...Going to Cambridge.

43 IB points. 7s in Latin, Greek, Philosophy and Maths (wtf?), 6s in Biology and English (WTF?!), plus 3 core points. Oh, and an A in my Extended Essay.

Also, special congratulations to chasingthecrow, who was one of eighty people worldwide to acheive a perfect score of 45, but was too modest to post it on her LJ.

As Shoults wrote on my valedictory report, "She is certainly ready for Cambridge... but is Cambridge ready for her?"

HELL YES!

I don’t know how to address this, and, when the time comes, I doubt I’ll be able to sign it either. Yours sincerely, the end of the world. You always had so many names for me, a different identity for every facet of my personality. And you weren’t the only one – I’ve been renamed more times than I can count. Does that bother you, knowing that you weren’t the first (or the last, now I think about it) to brand me in that way? It’s all George Orwell and Wittgenstein’s language games. Give a girl a different name and you own that small part of her.

I have been owned, marked and remarked. Or should that be remarked on? I forget. But I was thinking of how to address you. I never could find the right name for you, so I settled on nothing at all. If anything, you’re London to me. London, with its tangled streets spiralling into madness, its roads that lead nowhere, its buzz and its business and the sense that it doesn’t really care about you at all. But it does. A city that mourns the loss of every traveller to go missing, but lacks the means to express its despair. Yes, that suits you. London’s owned me for such a long time now. So to London.

I miss you. I suppose that’s why I’m back here, after all these years. I looked for you, you know, when I first came back. First: that’s an interesting word. I’ve had a lot of firsts with you. Not as many as I know you’d like, and never as many as you assumed, but more than I ever thought any one person could have. My first visit to that part of the city, my first night alone with someone else, the first time I ever

[fragment missing]

and I guess it was for that reason that I always imagined I might be special. Stupid, I know, but you see my point. You never did at the time. I don’t think I did either. For me it was just a flurry of tension and anticipation, followed by agonising release. Do you remember how I used to take half a step backwards whenever you came towards me? You thought that was my reaction to you, but you were wrong, and any one of the others, before or after you, could have told you that. I wasn’t backing away from you, I was backing away from the moment you’d realise I wasn’t all that special after all. Of course, you already knew that. I was the one who indulged in illusions.

I still panic sometimes, but never the way I used to with you. My world would close in, and I’d feel like a stranded tourist racing the wrong way up an escalator to escape from the underground, or a disoriented cyclist tearing down yet another dead-end alley. You were my city, and I was so utterly, utterly lost in you. You know how I used to hate clichés, but that one fits. I liked to play with words. Language games. You’d call me your

[fragment missing]

what I’m doing here. Wherever ‘here’ is, because it’s not you. I told you I tried to look for you, but you’d been gone too long for even someone like me to catch the trail. Or maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough. I know you didn’t look for me – I was so careful to leave enough clues, enough signposts for you to find, if only you’d open your eyes. Perhaps you didn’t want to. If that’s the case, I know I did the right thing by leaving.

There’s a song about New York being a beautiful, but deadly, woman. New York is a woman, she’ll make you cry / And to her you’re just another guy. Well, that’s what London always was to me. The symbol of everything I ever hoped to achieve, tinted with the stains of everyone else who ever tried to get there. I’m a city girl, not a city. If you’re the town centre, then I’m just another cobblestone street, there to be walked over by a millions pairs of shoes. It was the designer heels that always hurt the most.

You left. I may have found you again, but you left, and what I found wasn’t what I had come looking for. There’s probably a poem somewhere about how that is always the case, but I don’t remember it, and you wouldn’t recognise it if I did. I can’t even say that you looked the same. There was something dead in your eyes, or maybe it was the shoes. Not your shoes. I couldn’t face being in the proximity of those shoes, so I fled. And now I’m back here, writing a letter I know you’ll have forgotten how to read, wondering if it’s worth trying to remind you. What can I even say? Hey, I’m here. It’s me, it’s your

[fragment missing]

will probably happen if you ever do manage to find me. But I’ll hope anyway. I can’t – won’t – wait forever, I’ve wasted too much time as it is. If you finish this letter, you’ll know where I’ll be. Where did I always go when the ground started to spiral away from me? Yes, I thought so.

I still love you. I don’t know why, or how, and nor do I expect you to believe it. But my city is falling to pieces, and if you ever manage to find me in the wreckage, maybe one of us will remember how it can be possible. That’s a lot of subjunctive tense.

Yours sincerely

Love

[end of fragment]




The WiFi internet has been slowly dying for the last month and a half. Today, I finally broke and started using the ethernet cable. I now have internet again! Life is good. But while my internet has been in its death throes, I have been rereading Neil Gaiman's short stories. You can blame him for this.

Those of us who were abandoned here when we were four...



Form class KAH, with the incredible Mrs Hedges.



My dress is psychadelic, people!


Yes, I cried during the last hymn. I also received a prize for classics, which included £35 of book vouchers. (This should help me with my reading list.) The dress, for anyone who was interested, cost £8 from a Cancer Research charity shop. Anyone else watch Mary Queen Of Charity Shops? (Yes, I fail, I know.)

Will I miss it? I find it incredibly hard to imagine not, that place has been my life for fourteen years. But time to move on, no?

