September 2005 Archives

Right, it's been too quiet and sickly around here. Time to bang some drums.

To ease the mind of my sister and anyone else who might have any concern (just a smidgen will do) over my health, I am slowly recuperating. Unfortunately, a freelancer gets paid by the day, so there hasn't been much afternoon Lost-watching, but rather a bit of going to work instead. Which is just as well, as we don't have wireless broadband at home yet, which would account for the hurried poor-photoshop attempt at a birthday header still hanging around at the top of the page.

I've missed home more than ever this past week. Ian's away, I'm in a new flat, I'm ill, it all adds up to much missing of my mommy. My last Creme Soda is in the fridge, and I'm sure it won't be there when I get home :(

So I'm waiting for our broadband to be initialised (think it'll be in about 2 weeks) and for my duvet cover (in 'heather', which I hope will be a light lilac but we'll see) and mirror to arrive (should be tonight). I've decided to forego good food and quiet countryside views in Nottingham with Ian this weekend for time spent unpacking my room properly, washing all my clothes, and resting my poor racked chest.

Ian's life is all about work and hotels at the moment. I miss him terribly, no one taps my bum when I bend down to pick up things in my room anymore; no one looks at me the way he does.

I went for lunch with Gill today. The girl has been through so much recently, she's so much stronger than she gives herself credit for.

A more topical blog post is forming in my head, I'm hoping it lives to see itself expressed in text.

In the meantime, we may as well share a little. The reason for my chest being so bad is that I was born prematurely, by 6 weeks. Both of my lungs collapsed and had to be drained. As a child, I had quite a few serious chest infections, all because of what is probably a diminished capacity (and tendancy for infection) as a result of the collapse. The drains have left scars on the sides of my chest which have grown into the sides of my breasts. I hate these little scars, but in a way they're a stupid small reminder of how little I was then and how the doctors helped me as a baby. My mom had several miscarriages before me and another serious one after my birth. Those little scars remind me that I was a very very wanted baby, something quite comforting to know.
Incidentally, my orthopedic surgeon thinks it's because of my early birth that my knee ligaments never fully developed, and are more elastic than they should be.
So in a sense, every time I get a bad chest or my knee twinges, it's as a result of something that happened to me 23 years ago, 6 weeks before I was supposed to be born.

Hmmm, let's see, what's been up...

I got gastric flu. I lost the gastric bit. I gained an extra flu bit. I coughed like a dog. I pulled a muscle in my chest, which seems to rip open again every time I cough.
Needless to say, work was not a priority this week. All vacation time accumulated thus far has been spent not sunning my bod on a beach somewhere, but rather curled around a pillow supporting my lungs, and waiting in a queue at the doctors listening to children screaming.

I moved to my new flat. My flatmates are great, but they all smoke... in the lounge... which would be okay if I weren't busting a lung with every cough...
It'll be fine when I get better.

I got the rest of the first season of Lost - watched four episodes last night. Loving it. No spoilers please.

The move coupled with the last payment on my laptop means that nanonanonano remains out of my grasp for another month. It's okay - my commute has been shortened with the move anyway.
I love my room. It's pink!

Loving Interpol.

Tsotsi won the People's Choice Award at the Toronto Film Festival - this movie looks very promising. The site says that it's the South African entry for the Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars - maybe we'll come out tops.

Bet it'll never hit London.

Birthday blog

Okay, so I'm writing this the day before my birthday, not on the actual day.

Today, Sunday, has pretty much been my surrogate-birthday (oooh, intertextual, very clever). After a fantastic night out on Saturday (kudos to all who made it so easy, free-flowing, fun) I woke up a hungover but happy girl.

How do you reassure a girl who is turning 23 in a new country away from her family and all she's known, that it's okay, it's all okay really? It's probably not an easy job but Ian and Laurika managed it today. I feel loved, spoilt, and very un-alone.

So, maybe I love life right now, and maybe the chirpiness and smiles are irritating, but it's a good feeling. I'd love to communicate the grin that took over my face today.

