Creativity & Mischief

In class today we were asked to try and picture creativity, here's my attempt here...

In my mind I picture all the ideas I have/will have as a big wiggling multi coloured ball of wool. Different experiences, moods and music will wiggle different strings through all the knots of sleep deprivation, the tangles of caffeine dependency, the snags of student living and then it's free! BAM! idea.

It's hard work but when that creative feeling hits you, you have to dive for that pen and paper or paint pot or post it notes.... Something my teacher failed to tell us is that not all creativity is productive, but it can be absolutely hilarious.

Poor Beth came home to find her entire bedroom plastered floor to (nearly) ceiling in post it notes Bruce all mighty style! Her scream as she walked in her door was priceless. I am never leaving my bedroom unlocked in fear of her revenge!

Hannah and Amara (left and centre on the right picture) should never be left alone to plot ever, they will either take over the world or worse cling film my room until I can't move anything

Oo er.....

Whooo whoooo Pigeon Palaver

This morning I awoke with quite a bump.

'OH MY GOD OH MY GOD RACHAEL!!!!'

I practically fell out of bed as Ella continued to squeal. I could only assume someone was dead on the kitchen floor as I scrambled into something resembling clothes. I had just found (ok sat on) my glasses when Ella began to bang on my bedroom door.

'Rachael help!'

Groggily I opened the door. 'Pigeons! Fecking pigeons in the kitchen!'

Ok so our kitchen has never been the tidiest room in the flat; far from it really, but adding disease ridden pests is just going a bit far.

Our kitchen window is broken you see. Has been since we moved in, when we found out that opening the window meant possibly getting clobbered round the head by the window as it wobbled open on it's one hinge. This was not so bad, though shutting the damn thing has always been an issue (something I usually leave up to the boys....ok Sam, Kishan Is barely taller than I am) but recently it's been a lot worse when the lining of the window started to peel off and consequently got jammed in the frame, making it nigh on impossible to shut.

Obviously in the early hours of this morning, the pigeons flew into the window thinking that the pizza Ella had left out looked rather yummy. Sadly the idiots managed to shut themselves in keeping them stuck there until they nearly gave poor Ella a heart attack upon their discovery.

Shooing appeared to have no affect on the ballsy creatures that had invaded my home. It wasn't until I kicked the kitchen chair that one of them was sat on that it took flight...straight into the glass of the window.

Idiotic animals. Soon got rid of them though. Yanking the window fully open I grabbed a tea towel and flapped at them until they all took to their wings and left. Leaving me and Ella to force the window shut.

What a thing to wake up too! Obviously it was all too much for me and I fell back into bed. This time thankfully to be woken up by my alarm and not Ella's shrieking.

What a morning!

Luke knight is probably right in saying they got lost on their way to Trafalgar square. Maybe they needed a map!

(Picture from the sun newspaper 5th feb 2004 Homing pigeons Pexposed)

Inspections Inspections

I'm not a tidy person, I try but despite myself everything just explodes around me and turns into heaps of stuff. Mix that with the fact my fondness for washing up is on the same level of that for socks and it's safe to say my flat is not the tidiest place in the world.

When the words 'Flat inspections' comes up it strikes fear into many a students heart. It leads to such questions as 'Where's the hoover gone?' (which is still up for debate) 'How do I get blue tac marks off the wall?' (Proving impossible) and 'How do I get the illegal smell out of the soft furnishings?' (A LOT of Febreeze).

I hate still being up at 5am working my way through what seems like the millonth load of washing up, having already scrubbed the bathroom floor to ceiling, shoved everything possible into my closest, packed a box of books, and cooked dinner, only to find the next morning that the inspection has been delayed by a week due to 'unforeseen circumstances' bah humbug!

Hopefully by then we will have found the hoover, where could it be hiding?

Transvestites on the tubes

One of the things I love about London is how some really weird things are accepted as totally normal. Talk about jaded city folk.

Just this morning for instance I was just about to get on the jubilee line when the signals changed to announce that the train I was about to board had a fault and would not be moving an inch. Sighing I swung round and nearly ran head long into two women just getting off the next carriage. Except well...they weren't women.

The first must have been bordering on 6'5 tottering in white leather stiletto's and one of Kylies old stage outfits. The skin tight white one with the long slung neckline that ends up near her navel. Except this time it did not show of a glimpse of cleavage and washboard stomach, but an impressive amount of chest hair and a paunch. I must say the blonde wig was rather fetching though.

His...her? companion was dressed in a skin tight leopard suite with black knee high boots with heels that Kat would kill for. I was really impressed with the pair of them, people in the crowd were giving them the funniest looks but they just kept laughing and chatting in high spirits with one of the strongest east London accents I've heard in a while.

It really made my day, I was still giggling when I got off the tube at uni. Some people might scorn at such men for dressing in such a bizarre fashion especially at 2 in the afternoon. But it was nice to see people with enough confidence to just be themselves, and brighten up other peoples days. Surely that's something we should all aspire too :)

Books and Music

Ever since my brother blasted Evanescences first album through his bedroom wall as I read my way through Harry Potter and the goblet of fire music and books have been inextricably linked in my head. It just so happened that that album and that book went very well together. The true rock ballads kicking in in time for the battle scenes and songs like 'my immortal' when people died.

After that I have rarely read without music in the background. I think it adds another emotional layer to the book. Some songs can really fit characters or plot lines so well they just click.

I even listen to music when I write , hoping that it will give me the extra edge that I feel. Maybe one day if I get published I will release play lists to go with my story's.

Who knows on the upside Kat has nearly finished her essay which means I get to go to bed soon yaaaay!

Top ten turn offs of the average (and not so average) Uni girl!

We all know men are a funny breed, but it amazes me just how many ways they find to annoy the fairer (and more hygienic) sex.

After talking to some of my girls we have compiled a Top ten turn off's to better warn our fellow man. Be warned male readers your about to learn exactly where your all going wrong!

1. Uncommunicative: Whether it's never texting back or barely speaking on a first date it's very irritating. We women love talking, in fact we speak nearly 20'000 words a day. So when your not saying any we can't help but feel cut off and just a little bit peeved

2. Douche facial hair: Just because you can grown a beard does not mean you should. Bum fluff is never an option!

3. Wandering eye: hello my face is this way. As much as it's nice to know you appreciate our assets, if by the end of the date you haven't realised were wearing glasses you know your about to get the boot.