Okay, so some of you (mainly Dormouse) may have been wondering where I've been recently. The answer is partly shiny and exciting, and partly involves watching lots and lots of tennis. My instinctive impulse to LJ every aspect of my life seems to have faded for a bit, so I'm going to do the summarised version, with photos to help.

( May Ball )

( His name is Luca )

( Canon Ball )

( Posed? Never! )

Finally, I received my Cambridge reading list today. Theoretically, I should aim to have read them all in the original before term starts (assuming I get in, sssshhhh). Luckily, this included Lysias 1 which I read at Bryanston, and Herodotus 1, which was my IB set text. Yay headstart! Also on the recommended reading list is a Homeric dictionary edited by R.J. Cunliffe. It was meant to be, people!

No thinking about results in less than two weeks. Not not thinking about it.

Lurkers out there? People from fandoms and comms who know me online but have never met me in person? People whose fanfic I love but whose real names I don't know?

I need you now.

Sorry if this sounds cryptic. To my long-term friends, I love you all so so much. But I need distance for this.

My e-mail address is callita@gmail.com. If you have time to talk, e-mail me, or comment with an address (comments are screened).

Thank you to anyone who replies.

Well hello there from sunny Glasgow. I say sunny, because it is. Seriously, I have just had three days of glorious Scottish sunshine, made even sweeter by the fact that it is raining in London. I am up here for my cousin Joel's design show, to mark his graduation. He got a first - yay cousin Joel! After a very rocky start which involved having to redo the second year, we are all massively proud of him. And I finally made it up to visit my big cousin at university. Happiness all round.

The May Ball is on tuesday and I am starting to get nervous that I will not be able to survive in my new heels! Tips, anyone?

Keph 09 photos yet to be uploaded, watch this space.

And finally, a meme borrowed from emilyray:

❝who do you ship me with?❞

I can be found here: http://llwyds.livejournal.com/215880.html?thread=4617544#t4617544, because I'm still very much a fandom girl, and, as my facebook status says, Looking for love, will settle for sex. So ship me!

Love to you all.

Calli is back from Kephalonia! (Or Kefalonia. Or Kephallinia. Or Cephallonia. No one seems to know how to spell it, including Wikipedia, and that says something.)

Let's start again: Calli is back from Greece. And she is tanned. Not that fake orangey kinda tan, but the golden brown glow you can only get from a full week doing nothing but sunbathing next to a pool, reading Catcher In The Rye. Too bad it probably won't last the week. The tan, that is, not the book. I finished that already.

I feel so much better than when I left. Even after the exams had finished, I still wasn't eating properly, and the sudden rush of sleep made me feel drowsy and lethargic the whole time. And I have to say, missing a night's sleep to be at Gatwick airport by 4am for a 6am flight (which meant leaving at 2) did not help matters. However, after just half an hour in the Mediterranean sunshine, nothing seemed to matter anymore. The villa was gorgeous - six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a huge kitchen and an incredible swimming pool - and despite the numerous disputes, everyone just felt so happy to be there. We'd done it, we'd survived the IB. And this, lying back on sun-loungers whilst knowing that people back home were doing exams, was our reward. Schadenfreude, much? (I learnt how to spell that word from Avenue Q. This scares me.)

Anyway, I don't have a camera, and unlike many of my friends, I don't feel the need to document every event. ('Come on guys! If we don't have a photo of it, how will we remember it?!) However, since there must have been several thousand photographs taken in total, which will soon turn up on facebook, major picspam will be coming shortly. Prepare for images of thirteen bikini-clad girls doing crazy stuff. (Including reading Camus by the pool and graphically demonstrating how to insert a tampon. But not at the same time.) We also got some beautiful shots of the underground lake at Mellisani, and of course of the sea. I kinda miss it already. The food, of course, was superb everywhere. One night we did karaoke at a hotel the others were staying at, which was totally awesome. (I sang I Kissed A Girl and Gimme Gimme Gimme with a friend, and then did Melissa Etheridege's Come To My Window as a solo once I'd had a few cocktails. I love that song.) Oh, and we were regularly followed by Greek guys on motorbikes, who wouldn't take no for an answer. Jennie and I found this hilarious. Everyone else found it terrifying.

I write this journal mainly for me, but I do like the fact that other people read it, so I won't go into detail about the holiday. Just to say, for those of you who may have been worrying about me over the last few months, this holiday was really what I needed, topless swimming in the sea and all. Hopefully the photos will convey that. Now that I'm back, I can really start looking for a job, and carry on with the reading I've start. OMG, books! Like, books not on my course, that I don't have to make notes on! You have no idea how happy this makes me. I also have the Camberidge St John's May Ball to look forward to (16th June - I can't wait!) and my own Leavers' Ball, wittily named 'Canonball'. I have dresses for both of them (old ones I've only worn once, which makes me happy), and, strangely enough, a date for both as well, who happens to be the same person. I have always wanted to go to balls wearing an evening dress, accompanied by a guy in a dinner jacket. Oh, and believe me, there will be pictures.

I hope everyone back here in London is doing alright. Let me know how you are! (I have a LOT of catching up to do on my flist.) I missed you, and I'm going to be kinda self-indulgent and hope that you missed me too. But for these tan lines? So totally worth it.

Anna begins in the Notting Hill flat, when she tells him she knows someone there,
He points out that her stockings are laddered, but she laughs and pretends not to care,
The party is swinging, the alcohol's on someone else, she drinks vodka and lime,
And tells him to call her; they both hope that, maybe, things could be different this time.

