Belated Merry Christmas!

I am a big enough person to admit that my patriotism (only word I could think of) towards the north of England has been known to descend into prejudice against the south. As it turns out, that patriotism/prejudice extended to cover the North and South islands of New Zealand too – my mind does some strange and inexplicable things. For no reason I can fathom, I was expecting the North Island to be better than the South Island but, having now spent a couple of days amongst the Smelly Southeners, I can confirm that this irrational, judgemental conclusion is complete and utter (if you’ll pardon my French) bollocks. So far, I actually can’t pick a favourite between the two, though the South has undeniably had better weather...

Tuesday we were in Wellington, and – true to North Island form – it was bucketing down. This being the case, we went to the Te Papa museum (indoors, you see) and learned some genuinely interesting stuff about Maoris, the first New Zealand settlers and giant squids (I’m not sure why either). The museum is the biggest in the country and was very impressive, but museums with my family tend to result in arguments – mum walks too slowly, dad walks too fast, my brother couldn’t give a toss about any of it and I want to look in THAT exhibit over THERE. In any case, I would certainly recommend it to anyone who visits Wellington (see above). We also had a wander round the shops, and it was here I learnt that Wellington is New Zealand’s capital (I had previously assumed it was Auckland) – I know it’s awful that I didn’t know that already, but the thing is, Wellington is really small. I’d bet money that my hometown is bigger, in population and physical size, and it certainly has more shops. (A bit of research into this led me to the intriguing discovery that New Zealand’s entire population is just shy of 5 million. I’m pretty sure that’s less than Birmingham.)

On Wednesday we got the ferry to South Island, which would have been beautiful (we were sat right at the front of the boat, facing floor-to-ceiling windows) had it not been for the shrill, obnoxious children who insisted on sitting directly between the window and me and just smacked my leg out of the way when I pointedly stretched out. The journey was three hours, and frankly any longer might have pushed me to murder (my mother was impressed that I made it three hours), on the other side of which we had a longish drive to Kiakoura. The views on this drive, for the first time since we got here, were NOT shrouded in mist and rain, which made a rather nice change. When we got to our hotel, we actually changed into our shorts and spent an hour on the beach. We were pretty shocked too. The view from our balcony in Kiakoura were incredible, actually; a bay of turquoise sea, leading onto a golden sandy beach and then straight on up to snow-capped mountains – it was quite a sight (see below for proof).

Thursday we arrived in Christchurch, which was trying so hard to be England it was almost funny. Cobblestones, place names, brick houses – they even had Cambridge-esque punts on the river. I’m mocking it, but it was actually quite nice to see the town (or maybe city – it’s kind of hard to tell here) up and running – they were hit by an earthquake a few months ago that shook many buildings down to the foundations. Nobody was killed, so English newsreaders didn’t think it worth their time, but there’s still a lot of scaffolding and fresh concrete about Christchurch, though they do seem to be largely back to normal. We actually re-met up with my mum’s friend (who’s staying with her parents in Christchurch for Christmas), which was really nice – after two weeks of motels, it’s surprisingly lovely to be in someone’s home again.

Today we drove over Arthur’s Pass, running away from the rain with all due speed, and it was quite a long one – arguably not the best way to spend Christmas Eve, but to be honest it doesn’t really feel like Christmas. As I type, my dad’s fixing baubles to the hotel lights, serenaded by Annie Lennox’s carols, whilst my mum sits on the balcony in her shorts, listening to the ocean with a beer in hand. See what I mean?

Just as a quick add on to this (which I wrote a couple of days ago), Christmas day and Boxing day were also spent driving, which I rather enjoyed actually, and there were lots of stops to see various stunning views along the way. Could be worse, really.... :P

Going Native

Just to save you all the filthy look my ignorance earned me, the natives of New Zealand are not an offshoot of the Aborigines. The Maori are, in fact, much more closely related to the natives of Hawaii, due to some massive navigation balls-up that I can’t be bothered to explain. Another difference is that the Kiwis seem to have been considerably nicer to the Maori than the Australians were/are to the Aborigines. For one, they’ve persisted with the Maori place names (to my mother’s consternation; you try asking for directions to Tewhakarewarewa and see how you like it), and – more importantly – they’ve let them keep their own land (or, in some cases, given it back after nicking it several decades ago) and villages.

We visited one example of which – the name of which is so long and convoluted it’s generally shortened to Whaka – the other day, and this one was particularly significant because it was a thermal village. This basically means that they get free, unlimited hot water for cooking, cleaning and bathing, but the additional disadvantage of a permanent odour of rotten eggs. The sulphur beneath the ground here causes the water to heat up (or possibly vice versa...), resulting in steam pools, bubbling mud, bright green sulphur lakes, active geysers and the occasional eruption of boiling water.

But to be honest, I was far less interested in the science of the thermal village, and far more intrigued by the Maori people themselves. Because this village is still lived in, by 23 different families, and still clings to all the traditions of their ancestors. Our tour guide – who had lived in the village since birth – was an absolute mine of information, and delved into fascinating detail regarding their traditions (like funeral procedures, penny diving and native dances), their cooking methods (45 seconds in a steam pool for a hard-boiled egg...lucky buggers) and their skills (8 weeks to make a skirt that’s a masterclass in proficiency but utterly useless as an item of clothing). To be honest, if I went through all of the fascinating information and demonstrations the guide went through, you’d be reading a distinctly patchy and insensible 5000 words worth of boring blog, and we can’t have that, can we? Though what does deserve a mention is the dance demonstration we went to, where a group of the Maoris gave us an example of their traditional celebratory, love and war dances, which were brilliantly performed. The war dance involved a lot of knee-slapping, arm-waving, eye-bulging and tongue-wagging, which sounds hysterical but let me tell you – were I an enemy tribe, one look at that would have had me legging it in the opposite direction (watch the beginning of a New Zealand rugby match to understand why).

Oh dear, that was a very long paragraph...

Anyway, that was probably my favourite activity of the past three days, even though that afternoon we went to a luge track. For those who don’t know, a luge is like go-karting on a slope (or sledging without the snow) – in other words, very fast, slightly scary and massively exhilarating . My mum wimped out after one slope, but my dad, brother and I threw ourselves down a couple more times. Dad and I stuck to the intermediate slope but my brother (being my brother) had to try the advanced course on his third go – I thought this was a bad idea at the time, but when I got to the bottom of the slope and saw my brother, knee-deep in the remnants of a sand pit and wearing a distinctly sheepish expression, you had to see the funny side.

That was all on Saturday, but Sunday (yesterday) and Monday (today) have both been less interesting. Sunday involved a walk round the sulphur lakes (during which it threw it down) and a lot of driving, and today has consisted almost entirely of driving. I say less interesting, but give me a driven car, a fully-charged iPod and some pretty views, and I’m happy as Larry for as long as the iPod battery lasts – so I’ve rather enjoyed it anyway.