4: Gross misconduct: aka farting and the like. Two words for you. Just no!

5: Conversation killers: If all you ever talk about is football or the genius that created the bikini we think you need to broaden your horizons and get a new hobby.

6: Excessive body hair: Molt in my drink or in my bed and you die!

7. Bad breath: if you can knock your date out from 500 yards, you seriously need to go brush your teeth.

Ok the last 3 are personal peeves of mine, call me strange but it's all true

8. Pink shirts: So yes before the 1950's pink was a male colour. But in my book it will always look wrong.

9. Guys who drink girly drinks: Call me sexist all you want, but I can't take a guy seriously if he's sat there with a 'long' drink and a straw. Pints are the way forward guys

10. Guys who in texts can't spell and or refer to themselves in the third person: If a guy can't be bothered to spell properly, exactly how lazy is he? and the only person who can get away with referring to themselves in the third person is they queen. Are you the queen? No Didn't think so.

Well there you have it guys from the lovely ladies straight to you. You have been warned!

Merry Mothers Day!

Mothers are a bizarre breed. They know full well to become mothers they have to spend nine months the size of a small whale and then go through astronomical amounts of pain before they receive their child. Yet they do it anyway, are they really such gluttons for punishment?

After the birth they have 18 years of crying, tantrums, stomach bugs, bruised elbows, cut knees and every other kind of injury you can hope to think of. Personally I reckon they get their revenge by all the embarrassing baby photos that appear the first time you bring your new boyfriend or girlfriend home. I mean the amount of photos of me either fresh out the womb and covered in goo or dressed in all manner of bizarre outfits and bobble hats is astronomical.

I just love how intuitive mothers can be about their children. I swear mine is practically psychic when it comes to me and my brother. A sixth sense for trouble and mischief perhaps? It made sleepovers impossible, no matter how quiet me and Kat tried to be after being sent to bed, we’d always hear mum come up the stairs, not even bother to open the door and just be like ‘Bed now!’. Don’t even get me started on the amount of times she’s caught me sneaking biscuits from the cookie jar over the years.

Despite this I still think my mum is awesome, yes even when she’s nagging. She’s a real trouper. It’s not easy raising two kids on your own; especially when one of them has a bedroom that more resembles an explosion than a bedroom in number 5 Mintons.

She’s always been there to patch me up when I’ve fallen over or broken a bone or got yet another stomach bug. She even once locked herself out the house in her rush to get to me when I became Ill at school. I think ten year old me found it most amusing watching her swear as she had to break into her own house.

Yes we argue, don’t all parents with their kids? Mum can be queen of the nags when she wants to be ‘Move your shoes!’ ‘Hang up your coat!’ ‘Feet off the coffee table’ ‘Turn that down!’. I could go on, seems she’s rubbed off on me just a little bit though as I often now find myself quoting mum when I start to nag my own flat mates!

Over the years mum has done many cool things with me, she taught me to colour, taught me to read, even started to teach me to cook when she thought I could be trusted with a knife. I think the coolest thing though was when we went to turkey for my 18^th birthday just the two of us. It’s only once in a life time you get to nearly fall off a boat and land in a laughing heap with your mother due to a big wave.

She’s awesome love you mum!

Merry Mother’s Day!

I hate my mattress

We all know sleeping is not any students highest priority but I'm sure I'd be more willing to submit to the sand man if my mattress hadn't started a vendetta against me.

I knew when I came to uni that I would be VERY lucky to get a decent bed. Of course I drew the short straw and ended up with a little wobbly camp bed and an age old mattress with varying holes and random dips.

Ok so I added a few of those dips myself (Elbow dips from reading for the win!) but it does not make for comfortable sleeping especially when I am trying to alter my usual sleeping position (I'm normally a curled up on my side kinda person but apparently sleeping on my back is better for my back).

I've tried turning the mattress every time I change the sheets but the ruddy springs just wont leave me alone :(

I'm soooo looking forward to my gorgeous bed back home in chard with my other awesome funky blanket! Only a week to go now! Counting down the days!

More poetry

I am working on something decent for all of you lovely folk who have stuck with me through all this Lent stuff. But today my brain has just given up on me so I'm going to inflict some more of poetry on you.

Lucifer

Pearl drop of white

Upon the darkness

Swallowed up by night

I surround thee

Careful where you tread

I need you to stumble

Lost in eternity

Surrounded by flames

Blisters turning out of flesh

A pain such sweetness

To my lips

Dare you face my wrath?

You who is surrounded by light

Prepare to fall

For I am here

To break through your protection

No more light to save you from harm

Come and be drawn in

By my evil charm

Fallen from grace

I draw you near

Always heed the warning

You will hear

My name is Lucifer

Meet your doom

Lord of the flames

See you soon …?

Sometimes...

Sometimes I'm late

Sometimes I'm left waiting

Sometimes I write

Sometimes I just sit back and wonder.

Tonight I'm wondering and the question is what the hell am I doing?

I'm a country girl in the big city and to be honest I just feel a bit lost. Yes I'll be going home in just a few short days (trust me I'm counting them) but will it ever be enough? Is London ever going to feel like home?

I call my London flat home, purely for the reason that there is no other adjective that fits. 'The place I live with 3 awesome people, where the washing up never gets done and everything grows mould' is a bit of a mouthful.

Yes I like living here, I like the freedom of having my own place and my own money (still getting the hang of that one) but is Uni really what I should be doing? How are we supposed to know were on the right path? Making the right decisions?

Guess every one asks these kinda questions, maybe I'm just having a mid term mutter who knows...guess I'll figure it out in the end.

Next year will be better I hope. Being in a house as opposed to halls should hopefully feel more homely. Maybe the new home will be 'the place I live with 4 awesome people where everything is pink and the bathroom is never free' well I will be living with a load of women :D

Doctor whoooooooooooooooooooo!

Ok so I've been brought up in the era of Nu-who as it's been named, but I still honestly think that Doctor who is still one of the best TV programs to come out of Britain.