He meets her at Earl's Court, though she protests, says the District line makes her lost,
He talks about engines and radio waves; she quotes Eliot and Robert Frost.
Somewhere above them the daylight is fading, someone calls him, or her, and it's late,
So she goes home alone with her nose in a book, and both firmly deny it's a date.

Anna begins to toss and turn, won't say why but she's there at his door,
He makes her some tea - one sugar please. She curls up in a ball on the floor.
Tears in her eyes but they're not about him, so he holds her like he understands,
Tight as the tangle at Tottenham Court Road, he kisses one of her hands.

Of course, two days later she's off the map, too far north of his Central line,
'You can't count on me' she throws back in his face at a party with too much white wine,
They don't talk of love: he says failure, she says tightrope walking and wire,
He sighs when she leaves, but there's pizza and beer, and absinthe laced with green fire.

Anna begins to change her mind at the corner of Carnaby Street,
Where Oxford Circus bubbles and spits, she steps back from the noise and the heat,
The world starts to spin, with her hands in her hair she lets go and turns round and around,
And somewhere out there he is watching her fall as she spirals her way to the ground.

Camden Town brings them together again, where the Northern line reunites,
Like a lover who's leaving, the Charing Cross branch returns for one last kiss goodnight,
He calls her the Curiosity Kitten; she's crying again - what else is new?
So they stand by the station. She won't say a word. He answers that he'll miss her too.

Anna begins to fade away in a web of bright colours and tracks,
There's still some faint spark of that Notting Hill girl, he sees when she tries to relax,
Gentleman of summer, she calls him, and shudders when he runs his hand through her hair.
A party, a tube map, and a lost little girl, pretending to know someone there.


*sigh* I wish it was possible to write poems like this about girls, but the damn pronouns always get in the way. This would never happen in Latin.

I wrote this as the sequel, or development really, of Stations. It is possible that is actually better. One point for every Counting Crows reference spotted.

Over!

Exams are over over over over over!

I have now officially left school (as opposed to just stopping going to lessons), and have nothing to worry about ever again! (Well, until results day on July 6th anyway.) I am no longer an IB girl. Hell, I'm no longer an NLC girl either. No, that can't be right. Once NLC, always NLC. I guess the same goes for IB too.

Don't ask me about the exams, or at least, don't expect answers. I have completely forgotten almost every paper already, and remember only that labantem translates as 'as you fell', not as the object 'suffering'. Ah well.

Summer is here and is summery! I really want to get involved with Pride, but it's probably too late by now. Does anyone have any suggestions as to what I can do? I'll definitely be there, dressed up and marching in the parade, but since I now have masses of free time, it would be nice to do something more this year. Speaking of free time, I can read books again! Real books, that aren't even on my course. I already have a stash of quick, trashy novels, and a list of other books I've always wanted to read. And maybe now I can finally get back to writing. Money is limited, but right now that doesn't seem to matter. Nothing I do will now have any effect whatsoever on my grades. It's a terrifying feeling, but one that has cured the headache I've had for months, and should get me eating again. Mmm, food.

Counting Crows concert in Brighton tomorrow w00t!

Oh, and non-IB related, if you want to know, ask. I know you guys always do.

Exams are almost over! Only two left to go (both philosophy - LOL) at the end of next week. The classics marathon, which consisted of all four exams over two days, with two languages on each day, has ended, thank god. You try switching languages within an hour. I kept trying to find aorists in the Latin paper.

So this is going to be short, because I'm going to do a proper entry when they're over for real. However, since they finish so soon, I want to start planning things to do. That means lots of getting drunk, of course, although I have limited funds (like, srsly limited), so if anyone wants to take me out and pay for my drinks my morals would be decidedly questionable? And I want to go up to Cambridge before the May Ball. I also really really REALLY need someone to come see Counting Crows with me in Brighton this sunday. I can get tickets reduced from £35 to £25, but I don't want to go on my own, and I totally adore them, and please? I have been waiting over four years to see this band.

I belong in the service of the queen,
I belong anywhere but in between,
She's been crying, and I've been thinking,
That I am the Rain King.

Pure love.

I tried to go to Coffee, Cake and Kink today, but it was shut down! Back in a few months apparently - oh noes! So we went to Soho Square instead and sat on the bench dedicated to Kirsty MacColl. Observe.



I love this photo.

So yes! Get back to me on Counting Crows, and on exciting stuff to do, because I love you all and yay! I am happy so I am using my happy yay roses icon. Love to you all!

So I survived the first week of exams. That's kinda all I really want to say. Those of you who've been speaking to me the last week know what's going on (more than you should have to), and those of you who haven't, don't worry, I'm fine. The 'I'm fine' comment especially goes to Amy, and her new girlfriend Katie (wait, did I just out you guys on LJ), who should not under any circumstances be panicking. Think Hitch-hikers Guide, but with an emo twist. Anyway, the point is I have done six out of thirteen exams, and that means no more maths and biology ever. I'm half relieved and half nostalgic - I liked drawing biology diagrams and integrating sin(x). No really, I did. But I pleased it's over.

What's that? You guys want obsessive introspection, a detailed analysis of what my latest panic attack is about, how you can solve it, and which Imogen Heap song it most relates to? This one's kinda more Chris Pureka, damn it, why am I playing Autumn songs in the Spring? And it is Spring. All I need is a leg wax and a short cotten skirt to prove it. But I'm kinda liking my jeans and old fleece right now. Such is life.