But I used this abundance of time to come up with two very important lists, which I was going to save until later in the holiday but have spontaneously decided to write down now instead: -

Things New Zealand Does Better Than England: -
1. Countryside (kind of goes without saying)
2. L&P ( a drink that is high on flavourings, E-numbers and preservatives, and thus delicious)
3. Fanta (again, extra colouring makes it the proper orange stuff – no healthy yellow crap)
4. Tim Tams (like Penguins, but so much better)
5. Thick pillows (this might be specific to hotels, but still)
6. People (it’s lacking in terms of my friends, but the general population are much friendlier)

Things England Does Better Than New Zealand: -
1. My friends (again, goes without saying)
2. Tea (but my mum brought her own stash of Yorkshire tea bags, so we’re good :P)
3. Chocolate (this goes for more or less every country, I’ve found...)
4. Mugs with handles on (this was intensely confusing to begin with)

You could argue that the proportions (ratio? Maths words were never my strong suit...) of my lists suggests I’m going native, but since I have to turn the computer off now to eat my takeaway fish and chips, I’d say I’ve still got a fair amount of British-ness left in me...

(Couldn't post any photos on this due to my dad hovering behind me, breathing fire about it being my brother's turn on the laptop.)

A Very Promising Start...

If anyone ever finds themselves in the Bay of Islands, I would thoroughly recommend they stay at Cook’s Lookout (the above photo is evidence as to why). Though I was slightly disappointed in discovering that the fantastically named owners, Norm and Sheila, were from Liverpool. Still, Cook’s Lookout was a brilliant two-night stopover in the breathtakingly beautiful Paihia (pronounced Pie-hee-uh, and not, as my mother insisted, Pie-high).

The Bay of Islands is my new answer to anyone who asks me where I would emigrate to, and for many good reasons. The sheer gorgeousness (is that a word?) was one, the friendly people were another (though it must be noted that, of these lovely people, one was from Derby, two from Liverpool and one from Ireland), and the general atmosphere was a finishing flourish.

But the boat trip we took was the cherry on top of a fantastic location. What with the warm (if cloudy) weather, top-deck seats and the tall, rather gorgeous Kiwi who charmingly gave me a hand onto the boat (I suffered a sudden and brief loss of balance on approach...it was very odd...), I was already pretty happy. But the three hour trip had only just begun. Even though my dolphin phase was several years ago, I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to see bottlenose dolphins in the wild, and that was before they started doing somersaults (and, less fortunately, mating) a foot away from our boat. I’m a sucker for boat trips anyway, but this one surpassed all others; performing wild dolphins, gorgeous crew, witty tour guides, fascinating stories and beautiful islands. My grin was virtually splitting my face.

I could have happily stayed on that boat all day, despite the cloudy weather. Though, apparently, the New Zealand sun pwns (I can’t believe I used that term either...jet lag is setting in...) all obstacles, clouds included, and I have once again been bitten in the arse by the Gods of sunburn. I’m particularly sore (pun...get it?) about this occasion, partly because there was no effing sun visible, but mainly because I was wearing sunglasses all day, and thus am sporting the oh-so-sexy anti-panda eyes. That, plus a recent lack of access to competent straighteners has resulted in the vision of perfection you see below. (I don’t know why I put that photo on the internet either.)

Anyway, this morning I was dragged (kicking and screaming) from the Bay of Islands and back to Auckland. Here we met up with an old friend of my mum’s, who was – thankfully – exactly how I like my family friends to be; talkative, blunt and slightly batty. The fact that she promised I could stay with her in my gap year and has a 6’4’’ son didn’t exactly embitter me towards her, either.

I was all geared up to say that Auckland had been a bit of a disappointment, but this morning I saw it from a whole new angle. Literally. My brother and I both jumped off the Sky Tower (the tallest building in New Zealand), which - to give you the statistics that meant nothing to me - is 192 metres, 630 feet, 11 seconds of freefall high. That's big. And I have to say, it was not as terrifying as I expected it to be -- my knees held out throughout being suited up, all the way up the lift, during the thousands of checks and even whilst walking onto the platform. The only moment where I really felt The Fear was when my toes were hanging off the edge, I was staring down at nearly 200 metres of air and the guy said "3...2...1 GO!" By the time he got to '2', I literally had every instinct in my body screaming abuse at me: "WE HAVE KEPT YOU ALIVE FOR SEVENTEEN AND A HALF YEARS, ONLY FOR YOU TO THROW YOURSELF OFF A BLOODY BUILDING ON PURPOSE?!?!!?!??" (Which, coincidentally, was more or less my mother's attitude as well.) But the free fall was absolutely incredible, and I'd recommend it to anyone who isn't made physically ill by heights...

That should have been the highlight of the day, but then we drove down to an area called Matamata, which was the location used for Hobbiton in the Lord of the Rings. Now, for those of you who don't know, I am a hardcore film geek, and Lord of the Rings is a particular point of nerdiness in me - I was in heaven. Especially since after the initial trilogy was filmed, the 'hobbit holes' at Matamata had been demolished, and all that was left were plywood fronts and big empty circles where doors used to be. BUT....they are of course re-using the set for the filming of The Hobbit, which begins production some time next year. Cue; embarrassing levels of excitement. This basically means that they have rebuilt the Hobbiton set from scratch, and not only does it look EXACTLY the same as it did in the original films, but there are EXTRA BITS!!! And these are so secretive, that I had to sign a contract saying I wouldn't post my Hobbiton photos on the internet :P So obviously I can't really expand, other than to say that it was one of the nerdiest, and happiest, afternoons of my existence.

So, all in all, it's hard to see how the rest of the holiday is really going to compare......

Alcatraz and America's Answer To Blackpool...

I realised this morning that I’d never actually seen a prison before, meaning that what I was expecting from Alcatraz was basically directly plagiarised from The Shawshank Redemption. And do you know what – because I’m not sure whether or not this is surprising – that was pretty much bang on. I was having Shawshank flashbacks throughout the (remarkably good) audio tour. One thing that did surprise me was the size of Alcatraz – it’s really quite tiny, particularly considering I was picturing something more like the Isle of Wight...

But it isn’t the physical aspects of Alcatraz that make it fascinating – it’s the stories. In the 48 years it was used as a prison, there were 36 escape attempts, and of them, only 5 prisoners remain unaccounted for (which could just as easily mean fish food as free). And what cracking stories they make. There was one poor sod who escaped his cell, successfully swam the 1 ¼ miles to San Francisco – by which time he was so cold he couldn’t actually climb out of the water – only to be dobbed in by a bunch of kids who saw him struggling in the water, tried to help and called the police. Oops.

But the only successful escape attempt took place in June 1962, and was immortalised by Clint Eastwood in the subtly named ‘Escape From Alcatraz’. Basically, three blokes made fake heads to cover their absence in bed and dug out their air-vents with spoons. Yes, that’s right, spoons. Now that is dedication. They managed to slip past the guards and build a makeshift raft, and were never seen again. The chances are they simply drowned trying to swim to San Francisco, but I’d like to think they made it to freedom – they certainly deserved a break after that....spoons, for crying out loud...

