Out of the Ashes

Stop, rewind, avoid

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 02:07:43 GMT

It's that time of year again. I don't want to give too much detail, but there is a lot of stuff going on that I find very hard to vocalise right now, and I feel lost. I also have no idea how people see me anymore. I don't even know who reads this now, but if you do, this is for you.

Comments are screened, and feel free to post anonymously if you want. Tell me something you want me to know. Tell me what you really think of me. Tell me I've fucked up big time and need to sort my life out. Tell me I'm melodramatic and difficult to deal with. Tell me the shit I need to hear, that I'm a bad writer, or enthusiastic, or emotional, or beautiful, or not beautiful. Tell me a secret. Tell me about the first time you met me, what you remember most, something you'd like to change. Tell me you trust me. Tell me you'll never be able to trust me again, and tell me why. Tell me something that's nothing to do with me at all, just something you need to get off your chest. Tell me anything at all, but please, tell me something.

If you want to know, ask. If you want me to explain, I will. But for now, I'm just throwing words into a void, and hoping that someone out there will make something of them.

Thank you.

Cat On A Camden Lock - story (Rowan)

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 23:07:38 GMT

Songfic. Well, song-original-fic. This has nothing to do with the actual song, it just made me want to write and see where it went. 2000 words.

This bridge was written
To make you feel smittener

If you step out of Camden Town tube station, you’re faced with a choice: left, towards the cafés and restaurants, the classy nightclubs and the road to Mornington Crescent, or right, towards the hash and the piercings and the canal. Smell the black leather mixed with cigarette smoke, feel the damp drizzle penetrating your hair, mind out the way as passers-by jostle and slam into you. Keep walking along that road, and you make it over the bridge, to Camden lock. The pavement narrows as the street crosses the canal, and if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself slammed into someone else’s path, especially if she’s already tripping over her long skirt with her hair in her face. I caught her to prevent her stumbling into the oncoming traffic, but she clung to me after, stunned. Her eyes, which I could barely see through the loose strands of her hair, were wide and vacant, and I wondered if she was on drugs. So I offered to buy her a coffee, and together we slowly crossed the bridge, her grasping my denim jacket with nail-bitten fingers, me breathing in her sandalwood-and-herbal-tea scent. I didn’t ask her name.

With my sad picture
Of girl getting bitter-er

I’d seen Rowan several times since our meeting on the bridge. There was more to her than I’d expected, not just some hopeless school dropout doped up on marijuana. She dressed like a fairytale gypsy, spoke like a middle class student, and drank like an engineer. The bars I took her to were all class and mirrors – I admit, I wanted to show off a little – whereas the flat she shared was mismatched cushions and faded wallpaper. Not poor, she told me, economising. I was a finance student, I ought to know that. She studied art at St Martin’s, didn’t celebrate Christmas, wanted to dye her hair purple and wondered whether I liked cats. I replied that I wasn’t sure, before kissing her and gently pushing her down on her patchwork quilt bedspread. She looked so beautiful like that, dark hair spread out over the crimson silk pillow, pale skin flushed pink, blouse half unbuttoned and eyes wide. I stopped and reached for my camera phone, capturing her vulnerability while she laughed and tried to pull me down next to her. I decided that I definitely, indisputably liked cats.

Can you extract me
From my plastic fantasy?

“I think I’m falling in love with her,” I announced awkwardly as a group of us sat in the university bar. “Seriously, the incense, the tofu, the lot. It terrifies me how much I like this girl.”

“Does she like you back?”

“Of course she does!” I was suddenly doubtful. “She must do, mustn’t she? I mean, I’m practically living with her. It just feels real.”

“You moved in with Karen, remember?”

“That was different.” And it was. Sharing a cramped student room with the girlfriend I’d met on day one and thinking it was love because she folded away my shirts, that was nothing compared to the maddening thrill of being around Rowan. The dazed look in her eyes when I said her name, and the silky warmth of her skin as she wrapped herself around me. She lived in a make-believe world, that much was clear, but when I kissed her, I felt her let go of it and allow herself to fall into me. The sandalwood smell was intoxicating and addictive – the air felt wrong without it.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

I realised I had no idea. What were you supposed to do when you realised you were in love?

I didn't think so
But I'm still convincible

I took her to a restaurant along the Southbank, where we could watch the ebb and flow of the tide. Crossing Waterloo Bridge in the cold, watching the Christmas lights in the trees, I remembered that first afternoon in Camden. February – it was November now. How had almost a year passed without either of us noticing? I’d wanted to take her for oysters, but of course she was vegetarian, so I made up for it with champagne. Rowan had her hair up and pinned with a beaded clasp – she never did dye it purple, though in the candlelight it glowed with an orange tint. She watched the river, the candles, my face as if transfixed, and I watched her watching. Afterwards, back at her flat, I undressed her slowly, one garment at a time, kissing every new inch of skin as it became visible. I held her left hand in mine, gently pressed each of her fingers to my lips, smiling at the way she laughed and shuddered. Then I slid the ring onto her finger, a single diamond flanked by fire opals. She stared at me, naked and stunned, then looked down at the ring. I could see her mind twisting itself around the colours, the way the light refracted off the diamond and ricocheted as if burnt between the opals. I touched her cheek to break her out of the trance.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Will you persist even after I bet you
A billion dollars that I'll never love you?