I watch her stare into a mirror and see what isn't there,
Fingernails, painted dark of course, tangled in my hair,
She says I love you like it matters, I miss you like I care.
Expects me to stay, while she sleeps, awake,
And tells me conversationally how she knows she'll break.

I never did paint my fingernails dark. I only ever had pinkish nail polish.

But I has shiny things. Gay turtles aside - actually, why put gay turtles aside? Yes, they exist, and the next person who asks me how I can tell this one's gay... all I can say is see it and work it out for yourself. Village turtle! (Note to self: there need to be more turtle-lolcats out there. Really.) However, the shiny things I had in mind were the pictures Dana just sent me of the Seven Deadly Sins photoshoot. The edited ones, having been cut up and burnt by her. They are quite spectacular, proving that she is magic. Observe.

( Unforgivable sinner )

In other news, I have been invited to a ball. Since I already have a ballgown, this makes me very happy. Does anyone want to lend me a glass slipper?

I have lost sight of my floor.

I realise for a lot of you, this may not be a new feeling, but it is for me, it's a real surprise. I'm not a hugely tidy person by nature, but nor am I a hugely untidy one. Clothes live in the wardrobe or on the chair, and everything else (books, papers, books, folders, shoes, more books) gets put in piles and shoved to the edges of the room, where it sits quietly and unobtrusively humming to itself. I also have a desk, which has now been completely cleared (by my mother), but which I am refusing to use on principle. Don't ask me what principle, except the one that I now work exclusive on the bed or on the floor. Yes, I am fully aware what that makes me sound like, and no you can't beat me at the innuendo game.

My folders for six subjects (ten folders in total, plus lots and lots of loose paper) are spread out across my floor in a vast maze of paper that stretches from the door to the bed and back again. This is good, because it means I have all my resources at hand, do not have to sort through endless piles or worry about losing things (No one touches anything on the floor, got it?), and can visualise it all perfectly. However, it does have its downsides. Like tripping every time I try to leave my room, and having anyone else who attempts to enter trip too, or else skid on a biology practice paper or step on a Latin dictionary (yes, I have more than one).

The revision is going well. That is, I have done more work than I expected to, and almost as much as I hoped to do. My biology folder lies smugly closed, though it all must be relearnt before the exam, and my notepad is full of detailed diagrams of various biological functions, as neatly drawn as is possible from someone with handwriting like mine. There are two exceptions to this: the phospholipid bilayer of a cell membrane, and the male reproductive system. One of them has too many glyco-thingies with weird names that look the same, and the other has too many damn tubes that do weird twisty things that look downright painful. It does not help that we learnt to draw the latter diagram after the Canons Follies afterparty, when we were all hungover and feeling nauseous as it was. Copying giant diagrams of the penis really did not help. (Note: in contrast, the female reproductive system is undeniably simple. Anyone wish to comment? Thought not.)

As for classics, I've learnt the texts, and attempt a practice paper every so often. Need to reread the texts in english, damn it. I have spent today rereading old english essays and making lists of good quotes. I have 130 of them. My mother says it is impossible to memerise 130 quotes. I disagree. I am also doing handwriting practice again (taking dictations from Middlemarch, to save time), and theoretically making essay plans. Need to do some maths, damn it. I keep avoiding it because I don't think it's as time-efficient as the others, but the exam is in less than a week, so I should at least attempt to use the double angle theorem (the only thing I still get stuck on). Oh, and 3x3 matrices, but I'm okay with that.

Philosophy: LOL. Still.

In other news, I am on antibiotics again. This is the fourth time in eight months my tooth has flaired up, and it hurts like hell. Luckily I have five days to make it go away. Just as my floor is littered with books and folders, so my shelf is littered with various medication. These antibiotics. The last antibiotics. Nurofen, paracetamol, and those extra strong prescription pain killers they gave me last time. I feel like a junkie. I'm having it taken out over summer, which means serious injections. Great. Oh, and speaking of injections, my second HPV jab is tomorrow. Watch the kitten not panic, watch her not panic, watch her... shit. They're going to stick a needle in my arm, damn it. I can cope with this. Totally. Not going to faint. Not. And if I do, so what? Harmless. Painless. I can do this. *sigh*

My mother bought me The Princess Bride to cheer me up yesterday. I have now finished it. Zara would have got through it in an hour, I know. I've lost my edge when it comes to reading. Ah well. Back to Fight Club now.

My first exam is next Monday. It's the pract crit. I am almost looking forward to it. Dear god, I want them to start already. Oh, I took Wil rock climbing on Saturday. Exercise kitten does exercise! I'm a little out of practice, but damn it felt liberating, being up there again. Undercut, pull, balance, swap feet, up, rockover, smear and twist, and you're up there. It still feels like flying.

Jennie and Helena (the most laid back and the most exam-neurotic people I know, respectively) have both agreed that if you're not crying at least once a week, you're just not making the IB cut. Luckily, I still am.

Another stupid breakdown about work today. Not fun. Don't like. Can go away please? Kthx.

I was eventually thrown out of my curled-up-in-a-ball-on-the-floor-crying thing by a phone call from Dormouse, who set me straight, which was nice. And aside from that, Wil sent me this, which is the thing to cheer me up most today:



Note: Just because Emily got confused, the kitties can HAS the cheeseburger, but they are not actually IN the cheeseburger. I mean, they are, but not to be eated. They can has the cheeseburger, but you no can has kitty-cheeseburger. Y/Y?

