Ink&Apples

New beatbritish podcast!

2009-06-26T21:03:00.003+01:00

For anyone who has listened before (who no longer read the site because it has moved addresses... ho hum)

There is a new BeatBritish podcast on which I guest, there are no sounds of eating on this one (or there may be for the first ten seconds)

Huzzah! Go, listen, enjoy the geekery.

[BeatBritish]

Bets on how long this lasts....

2009-06-23T21:05:00.002+01:00

While we're waiting for me to suck and quit blogging again

The creative process

2009-03-24T20:58:00.000Z

The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
as for what the creature looks like
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
imagine the giant mole in City of ember
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
instead of the star thing that always freaks me the fuck out on moles it has nine mouths
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
shaggy brown bear fur, non seeing eyes and oversized claws
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
like a really, really, really angry badger. As painted by Dali.

Mininouncement

2009-03-16T18:49:00.007Z

While I'm blogging here's some stuff that happened recently:

My father tried to get in touch and it was whiny.
My ex managed to get in touch and it was passive aggressive.
I got engaged and was awesome.
My fiancee is getting sent to Afghanistan which was, and remains, the epitome of suck.

My Fuck-It List

2009-03-16T18:49:00.004Z

A list of things I feel absolutely zero compulsion to do before I die.

1. Enter a marathon
2. Weigh 120lbs
3. Learn to do things ahead of time
4. Spend more time outdoors
5. Own a playsuit
6. Wear a playsuit
7. Have a subcription to Cosmo
8. Watch Sex and The City
9. Meet my siblings
10. Teach in an all boys school
11. Fix my clothes rather than throwing them out
12. Learn when to keep my mouth shut
13. Get highlights
14. Mend my bridges
15. Store all my shoes properly
16. Do my washing before I run out of clothes
17. Have sex with an ex boyfriend
18. Finish playing Enchanted Arms
19. Own a horse or pony
20. Read anything by Dean Koontz

Idea totally stolen from Shapely Prose and Feministe.

Ladies, I have bad news

2009-02-26T18:03:00.002Z

We are directly responsible for the global financial crisis. Yup, us uppity bitches and our outrageous and irresponsible desire for jobs has caused the entire planet to go into meltdown.

Well, not me. I mean, I'm a teacher which according to Newton Emerson is a proper job for a woman as it is "too demeaning for men". Phew.

Louise Livesy at The F-Word says it far better than I do so if you have the time I suggest you go and read her response to this piece of shit article.

I'll be over in the corner, sobbing and bashing my head against something pointy.

Alex's Acting Masterclass

2009-02-20T21:46:00.004Z

A tip for all female actresses who may or may not have been born with an English accent but are using one regardless*:

If you are playing an icy and/or professional woman whose lines read fairly levelly** (or if you have limited talent and this is how every reading you do ends up) and the script calls for you to use the word "damn"... don't. Seriously, it sounds terrible.

Luckily for you there is a quick fix, in the form of two very common letters. Observe the following examples.

Example***:

If the line is:

"I don't want any of your damn excuses"

then you should replace it with

"I don't want any of your damned excuses"

It sounds far better.

* Yes, I paused the movie I was watching (Babylon A.D. it's actually not the worst film I've seen today which tells you something about the unending and life changing horror of my afternoon cinema trip with my Mother) to make this point because it's been annoying me for days. See also Olivia Williams in Dollhouse. Which you should be watching.
** Note this does not apply to anyone with the following accents: Cockney, Geordie, Liverpudlian, Yorkshire or Scottish which, coincidentally is not an English accent anyways or if you sound like Drusilla from BtVS, as that's not an English accent either.
*** To be read out loud in the appropriate accent.

actually, fuck it.

2009-02-16T16:43:00.004Z

What I wanted to say was this:

The body of a nineteen year old girl you have never met is not your public fucking property no matter who her parents are. The world does not give one solitary shit about whether or not you consider someone's personal choice to be "tacky", and how she will feel about that choice in X number of years' time is not your concern. You are not one of her friends, you are not a member of her family. Your moral outrage is condecending and uninvited.

You may have a right to hold your opinion on the subject, you may even feel the need to voice it - out loud or in print - but let me get this one thing straight: you do not hold the moral responsibility to inform the rest of the world as to what a mistake someone is making.

Don't agree with someone's life choices? Fine. Feel you have to contribute to the ongoing debate about the social issues concerning a particular topic? Spiffy. Doing so by posting a two line comment about a specific person's appearance on a newspaper site that offers nothing new or original the the discussion? Fuck you.

Her body is not your public property, you do not have a right to discuss her skin or the lines inked on it. You do not have a right to discuss how fat someone is, how thin they are or how veiny their arms may look. The size of a person's ass, or nose or piercing is not your problem, and does not provide a jumping off point for you to spout your own personal philosophy of bullshit.

The amount someone else eats is not your concern unless you are a health professional with a personal relationship to your patient. Your "well meaning" comments are bullshit. The world does not need another self important asshole who feels they have a right to dictate how the human body should look, feel or function. Your indignation and outrage is pathetic. The world doesn't give a shit how its actions affect your insignificant little life.

Now kindly fuck off.

re: Peaches

2009-02-16T16:35:00.002Z

Dear Daily Mail,

Why is this news?

Are we short on "OH MY GOD THE IMMIGRANT MUSLIMZ R DESTROYING THE ECONOMY!!!! DIANA WAS MURDERED, KNIFECRIME CAUSES CANCER!!!!" stories this week?

While I do understand that you had some fabulous pictures of a bikini clad 19 year old to accompany the story may I humby suggest you find something better to write about?

Hugs and Kisses,

Alex
(your biggest fan)

ps. Thanks also to the commenters! As always, they broke my brain.

saturday morning sweetness

2009-02-07T10:50:00.002Z

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

I can't say anything that the video doesn't say beautifully itself. Just go here and sign. Donate if you can.

500 million years old? Damned whippersnapper, get off my lawn!

2009-02-04T19:54:00.004Z

So scientists have found evidence (ie. chemical traces) of animal life which existed earlier than ever previously discovered. Primitive sponges which lived around 635million years ago. Highly awesome. One thing that struck me though was the following quote from the article in the Guardian:

Charles Darwin was famously sceptical of the idea that creatures could have materialised fully formed out of nowhere, a view shared by some experts today.

Emphasis mine. Seriously, "some" experts? I would like to meet the "experts" who fully agree with the "hey things just appear by magic, dude let's go have a beer" theory, cause they sound awesome.

[The Guardian]

Edit: Also, those with a fear of snakes probably shouldn't read this, although the article gets an automatic A+ for featuring a quote from an eminent scientist referencing Jennifer Lopez's performance in Anaconda. Amazing.

chatterchatterchatter

2009-02-04T10:01:00.004Z

This is the text I got at 9am this morning:

Ah! The boiler has decided to stop working! Oh my god I just can't be bothered with stuff like this - why? oh god why?

Apparently a long, long time ago my flatmate B and I pissed off the god of Boilers most severely. We have NEVER lived in a house without a boiler packing up on us.

Our first house had a boiler that had to be completely ripped out and repaired, although that was nothing compared to the mouse infestation (actually it was a really nice house, there were just a LOT of mice). In our second flat, the one with the mental landlady who tried to forbid us from having men in the flat, we went without heat or hot water for an entire month. That entire month was February. I actually started casually dating someone purely so I could use his shower. True story. In the last flat we lived in we had a boiler that didn't understand thermostat control and thus had two settings: full blast or OMG I'm going to die from cold someone put the goddamned heating on!

And now our boiler has spluttered and died. Marvellous!

This fucks up my school visit for tomorrow, as even if I do go home to the ice box I will have to spend all day waiting in for a plumber. I'm sorely tempted to beg the boy for a warm bed to sleep in for another night and possibly a lift to town so that I can clothes shop.

Damn, enforced shopping. What a horrible state of affairs! Actually, I'd probably just end up buying school appropriate clothing anyways - Salisbury does not have the most dynamic and exciting of clothing options available.

Also - being in a room in the Mess all day (even if it is the decently sized Officer's quarters) is really, really boring. I've spent my morning killing zombies, reading my new werewolf book and writing random snippits of fiction about superheroes (also, listening to songs about monkeys - I just need to do something with ninjas and I will officially have reached the level of ubergeek) but I'm still bored. Hence all the blogging.

It's more fun than I remembered! And now I have permission to blog whatever I like about Mr Odd (didn't want to before as it feels like talking about him behind his back - turns out he kind of likes it. Right, hon?) there's a wider scope of things I can chatter about. If resolutions made in Feb count then blogging again is my New Month's Resolutiony Thing.

SNOW!

2009-02-03T20:46:00.003Z

So I came down to stay with Mr Odd for the weekend... and I'm still here.

The UK is currently experiencing "record snowfall" if, of course, by "record" you mean "since the 7th of Feb 1991" which apparently most major news outlets do. Across the country schools are closed and train links are completely shut down, because a country on the same latitude as Moscow is not built to deal with a few tiny flecks of snow.

Ok so maybe tiny is a bit of an understatement as my God it's been snowing like fucking crazy and doesn't look to be stopping.

So, I'm stuck at the boy's place.

It's not a massively bad state of affairs: I will have seen Mr Odd every day this week (as even if I manage to leave tomorrow I'm coming BACK on Thursday evening because I have a day off on Friday) which is unheard of seeing as we live 2 hours away from one another, I've finally bloody started Mass Effect and Left 4 Dead (both of which I love with a strong and burny passion - gamertag Alex the Odd btw, add me if ye wish) as a result of which I have officially gotten over my decade-and-a-half long terror of FPS games and I'm meant to be at college this week (which has pretty much been cancelled cause of the snow - London doesn't work in the snow either) so I'm not missing anything important. But I still get a little uneasy feeling because of the following reasons:

a) I'm meant to go and visit my next placement school on Thursday, of course in my melodramatic mind by then we're going to be completely snowed in and possibly eating the weaker members of the group for sustenance so it may not be the most pressing thing on my mind

b)i) I intended to stay for two days, which means I have enough clothing for two days. Yeah. So far I've been stealing rugby shirts and wrapping up in dressing gowns, tomorrow a wash will be done if we need it.

b)ii) We're meant to be going out to dinner with Mr Odd's colleagues on Friday - currently all I have with me to wear is ripped skinny jeans, a couple of tshirts and a pair of converses that have, frankly, only a distant memory of what "better days" were like. Although, Mr Odd does understand this dilemma and has agreed to take me clothes shopping if I need to stay.

All this makes it sound like I'm currently in Russia (in 1942) but planning makes for a saner Alex.

Speaking of planning, and Alex going insane (and cause I haven't blogged about anything lifewise in bloody ages and once I get started it's kinda cathartic so I don't really want to stop as such) I may be moving to Germany next year. Or the North of England, or the Seaside or possibly the Middle of Bloody Nowhere. I do not know where yet as we're not entirely sure where Mr Odd is going to be (yes, yes, I'm going too - I'm as shocked as you are). Anyways there's a chance we might hear more tomorrow so fingers crossed (although personally I'm pulling for Germany, skiing every weekend and Oktoberfest - yeah baby!)

So yes, that's where my life's at now.

hear me speak

2009-01-28T13:29:00.004Z

I guested (along with MrOdd) on the latest BeatBritish podcast run by the irrepressible Paris. It's massively long and contains incredibly fast talking on my part and some actual sense on the others' parts. Clocking in at a whopping 2 hours it's something of a marathon listen but worth it if you feel like hearing five people rant about games (with occasional sidebars into Spanish horror movies, the works of Murakami and some philosophy).

Listen to it, and my incredibly British voice, here. Let me know if you do in the comments!

happy birthday, darling

2009-01-26T20:46:00.003Z

The first time we kissed, when he was free to kiss me, it wasn’t a case of something exploding in my head, no fireworks, my knees didn’t turn to jelly beneath me, it was just “oh, I see.” It wasn’t that my entire life fell into place, nothing so simple as tha but I was certain of the way one bit of it would go. It’s a strange feeling, this certainty, this absolute lack of doubt. I’ll always feel, deep down, that I should be chastising myself for being the way I am about it, this, us, him but I can’t bring myself to. By the time he’d finished kissing me, that three second kiss hello, I knew I loved him. Until then I’d thought that I must be mistaken, assigning meaning to something I couldn’t figure out but soon I realised that wasn’t important, it never was.

And so I throw myself into this, entirely, because I don’t have a choice in the matter. I am honest with him; find myself blurting out the things that I don’t want to say. Things I thought I couldn’t tell him, empty fragments of dreams filled with terror, telling him with tearful eyes that he caused the fear in me, of the crippling paranoia, fears that I would start loving him more, lose my interest. He knew all my secrets before he ever woke up beside me. Confessed in the dark to a computer screen he knew me better than anyone, even those who had shared my bed. His analysis was so painful that I avoided it, avoided him, convinced myself that it was melodramatic and did not apply. He’s always right when it comes to me. He takes every piece I give to him and he treats it as precious.

And it sometimes it takes all my effort to not feel subservient, to not feel like I’m scrabbling for approval like I have done so many times before, I fear becoming a shell again. But every time it creeps up I’m met with sweetness, whispered words or halting admissions of fear from the other side. I understand in him the things I could never reconcile in me and seeing myself in him makes me better. I see myself as he does and it’s something occasionally beautiful, patched up but with none of the cracks glossed over.

It seems strange to say but my world is brighter now, the edges are less keen and the knocks don’t come as hard, not with him there to pick me up. His love for me tints everything, my every moment is colourised by the hue of it. It’s always there – an underlying thread that ties the fragments of my mind together and keeps me grounded.

He is my safety and my security, my thrill and my adventure, my newest discovery and my oldest urge.

He was a gift to me. I didn’t fall in love with the boy, I am in love with the man, the man and the words he writes.

on hollywood

2009-01-03T19:44:00.002Z

How I feel about the world today[Subnormality]

A three month or so teaching recap

2008-12-30T10:36:00.007Z

So, as it turns out being a student teacher fucking sucks.

Like, really, really, really sucks.

For instance: I do not plan things. I know my shit, I get up and I do my thing. This is the way I work. I do not, nay cannot, plan an hour down to three minute intervals. But unfortunately that's what I have to do, no choice in the matter. And even more unfortunately I suck if I don't.

Every single lesson I teach is watched by the classroom teacher, which is fine except when the CT is a neurotic overly professional perfectionist something which makes for being a fabulous teacher (and she is) but is something that I'll never achieve. Her lessons in particular scare the living hell out of me, I had nightmares about not being able to photocopy the worksheets I needed to for her class (which I will be taking in a freaking week's time, not tomorrow - in a week) last night and I woke up in a cold sweat (of course then I had bizarre dreams about a class reunion with a random group of people none of whom I actually went to school with). I spend twelve times as long planning for her lessons than I do for anyone else's which then makes me nervous in the rest. It's a vicious cycle.

Of course, I had the entire Christmas holidays to plan, really get on top of things so that I could go back stress free.

Yeah, I'm guessing a couple of people know exactly how well that went.

I spent my day yesterday, my first day back at home when I was free to work, hunting lizard warriors on my 360 (sweet, shiny 360. Evil 360 in that can't copy bloody saved games over between profiles so can only play Fable 2 on Mr Odd's machine)

On top of that I was in bed and ill for my entire last week of school so I have no idea what any of the staff members did with my classes so I don't have a clue what to plan. Except for one teacher's class.

Can you guess which one?

I know EXACTLY what I need to do for those, so they are the only ones I can plan.

And yesterday I managed to plan 3/4 of a lesson. I also put up 1/5 of a book case, cooked yummy pasta, watched stand-up comedy, tried to revise Physics GCSE, decided it was too hard, got into panic because I actually have to teach it, then decided I would get job teaching in specialist school where teachers only teach their actual specialism and I would be incredibly nice and teach both chem and bio, then realised that I actually teach physics better than the other two because I don't understand it myself, then panicked about the fact that I can't decide where I want to teach next year and apply for jobs because I don't know what country I'll be living in (long story, although should find out in a couple of weeks, crossing fingers for somewhere in UK) so have to wait again.

Frustration leads to lizard slaying.

Surprisingly the best part of the job is the kids. And I know, I know, teachers are supposed to love children but I honestly think that it sometimes helps if you don't... I can pretty much take or leave the anonymous faces of my top set year 8 who are mostly adorable but terrify me because of their teacher. They are used to very good quality teaching, they do not get this with me. But I love my delinquent bottom set (not my bratty over privileged middle set who are constantly annoying, hate the subject and make it completely obvious but are terrified of their parents and so behave creepily well when there is a threat of a phonecall on the cards), it's a smaller class and I share it so I actually have time to wander round and chat to the kids and get to know them, which is the part I love.

Which was... surprising to say the least.

So yeah, that's teaching for you, I only have three more weeks left in this school and then I move on. Which I am looking forwards to massively, I love the department and have got amazing levels of support from everyone there but there is one tiny problem with the school that makes me uncomfortable teaching there.

It's all boys.

And I hate teenage boys in large quantities. I hated them when I was a teenage girl, I hate them now. Everything just has to be so bloody boisterous all the time, everything has to have an element of competition to get things done. They can't sit still, can't keep their hands off one another, can't be quiet. And because of the environment, it's wrong to want or expect any other kind of behaviour from them. And I do understand the importance for an entirely male environment that they have strong female teachers who can turn around and say "look how many things I am better at than you" but as a trainee it's exhausting. Because of the way they feed into one another you can't allow any kind of relaxing of discipline because you can't get them back - I honestly thought it would be hard to stand up for an hour and continually be a bitch to little kids aged 11, turns out it really, really isn't. Because they're so damned annoying.

Bring on next year when I might actually get to teach A level!

Next placement should be good though, I'm paired again which I'm not supposed to be but that actually works in my favour as the girl I'm placed with is a whirlwind of awesomeness and fun and always up for going to the pub which is great. My new school is mixed and massive which is daunting cause I'm crap at learning names and get lost very easily within large buildings (not on streets though, I have an excellent sense of direction honed by years of waking up at 6am going "oh fuck" and then desperately searching for the nearest bus stop).

The hardest part is over now though, it's the point before Christmas where you feel lowest apparently - crazy deadlines and you're just so tired. I just have that extra hurdle of having been off sick at the end of term, it is making it slightly nerve wracking to go back - I'll get over it though, I always do.

So for the rest of today I have a plan: 2 hours of working, break to go buy screwdriver, more working until friend (also teacher, not on my course or in my school - most helpful person for reassurance ever) comes over, cook dinner, put up remaining 4/5 of bookcase with wine, watch Dark Knight on DVD with more wine and home made Italian food.

Then tomorrow I'm fucking off the work and getting my ass on a train to spend new year well away from all things work related. Huzzah!

whispering into the void

2008-12-29T23:35:00.000Z

I'm back.

The reason there are practically no teaching blogs

2008-09-22T17:13:00.003+01:00

So I've just finished my first full week of college, the week before I spent working in a primary school, observing lessons and helping out with IT when the teachers couldn't work the new computer suite they'd had installed.

Anyways, Friday was our keynote lecture on teachers' legal responsibilities. It was a really interesting half hour but it really hammered home what I'd been suspecting all week:

Unless they are completely anonymous teachers cannot have blogs.

Because of my Father and various other superfun ex stalkerish people my facebook profile is super private unless you are an accepted friend of mine, which is fine. When it comes to my blog however, this isn't the case.

I have always blogged under my own name and there are plenty of identifying details throughout these pages that make my identity completely obvious to anyone who has ever met me. That's fine. I'm not ashamed of anything I've done with my life and hence anything blogged about but the fact remains that most of the content is stuff that I would not want any pupils to see. Which is a shame, because I've loved running this place and running it under my real name too.

But kids are not only massively inventive but also incredibly persistent and I know from experience that if there's anything out there about you to find they will find it.

So now I have a decision to make, do I go back and edit my content to make this place completely anonymous or do I close it down entirey? To be honest, with the workload I'm facing even as a student and the other writing projects I have going on at the moment, keeping a blog up and running is kind of low down on my list of things I'd like to do when I have a spare moment (another reason there are practically no teaching blogs - they're too fucking tired to keep them going).

So that's why there aren't any new posts going up at the moment, I'm thinking it over for the time being.

Rocknrolla

2008-09-10T21:42:00.002+01:00

I have a new review up at Pajiba, you muppet.

Go read and be my, be me little rock n roll queen.

a housekeeping note

2008-08-31T09:25:00.005+01:00

I woke up today to a misty morning in the countryside and the sound of wolves howling.

My life is so awesome right now.

I am aware that this summer has been the summer of fluff, which is understandable as I haven't been teaching or doing anything of any interest. I've just been coasting and working out the last few weeks of my job and waiting for my life to start. Granted, while that was happening I managed to get a new writing gig, fall in love (with my wonderful J soldier boy and writing partner extraordinaire) and become oddly addicted to writing online interactive fiction so I haven't been too miserable!

But! Now I have finished my horrible job and have a blissful, totally non stressful week of moving house, registering early for college and getting to know New Boy, the nameless until he earns it new addition to the Odd household. But then I get to spend a week teaching littluns and the "apples" section of this blog begins in earnest.

That is, of course, if I am capable of ripping myself away from Spore for long enough to post.

Mmmmmm..... Spore.

reviewage

2008-08-27T09:46:00.004+01:00

My first review for the fine folks at Pajiba is now up!

You can read (and comment on) it here should you so wish.

ugh... just ugh

2008-08-26T16:04:00.003+01:00

This is one of the most mind bogglingly stupid and offensive things I have ever seen.

"Improve your willpower"? How about live life as a horrendously boring robot with no passion or joy? My favourite part is the "top tips" which I will paraphrase here for your hissing and spitting needs:

BAN JUNK FOOD.“If you want to buy sweets for the kids, buy a pack at a time,” says Marisa. “It will keep you and them healthier.”

CURB VARIETY. “The more varied our diet, the more stimulated our taste buds are and the more we crave various foods,” explains Marisa. “Try to stick to three food types in each meal.”

BE PREPARED. “If we feel peckish and have only a vending machine, we’ll be ordering a chocolate in no time,” says Marisa. “Always have a healthy snack to hand for emergencies.”