You can have your fawlty towers and your only fools and horses, I'd much rather spend a night cuddled up with all my favourite boys, Christopher Ecclestone, David Tennant, Matt smith and Tom Baker :P

It's actually one of the few TV programs me and my mum can sit through together and both enjoy. Though I then have to immediately shoot round to Kat's to re-watch said episode as had to shush mum the whole way through the first time.

I'm just thoroughly impressed that a TV program can grow through so many generations of brits and still be very fresh. Mum is always regaling me of her tales of hiding behind the sofa in terror of the original Daleks, makes me wonder if one day I will be telling my kid's 'Don't blink!' and muttering 'wibbly wobbley timey whimey' under my breath.

What can I say Steven Moffat is a genius, can only hope he keeps it up, some of h

is original monsters are incredibly scary!

Are you my

Mummy...?

Think I'm coming down with a cold, so prose it is!

Not feeling great today so instead of slogging over something that's going to come out below par I thought I would instead show you guys the short story I was slaving over over the Christmas holidays for my first Uni module :) It's still got no title, so if anyone has any ideas let me know!

You know I never really realised I was tall until I started school. Compared to my brothers I might as well have been a hobbit (though thankfully without the hairy feet ick!). They all tower over me, even now I’m at the grand heights of 5’11; I still have to look up to swear at them, Robert is 6’6 now! It gets most annoying when he and the other six keep patting me on the head and calling me ‘shortcake’.

I’m still the tallest girl in my year though; a trait that comes in very handy at times. Take the other day for example. I was stood in the lunch queue at school and due to being a good head over my peers I could see that the chicken dish of the day looked frankly fowl. I couldn’t help but giggle at my own nerdy little joke when suddenly my knees buckled and I fell to the floor with a crash. One of the horrid school lunch trays had been launched into the back of my knees sending me flying. It was probably the giggling that caused Imelda to do it. She hates to see anyone being happy, ah poor Imelda Strongbottom (a very unfortunate surname, I’m sure it’s what makes her so darn unpleasant). With as much dignity as it was possible to have clambering off the dining hall floor I stood up carefully to see Imelda giving me the classic ‘innocent’ look.

‘What you looking at Lanky?’ she asked in butter wouldn’t melt voice as a dinner lady wandered past straightening the line of queuing students. Not wishing to debase myself to Imelda’s level I simply said ‘The Fowl’ and strutted off to order the pasta and head outside safe in the knowledge I was the better person, for today anyway.

See that’s what school is like for me; just one battle after another, some big, some small and some of great moral importance. After I have purchased my lunch most days I would head to my spot, smack bang underneath the oak tree overlooking the playground. On the day of the fowl incident it was lovely and sunny, far too hot for blazers. I wedged my satchel and pasta pot between the roots of the tree and immediately shrugged off the polyester monstrosity that is my blazer. I mean its bright orange! It’s Halloween every day in my school! I kicked off my shoes and removed the orange socks, freeing my toes to wiggle in the sunshine; now I didn’t look too bad, my black blouse looks ok on me and sits well on what little boobs I actually posses. I tried and failed to not mess up my hair as I slipped off the black and orange stripped tie (who chose our school colours honestly!). But the skirt! I’d remove that too (I wear my PE shorts underneath it; I fall over a lot!) but I knew I was going to be in enough trouble once Mrs Haskins spotted me; it was actually a new personal best for her that day, three mins twenty seconds. I had only just removed my book mark which I love to pieces (mum bought it for me its got all these nice pictures of the Greek goddess I am named after on it) from my well thumbed copy of ‘A vindication of the rights of women’ by Mary Wollstonecraft when I heard the over familiar shriek of

“Dianna Baxter put your uniform back to rights this instant!’

Sighing I reached for my socks. Same battle five days a week but only a small part of my true battle. I mean can you believe it’s the 21^st century and I’m still forced to wear a skirt to school. I tried to explain to Mr Pierce but I don’t think he got it.

“Blatant sexism!” I screamed at Mr Pierce on my second day at school after I got told off for wearing trousers.

“School rules” he shot back.

“Why are you trying to sexualise me? I should have the same rights as the boys and that includes wearing trousers to lessons!” I huffed hands on my hips, doing my best impression of mum’s ‘you will do what I want’ glare.

“I am not and I will repeat that Miss Baxter not trying to sexualise you, but in my school young ladies will dress and act as according to their title of ‘ladies’”

“CHAUVANIST!”

“Detention”

My brothers found it hilarious.

“You tried to take on Piercey?” chortled Ben who is in the year above me “All the power to ya sis but you don’t have a hope in hell”. Oh how wrong he was.

It may have taken me a severe amount of bribery and a heck of a load of chores to put it into action but my plan finally came together. I felt like a criminal mastermind that morning at breakfast ordering my brothers about. Ben just sat scowling at his toast muttering about gross indecency, Robert couldn’t find his car keys and the others (all five of them) were being fussed over by mother who seemed most confused.

“Erm it’s for breast cancer mum, a charity thing you know” I said hoping that she would believe me. She just cocked an eye brow and threw Roberts car keys at him. For some reason they had been hanging off my cat Pankhurst’s tail.

As me and my brothers got out the car and walked towards the school gates, every head turned to stare at us, I spotted Imelda quickly. She was stood not far from the tall school gates and it was too my delight when she turned and her jaw dropped. I guess we were quite a sight. Me in my new school trousers, and my brothers, well my brothers in my old school skirts. They were all a bit uncomfortable, after all these were my old skirts, so there was quite a lot of hairy man leg on display, but they couldn’t back out then, it was far too late.

Someone had gone running to the office obviously startled at our unusual code of dress because very quickly Mr Pierce and Mrs Haskins turned up at the gates looking very out of breath.

“Miss Baxter what do you think you’re playing at! Return home and get into your correct uniform this instant!, I can believe you have dragged your brothers into your childish tirade” called Mrs Haskins looking very cross.

“We are making a stand, against your sexist rules; you know there is no rule against the boys wearing skirts so why can’t I wear trousers huh?” I called across what was left of the car park, which wasn’t much we were now level with Imelda who was so close to us her jaw which was still hanging open was practically leaning on my shoulder.

Mrs Haskins was slowly getting redder and redder like her head was about to explode, obviously it did not help that it looked like Mr Pierce was trying very hard not to laugh.