I can't believe she got confused.

Major ETA: I have now been informed by two external sources (well, Wil and Dana, if you count them as external) that the kittens in fact are in the cheeseburger, like Emily thought, and that what I assumed was a cute happy picture of kittens frolicking in the cheeseburger they have longed for so much, is actually a grotesque and disgusting image of KITTEN EATING!!! It is no longer my favourite image. Thank you Wil.

In fact, this prompted an argument with Dana and Wil at the same time (yay phones), with me insisting my view was right. Is anyone here reminded of the Moppetra arguments with Chey? She sent me the picture of the kitten in my icon, and while I went 'Oooh, cute kitten with wings!', Chey went 'Look, dead kitten has died and gone to heaven'. Most of our relationship was based on that one misunderstanding. What is it with my friends, trying to do horrible things to adorable little kittens?! They are kittens! They need love and affection and cute little collars with their names on, not horrible images of death and carnage.

I have been betrayed by the internet.

Latin:
-Re-learn both texts.
-Virgil essay plans.
-Reread Aeneid books 1, 2, 4 and 6 in English.
-Unseen practice.

Greek:
-Re-learn texts, especially Wasps.
-Re-read Lysistrata and Acharnians in English (skip Thucydides).
-Attempt essay plans on both texts.
-Unseen practice? (Note: acquire practice unseens.)

English:
-Quote lists for House Of Mirth and Middlemarch.
-Learn quote list for Wide Sargasso Sea.
-Plan a few essays. (Speak to father about how to plan essays fast.)
-Make notes on House Of Mirth. (Skip Mansfield Park.)

Maths:
-Maths questions on coloured sheets.
-Learn those weird sin2x questions.
-Do mock paper. Do not panic.

Biology:
-Learn diagrams. Properly.
-Go once through entire folder, then again night before exam.
-Print off the practice papers. (Do practice papers?)

Philosophy:
-LOL

It's good to know I have a structure, right?

((I has new icon. Look at teh pretty! Love to Dana.))

There were tears. I didn't think there would be, but when I was up onstage after the play, singing 'Where'er you walk' for the last time (until, you know, I come back as an ONL), I really couldn't hold them back. Everyone looked stunning, of course. Oh, and I have officially finished school forever. Kinda scary, huh?

This post is just going to be photo-spam. Why? Because everyone looked so gorgeous, and I want pictures of me in my pretty dress. (I got up an hour early to do my hair and make-up, hope it was worth it.) But first, here is a poem a girl in my IB english class (Jennie) wrote for our teacher in our last lesson. Hopefully you should find it amusing (and not just because I'm referenced personally).

The Ballad of Miss Paul

‘Twas late in the eve, around 10:53,
When I stared at the page where my essay should be,
And pondering the title, a thought crossed my mind,
‘I’m deluded to think this will be in on time.
I’d write it right now for Miss Paul if I could,
But the shock might well kill her; it’s for her own good.
And tell me who’d focus on Lydgate’s fiancé,
When there’s single ladies to sing with Beyoncé?!’
*
Yet along with this musing, another thought struck,
‘I’ve used up my excuses, damn, blast it, what luck!
Beside claiming a fictional cat to be dead,
I’ve nothing to offer’, it hit me with dread.
But fear not dear friends, for I delved through the murk,
(And instead of actually DOING the work),
Devised a plan worthy of devious Bulstrode,
‘Forget all your essays and write her an ode!’
Excuse in a way to which nought can be purer,
And sum up our 2 years with rhyme and caesura.
*
From Larkin to Austen we’ve travelled en masse,
Through Blanche’s neuroses to a tortured Mandras,
Gordimer’s essays were often contentious,
But try as she might – we’re still more pretentious.
Corelli strummed and Stanley brooded,
And from many a lesson we often concluded,
That regardless of effort and whatever the price,
We’d hire a hit-man to kill Fanny Price.
We sighed through the pages of Tennessee’s play,
(With the constant reminder that Rachel was gay),
And mused that a bedding, from the unfairer sex,
Might not be so bad if he had Brando’s pecks.
Though Helena blushed, innuendos were many,
And Tash grinned with glee at each horrified ‘JENNIE!’
*
With you at the helm of our English IB,
We could sail the Wildest of Sargasso Sea,
And to sully your name would be iconoclastic,
(I would say an outrage, but it’s far less bombastic).
For you make every page, each verbal Pangaea,
As alive as a smile from the bright Dorothea.
Make each word a pearl from the literary clam,
Then package it neatly for the summer exam.
And in all of Great Britain, perhaps Europe too,
There’s none can say ‘JENNIE!’ quite the same way as you.
*
I may fail my exams and end up in the breadline,
For minding this poem instead of your deadline,
And yet I persist, as if under a curse,
Surrendering 7’s to bumbling verse.
And knowing full well that I’d give up each offer,
To fill up the depth of a nostalgic coffer,
To hear one more time that sound unlike any,
A final finale, a chorus of ‘JENNIE!’


And now for the photos.

( Founder's Day highlights )

It is th holidays, and for the first time in way too long, I do not have to worry about that essay I haven't done. Of course, I do have exams in like, um, a month, but that's easy to forget now. Next week is going to be so utterly awesome, for many reasons. Also, I need an excuse to wear that dress again. Suggestions welcome.