DON’T FALL FOR FREEBIES.“A free cake may seem irresistible but being overweight is the biggest expense of all,” warns Marisa.

REMEMBER FEELING GORGEOUS. “Think back to a time when you felt at your best,” says Marisa. “Store that feeling and remind yourself of it when you are feeling low or tempted.”

FOOD WILL ALWAYS TASTE GOOD. “You have a lifetime to taste good foods – but only about 30 years of your adult life to look truly sexy,” says Marisa. “Make the most of it now.”

Emphasis mine.

Yes, because what better way to "make the most of now" than living a life of deprivation and self abuse?

I fucking hate Sun Woman. I really, really do.

And of course this has been emailed to the fantastic folks over at Shapely Prose, as hopefully they will eviscerate it far more efficiently and in depth than I ever could.

to counteract

2008-08-25T18:24:00.003+01:00

To act against the hideousness of that Cosmo video, ladies and gentlemen I give to you Margaret Cho and what I consider to be her finest ranting hour:

Can I get a "fuck yeah"?

because it's all your fault!

2008-08-25T17:02:00.005+01:00

Remember ladies, if you happen to be dating a man who is incapable of decent human behaviour such as finishing with you before running off and sticking his dick into the next warm thing with ladyparts... it's not his fault.

It's yours!

I really fucking hate Cosmopolitan magazine. I hate it and all it stands for. I hate its "sex tips" (seriously, if you find a man who doesn't either laugh nervously or scream in horror when you suggest introducing pineapple rings and a scrunchie into the bedroom: you're already doing it wrong), I hate its "fashion spreads", I hate the adverts for plastic surgery interspersed with features on how to feel good about yourself. And now I hate its YouTube videos.

Aces.

Oh and from the comments:

dont understand how women can think u can actually be in a relationship with a man and not have sex as one of your priorities. thats like having a car with no car insurance or gasoline. u wanna keep a man?- then take it form a man, be adventurous in bed and FREQUENTLY, also dont nag us- let us drink our beer watch our porn and pursue our hobbies... do these two things and i guarantee your man will love your forever- trust me im a guy.

Yeah, not only is he a guy, he's a catch!

Slightly more heartening are the feministing comments:

I hate segments like this because it virtually erases any concept of a women's sex drive. I am by far the more sexual one in my relationship and it always pisses me off that it's never acknowledged that women want and love sex too. I don't have sex because my husband is hardwired to have sex and needs it a lot. I have sex because, damnit, I like orgasms.

Amen, MzBitca. A-freaking-men

If you need a week or two off work and think that stabbing your own eyes out through sheer frustration and the desire to make it fucking stop may be the way to do it you should go ahead and watch more of the drek the Cosmo channel on YouTube vomits out on a semi regular basis*

[Via Feministing]

*Note: This is not actually recommended. At all. Please don't.

can't... stop.... watching

2008-08-20T19:09:00.002+01:00

I have now watched this six times in a row and show no signs of stopping. It makes me ludicrously happy so naturally I will share it with you:

Amazing.

immediate reactions

2008-08-12T11:58:00.003+01:00

Several things occured to me whilst reading the following article, luckily it's short. So I can go through it line by line

Prince William is thinking of getting a tattoo and my advice would be: don't do it.

Why the merry hell is this in the sports section. Seriously. I mean the author hasn't even done the fabulously original thing of adding "like David Beckham's" to the first sentence so seriously, why is it in the sports section. It makes no sense.

I remember my missus, annoyed that I was ignoring her in the bedroom, getting the letter "B" tattooed on each of her buttocks, believing that because I was obsessed with Brigitte Bardot it would refresh my libido.

This didn't happen. For several reasons: I refuse to believe this man is married and if, if by some slim chance there is a woman out there who can put up with his overarching vileness I also refuse to believe that she would get a tattoo in an attempt to get him to have sex with her.

Also: lamest and most obvious set up for a joke ever, Brigitte Bardot? Way to be relevant there Writer Guy! And how would having the initials of someone you fancied tattooed on your partner increase your libido? Again: That does not make sense. Seriously. If you're going to attempt to set up for the world's unfunniest punchline (see below) then at least put in some effort, guy.

When she lifted her dress and bent over to show me the artwork I went berserk. "Who the hell is Bob?" I wanted to know.

I thank god I wore my corset, for I fear my sides have split.

What's acceptable on a 20-year-old is too ghastly to contemplate on a 60-year-old. That goes for tattoos as well as me.

Whu? If someone could explain that last sentence in the comments section I would appreciate it massively. Is it some kind of cunning innuendo? A scathing commentary on our ever ageing population? A poorly executed attempt at a pun? Help a girl out here.

If you ever get the chance of going home with a choice of two women (unlikely, I know), always plump for the one with the tattoo.

Ooooh you just know this is going to be good. Please, rain down your wisdom upon me oh Mirror Sports columnist. I need to understand in order to reach the godlike heights of your sexual prowess and wit.

She has already demonstrated she's willing to have a go and regret it at a later date.

Sorry. Got distracted there by all the tumbleweed.

Bookies Paddy Power are betting on the tattoo the Royal Willie will get and make 'Mum' a 6-1 chance and 'Kate' a 7-1 chance.

D'ya get it? Do ya?

I fucking give up.

hmmm

2008-08-05T13:51:00.002+01:00

You know why this doesn't annoy me?

Because I've actaully been to Oceana.

the thing my mother taught me about love

2008-07-31T16:06:00.003+01:00

Regular readers will know that my mother and I are incredibly close. We talk about everything, from politics to my choices concerning contraceptives. The one thing we've never really talked about, and no doubt will never really talk about is what it is to be in love. She doesn't feel qualified. Now she'll tell me that she and Grumpy (my wonderful step-father, the man whose name I wear with boundless pride) knew within the second time they met that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together but she never described it as "falling in love". In fact she has only ever spoken about falling in love once.

We were in the car years ago, long before she and Grumpy met, on the drive to school and a song came on the radio. She said that this is what falling in love should feel like and there were tears in her eyes when she said it because she'd never had it. That same song came on to my ipod just now, and there were tears in my eyes this time because now she really does. I thought you might like it if I shared the song with you, it's by the Mamas and Papas:

Once I believed that when love came to me
It would come with rockets, bells and poetry
But with me and you it just started quietly and grew
And believe it or not
Now there's something groovy and good
Bout whatever we got
And it's getting better
Growing stronger warm and wilder
Getting better everyday, better everyday
I don't feel all turned on and starry eyed
I just feel a sweet contentment deep inside
Holding you at night just seems kind of natural and right
And it's not hard to see
That it isn't half of what it's going to turn out to be
Cause it's getting better
Growing stronger, warm and wilder
Getting better everyday, better everyday
And just like a flower that takes time to bloom
This love of ours is taking time to grow
Ba da da da da da da da da da da da
And I don't mind waitin', don't mind waitin'
Cause no matter how long it takes
The two of us know
That it's getting better
Growing stronger, warm and wilder
Getting better everyday, better everyday

I think I have to say that I think she was right.

on retalliation

2008-07-30T10:34:00.003+01:00

Just a quick post this piece on Jezebel made me think a little. I'm fierce about my personal space when out in public, quite frighteningly so sometimes, and I do seem to have a little bit of a rep amongst my male friends as being fairly scary. I don't think I am, I'm only 5'3" and I look about fourteen but apparently this has to come from somewhere (I think it's cause I look like I might bite if poked at).

Anyways, because of my "if you talk to me I will make you wish you had never been born" death glare (took years to perfect, totally worth it) and "Fuck off I'm taken" vibes I very, very rarely get hassled in bars. On the few occasions I have been groped though I have a very clear course of action

1. Politely request that the groper stop groping me.
2. Tell the groper that their continued groping of me despite my very kind request is making me uncomfortable and ask again for them to stop.
3. Inform the groper that I have now asked them twice to cease their inappropriate behaviour.
4. Put my heel through the groper's foot.

I have done this in clubs, (the first time I was actually wearing my favourite pair of stiletto boots, that had to be re heeled so many times that eventually I just said "fuck it, we'll go with the metal tips", this happened after that) and although it is probably not very nice and violence is bad mkay it is a) incredibly satisfying and b) not like I didn't give the guy ample warning.

On the street is another matter however. I am of the "make an absolutely huge fuss" school of thinking, I don't lash out unless I feel really threatened but I'm going to make damned sure that every single other person around me knows what's going on, even if they completely ignore me. One example of this is the time I was standing minding my own business entirely and waiting for a bus on a crowded street a guy in his sixties walked up to me from behind and actually wrapped his arms around me. Needless to say I was freaked. My response was to kick backwards, wrench myself forwards and question at the top of my lungs just what the fuck he thought he was doing. I continued berating him even as he slunk off, mainly because when my brain shuts down my mouth tends to run on its own steam. It was not a nice experience but shit like that happens all the time in London. One of my best friends, S, once had a guy sit next to her on an empty bus, pinning her in against the window and start jacking off while looking straight at her and grinning.

And that's when I really falter: when men expose themselves. I'm not quite sure what to do then. For some reason when it's someone directly assaulting my sense of personal space I can handle it but if it's not aimed directly at me I'm at a loss. And even if it is aimed at me I'm not able to handle it, I just tend to try and move away as quickly as possible - which is weird for a usually gobby cow such as myself.

Thoughts? Stories? Comments? Suggestions on how to deal with this kind of thing?

WaPo... you disappoint me.

2008-07-23T15:58:00.002+01:00

So I got a very lovely email from Megbon, a Pajibite and apparent Ink&Apples reader (I got a tip! I feel so unameteurish!) about an op ed piece in the Washington Post, on my very favourite subject.

Aaaah yes. The article is predictably one sided, narrow minded and poorly researched. I wonder where we've seen that before?

Instead of going through the article and ranting (essentially copying and pasting my post I linked to above) I thought today we'd play a little game of bingo with my Write Your Own Tattoo Themed "News" Story post.

Here's how it works (we all know how much I love inventing rules)

The categories are as follows:

Title - Worth one point
Photo - Worth one point
Text - in terms of topics 1-3 = one point, 4-6 = two points, 7-9 = three points, all ten = a whopping five points
Factfile - one point for either
Comments - 1-4 = two points, 5-8 = five points

Bonus points: Article not provoked by a relevant item in the news (not counting "trend pieces") - two points.

This gives a maximum score of 10 for articles without comments, 15 for articles with them.

Let's see how Richard Cohen fares

Title: "Ink-Stained Wretchedness"? Hell yes, that's worth a point
Photo: Sadly none for the online edition. Nil points.
Text: I count five, which is understandable - the fun and unbalanced articles don't need to give you information about the actual process or artform! Two points
Factfile: None. Nil Points.
Comments: Oh god, this hurt. This really really hurt.

Although I would like to nominate the following for BEST COMMENT EVAR!!!!11 award

Soloman proposed in the Proverbs, some 3000 years ago, that understanding, character and sincerity contribute to wisdom. Wisdom and purity of spirit, he said, were the noblest goals of mankind.

American womankind, in our own peculiar days of ignorance, however, has her own ideas and ambitions. She is desecrating her body with a single-minded ugliness, both in body fat and in written body language, that emanates from the wellsprings of personal disaffection.

In time a mirror will reveal to her the kinship of her body and her soul. For knowledge is a mirror, for us to see ourselves as what we are, and what we would hope to be. What we would hope to be is surely what our children, and their children would wish us to be. They are our mirrors.

Seriously? That's amazing. A piece of art one might say, truly. I stand in awe.

Anyway! I had to stop reading on page three, partly because I'd already reached the threshold for maximum points by the middle of the second page and partly because I think I was about to burst a few blood vessels and I think I probably need them

Needless to say - five points.

Bonus points: Oh hell yes, two points for you Mr Cohen! I think one of the commenters says it best:

Wow, nice job staying relevant, Washington Post. I'm sure people are going to keep paying for your increasingly crappy newspaper with gems like this!

Quite.

So how did he do?

10 out of a possible 15 points! But don't despair you have to say at least one positive thing to even be eligible for a perfect score.

(for those interested Simon Mills scored a whopping 9 out of 10 points, managing to make even the articulate quotes have a negative spin on them. There were no comments on the piece but I think he deserves special mention for mentioning five out of a possible eight commenter opinions within the text of the article itself.

Stay classy, Simon. Stay classy.)

finally, the food post

2008-07-17T21:24:00.005+01:00

A note on this post: I've made references to my eating disorder on this blog before but never really explained it. I was reading Shapely Prose today (it was in my head, yet again. God damn I love that blog), namely this post about calories. I was going to explain how I often find myself looking at the calorie content of foods and why that bothered me. And I started trying to explain why I should be loving food now and enjoying it - possibly even more so than most people - and to do so I added some parenthesis to explain. The following is what was in those parenthesis, I've never written about it before and aside from the occasional comment about my "problem with food" I don't really talk about it. My family treat it mostly as a rather awkward joke, now that I'm safely out of the other side and very few of even my closest friends understand much more than "[I] used to be fussy". Take it as you will.

I've had long and torturous struggles with food all my life, it started when I was three years old and continued right into adulthood. I got slightly better at sixteen, around the time I started eating meat but the problem wasn't cured. I just had a slightly wider array of set meals to cycle through. Then, in May of last year, I started eating. Really eating. Not just forcing food down my throat because I had to, or gorging myself on junk because sweets were the only thing that really tasted good but really, truly eating.

I used to have a food phobia, to the extent where if I didn't know, and like, every single ingredient within a dish I would not touch it. That wasn't as simple as it sounds either. The following is a small sample of the foods I did not like

Avocados, any kind of fish, bananas, mushrooms, tomatoes, kiwi fruit, beans, pears, broccoli, lentils, chick peas, sweetcorn, aubergines, courgettes, milk, eggs, brown bread, seafood, cheese that wasn't cheddar, seafood of all varieties, coconut, cherries, coffee, spinach, honey, marrow, melon, squash, leeks, cabbage, yoghurt... That's just the tip of the iceberg and oh yeah, and I was a vegetarian. The presence of any of these items even NEAR something I was meant to be eating rendered it completely untouchable.

But it was more than just that:

I wouldn't eat anything with a texture that wasn't as it should be. Cereal is meant to be crunchy therefore any sogginess whatsoever made it inedible, if I was persuaded to try yoghurt even one lump would make me retch, likewise custard. I couldn't eat icecream if it was even slightly melted and anything with "powdery" texture made me gag - I once didn't eat chips (my staple foodstuff) for two whole months because one had a slightly weird taste.

Even foods I liked weren't safe. A slight bruise on a strawberry would make me feel queasy, once a slice of apple browned it was no good to me (I once sat for nine hours - literally nine, it got dark and everything - at a picnic table while on holiday in France because I refused to eat the last bite of my cheese and apple baguette because the apple in it had browned. Good one Dad, if I wasn't going to eat it then I sure as hell wasn't going to eat it after it had been sitting in front of me for nine fucking hours). Slight charring on anything? Not a chance. It had to be just right, if a meal I loved wasn't served exactly how I was used to it I couldn't eat it. I cannot stress enough here how I'm not talking about wouldn't, I'm talking about actually, physically couldn't.

As you may have guessed forcing me to eat anything I didn't want to lead to me throwing up.

I latched on to any food I liked and would eat it two or three times per day, sometimes for several months, sometimes for a week, until I inexplicably "went off it". There was no rhyme or reason to me "going off" food I just did and nothing, upon nothing could change my mind. My mother, my ever loving long suffering Mother indulged me in this. We ate separate meals anyway (she lived off steamed fish and vegetables for most of my childhood - apparently problems with food run in the family) and it was much easier for her to cook me one of the four (or very occasionally five) meals that I would eat than to battle it out with me. I could happily go without food and an excuse to not eat supper would have actually been welcomed. For several months she baked an uber gooey chocolate fudge cake every single week - complete with fondant icing - because it was the only thing she could get me to eat for breakfast. I was fifteen.

And I got a little better in uni, I could pick bits I didn't like out of my food - or more accurately: pick out the few bits that I did. I developed a few staple dishes for restaurants so that I could always be sure to find something I could order. I hid it well, I managed it.

Food still sucked.

And then a year ago something snapped. It wasn't a gradual change but a sudden switch. I woke up hungover and dazed in the most inappropriate person's home that I possibly could have done. I was at the end of a massive spiral of bad behaviour and self sabotage. I dragged myself into the kitchen and numbly stared at the mug of coffee in front of me, coffee which I did not drink. As he placed the plate of food he'd made in front of me I was faced with my worst nightmare, scrambled eggs, burnt sausages, bacon with the fat left on, brown bread - toasted and charred at the edges and a heap of fried mushrooms glistening with oil. In that moment I had a single thought running through my mind and that thought was "fuck it".

From that day, from that moment I ate everything. I took bites out of things without even looking at them first (while I was digging into a Mediterranean salad in Pizza Express one day last summer my Mother cautiously asked what was on my fork. "I don't know" I replied taking a bite. "It's tasty though." This response brought her to tears), I learnt to cook (which, incidentally I rock at in the most amazing way), I thoroughly enjoy my food.

Which is why I went from a skinny size 8 (US size 4) in college to buying my first pair of size 14 (US 10) jeans last week. And I struggle with it sometimes, longtime readers may remember that at the beginning of this year I went on "a bit of a diet and exercise kick" (read: torture regime), and yeah I lost about 15lbs...by working out for over two hours per day and eating less than 1200 calories. I get obsessive about it - Last November I dropped down to about 800 calories a day. My period stopped, I spent a good two months convinced that I was pregnant and no amount of pregnancy tests could convince me otherwise. My body is not meant to do that. The women in my family are soft, we have curves and round faces and really truly terrible arms. We have boobs and hips and look sodding awful in T shirts. I've started to accept this and, while finding someone who seems to think I'm gorgeous no matter how much I weigh or what I look like in skinny jeans does help, I'm still working on it.

Which is why I get upset with myself when I look at the calorie information on the side of the cheesecake I pick up in the shop, it's why I get pissed with my idiocy when the deciding factor between the duck wrap and the fajita chicken is because the duck has fewer grams of fat (no mayo you see), it's why I hate myself for feeling proud when I wasn't hungry all day. Because my problems with food never, ever, EVER stemmed from my wanting to be thin. Because I had issues and I got over them and now that I can finally enjoy the pleasure I spent almost two decades denying myself I find myself faltering. It's why I read Shapely Prose, and why my copy of The Beauty Myth is dog eared and underlined. I'm still trying to come to terms with all the baggage surrounding the issue but I think, I hope, I'm almost there.

Still, at times like today when I chose the duck wrap, when I considered skipping Naan bread because "I [didn't] really need it", when I feel guilty for having more than one slice of cheesecake because I felt like it I realise just how far I have to go.

so much awesome

2008-07-16T22:07:00.001+01:00

Go watch. Go on. I'll wait.

I know, right? So awesome I'm having trouble breathing.

fucking shove it

2008-07-16T11:45:00.003+01:00

You know what, Simon Mills, why don't you crawl right back in to the hole you came from. Oh and take some journalism courses while you're in there. I hear the University of Phoenix offers some excellent distance learning programs, and you seem ideally suited to them. On said course you might like to learn a little something called fact checking and research! It's this super fun concept where when you write a bullshit opinion piece for the Telegraph (to be published in the oh so prestigious fashion section) you don't just pull the contents out of your arse!

Sounds great, huh?

I was angry reading your article, I really was. Phrases such as

"It is hard to argue that any of these irrefutably beautiful women has been anything but blighted - rather than enhanced - by her rash decision to become graffitied"

(So full of assumptions! So very patronising! So incredibly subjective!) and:

Most tattoos are the cheap plumage of the attention-seeker, visual ice breakers for last-chance barflies and aspiring reality TV show contestants. They certainly aren't scary or alternative any more. Now that they have been co-opted by the masses - the squares, the mortgaged, the Volvo drivers, the wusses and the girls - we have come to accept their fairground aesthetic in much the same way we have decided to allow Gordon Ramsay's pointless swearing.

(Oh no! Women get them, they are no longer valid! Also: Making sweeping generalisations about a sizable proportion of the population is fun and not at all hackish!) made me want to spit venom. But then I realised that essentially you are another irritating little man with an axe to grind, who for some reason takes offense at what people with no connection to you whatsoever do with their own bodies. Imagine that!

So now I kind of just feel bad for you. I'd still like you to go find that hole though.

Kisses

Alex

ps. you know it is possible Pharrell Williams is having removal work done so that he can improve the tattoos he has, this is actually an incredibly common reason for laser treatment as people evolve and change and wish their artwork to do so too. (You might want to factor that in to the statistics you're so fond of.) But it's cool though, if you want to keep making assumptions about the motivations of people you've never met I won't stop you.

pps. Spur of the moment flash ripped from the wall is a leeeeetle different from custom designed artwork requiring hours of work and lashings of skill

ppps. So glad you enjoyed my article enough to really take it to heart and follow the advice within it. Maybe next week you could write a piece about how maligned the White Middle Aged Male is, I hear that's pretty topical right now.

Update: apparently I wasn't the only person the Telegraph pissed off today.

on tattoos, beauty and perception

2008-07-12T12:16:00.002+01:00

The Boy says:
so welche blog was dem crappy comment?
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
on mine
The Boy says:
ink and apples?
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
And I quote:
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
"I gotta say it. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman's bare back, and there are millions of men who may fall in love with you but will find your artwork revolting. It's a done deal now, but it's a little heartbreaking."
The Boy says:
did u delete it?
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
No, it's on an old post
The Boy says:
from way back when? why did it upset u then?
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
http://www.inkandapples.com/2008/04/as-per-your-requests.html
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
Just cause, it's an issue I've dealt with before. I've been told by male friends that my tattoos pretty much make me hideous
The Boy says:
feh
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
and it's never nice when someone searches out an old post and leaves a comment to say how sad it is that I've ruined myself
The Boy says:
if someone cannot be arsed to go beyond that then their loss
The Boy says:
heck one day you may get a tattoo I dislike or find aesthetically displeasing but it wont make you hideous ugly or likely to murder babies
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
hehe
The Boy says:
tho that last point may become necessary to curb the gene pool
The Boy says:
of utter stupidness
The Boy says:
so get a tattoo like that, yeah I like
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
I was going to say: cause baby murdering totally sounds like something I would do
The Boy says:
but tbh, if you get a tattoo that isnt amazing or that doesnt "work" then.... well it's your choice and peoples ideas of you shouldnt change
The Fabulous Miss Odd says:
exactly
The Boy says:
if someone loses a limb (other END of the scale, i know) does that make them hideous? i doubt it

women and tattoos

2008-07-11T09:50:00.004+01:00

A couple of articles were published today on the subject of women and tattoos. The first is, predictably, completely fucking dreadful. But I'm going to cut it some slack because it sounds like the kind of thing a junior researcher wrote at three am while wired up on coffee and under the instruction to "make it sexy" (because seriously there's no other explanation: Women like butterflies! And hearts! Dolphins are meaningful! Stars are cute! That splintering noise you can hear is my teeth grinding by the way).