Suddenly Imelda snapped out of her stunned stupor and quickly straightened her expression into a sneer.

“I always knew your brothers were a load of trannies”. That was a very bad move on her part. I really couldn’t help it she really was asking for it. It was totally not my fault when my fist collided with her face. It did however stop Mr Pierce from giggling for then at least.

“I think detention is in order Miss Baxter...” he said

“But..” I started to interrupt, but Mr Pierce put his hand up effectively silencing me

“And for you Miss Strongbottom there is no need for such language. On the subject of uniform I really give up arguing with you Dianna; you are surely one of the most stubborn girls I have ever met. You can wear your trousers but I don’t want one more peep out of you until you graduate, you hear?”

I was soo happy I felt like jumping about and screaming but I’m pretty sure that would be classified as a peep. Instead I primly nodded before turning and high fiving all my brothers who were already getting their trousers out their bags.

I did it! I had finally won! That was so worth the detention!

'When I grow up...'

When were little the world is our oyster, we can decide to be whatever we want to be and not worry about it. Whether it be Actress , Teacher, Astronaut, Train Driver, bin man (if your my mother) or even a nurse that drives a tank (That one I have to admit is me, but points if you can guess who everyone else's is).

It wasn't until I was a little bit older (about 3) and not sat on a soldiers lap at an army base open day that I decided I wanted to be a writer. Sadly three year old's aren't the best at pronunciation and I asked my mum if I could become an orphan. Mother promptly replied 'Well that can be arranged' with only the slightest snigger. Thankfully even a three year old me realised that wasn't the right answer. 'No mummy I want to write books'

Seems to me I haven't stopped writing since. Some dreams change, the 'actress' is now studying biology and the 'astronaut' studies rocks and pots. I think the 'train driver' still wishes he could be at times, but lord knows my mum really doesn't want to be a bin man any more!

It get's me thinking about what's possible, the 'teacher' is bang on course to get what they want. My dream as a writer seems clearer studying writer but others won't be so lucky.

If I hadn't been brought up so stringently by my mother I could easily have ended up a teenage mum or lacking A levels like so many girls all over the country.

I guess the difference between me and them is I have the inspiration and the determination, and my mum kicking my ass the whole way. 'Have you brushed your teeth?' 'Do your homework' 'Always use a condom!!' (usually followed by a loud squealing as I hide under the duvet trying not to hear her).

Thanks mum :) and to all those who wanted to be Astronauts , ballerinas or fireman rock on! Our dreams may change as we get older but I still get to giggle at the idea of Kat tearing off her spaceman helmet and moaning its messed up her hair!

Tea Time Tantrums

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!

Sometimes I really hate cooking, like this evening for instance trying to cook sausages and failing miserably. Despite the fact 80% of the split sausages was a very crispy black, I still somehow managed to miss that crucial 20% until everything was smothered in ketchup and part of that crucial first bite.

It's safe to say I won't be going any where near sausages for a while. It's times like this I wish I had someone around to hand me a cup of tea and then whip up something fabulous for me to munch before I disappear all together. Heck I would even settle for my mum's cooking.

Now would normally be the time I fall on the bread and eat my own weight in toast but I've run out! :(

It seems the food god's have turned against me. I may have to settle for gnawing on my own elbow or worse brave the kitchen again in search of something nutritional.

Or I could always go back to bed....

Future House mates and funny smells

I was out tonight, just as well really as for some unknown reason the flat has started smelling like cat food and that's enough to put anyone off their food. We have yet to figure out the cause of such stagnant scent but hopefully we will get to the bottom of it soon as it reeks!

So yes I was out with my future house mates tonight! I'm going to miss my boys something rotten (yes even you Kish you perv!) but it's going to make a nice change to be living in a house full of women! We did nothing but giggle all evening. Well that and ooo over Yasmine's Skort.

A very clever invention! It looked exactly like a skirt but with all the dignity of shorts for when you fall over! I'm now seriously debating investing in one, see how useful it is having girls about!

Seems like our house is going to be a bit mad, were already planning a mexican night with fajhitas, tacos, nachos and tequila!! woop.

We definately have to go out again soon and this time Amara needs to remember her ID! Having to sweet talk the bouncers is interesting but probably not something that should be tried too often. Watching Yasmine grapple with the waiting staff for a tomatoe and a mushroom was also highly entertaining especially by the time she needed to ask for a steak knife they were probably extremely sick of us!

But mostly I'm glad that I've landed in with such a good bunch to live with next year. I was quite worried about it but it looks like it's worked out quite well! Now just to find a house :)

Pretty Piece of Prose

Ok so after spending all day with my head in other peoples books, I thought it was about time I shared some of my own.

So here's the prologue of a book me and the lovely Kirsty King started working on during secondary school. Here's the prologue of Wayward High a book set in a 1960's boarding school thats just a little bit chaotic...

Prologue

The Appointment of Mr T

Mr Stubbs was sitting at the Headmasters desk of the prestigious Devon School Wayton Meer. He was having trouble with deciding which biscuit he preferred. The summer holidays where his favourite time of the school year as he got some peace and quiet; a rare luxury when the students where back. He decided on the digestive and proceeded to open the packet. He was just about to dip one into his very English cup of tea when he was interrupted by his secretary ringing through to him.

Grumbling, while attempting to rescue his biscuit from the bottom of his tea, he answered the phone.

“Sir, sorry to disturb you but there are 15 candidates for the open teaching position clogging up my office. I’ve got your daughters school on the phone telling me that Delilah will not be allowed to return next year due to an incident concerning Delilah, several first years and a lot of L.S.D. also sir, the coffee machine is still broken and Ruby is coming into talk to you about the epidemic from last year.”

Groaning and giving up any hope of the survival of the biscuit, Mr Stubbs shoved his tea to one side which promptly fell off the edge of his desk, staining his favourite rug and revealing the soggy lump that had until very recently been a digestive biscuit.

The door opened and without looking up Mr Stubbs said “look you’ve got the job now go away and tell the others to leave me alone,” casting a woeful look at his now hopelessly stained and completely ruined rug. Mrs Smiles was going to kill him.

“Sorry to interrupt but I do believe I’m already in your employ,”

Mr Stubbs looked up slowly to see the face of Ruby the school’s matron staring at him with a bemused look on her face.