((Icon by Dana, quote from Under Milkwood. Gorgeous, no?)

Next week is my last creative writing society meeting, and the last edition of Weasel Words is being published tomorrow. I have not written anything for far too long, especially not prose, but this is the closest thing I have to a legacy. So, after a week of late nights, I sat down, and this came out. Short, sweet, and very much mine. Enjoy.

( On clichés )

Some of you may know that I have a phobia of needles. When and why this came about is not a particularly nice story, and may not be the right answer anyway, but the fact is I am terrified of injections. Oh, no one likes injections, everyone tells me. You just have to get on with it and have it done.

I had the first of my HPV jabs today. I made my mother take me to the hospital, and tried very hard not to cry as I waited. The nurse was lovely - happy, smiley, utterly confident - but I still screamed and burst into tears when she touched my arm and tried to leave the room. I then clutched my mother's hand, sang the first line of 'Consider Yourself' from Oliver, and it was over. A tiny pin-prick, nothing. I hardly felt it.

That's it? I asked, tearstained. I'll get you some tissues, my mother said, letting go of my hand.

That's when I passed out.

The next thing I know I'm being shaken roughly and being asked me name. There's a doctor in the room. My mother is looking terrified.

I have low blood pressure, which means headrushes that last almost a minute, black spots in front of my eyes when I stand up, tripping over my feet because I can't tell which way down is, and dizziness that can throw me for longer than can possibly be natural. This was nothing like that. I've never fainted before, not like that, and I can honestly say that coming out of it, and having no clue where I was or what was happening, is the most terrifying moment of my life. I have two more HPV jabs to go. And god knows how many others.

Oh, nobody likes injections.

Fuck this.

Bianca: But see, there's a difference between like and love, because I like my sketchers, but I love my prada backpack.
Chastity: But I love my sketchers.
Bianca: That's because you don't have a prada backpack!
Chastity: Ahhhh.

From 10 Things I Hate About You, one of my favourite films ever.

Replace sketchers and prada backpack with things that don't have designer labels, and you have how I feel right now. Oh, and read Wide Sargasso Sea. Srsly.

ETA: SNOW!

It begins in January, with brown snowflakes in her eyes,
And a scarf that itches rough against someone else’s collar,
He buys her malibu and coke in a bar along the South-bank’s
Edge, tells her that she's different (read: not pretty, don’t you know),
When she walks him to the station home, she leans up for a kiss
Which he gives, of course, and, smiling, she stands and sees him go.

The drinks are poured on kitchen tables, the parties come and go,
She shakes the hands of girls with glitter dusted on their eyes.
He hasn’t much to say to her, so when he blows a kiss
At the room and leaves, lipgloss on his cheek and spilt Bacardi on his collar,
She can hardly act surprised. They tell her things they think she ought to know:
“It’s just like Summer in the O.C., or that time on Tyra Banks!”

Exams in May and June, she shudders, revises, reads and banks
On whatever luck it was she’s had so far not to let her go.
She tries to ignore the insistent hum of things she doesn’t know,
When he calls her, that guy – the one with his eyes
On the girl in red – who said he liked her black Camden collar,
Would she like to hang out sometime? Text signed with a kiss.

It’s not a summer romance. Sometimes he doesn’t even kiss
Her, just strokes her hair and muses about cars and railways banks.
His sister has a kitten, which she scratches by the collar
And cuddles til the fur goes up her nose. She says she ought to go,
She can’t stay over, needs to get home, doesn’t want to meet his eyes,
So he tells her what she’s heard before, but can never really know.

Light rain in October and it’s “UCAS month you know!”
She’s got essays, notes and interviews, he’s got someone else to kiss.
She stands at the bathroom mirror drawing kohl onto her eyes
And ends up looking like a panda. Meanwhile the banks
Are crashing, Obama’s been elected and soon Bush will go,
The West Wing’s on, it makes her smile: Josh spills coffee on his collar.

Later on she’ll get a phonecall from some other ex who’ll try to collar
Her with words of empty love: “I’ve missed you and I know
It’s been a while, but remember how we were – don’t go?”
He takes the mobile from her hand, hangs up, they kiss
Before she realises he’s even there. His hands in her hair as he banks
Her up against a wall. He tells her not to speak and orders “Close your eyes”.

New Year’s Day: she eyes that photograph and doesn’t know
If it’s her hand on his collar, or that girl he used to kiss,
“South-bank’s edge,” he told her. That’s when she knew he’d go.



Half-based on a really awesome fanfic story I read ages ago, which I was reminded of by mock results back today. Don't ask - about how it reminded me, I mean, mocks went okay. Not brilliantly, but okay. Political references inspired by... well, if you can't get that, it's not really worth me telling you. :P Feedback adored! Your comments make me so happy, leave them! (That... was not meant to sound threatening.) Also, Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip is the most awesome TV show ever. That is all.

I have spent the entirety of today (with the exception of a 45 minute break to watch West Wing) learning Cicero. For those non-classicists among you, here's some background info:

* Cicero was a Roman lawyer.
* Cicero was a very successful Roman lawyer.
* On account of his success, and also the fact that he happened to save Rome from a conspiracy (and don't we all know it), he has an ego the size of a moderately sized planet.
* The passage Cicero I have to learn is a speech from a legal case. Anyone out there read legal cases in English? Ever found them slightly confusing or misleading or difficult to understand in some places?
*Plus, due to the aforementioned ego, he has decided to make his language as ornate and convoluted as is humanly possible for him to do.
* All this, and IT IS IN LATIN.

