I've just got back from my second stint in The Gambia. No internet this time, and as Twitter decided not to cooperate with my Gambian mobile I actually had to do some work instead. Fortunately this paid off with excellent fly catches, a small colony of extremely confused Musca sorbens who snuggled down into their pupariae in Farafenni and woke up in Harpenden and possibly an entirely new species of entomopathogenic nematode. Unfortunately in the excitement of smuggling all of the above through customs I managed to leave my handbag on the plane, where it appears to have been swiftly appropriated by cleaners or my fellow passengers. I lost among other things Jeff's camera, my Oyster card, my housekeys and all the receipts I was going to use to claim back my field expenses. This means that all my plans for extravagent celebrations to mark my return have had to be scaled back to treating myself to some new housekeys and a tub of werewolf-strength leg wax, but it could be worse, I could be discovering the sound of one hand clapping.
Anyway until enough of my brain starts functioning to write something vaguely coherent* here are some photos I took in The Gambia and transferred to my laptop before losing the camera.
I'm heading up back to the Shire for the next few days to catch up with various friends and family members before Christmas. Back to London on the 22nd, and spending a fortnight with the Gentleman Caller. (If, of course, we don't murder each other).
So, I may not be blogging again until the new year. Would like to take the opportunity to wish everyone a very happy Christmas, and to ask a favour.
I'm volunteering with Crisis this Christmas, who arrange centres throughout the week to provide homeless people with an enjoyable Christmas. This includes hot showers, three meals a day, and a bed to those who need it. They also provide medical and dental care, access to the Samaritans, and most importantly a safe place for people to have a rare chance to relax and have fun.
I'll be working from the 27th-29th December, and would really appreciate any sponsorship. Crisis do amazing things with the donations, and you could really change someone's Christmas for the better.
Further to my previous post - I hate snow because I hate being cold. If I had my way, temperatures wouldn't be allowed to dip below 15 degrees C. Being cold makes me feel physically ill, my bones ache, my skin gets so utterly wrecked I look like I'm cultivating a layer of scales. I can't even think properly when it's cold.
(Some of you would probably claim that there'd be no noticable difference from usual. This may be true).
I braved Senate House yesterday. Unfortunately I only remembered halfway through the bus journey home, which meant having to get off at King's Cross and walk, rather than just crossing Russell Square. Still, "how hard can it be?" I asked myself. "It can't be that far, it's only one tube stop."
Big mistake.
Not only did I manage to set off in the complete wrong direction, I also found myself stuck in a hail storm. Rather naively, I had assumed that as it's a massive white building that looks like a wedding cake, it would be pretty easy to spot from Kings Cross. I was, of course wrong.
I then had to go through the struggle of trying to find the books I actually wanted. It's like a Crystal Maze mental challenge in there. Instead of using the Dewey Decimal system like every other library I have ever visited, they have their own weird combination of letters and numbers that is yet to make any sense to me.
I needed books from the English Lit section, then one from the Sociology section. Of course, this wasn't made easy. I had to trek down from the 6th floor of the South Block to the ground, cross the ground floor (dodging a BBC film crew on the way), then back upstairs in the North Block to reach the Sociology books. I think it's a way of assessing academic prowess - if you can pass the test of actually tracking the correct books down, you are deemed worthy and permitted to borrow them.
Though it's probably for the best I chose not to follow Google maps' directions from King's Cross to Russell Square:
For all that, I am immensley fond of Senate House. It's very pretty. University of London legend also has it that Hitler planned to use it as his base should he ever invade Britain. May not be true, but it's quite a good story. Almost as good as having a campus graveyard.
One of my earliest memories is telling my mum that when I grew up, I wanted to be a writer. At twenty-one, the same holds true. (I am not 'grown up', nor do I think I ever will be). That's mostly why I'm starting this blog – I’m hoping that it’ll inspire me to actually get some writing done rather than merely having the best intentions.
So, me. Feels a bit odd introducing myself as I suspect the only people to read this will be those I already know, but I can live in hope that complete strangers may stumble across my ramblings and find them oddly amusing.
I live in Hoxton, which isn’t as trendy as most presume. While there are multiple trendy media types wandering round the place, they don’t tend to reside in Hackney’s infamous council estates. Though our house does the job. We all fit in, and it keeps the rain out (well, mostly).
I’m in my final year of an undergraduate degree in English Literature. Books are quite possibly my favourite thing in all the world. So while I may be digging myself into an ever-deeper pit of debt, I’m enjoying myself while doing it. It is, however, getting to the point where my books are taking over my room. One of us is going to have to be banished to the cupboard, and as they outnumber me something like five hundred to one, I suspect I may lose the battle. One day, when I’m rich and successful (a girl can dream), I want to have a house full of books. I can’t bear to part with any of mine. I can’t stand libraries because having to give back a new friend after just three weeks breaks my heart a little.
I’m originally from Loughborough, one of the dullest towns on earth. Seriously - its proudest claim to fame is having the "world's largest bell foundry", and is the only place in the Western world I know of that doesn't have a Starbucks. (This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but proves it's about twenty years behind the rest of modern civilisation). We also have a statue in the town centre of a man naked, except for a sock and a fig leaf. The most famous Loughborian is Roy from Coronation Street. I thankfully managed to escape out into the big wide world. Many never manage it. Though while I ran away to the big city, my dad did the opposite and now lives in a lighthouse on the most remote inhabited island in Britain. We’d have called it a mid-life crisis were he not a bit too old for that.
I have a tendency to anthropomorphise things. I’m a vegetarian. I like things that glow in the dark, dinosaurs and red wine. I hate tomatoes and people touching near my eyes. I’ve been dying my hair since I was thirteen. I prefer Pepsi to Coke. I’m just over halfway through a mission to see every Shakespeare play performed on stage. I watch Doctor Who and have put a Dalek on our Christmas tree. I want a pet cow.
The title of this blog is a lyric from a Dresden Dolls song. I’ve never been particularly graceful and seem to have a more tumultuous relationship with gravity than most people. I walk into things and fall over things – more often when sober than not. I’m the only person I know who has actually injured themselves by "walking into a door." More than once.
I've just got back from my second stint in The Gambia. No internet this time, and as Twitter decided not to cooperate with my Gambian mobile I actually had to do some work instead. Fortunately this paid off with excellent fly catches, a small colony of extremely confused Musca sorbens who snuggled down into their pupariae in Farafenni and woke up in Harpenden and possibly an entirely new species of entomopathogenic nematode. Unfortunately in the excitement of smuggling all of the above through customs I managed to leave my handbag on the plane, where it appears to have been swiftly appropriated by cleaners or my fellow passengers. I lost among other things Jeff's camera, my Oyster card, my housekeys and all the receipts I was going to use to claim back my field expenses. This means that all my plans for extravagent celebrations to mark my return have had to be scaled back to treating myself to some new housekeys and a tub of werewolf-strength leg wax, but it could be worse, I could be discovering the sound of one hand clapping.