It has to be said that I was looking forward to Alcatraz more than anything else in San Francisco, and it didn’t disappoint, unlike Fisherman’s Wharf, which was so touristy and tacky my mum christened it ‘The American Blackpool’ which – coming from a woman who grew up in Blackpool, is fairly scathing. Pier 39, by contrast, was exactly what Fisherman’s Wharf should have been; authentic, quirky and enjoyable. The shops were brilliant – there was a memorabilia shop that could have kept me entertained for hours (though everything in it was laughably out of my price range – the most ludicrous being a guitar signed by Elvis, which was going for the bargain price of $25,000) and a specialised shop that sold exclusively socks. I love America.
We also biked the Golden Gate Bridge in our time here, which – despite being a cold and distinctly windy experience – is a very cool thing to have done. Overall I thoroughly enjoyed my time in San Francisco, however brief, and would happily come back – though I would stand by my initial impression that it just doesn’t have the vibe of New York, or the friendliness of Canada. Though the visit reignited my general irritation with Americans’ complete inability to identify a North British accent – in the two days I’ve been here, different people have asked me if I’m Australian, Scottish, Irish and – my personal favourite – Dutch. I ask you.

But right now, I am sat in the international terminal of LAX airport, following a brief internal flight and waiting to begin the dreaded 14-hour ordeal to New Zealand. Point of interest though – due to the time difference, Monday 13th December 2010 will never exist for me – we fly out of LA on Sunday night and arrive in Auckland on Tuesday morning. So how ‘bout that?

Airplane! And First Impressions of San Francisco

I think it says something about my internal age that, when faced with an 11 hour flight and a list of about 20 films, the 3 I chose to watch were Shrek Forever After, The Incredibles and Toy Story 3.

I have to say, Heathrow to San Francisco hasn't been one of my worst flights so far (with 4 hours left to go...though the sudden realisation that I'm barely halfway through was a bit of a nasty one...). Which is surprising really, since I've spent the past 24 hours brewing an absolute stinker of a cold, and have spent the majority of this flight sniffling and trying to locate the least-gross place to secrete dirty tissues. But we are over halfway there now, and boredom hasn't completely killed off my braincells. Yet. But between kid's films, my book - which I'm intentionally taking desperately slowly - and my iPod, this really hasn't been so bad. I've only accidentally nearly tripped three people (long legs and no leg room - bad combination), successfully avoided the plane food and only once been spotted surreptitiously fishing my iPod out of my bra (no pockets...).

I mean don't get me wrong, I'm still itching for the plane to land, but the dulcet tones of Alex Day/Charlie McDonnell, witty writings of Jonathan Stroud and re-runs of Doctor Who will see me through...

*LATER*
So after an average to bad flight (turns out the pressure of having a cold plus the pressure of descending in a plane results in your head feeling like it's literally going to explode), the taxi from airport to hotel felt like quite the adventure. It has to be said that whilst San Francisco doesn't quite have the buzz or notoriety of New York, it certainly is not lacking in variety. I was making mental notes of 'weird things on the streets of San Francisco' throughout the drive, and after the lone woman sitting casually outside a cafe dressed as a pirate, the man standing in the middle of a five-lane motorway handing out Chinese menus and the lunatic drivers, I thought I'd seen it all. Then came the billboard of the Last Supper, with Michael Jackson's face superimposed over Jesus'. Only in America.

Still, it was nice to get to the hotel (despite the fact the corridors look eerily similar to those in The Shining), and I'm looking forward to properly exploring the eccentric San Francisco.

Packing. AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

You always know it's coming. As much as you look forward to a holiday, it's always lurking at the back of your mind...and as the Big Date approaches, it begins looming over your shoulder, waiting to pounce....and this year, a full fortnight before we fly, it began.....

"Bex, have you packed *insert completely pointless object here*?"

This phrase literally haunts my nightmares.

Just to be clear, my mum and I get on really well -- generally speaking, I'm of the belief that she's the best mum in the world. But there are exceptions to every rule. And, in my house, packing is one of them - one of the only things that will inevitably result in a blazing row between myself and my mum. And I don't think I'm generally being unreasonable about this; but see for yourself. This is a genuine conversation/argument my mother and I had earlier: -

My mum: Bex, have you packed your black shoes?
Me: No, I'm wearing those on the plane. I've packed my trainers.
My mum: Well, you can't do that.
Me:...because...?
My mum: Well they're far too big. They won't fit in the case.
Me *through gritted teeth*: They're already in the case.
My mum: *pause* Well they won't fit after you've packed you're 74 zillion t-shirts and thousands of unnecessary pairs of pants. And have you considered packing a gas mask? You know, just in case the world explodes whilst we're away...

Okay, so maybe I edited the ending slightly, but you get the gist. And it wasn't helped that when I got home from school today I was in a foul mood, owing to the long list of things that needed doing tonight. However, I was barely five minutes into task #1: finish English Language coursework, when the past week's worth of post arrived (this being due to the snow and a bloody lazy postman). At first this worsened my mood (there were two book rejections with my name on them smirking up at me from a pile of birthday cards for my brother), though when I discovered that the two CDs I'd ordered from DFTBA had arrived, my whole day perked up considerably. That was a pointless little anecdote, but it's the soundtrack to which I'm writing this, so I thought I'd add it. :)

Anyway. Packing. It is the devil incarnate. Though actually, I think I'm more or less done now - I fended off the miniature sewing kit and two-metre length of string (I'm not kidding), and have a bag that is pleasantly three-quarters-filled with books, toiletries and clothes. And it has all been packed under strict instruction, within plenty of time, and with only about six arguments. Possibly a new record.

And though I am UNBELIEVABLY excited about tomorrow, it has also just occurred to me that next summer I'm going to have to pack up my entire bedroom to go to university. FML.

So This Is A Thing That Is Happening.....

I'm going to New Zealand on Friday.

*pause for freak-out*

And actually, that's not technically accurate - on Friday I'm getting a plane from London to San Francisco, spending a couple of days there and, on Sunday evening, flying out to New Zealand. When I first tell people this, their standard reactions tend to be: -
1. Are you emigrating?!?!?!
2. Oh.....like a gap year thing?
3. You lucky *insert swearword here*
So, to avoid confusion, no I'm not emigrating, no I'm not going on a gap year (yet) and yes, I am a lucky *&~#. No, it's actually just a family holiday for me, my little brother and parents. I say 'just' a family holiday - it's the longest and most expensive one we've ever been on by a LONG way, but since it might be our last time going away all together (because I'm off to uni next year), we thought we'd pull out all the stops.

And I'm not just posting this on my blog to gloat. Ha. I'm actually posting this as a sort of introduction to what I'm hoping will be a series of travel-blogs, which my friends can keep up to date with (read: forget the existence of) and which I can read back in a few months time and remember how good life can be.

So the plan for New Zealand is to drive from the top of North Island to about halfway down South Island (I'll give you place names when I'm actually there -- at this point I actually only know random names like 'Christchurch', 'Rotorua' and then a series of places that sound like someone listing Chinese food through a sneeze). We're going to be there for just under three weeks, on top of a couple of days in San Francisco on the way out and a couple of days in Los Angeles on the way back. I am, understandably, obnoxiously excited about this - more excited than I think I've ever been for a holiday, and there are several personal goals I want to accomplish whilst I'm out there.

One of these is to keep a regular blog. Obviously I don't know how much internet access I'm going to have, or time to write, but I'll do my best and I HOPE I'm going to be able to update twice a week, at least... The theory behind this is that if I'm doing some kind of regular writing again, hopefully it will wear my writer's block down a little, to be able to make a fresh start in the new year...

Another of these aims is, frankly, to cheer up. One way or another, I've been feeling quite down lately, what with writer's block, an overactive imagination and a general feeling of being ignored by anyone and everyone in any professional capacity. And when other people are down it winds me up, and it has now actually reached a stage where I'm winding myself up, so my attitude is -- if I can't buck up in New Zealand, what the hell hope is there??

