden, he's still in a cave somewhere, laughing at the west as they wage war on an abstract noun.

 
Kelly's eye number 1, two little ducks number 2, what's 3 again?

Hello again, I return to spill my mental guts to you, my usual drivel. And if it posted my last one twice, well that's how much this machine loves me.

So the main event of yesterday was my long-awaited shopping trip with two of my best friends. Why was it long awaited I expected to hear you ask (but you remain depressingly silent)? Because I'm a lazy arse... and it was one of them's birthday on Wednesday so I got to give her her birthday present finally. I think she liked it, it was cute and I think she likes cute. You better, Fiona! But I won't tell you about that, I don't thinky you'd be very interested. But I did have another caffe mocha thing, considering I don't usuaaly have coffee that's more intersting for me. Plus it has hot chocolate and whipped cream in it, so I'll leave you to put 2 and 2 together.

But yesterday we got a letter addressed to a Mr Gaud, and our surname being Field, we thought it was another wrong address. There was a time when we used to get letters for a Mr Patel, but that stopped after a while. So wrongly addressed letters are not new. But this one was from British Gas and informed Mr Gaud/us that they would glady supply Mr Gaud/us with electricity and gas, and, though it did not say as such, discreetly told Mr Gaud/us that it would cost the earth to transfer. Well no thank you! My mother wrote a large note in thick black pen on it telling them that she didn't want their electricity. So onto the next letter we move. This one was from BT and told us that we had requested our line to be changed to a different name and if we didn't request otherwise by the day before yesterday, it would be changed. It was addressed a day before we were supposed to complain by, and was sent 2nd class. Good one BT! But we managed to sort it out, we are not the Gauds. But today someone rang to tell us that Mr Gaud wants to move in again. I don't think so Mr Gaud!

Anything else? Oh yes, the results of my survey. I'm thinking of putting it on it's own page, I have to draw the graph yet. Entitled 'One Leg Called George', it has no real purpose but did no harm.

I might also do a page of 'Thing of the Day', which may be a weird word, things not known by very many people, a quote or perhaps an interesting website. If you want me to advertise your site on this page, send your web address to me at soozawooza@hotmail.com and I'll check it out and think about it. But no promises!

Little note for you, the date of publish is not usually the date of writing. So expect a few days between the writing of posts if they're published one after the other. Toodle pip!

 
Look! Second entry! Has it taken long? How often are these things usually updated? I don't know.

But anyway, here I am, back for more. The crowd bays for blood, but I'm afraid all I can offer is a wet bank holiday and Thorpe Park. Let's start at the start:

So the August bank holiday came sneaking round again. Any excuse to do permanent harm to both yourself and your house for many people, but not us. Oh no, we don't 'do' it ourselves, it's very rarely done at all! But next door were banging and crashing all day (and banging all night) so I retrated to my shed. My shed is not any kind of shack, shrine or secret hideout for my Get Along style gang, it's just a shed, just in case you were wondering. Anyway! I was sitting in there apparently doing maths homework, but you know how it is. So there I was, listening to the radio when I wasn't reading, and they were talking about bombing Iraq (like that's anything new!), and I was considering other great out-of-hand intenational pissing contests. Aside from imperialism, the biggest one has to be WW1, that all-encompassing tragedy stretched over 4 years, which saw men shot for not wanting to die - find me the logic - and aimless running into hails of bullets to gain territory. And all because some trigger-happy twat decided to shoot the rich guy!

But I didn't bother listening much in history class, they only taught us crap stuff like what Roman women wore and how underfloor heating worked, and the Tudors! Oh how I learned about the Tudors! Do I want to hear about some fat old man who gets it regular? No! Do I want to hear about how his daughter burned people for believing in essentially the same god but in a slightly different way? No! I want to learn about Druid sacrifices and Greek gods! I want to know how Ghengis Khan managed to conquer most of Asia and then die by falling off his horse! I don't really care that India was basically enslaved by mad dogs and over-dressed English men, I want to know how India won her inddependence from its far off oppressors! Is curriculum history designed to estrange us from the subject, only drawing us back in with promises of school trips to London? History in school could be so gripping, but so much of it will never be used again as long as we live unless we become historians.

Ah, that's better now that's off my chest. But that is a lot of what I was thinking in my shed. Note how I started off with war and ended with moaning. Is that the story of my life?