The second article, from my favourite newspaper, is actually much better. Despite a false start ("Once seen as a macho world of bikers and seedy basement parlours" which I'm convinced they actually have to put in articles on tattoos in order to get them published) the piece focuses on some of the awesome female tattoo artists working today. Of course, the first artist they have to mention is Kat Von D I mean, fair enough, she's incredibly high profile but the woman irritates the hell out of me. And I've never even seen an episode of her reality show. I think it's something to do with irresponsible and poor quality tattooing under the guise of breaking a world record or possibly having a makeup range at Sephora (because, seriously?) but whatever.

More importantly the article also talks about Saira Hunjan, a woman whose work actually makes me drool. And even more importantly than that the artist I want for my eventual full left leg tattoo based primarily on this lovely lady's description.

I suggest you go and read the whole thing. It's worth a look.

In other tattoo related news: Want. The Boy (unoriginal moniker I know, but it's how I refer to him in my head anyways) has been talking about wanting a new set of tarot cards for ages, and I'm thinking of adding to my collection. I may have to buy a couple of sets next month when I have some cash because: wow. Pretty.

the intersection of feminism and kink

2008-07-07T21:52:00.003+01:00

You'll have to forgive me now dear readers (all two of you left - I abandoned you! I'm sorry! I blame this place and the very nice young gentleman who bullied me into playing with him there. It's sucking up my time and energy in the most awesome way imaginable) while I talk about two of my very favourite things: Sex and gender politics.

Those of a nervous/prudish/overly excitable disposition may want to look away now.

A recent feature on kink published on The F Word (a superb UK based Feminist blog that I highly recommend you check out) and the presence of a new(ish) man in my life* (who I am pretending is not reading this so that I can make my point) have led to me feeling the need to articulate an opinion. Stay with me on this, I have a point. Honest.

So here's the thing: I've always been kind of a natural submissive. I think this is partially to do with being an absolute control freak in every other area of my life but mainly it's because I'm just really, really lazy. The way I saw it as a younger woman was thusly: if you're being restrained you're not doing any of the work and really, what could be nicer?

Then I got a older and a little wiser and realised that it was slightly more complex than that and loss of control was probably a major factor. And then I got older and a lot wiser and realised that serious levels of trust (and some strict ground rules) were the only thing that made that loss of control work on any kind of non-horrendous level.

Then I started learning more about Feminism and things got more complicated. Because on an academic level I know that female submission is highly fetishised by society (for an incredibly decent summary of why this is the Sex chapter in The Beauty Myth is an absolute must read) and that while deeply personal my own kinks could be treading into dodgy political territory. Because I spent so long completely ignoring my own internal and political belief systems it's very important to me at the moment that I figure out how everything fits in with my world view. Now, I'm aware that not everything fits together but somehow understanding why it is that certain elements of my personality do or do not gel with one another gives me a much better explanation of who I am as a whole. So the submission thing bothered me a great deal, I fully believe in political, social and economical equality so the fact that I could believe in what seemed to me, at the time, to be sexual inequality was a very disturbing thought. Although, it never felt unequal to me, which may have made my upset over the matter worse.

And that's why the article I mentioned struck such a cord with me. I've read Feminist discussions on sex before and always found that while enlightening they're also very, very confusing. Which is why I found Kit Roskelly's piece so affecting. Especially the following section, which is something I've thought in the past but been unable to articulate:

The power exchange is carefully negotiated and considered beforehand. It is paradoxically true that the submissive is more in control of any scene played than the dominant partner. Dom/mes take on a controlling role because they are interested in the sub enjoying the scene. They may also get an erotic thrill out of the scene they are performing, but the submissive controls the direction of the scene through negotiation and holds the ultimate veto, the safe-word, if the scene does not work out. The power-play is illusory.

Her point about the power of the dominant partner being an illusion is a good one as without the express permission of the other participant they wouldn't have that power in the beginning. The submissive in effect hands the power over to the dominant partner. It is a gift and one which can easily be revoked. I find that dichotomy alone endlessly fascinating, even without the other factors involved.

The point above also went quite a long way to helping me figure out why I have, in the past, been in certain situations that in theory I would have enjoyed but found myself, well "hating" may be too strong a term but... yeah, I'm going to go for "hating" actually. Which was an interesting revelation to receive so long after the fact.

So yes. That's my musing for the evening. Opinions? Comments? You know what to do.

*I am, incidentally, taking suggestions for how to refer to him in blog land as the moniker Mr TheOdd has been taken and soiled by the dreaded (and still apparently psychic) ex. Obviously I can't just use his initial as that's actually what I call him and hence wrong. So yes: answers on a postcard (or, you know, in the comments section.)

the thing about normality

2008-07-02T14:37:00.003+01:00

So here's how it works. Some people are just resolutely normal. Vanilla, regular, decent, straight edged: however you want to put it they move in the same direction as the rest of society.

And I'm not saying that's a bad thing.

It's just that sometimes these people, these lovely ordinary folks don't quite understand what it's like to be, well, Odd.

My flatmates are two such people. I love them to death, I really truly do, they are the closest thing I have to family here in London and my life would be an utterly worse place without them - G makes me sandwiches every single morning, worries about me when I'm out late and makes sure I eat when I'm home in the evenings. B and I share bottles of wine and cheesecake while we watch stand up comedy and catch each other up on our lives (we live together but only spend time actually together once every month or so, out lives don't cross paths for more than half an hour at the time). They are my best friends, my caretakers and my confidantes.

And yet.

They don't understand what it is to be weird.

They are both incredibly good looking people, they wear clothes that are cool but not overly fashionable. They go to work during the week, at weekends they go out with friends and they visit family. They love sports and blockbuster movies. They spend sunny Sundays at the park, they go on holidays abroad twice a year. She reads popular fiction, he goes running, they watch TV if it's on and occasionally they buy a series on DVD. She straightens her hair before a night out, he lifts weights to keep in shape.

They are normal.

They don't understand what it is to be weird. 99% of the men that B meets in her day to day life will understand her interests, they understand that she likes to go shopping occasionally and loves romantic comedies and that sometimes she goes out with the girls for an evening. The same goes for G, girls will always understand that he wants to go to the park to play football, that he wants to go to the pub to watch rugby with the boys. These things are expected.

So they don't understand what it's like for me when I find someone else who has read the collected work of Tad Williams, or Girl Genius or Runaways. Who knows what it is for the self doubt to stop only when the words are flowing onto the screen. Who gets that sometimes it doesn't matter if it's sunny outside, all you want to do is hole up and play video games for nine hours straight. That spending all day in bed with a new book isn't a waste of a Sunday. That living in a made up universe might actually be healthy. That rush of connection when I meet a new person who is just like me.

They don't understand how I can feel close to people I've never met, purely because they love the same movies as me. How I can instantly fall in love with someone because they don't think my keeping a journal is weird and overindulgent. How I can know someone I've never even spoken to because I read their blog and it touches me.

They don't understand how it makes me feel when someone tells me how much they love my tattoos. They don't understand because they just have skin like everyone else, they may have hangups and insecurities but nothing about them inspires a visceral reaction in others, nothing about them has the power to repulse on sight.

For them it's easy. You find someone attractive, you get to know them and provided you match on the big things, raising kids, religion, politics, the details all just work themselves out.

They don't understand that for me it's the other way around. The details come first. I fall in love with the words, with the ideas, with the mutual acceptance. After that part, everything else is easy.

the backlash against feminism

2008-07-01T11:11:00.006+01:00

There's a fantastic article in the Guardian today, written by Kira Cochrane who is one of my ever present girl crushes. The article is huge in scope and covers a massive variety of frightening topics including rape conviction rates, inequalities in the work place, the shocking lack of funding for women's charities (I've read the statistic a million times but it still enrages me that sick donkeys get more money than battered women on this isle of mine), the increasing prevelance of the sex trade and my own pet subject:

In gossip magazines, women's bodies are pored over - a pound gained provoking headlines that they're fat, a pound lost leading to headlines that they're too thin. Circles are drawn around a spot on their ankle where they've failed to apply fake tan, around a bitten nail or a tiny, incipient wrinkle beside their eye - which could just be a stray lash. What is implicit but unsaid is that there is no objective standard of beauty, no level of perfection that a woman could reach at which her body would be perceived as acceptable and in control. In the eyes of these magazines, a healthy body mass index could be considered seriously plump. A woman deemed too fat in one magazine could, on the basis of exactly the same picture, be deemed too thin by another magazine. The constant message is that women's bodies are not our own. They belong to everyone but us, and are there to be picked apart. Women can try to curry favour, come up to snuff, spend hours like, say, Madonna, working out, perfecting themselves. But there's then every chance that they will be derided for the veins on their hands. There's something essentially depressing about women being derided for their veins

I suggest you go and read the whole thing, I'm already trying to work out a way of forcing everyone I come into contact with into reading and understanding it. Maybe that would make my day to day interactions bearable.

UPDATE: Apparently the ladies over at Jezebel agree with me.

So... I've been away

2008-06-23T22:03:00.004+01:00

I've been gone for a bit. Don't get me wrong, I've been here and everything I just haven't been here. As such.

Some stuff happened. I went away with my friends from high school, one final hurrah before one of us weds. I spent a day teaching in a school and I have never been happier about my future. I spoke to the ex Mr TheOdd, for two hours, for the first time in a year and a half. I messed things up severely with a guy I've known for years, who crossed a line with me that we can't erase. A guy with a girlfriend. A guy I've come to realise that I can't live without. A guy who knows me so well it frightens me, who psychoanalyses me so accurately it makes me hiss and spit, a guy who loves me despite all that. A guy who got over it and wouldn't accept me doing anything other than the same. A guy that I've spoken with more in the last week than in the entire of our three year friendship. A guy who despite me spending most of our time together being downright cruel to him, never gave up on me. A guy who handled my freak out, my weirdness and yet still adores me. A guy who I'm now proud to call my best friend.

So I'm back.

I missed you guys.

as promised...

2008-06-03T14:15:00.004+01:00

Because of a certain Pajiba Love column it gives me great pleasure to present to you: my mother's amazing toblerone ice cream recipie:

Toblerone ice-cream

115g/4oz Milk or dark Toblerone

50g/2oz plain chocolate

400g/14oz fresh custard sauce

150ml/5 fl oz double cream

1 x 15ml/ 1 tbsp clear honey

1 x 15ml/ 1 tbsp sweet sherry

Break up chocolates and place in heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Stir until melted

Stir melted chocolate into custard.

Whip cream to same consistency as custard and fold in.

Stir in honey and sherry

Pour mixture into shallow freezer container and freeze for about 1 hour until frozen 1” in from sides of container.

Beat until smooth and return to freezer

Freeze until firm

Leave out for about 30 mins prior to serving to allow to soften.

Totally worth the effort.

Enjoy!

ps. Drinking (and dancing) with Joker on Friday gave me a two day hangover. I spent my entire weekend in bed reading Terry Pratchett novels only occasionally shuffling downstairs to make myself a glass of squash to drink (slowly, for fear that it would make me throw up). Amazingly good magic. I am now broke and still kind of never want to drink again. All in all a fabulous evening with a kick ass girl and I now have to add Thirst the London branch, (The Oxford branch of said cocktail bar is where a sixteen year old Alex tasted her first gin sling. It was also the bar where a girl I knew in school lost her virginity. With a barman. In the toilets. Classy. This was not me I hasten to add, I left getting wasted and doing bad things in public bathrooms until I hit college - in my defense it was a classy place, with a sofa and everything. Although it was still technically the men's room. OK, I'm stopping now) to my list of venues for debauchery...

Superb.

memory loss bars: Shish

2008-05-30T15:19:00.004+01:00

There are several bars that have a bad, bad, bad effect on me. In fact, such a bad effect on me that I can't actually remember leaving them. Ever. It occurred to me today, while no doubt terrifying the lovely lady I will be meeting this evening (the Pajiban known as joker), that I reference these delightful places rather often and yet never really explain. So here's one of them, hopefully others will follow.

So today I'm going to talk about Shish. This is the bar that I dragged a poor sick Genny to it is also the bar that is involved in two of my favourite debauched stories: The Conclusion of the Geezer (^TM Manda) Saga and The Time I [redacted] With My Ex-Boyfriend's Ex Girlfriend In An Entirely Passive Aggressive Fit of Vengeance Against The Ex Mr The Odd, Which Was Kind Of Pointless As I Still Don't Think He Knows About It.

Where to start? Shish is a cocktail bar that serves gorgeous and unusual cocktails with middle-eastern and sometimes oriental twist. Now, as most of you already know: I am a drunken lush. I usually become inebriated through a finely honed feedback cycle which involves being around tried and tested drinking buddies who will encourage me to drink more and more (the kind of people who buy a bottle of wine as a round between four of you which seems like a good and sensible idea until you realise that to make it even you have to buy a bottle each and inevitably I will drink more, faster than the others meaning that by the end of the evening I will have probably drunk a good two bottles to myself which leads to headaches). This does not apply in cocktail bars. I could be on my own and get wasted within half an hour because if you present me with a cocktail menu I am like a kid in a candy store. I cannot have the same drink twice in once evening leading to hefty amounts of mixing and because I love the taste of most alcohol I can drink them as if they were juice. Not a good combination at the best of times.

And here's where the problem lies- I can't actually tell any stories about these bars because while I remember entering them and certain specific events during the time I was within them. Some things I remember from the assorted evenings I have forgotten leaving Shish:

Getting into a cocktail race with my friend Rich

Winning

Losing the rematch

Discussing the girl I suspect my ex dumped me fir with the girl he dumped for me

Finding out that by "I chose you" my ex actually meant "I chose to have regular sex with you while continually telling her how confused I was and that I really did love her and lying to you about times when I was with her but not sleeping with her because I would then no longer be morally superior to everyone else on the planet"

Discussing my future tattoo plans with my friend H's boss

Explaining my obsession with Tequila Girls to a completely uninterested party

Explaining my obsession with Tequila Girls to a girl who shared my obsession but for entirely different reasons

Having the heel shape of a vintage Prada boot explained to me and the importance of other people recognising said boot

Finding out that despite being able to hear them having sex there were yet more details I could discover about my flatmates' sex lives

Realising that the uber-vanilla one is not who I thought it was

And the thing is I know that interesting things happened to me in this bar I just can't remember them. How do I know that interesting things happened to me?

It's all about where you wake up the next morning.

quicker than quick

2008-05-29T22:32:00.002+01:00

Because it's 10:30pm and I want to get more than three hours of sleep this is going to be a very speedy update. Also: I'm using G's evil laptop of DOOM because my PC finally gave up the ghost internet-wise and this thing has the most annoyingly laid out keyboard ever so I am incapable of typing on it for more than three minutes without throwing it at the wall.

First up I am alive. And tomorrow I give in my notice, which leaves me with only three months of torture until I am free... to indulge in an entirely new brand of masochism.

Anyways. I've been quiet of late because I have been boring of late. Evil wisdom teeth and my first trip to the dentist in four and a half years (long story involving way too little anaesthetic, blood curdling screaming and a toothectomy* that went ahead anyway) mean that I've been on antibiotics for the last couple of weeks. Specifically metronidazole, the antibiotic which makes you incredibly (and violently) ill when you mix it with alcohol. And yet! There is a bright spot shining out from my inbox. What's that you say? The end of my non-drinking existence coinciding with a visit from a particularly kick-ass Pajiban??!?! And that also coincides with pay day?

Surely not!

I'll keep ya posted.

Oh yes, I posted something over at Blog Me A Tale, go and take a look.

*Today's game is making up new words!

harnessing the power of the gamer

2008-05-09T09:43:00.005+01:00

There are many things in the world of science that we just can't figure out. Not because we don't have the math, or the theory down but because we simply don't have the computing power available. It's a well known fact in my lab that I'm a bit of a video game geek, my boss regularly jokes that if they could some how find a way to make downloading research papers be controlled by a dualshock and have a snazzy graphical interface (possibly with a J-pop soundtrack) I'd probably never leave the office.

He also thinks this is the key to solving most problems of computation: to code the problem into a video game and have the processes required to solve it be related to actions taken within it. He's talking "massive scale, solving the problems of the universe which are possibly not for human consumption" that would require large amounts of obfuscation before being turned over into the hands of gamers of course, so there's no way we could implement it in the near future. But it's nice to see that a program named FoldIt has actually taken the first steps.

The game involves trying to figure out different ways in which proteins can be folded. As a biochemist this is a fascinating topic for me, protein folding is ludicrously complex and defined by a whole host of factors: the order of amino acids making up the primary chain, the secondary structure that the polypeptide takes, stabilising interactions between individual residues, the points at which water interacts with the molecule (I won't go on but if you're interested the Wikipedia page on protein structure acts as a fairly good crash course). Calculating all the different possible configurations is a mammoth task, but using human interaction could make it solvable much, much quicker.

Right now they're testing out the accuracy and efficiency of the game using known protein configurations but if it works well enough we're not just talking about solving the structures of existing proteins but also determining novel structures. One of the biggest problems facing drug design has long been the inability to isolate the perfect protein structure for the desired function. This is especially important in treating viral diseases such as HIV where interaction between the drug molecule and the virus' structure is absolutely vital to correct function. Computers so far aren't capable of determining completely novel protein structures from scratch and so if this technology actually works (and is fun enough to convince people to play with it), we could certainly see protein science, if not medicine advancing in leaps and bounds.

More information is over at Science Daily and Kotaku. I don't know about you guys but solving 3D puzzles and helping humanity? Sounds pretty spiffy to me.

100 of my favourite words

2008-05-08T13:10:00.001+01:00

Audible, vanilla, Pimlico, undulate, irregular, obfuscating, Machiavellian, dimpled, squish, Tavistock, swatch, cherubic, Edwardian, dirigible, wriggling, diagnostic, bollocks, meander, maelstrom, heinous, plethora, veiled, grotesque, protagonist, ethereal, basilisk, turquoise, metaphysical, submission, shill, querulous, muck, grumble, hedgehog, hexagonal, squirrel, webbing, tatters, musings, polymorphic, sulphur, tenacious, convex, pugnacious, interrupted, hysteria, peonies, plebeian, screech, onomatopoetic, potential, voluptuous, bumblebee, click, clatter, sinuous, rutting, tenuous, silken, exquisite, bulbous, fucked, neologism, spate, telephonic, actuality, blasé, uncouth, unmitigated, exasperation, blatant, horrific, rhododendron, tattle, bickered, metamorphosis, lipstick, apocalyptic, truncated, unintelligible, breakfast, sophomoric, callow, severed, erratic, melancholy, distaff, demimonde, treacle, eclectic, merriment, imbibe, bleached, wintry, whipped, embittered, trite, contrariness, abhor, abides.

write your own... tattoo themed "news" story!

2008-05-07T10:26:00.005+01:00

Title: Must include the word "ink", a pun on the word "tattoo" or a reference to permanence. Sample titles: Written in Ink, Tatt's all folks, Tattooed for thought, A permanent part of the student body.

Photograph: Either a celebrity that has one or more tattoos (note, they do not have to be mentioned in the text), an exterior shot of a tattoo studio or fuzzy close up of a tattoo taken from flickr.

Article text: Take at least six of the following, in order:

[Comment on tattoos being a "hot new fashion trend", possible reference to reality TV show]

[Note on how tattoos are "no longer just for sailors and convicts" bonus points for implying sluttiness of women with tattoos by mentioning prostitutes]

[Statistic on number of people possessing a tattoo, bonus points if figure covers the "number of people under twenty five"]

[Tenuous link to college campus/workplace/city/demographic that article is being written about - sample text: "tattoos are now a common sight adorning the bodies of Princeton's students" or "more and more Mothers are now sporting tattoos"]

[Citation of celebrities who have tattoos. Bonus points for the following: Mike Tyson, current American Idol contestant, Avril Lavigne/Rhianna or celebrity that has had a tattoo altered or removed eg. Johnny Depp. No extra points for mentioning Angelina Jolie as this is a prerequisite to publication]

[Quote from semi-articulate person who has a tattoo, possibly on the nature of "personal expression" or "remembering milestones", must include comment about individuality for full editorial impact]

[Quote from tattoo artist about how people are starting younger and going bigger with their tattoo designs]

[Cursory explanation of the difference between flash and custom designs]

[Statistic concerning number of people who now regret their tattoos - bonus points if this is backed up with a quotation from an HR goon about hirability]

[Quote from a "doctor" specialising in laser tattoo removal, possibly referencing follies of youth, definitely citing patients who have had a spouse's name removed]

Factfile: Pick one of the following options:

Tips for getting a tattoo (including inspired gems such as talking to prospective artists, checking portfolios and being really sure of the design you want permanently etched into your skin)

Tattoo removal methods (cite physical abrasion for maximal shock factor and tattoo removal creams to be extra misleading)

Article Comments: Must include at least three of the following:

"Everyone has tattoos now, personally I think I'm being more of an individual by NOT getting one"

"I hire for a large company and you can call me old fashioned but I wouldn't employ anyone with a visible tattoo" (note: this must be followed by at least seven accusations of discrimination, bonus if one cites employment law)

"I think they're OK on guys but tattoos on women are trashy"

"I went to [good school] and now work as a [impressive profession] and I have tattoos, therefore I am proof that everything you have said is wrong"

"TRAMP STAMP"

"Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD. Leviticus 19:28" (three posts pointing out that this is taken entirely out of context are also required with this comment)

"I think a couple of small tattoos can be ok but the big ones are just nasty"

"You have to wonder what these people are going to look like when they're in their sixties. That tribal butterfly won't look so good then!"