“Oh, err… Ruby, how nice to see you, could we re-arrange this meeting for another time, I have very pressing issues to attend to.”

“Fine but don’t blame me when we have another outbreak of vomiting all over your carpets” sniffed Ruby who turned and walked out the room with a swish of her matron’s apron.

Rolling his eyes Mr Stubbs returned to his packet of biscuits when there was another knock on the door stopping him with his hand suspended over an invisible cup of tea. Groaning and giving up the fight for a biscuit he sat up straight in his chair and answered.

“Enter”

The door opened with a creak and a young man in his late 20’s stood tall in the door way wearing a dark suite with a pale green shirt which accentuated his piercing green eyes.

“Mr Stubbs? I’m Matthew Tilstone; I’m here about the open teaching position. I think I’d make the best teacher as teenagers are my speciality, there is nothing these kids can throw at me that I can’t handle.”

This caused Mr Stubbs to be rather taken aback, thinking something along the lines of “oh yeah, wait till you meet 3B!”

END PROLOGUE

The C word...Chocolate

Milk, white or dark, it's all fabulous.

All over the world Chocolate is celebrated for A)being severely yummy and B) by most men for keeping their girlfriends and wives sane through raging hormones.

Part of general girl code states that the minute a former relationship turns into your best friend screaming 'God he was such a waaaaanker!!! *cue crying*' then you are to descend with tissues and innumerable tubes of ice cream and a veritable hoard of chocolate.

It has always been said that Chocolate makes you feel better (at least that's my excuse I'm pretty sure I'm just a pig) but I always just thought it was some vaguely sciencey excuse used by woman to satisfy their cravings but apparently not.

There are in fact Endorphins in chocolate, 'happy hormones' as it were that do actually make us feel good (which is so going to be depleted once you step on the scales and realise just how much of that chocolate has landed on your ass).

In fact it would seem that there is something hard wired in our brain craving this wonder food. The royal college of psychiatry actually did a study on Chocolate cravings in the manically depressed. It would seem that out of the participants who listed cravings as one of their depressive symptoms the vast majority chose Chocolate with only 10% choosing another food (must admit I'm normally an Icecream girl myself)

Interestingly it was also a female majority that favoured the chocolate. Alex says its probably because we are all overtly hormonal (now who's generalising :P), who know's maybe we are more susceptible as women to 'happy hormones' probably just as well with all we have to put up with (men!)

Maybe I'm not a pig after all yaaaaaay!!

(The study for anyone interested was 'Chocolate craving when depressed: a personaliy marker by GORDON PARKER, MD, PhD, DSc and JOANNA CRAWFORD, BPsych. The link http://bjp.rcpsych.org/cgi/content/full/191/4/351)

The grass is always greener....when its not in london

It was gloriously sunny again today, I didn't even need my jacket! It would seem that summer is finally on its way. I just wish the grass was.

The university of east London is still a fairly new campus (opened in 2000) and it seems to me they over did it with the concrete. For a uni in quite a pretty setting next to the river (if you ignore the huge airport) it seems ludicrous that they don't have more greenery.

What little green there is, is so little and puny it's hardly worth bothering about. You just know your a country gal when your on the phone to your best friend complaining about how the grass is crap.

The only bit of decent sized not crap grass has been cordoned off with a silly wooden + wire fence!!! Are they trying to drive me round the bend? When it's sunny I love to lie outside with a book on grass, can't lie on the concrete people give you weird looks and then you start to cook.

I eventually found out what it had been cordoned off. Last summer apparently the students killed it by being on it constantly.

Can't help but think at least it was getting used! Where are wire cutters??...

Blood, gut's and pants

As I'm lent over the bathroom sink, I really try not to think about the red liquid streaming from my nose. Even just the smell is making my stomach heave.

Ok so you got me, I can't stand blood. Well more specifically my own blood. There's just something about it that makes my skin crawl. I can only just about donate blood. Watching it shoot down the tube (because sorry you just can't look away) into the baggies beneath the bed makes me so light headed I've nearly fainted a couple of times. The nurses thought I was ill, no just a big pansy.

Other peoples blood is not an issue, Kat and Alex have bled on me often enough to know that. and with a mother who is a nurse you just kind of get used to it I suppose.

But still nosebleeds are like my own personal hell. I'm bleeding, I can smell it and worse yet I can taste it as it trys to trickle down the back of throat.

Even once you spit it out it doesn't get better because then you have to look at it, bright red against the white of the sink. And trust me you don't get any flatmate brownie points for besplattering the bathroom in red.

Kishan seemed to find it quite funny though when I finally made my way to the kithchen to get a drink with a huge wad of paper up my nose.

'Tip your head back!' he said. Thankfully Ella chose that moment to appear coming to check up on me.

'Er no just no'

Thank goodness some one has got some sense around here I can tell you. Seeing Ella also made me realise something else. Once again we were all in our pants. Well except Ella who had joggers on.

Seems me and Kishan have become victims to 'flat chic' in the evenings. Trousers are obviously just over done.

Urgh I need more tissue....

Resetting the clock

Once again I find myself trying to re-set my body clock. I think my body clock is about as busted as the horrid tacky Olympic clock they have put up in Trafalgar square to count down to the Olympics.

It stopped after barely a day and had to be fixed almost immediately. Wish someone could dismantle and reset my clock would make things so much easier. Or heck I could turn back the clock to before I screwed it up in the first place and actually get some sleep!

Isn't there something we'd all love to turn back the clocks for and do again. Repeat a good experience, correct a bad mistake. I think maybe it's a good thing that we can't really though, through everything we learn and it makes us who we are.

So for now I'm just going to keep powering through until my clock gets back in its normal rhythm, hopefully before Easter so I don't have mum shrieking at me to go to bloody sleep already! but then saying that by that point the clocks will have changed again

Will I ever win??

The toaster hates me

I love toast. Thick cut and smothered in butter all washed down with a cup of tea.

At home me and the toaster have an understanding, I won't overload it with hand sliced (I.e wonky chopped) bread if it doesn't burn my bread or complain when I press it into service all hours of the day and night.

Now here at Uni, the toasters all seem to have issues. We've already had to replace one that took umbridge to cooking crumpets at 4 in the morning. Me and Sam were not amused especially as after that half the grill went on strike, maybe it was a conspiracy against midnight munch?

