arguments

My computer is officially in a mood with me. So much so that it's actually gone on strike, it's no longer allowing me such simple luxuries as, um, you know, going on the internet and, like, accessing my college work and stuff.

So in I wade with my newly purloined USB key (merci, Emilie's dad) and haul all of my college work and writing off of the computer to transfer it to my laptop. Does my laptop have a USB driver? Does it hell.

Blogging will sadly be limited for a couple of weeks as I can only get on the net at college and, let's face it, I can't be bothered to spend my frees in the computer room.

In other news, my body went on strike on Monday morning.

Hey, body, I said, it's time to get up.
To which my body replied - Fuck. Right. Off.

It's officially, my body is revolting.

Get it?

I've lost three pounds...

it's getting late

About 1:17am according to the PC in Emilie's study, which is where I am right now.

Meffie and Emilie are upstairs having a conversation that sounds interesting, so I think I'll stay down here a while. Also, they're listening to Franz and I have my usual alcohol-induced headache. I've been going through my old e-mails, I have an awful lot of them for some reason. I don't like to delete things that might one day be interesting to look back through and I feel vindicated now that I've spent an hour and a half dredging up my electronic past.

The best thing is finding the really important ones, all the decisive emails, the ones that changed stuff. Then there's the incredibly stupid ones that made me laugh hysterically at the time but that now I don't get. Maybe because I'm really very tired.

I'm in one of those silly, withdrawn moods. I'm not bummed, pissed off or anything like that, I'm just tired and have no wish to do or say or feel anything. Sorry, Meffie and Emilie, when you read this (which I'm sure you will) that I've been in my silly withdrawn mood. We said we weren't going to get bummed out tonight and so, seeing as I'm too tired to maintain my earlier level of hysterical drunken hyperness, this is the only mood I have left to try.

I feel absolutely nothing at all. Completely neutral. Numb, if you like. I'm sure I'll be a wreck at church tomorrow, I can feel it in my bones, but now I'm just ________________. *insert adjective here*

The guy who wrote and directed Dogma is a Christian. I'm really glad about that. I love the bit where God (Alanis Morrisette) comes out of the church, everyone hits the deck and Bartleby (Ben Affleck) just stands up and starts crying. What does she do? She gives him a big hug, and you know he's been waiting for that God-hug for a whole fucking millenia and it's so good. Then she blows his head off but it's a good thing, he says thank you, he's back with God and I dunno if he's in heaven or if he's nowhere at all but he screwed up and was forgiven and he got CLOSURE.

Ah, closure. Try to find a definition of closure on the net. It's difficult. Why? Because closure is difficult. It's hard to make that step from 'right in the middle' to 'done and dusted'. It's ending things, letting go of things that really bites. You think you're over a thing, a person, but you're not. Maybe we're not meant to get over stuff, maybe it's just supposed to stick with it. I had this idea once, wouldn't it be strange if people left actual, tangible marks on each other. Like, every person you slept with, every person you hurt or lied to, everyone who ever told you a secret left some kind of mark on you, like a tattoo.

That annoying Natasha Bedingfield song... "my skin is like a map of where my heart has been" "there's a mark on me, like a love heart carved on a tree" "I found your fingerprints on a glass of wine / do you know you're leaving them all over this heart of mine too?"

Maybe we just carry marks around. In a way that's good. I wouldn't want all the people who've ever affected me to just... cease to affect me.

Oh and, Emilie, I stuck a post-it with the word 'motherfucker' written on it somewhere in your study. I'm not gonna tell you where, I'm just gonna hope you find it before your mum does.

make poverty history pics

Thanks to the photographic genius of Emilie, some pictures of our adventures at the Trade Justic Rally are now living here. Thanks!

In local news, I've lost my house keys and my passport. Who says I'm not old enough to look after myself?

I love you all.

in which fi becomes an old git

...when I stand in the showers at the swimming pool and lean right back so my eyes and face are right underneath the flow, the water drumming on the top of my thick head sounds just like rain pouring down on my conservatory roof.