My third aim - which kind of relates to aim two - is something I stole from nerimon's video blogs. I wear a plaited bracelet on my right wrist (given to me by the lovely LadyRosalind), and my challenge is - for twenty one days (or, whilst I'm in New Zealand) to not complain about anything. Everytime I complain I have to swap my bracelet to the other wrist and start the countdown from scratch. I'm sure my friends wish they were around to see this, and I think we all know I'll give up on day two, but there's no harm in trying...

But yeah, I think that's basically it....so I guess I'll see you in New Zealand!

Snow!!

So there are eighteen inches of snow outside my house.

GGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As cool as this is, however, and as much as I have been longing for such a thing to happen for the past, oh...............seventeen years of my life, I have actually now discovered the flaws of so much snow: -
1. All of my friends are snowed in.
2. It's too deep to actually walk anywhere.
3. Cars/buses/trains/every other kind of transport is not an option.
4. The Madness gig I was supposed to be going to tonight looks like it's off the cards :(

But nonetheless, GGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

Deep Stuff

I don't usually post personal, deep stuff on this blog, but tonight I think I will, for three reasons. One, I have a cold and am feeling even more self-pitying than usual. Two, I'm still going through my video-blogging obsessive phase (you'll see why this is relevant). Three, it never occurred to me to post deep stuff on here until my friends Roz and Lewis started doing it. For the record, if you care, this blog is going to make a lot more sense if you read an earlier blog I posted called 'My Friend Rosalind'. In other words, it's very personal and therefore probably not very interesting to anybody that doesn't know me.....

Anyway, the thing I intended to focus my newfound deepness (or depth, as people who speak the English Language usually refer to it......) on is that feeling I'm sure we've all felt of being....secondary. Like there's always someone who is just that little bit better than you in that little way that doesn't actually matter to anyone but yourself. I suppose it's kind of an insecurity, except I've never considered myself an insecure person - I'm too blunt for that; it would be amazingly hypocritical of me to get immediately impatient with someone for being insecure when it was something I suffered from myself (though actually......that's made me think twice.......).

Ach, I'm waffling again - I never seem to be able to get to the point quickly on these bloody blogs....

Right. Quick and straightforward. The two people I've been watching the most on YouTube are Charlie McDonnell (charlieissocoollike) and Alex Day (nerimon), who are both very popular (but Charlie moreso) vloggers, best friends and flatmates. Both also have written blogs, and though I've read some of Charlie's, I only stumbled on to Alex's about half an hour ago - and I was quite surprised by what I found there. Because much as I love Charlie, I have to say that I felt more of a.....I suppose 'kinship' is an appropriate word here, but 'connection' and 'relatibility' would do nicely (if relatability is, in fact, a word) - to Alex. He's generally more sarcastic, angrier and with more of a biting sense of humour - in other words, more like me. And then it hit me. I am the Alex to Roz's Charlie.

The parallels are eerie. Charlie and Roz are mild-mannered, quirky, easygoing, a bit shy and ultimately very loveable. Alex and myself are sarcastic, cynical, somewhat angry, honest to the point of outright brusqueness and very slightly bitter over our failings in comparison to our best friends (though I should point out here that Alex is also hysterically funny). Obviously these are very generalised statements - I clearly don't know Charlie or Alex personally and am sure they are much deeper than I just made them sound, but the point still stands. But if you looked at those two lists, you would probably consider that Roz (and Charlie) is (are) probably a more likeable person (people) than myself (and Alex). And you're probably right. And of course there are some ways in which I'd excel further than Roz - I'm more independent, gobby and much more willing to use punctuation (Roz has an inexplicable and - to grammar nerds like myself - intensely frustrating habit of eschewing all commas).

And there was really no point to this realisation, because it doesn't change anything. Despite my kinship with Alex Day, I'd still marry Charlie (though admittedly, a large part of that is because Alex is considerably shorter and skinnier than me) - but that's exactly the worrying part. So I'm very sorry if you prefer the casual sarcasm I usually employ in my blog, but everything I've just offloaded can be excused by this simple fact - I am poorly, and on a LOT of cold-relief capsules right now...

Creativity vs. Ego

I am, by nature, a creative person. This has manifested itself in many different forms over the years, the main one being in writing (duh). I can't remember whether or not I've mentioned this before, but I have actually written several books over the past few years -- when I was 14/15 I wrote a fantasy trilogy. Well, okay, I quit three-quarters of the way through the third book (heartbreaking, isn't it?), but it still counts because I wrote - overall - over 270,000 words worth of fantasy fluff which - to put in perspective - is the size of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and then some. So that was quite a project, and it took me about two years to write and six months to send it off to a bunch of agencies, collecting some rejections and some positive feedback, but not what I was subconsciously expecting - a however-many-novels-you-choose-to-scribble book deal.

My ego bruised, I moved on to another writing project - this one a little more original and mature and a little less plagiaristic (is that a word, do we think?). This, being a stand-alone novel and not a trilogy, took me a little under a year and was roughly 130,000 words long at it's peak (about 30,000 words bit the editing dust). I've spent the past few months sending that off, and have yet to receive anything other than the rejections I'm growing remarkably accustomed to.

However, this constant battering of my confidence did eventually have an effect. I had what I think I'm big enough to admit was a temper-tantrum with writing, and decided that I'd had enough. I wasn't going to write any more books. Articles yes, blogs yes (though I realise that the frequency of evidence kind of stamps on my point there), essays yes (unfortunately), but no more novels. If the world wasn't going to fall at my feet and worship my unparalleled writing superiority then it could bloody well get lost.

I reached this distinctly stroppy conclusion a month or so ago, but quickly ran into an obstacle in my newfound resolution. Writing a book is incredibly time-consuming, which meant that after more than three years of spending my free evenings writing, I suddenly had nothing to do. If I remember correctly, I lasted through about three evenings of mind-numbing television and staring at computer screens before I realised that this kind of lifestyle would send me round the twist. Several days after this, the restlessness in my brain's creativity-centre reached fever-pitch and - since this collided nicely with my discovery of the YouTube community and video-blogging - I had another epiphany. Writing or not writing, if I didn't find some king of creative outlet I was going to go mad. So I signed up to YouTube and started making/editing/uploading video blogs. My obsession lasted about a week, and then I realised that YouTube still wasn't quite satisfying my creative needs, so I spontaneously decided that I was going to teach myself how to play the guitar.

However, a few days later, I felt a story idea growing in my mind - one I had been considering before my tantrum, and one which suddenly seemed to slide into a definable, exciting shape. Before I realised what I was doing, I had scribbled out a brief synopsis for another trilogy. That was okay though, I told myself - I was allowed one slip after my initial determination to abandon writing faded. But then, one late and boring evening, I found myself opening a word document and scribbling out a beginning to the story I had sketched out the previous day. There was no point denying it any more.

And eventually I realised; I can't run away from writing any more than I can run away from being cynical, or sarcastic, or honest, or moody. It's just a part of who I am, and however many bashes my ego endures, or rejections I receive, or hissy-fits I throw, it's never going to change the fact that I am in love with / obsessed with / addicted to writing.