The new one just seems to have an attitude problem. With Kishan and Sam it has no issue, 'Toast? here you go perfectly brown. Potato waffles? Not a problem, even when you leave them in me to defrost for half an hour before pushing the button'

Maybe I some how unwittingly bought a sexist toaster? I swear when it see's me coming towards it bread in hand, it just puts it's hands on its hips and says 'You want me to what? Cook your poncey granary bread? it's already brown! what do you expect me to do with that?'.

Don't even get me started on it's treatment of my fruit bread, it was black as charcoal. Any day now I expect the toaster to start asking for a pension and an extended warranty before it even thinks about even looking at my bread.

Now a days I've come up with a new tact. Surprise toast! you sneak up behind the toaster and slam dunk your bread and slam the button before the toaster even knows what's hit it.

So far so good, I just hope my manic cackling at getting one over on the toaster doesn't wake up the flat mates.

OK writers block is kicking me in the ass, Poetry time!!!

Ok so it would appear the plot bunnies have decided to build a brick wall in my brain, making it neigh on impossible to write a decent blog post today even after one of Sam's amazing cups of tea.

So instead I'm going to share with you guys some of my poetry :) Most of its terrible but here's a couple of pieces I thought you guys might like.

Food in bed

My love of food

It knows no bounds

Except when I'm in bed

For the crumbs upon my pillow

Won't let me rest my head

My teddy bears

All stand and glare

As my sandwich falls to bits

For lettuce on the bottom sheet

Gets really on my tits

Mayonnaise and ketchup

Dripped upon the duvet

Means stomping to the kitchen

For the wash cloth I may get

So now I sit at the table

And tidily eat my food

For once it's all cleaned up

I can finally snooze

Photography

Click click

The shutter goes snap

The same infernal rhythm

Of light becoming captive

Squashed into form

Forced into a smile

The portraits

Hold prisoners

Dreaming

My heart dreams

Beneath the covers I

Toss and turn

And try to forget

But I fail

I Tell myself to smile

To take each step

And move forward

But in the end

I suffocate beneath the smile

and then once again

I'm dreaming

Ok well hoped you liked them, might post some more in the future, but really I don't write much poetry (probably for the best looking at some of this) but thought it would make a nice change from me embarrassing the flatmates and whining :D

Wobble Women!

Theresa has memories of me and Kat sat around her kitchen table lamenting at the age of 11 that the boob fairy had yet to arrive and probably never would.

By the next summer we were once again sat around the kitchen table, this time whinging that we had boobs at all they are just ‘so damn uncomfortable’.

It would seem you can’t please people either way. Everything is too big or too small, too long or too short. In a society that prizes sleek silhouettes and tiny figures, it seems the smallest amount of excess body fat, can turn many a woman to tears.

I have always been a curvy woman; a love of food has done nothing to sate that fact. It just grates on me that people will judge me by the way I look. Just the other week I nearly decked some guy on the train who was sniggering at me talking to his girlfriend in a loud voice saying ‘That girl’s ass is as big as your bag!’ (the girl was carrying one of those enormous ‘you could practically live in it’ handbags) and it hurt you know.

At secondary school Kat was like a boa constrictor getting in and out of her PE kit without showing any skin in fear of bearing the wrath of ‘The Plastics’. The plastics being our own endearment for the girls who were stick thin, with 6 inches of foundation and always the first to start the criticisms ranging from witticism’s such as

‘who’d you steal your bra off? Your grandma?’ to just loathsome comments such as

‘Aww look at the fat cows in the corner their never going to get boyfriends’.

I think after a few years I just got fed up of it and learnt a new trick. Kat used to call me Flash Gordon as I could be in and out of the changing rooms in about 3 minutes.

The new trick? Just an attitude adjustment. Something along the lines of hang it you hags I don’t care what you see or what you say.

I guess in a way I owe them a thank you, for teaching me that it does nothing to be ashamed of your body, In fact it just weighs you down. I'm not saying I’m perfect far from it, I often have moments thinking what the hell do I look like. Wishing I could change things about the way I look.

But then I remember, women are real, what we see in the papers and films is not what real women look like. Most of the women on the billboards of London look like they need a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea, there’s nothing too them! Now that’s nothing against woman who are naturally built like that (Here’s looking at you Poppy), but most women are just not built like that and it was only about 6 months ago I think when I really realised I wasn't alone.

Whilst googling stuff about body image on the web I came across this most amazing website by an American photographer who goes by the name of Substantia Jones. Her project Adipositivity is all about being positive about being larger (the name coming from the words Adipose meaning of or relating to fat, and positivity). Her photo's of nude larger women made me re-evaluate the way I looked at myself and realised that being larger was absolutely nothing to be ashamed about.

Women have imperfections, women wobble! I know I sure do! And I am proud to say as such! Sure I'm no stick insect, heck I love my food too much to ever maintain being that skinny! But I’m proud of the body God gave me. Sure some people will always sneer, not liking what they see. But surely that shouldn't be my problem.

Some people will turn around at this blog piece and go that’s disgusting, they aren’t looking after themselves, and neither are you! I'm not here advocating obesity the point I’m trying to get across is that we should be proud of our bodies whatever our size or shape.

I come from a family of short curvy women, and chances are that means any daughters I have will most likely inherit those traits. If there’s one gift I could give them those future daughters of mine it would be the power to feel good about themselves.

I mean God doesn’t honestly care how big your ass is or what your hair looks like when you first get out of bed, he made it! He knows it all anyway and he still loves you!

So why are you hating on yourself?….just think about it

For those who want the web address for the website I mentioned it’s http://www.adipositivity.com/

I just find it very encouraging and beautiful, wonderful photography and wonderful women! Fair warning though some of the photo's can be a little racy, but then it is nude photography!

Loser like me

Firstly I totally need to blame Vicky for my Glee obsession (yes it is your fault!), but it would seem that even cheesy, addictive American TV can touch people.

The new glee song Loser like me really shot me back to my time in secondary school. I hated it, loathed every single minute. I was so sick of people getting me down for just being myself.