I don't think rain is as good as it used to be. When I was little (in my day, as it were), I used to love sitting inside listening to the rain. Especially at night, when it was so dark that I couldn't see the rain but I could hear it, and if I stuck my hand out the window (which I would) I could feel it. I liked rain at night because it broke the silence, it got rid of the irrational fear that maybe I was the only person left in the world, maybe everyone else was just gone. I figured, civilisation couldn't have disappeared if it's still raining.

Really heavy rain is the best. Spitting rain just gets annoying, I like downpours. If it can be described as a downpour, or torrential, or pouring, then I like it. I'm only in it for rain that really drenches me. Not damp, not moist but absolutely soaked to the skin. That is rain. When we went to see the Woman in Black (or was it Cats?) in Woking, we had a real downpour. It was raining so hard that we were soaked the instant we stepped outside. We made a run for the shopping centre at first, but then a couple of us gave up. And by gave up, I mean we ran back outside and started jumping in puddles.

That's what rain is for.

But when I'm inside, rain just doesn't sound as loud as it used to. I don't get that safe, snug feeling of 'I'm on the inside, nice and warm'. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it doesn't even rain as often as it used to. And when it does, it never rains as hard. Kids today, they don't even know what real rain is like. In my day we had real rain.

rip - the monstrosity

I should be telling you all about the Trade Justice rally I went to last night (and this morning), but as a result of staying up all night wandering around Whitehall and waving a placard, I'm far too exhausted.

Instead, I'd like to take a moment to bring some sad news to my very special portion of the interweb. My trusty pink hat (nicknamed 'the monstrosity') passed away at dawn this morning. The hat, a gift from a friend, was well loved by both friends and family. It had many adventures. It's been across the country with me, to Belgium with me. It's been headwear, a teddy bear, a thing to keep other things in, but most importantly - it's been my friend.

Alas, good things must come to an end. The hat left this world at the peak of its existence, at the most exciting event it had ever attended, sitting on the prettiest head it had ever graced (Emilie's, not mine). It was with us as we protested outside Whitehall, it sat in the cinema with us and watched campaign footage, it was my pillow as I was lying on the grass in Parliament square.

This morning, at dawn, my hat ended up in the Thames. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I was informed by a stunned Emilie that it has, in fact, fallen to a watery grave. It died as it lived - with flamboyance, hilarity and a large amount of confusion.

It has gone to a better place.

Black bands of mourning will be worn on Monday. Counselling is available, please enquire on the 'comments' section of this post. A book of condolences will be open in the Church from Monday to Friday this week.

P.S - Emilie, there was this guy in the procession wearing a penguin hat: if you're gonna insist on buying a replacement, could you get me one like that?

P.P.S - Or one with two beer cans and a straw, like we were talking about on Friday.

P.P.P.S - Or a tophat!

P.P.P.P.S - Any money says my old hat is up there in heaven, giving me the middle finger.

hard of hearing? me?

So, Meffie, Laura and I are in Time Out, having a chat about this Friday's all-night-long Trade Justice Rally. Laura mentions that there's an ecumenical service on at some ungodly hour of the morning, and that we should go along.

Me - "What does ecumenical mean?"
Laura - "All denominations?"
Meffie - "It means universal, so yeah, it would mean that."
Me - "I knew that. Yeah I did."
Meffie - "If it's all denominations, how are they gonna do communion?"
Laura - "They probably won't do a mass, just a general service that everyone will like."
Meffie - "Oh... We had this distant relative in our family that died recently, my parents had to go to her funeral and it was this full length, proper Catholic Mass that went on for ages."
*ouch noises*

I hear - Laura - "Are you sure it was in England?"
I respond - by laughing like a drunk and slapping my thigh, thinking that Laura's just made a dead funny joke, implying that the distant relative was in fact the Pope, which I thought was terribly clever.
Laura actually said - "Was it all in English?"