Rowan lost the baby. Everyone said afterwards it was a tragic shame, but probably good in the long-run. We weren’t even married yet, and the pregnancy had been unplanned and inconvenient. But that wasn’t how Rowan saw it, and watching her sob quietly into a crimson pillow, it wasn’t how I felt either. She told me she needed space, and was going to go to back to her old shared apartment for a few days. Weeks, Nearly two months.

“I miss you,” I told her over the phone. Every night the same words, yet it never became mechanical.

“I miss you too.”

“Baby, come back.” Silence as I suddenly realised she had no intention of doing so. “You know I love you.”

“Yes.”

I swallowed deeply. “Do you still love me?”

She was miles away, the other side of London, in a cramped student flat in Kentish Town. But somehow I knew she was staring at her hand, watching the light play off the fire opals, blindingly bright.

“There’ll be other babies,” I told her quickly, unexpectedly desperate. “Wait until we’re married, I promise you, a real family. Whatever you want, Rowan. Just come home.”

But I knew it wasn’t about the baby anymore. It wasn’t about anything. I wanted my Camden girl back, with her long hair and flushed skin. I realised that Rowan had agreed to marry me. She had never said she loved me.

And will you persist
Even after I kiss you

She did come home, despite everything. Her face was pale and her hair pulled back harshly from her face, but she was back, and that was enough. We silently agreed that the wedding was off until further notice, and I watched as she slowly slid the ring off her finger, offering it to me with her eyes downcast. I grabbed one of her beaded charms from the dresser and threaded the ring onto it, tying it around her neck with a look of satisfaction. It was something she found beautiful, and I would not force her to give it up just because she was no longer certain she wanted to marry me. That night, I set up a bed for myself on the sofa, determined to prove I could give her the space she needed and still love her. It was not easy to sleep, knowing that she was in the next room, but I forced my eyes shut and bit my lips closed. I woke up to cool fingertips brushing my neck. It was too dark to make out anything beyond shadows, but I recognised her naked silhouette before she cast off the duvet and lowered herself down to me. It felt so good just to hold her again, her hair against my cheek and my hands smooth on her back. I forgot that she had left, that she had broken off the engagement, that she had never loved me. I felt only her skin and her warmth, and a sensation of exquisite relief as she kissed me deeply and drew me against her.

Goodbye for the last time
Will you keep on trying… to prove it?

Losing Rowan the first time was gradual and agonising, slow and aching. Losing her again was devastating. I don’t know whether she intended to stay or not – when I woke up the next morning to find her nestled in my arms, smelling of sweat and jasmine, it felt like safety. She turned to kiss me sleepily, and we made love again as we both slowly woke ourselves up. In the aftermath of pleasure, she stood up, swept back her hair and put on her clothes. By the time I realised what she was doing, I knew I’d missed my chance.

“Rowan,” I begged her as she made her way to the door. “Please. Don’t.”

“Do you like cats?” she asked me softly.

The question caught me off guard, but slowly I realised what she meant.

“No,” I admitted, unable to look at her. She nodded, and with one hand on the door handle, leaned in to kiss me. I didn’t kiss her back. She didn’t say goodbye.

I'm dying to lose it
I'm losing my confidence

It was several months before I felt I had the strength to go back to Camden. Once one of my favourite areas in London, it had become tainted for me. I didn’t want anymore lost girls on bridges, I wanted sanity. I crossed from the station to the lock with no event, and felt both disappointed and relieved. The adrenalin was still coursing through my veins, and I realised how badly I needed some coffee. Perhaps I should celebrate.

“Excuse me, but I think I know you.” I turned to see a wispy blonde woman smoking a cigarette. The greyish smoke spiraled up around her hair, making her appear even paler than she really was. “You were Rowan’s fiancé.”

I felt a wave of nausea, cursing myself for ignoring the instinct not to come here. I recognised the girl as one of Rowan’s flatmates, back before we moved in together, and felt sick.

“How is she?” The girl shrugged.

“Good as can be expected. Psych ward’s hardly the coziest place at the best of times.” She saw the look on my face and her eyes widened. “You didn’t know, did you? After you broke it off with her, she lost it. She’d had that breakdown coming for years, but it hit worse than expected. They say there’s still a chance that she’ll recover. Maybe. As long as we don’t let her near any pills again.”