So what that I:

• Wear glasses
• Am a total book worm
• Sound like a guinea pig when I laugh
• Have boobs bigger than some peoples heads
• Am a happy clappy holy Joe bible basher (aka Christian)

Does any of it really matter?

Honest answer, no. Ok so I suck at sport, have no idea what to do with foundation and have never had sex but I'm the person I am supposed to be and no one and I will repeat that NO ONE is going to keep me down about it.

It really bugs me that I know so many incredible people, who feel totally crap about themselves due to self centred bullies who just get their kicks being horrible to each other.

We should be proud of who we are and not be afraid to flaunt it. Take some of my friends for example. Vicky is probably one of the tallest people I know, ok so finding trousers long enough can be an issue, but she has legs to die for. Kat though seen to most as ‘positively bizarre’ (probably due to our many many laughing fits over such things as llamas) is one of the fastest wise crackers and always knows how to cheer someone up. Alex was always labelled as the ‘nerd’ and people used to be really unkind to him. Yet still he finds time to help others who are struggling with their own work (Lord knows I would never have got my head around Pythagoras without him).

We are all people worth loving warts and all. Brain box, ballerina, footballer, Frankenstein. Heck even maths teachers.

So losers like me, lets not get ourselves down when people get mean, just remember…

YOUR AWESOME!

'I wanna potato Waffle!': the joys of drunken flatmates

Walking into the kitchen last night I was quite surprised to find Sam sprawled across the floor, after giving him a nudge with my foot I ascertained that he was in fact alive. Well judging by the groaning noises anyway.

After a a few more nudges and asking him if he was ok I finally got a vaguely intelligible reply of 'I wanna potato waffle!' After inspecting the toaster it appeared he was already making waffles lol. Best to leave him too it.

I'm really beginning to think this flat floor has a magnetic pull to drunken people. I myself have been passed out in the bathroom carefully looked after by the boys who checked on me and brought me water, and in the corridor leaving the flat mates to wonder if I had dissolved the next morning after I had finally crawled to bed leaving a massive pile of stuff behind me.

Hmm student life seems to have way too much alcohol involved. Seems Kishan is the only one to not have passed out in this flat. Even Jackie has and she doesn't even live here!

Think it's time I go pass out in my bed sooooo tired! Hopefully tonight I wont find Sam on the kitchen floor caus obviosuly its Kishan's turn.

My favourite antisocial behaviour..

Before you all think I'm secretly a granny beater in my spare time, I'm actually talking about reading.

It seems barely a day goes by when I haven't spent part of it with my head in a book. I learned to read age 3 (thanks mum) and I haven't really stopped since.

My book collection is now so big I regularly have book slides. You ever been hit on the head by the full works of Cassandra Clare? Nope didn't think so. It would be a lot easier if my bookshelf here wasn't attached to the joining wall of mine and Kishans room. Every time he hits his wall books go flying.

I think the reason I love reading so much is that it's a form of escapism. When I was in school I used to get bullied so badly, but even on the worst days I could grab a good book. I remember being sat in Winsham primary school hall reading Harry potter and the chamber of secrets whilst bawling my eyes out and eating prawn cocktail crisps.

Some books can mean more than freedom, they can mean life. There's a reason why the bible is the top selling book of all time because it really speaks to people. It can comfort and chastise, encourage and inform. It's the worlds best self help book and the worlds best story book.

When I was little despite the fact my mother was mostly without religious conviction she used to read me bible stories. Moses in the rushes, Jesus and Lazerous. I even had a pop up bible (I soooo wish I still had it) with tabs so you could part the red sea and follow the Christmas star across the page.

I guess one of the reasons I write is to repay the authors that kept me sane. To encourage the next generation the way they encouraged me.

I own I would estimate over 300 books, and hopefully one day my own books will be on the shelf beside them. Now just how to explain to Dad how the amount of books I brought to uni has doubled since September oo er....

The sunshine makes me...home sick

As I stood on the platform at Canning Town station, in my short sleeve t-shirt soaking up as much vitamin D as physically possible from the sunshine I couldn't help but sigh.

I love the sunshine it makes London seem colourful and cheery. Even the harden locals crack a smile and seem to be walking with a spring in their step. Blast the beach boys for summer is (almost) here!

But I'm a country girl through and through to the point that once on a trip to Bristol I scared the poor woman I was sat next to on the coach by squealing so loudly because I saw a....sheep. Come on it had been at least 3 months since I had seen one, you could even say I was sheep deprived :P

I miss a breeze that smells of crops and manure, not car fumes and tourists. Sunshine may bring London to life, but it brings my longings with it. As nice as London can look with canary wharf twinkling in the sunshine, I can't help but remember how gorgeous Somerset is at this time of year, when everything is blooming, the bunnies jumping in and out of the hedge rows causing new drivers to swear and swerve.

I want, to be walking in the woods, swimming in the sea. But at least I have it all to look forward to when I go home for Easter. I just have to appreciate the positives of a warm spring London, such as not having to freeze every time the smokers want a fag and not having to worry about booking your coat into the cloak room at whatever club.

But do excuse me if you don't see me much during the holidays, I will probably be out somewhere hugging trees glad to be home :)

The Future

It is dawning on me how really University is the easy part of life. We've already made the biggest decision we are going to make for quite a while. What to study, where to live are pretty big decisions in themselves, but they aren't permanent. You can change course, move house as often or as little as you want.

The future appears fluid, like anything is possible. Me when I think about the future I always used to picture myself at my desk in my future home looking out on the back garden or fields where my children would be playing and a big cat asleep atop all my notes, snoring in all its fluffiness.

But is that really where I'm going to end up? Probably not, in all truth it's a very selfish picture. I am forever tooing and throwing about whether I would make a good parent. Mostly I side on the side of no I would not. But even if I did make a decent parent is it even fair to bring a child into a world that has so many issues. War, famine, natural disasters, my cooking.

The fact is that I can't help but think my ideal future is entirely selfish. When I walk into Christian union most weeks I'm meet by a crowd of people who are mostly doing economics or degrees that will go on to help them to help people in third world country's. Me I'm doing Creative writing a fairly useless degree if there ever was one, it leaves me two choices, live in hope I make it as a published writer, or go into teaching.