[Note: for best impact just under half of comments should be poorly spelt and grammatically incorrect. The word "tattoo" or some variation thereof must be misspelt at least every other post, acceptable variations are "tatoo", "tatto", "tatood", "tattoo'd" etc.]

unmitigated joy

2008-05-05T13:46:00.004+01:00

Ten things that are making me quite unforgivably happy today:

1. Wearing my new light blue blazer with ripped jeans and battered converses. It makes me look like a punk rock Mother of the Bride.
2. The sun is out and for once I'm not stuck in a windowless office, completely unable to enjoy it.
3. Going to the supermarket and spending half an hour in the cookware aisle choosing new cake tins and measuring cups.
4. Waiting until it gets dark, turning all the lights off then holing up in my room and immersing myself Ico
5. The prospect of going drinking with a fellow Pajiban before the week is through.
6. Issues 7-12 of Runaways and the fact that I bought them at a mini sci-fi convention I accidentally stumbled on while out clothes shopping.
7. My soon to be shiny bathroom, replete with new shower curtain.
8. Spending my afternoon making ooey gooey chocolate brownie cake while singing along to Fiona Apple.
9. This book in all its strange and grotesque beauty... and the fact that it's the first book I've read in years that's sent me reaching for the dictionary at least once every chapter.
10. The fact that after a blissful day entirely to myself my house will be filled with people this evening, people that I can feed and entertain and give the damned Wii back to.

a note on the ungrateful

2008-05-02T16:24:00.006+01:00

Many thanks to the fabulous Girl With Curious Hair for the call to arms on this issue...

So, science is inherently evil is it? You know what? Fine. I give up. There's no point arguing with a statement like that. I could cite advancements that have been life saving, revolutionary. I could point to dear friends who are currently in the care of the medical profession, people the world would be a worse place without. I could start talking about engineering allowing international travel and reliable water supplies, architecture providing us with shelter from the elements, maths and physics explaining the world around us. I could talk about space travel, genetics, communication, crops being farmed with improved yields, AIDS medication, water purification, computers, printing presses, heart bypasses, bionic limbs, cameras, telescopes, video games, sunscreen, decongestents, cars, clock-radios, MRI machines, cinema, electric lights, mass produced clothing, canned food, electric shavers, CAT scans, pencils, the notion of gravity, post-it notes, life as we know it. But I won't. Instead I'm going to say this:

All scientific discoveries are the work of Satan and we'd be much better off crawling around in the muck and dying from poisoning brought around by eating foraged food. Same goes for animal testing, that's bad and totally unnecessary. Yep. Absolutely. While we're on the subject of things that are important to me being crap I'm also totally going to admit that all feminists are evil too. That entire political movement was a pointless waste of time and should never have happened.

Just a couple of points:

re: Feminism. I'd like everyone holding the above view to raise their hands. OK, Ladies would you kindly stop voting, driving, owning property, wearing trousers, having any control over your medical care, getting an education, working, earning money, enjoying a life without violence as standard, going into pubs and bars, eating alone in restaurants and having orgasms. Gents, you're going to need to head right back out the door to work because, guess what? You have seven kids to feed (contraceptives, what? Never heard of em) and a mortgage to pay. Alone.

re: Animal testing. Please stop taking aspirin, paracetamol, morphine, vicodin... oh screw it, you know what "medicine", yeah stop taking that. Oh and could you also stop having surgery. Of any kind. Although especially heart surgery. Anything life saving. Although you can probably still have your appendix taken out. You just can't be anaesthetised while we do it. It's cool though, here's a rag to bite down on. Hope you don't get a post surgical infection cause we really can't help you with that.

re: Science. Well, if you managed to survive this far without medical care, heating, electricity, transport, living in a building, eating processed food, eating organic food, hell - eating cooked food, defending yourself or you know, having fire to provide light and warmth could you please move it out to the mountainside, possibly into a cave, you're going to have to walk there though. Barefoot. And wearing some sort garment fashioned from leaves and bits of twine that you've hand woven from tree bark. Actually "weaving" that's a bit advanced, maybe you could just sort of hold them on or something. You also might want to stay in the shade, I hear skin cancer's a bitch without access to treatment. Don't bother packing either, we all know that suitcases are the work of the devil. You won't need that laptop you write your charming anti evolutionary screeds on either, and leave that bible where it is. The printed word really isn't for folks like you. OK, now could you just sort of sit still for a while. Don't move. You might discover something. That would be bad. Sit very, very, very still.

Oh yes, and get the fuck off our internet you ignorant, anti-intellectual, narrow minded, Luddite wanker.

ooooooh SHINY!

2008-04-25T22:03:00.002+01:00

I was going to save this for my 100th post (fast approaching, I've decided to go the incredibly self indulgent route and resurrect the old "100 things about me" meme so please feel free to skip it and I promise I won't pull a similar stunt for my 200th post) but the coding bug caught me this evening. I know, Friday night in at my computer tinkering around with HTML code: hedonistic, right? At least I have a bottle of wine by my side. Anyways, it's something I haven't done in years and I must say I rather enjoyed the graphic making/random trial and error testing that it involved.

I hope you like it! If anything is hideously hard to read/glaringly ugly/bothering you immensely leave me a note in the comments and I'll see about getting it fixed because I'm accomodating like that.

Anyway tell me what you think. Validate me and comment.

as per your requests

2008-04-25T19:03:00.003+01:00

This is the photo from my latest session (and yes, there is a session missing - it's the stuff below my waist and I'm avoiding posting photos of my ass online, I will put up full sized finished photos though promise), not really much new stuff but you can see that the direction has changed somewhat. We're going for a art deco/comic book hybrid feel (especially with the new outlining) - there were much more sketchy lines adorning me but Kamil decided that he couldn't risk losing what we had done so far so I got some unexpected tattoo work done. But my shoulders are finally covered - so hurrah for that. Anyways, here's the picture:

I go in next towards the end of July so I'll be walking around looking like an unfinished canvas for a good few months. Again. So yeah, comment away.

this actually makes me tear up...

2008-04-24T19:55:00.002+01:00

Something to placate you while I prepare my upcoming photo post and also just cause I really want it on my blog.

Even if you've seen it before please enjoy. I cannot explain how much I love this song the video that goes with it is self explanatory really.

interview redux (very long and incredibly boring)

2008-04-23T10:40:00.008+01:00

So, the interview.

After days of freaking out re: lack of school experience, my presentation not being written until the morning before (finishing acetates ten minutes before leaving the house - great plan!) and feeling horrendously under prepared I actually managed to feel incredibly calm on the morning of the interview. This calmness was not affected by the unbelievably creepy guy at the bus stop who struck up a conversation with me about my book and then proceeded to s-l-o-w-l-y unbutton his jacket while looking me directly in the eye. It was fucking creepy and had the bus not arrived at that particular moment I'm about 80% sure my day would have started with a flasher. Excellent. I had to run to work before my actual interview so that I could sneak into the printing room and make copies of all my documents (literally every piece of ID available to me as well as qualifications, past pay slips, tax records etc, I'll give them points for being thorough) I managed to only get spotted by one of my managers in work, on my day off, wearing a suit. Wonder if she suspected anything?

Typically I arrived about twenty minutes early so I sat at the bus stop reading my flasher-magnet book and checking my watch every three seconds, when that became too much for me I wandered down to have a look at the scary religious folks handing out free food. The area around the college itself is seriously pretty - there's a big green park (Russel Square, where this show is set) and a ton of other colleges so there are always massive gaggles of students wandering around. All in all a lovely atmosphere. It was then that my Mother chose to call me and start the following conversation:

"Hello darling, I just wanted to wish you luck and to say that even if you don't get a place, which you will, I'm just so proud of you for getting an interview on the course. I know you don't like things to be so competitive but I know you'll do fine."

"What are you talking about, Mother?"

"Your course. The league tables.... Young lady, did you apply to college to train for your future career without even looking at the league tables?"

"Maybe."

Yeah. She had a look through the league tables for PGCE (post graduate certificate in education - that's the course I applied for) courses and apparently I applied to the best course in London. I didn't know this. I chose providers pretty much at random based on geographical location to make sure that my school placements would be within the Greater London area. I was not prepared to hear this. Calm mood shattered. I had prepared for an "average course" interview, not a "top course" interview. There was no way in hell I'd done enough preparation to be up against people who actually knew what they were talking about. But! No time to worry on with the interview.

I met a girl waiting for the lift who looked decidedly uncomfortable in a suit, a sure sign of an interview candidate. What I should have done, if I had any kind of killer instinct whatsoever, was size her up and attempt to psyche her out. What I actually did was lean over and ask the following:

"On a scale of one-to-utter meltdown how freaked out are you right about now?"

She gave a perfect reply ("eight and a half, nine by the time we reach the sixth floor") and I decided that breaking the cardinal rule of "don't talk to other candidates lest you freak yourself out" was probably a good idea. A neuroscientist like me, applying to teach Biology, she'd started preparing two days previously and hadn't spent the last three years volunteering in schools. At least there was going to be one person like me. We arrived on the right floor bang on time and met the other candidates. Lots of awkward smiles and questions as to which subject everyone was specialising in (2 physicists, 3 chemists, one half physicist-half chemist, one half chemist-half biologist (moi) and five biologists). We were shepherded into the meeting room and left to our own devices while our interviewers "prepared" (ominous much?).

I think silence reigned for about six seconds before three of us started talking at once. In a room full of people who were willingly going to stand up in front of a class of eighteen year olds in an attempt to convince them that the inner workings of the human ear is the most fascinating thing they'll ever study (it isn't) there were bound to be some talkative people. We immediately started comparing notes, discussing presentation topics, lamenting (or celebrating) the fact that presentations were going to be one on one, finding out who'd been working where and just generally talking ourselves down from a state of supreme nervousness. In fact it took our primary interviewer a few tries to get us to shut up.

From then on the atmosphere was absolutely lovely, (helped by the first point of the interviewers' presentation which informed us that this was not a competitive process and that they could feasibly take everyone in the room if they liked us enough and we meet their specifications) whenever someone left the room to present or interview there was a chorus of "good luck"s and whenever someone returned they either spent five minutes reassuring the room how nice the interviewer was or running through every question they'd been asked. I don't know when it happened but at some point the day became fun.

The interview had a few different sections: first up a mini ice breaker (standard "tell us your name and something about yourself" fare) followed by a presentation from the college explaining things like term times, how placements functioned and were assigned, the structure of the course etc. Next we had a group discussion which was based on some basic science questions we'd been sent in our interview pack - stuff like "where do stars come from?", "A tree is made of air and water - is this correct?" and "Why is mercury a liquid when all the other metals are solids at room temperature?". I remember those three because those were the three we were asked. I think I spoke at least once for every question while some people in the room only piped up once they were called on. There was one guy, a physicist who was quite a bit older and had been working as a technician in a school for years, who kept going off onto huge rambling and very technical explanations that unfortunately had obviously been memorised. I had to bite my lip a few times to stop myself from butting in, especially when it was to defend myself (we were encouraged to point out flaws in the previous speakers' answers) but I managed OK and didn't make myself look like too much of an idiot.

Next we were given a writing task with questions to answer based on a specific situation we'd already been given. An individual writing task. I think we all turned in identical essays. One of the guys suggested a group answer a la Breakfast Club signed with vague descriptions of ourselves. He was ace. But then I tend to think that about anyone who complains that they now have to cut the jokes out of their presentations. Anyway, the writing task was ongoing whilst we were called out to either give our presentations or to be interviewed formally.

My presentation was first. I was a little nervous about giving a presentation to just one person as I generally perform best to a crowd. My worries were completely unfounded though as I nailed it. To. The. Wall. I think my concluding remark was something along the lines of "and that's why stem cells are so awesome"... I'm guessing I got points for enthusiasm. And, as it's my pet topic I was able to answer all the questions I got asked so I'm really glad I didn't just write up a topic from the A-level course.

After the presentation came the interview, which was the section I was really dreading. The way the course is run you have to be capable of teaching all three core sciences (including some geology and astronomy thrown in for good measure) up to GCSE level (which is age 16) you then get to teach your specialist subject at A-level. I utterly sucked at the physics questions and froze up on a question about global warming which is a massive deal as the course is so intensive that they really don't have time to go over any subject knowledge at all - you're expected to know it going in. Which I didn't. The other issue was my lack of school time. The interviewer happened to know my secondary school which means she knew exactly how small the class sizes and how well behaved all the students were - she warned me that it would be a massive culture shock going in to an inner city comprehensive (a fact that I am acutely aware of, believe me) and stressed how incredibly important it is for me to get class experience as soon as possible regardless of how the interview went. The last subject we discussed was my flexibility at A-level. As I'm a biochemist I'm qualified to specialise in both Chemistry and Biology, and Chemistry is a major shortage subject. I explained that I'd be willing to take extra classes to qualify in Chemistry as well if they needed me to as I understand the importance of having competent and enthusiastic teachers in the harder science subjects but that I'd still want to at least audit the Biology specific modules.

So yeah, that was pretty much the scope of it.

Hmmmmm... I feel like I'm missing out a detail... now what was it? Something about the internet... maybe a letter...?

Oh yes! I remember:

I got in. To do Biology. Come September I'll be well on my way. Now the real work begins. I have to spend my summer re learning everything I've ever forgotten about Physics and really brushing up on my Chemistry. I also need to go shopping for some dark, long sleeved, collared shirts to hide the tattoo (which got ever so slightly bigger on Monday with plans to extend it even further) and some smart-ish sensible trousers. Because evidently the subject matter and class control aren't the issues here. Nope, it's how I'll look that's really important.

I confuse and scare myself sometimes.

interlude: overheard on the night bus

2008-04-18T15:17:00.006+01:00

3am, the night bus from Trafalgar Square to Tower Hill.

"D'you reckon you could cook a smurf?"
"Nah, not enough meat on a smurf. Wouldn't be worth it."
"I dunno. You could poach it... like a quail. Might taste a bit gamey though."
"Too much effort, mate."
[pause]
"But you wouldn't cook Papa Smurf"
"You could do."
"Of course you wouldn't. That would be fucking insane. Papa Smurf has all the medicines. What if your mum got really ill and you'd gone and cooked Papa Smurf, you'd look like right a fucking idiot then, wouldn't you?"
"Fair point."

preparation, the (semi) live blog

2008-04-16T21:49:00.005+01:00

17:00 - Right. Left work early so I could come home and work. Spent the last hour reading Perdido Street Station. Hmmm maybe I can justify it as an exploration into the morality of genetic engineering. I should really start planning

17:30 - Plan for the next six hours done. Easy money. Will just phone my mother for moral support.

18:00 - Bollocks. Plan no longer applicable. Never mind, will do research on the internet.

18:03 - Ooooh YouTube wants to work for me today!

19:48 - Phonecall from Doug wondering if he needs to pick up dinner or if I'll cook for him. Tell him to check with the people who will actually leave their rooms this evening.

20:15 - Actually, where the fuck are my housemates? They're blatantly in a bar having fun. Wish I was in a bar having fun.

20:39 - WooHoo! Three minutes of presentation done. And it only took me fifteen minutes to write. Wonder if it's factually accurate...

20:40 - I'll just check my facts.

20:45 - Bollocks.

20:47 - Hmmm maybe I'll just spend a few minutes checking through my reader...

21:55 - Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. Done fucking nothing. Shit, shit, shit. I'm going to be making acetates at three in the morning half crazed from lack of sleep. I have the strangest feeling that I was aware of this fact weeks ago.

21:56 - Oooh! Keys in the door! Doug's back. I should go and entertain him. It's rude to leave guests unattended and foraging for food.

22:43 - Well at least my shirt is ironed for tomorrow now. That's a good thing, right?

22:44 - Maybe I should just re-time what I have so far...

22:47 - What I have so far is crap. I should start again.

23:09 - Second draft looks exactly like the first draft. Begin on third draft.

23:37 - I really shouldn't be capable of writing a presentation this quickly at this time of night. Slightly concerned that other people will have spent weeks on theirs. Justifying it to myself in that this is an example of teaching capability and will not have three weeks to prepare and memorise before each and every lesson. This is far more realistic. Yes.

23:42 - Five and a half minutes. REALLY basic. Like, really REALLY basic. Maybe I should be focusing on one thing? All seems a little rushed. Fuck it. Don't care. It's almost midnight. Need to make acetates.

23:50 - Flatmates home. Need coffee. Rearranging seems to be a good idea. How does rearranging make something shorter? That's insane.

00:04 - Mmmmm. Coffee.

00:10 - Hmmm if I combine this section with that section then it might be easier to follow... then I can link it to that bit and I can spend longer on my examples. Ahahaha! I am a genius!

00:23 - A genius who is more interested in reading forums than finishing her presentation, evidently.

00:42 - Seriously.

00:52 - I'm out. Going to bed. I have a presentation without a point, no acetates and a headache. Will get up at seven tomorrow and continue the whole hideous process.

panic stations

2008-04-15T22:10:00.004+01:00

I am. Freaking. The Fuck. Out.

Seriously people, this is an epic level freak out happening right now. I'm on about a level 4 on the "Alex is melting down I'm serious about this run for the hills do not stop to retrieve children or valuables well maybe that one vase as it could actually be worth something some day" scale. I'm screwed. Utterly screwed. Nobody is ever going to let me teach. Anywhere. Ever. I'm certainly not going to get on to my first choice course, the interview for which is on Thursday.

Why you ask? Well! I'll tell you.

I haven't spent the last nine years volunteering with sick children and teaching them to read. I haven't taken every day of annual leave I've had in the last two years and spent it mentoring underprivileged youths (although I wish I had). I have not spent the last six weeks rehearsing my presentation for my interview, in fact I haven't even started it. That last part? Utterly not hyperbole.

Shit.

Fuck.

I haven't spent a day in a school.

This is not my fault. It's the weirdest Easter ever right now. The schools aren't back yet. They don't answer emails. I have one possibility but I have to contact them after the school comes back in to session. On Monday. Four days after my interview. Useful. I fully intend on spending time in a school (because not to = fucking insane) I just haven't managed to yet.

This is entirely my fault. I should have started sooner. I applied too late. I'm not dedicated enough.

I made the mistake of reading message boards dedicated to applications for teaching. This was a bad idea. It made me freak out. I'm freaking out right now. Can you tell? Because, honestly? The people who visit websites dedicated to stuff are nerds and weirdos. I should know. I am one. Except I read scathing movie reviews, random sci-fi stuff, articles about sex and the evils of magazines, blogs on feminist issues and lots and lots and lots (and lots) of webcomics. I spend all day online working out exactly how many X-Men continuities I'm currently reading (three), daydreaming about my next tattoo and shoe shopping.

This does not make me a bad person. Really, it doesn't. At least I don't think it does. Shit.

And normally I wouldn't care. Because I never care. I haven't prepared for an interview in my life. I am su-freaking-perb at interviews. I kick ass at presentations (speaking of: I really should get on with that, I have about 36 hours in which to complete it - 20 of those will be spent at work and/or sleeping, hmmmmm I wonder if I can do both simultaneously), I am confident and well spoken and look fierce in a suit. But I'm freaking out. Massively. Because for once in my life I actually want something. I want this so badly. Not just because I don't handle rejection well. Not just because I want to be a student next year. Not just because I hate my current job so much it makes me want to leap out of my third floor window.

But because more and more I realise just how important it is (yes, that's my question).

I want to teach my subject. I want to be an authority figure that is always sympathetic. I want to be one of the few adults who offers a completely safe space. I want to be a role model to young women who are conditioned against science, against speaking up, against acting out. I want to explain inheritance theory and the process of natural selection. I want to see the maniacal spark in the pacifist veggie kid's eyes as she cuts into her first rat and decides on a career in pathology (hello, me at thirteen). I want this. The only other thing I've wanted this much was my place at University. I got that. I want this.

I know that I want this because I'm planning for my rejection. This doesn't happen in Alex Land. In Alex Land when you get rejected for something it takes under thirty seconds to have yourself and everyone around you convinced that you didn't want it anyways. Let thirty more seconds pass and you've already moved on to your Next Big Scheme. That doesn't happen here. I'm planning for my rejection. If I get rejected my application goes on to the next place. And then the next. And then it's June and I'm in clearing. And then the process is closed, the slots are filled. Come October I'm temping, taking a TEFL qualification in the evenings. January comes around and it's goodbye London, hello Tokyo. My application for the next year has already been sent. Interviews begin again.

And I calm down a little.

But still, there's the little voice whispering at the back of my head. They need science teachers, they are under fucking subscribed. You haven't prepared because you don't need to, why do you think they pay you ten grand tax free to train? They should be begging you to apply. You are a natural. And it's that little voice that's fucking me over because for a few minutes I believe it and start feeling confident. Then I start feeling blase. Then I start feeling cocky.

And the swing from "cocky" to "gibbering ball of panic and stress" is so steep and so terrifyingly far that it makes my stomach churn.

Bollocksing buggering bastarding fuck.

I'm going to read comics and worry myself to sleep. An activity only marginally less productive than spending half an hour ranting about my unpreparedness. Half an hour I could have been using to prepare.

Oh for fuck's sake.

a realisation

2008-04-14T11:27:00.002+01:00

I make my ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo.

I listen to Less Than Jake and Bad Religion. I can name the make and model of most mid-priced hatchbacks. I can kick anyone's ass at Tiger Woods Golf despite never having owned a copy. I can go to work on under three hour of sleep. I'm a beer snob. I understand the political events that led up to the Second World War. I drink Kopparberg Pear Cider. I know the rules of cricket. I make mean chicken fajitas. I got my lip pierced. I can find my way around Brighton. I know what the clutch pedal is for. I can mix mojitos. I know that the trick to curing a hangover headache is to get up for a couple of hours and then go back to bed. I can cook scrambled eggs. I understand why people willingly go to war. I passed my degree. I have the name I always wanted.