When I'm alone at home all week while Ian's away on training, I may need to tap some of the feelgood I've got right now. I'm banking it for later.

Okay, enough with the age references.

When I first arrived in the UK, and got my first job, I would commute to Croydon by bus. I was using Ian’s little iriver to get me through the journey and listened to Keane, ‘Hopes and Fears’ a hell of a lot.

The songs had a few really penetrating lyrics, mostly just repeated, but they all had something that struck a chord with me. And many others, obviously.

So today I heard some of their songs and was transported back to a few months ago when it was always cold, the bus window catching my breath inside and the raindrops on the outside. I remember that time was all, ‘why am I here? Oh yes, that’s why. Am I happy? Mostly… Is summer ever coming? I miss my mom. I suck at cooking.’
Everything felt fresh, and not in a good way. Fresh as in unfamiliar. Fresh and cold.

I hold you in my hands
A little animal
And only some dumb idiot would let you go

I associate my (then) new job with summer, and Trafalgar Square, and Pret sandwiches. Also with a newfound confidence in my abilities in my job, a pride in juggling so many balls. Not those balls, Acid.

Today was Ian’s last day at his old job. He starts new training on Monday. I’ll be sleeping alone on my birthday – I thought that was over when I flew over here! It’s okay though, because he so deserves to be recognised as a hard worker, a trustworthy man. And I can hog the duvet.

Thank God it’s Friday. Elmo needs sleep.

Yesterday I arrived home to find an enormous box (okay, I never get stuff, so it looked enormous to me), with a return sender of Ennis, and immediately I knew. After years and years of living at home and my mother hiding away my birthday presents, I was going to open this box from my sister a week before my birthday just because I CAN.

Inside I found lots of little prezzies (the best kind of gift):
1 x awesome French retro poster bag
1 x pack of mysterious looking German choccies (not to be shared)
1 x packet of Haribo strawberry sweeties
1 x drawing by my nephew, entitled ‘Lots of Colours, No Discernible Object’
1 x photo frame of said nephew, with text ‘my aunt is the coolest’

and a couple of photos of Charlene, Frederick, Hugo and the massive amount of toys he has (as pointed out by Ian).

I have looked at it all, once again before going to sleep, and am going to go home to put it back in the box to open up all over again on the 19th. I’m so excited that the first photo frame I’ll put up in my room when I move will have a picture of Hugo and his naughty naughty smile.

Cha and Fred, thank you thank you thank you. You turned ‘the day that I didn’t get the job’ into ‘the day I got that great box of presents’.
And so sorry for not texting you yesterday, but happy 2nd wedding anniversary, you crazy kids. Much love to your little family.

Sorry for the silence.

But it’s been a very un-witty-commentary few days.

Ian and I had an argument that broke us out of a rut we’d dropped into. The argument was crap. The result is I feel lighter, easier, happier around him.

I didn’t get the job I applied for. The other girl in my department did. She’s lovely, and I hate that I can’t hate her.

An ill-timed attempt at a diet is also causing a measure of mental fatigue.

I feel like I’m getting old. Is it a bad thing when I tell people my age and they’re surprised? They all seem to think I’m older than (almost) 23.

On the bright side, I’ve decided to use my part-time research job as the portal to nano-goodness. So far I figure I’m about 21% of the way to tiny white click-wheel bliss.

I'm sure all of you, if you have a blog, have at some time experienced the urge to write after reading someone else's blog. Not a reactionary post, not a linked post, but rather, you feel inspired by their capacity to voice things, and feel pushed to do better, write better, think clearer, project quicker.

There's this 'band' out at the moment, really a troupe, I'd say: the Pussycat Dolls. Now, I'm all for pop - I totally owned Outkast and have a secret favourite Britney song - but this lot really just make me want to sigh. This might be a sign of the approaching TWO THREE but I don't care if I sound like a bally - I am really irritated by this lot.