I know, I know. I signed up for this when I decided I wanted to do classics. Yesterday, I spent over eight hours learning pretty much all of book 2 of Virgil's Aeneid. And that's hard too, because it's poetry, so the verbs are in odd places and it's full of similes and allusions. But it has a story. And the language is so beautiful, I get carried away at that. Yes, it's hard, and by god is it time consuming. But I don't hate it with the same kind of intensity. Cicero is a literary genius, yes, I know. I can appreciate it. But some things are so hard and make your head hurt so much that it just isn't worth it.

I have fifty chapters to learn for my exam on thursday, plus six hundred lines of Virgil. I have so far learnt the Virgil, and I have ten chapters left. This is where I wanted to be, so I guess I should be feeling okay. But I've caught a cold, and I'm shivery and sniffly and have a headache. (What's new in Calli-land?) Still, I've been working a lot harder than I thought I would, which is a nice surprise. I have a philosphy mock tomorrow. Claire (the only other girl in my HL Latin class) and I have been corresponding by e-mail for the last three days, and it usually goes something like this:

Calli: Ohai. I can has lolcat, y/y?
Claire: YA, 2DAY IZ CAPSLOCK FRIDAY!
Calli: But today isn't friday.
Claire: EVRYDAY IZ CAPSLOCK FRIDAY!
Calli: YAY! But I'm missing a Virgil translation from 300 to 320. I can has?
Claire: Ya. *sends* I am revising physics. Fail.
Calli: Quantum Box Kitteh will help you. Maybe.
Claire: Physics = fail.
Calli: Cicero = do not want.
Claire: Philosophy mock = LOL
Calli: Philosophy = LOLOLOLOLOLOL
Claire: LOLFAIL.

Why the sudden lolcat obsession? Because I can has teh most awesome book evah written! Wil got it for me, of all people, though where he found something like that, which brings the internet into real life, I do not know. (Sophie says Waterstones. I do not believe her.) Tis a book of hundreds of cat macros, entitled I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER?, and is possibly the most amazing thing anyone has ever given me. Just looking at it makes me happy, and also reduces my mental age to that of a six-year-old. I do not care. Ceiling Cat will guide me.

And to anyone who read the Story Of The Changing Of The Tyre On Calli's Car, let me just say that there is another one, involving a broken mirror, three different screwdrivers, over two hours spent out in the freezing cold, and a San Miguel bottle cap. I'll leave you to fill in the details.

((Incidentally, the conversation with my father when I told him went something like this...
Calli: So it turned out the binding at the back of the mirror was cracked.
Dad: The plastic circle that holds the three wires in place? If you could get a metal disk the right size and put holes in it or something, you could probably fix it.
Calli: *in disbelief* A bottle cap?
Dad: Yeah, that would work.
Calli: *does not understand men. ))

I can't really complain about the work, since I didn't hardly anything over the holidays (too busy recovering from the hellish interview process), and spent friday with the wonderful Dana, doing a photoshoot and watching the sheer unbelievable awesomeness of Neverwhere. I didn't even realise it was a TV series before it was a book. Tis one of my favourite books ever, and the TV adaption (or rather, the TV show it was before the book adaption) totally blows my mind. Carrie and I are going to watch it next weekend, while eating cheesecake and swooning over the marquis de Carabas. Oooh, love.

I have no other news. Around me, all my non-NLC friends are doing exciting things. It was Dormouse's birthday yesterday, Carrie's out every night doing crazy things, and Tazza is directing her own play. What am I doing on a sunday night? Updating LJ, so I can avoid my moral philosophy revision (LOL), and searching for a warmer fleece. So come on guys, tell me about your exciting lives. Or anything new right now, anything that's made you vaguely happy or interested, whether it's a new Panic fic (Emily), or a new type of herbal tea (Inigo).

If I haven't seen you for a while, which applies to most of you, I miss you.

Hesitant Cat... hesitates. Unhelpful philosophy book is unhelpful. Sleepy Calli is sleepy.

<- Me, right now.

I can has hugs?

I got an offer from Cambridge. Trinity Hall, my chosen college. 40 points, with 7s in Latin and Greek, and a 6 in English.

It hasn't really sunk in yet, but later? There will be squeeing. ;)

And now I actually have to work. I think I'm in love with the world?

I stole this from madhattie34, because I think it's an awesome idea. I haven't been keeping it all year, but I didn't have to think too hard to get this. So this is Calli, in 2008.

The (adapted) rules:
1. Can only have the number of songs that will fit on a CD-R
2. Songs must represent events, people or musical phases of the year - they are not simply my favourite songs from the year.

( The kitsune girl with the sakura smile )

Hey, it's 2009. Happy New Year.

Recent skype webcam conversations with willyb4000 (summarised).

Wil: I got this button for Christmas! It's big and red and exciting!
Calli: ...okay.
Wil: And I went and drilled a hole through my desk so I could set it up, look!
Calli: *admires Big Red Button* So what happens if you push it?
Wil: Sekrit.
Calli: No really, what does it do?
Wil: ...I haven't decided yet.
Calli: Hey, I know! Why don't you wire it up so if you push it, it blows all the power in the house? <-JOKE
Wil: Damn, that's a good idea!
willyb4000 is now offline

Later, with missing_dates (Sophie)...

