Alright, be honest. How bad is it that last night, at the tender age of sixteen, I used the phrase "When I was your age....." for the first time in my life? I mean, I thought I had another few decades to go before those dreaded words slipped out of my mouth, quickly followed by the horrifying, wide-eyed realisation that I am ALREADY turning into my mother. But seriously, I think I had good reason; see what you think.
I spent the evening 'babysitting' a fourteen-year-old's party. Now, by 'babysitting' I mean that myself and two friends were in the same house at the same time and the only vaguely responsible people present, therefore apparently becoming 'in charge'. Now, as I'm sure any of you would do, I took the opportunity to try and show-off my maturity and coolness to a bunch of people too young to really see my true geeky self, but it backfired horrendously. As it transpired whilst talking to these young teens, I was in fact pretty much on a parr with them, in terms of ''maturity''. By that, I mean that they were: -
a) actually dating, rather than having six 'boyfriends' at one time and no-one really caring
b) all familiar with the concept of being drunk
c) doing things that I didn't even know the meaning of at their age.
And all I kept thrinking throughout the evening was 'You are fourteen!!' I mean, I know that's only a little younger than I am, but when you consider everything that happens between beginning your GCSEs and beginning your A-Levels, I thought I was light-years ahead of those 'kids'.
And it's not just them. My younger brother - a year nine - quite frequently refers to concepts and insults that I am clueless as to the meaning of. He calls me a 'noob' on a regular basis, and I am far to proud to ask whether this is actually a bad thing (though I'm sure it is). I also overheard him referring to someone being 'teabagged' the other day, and if my friends are to be believed, this is something overtly dirty, disturbing and (frankly) disgusting that my little brother, as far as I'm concerned, shouldn't even know the non-slang CONCEPT of.
It makes me wonder what kind of a society we're living in, when you start to feel outdated and old before you're even out of your teens. I mean, they've barely hit puberty for crying out loud! And it also makes me grudgingly agree with my mother - maybe teenagers really are growing up too fast these days. But when I ran this past the fourteen-year-olds, they snorted derisively and said simply, 'You think we're bad? You should talk to Matt.' Now I'm not sure who Matt is or what he's done, but frankly, I don't think I want to.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Monday, 19 October 2009
Defy Gravity? Hell, I'd defy anything to see that show again.
Last Saturday, I passed three hours of my life with the loopiest grin you have ever seen sitting comfortably on my tear-stained face. Sat in seat T31 of the stalls in the Apollo Victoria Theatre, I would have been bouncing off the walls, if the walls had not had various pointy carvings, twiddly bits and the occasional (well alright, just one) dragon built onto them. That's right, last Saturday, I went to see Wicked. And what a Wicked night it was (be prepared for many more appalling puns during the course of this blog).
Now I'll freely admit to being a great lover of Musicals, but my love of the cheesiness in them was forever scarred by the festering pile of rotted brains that is the film (and I use the word 'film' with the utmost reluctance) High School Musical. So I was a little wary on entering that, since I was no longer keen on cheesy and had never been a big fan of The Wizard of Oz, I wouldn't enjoy as much as, for example, The Phantom of the Opera. But, quite frankly, wow. It had everything; great costumes, actors and songs (oh my!) and, for me, Wicked blows The Wizard of Oz so far out of the water, it's no longer even relevant.
For anyone that doesn't know, the plot of Wicked follows the story of the young Wicked Witch of the West - Elphaba - and her friendship with G(a)linda the Good Witch, following them from their meeting at 'Shiz' University right up until after the events of The Wizard of Oz. I know - it doesn't sound good. But when you throw in a few brilliant characters, a sprinkling of truly epic one-liners, Vivienne-Westwood-on-crack style costumes, enough twists to get you blissfully and dizzily stunned and a load of incredible songs, you have the feast for the eyes and ears that is Wicked.