“I… I didn’t break it off, that is—”

“You should visit her,” she said. “Want a cigarette?”

I want it, I want you
I want a… coin operated boy

She was just the same, my beautiful, broken little girl. Her hair was cut short and her fingernails more badly bitten than ever, but she was still the same. She sat there sketching in oils and pastels, the kind that used to stain everything they touched. The place wasn’t as I’d expected, the way her friend had described it as a ‘psych ward’, but there was an atmosphere of hostility, culminating in the tension of Rowan’s shoulders. She glanced up and flinched when she saw me, one hand flying to her cut hair, then to her neck. I noticed the ring still hung there and shivered. She dropped the oil crayon and we both watched it roll across the page. A brown and white tabby cat mewed up at us from the paper. I turned and left without saying a word, and only when I was outside the building did I find myself wondering what the cat had been named.

The mad girl at Oxford who has been keeping me sane

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 00:18:10 GMT

I'm down in London for the weekend, then back up to Cambridge on Monday for three final days. Home is weird. Weird weird. Oh, and Misfits is awesome. That is all.

My first Superhall

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 16:32:55 GMT

I would like to fine the fresher girl who orgasms quietly, even though she uses whips and chains.

Afterwards...

"How the hell did you know I orgasm quietly?!"
"Just a guess. I'm right though, aren't I?"
"...That's three cups of coffee you owe me now."

Also, I has a plate! (If you want to know, ask.)

Random thought

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:10:28 GMT

Some people are intentionally manipulative. Some people are unintentionally manipulative. And some people just preset the universe so it works out with them getting exactly what they want.

*

Halfway through first term and I am coping. Just. Emphasis on the just. It is hard. It is harder than I ever thought it would be. Every day is a toss-up between absolutely loving it and being on the verge of quitting.

"Go to Newcastle and be happy."

But I didn't. I came here. And now I am here, I want to make it work. Somehow.

Downsizing

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 16:45:29 GMT

I am a poor, penniless student, as I'm sure you've all worked out by now, and though I would really love to, I can no longer afford the extravagance of a paid journal. I got a paid account purely by accident, when light_spectre unexpectedly bought me one for my sixteenth (argh!) birthday, and I have become deliciously used to having many many icons. This cannot last. My account expires for good in a few days, and since the only paid feature I have ever used is the icons, it is time to say goodbye. But I have so many, mostly made by the amazing Dana, and it seems such a shame to lose them. Therefore I am migrating to a plus account (yes I am selling out, so shoot me), and have to downgrade from 44 to 15 icons.

And this is where you come in.

Some of them I was only keeping for the sake of it. Some I genuinely love. Below the cut are the ones I desperately want to keep, with a brief description as to why. You are my flist, you know me well. Some of you know me better than anyone else out there. So please, give me your opinions.

1.
This is my default pic, and one I'm almost definitely keeping. The picture is of me, taken and edited by Dana. This one stays.

2.
My oldest icon, and the first one I ever made. Fantasy art that reminds me of a very long time ago? Pretty light?

3.
Picture from the Neil Gaiman film Mirrormask, which I utterly adore. Made by Dana.

4.
I have to have a couple of girl-on-girl icons, and this one (Dana's again) I think is truly beautiful.

5.
Ditto for this. Yes, I know it has a scratch, but I adore the expression, the look in her eyes. Made by me, as it happens.

6.
Butbut Utena! I can't bear to let go for the anime that was so important to me when I was fourteen.

7.
Another gorgeous Utena one, much better made (not by me), and which seems to sum up the entire series so beautifully.

8.
If I get rid of Moppetra, the not-so-dead angel kitten, do I really have anything left?

9.
More on the girl-love. I haven't watched the L Word for years now, but Kate Moennig's eyes still manage to go right through me.

10.
One of the few icons I've ever made which I actually like, and I've always adored the song. No great sentimental reason though.

11.
Made from the first Luis Royo picture I ever saw. His artwork has been so important to me over the years, and I love the inverted colours.

12.
Okay, so it's not brilliantly done, but Royo coupled with Phedre? Perfect mix! (I'm actually rereading the books here in Cambridge - they're the only thing that will calm me down, and I you can't imagine how much I love them.)

13.
Gorgeous gorgeous art, by Enayla. The amount of time I have spent just literally staring at this picture is ridiculous. Just so much pretty.

14.
I like this one because it's queer-themed without being outwardly gay, and I really like how the colours fit together. (Also, it's nice to have like, one icon which isn't of pretty girls, no? Maybe not.)

15.
This reminds me of a time when I was happy, confident, and had bright blue hair. I miss that.

16.
Ditto with this. A completely crazy icon of me and two of my best ever friends, before we ever had any idea how things would turn out.