Laura was wondering if the service was in English or Latin. She wasn't making a joke about Meffie being related to the Pope at all. Even worse, when I explained what I thought she'd meant, nobody found it funny.

Sigh.

and i'm back

Back from where? I hear you ask. Well, um, nowhere.

I'm back in the most metaphorical sense of the word. Not so much returned as... regressed. Thing is, I've been doing OK these last few weeks. Almost a month, in fact. It was kind of around the same time as I revealed my undying love (well, of sorts) for Mr Anonymous and then got knocked back. Funnily enough that really helped me out. I stopped mooning around, started getting off my arse and taking control of my life, doing what I wanted to do and generally making myself a lot happier. So, yeah, it's been good these last few weeks.

On Sunday, I got into this stupid mood about something or other. It was one of those days where I stayed in all day to get work done, and got nothing done. Absolutely no motivation whatsoever. I didn't want to do anything but curl up in a ball and sleep. I've kind of learnt by now to recognise the symptoms. Firstly, I start getting angry at absolutely everything. Then I start worrying, get excessively anxious. Then I just don't care, completely numb and really couldn't give a shit what happens. Then I get sad, and suddenly I'm constantly on the verge of tears. Throughout all of these stages, I feel exhausted.

It lasts a while. Days, weeks, worst case scenario several months and then I'll suddenly snap out of it. One day I'll just feel better and everything will be fine. Then I'll run around, doing everything and seeing everything and generally pretending that I'm superwoman. Something or other will trigger it off and then, I end up back where I started. That's where I am now. Back at the beginning. Square one, the bottom of the snake, no ladders in sight, if you will.

In a way it's good that I can see the pattern in these stupid 'down phases' because it means I can kind of see them coming. Maybe that's bad, maybe I'm expecting to get down and so I do, maybe I let it escalate. Either way, this time I decided to do a pre-emptive strike. I went to my drama teacher, intending to just ask if I could maybe have a chat to him about some of the stuff that's been going on. Kind of a safety net, so when I start shutting people out and isolating myself, there's someone who knows what's going on.

Is it pathetic that I'm depending on a teacher for that? Probably.
Am I being over dramatic about this? Probably. I don't care. I'm too exhausted to care.

gym will fix it

So, I joined the gym the other week. It's costing me, um, my mum, quite a bit. Um, a lot. Joint membership at, um, too much per month. We figure it's worth our while if we use it enough to get our money back. On that logic, I'd like to say that I, at least, am getting my money's worth. Um, my mum's money's worth.

Mum hasn't been once since we joined. I've been twice. Quite appalling by anyone's standards I know. Interestingly, the big battle here is not against my incredible self-consciousness and, believe me, it should be (safe to say, when God designed me, sports clothes and gym equipment, he was giving his renowned sense of humour a good ol' airing). Even squeezing into my tankini (yep, I called it a tankini, that's right) wasn't as embarassing as I thought it would be.

I was actually quite pleased to find that I'm a better swimmer than I thought. I was appalling as a child. As much as I wanted to be a water baby, I just wasn't. Arm bands and floats and a manic phobia of not having my feet on solid ground put paid to that dream. Then, when I was 13, I went to Portugal for two weeks with my friend Sarah and, through boredom more than anything else, I finally became a competent swimmer. Sadly, something in my head still equates swimming to almost drowning. Think it's gonna take a few more lengths to shake that one off.

Anyway, I've kind of resigned myself to the fact that I am never gonna be one of those whippet thin gym babes, you know the kind with the skin tight trousers and the Croydon facelift ponytails, that scary look of grim determination and the notable lack of any kind of femininity... screw that. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16 and who the hell am I to argue with that? All I'm after is to be able to climb stairs without seeing stars and who cares if I look ridiculous on the way.