The actress playing Elphaba - a 27-year-old Londoner named Alexia Khadime - had quite honestly the most powerful voice I have ever heard, and she belted those songs out at a volume and intensity that almost rendered you oblivious to the pitch-perfect notes. Following her rendition of 'Defying Gravity', jealousy had painted me several shades greener than she was - and believe me, that really is saying something.
But though her voice completely eclipsed anyone else's, I have to say that, in my opinion, she was out-acted by the wonderfully irritating Glinda - played by a Lancastrian actress called Dianne Pilkington. Glinda is twee, annoying, girly and, when excited, shoots through the octaves at a pitch only actually legible to bats. She is one of those characters that, should you meet her in real life, would have your blood boiling before she even opened her mouth, but on stage she was brilliantly funny and just generally fantastic.
In terms of acting, other highlights include Oliver Tompsett as Fiyero (tall, charming, handsome, singer and dancer - fiver says he's gay), a wonderfully Northern Alex Jessop as Boq and an actor I've just forgotten the name of as Doctor Dillamond. And that's before you get to the songs. Oh, my God. The songs. There's no way I can possibly do justice to them in a blog - you'll really just have to see for yourself.
So basically, I charge you all to defy your parents, defy your finances and defy gravity (poor effort, I know - it was all I could think of) to get your backside down to London, and sink into three hours of the wondrous, wondrous Wicked.
Now I'll freely admit to being a great lover of Musicals, but my love of the cheesiness in them was forever scarred by the festering pile of rotted brains that is the film (and I use the word 'film' with the utmost reluctance) High School Musical. So I was a little wary on entering that, since I was no longer keen on cheesy and had never been a big fan of The Wizard of Oz, I wouldn't enjoy as much as, for example, The Phantom of the Opera. But, quite frankly, wow. It had everything; great costumes, actors and songs (oh my!) and, for me, Wicked blows The Wizard of Oz so far out of the water, it's no longer even relevant.
For anyone that doesn't know, the plot of Wicked follows the story of the young Wicked Witch of the West - Elphaba - and her friendship with G(a)linda the Good Witch, following them from their meeting at 'Shiz' University right up until after the events of The Wizard of Oz. I know - it doesn't sound good. But when you throw in a few brilliant characters, a sprinkling of truly epic one-liners, Vivienne-Westwood-on-crack style costumes, enough twists to get you blissfully and dizzily stunned and a load of incredible songs, you have the feast for the eyes and ears that is Wicked.
The actress playing Elphaba - a 27-year-old Londoner named Alexia Khadime - had quite honestly the most powerful voice I have ever heard, and she belted those songs out at a volume and intensity that almost rendered you oblivious to the pitch-perfect notes. Following her rendition of 'Defying Gravity', jealousy had painted me several shades greener than she was - and believe me, that really is saying something.
But though her voice completely eclipsed anyone else's, I have to say that, in my opinion, she was out-acted by the wonderfully irritating Glinda - played by a Lancastrian actress called Dianne Pilkington. Glinda is twee, annoying, girly and, when excited, shoots through the octaves at a pitch only actually legible to bats. She is one of those characters that, should you meet her in real life, would have your blood boiling before she even opened her mouth, but on stage she was brilliantly funny and just generally fantastic.
In terms of acting, other highlights include Oliver Tompsett as Fiyero (tall, charming, handsome, singer and dancer - fiver says he's gay), a wonderfully Northern Alex Jessop as Boq and an actor I've just forgotten the name of as Doctor Dillamond. And that's before you get to the songs. Oh, my God. The songs. There's no way I can possibly do justice to them in a blog - you'll really just have to see for yourself.
So basically, I charge you all to defy your parents, defy your finances and defy gravity (poor effort, I know - it was all I could think of) to get your backside down to London, and sink into three hours of the wondrous, wondrous Wicked.
Monday, 12 October 2009
For A First Job Interview.....Well, You Didn't Puke.