17.
So far I've stayed away from the Wicked icons, since I'm not remotely involved in that fandom anymore, but that does not detract from my love of Julia Murney, and her 'cocktober' line.

18.
No reason. I just think it's beautiful

19.
Ditto.

20.
Ditto.

21.
But Annaleigh Ashford's face?

22.
Pride. Pure and simple, full on defiance. By Dana.

23.
Suspension bondage, anyone? Something a little kinky but subtly so. Beautiful shades of colour and of meaning. (By Dana.)

24.
I adore this one: the fairytale that didn't happen. I love darkened fairy stories, and this icon just sums that up perfectly for me. (By Dana.)

25.
You guys know how much I adore this quotation, and the icon (by Dana) really mirrors that. I like the greyscale, and I like how you can't see her eyes.

26.
Lastly, blatant self-indulgence. I've cut out most of the icons of me, but this one I love because of what she (Dana) has done with the lighting.

Okay then. Thoughts?

Also, just so you know, I am stressed out of my mind, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, loving Cambridge nonetheless, and generally insanely busy. It is not that I think my icons are the most important thing in my life right now, and therefore something I must post about. It is rather that I cannot get my head straight enough to post about anything else, and this is a nice procrastination technique. Now I must go off and translate Lysias and Homer with my DoS.

WHY DID THEY NEVER TELL US THAT CAMBRIDGE WOULD BE HARD WORK???

Lecture today

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 12:28:40 GMT

Lecturer: Virgil, Aeneid, contemporaries, Homer, reception theory etc etc.
Calli: I really ought to be listening to this, it's actually interesting, but so tired, messed up the test this morning, can't believe I actually got out of bed, when am I going to do my prose comp, how can I make my essay better, why am I so tired already, SLEEP!
Lecturer: Look at this example of PORN! See? This author has written a GRAPHIC SEX/RAPE scene using lines of Virgil! Just look at all the PORN made out of epic!
Calli: WTF???

Well, that certainly woke me up.

Calli is still alive

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 18:01:36 GMT

That is all.

Chutzpah

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 20:31:22 GMT

Today was Yom Kippur, and, in keeping with family tradition, I went with my mother and my aunt to visit the cemetery, where their parents are buried. I have been visiting those graves - first that of my grandmother, who died a week before my mother discovered she was pregnant with me, and then later that of my grandfather, who was a constant through my whole childhood and only died six years ago - since before I can remember. We always go on Yom Kippur, and place pebbles on the twin graves. I love the inscriptions, in particular the names: Mirjam Brandler (Baby Rosenwasser), because no one ever called my grandmother by anything other than her girlhood nickname, and Ali Brandler (Opa), because Opa was what my sister and I called him, and it stuck.

As we were leaving the cemetery, I suddenly remembered my great uncle (my grandmother's bother). Uncle Harri who taught me Hebrew for my Bat Mitzvah, taught me everything I currently know, died in January 2008. I asked why we hadn't considered visiting him, and suddenly we were on our way to a different cemetery, one I'd only been to for the funeral and stone setting. When we arrived, however, we realised our mistake. Yom Kippur is a High Holy Day, and technically we shouldn't have been traveling at all. Well, that's our family tradition, and it's our decision, but the cemetery where Uncle Harri is buried is a Jewish one. When we drove up, the tall iron gates (about 3m high) were closed and padlocked. We read the sign in frustration, feeling somewhat cheated by it all.

"Why don't we break in?" I suggested, laughing.

My aunt turned to my mother and said, "Which side of the gate do you think is lowest?"

This is why I spent Yom Kippur this year helping my mother (age fifty five) and my aunt (age sixty four) over an iron gate into a cemetery. I didn't find it difficult (I am a rock-climber, after all), but I found an empty metal dustbin on the other side, which I upturned to help them over. Once in, we found the grave (Harry (Tzvi) Rosenwasser - husband, father, grandfather and teacher), and stood there with a sense of accomplishment. Yes, breaking in on the Day of Atonement to visit his grave would have made Uncle Harri laugh for hours.

On the way out, as my mother was stepping onto the dustbin to climb up, a car drew up. Being sensible, I attempted to hide behind the wall. My mother and aunt, however, stood their ground in defiance.

"Hello!" my mother called out to the man who stepped out of the car. "Do you have the keys?"

"Uh, no." He looked confused. "The cemetery's shut today."

"Yes, we know," my mother replied cheerfully, as I reappeared.

"Um. What are you doing?" he asked. Thinking about it, upon finding three women on the wrong side of the gate attempting to climb over, this is a perfectly reasonable question.

"We're just on our way out," declared my aunt, with conviction.

The man just stared for a moment. Then, "Would you like a hand?"