Nuhuh. It's really finding the time that's putting me off. They said three times a week should do the trick. Uhuh. Is that before or after I learn to cook, write a book and pass my A-levels? Here we go again, my usual "not enough hours in the day" tirade. All I want is some time to myself, right? Some 'me' time, or 'Fi' time, if you will. Hah. A little bit of my day when absolutely no one can tell me what to do or ask me to be entirely different. A little part of my life that I have complete control over, yeah?

Well, as it happens, the problem has solved itself, again. From henceforth, let gym time be 'me' time - after all, there ain't nobody crazy enough to bother me when I look like I do on that infernal rowing machine. You know how Lee Evans sweats on stage? You remember that Star Wars film with Jabba the Hut when he gets all angry? You know how dogs get real mad and bark at you when you interrupt their game of fetch? Yeah, you know what I mean.

favourite band

Just so you know, the dates on my posts are all wrong. I wish I could remember exactly when I post what but, safe to say, the date and time on any individual post will not be correct. If only I could be bothered to sort that out...

******

Just got back from the Idlewild gig in Reading. Wish I could wait until tomorrow before I post but I'm buzzing too much, something's gotta be said right now.

It was amazing seeing them live, like meeting a penpal. I've loved that band for so long, every single song they played tonight had some kind of memory, some kind of feeling attached to it, it was kind of like a trip down memory lane. On the other hand, it's a whole new experience actually hearing your favourite songs sung straight from their makers. For the first time I actually wondered about what the songs were really about, what they meant to the band. Watching the divine Roddy Woomble sing out these lyrics that I've applied countless times to myself, I thought about how they'd meant something completely different to him when he wrote them, they were about people and places I'd never met or been to.

I kind of like that. It's cool that something specific to one person can be personal to so many others. They write these songs, put them out there and only they really know what they mean but at the same time they have no idea of the hundreds of different emotions that different people are gonna attach to them.

Roddy Woomble doesn't know that I've been listening to Love Steals Us From Loneliness almost non-stop for weeks, he wasn't there the night I walked through Yateley in the dark and pouring rain and sang it out loud with my headphones. I have no idea what that song's really about but I know what it's about for me. I just like that.

*****

I wish I could've met the band. Partly because I'm starstruck and in love with Roddy (I saw his undies when he went to pick up his beer - he smokes and drinks beer on stage, I know it's awful but damn it's cool) but also because I'd love to just say cheers. Just thanks for writing these songs and putting them out for people to hear because your music means so damn much to me. All these songs, all these memories - cheers for letting me have that. You have no idea, you've made me sing, you've made me cry... Just, thanks for that.

*****

Did I mention that Roddy Woomble is a studmuffin? He waved at me, or rather waved in my direction. Well, he waved near me. We were right at the front anyway, I was within 6 or 7 feet of him at one point. Can I die happy? I can now.

*****

One more thing, one fantastic bloggable moment - it's the end of the evening, they've just done their encore (Roddy made us promise to act surprised when they came back on) and it looks like they're wrapping things up for the night. They've just played Film For The Future, which was a tune, and an acoustic version of Happy to Be Here Tonight, one of my favourite songs. Thing is, they haven't played the one song that Liz was dying to hear, You Held the World in Your Arms.

We're about to get disappointed, when the guitarists nip back and grab some different guitars, electric ones this time, and Roddy announces one more song. They launch straight into that song (never has an opening chord sounded sweeter) and me and Liz go crazy, jumping up and down and punching the air like maniacs. Doesn't matter that everyone around us is to cool to dance, or that the annoying girl on my left has got her fingers in her ears again because she's a philistine who doesn't deserve to LICK RODDY'S BOOTS because that right there is one of the most perfect moments ever.

Oh, and I got to keep the setlist.

I'm so easily pleased.

another american beauty moment

Just remembered something extraordinarily beautiful that I saw whilst in Dorset. It's a lovely part of the country by default, so I'd kind of gotten used to seeing these gorgeous landscapes... does it make sense to say that it only gets better in the dark?