This morning, I had my first ever job interview. I'm not going for anything fancy - just a customer assisstant at Marks and Sparks, the eternal home of darling old grannies, mums galore and the occasional sheepish student. Or so I thought.
The interview day started well -- I got up half an hour late, swore loudly, and resolved to save time by leaving my hair natural. On walking past a mirror, it became evident that this really just wasn't an option, and I instead resolved to skip breakfast. Following the loud and determined roar of my stomach, I settled on resolution number 3: don't bother checking the bus timetables, just wing it. Luckily this wasn't an issue on the way there, since my mother took pity on me and dropped me off at some traffic lights (you know the situation, you're in the middle of conversation when the driver starts yelling 'HERE! HERE! GET OUT HERE!' at which point you promptly stagger from the car and - in my case - fall over).
On entering Marks and Spencers, I was faced with a sea of permed white heads, not one of which reached above my elbow - I mean, I know I'm tall, but I swear anyone over the age of about 65 is part-hobbit - which did nothing to ease my fish-out-of-water feeling. After spending the next fifteen minutes or so desperately searching for the customer services desk, I found another interviewee standing nervously at the side and asked her if she'd had to hand a note in to get off school. She was 22. Now blushing scarlet, I was happily collected from the desk and taken through a sliding door only openable by a special card (THAT made me feel special), up some stairs and into a small room with a desk, two chairs and a very small window. Now beginning to feel a little like one of those innocent schoolkids that get bumped off in bad horror films, I was given three sheets of laminated paper and told to learn the information on them and prepare myself for a role-play. Oh, sweet Lord.
Ten stomach-twisting minutes later, a very short (do they put something in the water??) woman entered and began demanding that I give her a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. After politely explaining to her that we did not have the Velvet Rose loveseat in the standard size, but we do have it in large, or standard in several other colours, she once again insisted that I hand over a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. I told her that unfortunately the line had been discontinued, but they were still available from many other stores and online, from which there was a 20% off discount on the delivery charge. She told me she wanted a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat from THIS STORE. By this point, I was having to forcibly restrain myself from beating the woman into a misshapen pulp, but repeated all of the options again, now angry enough to forget my nerves.
In the middle of what was now bordering on a full-blown argument, the woman I can only describe as a spoilt brat smiled brilliantly at me and asked me to wait outside, which I did so, wishing I was a more tolerant person. The period that followed could have been anything from twenty seconds to three hours for all I can tell; all I remember is chewing my nails, twitching nervously every time a door opened and accidentally knocking over a plant. But eventually, the short woman reappeared, now apparently having morphed into a perfectly nice M&S employee, and told me I'd passed. I more or less collapsed into my chair. I was then led into another small room containg a desk, a chair, a small window and - this was new - an official-looking woman with offensively age-inappropriate scarlet hair. It was at this point that we discovered that I could not work the necessary hours.
But despite this, I left the store with a smile on my face, glad to have rid myself of the 'first interview' stigma, glad to have not failed miserably, and glad to be returning to the comfortable familiarity of my school. That is, until I reached the bus stop and realised I had absolutely no idea how to get there...
The interview day started well -- I got up half an hour late, swore loudly, and resolved to save time by leaving my hair natural. On walking past a mirror, it became evident that this really just wasn't an option, and I instead resolved to skip breakfast. Following the loud and determined roar of my stomach, I settled on resolution number 3: don't bother checking the bus timetables, just wing it. Luckily this wasn't an issue on the way there, since my mother took pity on me and dropped me off at some traffic lights (you know the situation, you're in the middle of conversation when the driver starts yelling 'HERE! HERE! GET OUT HERE!' at which point you promptly stagger from the car and - in my case - fall over).