With his help, we all managed to arrive safely on the other side of the gate. Perhaps we should have been in synagogue (we went last night on Kol Nidre, which was a beautiful service as always), thinking about our sins and how we could do better next year. On the other hand, looking back on this Yom Kippur, I feel like I've really accomplished something, something more than just helping two relatives with vertigo over a gate.

Uncle Harri, it's due to you that I could read the service last night at all, and I wanted to come say thank you in person.

Hamsters in the jam (story)

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 22:56:57 GMT

This is a story inspired by Dan's introduction to my family, which did in fact involve hamsters in a similar way. 1750 words, much much concrit needed. (This isn't quite right, and I'm very conscious of that, but it's the first original story I've written in months, so I thought I'd post it anyway.)

My sister Chloe was never going to win any prizes for being the most amazing person in the world. She wasn’t prettiest girl in the room, or the smartest, or even the funniest, and if the most you could say for her was that she had really good hair, well, that wasn’t much. She certainly wasn’t the best sister either, at least not by my standards, and she didn’t seem in a particular hurry to try. But I will say this about her: if there were an award for having the worst taste in boyfriends ever ever, Chloe would win hands down.

She must have been about fourteen when she started bringing them home, those awkward, uncomfortable-looking schoolboys, all suffering from acne, or greasy hair, or both. They had names like Charlie or Gary, and looked at the floor when faced with a direct question, while she fluttered around in their presence. Those were the interchangeable ones, back when I was too young to pay much attention; those were the good ones. After that came Martin, who did nothing but talk about cars and had permanent oil-stains on his jeans, and who only shut up when Chloe attempted to kiss him (an act which I, understandably, found disgusting and unnecessary). Then there was Jamie, who always seemed to need to borrow money (‘But I need it, babe, all the guys are going to the concert, you wouldn’t want me to be left out’ – did I mention my sister wasn’t all that sharp?), but wouldn’t take her out in public in case someone saw them together. And finally Liam, who made my skin crawl and never took his eyes of my chest, and made jokes about threesomes I didn’t want to understand, but that made Chloe turn white.

Needless to say, by the time my idiot sister, who hid behind excuses of ‘but he loves me really!’ and ‘he’s so wonderful once you get to know him!’ turned seventeen, I had pretty much given up hope. There was one interesting dinner in between Jamie and Liam when she brought home an impossibly skinny girl with a boy’s haircut who called herself ‘Nix’, which I thought had potential, but afterwards my mother had a stern conversation with Chloe as to what was and was not appropriate and, much to my disappoint, Nix did not reappear. My sister’s love life was, I realised, a lost cause.

I was, at this point, nearly fifteen, and far more interested in animals than I was in people. Animals were simple and they made sense – you fed them, you looked after them, and in return they gave you unconditional affection. Animals would appreciate the effort you made for them, and wouldn’t randomly decide to hate you just because you borrowed their nail varnish without asking (‘You’ve ruined it, Laura! I was going to wear that tonight!'). My mother, however, was allergic to animal fur, and refused to have anything larger than a hamster in the house. Personally, I wanted a puppy (preferably a labrador or a spaniel), or failing that, a kitten, but a hamster is what I got. I named him Rover in defiance, and decided in a fit of adolescent angst that he was my only friend. Rover was nearly one and was starting to learn the tricks I was teaching him when Chloe met Alex.

I could tell at once that something was different. Usually when my sister found a new boy, she’d go from vaguely unintelligent to completely bloody stupid in about a week, doodling hearts with his name in all over her homework, and becoming incapable of not mentioning him every other sentence. Her self-confidence, which wasn’t up to much on a good day, would plummet, leading to yet another new diet (‘Martin says I’m putting on weight and need to lose a few pounds’), a complete change of wardrobe (‘Jamie doesn’t like it when I wear red, he thinks it makes my skin look bad’), and an existential crisis (‘Liam wants to start seeing other girls because I’m not enough for him – maybe if I was prettier and never complained he’d rethink?’). Not this time. No, it was hard to believe, but this time Chloe actually seemed happy. Alex liked her hair the way it was. Alex thought she was really smart and should have more faith in her abilities. Alex wanted to take her out and make sure she had fun, and wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with her.

“So when do we get to meet this Alex?” my mother asked frostily, in a tone that suggested Chloe really ought to be focussing on her A-levels and not on boys. She had still not properly forgiven her for Nix, and the disastrous Liam certainly hadn’t helped.

“I’m not going to bring him home if you’ve already decided you hate him,” Chloe said, blushing furiously. “I know what you two are like. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and you’ll ruin it like you always do.”

“Well if he’s really that wonderful, bring him over and let us see for ourselves. He has nothing to be afraid of.” My mother was not even attempting to sound convincing, but Chloe knew she had no choice. “Be sure to tell him about the hamster and check he’s not allergic.” She glared at me as I stroked Rover’s ears and hoped to God that Alex would not try to hit on me. I decided to wear a high-necked shirt anyway, just in case.