******

We're driving back from Salisbury, it's about 10pm, and there's five of us crammed into the Bonzmobile (20 year old Ford Fiesta, held together by baked bean tins, we have to lean forward to go up hills). We've had a great day, hanging out by the cathedral, in Charlie's daisy covered bedsit. We sat outside Pizza Hut and entertained drivers-by, pulling Mexican waves and jazz-hands as they drove past, cheering at joggers and attempting to 'faze' learner drivers by staring at them. We're in that lovely, chilled, 'it's been fantastic and now we're winding down' mood, listening to Jamie Cullum and Reel Big Fish as we chug along country roads.

We're also enjoying the added space now that we've dropped Charlie off and are back within the legal limit of passengers for this particular rust-bucket. Six people in a three door Fiesta? What the hell were we thinking?

Going along this particular windy road, I get bored of singing along to the CD player and stare out the window. It's a striking landscape: dark hills along a maroon sky, one single, bright star twinkling away to my left. Just that one tiny star in the whole sky. I start making these spiritual comparisons (as I am wont to do), about the light of the world in a big dark sky, shining over the land, when I notice a couple of other stars appearing, almost like they're answering the first one.

The road hits an incline and, from our new vantage point, I start to see a smattering of little orange lights, houses in a small village amongst the hills.

Then it gets a bit surreal. The road we're on is running parallel to another road across the valley, but while our one is open, this other road is in a tunnel of trees. I can only see it because another car has appeared on that road and I can see its headlights as they reflect on the grey trees, lighting up this weird little corridor under aforementioned stars and sky.

******

I was awestruck to say the least. I really wish I'd had a camera, or at least the ability to describe it better. Talk about an American Beauty "most beautiful thing" moment. Spanking.

The most bizarre thing, as it turned out, was that our road actually followed a large 'u' shape, meaning that the parallel road I'd been watching linked up to our one. Suddenly we were surrounded by this tunnel of big grey trees and I realised that we were now driving on the opposite side of the valley, right through the middle of the beautiful landscape I'd been trying to memorise.

Then there was singing along to Britney Spears and drinking Baileys and playing the 'intimate and revealing questions' game (we're too cool to call it Truth or Dare), but for a while that night, there was something really very profound.

ucas and dorset and time, oh my!

So, after ping-ponging between UCAS and the Drama department at Exeter Uni, I finally get a decision.

I should explain, I've been waiting on a decision from Exeter for about two months now, I wanted to put them as my second choice, y'see. Problem is, Exeter is to Drama what Cambridge is to English Lit - the Big Bitch. Their standard offer is usually AAB, which would mean I couldn't put them as second choice to my ABB offer from Holloway. I actually started resenting Holloway for giving me such a nice offer. I'm as close to cancelling my application to Exeter and accepting Kent as my second choice, so sure am I that they'll give me too high an offer. Then my mate Jordan gets a BBC offer from Exeter so, like a fool, I hold out.

Well, a month after everyone else who applied to Exeter, including people who auditioned on the same day as me, I finally get my offer. AAB, must include an A in English Lit and an A in Drama. An A in Drama? According to the laws of mathematics, in order to achieve an A in Drama, I would need to achieve at least an A in one module this year, and FULL MARKS in the other two. No. Just no.

Paul, Liz, Taz and I have been down in Dorset this week visiting Adam. We were there two days and I checked UCAS three times, although believe me if we'd been in the house more, it would have reached double figures.

"Do you know your application number off by heart?"
"Yeah, is that wrong?"
"Yes, very wrong, Fi."
*look of horror* "You mean this isn't normal?"

********

Had a great time in Dorset though, we hung out with Adam's mate Charlie and visited her bedsit where she is living in terrifying independence. I have a lot of respect for that girl, don't think I could hack living so completely on my own this early. I'm scared enough about moving into halls.

We also managed to teach both Adam and Charlie a game known simply as 'Goggins' - a violent, loud and hysterical game played with Postman Pat Snap cards. If you haven't played this game yet, you soon will. The virus is spreading.

