tonight

I went here with my theatre-buddy to see this. It was bloomin' fantastic - incredible deconstructing and reassembling of the Romeo and Juliet story.

can't get enough of this

“I myself have never been able to find out what feminism is; I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute”

-- Rebecca West (1913)

by our gatepost

I was in two minds as to whether or not to take my camera with me today - my bag was full and heavy with the major works of Shelley (well worth a place in my bag but fairly cumbersome nonetheless) and it was a bit of a squeeze.

But when I got to our gatepost - the gate having apparently long since gone - I was glad I brought it.

I've been meaning to take a picture of this flower for weeks. It's amazing. I don't know what kind it is, but it's open during the day, and then if it's too cold or it's night it closes up again.

I've become very fond of it actually, and keep an eye out for it every morning.

It's probably some kind of weed, but not to me. Today it made all the difference in the world.

Monday's Faces

I get the impression that they didn't hold hands very often. But then, perhaps his father didn't used to hold his hand either.

Leunig on Sunday

A little late, I know.

(All credits to Leunig)

God bless those who suffer from the common cold.
Nature has entered into them;
Has led them aside and gently lain them low
To contemplate life from the wayside;
To consider human frailty;
To receive deep and dreamy messages of fever.
We give thanks for the insights of
this humble perspective.
We give thanks for blessings in disguise.

Amen.

somers town

A brilliant film, completely lovely. Directed by Shane Meadows (of "This is England" fame) and so delicate.

Let's hear it for British film.

oh, the indignity...

(brilliant graffiti at my local Metro station - now an all-too-unpleasant reality...)

Well, it's official. Called NHS Direct this morning and was told I have swine flu. Marvellous.

Boyfriend soon to be dispatched to collect necessary tamiflu and warned to stay well and truly at arm's length.

I, on the other hand, must stay in bed (how I curse the wretched thing!) and shun any kind of human company for forseeable future. Mind you, given that I only got 2 hours sleep last night in between fits of coughing and nose-blowing I could, I don't know, catch up on some sleep perhaps.

Oh yipee.

breath of fresh air

The wonderful aforementioned Sophie left a voicemail on my mobile last night reading an extract of a poem to me. It cheered me up no end, amidst my great sea of tissues and ibuprofen:

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns...

From "The Great Lover" by Rupert Brooke

sick sick sick

Ach, I feel dreadful. This is now the second day of lectures and seminars I've had to miss...

Can't even bring myself to blog about something colourful or interesting.

Very unhappy and snotty...

Monday's Faces

No description on the back of this one. My eye is drawn to the lady on the left - Elsie, I reckon. Not too clear where they are either, but looks as though they could be in a boat. The lady on the right looks a tad insipid - lately jilted perhaps?

I think Elsie has taken her out for the day to cheer her up, and "get her some fresh air." I think Elsie is the type of lady who would insist on rowing the boat, and when she got together with her friends would say she was having "a night with the girls."

a splash of colour

In the Metro station. Cheered me up and made me feel all sunny even though it's bloomin' freezing out now. It reminded me of here a bit as well, not sure why, but made me smile and feel a little warm and fuzzy.

the big date

Leunig on Sunday

(All credits to Leunig)

Dear God,

We give thanks for the darkness of the night where lies the world of dreams. Guide us closer to our dreams so that we may be nourished by them. Give us strong dreams and memory of them so that we may carry their poetry and mystery into our daily lives.

Grant us deep and restful sleep that we may wake refreshed with strength enough to renew a world grown used.

We give thanks for the inspiration of stars, the dignity of the moon, and the lullabies of crickets and frogs.

Let us restore the night and reclaim it as a sanctuary of peace, where silence shall be music to our hearts, and darkness shall throw light upon our souls. Good night. Sweet dreams.

Amen

thank you sunshine

You've made my freesias blossom. They were a present from someone I like quite a lot.

all better

A little of this and a little of that and I'm in love with the world again

this afternoon

I went from feeling fairly OK about myself, to feeling like a bloated and corpulent sow within just one solitary stinking hour.

It was all grossly unfair. There I was, doing some innocent bra/jeans shopping, just trying things on in the changing room, and there it was: a gargantuan ape of a creature staring back at me from the mirror in the corner of my cubicle. Not only was it foul to the eye, but it also appeared to require inhuman swathes of material to cover its porcine frame - and even then it was left able to only crush one leg into the insufficient acreage of denim. Horror of horrors, its face looked familiar.

I left the shop with no bras, no jeans, and in a thunderous mood. Only when they've got us under their hideous fluorescent lightbulbs, half naked and tottering about with one leg in our jeans, in a cubicle of roughly the same dimensions as a shoebox, loathing ourselves and our now astonishingly close resemblance to an ox, do they have us where they really want us.

Retail therapy my bum.