So whilst my tantrum had it's benefits - I now have good fun making YouTube videos and the will to finally learn to play the guitar - it was, ultimately, pointless. I am returning to my homeland of Writing, and know it will welcome my back with open arms.

My Friend Rosalind

Now, I know that normally my blogs are either ranting about something (the clue is in the name), or making a completely pointless list, but today I would like to tell you (all three of you) about my friend Rosalind. I apologise if you like the sarcastic, cynical humour I usually employ in my writing, but this is gonna be a tad more serious I'm afraid...

Now Roz has been my best friend for several years now, and we spend more time together than is probably healthy for many friendships. We've only ever had one proper argument (and I think it basically just involved throwing a bottle of water at each other harder than was strictly necessary) and I tell her more or less everything, whilst she tells me things she doesn't tell others (just to be clear, I don't mean life-changing secrets, I just mean those embarrassing, obsessive little things you do that you resolve not to tell anyone for fear of them realising just how geeky you are). The reason we're friends is a continual mystery to me, since we are NOTHING like each other -- I'm loud, gobby, moody, cynical, blunt, open and generally quite an outgoing, extroverted nerd. Roz is quiet, unbelievably mild-mannered, secretive, indecisive, generous, tactful and blessed with a semi-permanently sunny disposition. The two traits we do share are laziness and stubborness, which is not a good thing -- ever had a half-hour argument with someone over who has to get out of bed and turn the light off? Ever lost one? Quite frustrating.

Anyway, that introductory paragraph was waaaayy too long, so I'll get to the point. Ish.

My friendship with Roz was called into service last week, when Roz's boyfriend of three months broke up with her. Now this is a much bigger deal than it sounds, and much bigger than I had expected it to be -- Roz had never shown much interest in guys before, and this was her first boyfriend; I would have expected her to go into the relationship cautiously, carefully and with a certain amount of arms-lengthness (that's definitely not a word) involved. But she didn't -- she fell for this guy hook, line and sinker, only to have him break up with her after three months. The consequences were, frankly, horrible. As far as I'm concerned, nobody is allowed to make Roz cry, and certainly not to that extent -- it tore at my heart to see hers so battered. Anyway, it's been over a week since it happened, and though I'm still sure it's bothering her more than she's letting on, she has definitely cheered up.

The thing is, I felt absolutely bloody awful, because I am completely unnecessarily mean to Roz sometimes. Not in a bullying way, just in that snide, slightly bitchy way that girls have and I desperately wish I didn't. This means that just occassionally I'll snap at her, because she's being so optimistic when I'm feeling so determined to be grumpy, or I'll sigh irritably at her because she hasn't made a decision quite fast enough for me, or I'll subtly put her down because she looks so bloody fantastic in that skirt that I feel like the dumpy, bespectacled friend in comparison (not that I am bespectacled these days...I was just going for the imagery). And I know that these moments of bitchiness are born of insecurities, but there's absolutely no need to take it out on Roz, and in moments of confession like this, I know that Blunt Becky's advice to Whiney Becky would be to get a grip and stop being such a girl.

But the thing is, however much I moan and gripe and whine about and to Roz, she's one of the absolute best people in the world, and a continuing inspiration to me. I realise this has been a really gushy, heavy-going, girly and overly-long post, but just occasionally I like to take a break from the cynicism (being that sceptical and sarcastic is tiring you know) and appreciate the things and the people I DO have, rather than whining about what I don't.

So to summarise; I adore my friend Rosalind, and not just because she wouldn't tell anybody that I bought charlieissocoollike's band's single.

vloggingissocoollike

Just to clarify, I am not the sort of person that spends hours watching Youtube videos of random people, sat at home with video cameras and no social lives. Being the infinitely cooler person that I am, if I use Youtube it's for cyber-stalking a celebrity, listening to music or watching sad-arsed romantic movie montages (which makes me sound much better). However, over the past few days, a couple of friends who DO watch these vloggers I so hypocritically mock, have sat me down and showed me a vlog or two ('vlog', for people as technologically challenged as me, apparently means 'video blog').

My favourite, by far and away, was the charlieissocoollike blog, which I can't really explain in any way that will make it sound as good as it is. Just Youtube Charlie for yourself and you'll understand. He's probably my favourite because he seems disturbingly on my wavelength in terms of opinions, Doctor Who and having a wicked accent (in that he has one and I appreciate it, not that we both have one......not that my accent is horrible, I just want to be clear that there was no arrogance involved in that statement.....). Anyway, I was just feeling inspired to post on the worldwide web, despite the fact nobody reads this, due to charlieissocoollike. I have also decided to update my youtube account, dream about being a competent vlogger and intend to vlog my gap year. Just for kicks.

100 Films To See Before You Die

Because I have too much free time and absolutely no motivation to do my summer homework, I instead spent too much of last Tuesday compiling a list of 100 films everyone should see before they die. Now, I'll admit I haven't actually seen all - or even most - of these films, but, being only seventeen, think that is probably a good thing. The ones I haven't seen were recommended to me by either my film-obsessed father, or extensive research on the internet, and the ones I HAVE seen are decorated with a little *asterisk. Enjoy :)

1. *Star Wars (the old ones)
2. *Lord of the Rings (all three)
3. *Harry Potter (at least one)
4. *Back to the Future (first essential, second optional, third preferable)
5. *Rocky (preferably first or third)
6. *Pretty Woman
7. *Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl
8. *Shrek (first and second)
9. *Disney (as many as you can)
10. *Toy Story (all three)
11. *Bridget Jones’s Diary
12. Gone with the Wind
13. *A 'classic' Tom Hanks (Philadelphia/Castaway/Forrest Gump etc.)
14. *The Green Mile
15. *The Shawshank Redemption
16. Schindler’s List
17. *A 'classic' Baz Luhrman (Moulin Rouge/Romeo + Juliet/Australia)
18. *Ghost
19. *Four Weddings and a Funeral
20. *Monty Python (at least one)
21. *Austin Powers (at least one)
22. *The Full Monty
23. *Bugsy Malone
24. *Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
25. *E.T.
26. *Pride and Prejudice (preferably original 1995 version)
27. *Sound of Music
28. *The Matrix (first essential)
29. *The Dark Knight
30. *Jaws
31. *Titanic
32. *Avatar
33. A western (The Searchers/The Magnificent Seven)
34. *Alien (first preferable, second essential, third and fourth NOT recommended)
35. *Die Hard (one or three)
36. *The Sixth Sense
37. Braveheart
38. *Jurassic Park (first essential)
39. The Great Escape
40. *A Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction/Kill Bill/Reservoir Dogs)
41. *Gladiator
42. *The Abyss
43. The Shining
44. *Singin’ in the Rain
45. *Terminator (first preferable, second essential, others not worth mentioning)
46. *The Adventures of Robin Hood (the Errol Flynn one)
47. *The Wizard of Oz
48. The Godfather (apparently just the first two)
49. The Silence of the Lambs
50. *Indiana Jones (NOT the fourth)
51. *Saving Private Ryan
52. Blazing Saddles
53. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
54. The Graduate
55. *Groundhog Day
56. It’s a Wonderful Life
57. Nosferatu/Dracula (Christopher Lee version)
58. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
59. Psycho
60. *Some Like it Hot
61. This is Spinal Tap
62. To Kill A Mockingbird
63. *The Italian Job (original)
64. *When Harry Met Sally
65. Thelma and Louise
66. Trainspotting
67. Withnail and I
68. *Ghostbusters
69. Pan’s Labyrinth
70. Donnie Darko
71. Casablanca
72. *The Princess Bride
73. Kramer vs. Kramer
74. 2001: A Space Odyssey
75. *Billy Elliot
76. A Clockwork Orange
77. A James Bond for each actor (Sean, Roger, Timothy, George, Pierce, Daniel)
78. The Railway Children
79. Kes
80. Lawrence of Arabia
81. The Ladykillers (original)
82. *A Tim Burton film (recommended Batman)
83. Breakfast at Tiffany’s
84. *Dirty Dancing
85. The Elephant Man
86. *Grease
87. Fatal Attraction
88. *Airplane!
89. American Beauty
90. Ben-Hur
91. Blade Runner
92. The English Patient
93. *A Fish Called Wanda
94. Last Tango in Paris
95. Lost in Translation
96. Scarface
97. The Talented Mr. Ripley
98. Taxi Driver
99. Top Gun
100. The Usual Suspects