I needn’t have worried. When the doorbell rang at half seven, my mother was shocked to be greeted with a smile, a firm handshake, and a bottle of wine. Alex was smartly dressed and seemed utterly relaxed, handing Chloe a small bunch of flowers, and thanking us for inviting him round for dinner. Throughout the meal, he made pleasant conversation with all three of us, complimenting my mother’s cooking and explaining how he was applying for medicine that year. My mother was charmed but, considering Chloe’s history, unconvinced. I was undecided.

“And what are you interested in, Laura?” Alex asked me at the end of the meal, as if he actually cared.

“Oh, don’t talk to her. All she likes are stupid animals,” Chloe dismissed with a wave of her hand.

“Really? I love animals too. I hear you have a hamster?”

“His name’s Rover,” I said non-committedly. And then, entirely randomly, “Would you like to see him?”

It is important to note here that I never actually considered that Alex might say yes. I offered in the same way one might say ‘would you like the last chocolate?’ or ‘you must come riding with me some time’, not expecting an affirmative answer. So I was genuinely shocked to find myself taking Rover out of his cage and placing him in Alex’s gentle hands, while Chloe stood nervously in the doorway ready to swoop to the rescue if her new boyfriend got bitten. Alex was surprisingly careful as he stroked the small rodent, before giving him back to me and offering to introduce me to his dog, which made me grudgingly almost like him for a moment. He then went to help my mother wash up, which led to her slightly awkward invitation for him to stay the night if he wanted to, although not with Chloe, of course. Alex graciously accepted.

Rover’s cage was not allowed by my bed, as that was apparently unhygienic, but was kept in the downstairs laundry room, next to the old lounge that doubled as the guest bedroom. It was also where Chloe was sent the next morning to get a fresh towel for Alex. This was the reason I awoke to hysterical screaming, which, I have to admit, I momentarily and sadistically hoped was Chloe being assaulted by her wonder-boy. In actual fact it was much, much worse. Rover was lying stretched out on the cage floor, his black eyes wide open but dull. When I touched him, his fur was cold.

Chloe was of course still screaming that there was a dead thing in the house. My mother, who had never liked rodents, refused to even come in. I was in shock, hardly able to comprehend that my beloved pet was actually dead.

“Rover?” I murmured softly, but no one was listening.

“Get rid of it, Mum!” shrieked Chloe. She was crying.

“I can’t, that is, I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry, Mrs Stevens,” said Alex in his relaxed, confident voice, appearing in the doorway. “I’ll take care of it.”

And he did. While we three terrified females stood on the back porch, my sister’s ever-helpful boyfriend carefully dug a hole under the magnolia tree, and placed the small shoebox containing what had once been Rover inside. He covered it over with earth, and sprinkled petals over it. I wandered over and looked down at the grave.

“I’m sorry, Laura,” Alex whispered to me, too softly for anyone else to hear. I looked up at him, completely dry-eyed, until he turned away.

Then Chloe ran out and gave him a tearful kiss, right in front of my mother, who was so overcome with gratitude she didn’t say a word. Alex had made it into our family alright, and if my mother and sister had anything to do with it, he was never going to leave.

We saw quite a lot of Alex in the following months. Chloe continued to dote on him, just as my mother continued to tell everyone who asked that he was ‘such a nice boy’. Then my sister went on study leave and Alex agreed that they needed time apart to work for their exams, and after that we didn’t really see him anymore. Chloe said he was lovely but she’d moved on, and my mother sighed wistfully, and made muttered comments about Chloe’s new friend Sam who had green hair and a ring in her nose.

Of course, none of them had noticed the small blue granules at the bottom of Rover’s cage that looked startlingly like the rat poison we’d had to use once. And no one thought to wonder why a perfectly healthy hamster would just drop dead one night for no apparent reason. I mean, Alex was such a nice boy, and what kind of nice boy would carry out a plan to murder his girlfriend’s pet, just to make her family like him?

One dating the girl with the worst ever taste in boyfriends, perhaps?

I am moving to Cambridge at some point this week! I do not know when, but it will be soon! If you want to see me before I go, please let me know! I will miss you!

If you don't believe me, go there and see for yourself

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 21:39:56 GMT

There are many places in London, Above and Below, which seem to resent those who pass through them. There is something in or under or between the cracks of Soho which twists the streets around it, directing people around in circles, taking them along streets that lead to the wrong places, and a maze of buildings too closely herded in together to let the walker get their bearings. It's almost exactly like pouring iron filings in the space between two bar magnets to show the contour lines of magnetic force, and then dropping a lodestone in the middle to see what happens. There is something in Soho - under Soho, between the cracks - that warps space to its will.