I make my ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo.

I don't give them enough credit, the men who've had an effect on me. I took at least something away from every single one even if they don't know it. The ex Mr. TheOdd more than any of them, he makes up most of that list, and yet I never say it. I find myself not allowed.

I have friends who in their fierce protection of me won't hear a good word said about him. They're the ones who never really knew him, anyone who did nods along with my mantra of "awesome guy, great friend, rubbish boyfriend" because it's true. They loved him, spent years hanging out with us, they were the ones awake with us at 3am laughing and debating. They attended classes with him, knew us as friends and still ask me how he is. Because we were so close it's unimaginable to those who knew us that we would no longer speak.

It's true; I've been angry with him. I was angry about the way he treated me and anyone could see that part of that anger was really for me. Anger at being a doormat, anger at turning into the girl I said I wouldn't, anger at cowing down, being meek, willingly losing myself. That anger's gone now, I have myself back, and all I really want is to celebrate the woman I am today, giving credit where it's due to those who have influenced me. But some of those closest to me won't even allow me to say his name, they demand that I refer to him as "the ex" or "the weasel" or they go off into hyperbolic ranting that I know is only meant to make me laugh but still leaves me feeling uneasy. I can't tell them to stop, they're only showing they love me and, if I'm honest, when I try I either get reprimanded for going soft and giving in to him (because evidently he is aware of how I refer to him in conversation) or corrected, made to feel guilty for having good feeling towards him at all. Even when I explain. They are angry with him, still, so that I don't have to be and I love them for that.

Even so, there is something to be said and so I'll say it here because I am able to. Because nobody is going to stop me.

Thank you, Adam. For everything. I honestly believe I'm a better person because of you.

not a good day

2008-04-10T10:15:00.003+01:00

Life isn't fair.

People make me sick.

I want to go back to bed.

geekgasmic

2008-04-03T09:45:00.002+01:00

Taking a leaf out of Websters Is My Bitch's book (then photocopying it and then claiming the resulting blurry mess is my own work) may I present to you:

Main Entry: Geekgasmic
Pronunciation: \ˈgēk,ˈgaz-mik\
Function: adjective
Etymology: a contraction formed from the commonly used words "geek" and "orgasmic"
Date: 2008

1: descriptor of a typically "uncool" experience which brings extreme joy eg. "The final episode of Bionic Woman was geekgasmic. And also: bad." "Kristin Bell looks positively geekgasmic in her Princess Leia outfit."

2: The only possible way to describe the following video clip

Yep. It's an Eva. What's that? It appears to be doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance? Why yes, yes it does. [Via Kotaku]

a retrospective

2008-04-02T17:18:00.001+01:00

I don't understand about complementary colors
And what they say
Side by side they both get bright
Together they both get gray

But he's been pretty much yellow
And I've been kinda blue
But all I can see is
Red, red, red, red, red now
What am I gonna do

I don't understand about
Diamonds and why men buy them
What's so impressive about a diamond
Except the mining

And it's dangerous work
Trying to get to you too
And I think if I didn't have to
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill myself doing it
Maybe I wouldn't think so much of you

I've been watching all the time
And I still can't find the tack
And I wanna know is it okay
Is it just fine
Or is it my fault
Is it my lack

I don't understand about
The weather outside
Or the harmony in a tune
Or why somebody lied

There's solace a bit for submitting
To the fitfully cryptically true
What's happened has happened
What's coming is already on its way
With a role for me to play

I don't understand
I'll never understand
But I'll try to understand
There's nothing else I can do

~Fiona Apple Red, Red, Red

what I don't understand

2008-03-31T17:06:00.003+01:00

Why is it OK for a sixteen-year-old girl to submit herself to anaesthesia, to have her flesh cut and pulled away from the muscle, to have a foreign substance put within the walls of her body, a foreign substance that can be toxic, in order to modify her appearance - to fit in with the Western ideal of physical perfection? How is this desecration of the flesh any different from binding her feet or stretching her lip? If it makes her feel more confident, more at ease in her own skin then we have to ask ourselves why. Why is it that a child, in America still not of an age to be legally able to consent to an adult sexual relationship, should feel the need to cosmetically enlarge a part of her body that is considered a sexual symbol? Why is breast size tied in to her worth as a person? Why can she not be happy with the way she looks until her chest has been cut and stuffed and sewn?

Why is doing that more acceptable than this? Or this?

Is it because it's performed by medical professionals? Because it can look "natural"? Because someone, somewhere said so?

Help me out here.

As to what got me thinking about this: there's an interesting and (dare I say it) almost balanced article trying to understand the motivations behind body modification that was brought to my attention today via needled. Of course any sweeping generalisations concerning tattooing immediately puts my hackles up but this piece made me feel altogether less stabby than usual. It's worth a read.

Oh and if anyone could answer my plastic surgery questions I'd be really grateful. It's bugging me.

an update

2008-03-31T10:46:00.004+01:00

RE: my move to a new address

If you subscribe to Circular Logic (soon to become Ink&Apples) at our old blogspot address via RSS feed (though why you would is utterly beyond me) then it will no longer update. If you feel the need to update your subscriptions www.inkandapples.com now registers as actually existing, which is always useful. The old address should redirect here but I'll put a reminder up in the blog header just in case. God, this is way more hassleful than I expected. I blame Vermillion and his shiny new layout. Curses. Speaking of (new layouts, not V) one is forthcoming, I've been sourcing graphics and finding templates to cannibalise - something I'd forgotten could be so much fun, because I am a massive loser.

I would apologise for being rubbish about posting of late but I hate when people do that so I'll just say leave me a comment, damnit so that I know you still love me.

re: my life

I still hate my job but now everyone knows I'm leaving come September, including my bosses which has taken the pressure off. Also: we finally have funding so there is a minute chance that I may get to do some actual lab work before my time is through, although I'd give you even odds that we start the day after I leave. Because the universe is convinced that it's a comedian. I'm spending the next week going to gigs and socialising with my flatmates (we've been doing a lot of that recently - last night was spent bowling (at which I suck), drinking beer and playing in the arcade (both of which I am awesome at). I'm pretty sure that all that DDRing counts as exercise.)

In slightly more exciting news: I have an interview coming up for my first choice college for teacher training which is very exciting and more than a little nerve wracking - I have questions to answer in a group exercise ("Where do stars go during the day?", "Can nuclear power solve global warming?", "Why can fanning flames make them bigger if you can also blow them out?"), a teaching situation to answer questions on and a presentation to give that's appropriate for 16 year-olds. I'm supposed to organise a day in a school science department before I go but with the Easter break being timed between hmmm let's see "now" and "the time of my interview" that doesn't look too promising. Still, I have the curriculum to read through (fun fact: I also have to be prepared to teach physics, astronomy and geology in addition to the subjects I actually have knowledge of which will be... interesting).

More tattooing at the end of the month after a rather long break. We're starting work on the background so I get to spend the first hour being drawn on with marker pen. We've vaguely discussed colour schemes and the basics of how it's going to look but with Kamil I can never tell until I actually see it - and I'm never disappointed. Also this session we should finally be re-working my snowflake, which was the entire point of starting this tattoo. So: yey!

I managed the entire of lent without getting on the scales (go me) and only slipped up on the chocolate once or twice (always when eating in company, damned restaurants and their limited desert menus). Apparently I weigh exactly the same when I starve myself and exercise like a maniac as when I eat pizza and spend all day playing video games. I do feel a hell of a lot better when I work out though so I'll be continuing to do it but not beating myself up when I really don't feel like it. Check it out kids: a balanced and mature attitude, who saw that one coming?

So yes, all is groovy in the world of me. How is everyone else?

how timely!

2008-03-31T10:21:00.003+01:00

In relation to what I blogged about last time from next week UK employers are required to protect staff members from sexual harassment by customers, tradesmen and other people they are contractually obliged to have contact with during their employment (source), if they fail to do so they may be liable for damages. This is fantastic news for bar and restaurant staff across the country, although I'm not too sure how effective such a law would be in actually cutting down the amount of harassment by members of the public. The worst job I ever worked in terms of getting groped (also in terms of poor pay, levels of physical labour and the resulting blisters) was catering for weddings. The female staff members used to keep a running tally of how many times each of us had been groped by liquored up guests (the winner getting first dibs on the left over alcohol from the free bar, I never once attended a wedding where everything was finished - let me tell you that would never happen if I were the one throwing the party or, you know, attending it as a guest). There was nothing that our boss could have done about this whatsoever, short of physically removing every drunken uncle and groomsman from the room (leaving a grand total of about twelve guests in some cases), she was utterly powerless. It might be slightly more useful in a controlled atmosphere, taking another example from my experience (if a little by proxy) - one of my friends used to work for a transport company. The regulations concerning harassment were clearly laid out within the company itself but she did have trouble when dealing with outside contractors, her bosses felt that their hands were tied as they had no direct control over (or legal responsibility for) workers who weren't under their direct employment. This kind of legislation could have made her working life infinitely more pleasant.

To be honest any law that moves us towards a situation where workers are able to do their job free from harassment (and I'm not just referring to female employees here either - I once worked with a guy who was pestered relentlessly by a customer "on behalf of" her daughter, culminating in an offer of £10,000 for him to take her out dancing... did I mention this customer was incredibly drunk? And too rich for her own good?) is a step in the right direction.

As for you the lovely, and silent, commenters - any stories of workplace hideousness to share?

Inequalities in the field.

2008-03-27T14:46:00.002Z

There is an article in the Education Guardian today with some rather disheartening, if not unexpected, statistics. It turns out that even in a field dominated by women we’re still losing out to our male counterparts. Over half of all secondary level teachers are women (it’s a percentage in the high 80s for primary level positions) and, if we judge by the number of female candidates entering postgraduate teacher training, that doesn’t look set to change. Despite all this the number of men in leadership roles after twenty years of service is more than double that of women in similar positions. As in the majority of other professions we see that men are more likely to ask for pay rises and actively seek promotions. Like I said before, this isn’t unexpected. Teaching is a popular career choice for women who intend to take time off in order to raise children – unlike jobs in the business or research sectors the teaching profession won’t move on in leaps and bounds if you take a few years out to “have a family” – your career won’t be progressing while you do it though.

"Career patterns show women are less likely to experience swift promotion and face discrimination in relation to career breaks in a profession structured around a ladder of promoted posts.

"Women are also less likely to seek promotion on account of issues such as personal priorities, as well as experiencing negative attitudes."

Part of me would expect a little more from a field “dominated” by women but experience tells me not to hold my breath. That’s beside the point, it’s the same for the majority of career paths I could have chosen, it’s universal sexism (and universally unfair) but not what I want to talk about today.

The issue at the forefront of my mind is the almost invisible inequalities of employment – not the ones that affect my pay (I’ve never been in a position where my salary is defined by anything other than an arbitrary number on a pre-defined scale so I’ve yet to experience the pay gap first hand) or my rate of career progression but rather the ones that niggle every day and make my life just that little bit harder. I’ve experienced this all the positions I’ve worked in, except my current post in academia (there I suspect any difficulty in doing my job is not brought about by my gender but rather the fact that my job really shouldn’t have existed in the first place). The obvious issues associated with being a young, female member of bar staff sadly still go with the job, sleazy customers offering back massages and well dressed professional couples leaning over the bar and confiding that I looked like “the kind of girl who really enjoys it rough and dirty” (Erm, thanks?) were par for the course and upsettingly just became part of the daily grind. Working in the store I did in my retail days meant that some customers would actively avoid me because I was a woman (only to be sent straight back to me when it turned out they had a question my non video game playing male colleagues couldn’t answer) and a primarily male environment meant that occasionally “banter” got out of hand. I did once have to threaten to file a sexual harassment complaint if the current line of conversation did not stop (this was before my days as labelling myself as a Feminist. I’m still highly impressed with myself, and with my colleagues who took it in very good grace and apologised profusely). Teaching however has thrown up some other, more interesting issues that won’t apply to my male colleagues.

Aside from having to buy an entirely new work wardrobe (appearing too “sexy” in your manner of dress is something that a relatively conservative dresser such as myself has never had a problem with before but apparently 90% of what I own is inappropriate for dealing with teenagers. Although I get the feeling that I’d still get heckled even if wearing a floor length, shapeless dress fashioned from Kevlar, which may actually be a sensible option for my inner city placement, safety-wise), issues with being 5’1” and attempting to control a class full of kids twice my size who all look older than me and all the fun sexual harassment I get to observe and have very little power to counteract to look forwards to I also have the small issue of my name.

I identify as Ms O’Irishname. Not “Miss”, not “Mrs” but “Ms”. I find the use of Miss to be infantilising and have felt uncomfortable being defined by it for as long as I can remember (I used to think it was just my old surname I took issue with, apparently it wasn’t). I’m not married and I’d like to think that if I were I’d choose not to be defined by my marital status so Mrs is out. But how in the hell do you convince kids and colleagues of that? I already have issues with getting banks and my mobile phone companies to use the correct title even my flatmates find it weird (as I’m “not divorced or in [my] forties”). It’s a minor issue when compared with classroom control, the possibility of violence or parents questioning your decisions but it’s one that bothers me all the same.

this is the new shit

2008-03-26T20:36:00.006Z

Something strange is happening to Circular Logic. Something strange and unnerving. Don't believe me? It's mutating into something entirely new with (shock!horror!) themed content and (in theory) a shiny new look. A Work In Progress will be shutting down once I'm done using it as a testing ground, but never fear the tattoo posting will continue, it's all going along with the theme. Actually, it's pretty much going to be business as usual around here but with slightly more direction (and frequent posting!)

Also on the agenda: a new name and location.

From now on I can be found at www.inkandapples.com (although the current blogspot address will continue to work for the next few days) the name and the post I'll be putting up this afternoon should give you some idea as to the direction this place is going to be taking.

I hope you stick around for the ride.

Blog me a tale...

2008-03-25T23:07:00.002Z

I've posted my first (and certainly not my last) tale for the telling over at Blog Me A Tale. I suggest you go and read it. It's about frogs.

Kinda.

I have been here for almost two years and yet still do not have the responsibility to purchase even one box of staples without approval

2008-03-06T17:03:00.003Z

Fucking temps have more authority in this building than I do. I'm not kidding. I actually discovered today that someone who's been here two motherfucking weeks has higher approval status me. I can barely walk because I have to sit on my ass all day, which incidentally is getting fatter by the second because I can't do any freaking exercise, and it still hurts. All of the above is making me tense and snappy and mean so I'm either pissing off everyone in sight or making them cry. I'm broke because I just had to hand over £150 for someone's freaking hen weekend in June. Oh and incidentally - the wedding? Over the weekend of Leeds festival so I can't go. I still haven't heard back from my teaching course and they only have a week left to get back to me, my iPod is dead, my hair is frizzy because I was over zealous with the curlers this morning and about ten minutes ago I broke a nail.

Fuck this.

I am going home to sit on my sofa, eat cheesecake and kick the ever loving crap out of endless hoardes of pixellated evil until I feel better.

Anyway, how's your day been?

a tribute to the truly marvellous pink pills which currently reside in my purse

2008-03-04T15:09:00.003Z

Dear Pink Pills,

It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost seven whole years since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription and, as much as I love you, my few scruples forbid me from flirting with doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication. But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees, prostrate on the ground begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness, light and a non-swollen ass in those hours I couldn't rely on my old mistress Red Wine to take the pain away. (Fabulous though she is, she isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess she made the last time I enjoyed her company at work? Not. Good.)

You've helped me some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted with a hockey stick one November morning (though others may quibble, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of hockey counts as a form of assault and so I will not be swayed in my declarations), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a tennis related injury (are you beginning to see now why I don't play sports?). But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain during my trip to Bolivia. When I pulled my Achilles tendon I thought I was going to pass out from the pain of walking on it. Being stuck in the middle of an area currently undergoing a civil war and knowing the only option was to keep on walking through the volcanic landscape to somewhere that we could finally camp was hard. The people I was travelling with bitching for over an hour about having to split my pack between them was harder. But you made it ok again, Pink Pills. You took away the pain and made it physically bearable.

And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains again, you have gotten me through the last eight hours at work. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of my old alcoholic mistress. You know I love you - she's just more fun in social situations.

Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may be extra strength ibuprofen but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated joy.

Yours, analgesically

Alex

entirely self-inflicted

2008-03-03T10:47:00.004Z

The following is a list of every day things that I cannot do without causing myself immense amounts of pain:

Walk
Sit down
Lay on my left side
Climb stairs
Bend down
Crouch down
Reach upwards

Considering I walked an hour in to work this morning because my travel card had run out of money and I'm currently perched very gingerly on the edge of the world's most uncomfortable chair you can probably guess what kind of a mood I'm in.

Yes indeed, ladies and gents - this little kitten got herself tattooed again. Look very carefully at the list above and you may be able to guess what part of herself she had repeatedly stabbed with needles. But my God is the result pretty. And amazingly the session was far less painful than anticipated, my cunning plan of having headphones plugged in and music playing incredibly loudly worked like an absolute charm, I actually lasted for a semi decent amount of time which bodes well for the future. As it stands I'm about an hour out from having the foreground finished (which will have to be done at a later date as I won't be healed enough to work on that spot again by my next session) - we start work on the background next session, so I get to spend an hour standing in my underwear and being scribbled all over (we're having to freehand the background to make sure everything that needs to be covered gets covered) which should be... interesting. The upshot of all this is that I may actually have the full piece finished by the end of Summer.

I'm starting to regret promising my Mother I'd wait a year before starting on my sleeves. I want to get them started NOW damnit!

Oh yes, no photos this time I'm afraid - there was way too much blood/swelling/running ink to get an even half way decent image but I'll get some next session when the new work's a couple of weeks healed.

I'm off to go and whine some more about how much pain I'm in.

Procreation? Not so much. Footnotes? Absolutely.

2008-02-27T16:26:00.008Z

Two articles caught my attention today the first, over at Jezebel is a truly horrifying report of a woman in Sweden whose boyfriend fed her RU-486 without her knowledge in a bid to abort the foetus she was carrying. Even more frightening is the fact that he's not the first guy to have this stellar idea. The Jezebel article highlights some of the comments left on the original news story, which I'll reproduce here:

I find it interesting that he gets sentenced to 18 months in prison for trying to get rid of the fetus and she can legally get rid of the fetus by having an abortion.

Most of the responses to this are completely in tune with my personal reaction of "The FUCK? He drugged her, that's assault you fucking moron" which is always heartening to see. It's nice to know that rampant stupidity doesn't permeate to every last corner of the internet. As far as refuting the moronic arguments like the once above goes: it all comes back (like so many things) to the "my body, my choice" philosophy. I've been reading a lot on this subject recently and I have realised something very important. This is an ideal which I will fight to the death to defend. I will also say this, melodramatic as it sounds: if abortion or emergency contraception were ever made to be completely illegal I would have myself sterilised. For real. I don't care how painful, expensive or irreversible the procedure would be there would be no way in hell I would take that chance.* I'd rather never have children at all than have them before I'm ready for them. As for abstinence? Fuck off. I mean, you have met me right?

This brings me neatly onto the second article, via Feministing, which happily put me in a much better mood. Shockingly enough some women genuinely don't want children. Why? Because they just don't. I cannot tell you how happy this and the associated comments made me feel. The second I say something such as the statement I made above I immediately get jumped on with the "oh you'll change your mind soon enough"s or the "it'll be different when it happens to you"s and I am sick to the back teeth of it**. It's part absolute fury at being told what I will and will not feel at some undetermined point in the future (which I do not like) and part repulsion at the idea that I obviously will never be able to be a complete and rounded person until I have popped out a sprog. I've stopped saying that I don't want children now, not because I suddenly and magically do but because I can't take arguing with people over it any more. It appears that the answer of "because I just don't really feel I want them" isn't good enough and I utterly despise myself when I catch me starting up with the "I can barely look after myself, what would I do with a baby? I'd probably lose it. I even kill my houseplants HA HA HA" schtick which seems to be the only verging on acceptable response. Anyway, it's not as simple as that I'm not saying I'll never have kids just that I don't want them but people can't seem to understand this distinction. It is very, very simple: if I meet someone who desperately wants a family then, yeah: I would consider it. However, I also think that if I never got around to reproducing it wouln't be any great loss - my life would be just as fulfilling and I'd be just as happy either way. Is this a wildly radical notion? Does the logic of this not compute somewhere? It's another case of people assuming that just because they get something out of a particular situation (and yes, so do billions of other people) then everyone else must do too.

Although I will say this, having gotten older and making friends with women who actually are mothers some in real life (some in a life that just feels real) my perception of motherhood has changed. Realising that parents are real people (who can get irritated with their offspring, or find them unintentionally hilarious, or have any number of any other utterly rational human responses to a completely autonomous living entity) rather than the Stepford-bot mega-mommy 3000s I grew up around (seriously, private school girls have issues 90% of them parentally induced) my horror of having spawn has been downgraded from "I'd rather jump off a bridge, oh God. Why would you even say something like that to me? What the fuck, man." to "well maybe, if I had the money and the support and someone else who promised to feed them and clean out their cages... meh, what's on TV?". So there's always that.

* This is not to say that I am anti-children (obviously, or my future career plans would be kind of stupid), or anti-anyone having children ever. I am however anti-me having children. I am also anti-bringing a child into the world into a home situation that either doesn't want it or isn't ready for it.

** This particular rant may or may not have been brought on by the fact that my baby cousin, who ok is only 9 months younger than me, moved in with her boyfriend this week highlighting the fact that in my family's terms I am officially an old maid. Seriously, being 22 and not having met/married someone yet is positively deviant - especially as my Mother was living in London when she was exactly my age and yet she still had time to find herself a husband.

girls on film?

2008-02-22T14:43:00.003Z

Just a quick hit posting (I'm absolutely blitzed at work at the moment which is awesome) to draw your attention to the following AlterNet article on the imbalance between male and female characters in kids TV programming.