Glastonbury? V? Latitude? Leeds? No, in fact, Greenbelt.

I know, I know; it's been more than two months since my last post, and I wish I had an excuse but, quite frankly, I don't and I'm too tired to make one up. It has been a very busy summer and I haven't been home a lot. That'll have to do.

In any case, I have decided to break my blog fast for 4 reasons: -
1. I actually did something worth writing about this weekend
2. This is a more appealing alternative to unpacking
3. I remembered I HAD a blog
4. I have run out of other things to do

So, anyway. I spent the past four days at a music festival. No, not Reading or Leeds -- Greenbelt. If you haven't heard of it, it's actually a Christian festival that takes place every year at Cheltenham racecourse, and I have a couple of friends who've been going more or less every year, so this year they decided to make it a Group Thing. This basically meant wringing ticket/train money out of a dozen teenagers (no mean feat) and trying to organise them into keeping themselves alive for a long weekend. If you think that sounds easy then you obviously don't know many seventeen year olds.

But my feelings about Greenbelt were mixed. On the upside; great music, four days with my friends, independence etc. etc. And the downside; God squad, camping. And I must say that I was pretty much righ on all accounts.

The downsides were irritating. Not being a Christian myself, I have to admit that I find the singing, worshipping and arm-waving thing a bit intimidating -- whilst pushing through the Mass on the mainstage on the way to the loo I felt like I had the word 'atheist' stamped on my forehead and felt duly ostricised. But that was the only slightly cult-ish moment; other than one of two eye-rolling 'I thank God for this opportunity' moments, the Christian aspect didn't bother me. (I'd just like to clarify that I don't have a problem with people believing whatever they want to believe, I just dislike it being shoved in my cynical face.) Then there was the camping. Oh, the camping. I'll admit it, I am a lazy, indoor-sy person who likes her luxuries (if central heating counts as a luxury), and I can cope with roughing it, I'm just very vocal in my dislike of it. Cooking outside on a stove - fine, actually a very good laugh. Sitting on a fold-up chair for half an hour waiting for the kettle to boil - irritating but bearable. Sleeping on a wafer-thin mattress substitute - actually not that bad. Queueing for the toilet - frustrating but not intolerable. Not showering - but gross but not as bad as predicted. But being blue-lipped, body-trembling cold at three o'clock in the morning, listening to the Scottish bloke next door accusing English girls of being easy and trying to block out the sadists that brought a screaming baby camping? Not fun. At all.

But for all my complaining, it was so worth it. The shopping was intriguing, funny and eccentric, the people crazy and hilarious, and the music generally absolutely brilliant. Having my friends around all the time not only made the bad times bearable but hysterically funny, and however much I moaned and groaned and irritated the optimists, I had an amazing time and would do it again tomorrow. With a caravan.

Am-Dram (or 'That Hideous Moment When A Friend Says "I'm in a play!")

Okay, so I am not the biggest fan of amateur dramatics. I love going to the theatre, but when I go, I like to watch professional actors confidently taking possession of the stage, beautifully extravagant costumes, singers who can actually sing and comedy that is actually funny. However, three of my best friends are in two different youth drama groups, and this means that I am regularly guilt-tripped into attending what I generally predict to be a cringe-worthy couple of nights tortur-- oops, sorry I meant entertainment. As luck *cough* would have it, these two delightful prospects happened to occur over the same weekend (the weekend before my birthday, can I just add). However, to everyone's - not least my own - surprise, at this point I have to respectfully swallow my catty remarks and sarcastic jibes. Because I bloody enjoyed both of them.

The first, which cost a rip-off £12, turned out not to be a rip-off at all. The more 'professional' of the two, a stage version of Disney's "Beauty and the Beast", was in turns hysterical, endearing, poignant and admirable. An old acquaintance of mine played Gaston, and the mockery opportunities I acquired watching him flounce about the stage in tights and a ridiculous wig, posing, pouting, flexing and swaggering were worth the admission all on their own. That, I'll admit, contributed vastly to my entertainment, but Belle had a truly beautiful singing voice (and her grandma was sat in front of me, announcing how proud she was in a genuinely heartwarming way), the Beast aced the growly voice, Lumiere camped it up to a degree that literally had me clutching my sides in laughter and absolutely everyone gave it their all - there wasn't a weak link in the lot. You could see why it cost so much - the costumes were extraordinary, the set extravagant and the effects surprising -- it was overall the most professional amateur performance I have ever seen.

Which meant that I was even more apprehensive of the second - 'History-onics 3'; of which I have seen and, er, slept through the two prequels. Two of my friends were in this, which is much more child-friendly and therefore much less professional; more than twice the cast, and split into a series of sketches rather than an overall plot. It would be unfair to compare the two; Beauty and the Beast was for older, more dedicated students, whilst History-onics is more for the participants than the audience. The group is split into a younger and older section, with the first half being the younger's - and everything I expected. Cringey, dull, devoid of confidence and really unpleasant. I mean, good for the kids for getting up on stage in the first place, but I'm not the type of doe-eyed mother who should be watching, and it didn't consist of acting so much as monotoned line-recital. But when my friends - the older category - came on, it all warmed up a bit. Seeing your best friend in a nun's habit is hilarious to begin with, but couple it with watching said best friend's younger sister flirting outrageously with a young lad alluding to her "MASSIVE....er, teeth", and then being dragged away by the nun with the words "Mary was a virgin you know!" ringing through the theatre, and you have comedy gold.

So I willingly swallow all my harsh words of amateur dramatics - they've made my weekend, and almost persuaded me to get involved....(I did say 'almost'...)

The Perfect Man....well, to be honest, he's a lot like Mickey Bubbles.....

In spite of my thorough slagging off of ITV in the last post, I did deign to view it's general tackiness tonight, because they were demonstrating the levels of class and sophistication they are capable of with the help of one particular person: Michael Buble.

Now Michael Buble (or Mickey Bubbles, as I do believe Paul O'Grady christened him) has been somewhat unfairly labelled as the "older woman's" perfect man, but I'm here to tell you Loose-Women-esque giffers; you have competition. As far as I can see, Michael Buble is damn near perfect. Good-looking, cheeky smile, voice to send tingles down your spine, brilliant sense of humour, modesty, kindness and thoughtfullness. Yep, the whole package (though unfortunately the perfect package tends to come with an obnoxiously beautiful Brazilian model of a fiancee).