--The Invisible City; or, Dick Mayhew and his Marvellous Cat by Calliope85, inspired by Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere.

Yes.

Office drama

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 18:09:21 GMT

Risked getting fired today, with two days to go.

Basically, over the last three weeks, one thing keeping me sane at my job as been the constant e-mails my friends (thank you!) have been sending me, especially an epic e-mail conversation with Dan (the guy who suggested Connor drop Emily). Topics in this conversation include (but are not limited to):

* Sex
* Oral sex
* Bondage (of various types)
* How bored we both are at work
* Threesomes
* Detailed accounts of my failed relationship history, especially the most current one
* Bondage gear
* My inexplicable crush on my hot female coworker

Most of this was originally in code. Recently, it has not been. But it's fine because I'm an intern so no one's going to check my e-mails.

Today I was sent to do some scanning, to be handed in to my boss, on the other computer, and I saw that Dan had just written me a long e-mail that I quite wanted to read. So I printed it off so I could read it and laugh over it as I did the scanning. Except it's an odd system, so I had to print the entire thing, not just the first page. That is two weeks' worth of e-mails.

Scanning sequence:
1) Take out staples from document
2) Scan document
3) Re-staple document

Yep. You've guessed it.

I was actually out of the office before I realised what I'd done. I had to race back in, sort through the entire pile of paper, before finding it halfway down.

This could have been really really bad.

I totally blame Dan.

Meteorites

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 20:53:41 GMT

I am alive.

I realise this is probably self-evident, but Dana was asking about it, so I thought I would clarify. Lots of stuff has been going on, mainly involving my internship at the bank, which is awesome but utterly exhausting. (I love getting e-mails during the day, so if you feel like sending them to me, drop me a line and I'll give you my insanely shiny work e-mail address.) I'm in one of those odd phases where so much is happening and changing, but I don't really feel like LJing it. Those who know, know. But rest assured that I am alive and well, and don't worry, I'll be back to fill your flists with my introspective drama soon enough.

Why does this time in August always feel like change?

GT: Gin & Tonics and Gay Turtles

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 21:19:12 GMT

Last night, I discovered something very interesting that I'd heard before but thought was a myth:

If you are on antibiotics, and you are drinking, each drink will make you considerably more drunk than it would without the medication. The increase in drunkenness is not linear, but begins as relatively unnoticeable after one drink, progressing to a factor of about ^5 by the end of the night. This can have interesting results.

Of course, I blame all of this on Emily, for hitting her head and nearly getting concussion, after which we all really did need a few more gin and tonics. Or I could blame Connor for being the one to trip and fall while giving her a piggy back, or Dan for deciding that a piggy back race (with me on his shoulders and Emily on Connor's) on the walk home after a night at the pub would be a good idea.

Regardless, the upshot was that when I took a cab home at 5am, I was pretty damn out of it. And we left for switzerland this morning at 7.30, so you can imagine how I was feeling for most of the twelve hour drive. Urgh, being kinda drunk and kinda hung-over and in a lot of pain from the thing you're taking the antibiotics for in the first place (tooth infection)? Not a good idea. On the plus side, I am in Switzerland, where the wifi internet actually works! No more ethernet cable that falls out every time I breathe on it! Life is good again... for a week. Hello internetz! How are you? Would you like a fanfic biscuit?

I still had a fantastic time, and it has reminded me that there is not enough Emily in my life. Or late night drinking. I need to be out doing stuff again, seeing people, getting my confidence back. I quite like Emily's 'Crazy Rae'. Change is good.

Write me comments with interesting stuff.

ETA: GT backwards is TG, as in Torture Garden! Isn't that cool guys? ...Guys?

Canada Water

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 20:44:09 GMT

So I took the Bank of America job.

It wasn't at all planned. In fact yesterday, after my first interview was laughably bad (a guy turned up who had no idea who I was and had evidently already decided to take someone else), I decided for definite that I wouldn't take it. In fact, I wasn't even going to go for the interview this morning. My mother convinced me. They called me less than two hours after the interview to tell me I had it.

I'm still in the terrified not-really-sure-if-I-want-it stage. It's not about the cafe, it's just... I don't know. My whole family are away for that entire month, so yes, I'm scared. But they wanted me. They chose me to do this, and that's not something I'm going to turn down. So yes. Thoughts are welcome?

Also, yet again I have missed my LJ anniversary. By three weeks this time. *sigh* It's been five fucking years since I started this thing, and in all honesty, I haven't changed at all. But I did remember another anniversary, and manage to mark it significantly. So that's something.

I received something today that I don't really know what to do with, or rather, I really really do, and that's the problem. It is both maddeningly exciting and kinda terrifying at the same time. And it certainly doesn't fix anything. But it's kinda sweet.

Can I stay with you during August?