Calli: Kandinsky, meringues, help with maths etc.
Sophie: I love Kandinsky!
Calli: Yay!
Wil: We have to go now, because Sophie wants to push the Big Red Button.
Calli: Oh, did you decided what it does?
Wil: You decided. It blows the power to the entire house.
Calli: ... >.<
Wil: Bye Calli! Sophie, push the Big Red Button...
willyb4000 and missing_dates are now offline
Calli: *stares at frozen webcam screen, then goes off to make tea at 1am*

Didn't cost a fortune neither.
Didn't hurt my sex life either!
Flat and sassy,
I would get the strays and losers.
Beggars really can't be choosers.
That ain't it, kid! That ain't it, kid!
Fix the chassis.
"How do you do!"
Life turned into an
Endless medley of
"Gee, it had to be you."
Why?
Tits and ass!
Where the cupboard once was bare,
Now you knock and someone's there.
You have got 'em, hey.
Top to bottom, hey!
It's a gas!
Just a dash of silicone.
Shake your new maracas and your fine!
Tits and ass can change your life,
They sure changed mine!

This song is so how I feel right now. *sigh*

***

ETA: There is now a frickin visual of the button:



joresh, on seeing the picture:

Joresh: HOLY CRAP A KUKRI! Will is officially made of win.
Calli: He is not.
Joresh: But... but... kukri! And inspirations of giant red buttons....
Calli: Kurki?
Joresh: You see that knife thing directly above the red button? Unless I'm very much mistaken, that's a sheathed kukri, weapon of the Gurkhas, most awesome knife ever invented. I have two myself, not that I'm allowed to actually *have* them, mutter mutter parents mutter mutter.

Boys!

***

ETA2: Sorry, but this video needs to be somewhere I can find it fast. Watch it people! I want to BE this woman.

When it comes to Christmas, my family has a problem. We can't celebrate it, because it's a Christian festival and we don't believe in Jesus etc., but at the same time, we can't miss an excuse for a huge meal and loads of food. So to compromise, we dress up as characters in a murder mystery, and play out the story during the meal. And this is the result...

( Picspam )

So there you have it. I am currently in switzerland, it is -11.6 degrees out there, with several feet of snow. I have not been skiing once. Instead I have been learning maths, and now I'm onto Greek. 300 lines of Aristophanes down so far! I can't get to sleep here, so am around until about 1 or 2am, if you guys want to talk to me. And send me music! I like music.

Wil sent me this song. I feel like I shouldn't like it, but I really do.

Yesterday, Calli:

Got up at 8.30 in the morning, to drive Wil to Putney. For those of you who don't know where Putney is, think of London as a huge clock. Calli lives at number 12, Wil lives at number 6. The term 'halfway across London' doesn't really cover it. 'Completely across London' would work better.

When she returned at 12, she was given the task of peeling 10kg of potatoes. This was a good and happy job, because she could do it while watching West Wing, even if it did mean she was on her feet.

At 3, her aunt and cousin Maya appeared, to begin The Cooking. Calli has a reputation for not being able to cook, so was given the task for chopping up apples and oranges for the mulled wine. This was also a good an happy job, because the pieces of fruit needed for mulled wine are not hugely small.

But then alas, all the fruit was chopped up, and she was given the task of chopping up cucumber for the Israeli salad. An Israeli salad is judged on how small the pieces are. We're talking less than a quarter of an inch cubed, was the instruction given by her cousin. The salad was for thirty four people. The chopping began. At one point Calli sliced through her finger by accident, and was told this was all part of the process.

After the cucumber came the peppers, which also had to be chopped into similarly small pieces. (Calli gratefully left the chopping of the tomatoes to Maya.) Meanwhile, the 10kg of potatoes were being turned into latkas (which she had a brief try at frying). Video to come.

And then someone realised that one of the packets of salt beef (essential for any Jewish gathering) was off. That was okay, since there was a spare packet. The spare packet was also off. So her mother went off to get some more, bought it, drove home, and then realised she'd left it at the check-out desk, so went out a again to get it. Oh, and her sister came home from camp somewhere in between, with straightened hair. Somehow this is important.

At around 6 (Standard Yiddish Time, of course), people started arriving. All her dad's cousins and their spouses and their children, her own cousins with their significant others (basically Annette who is awesome and amazing, and Paul who is actually really cool too), and her cousin-niece Ella, who has decided she likes climbing stairs and still says 'No Rachel!' very emphatically.

*sigh* Having thirty four people over for dinner is something I am used to by now. It's part of my culture. Candles and latkas and noise for Chanukah, strange rituals and salt potatoes and chicken soup for Passover. Mine, and the reason I will never get married, because no one will ever be able to understand this part of my life. Except Quin. Basically, having spent three hours on my feet chopping up cucumbers, I have strained my shoulder to the point where I cannot move my head. But it is all good. And now? Video latkas!



Ignore the talking in the background, I'm not entirely sure what's going on. That's just to show how 10kg of peeled potatoes can become several hundred small fried latkas that just taste of WIN. Thanks to Wil for uploading that, since I fail at youtube.

Now I have to go put thirty four people's worth of silver tea spoons back in the cupboard. Merry Christmas Eve, to all you non-Jews!

((Oh, and in other really not important news, I got a place at Bristol. Still nothing from Cambridge.))