An exerpt from the article:

"Studying 4,000 female film characters, females (from animated girl puppies to grown human women) were more than 5 times more likely than males to be shown as adornment or sexually enticing and three times more likely to be dressed in sexually alluring clothing.
...
Most dramatically, females of all ages were 3 times more likely (10.6% vs. 3.4%) to have unrealistically "perfect" bodies, introducing the skinny ideal at an early age to the minds of young boys and girls."

Something else to take away from the piece: Geena Davis absolutely rules.

ooops

2008-02-22T14:00:00.002Z

I've just seen the post-it note I wrote myself a couple of days ago and then proceeded to leave in the middle of my lab desk. It says the following:

April 30th - give 30 days' notice!

I have made no secret of the fact that I will be leaving at some point before October... the only thing is the note actually refers to my phone contract.

Ooops.

almost lifelike

2008-02-20T11:56:00.001Z

Have I mentioned recently how much I love The Onion?

Because I really, really do.

mumbo jumbo for thursday

2008-02-14T12:35:00.005Z

Wow. Just wow.

Slate online posted the peer review guidelines for a Creationist journal as its hot document today. And I've got to say that the concept of Creationist peer reviews fucking terrifies me. Why? It means that these nutjobs take themselves seriously. I currently work in academia and peer review is a massive part of getting any scientific paper published. It acts as an internal system to prevent wildly speculative, falsified or just plain wrong data from being published as scientific fact. The reviewers are accredited scientists, at the top of their field. They do not, however, agree with the viewpoint of the paper's author by default. Peer reviewing is an arduous (and often insanely political) process that is the bane of most serious scientists' lives.

I immediately forwarded the link to co-worker M who finds this stuff as horrendous as I do. His response was to spend the rest of the morning reading the journal and forwarding me links.

Taking a random example: Dinosaur Nests Reinterpreted

Highlights include: overusage of quotation marks around the word "nest", scientific figures drawn representing how the authour imagines how the eggs dinosaur nests were arranged, several sections citing academic(ish) evidence for stress conditions followed by the section headed "Evidence of Stress Conditions from Scripture", the entirety of the "Acknowledgements" section (including praising the Lord, classy move guy) and the entire thing being written in a style that would have gotten me kicked out of my undergraduate degree course.

Read and enjoy.

a very special day

2008-02-13T10:45:00.007Z

Tomorrow is February 14th, a magical day where all is right with the world. It's a holiday that celebrates all that's good in life, a day for you spend basking in that warm and radiant glow, where your head spins and you are dizzy with joy and elation. It's a day when you speak kindly to strangers and embrace the world for all the wonderful things it offers. Above all that it's a day to share with that special someone:

That's right kids it's Tequilamas: because Jose loves you, even if nobody else does.

A Festival Is Born: The Origins Of Tequilamas

Tequilamas is a traditional celebration that stretches back for well over three hundred and fifty days. In the early days it began as a festival of togetherness, celebrating the bonds formed under the watchful and benevolent eyes of the god Olmeca. Sacrifices of limes were made and scantily clad maidens took turns at sculpting figures from salt to encourage the new year to be rung in free of hangovers.

Unfortunately this feeling of unity could not last for long, in the fifth cycle of celebrations a freak hurricane swept through the carnival arena devastating all that lay in its path. When searching for the cause of this hurricane the people discovered a strange shrine to the god Hallmark made of a sacrifice of red wine, rose petals and an insipid looking stuffed bear that had obviously been purchased on clearance at the very last minute. It was seen as a terrible omen, one that threatened the sanctity of Tequilamas. From that day forth it was decreed that those who worshipped the heathen god of Hallmark or who partook in the rituals he overlooked were forbidden from partaking in the Tequilamas festivities, lest they bring misfortune down on the heads of the faithful.

Changing Rituals: Tequilamas Through The Ages

The methods of celebrating the festival of Tequilamas have evolved over the years. In the early days, when tequila was an integral part of the people's everyday lives, the spirit drunk at the festival was of the purest form, blessed by the high priest J Cuervo (he would later go on to be canonised as Saint Cuervo, and would inspire Jose's Prayer; a hymn synonymous with the modern celebrations of Tequilamas), and coloured gold. As time went by and people forgot the old ways the spirit used for the festival decreased in quality - eventually leading to the dark ages when revelers would partake in £1 per shot off-label tequila. These were dark days, the gods objected and, when their prayers to the deity AlkaSeltzer fell on deaf ears, the people knew the old ways must once again be taken up.

Tequilamas celebrations are also subject to regional variations and there has been fierce debate between factions as to the correct way to properly honour the gods (for further background information please refer to The Great Citrus Wars and the schism between the factions of White and Gold), a conflict which in fundamental spheres still rages today.

As time has passed the numbers of those celebrating the festival have dwindled, they are often outcasts from their peers who have inexplicably turned to he heathen gods for comfort. At first this threatened the existence of the celebrations but the faithful came together and discovered that their status as virtual strangers fostered the original spirit of Tequilamas and the bonds formed during the festivities were the envy of the non-believers. Recently there has been a trend towards people who are not loyal to the god Olmeca wishing to experience Tequilamas themselves - debate has raged long and hard on this issue and opinion is still divided although, in the spirit of Tequilamas restrictions have begun to be lifted.

A Day Of Festivities: Celebrating Tequilamas

Modern day Tequilamas is a relaxed affair in most circles, lacking in many of the prescribed rituals passed down through the ages. The discriminatory view of the followers of Hallmark has remained although the ban has been unofficially lifted (Hallmarkians can attend the festivities if vouched for by a member of the organising committee and they are able to prove their dissatisfaction, bitterness, unhappiness or status as "alone" on the allotted date - they will however, be subject to a fine). In some circles you will even find revelers partaking in mixed drinks (with very little derision from Tequilamas veterans). While you are welcome to imbibe Margaritas and Sunrises if you wish you will find that the full Tequilamas experience really comes from getting into it. The "spirit of things", if you will.

Tequilamas traditional costumes have varied over the years (although the forbidden colour pink can still not be worn there has been a recent movement to reclaim the colour red - revelers wear it on their feet to symbolise the crushing of the heathen god's ideals) one element has remained: Nametags. Throughout the ages those celebrating Tequilamas have come to understand the beauty of such an item. Often groups celebrating on the festival day are virtual strangers having been outcast by worshippers of Hallmark, nametags are useful in this situation. Especially if hand decorated.

All Tequilamas celebrations begin with the three toasts: One to the god Olmeca, one to Saint Cuervo and the third to the fellow revelers. Each toast is accompanied by a shot of the sacred liquid.

Following the three toasts comes the fining of the non-believers: If Hallmarkians are allowed to attend the festivities they must stand before the room and renounce their god for the evening, taking instead the god Olmeca (loyalty is demonstrated by performing the hallowed ritual of "Shot Race" with other non believers). Any indulging in activities sanctioned by the god Hallmark (or his demons) will lead to immediate expulsion, there can be no exceptions.

Music and games follow, such classic family entertainments as "One Shot Confessions", "I Have Never", "Body Shots" and "What Other Alcohol Can I Mix With Tequila? Rum? Yeah, That'll Work. Tequila, Rum and Orange Is Bound To Taste Great. What? We Don't Have Any Orange? I Dunno, Just Use Iron Bru Or Something" are undertaken and songs, including "Jose's Prayer" and "Ode to the Scorpion" are lifted high into the rafters.

Now that you know the history and practices of this ancient and hallowed festival I charge you to go forth into the world and take the spirit of Tequilamas with you.

In the name Olmeca, Jose and The Scorpion I bid you good health and a merry Tequilamas.

breaking news: intelligent and thoughtful news article on dieting, nation keels over in shock

2008-02-12T09:46:00.000Z

There's a fantastic article in today's G2 called "Losing It". It's an introduction to Kia Cochrane who will be starting a column on weight loss without any diet or exercise tips. Normally I shudder at the thought of any of this "one woman's journey in search of the perfect body" bollocks, and I had my sneering muscles warmed up and at the ready (especially considering the cover proclaims "The Feminist Dieter!" in response to the story) but then I actually started reading the piece. Cochrane is both funny and intensely likable - she's also incredibly honest. She tells how she had always been fairly happy with her weight but then, through a regime of eating "what felt normal, without thinking about it" she managed to put on a lot of weight in a short time.

What normally would follow would be tales of self loathing, a strict work-out regime and a diet of carrots and celery (that helpfully would be provided in a separate supplement decorated with images of a newly svelte Cochrane grinning a glazed and slightly manic "See? You can do this too!" smile) instead the author says the following:

"And you know what? I didn't mind. In fact, as I started to escape the fug I had been in, looked down and noticed my belly, I realised that being fat was kind of cool."

She goes on to explain how being properly "fat" immediately excluded her from the constant comparisons and competitions concerning body weight and dress size that most "normally sized" women are subjected to on a daily basis, conversations that are both understandable in today's society and yet incredibly depressing all at the same time:

"I no longer had to take, or fake, an interest in any of my friends' new diet plans. They simply didn't tell me about them. I was no longer part of that culture that counts calories, compares dress sizes and says, "No carbs after sundown!" as though this is a fabulous motto to live by."

Eventually though the restrictions her weight had put on her, coupled with a family history of heart disease, convinced her to lose some weight; for the health benefits. And, contrary to the majority of articles citing this as a motivator to slim down, Cochrane never talks about herself in the self loathing way that we've come to expect of women embarking on diets or fitness regimes. Throughout the entire piece the reader is given a sense of a self assured (if a little neurotic) woman who is happy with the person that she is. As opposed to the legions of women who state "I'm going to get fit, if I lose weight it'll be a nice bonus" (and I hold up my hand, I was certainly one of them, in fact I may still be guilty of this) she manages to sound sincere in her stance that she admires those who are overweight and obese but still keep fit, and there's no hint of envy in her statement that they are healthier than their "skinny-but-unfit peers".

I recommend that you go and read the article, I'll be keeping up with the columns every other week, I'm hoping that she doesn't disappoint me.

If you don't read the piece the last two paragraphs sum it up perfectly:

"Anyway, hatred of physical jerks or not, hatred of the diet industry or not, hatred of conversations about low-calorie alternatives to cheese or not, by the start of this year I knew that I had to do something about my weight. I knew that this would be difficult for a lot of reasons: said problem with sport; an inability to be told what to do; my psychological association of being thin with being depressed. But I also knew that I was not alone. Though being fat often feels alienating, the reality is that the majority of UK adults are now overweight. This means that there are a lot of people out there like me. People who feel that they should lose weight, but have done so before and seen it all go back on, and then some. People who feel that the diet industry is a vast conspiracy, predicated on failure - after all, if any diet actually worked the whole billion-dollar baby would go bust. People who feel sick at the thought of buying into anything that Gillian McKeith or the countless other preaching, screeching diet "gurus" have to say. A lot of people, then, who know that they have to lose weight, but approach the project with ambivalence.

In writing about my experiences, I won't be including updates on lost kilos (I don't weigh myself). I won't be providing fabulous tips for reducing the size of your behind (what do I know? I just plan to eat less and exercise more). I won't be declaring that Rosemary Conley was right when she said, "Nothing tastes as good as being slim feels!" (Clearly impossible, as ice cream exists.) I won't be providing endless portions of self-loathing, as I don't hate myself - or anyone else - for being fat. I know that many people consider being fat a crime akin to murder. I do not. I shall simply be charting some months in the life of a person who is, at best, reluctant about diets, and, at worst, disgusted by the very notion, but who knows, unfortunately, that something must be done. I warn you: there will be grumpiness."

Absolutely superb. And I can relate: for the first time ever I have given something up for lent. Two things actually, first up: chocolate (I have replaced my daily rations with all manner of other, non cocoa based producs, natch. I'm currently addicted to individual carrot cake bars). Secondly I've given up my scales and I must say that not obsessively weighing myself has done fucking wonders for my psyche.

I'm still exercising, which is some kind of a record as I'm now in my *counts* fifth week of doing it. My super-fit rugby playing flatmate G is very impressed with me and the fact that I seem inclined to keep pushing myself further (I decided yesterday that I need to add weights into one section of my cardio routine to make it more challenging) - he's even using RPG analogies to keep me motivated, apparently continually pushing myself to get fitter is akin to levelling up for the sheer joy of being more badass than everything in the surrounding area. He also reminded me that I'd promised to join a club when I got fitter - level 50 according to him (I really need to stop talking to that boy about my video games). After a club (where I will meet exciting new people and be motivated to go by default) I have to find a sport (if dancing doesn't count I'm screwed) and then apparently I have to get competitive.

Yeah, we'll see how that goes.

Frankly, the fact that I'm still getting my ass off the sofa three plus times per week and actually working out is nothing short of a miracle. We'll see how I feel in another month.

happy weekend!

2008-02-08T16:38:00.000Z

Huzzah hurrah and hooray! The weekend is here!

I'm going off to get dolled up in the horendous fluorescent lighting of the ladies room at work (it's a horrifying experience at the time but you look fantastic all night), slipping into my hot red shoes and something strapless and then heading out to get thai food with B. We're going to talk about boys, flirt with barmen and get trashed on overpriced cocktails. Despite living together we don't go out as a pair that often (read: once in the last six months) so I'm incredibly excited.

Vive la weekend!

See you all on Monday, hopefully without any horror stories to share.

ducks should rule the world, logically.

2008-02-07T16:28:00.000Z

Today just so happens to be the birthday of this fabulous specimen of humanity:

And I just so happened to be lucky enough to catch him live last Sunday evening.

I've had a bit of an Eddie Izzard obsession since I was allowed to stay up late to watch Unrepeatable (still my favourite show) one Friday evening, I was hooked and since that day I've been simply desperate to catch him live. Luckily for me I subscribe to the Londonist and managed to snag tickets for one of the three (now extended to six - the last one plays tomorrow evening but unsurprisingly is a sell out) late night, non-publicised Work In Progress gigs that he was playing.

The show playing at 11pm on a Sunday night meant that the theatre's bar was absolutely packed for at least an hour beforehand, unless you want to pay the extortionate prices charged by the few Leicester Square clubs that stay open past 10pm on a Sunday evening it was pretty much the only option - clearly many people had decided to take it. The crowd was nicely buzzing pre-show and from the conversations I overheard as edged around the crowd there was a nice mix between Eddie aficionados, people with a passing interest and some folks who’d just come along for an evening of cheap comedy. Eventually the bar became so packed that movement was nigh on impossible – luckily the staff began seating at this point. The overall atmosphere remained incredibly friendly with spontaneous conversations breaking out between strangers, even giving those watching alone like myself the impression that they were among friends.

The London Arts Theatre is a fantastic venue, it's absolutely tiny for a start and even in the worst seats in the house (I was seated in the circle slips) I had a perfect view of the stage, a rare occurrence for someone who barely skims 5'2". The small size of the room gave the show an intimate feel, often when you see comedy performed to a large crowd it can begin to feel detached and almost clinical. This show had none of that, it was closer in feeling to a lecture – where the speaker takes his cues from the audience and adapts accordingly, something that’s impossible to achieve naturally in front of a stadium sized crowd.

Also: no hecklers. Absolute bliss! I hate fucking hecklers.

The show itself was superb, Izzard was in full on “boy mode” and unlike his other shows the material didn’t touch once on his transvestitism. It didn’t suffer for it though; instead the focus ran from weighty topics such as religion, slavery and the evolution of language right through to the horror of spiders with wings and the problems with Wikipedia the quick turnover of subjects kept the show from feeling stale while the central themes kept it somewhat grounded. The stances he took in this show were more controversial than in previous material (in so far as a radical moderate can be considered controversial at any rate) but the over all themes remained the same. The material was fresh and although there were a few rough points, references that clearly sailed over the audience’s heads, the show never began to drag. Although old topics were repeated (Latin descriptions of elephants featuring also in The Definite Article and the problems of bees and wasps from Unrepeatable among others) they were developed upon and given a new spin, rather than just repeated verbatim (Bill Bailey is a particular offender when it comes to this, as is Dylan Moran) which can jar and drag you from the flow of the show, especially if you are familiar with the material. Familiarity in this case wasn’t a disadvantage – in fact the inclusion of a few throwaway lines that harked back to previous shows was a very nice touch.

As for the standard of the material: it goes without saying that the show was superb. Izzard was on fine form and the over an hour’s worth of material he performed didn’t seem nearly long enough. The comedy flew off into the territory of the surreal – as expected – and managed to touch on topics that a few years ago Izzard probably would have shied away from. All in all a fantastic way to spend a Sunday evening (even if I did get accosted by three separate crazies on the journey home) and worth catching live on a full tour or the cost of a DVD purchase.

a quick news round up

2008-02-07T11:09:00.000Z

Christina Ricci manages to simultaneously misunderstand the term "positive female role model" and make my soul cry when talking about her new film, impressive to say the least.

Yesterday was the 90th anniversary of British women over the age of thirty getting the right to vote. The Guardian had an interview with the director of the Fawcett Society on how far we've come and the progress that still has to be made. It's well worth a read.

Guess what? Tattoos, in addition to being awesome, may actually have a medical benefit. BBC news reports that tattooing may be an ideal method of vaccine delivery as the process is excellent for promoting an immune response (anyone who has suffered tattoo flu can attest to this). Looks like it would be too painful to use on children but hey, there's always livestock.

Today marks the start of the Year of the Rat. There are a ton of fun things going on in my fair city and, if timing allows, I'm planning on heading out to soak in some culture and enjoy the fireworks this weekend. I suggest you go out and do the same (or at least get some dim sum).

Oh and did I mention that I went to see this guy over the weekend? Well I did and he was sufreakingperb. A mini-review of the show should be going up some time this afternoon.

hotness

2008-02-04T21:47:00.001Z

Because I feel like the place needs brightening up a little, how about some colour?

Is it wrong to be completely entranced by something on your own skin?

This was taken when the work was freshly done - it looks a ton better now that it's pretty much healed, my next session isn't for another month I'm giving my poor back a chance to heal itself.

This is also posted over at Inked Oddity.

thank you

2008-02-04T09:40:00.000Z

To everyone who commented, to everyone who shared their experiences and gave their advice: thank you.

I'm going to sound like a complete sap when I admit that I was genuinely moved, almost to tears actually, by the responses I got (especially a certain epic email). Reading through all of your advice helped me massively and, over the course of the weekend, I came to my descision.

I started to write my Masters application for the millionth time, I started and I stopped, I got out my calculator and figured out my finances, I looked at possible job options, I deleted everything that I'd just written, I stared at the screen feeling like an utter failure. The words wouldn't come - the abstract ideas, the late night speeches that I gave so many times, the ideals and the plans I'd used to have everyone else convinced - they just wouldn't stay on the page. Slippery and elusive I couldn't hold on to them for long enough to pin them down. I got up, I wandered, I scribbled in the leatherbound book where my snippets of fiction reside, I wrote some dialogue about a cat with no ears, I poured myself a glass of wine.

The itches wouldn't go away and by now it was dark, the house was empty, nobody was answering their phone. I was too worked up to sleep, too antsy to read - my eyes kept skipping words and lines, splicing sentences together and muddling the prose. So I did something that a couple of months ago would have been hell: I worked out. I pushed myself and lost myself. I really thought, for the first time in a good while about what I wanted. I weighed up my options and saw myself in five years, I heard the future me speak, I saw her light up and beam with pride when she explained to a stranger what it was that she did with her days.

And so I showered off, quickly, not wanting to lose the thread of insight, scared to shatter the fragile and perfect plan. I sat down at my computer and the words flowed. For two hours I typed. I explained what I wanted to get out of my life and what I wanted to give. I gave the reasons that I would not only enjoy my work but also that I would excel at it. In two hours it was done. The entire thing. There was no hesitation, no doubt or uncertainty just the sweet feeling of purpose and the sensation of weight lifting from my chest and the final inhalation of breath.

I'm going to teach.

More than that: I'm going to get my Masters.

More than that: I'm going to write fiction.

I realised that I can do everything that I want to do, I don't have to sacrifice a single part of it. When it really came down to it the reason I wanted to do the Masters was not to get a job at the end of it. I love to write but I love it too much to sterilise it. I love the creation of characters and the weaving of worlds not writing a piece pushing a drug. The reason I wanted to take the masters was beacuse I wanted the knowledge and the skills, I wanted to read the material and write the essays. And so I don't have to do it full time, I don't have to do it in a college and I don't have to take it now. The Open University offers the course and I have the next fourty summers to work on it. I have the next fourty summers to rent a cottage in the highlands and hole up with my laptop and a wireless internet connection. I have the next fourty summers to tell the stories that swirl in my mind.

When I thought about not teaching it frightened me. Already it felt like opportunity lost and I'm too young to start regretting things. So many of you said that I have all the time in the world, that I don't have to decide what to do with the rest of my life right now, so I'm not going to. I'm going to do what feels right to me now and if, in the future, something else feels more right then I'll do that instead.

Once I'd made my decision and sent my application into the ether to be judged and (oh my god please) accepted I, of course, rang my Mother. When I told her there was an audible rush of breath - I could see her closing her eyes at the other end of the phone and slowly unfurrowing her brow.

"Oh, thank God."

She'd been waiting for me to come to the decision on my own. Standing by and relentlessly firing pros and cons at me. Telling me not to worry about the money, telling me not to worry about the lack of jobs, telling me how much hard work teaching would be, telling me what I good writer I am, what a good teacher I would be. She'd kept quiet while I theorised about finances, working hours, what I'd get out of it, whether the sacrifices were worth it. When I finally told her what I'd decided - and my reasons for it - she said that she'd never been prouder, that she knew I'd come to the right path on my own, that she was so happy I'd finally stopped listening to other people and decided on what was truly best for me.

I feel good today. I feel light and bright and frighteningly happy. I feel like a weight has lifted.

Now I just need to get on to a course.

a cry for help

2008-01-31T22:39:00.000Z

Alright kids. I'm asking everyone who ever comments (and, in the event that more than three people actually read this, anyone who lurks) to help a sister out here.

I'm stuck, and I figure as you have access to the innermost workings of my MIND via the medium of blog you're just as qualified to advise me as anyone else in my life right now.