On a more holy note, Taz and I stayed up talking on the first night, we had a good catch up, which was grand. Then in the morning we did our bible studies, had a chat about God, sex, church, prayer, bible, the future, the past. Not completely in that order.

*******

And there's so much more I need to write about, so much stuff going on but I have to go to work in an hour and there's just no time. I need to read more books, do more college work, write on my blog, write some fiction for my English teacher, watch more films, listen to more music, play more piano, do more exercise, get more rest, get more sleep and get up earlier. I need to dye my hair, go to the gym, spend less money, buy more clothes, do some overtime and find some me-time.

I'm listening to: Rock and Roll Worship Circus - Great Big Love
I'm feeling: Good, a little sleepy and a little overcharged. Supermarket sweep, beep beep.

el papa

In Italian, the Pope is referred to as 'el papa'. It's sweet, sort of like 'father', 'daddy', 'papa'.

A couple of weeks ago, in Sociology, we were talking about something or other, and I mentioned the Pope. Someone said "God, I wish he'd hurry up and die, I'm bored of hearing about him". Lovely. I have to say, I find the way the Pope is revered in Catholicism slightly unsettling. There's only so much stock you can put in one man, there's only so much significance a human being can have before attention starts getting diverted away from God. I'd say that's a kickback to my 'I don't agree with organised religion' days, but it still worries me. There was this popular rumour that went round, I don't know how true it was, that the Vatican had been putting it about that using condoms doesn't prevent the spread of HIV, and so there was no reason at all that people should use them. Very responsible.

I have nothing against Catholics (here comes the but) BUT I have a lot against some of the teachings of Catholicism. I'm choosing my words exceptionally carefully, because I'm about to prove myself a complete hypocrite. Never mind.

This morning in church, no one mentioned the fact that the Pope had died. Unless they mentioned it in that 5 minute interlude when I was out in the foyer with Sian. There seems to be this attitude that, if you're not Catholic, why should you care?

Well, here's the thing. Whether or not you agree with the guy's teachings (ahem), he devoted his entire life to serving God. Completely. Not part-time, not a little bit on the side of his other commitments - everything he had went into preaching that there gospel, right up until he couldn't speak anymore, and when he didn't have the strength to read the scripture, he got someone else to read it for him. Right up til the minute he died, he was praying, hanging out with his cardinals, getting biblical. They said before he died he was 'remarkably serene'. Away into God's hands, in immense pain but completely calm, totally trusting in the man upstairs.

You gotta have respect for a guy like that, I take off my imaginary hat to him.

Catholic, Anglican or bewildered (that's my denomination), the selection of a new Pope is a massive deal - their choice has repercussions across the globe. If they pick someone who's really progressive and liberal, then that could mean massive changes. I sincerely doubt they'll do that, seeing as the thing that everyone liked about John Paul II was that he was so traditional. There is this one guy in the running, I forget his name but I think he's Brazilian, he's intending to promote unity between denominations.

That's the kind of Pope I could get on board with, y'know? I don't agree with some of the Catholic practices, but more than that I can't stand that we're so divided as a church. We are one body, there is one faith, one baptism, one Christ and yet there are many, many churches. St. Peters, Yateley has links with St Marys, Eversley but not with St Swithuns, Yateley. Why? Guess. I read a testimony once where this girl said becoming a Christian was difficult beacuse she'd been raised Catholic. Uh?

Yeah, there's so many different kinds of people, for everyone to follow God in exactly the same way would be ridiculous, for everyone to interpret scripture in exactly the same way would be ridiculous. Having all these different kinds of churches means, in theory, there's a church for everyone. That's not ridiculous. But all this division, this petty squabbling, "he's not my Pope so why should I care that he's dead?" - that's ridiculous. Forgetting that being a Christian, any kind of Christian, is about following Christ, first and foremost - that's ridiculous.