On entering Marks and Spencers, I was faced with a sea of permed white heads, not one of which reached above my elbow - I mean, I know I'm tall, but I swear anyone over the age of about 65 is part-hobbit - which did nothing to ease my fish-out-of-water feeling. After spending the next fifteen minutes or so desperately searching for the customer services desk, I found another interviewee standing nervously at the side and asked her if she'd had to hand a note in to get off school. She was 22. Now blushing scarlet, I was happily collected from the desk and taken through a sliding door only openable by a special card (THAT made me feel special), up some stairs and into a small room with a desk, two chairs and a very small window. Now beginning to feel a little like one of those innocent schoolkids that get bumped off in bad horror films, I was given three sheets of laminated paper and told to learn the information on them and prepare myself for a role-play. Oh, sweet Lord.
Ten stomach-twisting minutes later, a very short (do they put something in the water??) woman entered and began demanding that I give her a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. After politely explaining to her that we did not have the Velvet Rose loveseat in the standard size, but we do have it in large, or standard in several other colours, she once again insisted that I hand over a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. I told her that unfortunately the line had been discontinued, but they were still available from many other stores and online, from which there was a 20% off discount on the delivery charge. She told me she wanted a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat from THIS STORE. By this point, I was having to forcibly restrain myself from beating the woman into a misshapen pulp, but repeated all of the options again, now angry enough to forget my nerves.
In the middle of what was now bordering on a full-blown argument, the woman I can only describe as a spoilt brat smiled brilliantly at me and asked me to wait outside, which I did so, wishing I was a more tolerant person. The period that followed could have been anything from twenty seconds to three hours for all I can tell; all I remember is chewing my nails, twitching nervously every time a door opened and accidentally knocking over a plant. But eventually, the short woman reappeared, now apparently having morphed into a perfectly nice M&S employee, and told me I'd passed. I more or less collapsed into my chair. I was then led into another small room containg a desk, a chair, a small window and - this was new - an official-looking woman with offensively age-inappropriate scarlet hair. It was at this point that we discovered that I could not work the necessary hours.
But despite this, I left the store with a smile on my face, glad to have rid myself of the 'first interview' stigma, glad to have not failed miserably, and glad to be returning to the comfortable familiarity of my school. That is, until I reached the bus stop and realised I had absolutely no idea how to get there...
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Joining The Bloggers
It has to be said that I never thought I would be a blogger. In fact, up until a few days ago I was probably closer to a blog-buster (which, for those of you who can't figure it out, is someone who is reasonably vocal in their dislike of blogs). I just didn't see the point; so you'd occasionally post a random snippet of your life for no-one to bother reading, and hope to achieve your fifteen minutes of fame through it? No thanks.
But then a few days ago, a good friend of mine sent me a link to the blogger website with a note saying 'Check it out -- a place for you to post a rant to the whole world!' and, when I'd finished being mildly insulted about the jab at my 'one-woman heated discussions', I thought about it and realised that maybe blogs weren't such a bad thing after all. I used to think that they were for people who had nothing better to do, but I definitely don't come under this category -- due to AS Levels, job-hunting, writing a book (don't laugh), a social life and (rarely) sleeping, I definitely have many, many more productive things to be doing. But I figured, even if this is read by no-one, it's still an opportunity to vent frustration, record moments worth remembering and hopefully give my friends (presumably the only people bored enough to read this) a good laugh in the process.
Plus, it's another way of delaying History homwork.
But then a few days ago, a good friend of mine sent me a link to the blogger website with a note saying 'Check it out -- a place for you to post a rant to the whole world!' and, when I'd finished being mildly insulted about the jab at my 'one-woman heated discussions', I thought about it and realised that maybe blogs weren't such a bad thing after all. I used to think that they were for people who had nothing better to do, but I definitely don't come under this category -- due to AS Levels, job-hunting, writing a book (don't laugh), a social life and (rarely) sleeping, I definitely have many, many more productive things to be doing. But I figured, even if this is read by no-one, it's still an opportunity to vent frustration, record moments worth remembering and hopefully give my friends (presumably the only people bored enough to read this) a good laugh in the process.
Plus, it's another way of delaying History homwork.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