This lot, of toit ass 19-year olds. I have nothing against the fact that they dress like ten-dollar hookers whose clothes have been aesthetically ripped (as though they'd just come through some Hollywood version of Katrina). I also don't mind their song - I don't like it but it's not ear-shattering.
But it's the lip-synching, mouth-licking, back-arching nature of them that gets to me. There's this poster of them in the tube stations - all five, in this vaguely lesbian pose, hands on, come-hither gazes. I saw them on TOTP - two of them weren't even SINGING. The redhead kept looking at the camera with what I guess she thought was a teasing, challenging gaze; when in truth I swear she actually channeled the antichrist. Those eyebrows *shudder*. And the lead, this poor lead singer girl, who clearly has a bit of a voice at least, is she so boring that the record company had to team her up with this pack of bland bitches?
I hate how homogenised it's becoming. People would say it happened a long time ago, but this 'band' have really opened my eyes to it. They are HORRIBLE. And it's all, "I'm the redhead, I'm the black one, I'm the youngest". NO YOU ARE NOT YOU ARE TALENTLESS and you all look like variantly pigmented versions of one another.
I remember in 4th year, one of our lecturers talking to us, and him saying, 'All these ads about girls getting straight hair and flat non-frizzy hair, how boring! Who wants to all have the same hair? Who wants to have flat uninteresting hair?'
I really respected him and I really felt... I dunno, almost hurt? at that point... I had been straightening my hair all year and you know, I still do?
Maybe fuzzy haired people are more interesting.

Okay, don't really know where this is going so I'll stop now. In the meantime I found a picture of these heathens - you can see the redhead summoning the dark lord in the middle there.

Is an Ipod Nano.

Is that asking so much? IS IT?

Apparently, the Herald in Zim is now accusing actors of attempted coups:

Kidman And Penn Accused Of Mugabe Plot

It goes on to claim the picture is part of an "imperialist" plot and its release "timed to coincide" with next week's summit of world leaders at the Un in New York City.

Um, call me crazy, but didn't this movie come out in the beginning of this year? It would take some serious forward planning to coincide the DVD release to the exact time of this summit... but then I do remember uni buddies telling me that flicks take so long to reach Zim that they're often out on DVD before hitting the cinema circuit...

Ten points to the Herald for originality though. Maybe there really is more going on in Nicole Kidman's strawberry-blonde little head than I thought. Who knew that between worrying about Katie Holmes being the prospective stepmother of her kids and learning how to wiggle her nose to be in Bewitched, she was also hatching imperialist plots! Truly, the woman is multi-faceted.

With your carefully designed topless swimsuit/ You get an even suntan on your back and on your legs

Please note the welcome arrival of the goose factor on your right. I like him because he screamed 'you want to suck me WHERE?' at me in the dining hall queue at university; and because he's extremely complimentary. And he writes very eloquently.

So we went away to a small village outside Nottingham for the weekend, to see Ian's aunt and uncle, with Ian's mum. Red wine, warm sunny days, lie-ins and laughs later, it was both sad and great to come home. Seeing some greenness, rolling hills and white ponies was very cool and sorely needed, but dropping my bags in my room and seeing my friendly little laptop sitting here patiently awaiting my return, was actually quite nice.

OOOH, OOOH! I saw Saskia and Maxwell from Big Brother in Wimbledon on the way home. She's really little, he's a dork. I was totally starstruck. Ian was bemused. I didn't even try to get him to pull over, but lord knows, had I been driving, you'd be seeing random photos of me next to a tongue extended Maxwell. I didn't even like them in that show, but hey - I'LL TAKE ALL THE ARBITRARY B-GRADE CELEBRITY ASS I CAN GET.

In a sad attempt to generate some words on a page, please find below a selection of two word phrases that at some time in my life have meant something (small or big) to me:

surrogate rockit
cellar door
paranoid android
Limp Bizkit
russian intelligence
Jake Gyllenhaal
General Specific
happy birthday
Dashboard Confessional
free beer
effused capsule
premature birth
Bloody Mary
Mini Eggs
Toyota Tazz
weak tendons
Thomas Pringle
Ian Wilson
Milky Bar
Kazuo Ishiguro
Milkwood Drive