My friend Vicky dreams of opening a bakery and a care home and having a full brood of children (of which I hope to be god mother to at least one!) and I honestly think she will achieve it. Despite her set backs such as her dyslexia she will always fight for what she wants, and she's one of the most maternal women you could ever hope to meet. She'd probably do a better job of raising my kids than I would.

Other friends seem to have it all figured out. Guess I really don't know what I'm doing, all I've ever wanted to do is write. Trying to write a blog post for every day of lent is proving interesting. It's nice to be pushing myself to do it and not giving up even when it goes a bit wrong.

It gives me the hope that maybe one day I may actually make it as a writer, or whatever else I'm supposed to be. I guess just some days I wish the path was a little clearer, less pot holes and punctuation errors.

Well either way I live in the hope that my life will not be selfish, that I can help those around me and that the wives (my close girlfriends and co from college) get to live up to all their dreams and expectations. Because to be honest they rock.

I still want that cat though

Accents...

Accents, we've all got one, even those who are in denial (myself included).

Many a debate has raged in recent days about who sounds like what. Personally I blame Gene. It's all his fault, he started it lets stick him in the gallows.

Want to know what he said? Of course you do.....He called me posh!!!

I'm from Somerset and though I never (thankfully) inherited the local OO AR, I still don't exactly sound like the classiest girl around. Especially with my astounding lack of tact which means I normally say exactly what I'm thinking without censorship causing enormous amounts of trouble.

So of course I practically spat my sandwich across the keyboard (we were chatting on msn) if anything he is the posh one!

Really wish I hadn't tried to back up my indignation by asking Annie and the flatmates. 'You do sound Posh Rach in your own way, though you got a somerset twang' said Sam who's also from Somerset 'ahem' Bristol.

O lordy I should never have asked in the first place, we all have our accents, good, bad, northern. I just wish I wasn't told about mine.

Problem Products

It seems that now a days there is a product for everything, pimple punisher, zit zappers, skin scrappers and a million and one things to make you look good.

It would also seem that girls never seem to stop talking about them. That and the fact that there still seem to be things make up has yet to fix.

Apparently main stays of any female (oo mabye male as well but I wouldn't know) students love life seems to be a constant stream of hickeys and stubble rash. Something that as of yet none of us have found a 'cure' for.

Concealer will only ever do so much and sooner or later (normally sooner) you will once again be wide open to social ribbing. I've lost count of the amount of times we've been laughing at Ella saying she needs to eat more red meat after spying Sam's neck.

Maybe somehow though despite the marks, maybe the cures we might claim to be seeking still don't exist because deep down we still want to feel like we belong to someone.

Bathroom Bowling

Living with boys often causes many questions from friends and family. 'Is it messy?' 'Isn't that a bit strange for you?' and more often than not 'So what's your bathroom like? Must be gross surely'.

In answer to the last question no it's not. We all have our odd habits such as Sam's penchant for losing the lid to everything from the milk in the fridge to the toothpaste. Kishan hoarding empty toilet rolls in the holder. Though I'm just as bad my hair bands just seem to explode everywhere.

Despite whining the toilet seat is still up most of the time. But me and Ella have just learned to roll our eyes and deal with it. What makes me laugh about our bathroom though is how it always looks like....

Well like someone's been playing bathroom bowling in the shower. No matter how often I line up all our many shampoo, shower gel and shaving cream bottles, shortly enough they are all once again scattered about the bottom of the shower basin often with my awesome sheep shower poof smack bang in the middle. I swear this must be the new past time for the guys when they get bored in the shower. Poor sheep :(

Spose at least if the guys are entertained in the shower they will be hygienic (well for them anyway) Maybe this finally settles of the mystery of why Kishan is always in the shower!

Murderous Midnight Munchies

So I've learnt a very important lesson this week, cooking when tired even if veeeeeeeeeery hungry is a bit of a stupid thing to do. But hey Midnight munchies are killer, hence why I found myself cooking a bacon sandwich at three in the morning.

It was a fantastic sandwich, but would have been all the better if I hadn't gone back into the kitchen to put my plate in the sink to find it full of smoke. Oops...

Appeared I had forgotten to switch the hob off after cooking and the left over oil proceeded to catch fire. Stupid fire alarm never even went off...until the smoke wafted into the corridor behind me setting that alarm off after I started dealing with it. Don't think anyone was very happy with me.

Could hear the flatmates swearing at the alarm in their bedrooms, but none appeared in their pants as I expected. Security however did (though thankfully dressed and not in their pants) and seem quite bemused that I was cooking so late. Least he tried to help me air the flat (it still stinks though!) as the kitchen window wouldn't open since they had locked it after our break in. So I had to sit in the front door whilst the window in the corridor outsides the flat was opened to release the smoke.

Must have looked really strange me sat there propping the door open with my feet as I sat there read the paper and ate strawberry pencils, all that was missing was a cup of tea

Still the kitchen is back to its normal nuclear state with added smokey smell and the frying pan will soon be usable again once we figure out how to get the burnt oil tar off the bottom.

Any hoo think I might actually go get that cup of tea...

A girls life...

I've never been the most feminine of women. In fact most of my friends swear I'm just a man with severe gynecomastia, so living with two guys was never much trouble for me. Hell it's enjoyable with the random ass conversations and sarcastic comments.

But It wasn't until the lovely Ella moved in that I realised how much I missed some female company around the house. Sam's misses joining us in life at number 52 has brought about several surprising changes. The bathroom is now very much over run with feminine products with everything from my shampoo to Ella's hand cream coming in a garishly pink bottle. Sam who until now lived mostly on dairylea dunkers and fried chicken has suddenly started cooking and is surprisingly good at it! I'm now officially addicted to his Sweet potato wedges, my imitation just doesn't live up to it.

But Mostly I'm just enjoying having someone around to chat to about girlie stuff. The guys don't care about who fancies who or whether its the change in water that's making Ella break out. She was probably sick of the site of me last night asking what the hell am I supposed to wear with this dress? (I live in jeans and T-shirts I'm mostly clueless as to how to dress myself) supposedly the answer was leggings and heels. Which was much more help than the guys who I was mostly ignoring due the cry of 'More cleavage always more cleavage!'

I personally think that having another girl has balanced the flat out a bit. I feel less like a mum and a lot more like me :D

Now to do the huge pile of washing up....