Monday's Faces

Quite a find I made today. I had an hour to kill between lectures so I found myself wandering up a narrow flight of stairs to a local antique shop and having a hunt around. There were was a fair brilliant range of trinkets and "objets" as my dad would say.

But the thing that caught my eye was a box of postcards and photographs labelled "subjects" for 25p each. Trying to stifle my excitement I asked the shopkeeper (who looked very dapper in a suit) if he could open the cabinet for me.

I spent the next half hour searching through the box of absolute treasure and beaming with happiness. Some had scribbled dates and places on the back, some had detailed descriptions in neat hand, others had nothing - allowing me the pleasure of imagining.

I bought 13 cards today and fully intend to go back for more soon. I tell you, looking at those black and white and sepia faces really bloomin cheered me up. And, as Mondays can often be fairly dour, I'll share a face a week with you. I hereby announce with great pleasure the first "Monday's Face":


No detail on the back other than the print "Carta Postala Italiana", but I like to think she was a dancer called Maria and she saved that sequin skirt for her dance sessions and nothing else.

I love the way she's stood so awkwardly and her face is slightly blurred with movement, as though she turned her head at the last minute - perhaps because she felt embarrassed in front of the camera. She's not got model looks, but I'll bet the only time she felt truly beautiful was when she was dancing.

Leunig on Sunday

I bought this book by the cartoonist, Leunig, this summer, and I think it's bloomin brilliant.

I've been gradually reading it through, but I'd like to share it with people. So, every Sunday, I'm going to blog it - bit by bit. So here goes...

(All credits to Leunig)

God help us to live slowly
To move simply
To look softly
To allow emptiness
To let the heart create for us.

Amen.

last night

I fell in love with Newcastle again. Me and a couple of friends wandered through Chinatown to get some spring rolls, then down to the quayside to The Red House - my favourite pub ever.

Newcastle at night, I just love it all: Grey Street with its curved buildings and the Theatre Royal, the cobbly streets as you get closer to the quayside, the Geordies dressed to the nines on their way out, the little lights along the river, the queues by Monument to get into the clubs, the nine-things-to-do-in-Newcastle benches.

What a place - what a home.

Mrs. Tiggywinkle

It has come to my attention that, worryingly enough, I am becoming incredibly domesticated. Seriously. I just brought my washing in from the line, and found myself burying my face in it and smelling that just-washed-and-dried-outside-in-fresh-air smell. Oh dear...

a present

We had our official housewarming party yesterday evening and my friend, the lovely Sophie, brought me this birdy dress which she had cunningly and skilfully charity-shopped for me - thank you sweet Sophie!

today

I saw a policeman - handcuffs, truncheon and all - in the supermarket buying boxes of mini rocky roads and mini flapjacks.

It made me smile.

guys and girls

me: So, I'm thinking it'd be nice to spend some time just us together. Because, we're always with other people - either my housemates, your housemates, or friends from CU and stuff - which is lovely, but I miss just being us together.

him: Mmm.

me: I'm sorry I've been all weird recently. I keep missing you so I get all needy and clingy, and then I get cross with myself because I'm getting all clingy, and then I think "I'm going to put him off with all my clinginess," and then I get more clingy because I don't want you to go off me. I'm just all emotional and silly. So I'm sorry.

...

him: So, are bed socks more breathable than normal socks?

writing home

I admit, I love it. I think writing letters is one of the most personal things you can do, and - come on - we all get excited when we get a letter in the post that doesn't come from a bank.

I just love everything about it - the feel of the paper and the taste of licking the envelope, deciding what to write and how to write it, and crowning it with a perfectly-written address and golden stamp on the front. I could go on and on about it - and probably will if I don't rein it in - but really there is nothing else like it.

I think one of the things that makes it all so exciting is that you get to see people's handwriting. When almost everything now is typed, with only signatures being the main handwritten words, you can't help but feel you get a little bit of the person communicating to you through their writing. There is a vulnerability to it - voicing your thoughts and feelings through your penmanship. That is why it's so appealing.

Then there is the actual writing to consider. What colour? What kind of pen? Pencil? Lined paper, or plain? So much can be gleaned from these little details.

And that moment, when you almost step over the little envelope on your doormat - with your name on the front.

That's why I love letters.

I have come to realise...

That I am really a granny trapped in a 20 year-old's body.

Actually, the title of this post is misleading - it is not a new thought which has just recently drawn me to this conclusion, but rather a sneaking suspicion that's been brewing for a good long while.

It doesn't bother me too much: floral prints, knitted cardigans, fresh flowers everywhere (favourites) and a liberal smattering of books seems like a fairly idyllic existence if I'm honest. Perfection itself, surely, cannot be far from a well-dunked digestive in a large-mugged brew?

My premature grannyhood seems, in fact, to have been universally accepted - and indeed embraced - by my friends and housemates, with teapots and general knitted goods being common objects left scattered in my wake.

Here's to the floral prints and general chintziness that make up my little existence.

oh, the joy...