So what do I do with myself? I'm at a threeway fork in the road and the indecision is killing me. I cannot stand still. I just can't. I feel like ripping out my hair, peeling off my skin, fashioning the resulting goo into a minature model of l'Arc de Triumph and setting light to it in sacrifice to Athena. While dancing. Just so that I'll have something to do.

Not a good state of mind to be in.

Here are my options (complete with a nifty pro and con list for each) as they stand now:

Option 1
Take a Masters in Science Communication
Pros: It'll be amazingly fun, I get to be a student for a year, try my hand at documentary production, script writing and other creative malarky and I end up with a formal qualification in journalism.
Cons: I'll be a grand total of £30,000 in debt after it - a year of school will effectively double my total debt and it won't be low interest this time. I'll have to survive on practically nothing for a year. Everyone in the world wants to try their hand at journalism - competition for jobs at the other end is going to be beyond insane. It's not exactly a stable profession at the best of times.

Option 2
Qualify to teach high school level science
Pros: I'd be fucking amazing at teaching and it would keep me constantly stimulated and entertained, I could spend the long(ish) summer vacations writing fiction like I've always said I would. I'd have a job for life at a very liveable from salary. The course would be paid for and they'd help with my debt. Plus I could continue to freelance during vacations to keep my hand in.
Cons: Unless I want to go into management I'd never earn much, I'd have to be slightly more conservative in my future tattoo plans (although I was never intending to go to full sleves anyways). Unlike option 3 below I don't really have the option of jacking it in and doing the masters if I feel like it. It's a job for life.

Option 3
Apply for a graduate scheme in Marketing/PR/Advertising
Pros: Within a couple of years I'd be earning incredibly well. I'd always be busy. In theory I could branch out into the creative side (in practice: not so much), I'd be moving into the right industry if I do decide to take the masters. More experience = better and if I'm uber lucky (like, 1000:1 odds) I may find a company willing to support me through a masters.
Cons: I'd be selling my soul to the city, high stress and company politics have never really been my thing. Despite promises of creative input I'm willing to put down money on the fact I'd be chasing unpaid bills and doing pretty much the job I do now.

So what do you guys think? No matter who I talk to I get a different opinion:

Mother: Why aren't you teaching? You've wanted to do it since you were a kid. You'd make a great teacher. Or you could do your Masters. What's all this about a job in media all of a sudden, you're only saying that because G's doing it.

B&G the flatmates: Don't teach, you're copping out, you've never mentioned it before, it's a waste of your degree. Do a job that has prospects. Take the Masters you can do whatever you want with it afterwards [Alex note: bollocks to that, if I'm spending £15,000 on the thing it's better be worth every relevant penny]

H the co-worker: Do whatever makes you happy because in the end it's your life but the Masters is going to be expensive and how much will it really help you out in the end?

AAAAAAAAARGGGGHHH!!!! It's driving me insane.

Anyhoo: Masters deadline is the 22nd and my application is almost done, I'm registering for graduate teacher training this weekend and my CV is posted and some half-hearted applications have been sent. I'd simply love for some input.

Cause after writing those lists? I'm itching to bust out the frog dissection kit, laser pointer and lesson planner and get educational on some asses.

What do you guys think?

[Addendum: I am aware that I'm incredibly young and that I have my whole life ahead of me blah, blah, blibbity blah. I know that but right now that isn't helping. I have no choice but to leave my job now - pay's going up in May and again in August and if I stay past then I'll be on "hey, I can get whatever ink work I want done whenever I want, oooh look I can move into a bigger place, awww great this means I can have my Westie puppy... and a kitten! What's this? Enough cash to purchase all nine seasons of the X-files AND a pair of red stilletoes. And I don't have to do any kind of complicated mental calculation before buying them? Awesome!" money and I'll never leave. It's now or never folks.]

Edit: want to see how pissed this whole thing has gotten me? I'm broke and I just bought these:

On the up side: I now have hot red shoes.

Weird, I feel more relaxed already...

five things that make me the world's best potential girlfriend

2008-01-30T15:17:00.000Z

1. I'm generous, impatient and I have an incredibly good memory. Chances are if someone I know desperately wants something and can't/won't buy it for themselves I will buy if for them and give it to them immediately so that I can see their reaction. Because that's just how I roll.

2. Want to go out with the guys? Brilliant, I've been itching for a night out with my friends anyway. I'm a firm believer in having your own social group. I would be absolutely baffled if a guy objected to me going out with my friends and can't see any reason to impose social restrictions on anyone.

3. I'm enthusiastic about pretty much everything, especially if it is something I haven't been exposed to much before. If someone can teach me something new about their obsession (whether it be sports, music, video games or stamp collecting) you can guarantee that I'll quickly be into it too.. or at least understanding of the attention it needs.

4. Cosmopolitan magazine is the devil. I will never spring anything involving a scrunchie, ice or pineapple slices on a guy. Ever.

5. I'm nine kinds of awesome. For serious.

five things that make me the world's worst dating prospect

2008-01-30T15:05:00.000Z

1. I have to be slightly in awe of someone in order to take them seriously enough for me to date them, unfortunately my giant ego and sense of intellectual superiority immediately excludes 90% of people from this. As does any indication of keenness.

2. I change my mind on a minute-by-minute basis about everything from my career path to how my hair should be looking. Anyone who assumes they would be exempt from this is an idiot.

3. There are days when I will choose my playstation over my boyfriend. I'm sorry, but RPGs don't just complete themselves.

4. With great ego comes great neuroticness. I need the following things constantly: attention, praise, reassurance, requests for advice, physical affection. Also: once I get into a routine it has to be maintained: if I'm used to getting a nightly goodnight text message and suddenly don't receive one I will spend the entire next day convinced that the boy in question hates me.

5. I'm covered in tattoos. And in a couple of years' time I will be covered, covered in tattoos. Parents are not going to like me purely on principle.

a letter, bursting with passive aggressivity, that probably shouldn't be open (and makes me look like a bitch) but either way is one he'll never read

2008-01-29T11:53:00.000Z

A,

It's been a year now. A year since I last spoke to you, more than that since I last saw you. I honestly thought I'd never be in the position to say that. Honestly believed that despite all the bullshit and the game playing we were at least, underneath all the layers of passive aggression, friends. Although you tried to keep in contact I wouldn't let you, I know that probably pisses you off, frustrates you to no end and seems incredibly of petty of me; it really isn't. In your mind you are exactly the kind of stand up guy who keeps in contact with the ghosts of relationships past, who has exes as friends. I know it's taken years of overcoming the scrawny kid who played Warhammer 40K with stolen game pieces, who got picked on. You are the product of years spent carefully stacking up layers self conviction, feelings of superiority and entitlement. Your opinions were a little too offensive, your humour a bit too crude, your arrogance too overpowering but everyone bought it, including me. It's pretty much the only thing I regret: that I never got to see the man, only the construction of the boy you tried so hard to leave behind.

And that's who you are, your own construction. It's not a criticism, we're all that way but I know that for you at least your unshakable views are something to hold on to. And that's why I can't speak to you: I'm not doing this to fuck with your world view. I'm doing it because I have no desire to bolster up your ego. I have no desire for empty emails containing life updates. I'm doing this because I remember how much it stung to find out you'd sent yet another unsolicited email to your first great love. And I know there's another girl now and, frankly: I want to give her all the help I can.

I think I kind of like your new girl, she seems pretty - if eerily similar to me, you traded up again it seems - and from what I can tell bright, funny and kind of cool. I hope she's strong, because it would have broken me to discover that the pet name you used for me (and you know I'm not talking about "honey" or "sweetie") once belonged to some other girl. Be nice to her. If she haltingly confesses something to you in the dead of night, something she's never had the guts to vocalise before, something that could come to define her, don't mock her for it. (Seriously, sugar: scorning me for being "a bit gay"? You cheated yourself out of at least one threesome that way. You really can be an idiot sometimes, you know?) Don't accuse her of hysteria, don't make her feel guilty for crying. Don't goad her into resenting her friends.

So now, accusations and recriminations done with, it's time for my confessions. Self indulgent I know, to burden you with them but here they are - take them if you will. You thought I was a terrible liar, that simply isn't true. I just let you believe it because it meant you never picked up on the big things. I never told you anything I didn't want you to know. I didn't throw up through "suspected morning sickness" it was guilt over the person you hadn't even noticed bringing up. I cheated on you because you would willingly state that you didn't love me and your smug assumption that I'd never be the one to leave combined with your lack of any semblance of jealousy made me want to tear off my own skin. I tore myself up over it for years, but now I don't care. Why? Because for the entire three years of our relationship I couldn't get you to just tell me you loved me, I had to beg and plead and wheedle it out of you. You were breaking down outside of clubs and telling her you made a massive mistake, that you still loved her, you were chastely sharing a bed with her when she stayed - sleeping in each others' arms. For all three years. (Honestly I wish you'd had the balls to just get it over with and fuck her. Don't worry, after I found out I did it for you.) Love trumps a drunken kiss don't you think?

Well, would you look at that? I guess I'm still a little bitter. Which means I really do have to make my final confession (I was hoping I wouldn't have to): When you moved away I knew exactly what I was doing. In the end, when I barely saw you, when you wouldn't reassure me, when you refused to give me a definite answer about an event I'd been planning for weeks, when I would come to see you every weekend and you'd disappear off leaving me alone in your room for hours upon end, when your new friends would be shocked to discover you even had a girlfriend, when you wouldn't come to London to see me unless you needed a place to crash, I could tell you were pushing me but I bit my tongue. It was really selfish, and I'm sorry, but I gave up too much of my time and energy for you to be the one who got all the sympathy. So I waited for you to end it.

How childish is that?

If it's any conciliation, I do still feel bad whenever anyone comments on how quickly I got over the break-up. This letter makes it sound awful, for the most part I was happy with you - and although I can barely remember what it was like when we were together (a fact that scares me every day) it wasn't all bad.

I thought after my confessions I'd tell you all the things that I do now, the foods I eat, the exercise I take, the things I drink that you tried and failed to get me to but I can't. In the beginning it was an attitude of "fuck you" (and I'll admit now that is pretty much the entire reason I now drink, and am dependent on, coffee) but somewhere along the line I started doing those things for me, and for me alone. It's really nothing to do with you anymore. It's a lot easier without someone looking over my shoulder though.

So goodbye and good luck. I feel I've spent the last few months waiting for this moment. My emotional state hasn't changed much - pretty much since October - but you know me well enough to know that it just wouldn't be fitting until it got to a proper anniversary. So there it is.

Take care of yourself.

Alex

a (lengthy) midnight poetry reading

2008-01-27T23:56:00.000Z

If you occasionally read my ramblings then you'll probably be aware that I am a scientist, with the soul of a writer, trapped in the decorated body of a complete slacker. I'm also something of a contrary little madam at times.

I attended a science and technology university (which I won't darken the name of here but a three second foray into google, or a quick look on my facebook profile (hi, random internet people! I have now officially crossed the line into geekdom by having you as facebook friends) will tell you everything you need to know) as such we missed out on some of my favourite people (arts and sociology students, oh how I love them) and had a rather unbalanced education. To try and counteract this every student was required to take a humanities module in their second year. This could be pretty much anything. Some courses were relevant (B took The History of Medicine and hated every minute), some were not (ex-flatmate M took Modern English Literature becasue she couldn't get on to my course of awesomeness). Some were easy (S took "Saying True Things", essentially philosophy lite, and walked it) and some were more work than our actual degree course (the ex Mr TheOdd took Level 3 German because he has a superiority complex layered with a serious desire to be a martyr and had to take on more than the rest of us combined).

I, however, took the world's best course: Creative writing. Side Note: I was mocked for this and told it would be no use whatsoever in my future life, three years on and I'm applying for a masters in Science Communication, working as a freelance writer and looking towards a career in journalism. Suck it.

My professor was an... interesting fellow whose personality didn't really mesh well with my own. Oh, ok, ok - I got bored and was deliberately antagonistic for my own entertainment. One topic we clashed on was the nature of poetry. For the purposes of thoroughly annoying and alienating the man who would be determining my final grade I insisted that I thought all poetry should be structured and would regularly accuse people of "just writing prose and throwing in random line breaks when [they] felt like it". He (rightly so) took me to task for this opinion, with a raised eyebrow and scorn in his voice; saying he supposed that I thought everything should be "filled with "o'er"s and "n'er"s and written in rhyming couplets".

My response?

I came in the next week with this:

The Deadmen's Ball

A spoken folk song that serves as a cautionary tale for young women who go walking alone at night.

She'd always fancied, that one summer night
She’d walk the forest in sun’s faded light
And lo! she went out, all gumption and gall
And that’s how she came to the deadmen’s ball.

The way twisted and turned and soon she strayed
Off the true path and into a glade.
She stood still staring amazed and appalled,
She almost fainted from the things that she saw.

A gaggle of creatures, unearthly and vile,
A cedar’s horned head, an imp’s fiendish smile.
A seven foot skeleton led the strange troupe,
Wearing a top hat and dressed all in blue.

His skull then spoke as he looked in her eyes
“Will you join us child? Are you just passing by?
You can’t leave now, the fun’s soon to start
You really should stay, its getting awfully dark”

She found herself sitting, afraid and alarmed
For though it was foul the creature had charm.
The Ringmaster turned and now faced the crowd,
Seeing him waiting, they all settled down.

He took a deep breath into long rotted lungs,
Addressing the crowd he practically sung:
“Roll up, roll up come one, come all,
To the auction of souls at the deadmen’s ball.”

The first souls came, to the Auctioneer’s stand,
Twelve drown’d sailors at last on dry land.
The skeleton cried “Let us lay them to rest!
The curs-ed crew of the Mary Celeste.”

Lot by lot the damned souls came
Waiting to stand on the Auctioneer’s stage.
She watched in horror, with mounting dread,
As a fury bought three and tore them to shreds

More and more trudged on to the stand,
And each one left with a master’s brand.
And all through the night the souls came on
She watched them in awe till the last was gone.

Still the crowd stayed rooted in place,
And that’s when she noticed his eyes on her face.
They carried her screaming up to the stand
Where the skeleton smiled and reached for her hand.

“Don’t worry, my dear” the creature said,
“Just a few moments more, then home and to bed.”
“All set to work!” The skeleton cried,
“Without a gown she’ll not be a bride.”

A harpy fetched her a gown, as blue as her eyes,
Spun from cobwebs and just the right size.
T'was as if they'd been waiting for this very night
When a deadman would take his own living wife.

The prayers were called by a chimera's left head,
while the right one nodded to all that it said.
As the vows were reached, and the end came near
The tail reached round to wipe at a tear.

The skeleton smiled and waved to the crowd
His voice was clear as he recited his vows
"I take this woman, and she must agree,
For how could she not want one handsome as me?"

He brought out a ring of wire and bone,
And taking her hand he made her his own.
Still he smiled and still she cried
As they left the stage a man and his bride.

Her home now is dark, not touched by the sun,
She wishes and cries but can’t change what’s been done.
Night after night she spends walking the halls
Cursing the day of the deadmen’s ball.

So if you decide, one summer night
To walk the hills in the day's final light
Stay on the path, don't wander away
Bad things happen to the women who stray.

At all costs avoid any people in glades
Who gather in darkness rather than day.
And if a man dressed in blue, is facing a crowd
Though he asks you, never sit down.

And the next week? I wrote a motherfucking Sestina. Told ya I was a rebel.

He can't have been that pissed at me though: I did get one of the two Firsts he awarded that year.

public service announcement

2008-01-27T23:51:00.000Z

OK kids, get ready for a week of mindless self indulgence. This coming week marks a whole year of Miss Odd existing as you know her. Expect lots of introspection, a couple of open letters and even (shock! horror!) some of my past creative endeavours.

Promise not to laugh, and bear with me.

The posting of tacky sub-europop music videos, bitching about my diet and random oversharing about my social life will recommence next week.

the Saturday nines

2008-01-19T15:10:00.000Z

Nine random thought-groupings for a rainy Saturday afternoon:

1. Alcohol (and the lack thereof): Under no circumstances are any of you to play the Pajiba Drinking Game with the review of 27 Dresses. There. I've said it. I now take no responsibility for any forthcoming hospitalisations. Also: I haven't had anything to drink in the entire month of January, it started off unintentionally but warped into part of my detoxy thing. I'm slightly worried by the fact that I'm impressed with myself for this.

2. My "diet" hasn't failed yet: I've been doing ludicrously well: in the last *checks diary* two and a bit weeks I've lost about 7lbs. Go me. Actually I've surprised myself by eating better and more cheaply since I've been on this mini health kick. Plus: apparently I'm an awesome cook and master of the "I have five things left in my house let's make something that is tasty, filling and nutritious" game. Now, normally I'd go back to my old ways now because I'm back at the top end of my "spiritual weight" spectrum but I don't want to do that, I'm kind of enjoying this whole "feeling healthy" malarky.

3. The "boyfriend" quandary: I really really hate the term "boyfriend". It sounds so twee and teenagery coming from someone of my age (I'm sure there's an age when it becomes applicable again, but I'm not at it). I do however like the term "sigoth" and may have to use that for the next Mr TheOdd (in the event that there is one before I hit the magical age when I can use "boyfriend" again), it's quirky and sounds very much like my favourite unit from Warhammer 40K, which makes me smile.

4. My new cat is an ungrateful brat: I put Plantet Earth on last night and didn't watch the rainforest episode like I wanted to but instead chose the great plains episode so that she could see the lions. Did she appreciate it? Did she hell. She did rather enjoy watching the fish on Blue Planet though.

5. Willpower: Get this: apparently I have some! Madness I know. I always thought I was lacking the necessary glands for feats of self control but I have done remarkably well on that front recently. My normal "can't say no" vices are: cakes and candy, boys, insanely frivolous purchasing of things I don't need, alcohol and watching TV rather than being productive. So far I have resisted them all.

6. Shhhh don't tell anyone: But I'm working out on an almost daily basis and actually enjoying it. Once I get into the habit of blocking off an hour of my evening then I won't notice that I'm missing valuable sitting on my arse time and will hopefully continue. With any luck by the time Spring is in full force I'll have the fitness level of a normal human being and may actually be able to go running.

7. My "to be read" pile is scaring me: I have thirty books that need reading now, five RPGs on my shelf that I haven't even started and some box-sets crying out for attention. For this reason I have been banned from shopping in February, if I come home with DVDs, books, CDs, video games or clothing of any kind they are either getting returned or given to charity by my housemates. I'm hoping the whole "willpower yay!" thing is going to kick in here.

8. A blast from the past: My childhood best friend contacted me out of the blue last night, we saw each other on a daily basis from 8 until 18 when I left for college after doing something that probably should have classified me as "world's biggest bitch" but was actually an act of pure altruism if you knew the back story. She seems happy and entirely less neurotic than I remember her. Aces!

9. I cannot stand my shitty job: Despite having a busy day one Thursday for the first time this year (on a semi related note: who the fuck decided to class bees as livestock? Do you have any idea what a hassle I've had with these fucking bees? Seriously: I'm the world's biggest slacker and I've even been online today on the second day of my four day weekend trying to get this sorted out) I have nothing to do and it's killing me. I'm seriously considering dropping out, working in a bar for seven months and living like a student again. I know that's not exactly financially viable what with my tattoo expenditure and all but I am going to start looking for other jobs as well as applying for my masters. That way if the course falls through (likely as I can't seem to get started on my aptitude assessment, still; two months after receiving it) I will know that I'm not stuck there.

aaaand another one

2008-01-15T11:03:00.001Z

Hey, kids! Remember the music video I posted last week?

Well this one's even better:

And yeah, I think they are actually related to the kid from the other video. I wonder if the family will adopt me.

Enjoy!

my new heroine...

2008-01-11T22:51:00.000Z

My newest girlcrush is on the fabulous Eliza Gauger. You may be wondering a)who she is and b)why. Well, aside from her all around geek godess credentials (she blogs! She plays videogames! She makes comics!), and the fact that she's a kick-ass artist she also said this:

"As for "hot people," I am tired of pretty, in-shape, unclothed heroes. Pretty people tax the credibility budget, which is the finite amount of willing suspension of disbelief that can be expended by the audience before they start going "that's ridiculous." Look at Aliens. Or any Cameron film from that era. If he had attractive women in his movies, and he did, they weren't "women" in the way that movies define women: harpies, hags, or idiots. Scifi ditto. Ripley was not wearing any fucking mascara. She was a CHARACTER, she wasn't a GIRL. Ditto for everyone else. They were people before they were badasses, or killers, or idiots. This is not a luxury in sci fi. It is a necessity. Cookie cutter characters are unbelievable, and in a wider context of unbelievable things happening (aliens, lasers, spaceships, all imaginary), it is vitally important for as much of the rest of the package to be well-developed and believable. Otherwise, you squander your credibility (remember the budget) on things like how does the heroine keep her lip gloss so fresh in the middle of a reactor meltdown, or why our hero is standing in the middle of a bare hallway while shooting, instead of taking cover like the soldier he is supposed to be. This also applies to costumes. Case in point, Kate Beckinsale is not going to kill any werewolves while wearing a boned corset, no matter how badly fit it may be."

This woman fucking rules. The mini-interview is over at [io9], my newest internet addiction.

on body image and the rediscovery of feminism

2008-01-09T11:13:00.000Z

So I'm approaching an important milestone: in 20 days' time I will have been a single girl for one whole year (I obsessively celebrate anniversaries of even the most mundane things, go with it). Now, the ex Mr. TheOdd, while a generally all around bitchin guy (seriously, as drinking buddy material: awesome. As a boyfriend: not so much) was.. how shall we put it: a bit of a chauvinist... actually he was a lot of a chauvinist. He was also one of those freaks who actually exercised for fun, and not the "going running with friends, swimming for relaxation and because my amazingly cute bathing suit makes me look like a bond girl it's high necked with a zip up back and I love it and must wear it at every possible opportunity now what the hell was I talking about again" way but in the "I will lift pound upon pound of steel every single day just to make my naturally wiry physique just that bit more bulgey" kind of a way. He also perpetuated my desire to eat incredibly unhealthily (note: strawberry liquorice and sherbert - not a meal) and that combined with his constant non-understanding about my food issues unintentionally prevented me from making a full recovery from my borderline disorder (Hi, I'm Alex. I used to be dangerously underweight).