I was watching 'An Audience with Michael Buble' for over an hour, and did I once stop drooling? Well honestly, not really. He can bring you to tears with love songs and Bambi-eyes, and yet ten minutes later, flip your stomach with a mischievous smile and a cheeky wink. Sure, jazz isn't all that popular in this day and age, but I just don't care. The man has a voice that could make an angel cry with envy, and I don't care what he sings, just so long as he keeps doing it.

In any case, the programme tonight suggested he had done odds and sods of acting, so I'm cutting this short in order to get onto Play.com and order whatever he's in, regardless of screen time, genre, taste boundaries or ratings. Sadly when I voiced my adoration to my mother, her response (after "You can bring him home anytime...") was "I think you'll have to get in line, hon."

Well, frankly, I'm younger, angrier and bigger than them. So bring it on.

ITV or BBC? Sorry, is that a question?

Okay, I'll admit it. I have spent the past week on study leave, and spent precious little of that time studying. But really, who has? I've been making token efforts pretty much daily, but unfortunately study leave has coincided with a sudden rush of good programmes on telly. Funny, that.

But the other day I read an article that was basically saying the BBC was old news. Apparently every good programme thesedays is shown on ITV, and the Beeb doesn't have much to show for itself. I'm sorry, but what?! The BBC has EVERYTHING!! Off the top of my head, the BBC has Merlin, Doctor Who, Ashes to Ashes, Outnumbered, Qi, Mock the Week, Russell Howard's Good News, Junior Apprentice and The Graham Norton Show! In the past, they've had Robin Hood (I'm discrediting the third series for taste reasons) and Life on Mars, and that's not even including the miniseries such as Cranford, North and South, Wives and Daughters, Pride and Prejudice and god only knows how many other period dramas (the bread and butter of TV to us bored and deluded teenage girls). So at a quick tally, that's the BBC standing firm at a healthy fifteen brilliant programmes.

Now how about ITV. After several long minutes contemplation, this is what I've come up with: Midsomer Murders. And frankly, I'm abandoning that once Barnaby's left and Jones finally gets round to snogging Gail. I suppose on a slow day you could include Britain's Got Talent, but I only watch that for Ant and Dec, and then only if I'm in the house.

Even E4 beats ITV -- Desperate Housewives, Friends reruns (though apparently they're canning those...gits) and Glee (shameful, I know).

So, to summarise, stupid reporter that dared slag off the Beeb, you clearly have horrendous taste in programmes, or simply didn't do your research. BBC kicks ITV's arse any day of the week, and I'm not just saying that because they pay my mother's wages.

Sunday Night Depression strikes again...

I'm sure we've all been here. Ten o'clock on a Sunday evening, homework unfinished, books scattered, no clean clothes, bombsite bedroom, feeling as if you've wasted your blessed two days off and generally contemplating various methods of pre-Monday suicide. It's not a good feeling. Mine is currently being amplified by the fact that I didn't go out all weekend due to being forced to visit a family friend's, I cannot be arsed to unpack my bag and thus locate my pyjamas/toothbrush, Ashes to Ashes failed to record on Friday night and my brother Facebook-raped me (just to clarify, this means altering someone's Facebook profile without their knowledge and humiliating them beyond repair).

With all of this being the case, I have a plan. Surprisingly, I am not going to finish my homework, gather my books, find some clean clothes, tidy my bedroom, unpack my bag, brush my teeth and get changed. No. I am going to draw a moustache on my brother's poster of Megan Fox, iPlayer Ashes to Ashes, eat some chocolate and pretend it's Friday. And that, my friends, is a problem solved.

However much satisfaction I know revision will give me, I'd still rather watch cricket. And THAT is saying something.

Tonight, shockingly, I actually managed to spend a solid two hours revising. No, really. I've recently discovered that the trick is to act like it's a continuation of the school day -- get home, get changed and whip the books out before your brain has time to figure out that it's relaxation time. It starts making forceful objections after a while, but you can still get in some work, whereas if you get home and immediately switch the telly on then you're sunk. It doesn't matter how many times you promise you'll "do it later", if that telly goes on, the brain goes off and you might as well kiss goodbye to any sort of productivity.

So now, having done my revision, I feel quite smug, satisfied and thoroughly pleased with myself. And I know -- having managed it once or twice before -- that this lovely, squishy warm feeling will happen every time I have a productive evening. And I know that should I walk in, sit down and start watching rubbish/using Facebook/reaching for any non-tedious/education-related book, I will go to bed feeling lazy, miserable and stressed. So, surely, the solution is simple. (My mother certainly thinks so.)

But it just isn't though! It does not matter how many people tell me that the satisfaction makes the work worth it, or how many times I experience it firsthand -- for some infuriating reason, I still end up watching The Jeremy Kyle Show. And that's not even good telly. Last year, when GCSE revision was standing over me and glowering like I owed it something (which I usually did), I actually resorted to watching cricket. For real. Now, cricket, is the longest game in the world -- as far as I'm concerned, no-one knows how long it's actually supposed to go on for because no-one, in the history of the world, has ever had the patience to finish a game. But for some reason the selfish, short-term, somewhat idiotic portion of my brain thinks that it's preferable to sixteenth century European history. Which is only sometimes true.

I think, however, that I am now resigned to my fate. I will spend a good portion of my life wasting my time and drifting off to sleep feeling disappointed with the whole day. But the way I justify this to myself is simple; maybe, just maybe, those lazy evenings make the productive ones feel just that litle bit more satisfying. (I did say maybe.)

In a world where Kate Winslet gets dumped and Cheryl Cole is cheated on, really, what hope do we have?

I am guessing that anyone who reads newspapers will know that, last week, Kate Winslet announced that she and her second husband were splitting up, blaming that time-honoured excuse "irreconcilable differences". Now I'm sure I'm not the only one to notice that whenever "irreconcilable differences" are cited, accusations of infidelity follow faster than Katie Price can drop her knickers (ooh, that sounded even more scathing than I intended). And, sure enough, less than twenty four hours later, it emerged that Sam Mendes (Kate Winslet's soon-to-be-ex) is "just friends" with a beautiful 27 year old actress named Rebecca Hall. Now, I'm not sure who coined the term "just friends" to mean "blatantly shagging", but couples like Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie and Robert Pattinson/Kristen Stewart have made it quite the art form.

Anyway, that paragraph came out very bitchy, so let me try and steer towards my point. So at the moment, it's looking like Sam Mendes, an admittedly succesful, forty-something, greying, distinctly well-built geezer has spent the last few months of his marriage to the sickeningly gorgeous (and considerably younger) Kate Winslet knocking off some other woman. I'm sure I speak for the majority of the female species when I say that I consequently despise the man (unless it turns out he really is "just friends" with Rebecca Hall, at which point I may have to bite my tongue and whisper an apology, God forbid) and feel so sorry for poor Kate Winslet. Because I, personally, think she seems like a genuinely nice woman, is quite clearly an absolute stunner and was about 10 years younger than Sam Mendes anyway. So why the hell is he the one accused of cheating? Surely if someone felt that they were getting the shorter end of the stick in that particular relationship, it wouldn't be the bloke.