At long last... Kephalonia Picspam!

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 16:24:57 GMT

So Jennie finally upload several hundred photos from Kephalonia up onto facebook. And since the weather in London right now is kinda cloudy and grey (I just typed 'green' there, what is wrong with me?), I thought some bright Greek sunshine might cheer everyone up. Oh, and shots of me in a bikini. You're okay with that, right?

The caption for Jennie's album:
13 IB girls, 40 bottles of suncream and 1 rubber ring let loose on a Greek Island. You say parties, we say Camus and Diet Coke.

Villa Mihas, a.k.a. heaven.

Missed a night's sleep, on a plane at 6am, and by the pool five hours later.

Helena Miles, with diet coke and Albert Camus.

Sunset.

First stop on the tour: paradise.

Me, longing for Ithaca (yes that really is Ithaca I'm pointing at).

Kephalonia can has many beaches.

Waiting for Correlli.

On a boat on one of the underground lakes. I really cannot describe how overwhelmingly beautiful this was.

The caves. They told us we weren't allowed to touch the stalagmites, but...

...there's always one (Katie).

Applicable to just about anyone. (You know who you are...) I'm still upset I didn't actually buy this. Helena did.

Bikini love!

Another totally-not-posed photo.

It is possible we are trying to spell 'IB', but I am not sure...

Miriam and me at karaoke night.

Take 1.

My favourite fucking photo of the whole trip. That's all but to of us, and the writing in the sand reads 'Kef 09'. Basically, we rock.

Any questions?

Also, I have a job in a cafe/coffee shop on our highroad, so if anyone wants to visit me there, that would be awesome? It's so much fun! I get to work the coffee machine and the till and everything! Possibly quitting it for a city bank job if I get that, but still - I have an apron guys!

The only other thing worth mentioning right now is that I watched the Utena film again yesterday. It is even more crazy!weird than I remember it. I'm on a total Utena high right now, so if anyone wants to comment with musings/discussions on either the movie or the anime, I would very much enjoy it. (The end of the anime series does kinda make sense, right? I'm not just imagining it?)

Avenue Q on monday totally rocked.

Be right back...

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 19:50:09 GMT

...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!

Fragments from a love letter found on the corner of Old Compton Street

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 23:18:15 GMT

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.

Valedictory Day photos: fourteen years at NLC

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 22:22:34 GMT

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?

'Pictures tell a thousand words', says the girl who can't be bothered to write them

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 20:39:57 GMT

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.

The St John's May Ball was incredible, and actually (dare I say it?) worth the £110 I paid for it, if only so I got to wear my pretty dress. I lasted in my heels from, get this, 8pm to 5am! This was significantly helped by the unlimited alcohol, but there was also great food, some fantastic live bands, much dancing, a silent disco, incredible fireworks and a shisha tent, to list but a few. I took the train straight home afterwards and didn't end up in bed until 9.30 in the morning. That does weird messed up things to your head, I can tell you. And now? The only two photos I have.

Do not ask me who the other people in this photo are. I do not know.

The lights! Look at the pretty lights!

My first cousin-nephew was born on Thursday morning at 5, and is possibly the most adorable thing in the world. Yes, Baby Ella, who is now not such a baby, has a baby brother! His name is Luca, and yes, he does live on the second floor. I want one. Seriously. Well, what I want is to have one for a day and then give it back. That's okay, right?

Tiny baby!

This is a 'how hard can I suck on Auntie-Calli's finger?' picture.

Canon Ball (Canonball? Whatever we're calling it these days) was a lot of fun, despite all the drama the comittee went through right in the middle of our exams. Club in Sloane Square, champagne cocktails, much pole dancing of girls who didn't know any better (not me), home at 3am. It was actually really nice to be surrounded by school people in a non-school setting, which surprised me a little. Six of us (plus dates) went for dinner beforehand, in a nearby restaurant where I ended up paying £20 for pasta. *sigh* But it was a really great atmosphere, so maybe it was worth it. My friend Charles from Les Mis - the guy who played my pimp as well as being my barricade boyfriend in Drink With Me - came as Katrina's date, and he can dispel any awkwardness by the sheer force of his un-admitted gayness. Ah, good times.

Six NLC girls, plus dates, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Only we do! Yay!

Does Jess always look this manic in photos?

The Kephalonia photos are still being uploaded, but I thought I'd share just this one with you guys.

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.

Someone who hardly knows me

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 20:02:40 GMT

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.

Up North (and not as in north of the river)

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 19:39:15 GMT

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.

Didn't some people think it was actually Odysseus' Ithaca?

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 21:16:05 GMT

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.

Mind The Gap

Sat, 30 May 2009 00:11:02 GMT

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.

I think, therefore IB

Sat, 23 May 2009 20:52:33 GMT

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.