So what's the point of all this, and what the hell does it have to do with the title of this post? Well, wade through several more paragraphs of my rambling and I'll tell ya.

I stopped being dangerously thin when I hit about 14. I made halting steps, started eating what normal people would class as "food" and filled out. A bit. No longer scrawny but I was definitely slim, while maintaining one hell of an hourglass figure.

I started eating properly this year. I can actually name the date: it was March 24th. Like most things, it was started by a boy (or maybe I should say "geezer", right 'bama?).

The upshot of this is that now I eat everything in sight; foods that would have made me gag previously are now part of my Sunday morning ritual, I take bites out of things without inspecting them first, I don't hover over someone cooking me food and wrinkle my nose up in disgust when they list the ingredients. I no longer take two bites and then push the of my food around my plate, carefully sculpting it until it looks like an entire meal has been eaten.

I also don't weigh 8 1/2 stone any more, that's 119lbs to those who aren't British. I don't think, in all honesty that I'd want to be that small again - I went down to 112 for a while, around my second break up with the ex Mr. TheOdd (due to a month of vodka replacing food and dancing replacing sleep) and I looked dreadful. People started telling me I'd lost weight with concern in their eyes rather than admiration. But since then I've steadily gained weight taking me to where I am now.

All 5'2" of me, weighing in at 140lbs.

Now personally, I don't think I look that bad, although (in my head) I could stand to be a good 10lbs lighter, if I remained this size forever I'd be far from pissed off. I'm still a UK size 10 (that's a US size 6) but in my head I'll always be "spiritually" super skinny. Although academically I know that many people would kill for my curves I still have that niggling voice in the back of my head telling me I don't look like I "should do". No matter how much I slim down (and I will be half-heartedly attempting to in the coming month or so) I am not built to look like an athletic, long legged skinny chick and a mental makeover is required as well as a physical one. However, due to my past relationship with food, and the fact that in times of stress I slip into highly disordered eating patterns (three meals per day of take-out, or four days of not eating at all) I am very aware that I have to be incredibly vigilant whenever I start any kind of eating plan to make sure I don't slip over the edge.

So this, coupled with my pre-existing interest in the topic led me to reading "Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body" written by Courtney E. Martin, one of the regular bloggers over at feministing. The book is well worth a read, if you're interested in the issue. The author is young, and that reflects in her writing style. It's by no means a definitive account and the social methodology is somewhat lacking in places but she's writing from the heart about a subject that's close to her own experience, as a reader you can see what she's trying to do and I really applaud that.

The book also had a surprising effect on me, it rekindled my desire to immerse myself in a pet topic.

I was raised with Feminist beliefs but, due to to my public girl's school education followed by a slightly overpowering ex boyfriend as well as the British college mentality of "don't do or say anything to massively alienate yourself from anyone" (we don't do political activism, it's not our way. The kids who stage demonstrations are generally regarded as a little bit weird and are best avoided), I slowly but surely buried them under a jokey facade of "oh, I've never seen it happening, it's not that important" and bought in to the myths and the rhetoric ("I don't believe in Feminism, I believe in equal rights" which I now consider to be an incredibly damaging sentence). Over the last few months I've been re-educating myself. Reconnecting with my Mother on the subject, having some illuminating conversations with surprising people (the most laid back of my school friends, and generally the most easy going woman that I know looking at me with fire in her eyes and stating that she didn't know "how anyone, in good conscience, could possibly say they aren't a Feminist." I found myself nodding, after all it's just that the majority of my peers don't understand the definition any more) and, probably most importantly for me, reading the literature. It's a scary thing to identify myself with a label like this, and six months ago the idea of "identifying" myself as anything would have been alien to me, the culture I grew up in and the current climate doesn't have a particularly nice view of people who label themselves as anything at all. You can't be just "a person with beliefs" you have to instantly lose your sense of humour, become crusading and have no other interests or past-times. Even those with a particular political alignment are viewed as slightly ab-normal.... but I'm going to ignore this. In fact: I'm reverting. Back to my teenage self who actually cared about things and could muster up more than a disenfranchised "meh" when faced with something she should care about.

But where to start? I have the tendency to become over involved in things, I try to learn everything there is to know about any subject that I am interested in and often become completely overwhelmed with the details. Sometimes the task will be so daunting that I don't even bother to start, missing out, I'm sure, on so very much. So I have to pick an angle, choose a niche that I can fully explore, become comfortable in and then use as a launch pad into other areas.

Because of my past experiences, recent reading material, continuing reading of Jezebel and new and shiny subscription to BUST magazine I've chosen to stick with what I know and go for body image, portrayal of women in the media, obsessions with food... basically this is a warning that I'm going to be fucking insufferable on the subject from now on.

So that's where I stand. It feels good to have something, even something small, to believe in again.

As far as my own personal philosophy concerning my upcoming mini attempt at weight loss goes: I've informed both my flatmate and my Mother what I'm doing. Both are highly (and painfully) familiar with my eating patterns and neither one will fail to call me on my shit should I start being stupid about it (this may seem melodramatic but a couple of months ago I suddenly realised I'd spent the previous two weeks existing on less than 500 calories a day... yeah not healthy and my body wasn't best pleased either. Still karmically it got it's revenge as I then spent 8 weeks completely paranoid that I was pregnant and that every test on the face of the earth was wrong). I'm not doing much: just cutting out alcohol for a month, cutting back on sugar and no longer eating a (couple of) Krispy Kreme doughnut(s) on my way home from work. So actually just being a little bit healthier.

So yeah.

it's eye meltingly good

2008-01-07T14:29:00.000Z

I found this via D-Listed, and had I been at work (rather than on my sickbed in the process of coughing up my own lungs, I know "charming") I probably wouldn't have ever watched the video. Boy, would that have been a mistake.

I beg of you, watch and revel in all it's bad techno beat, glowing fluorescent aura, migraine inducing psychedelic background and underage teeny bopper "rave" having glory:

Happy Monday kids!

insert seasonally appropriate song title here

2007-12-31T18:54:00.000Z

Tonight marks the end of another year: A chance to make resolutions you won't keep. And some you will.

An opportunity to kiss someone on the stroke of midnight (or if you're like me, thank your lucky stars for the bullet you've dodged this year).

I've truly had a superb year: I started it off in a hotel room with the love of my life. Twenty four hours later we both realised it was over. In January we admitted it. In February I re learnt how to have fun. March came and I'd realised that being single was nothing to be ashamed of. April brought the realisation that my family made me safe. By May I'd doubled the number of people I'd slept with. By the end of June I'd fallen in love, and realised it was hopeless. July passed and I'd started to understand issues I didn't even know I had. August arrived and with it came my love of blogging and the start of a shiny new tattoo. By September I'd rekindled old friendships and realised how much I could of lost if I hadn't. Before the end of October I'd realised exactly what I didn't need. November saw me starting to sort out my future... and December? During December I was just happy. Deeply so.

And so this year ends: I have nobody to kiss at the chimes, for the first time in six years, and I find myself not caring. I have more friends now than ever, my future is bright and I really honestly believe that I'm blessed. Downstairs are friends: some new, some old. There are some boys I've made mistakes with and maybe even one that I could have fallen for had things been different. There are new couples: some who are only together because of the rebound, one are so in love with each other that it makes my heart skip. There are established pairs and people who will be missing their loved ones come midnight. There are people who love me.

So I sign off, to pick up my beer and head downstairs, to continue the party and usher in the next calendar cycle with laughter and love.

Happy New Year to all, I hope 2008 is as good to all of you as the last year was to me.

passive aggressive?

2007-12-27T09:32:00.000Z

Well, it's 9:30am. I have a tattoo appointment in less than two hours and the fuckers next door decided to have a very loud all night party complete with drumming so loud that I couldn't get to sleep until 5am, even with my headphones in. I speak from experience: tattoo on no sleep = no fun.

So what is my response to this?

Well, the best of Korn has been in my stereo with the baseline turned up since 8am and will remain that way until I return home at 3pm. The speakers? Right up against the wall.

What? I think it was a perfectly rational response.

ink and skin

2007-12-19T23:22:00.000Z

What's this?

More of my flesh on display?

Surely not!

It's a super special double feature today as I was so lazy after my last session. I'm submitting myself to more needleful torture in a week's time so there'll be even more photo love then. I felt bad for not having a photo of me laughing deliriously so instead I took one of me wearing my post tattoo t-shirt:

Yes, that is a free promo shirt from my days in retail. Also: I am incapable of actually looking at the camera.

drinking on the job

2007-12-12T10:19:00.000Z

For those of you who are slow on the uptake (or have the entirely rational response of tuning out most of what I say): I have the world's most boring job. My post shouldn't really, how shall I put it, exist and as such there are large periods of time where I don't really have that much to do with myself. (Seriously, a few weeks ago I got highly excited by the prospect of cleaning sinks as it was the most interesting thing I'd been given in months. I'm so very glad that my biochemistry degree from, woah, the third ranked university in Europe (how did that happen?) is going to good use)... As such I have to amuse myself by blogging, reading webcomics, inventing drinking games and learning about whatever random topic takes my fancy. The internet is a marvellous timewasting tool. But it hasn't always been that way. Oh no, every job I've ever had has been dull as hell (I'm a slacker, it's just the way I roll) but I haven't always had the glory of the interwebs to fall back on, I've had to find other ways to entertain myself.

Now, I hated working retail, I sold video games on pretty much the most expensive high street of London This meant spoilt kids with entitlement complexes and women who care so little about their husbands' credit cards that they don't even notice being overcharged by the price of one PSP (that happened to me not once but twice, and yes both times were accidental - what on earth do you people think of me?). But still my particular sector had its advantages, these mainly appeared in the form of demonstration models and DVDs. Our store TVs were supposed to play a DVD of upcoming video game trailers on some kind of endless demonic loop. You know what works really well? Replacing the DVD player with a gamecube. Fun fact: wavebirds work even if the console is on a separate floor. Good times.

But that's not the point of this post. Oh no. It's entitled "drinking on the job" and, because I am planning on doing just that this afternoon, that's what I'm here to talk about.

During my first year of Uni I worked at a cocktail bar alongside the ex Mr. TheOdd, it started off slowly, I covered his shifts while he was off shooting at things (oh yeah: he was a pretend soldier, don't think I've mentioned that before), but pretty soon (after getting someone fired - my, I am revealing my inner bitch today aren't I? Don't worry, it was justified) I was a fully fledged member of staff. Now, this particular bar was a weekend kind of a place, we'd be literally empty during the week (a typical night would see one, maybe two customers) but during the weekend we'd be packed solid on both floors (especially with one particular DJ playing) and rushed off our feet.

On the empty nights it was a pretty cool place to work, none of the "well I don't care if there's nobody in the bar you can go and check if any of the empty tables have magically spawned dirty glasses or ashtrays in the three minutes since you last checked" mentality that is rampant in a lot of places. No, on the slow days the ex Mr. TheOdd and I could sit at the end of the bar and do coursework if we had any, there was scrabble to play, food from the Greek restaurant next door (the lovely people delivered) and the TVs were hooked up to Sky so if we got really bored we could always watch extreme sports.

The most fun I ever had on that job was one random Tuesday evening when a group of bankers wandered in with some clients and decided to take us up on our "special offers". Our "special offers" consisted of £1 shots of Jager, butterscotch schnapps, sambuca and tequila that was probably meant to be used as an industrial solvent but somehow just got mislabelled. As they were the only customers in the bar they, of course, got my full attention. As I was the only female in the bar they, of course, bought me drinks.

Bar policy was that if a customer bought you a drink you damned well drank it.

Who am I to fly in the face of policy I ask you?

(I must state now that one of my most over used phrases in this kind of situation is "Well, it'd be rude not to.." it applies to everything I over consume: food, alcohol, boys, shoes...)

And so I drank with them, they insisted on buying me a shot and a drink for every round they had. Although I'm a teeny tiny little thing I am very capable of holding my own drinks wise so it didn't seem like that bad of a plan... Let's just say that I didn't manage to finish my shift. I have no idea how I got back to halls or why I had a bottle wine in my bag when I woke up the next morning on the floor of the ex Mr. TheOdd's room. He would have been mad at me for waking him up at some ungodly hour had he not stumbled in from one of his shifts the week before at 4am bursting through my door with the immortal words:

"Alex (dramatic pause) I ate (further dramatic pause with triumphant finger wagging) th' Scorpion (satisfied grin)."

And, as it turns out, indeed he had.

That being said, it's 12:30. I'm off to the pub.

bandwagon jumping

2007-12-07T10:05:00.000Z

Well, I was feeling guilty for my lack of postage of late (seriously, my life is so frakking boring right now it's unreal and, other than the fact that I've actually started using made up swear words in my every day speech which is freaking people out, nothing has actually happened to me in the last couple of months) and then I stumble upon a superb idea posted on both TK and Manny's blogs which I will now completely rip off because if there's one thing I love more than talking about myself it's writing open letters:

Dear My Thirteen Year Old Self,

Hi, Alex. Yes, one day people will call you that. And it won't sound weird, and it won't be forced. You're going to have to wait a while for that one though - but here's a tip: When you get to University just decide to be Alex, introduce yourself that way. Don't wait for someone else to name you because if you do it's going to be the start of something toxic.

Don't worry about that now though, I'm getting ahead of ourselves.

First up: start eating meat. Like, now. I know you hate food and I know that eating something weird or with an unexpected texture makes you gag. But you're painfully thin and once you start eating meat you'll have so many more options. You can't stay as skinny as you are, if you do then it'll stick in your mind that this is how you should look which is really going to screw with your head in college. I also know that you threw up breakfast every morning last March just because you couldn't stomach it. Just tell Mum, she's not going to think you're bulimic. Trust me, and trust her.

And listen, one day you're going to eat everything. You think now that you'll be scared of food forever, that you'll stay phobic, but you won't. You're going to be able to sit in a restaurant and dig into something without knowing what's in it - only that it tastes good. Boys will make you meals and you'll be able to eat every scrap without worrying about what ingredients are in there. You're going to end up being a brilliant cook.

You're going to love food and you're going to wish you'd been braver earlier.

Secondly: School is going to suck, and I'll tell you this now: you're going to ask to leave every single year and you're still going to be there until the end. You need to stay until Sixthform. Some good things happen then, and you get to meet some good people - stick it out.

The girl that makes you go home crying, the one your mother wants to suffocate? You're going out with her this evening. Do me a favour and don't lose touch with her during university, you're going to have some hard times and you're going to be confused about who you are and she is the one person who will never judge you. Admit everything to her and keep nothing back. She's not even going to mind when you sleep with her brother (I know, right? And he gets even cuter. We rock, young lady) she is however, never going to let you forget it.

Oh, and the whiny American girl she was friends with - the one you fucking hate right now? Ten years from now she'll be one of the few good things that came out of that place. Don't start being nice to her though, it'll spoil all the fun.

Don't go to Bolivia. I know that sounds kind of random now but in a couple of years you'll know what I mean. It's going to be torture. It's going to teach you fuck all. It won't make you stronger, or wiser or more tolerant. It's just going to make you pissed off, homicidal and three grand poorer. The only reason you should ever consider going is that it's going to be the event that turns you into a carnivore but if you listened to me earlier that shouldn't matter. If you do go and you hear Lizzie say those things about you and your family, don't stay quiet. Please go right ahead and punch her. Trust me, she deserves it.

Oh and while we're on the subject: wear flats every once in a while. Try in PE lessons. Carry on dancing. Your Achilles tendons are going to thank me for it.

Some bad stuff is coming up in the next six months. I'm not going to lie. It's going to be the worst thing you've ever gone through. Keep your chin up because when you come out the other side things are going to be so much easier. But for now, spend as much time as you can with your Dad and Carolyn and the kids. Especially Thomas, he's a good guy and the closest to an older brother you're going to have until Gareth comes along. You're going to miss him. Keep your eyes open during Christmas and remember it all, you're going to need the ammo.

Don't fret about it though, there's nothing you can do and believe it or not that's a good thing.

As far as boys are concerned (seriously, I know you just skipped down to this paragraph go back to the beginning and read this through) here are a few pointers:

When you get there, take a chance on the cute boy who walks you home from panto rehearsals: I know he's not going anywhere: who cares? You're only going to be sixteen once and cute boys don't remain that way for long.

Stalking your friend's crush over text message under her instruction in a couple of years time may seem like a good idea to her at the time but it's going to end in (her) tears. She'll be stronger after though, so don't feel too guilty if you can't help yourself.

I wish I could tell you what to do about guys when you get to University but I really can't. I still don't know I'm afraid sweetie. All I know is this: You're going to chose the wrong boy because of some misguided notion that you can't be with nice guys because you're a bitch. You're wrong but this is a mistake you need to make.

Just make sure you socialise, make some friends that are your own, stay away from cute American boys unless you're actually going to have the guts to leave him. Don't take his crap, it's better to be on your own that miserable and insecure. You're not going to listen because you're me, and I didn't listen either but try reaching out - they're not going to say "I told you so".

Don't hide the fact you play video games, listen to crap music and still love cartoons. You're going to be the exact same way in ten years time and believe it or not it's going to make you interesting.

Be nice to J, he's going to be a good friend one day.

Don't give up on Maria, she's going to really need you. More than once.

And don't worry about school - you know how smart you are, you're going to do great. You might want to learn to revise though, and occasionally do homework. You're right in thinking that you don't need to but trust me: you'll thank me for it when you hit college.

Take care, kid. Life just keeps on getting better.

Lots of love,

You, at 22.

ps. Don't worry about leaving Mum on her own when you leave for Uni. She's going to meet someone and she's going to be happy enough to make up for the last twenty years. He'll love her more than you ever thought possible. And one day you're going to call him Dad.

what the...?

2007-11-22T20:48:00.000Z

I swear to God he's motherfucking psychic.

I haven't heard from the boy in literally months. Zip. Nada. Nothing at all. This evening I finished my self-indulgent artwork which, yes, is on the subject of the ex Mr TheOdd, and as I set down my pencil and proclaim to housemates "It's finished!" my phone lights up with a text message.

Guess who?

Like I said fucking psychic.

Side note: He's actually stored in my phone now as "the ex Mr. TheOdd" because I am now incapable of thinking of him any other way. I'm actually not sure he even has a name any more. Weird.

interlude

2007-11-20T10:50:00.000Z

I'm aware that I've been a little quiet recently, apologies for that. I've been working on a possible series of self portraits.

The first one "Melancholy in Scarlet" should be up early next week provided I get the graphics work done this weekend.

I weep for humainity...

2007-11-13T16:59:00.001Z

I was flicking through the Guardian today when I came across the "notes and queries" section in the G2. One of the queries rendered me actually, literally speechless - no mean feat (I learnt to talk at the age of one and apparently "haven't stopped since"). Alas, the query isn't up on the website yet so you'll have to take my word for it:

"Evolution is now well-documented and accepted, so if people kept jumping off the roof of a tall building, how long would it take before we developed wings to fly?"

Seriously?

Ok. A deep seated hatred of the kind of people who write into newspaper editorials actually prevents me from writing in to the section in question with my response, however it doesn't stop me from passive-aggressively ranting about it in my blog. Here is a highly simplified crash course on how evolution works:

Evolution is in its simplest form "survival of the fittest". The best adapted members of a species are more likely to survive and/or be chosen as breeding partners - meaning that they are more likely to pass on their genes to the next generation. This makes those favourable genes more common in each successive generation. As the process continues through the generations the "favourable traits" that led to the first individual's evolutionary success become more and more widespread until eventually they become "normal". I'm aware that my hastily noted ramblings may be confusing so let's use a totally fictional and rather extreme disease model to simplify things:

On planet Alex there are millions of bunnies (why bunnies? Because it's planet Alex. Deal with it). The bunnies all live in harmony on planet Alex, which is plentiful in food and free from predators, and are free to interbreed at will. Because of this there is a large amount of genetic diversity. Some of the bunnies have spontaneously mutated so that they carry gene X (note the "spontaneous" part. This is random people). At the moment gene X has no general effect on the population and so it is passed on from parent bunny to baby bunny with no real consequence. Until the plague comes.

(The plague has been brought to planet Alex by evil toad overlords who came for a two week holiday and then buggered off again)

The plague is fatal to the bunnies on planet Alex, however it just so happens that gene X makes the bunnies that carry it immune to the plague. This is a total coincidence. Pretty soon the entire bunny population has been wiped out by the plague, leaving only the bunnies with gene X alive. Because they are bunnies they set about repopulating planet Alex pretty sharpish. The result? Every in bunny in the population now carries gene X.

That was a very simplistic and entirely unrealistic scenario (in actual fact there are no bunnies native to planet Alex) but the basic point I'm making here is that evolution is a process that happens by chance not by design. It is caused by the selection of existing genetic traits that have become favourable for survival due to a particular environment. It is not caused by the actions of individual members of a species over time.

Taking the above example: people continually leaping from a roof top would not cause other members of the population to sprout wings, it would merely serve to remove those idiots who jumped off of buildings from the breeding pool.

And that ladies and gents is why I'm going into science journalism.

The worst thing is when I told one of my co-workers that I'd seen something truly depressing in the newspaper our resulting conversation was as follows:

"You mean the thing I sent you?"
"Erm, what thing you sent me?"
"The thing with the scratchcards."
"What thing with the scratchcards?"
"The thing I sent you with the....Jesus, Alex. Try checking your work email."
"Ok, ok..... Oh, crap."

The little gem awaiting me in my inbox was this. My favourite line of the piece?

""I phoned Camelot and they fobbed me off with some story that -6 is higher - not lower - than -8 but I'm not having it."

I'll be out back, researching tall buildings with roof access in my local area.

cerebral, apparently.

2007-11-12T16:36:00.001Z

Quizlaw linked to this nifty little application. I must say I'm rather impressed.

Apparently my little slice of the interwebs reqires a higher reading level than Pajiba, Quizlaw and Webster's Is My Bitch (three of my very favourite places)... I wonder if this rating was determined before or after Ranylt's fabulous review?

ps. Proper update coming soon, I've had kind of a mad few days so bear with me.