...of honey on toast. Truly, I cannot imagine a thing much more perfect.

Literally liquid gold, and completely wonderful.

I love the way that, if you flick the toast quickly onto your plate and get the butter on before it starts to cool, it melts into yummy shimmery goldenness.

I love that the honey itself makes a really thin crunchy layer on the top that makes a good noise when you bite it.

And I love that my cheap toaster is a little bit too small for my bread, so the top is still a little bit soft when I take it out.

I celebrate and give thanks for the joy that is toast.

and some for all the running folks

OK, so my boyfriend is into running. In, it has to be said, a fairly big way. So much so that he is willing to put himself through - from my perspective at least - the annual torture of the Great North Run.

This year, being the supportive and loving type, I went along to watch, cheer, and wave enthusiastically from safely behind the sidelines.

I tell you, it was a sight to be seen.

And what a buzz! It felt like the whole athletic world had rolled into Newcastle (which, to be fair, it very nearly had) and was just pouring through the streets and over the Tyne Bridge. Such colours! Never had I thought that Lycra could be so supremely beautiful, but I stand corrected. When you've got over 54,000 people all running in the brightest (albeit tightest) outfits imaginable, it makes for a pretty impressive sight.

Now, I hasten to add (if you hadn't already gathered), that running categorically isn't my thing. But by the end of it, I could quite see the appeal. An event like that is incredibly spectacular, and I found myself secretly wishing I could join in. My blokey told me that, often, when they run past roundabouts and street corners, local brass bands are out playing for them as they run by. Now that, surely, is a precious moment. When else does something so wonderfully nostalgic as that happen in our busy and urbanised lives?

I watched as he ran over the bridge, then jumped on the Metro and raced him to South Shields, and the finish line. When I eventually found him amidst the crowds of literally thousands of people, all wrapped up like a jacket potato in his foil blanket freebie and grinning from ear to ear, I was so immensely proud. I realised that it was more than just running to him. This was an event that he anticipates all year long, which - for a couple of hours at least - allows him to be more than just one little person, but instead a member of a huge, surging, dazzling, and determined team. Surely a year's worth of training is worth that one perfect moment?

I was very proud of you, bird.

(Having said that, I didn't tell him that the Red Arrows were my favourite bit)

from my birthday

Now that I've finally (though shamefully late, I admit) downloaded all the recent stuff from my camera onto my computer, I've come across some little nuggets of birthday happiness. Here are a couple of them:

Pancakes: The Moment of Truth

Pancakes: Chuffed?

I really do have the best housemates. It was brilliant guys x

happy birthday mum

I hope you had the best time in Ireland - so wish I could wake you up this morning with shrieking and cake!

You know I think you're wonderful, and can't wait to see you.

Love you.

P.S. I hope you found your eligible fiddler

hello autumn

It's finally arrived - my favourite season.

Today was the first time I felt that frosty bite in the air: the merest hint of the chill to come. I couldn't quite see my breath in the air, but I know it'll happen soon.

Of course, with the beginning of autumn comes the annual 'coat decision'. To wear, or not to wear? I have managed to acquire a rather marvellous silk-scarf-and-tweed-coat ensemble which makes me feel really rather Withnailian and wonderful, and I'm just aching to wear it. I attempted it the other day - but I don't think my heart was really in it. The coat seemed to be wearing me, rather than the other way round, and I couldn't help but notice the large numbers of people donned in t-shirts walking the streets.

It was one of those odd days where clothes are concerned, the type when the general population can't seem to make up its mind. The kind when if you leave the house in anything less than a winter coat you feel underdressed, but wearing one makes you feel foolishly prepared for Arctic conditions and invariably results in the carrying of said coat.

Still, autumn is definitely approaching - the trees are looking progressively self-consciously ill-clothed and a chill is in the air. My foppish coat beckons... Huzzah!

I may be slightly in love with this man

'This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.'
-- Walt Whitman

A recent discovery of mine, and an utterly wonderful one. How did I ever live without reading this?

this is it

No more procrastinating - the blog is as perfected as you have the energy to make it before collapsing into bed, but now you need something to write. You can't just leave it empty, what kind of that impression would that make on the blogging community? 'Ah, another half-hearted glory blogger, she'll never last.' No, indeed!

So, with a sigh of trepidation and unwilling obligation you settle back down to think of something deeply profound, witty, and - if nothing else - remotely interesting to say.

Nothing. Blank.

Frantically you rack your brains, scrabbling into the deep recesses of your mind, grasping at some intangible and marvellous gem of philosophical or comic potential prose with which to stamp your mark firmly upon your little corner of cyberspace.

Zilch.

Inspiration snorts at you and says, 'Oh, come on. You can do better than this. Next thing you know, you'll cop out and write a some spiel about how you can't think of anything to say.'

So that's what you do.

Then resolve to find something deeply entertaining to write tomorrow.

thoughts, albeit outdated, from halls of residence