So yesterday I wake up to be told I'm going to Thorpe Park (a reasonabe-sized theme park by most standards, crap by the standards of those people who have holidays in the sun at any spare moment). So yes, I ended up, at 10:00 in the morning, winging my way down the M25 towards Thorpe Park. I won't give you all the trashy details, and I tell you now I did not go in the shop and buy the complete Thorpe Park production line... I still have a rubber from when I went there about 8 years ago. But they've got that new 10 loop rollercoaster, and there's only one word for it: fuck! Sorry for all those easily offended among you, but that is THE only word I could find to describe it. 'Golly' just wasn't forceful enough. But it's got this corkscrew bit that goes round about 5 times, but I swear the whole thing has more than 10 turns! So off I got, surprisingly steadily. Next we went on 'Detonator', which sounds more like something that throws you into the sky than drops you 100 feet down a skinny pole lined with electromagnets. But we duly queued and were duly dropped 100 feet. I was going to scream as it dropped, because it really was worthy of it, but you can't! I couldn't breathe in or out, we were travelling too fast! Adreneline rushed in to replace the oxygen I wasn't getting, but I don't know what my body was thinking, because it just meant I couldn't walk in a straight line. The only other big shocking thing we wnt on was called 'Vortex', but I was more scared of the horrible girls in front of us in the queue spitting on us than of being spun in a large circle 50 feet in the air. It was disgusting! They were spitting little puddles every time the queue stopped! I would have slapped them all one after the other if it wouldn't have got my hand slobbery. Yuck! Then they exchanged belly buttons rings, how nasy does it get?! What next, live organ transplants with grubby hands? Yuck yuck yuck! Thankfully they didn't spit when we were on the ride, and if they did it would have hit them back in the face. Ha I hope it did.

I've written a lot this time, is that a bad thing? Well, it's called an outlet for my mind, this is my mind and my page so I guess you can't complain. Hopefully next time I update this I will have the results of my one-legged survey proccessed, and may have figured out how to do links and stuff on different bits of the page... well, when my sister can help me. I wasn't cut out for all this web design stuff, I just write. But as soon as I figure out how to put my email address on here you can bug me with nice things!

 
Hey, it's me! I'm the weirdo sitting on the kerbstone, I'm the kid in the sweetshop, I'm the guy that delivers your milk... OK maybe not, but I can try! I'm Suz, this is my Blog (don't expect anything too fancy too often) and this is me waffling. Be prepared for a stream of strange, nonsensical words and phrases, some of which may amuse you and some which may make you back away and bolt off in the direction of the Thames Estury (don't do it! Please God no!). So I may as well start with an explaination of who I really am, and I congratulate you if you've stuck with it this long.

Who the hell are you?!

Suz. Not your milkman, but perhaps the kid in the sweetshop, depends where you are.

Will you bite?

Unless I'm provoked, no. Or if you just happen to be made of chocolate, I may have to.

What drives you?

My mum mostly, why?

What, not who, idiot. But what stirs the passion in your soul, what makes you hold your head up and be proud to say, "I believe!"?

OK sonny Jim, no more cola for you! I'm a pacifist, does that count? I believe in the power of knowledge, wisdom and gossip, and have often found that a good sharp slap in the face clears the mind as effectively as a good night's sleep, but it gives more enjoyment to the administrator. How am I doing?

Satisfactory.

You're not the voice of God, so don't push it italics boy.

Handbags!

I'm not going to fight you!

OK. I've seen you in a bad mood. It's like Jekyll and Hyde, but you stay ugly. But anyway! Where are you?

The idyllic suburbs of London, England. The smell of the falling rain, the sight of the children playing in the streets, the sound of the boy racers going over speed humps at 80mph. Bliss!

What makes you different from all the other people I quiz, apart from you being the only one to call me sonny Jim?

Let's say your comment and mine cancel each other out. Well, there's the birthmark on my-

THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEAN AND YOU KNOW IT

Someone's tetchy today! But there's the whole matter of me being unable to conform with what my peers expect me to be, my tastes, my obscure imagination, my love-come-obsession with jewellery and the making of, yada yada yada and if I think of any more I'll tell you.

OK. So what are you doing later on?

Now you're scaring me. Do you actually have a purpose? Or do you just come across people and randomly annoy them?

I'm annoying you?

Not yet, and I won't get annoyed if you stick to the appropriate questions.

Hmmm. So why are you making this Blog?

Because I know there are people out there who will read between the lines and see what I'm really saying and what I'm really getting at, and we can nod knowingly to each other and tell abstract jokes and talk about things most people wouldn't see the point of.

These lines are quite close together, you know.

Alright now you leave. Shoo!