Another relevant point is the slightly-less-recent news that Ashley Cole cheated on his wife AGAIN and, what's more, with several different women. I'm sorry, but how selfish, thuggish and - frankly - mind-blowingly stupid do you have to be to jeopardise your marriage to the woman who was apparently voted #1 Sexiest Woman in the World last year? Every other man in the country wishes he had her, and Ashley Cole is having numerous affairs? I mean, the word 'idiot' just doesn't even approach the kind of meaning needed to label his stupidity - I'm fairly sure there isn't a word for it in the English language.

And stories like this depress me beyond all sense, for this simple reason; if goddesses like Kate Winslet and Cheryl Cole are being cheated on, what the hell chance do us poor mortal females have?!

One week in the life of an AS student...

Monday 8th March
School a strange blur of teachers trying to club their way through my fuzzy, it's-Monday-so-why-are-you-even-trying? brain and, for the most part, failing utterly. Came home and stared at a history essay for a while, quite convinced that if I continued it would realise my intentions and promptly write itself. Failing this, watched Cranford and went to bed. Completely pointless say.

Tuesday 9th March
Straight to Grandma's after school having been given the I-won't-live-forever phone call and the ensuing guilt trip. Spent the following hour being steadily forcefed Mars Bars, chocolate digestives and cups of tea. God bless Grandmas. Went for a HPV jab and regarded the girl in front of me with utter disdain when she fainted on sight of the needle - it didn't even touch her. I'm sorry, but pull yourself together love. Went babysitting almost as soon as getting home, spent several hours pretending to be entertained by Barbie and High School Musical whilst physically restraining the urge to gag. Having put the manic children to bed, was attacked by dog and left at midnight with furry jeans, mental scarring and crazy eyes.

Wednesday 10th March
Traditional Orange Wednesday cinema trip -- this week to see Alice in Wonderland. Still more evidence of teenage actors being completely useless ("Oh look, I've just fell hundreds of feet down a rabbit hole and am trapped in a tiny room with doors I can't open, but none of this bothers me because a little bottle over there is telling me to drink it!") and Johnny Depp being to the acting world what Stephen Fry is to my useless trivia knowledge. Followed by mad rush to attempt an essay before 7:00 meal for Kayley's birthday at an all-you-can-eat Japanese place. Tried sushi. Somewhat unsurprisingly, it tastes like raw fish (i.e. cold, slimy and essentially gross). Walked home amongst group of madly singing friends, blushing madly and attempting to blend into the background whenever passing some poor, bemused sod of a stranger.

Thursday 11th March
Went to see school production of Grease. Unsurprisingly fell in love - along with the female population of my school - with the guy playing Danny, despite knowing his 'rep'. Cringed through someone's murdering of 'Beauty School Dropout' and screamed blue murder at friend Tom's solo. My orders were on pain of death.

Friday 12th March
Girl's night in -- wine + ice cream + 3 for £5 films = success. Well actually, one of the films - A Life Less Ordinary - proved that if you think Ewan McGregor, Cameron Diaz and Danny Boyle are a winning combination, you would be so very, very wrong. Seriously.

Saturday 13th March
Grease aftershow party. That's pretty much all I can recall from the day. Oh, plus yet another unsuccessful attempt at an essay. Essay situation becoming serious.

Sunday 14th March
Mother's day -- arrived home 1.00amish and set about madly searching for wrapping paper, with lots of "Where the hell is that ****ing CARD?!?!" and whacking limbs on doorframes due to temporarily forgetting location of lightswitch. Arose in the afternoon for traditional (apparently) mother's day meal of jambolaya and tiramisu. Don't ask. Once again stared at growing pile of work like it owed me something. Grew angry at being ignored by work. Realised was fuming at inanimate objects and spent a good hour devising an excuse as to why I hadn't written my history essay. Read the fourth Percy Jackson book - mainly because it didn't involve the words "personal rule", "Charles I", "Wentworth" or "policies". Somehow seemed to travel through time and arrive at 2.03am. Collapsed into bed and tried to recall brilliant excuse for lack of history essay. Failed.

The Butterfly Effect -- the actual thing, not the film.

In search of distractions from my history notes on the Radical Reformation, you would be amazed what lengths a girl will go to. For example, I actually resorted to 'tidying' the loft. Seriously. Well, my version of 'tidying' anyway, which actually means rifling through old photo albums/diaries/generally dusty stuff that is already put away.

Anyway, I happened to find a massive old folder full details of my family tree -- I knew that my Grandad had done some research into it - well actually, quite a lot of research - and had stolen a peek when he died almost three years ago. I remember finding his 'memoirs' in the folder and finding them immensely interesting. It's only 6/7 pages of handwritten memories, but the handwriting takes quite some time to decipher (Grandad apparently had a maddening habit of inexplicably dotting his t's as opposed to crossing them) and it was this that I found gathering dust in the loft.

I brought it down and showed it to my mum (succesfully distracting her from the job I wasn't doing) and we had a read through it, which yielded some humbling and very weird results. My Grandad worked for a railway company in Sheffield when he was eighteen, and one night he had been asked to work his friend's shift (the friend was off ill) and had been 'swinging' onto the train when the driver started the engine, pulling my Grandad from the platform and crushing his foot beneath the train. There were over 30 breakages in the foot and the initial plan was to amputate below the knee but (thankfully) something got delayed and a new doctor arrived, who instead decided to amputate only 3 toes and hope gangrene didn't set in. Thankfully it didn't, and this is a somewhat more legitimate explanation as to why my Grandad only ever had seven toes (the story he had told me involved Indiana Jones-style heroics, a trip to Australia and an alligator).

Anyway, my point is that, as Grandad tells it, a day later a letter arrived calling him up into the army. Obviously he was forced to decline, having had a portion of his foot removed and been forced to take 20 months leave from his original job. Had he left, he would have been in Germany for the next two years. This was fascinating enough, but the next thing my Grandad explained was that, had he been sent away he would never have met my Nan'nan; the consequences of which would have been no marriage, no children, and no me. If my Grandad hadn't been 'swinging' onto a train at the wrong moment, he would never have met my Nan'nan, my dad would never have been born and - consequently - neither would I.

It feels utterly bizarre to think about. I am only here as a result of a freak accident that probably - though he would never have admitted it - was at least partly down to my Grandad's own reckless attitude. If my Grandad's friend hadn't been ill, if my Grandad had refused to work the extra shift, if the driver had looked before turning on the engine, if, if, if - I wouldn't be here. Neither would my brother, my father, my uncle, my cousins. The knowledge of a real-life Butterfly Effect is humbling and exceedingly difficult to wrap one's head around. The event of that one night affected that rest of my Grandad's - and his descendants - lives.

What has this taught me? That life is fragile, delicate and SO easily altered; the smallest thing can change the direction of your entire life. And, also, don't swing onto trains that are about to start moving.

Poignance and intellectualism? Hell, give me a corny plot and cheesy one-liners anyday.

So I have spent most of today watching films. I admit, for a Saturday it's not exactly a 'wild' pastime; particularly as I intend to spend the rest of the evening watching a weeksworth of Desperate Housewives/Mock the Week/Qi episodes, but it worked for me. When I say 'today', what I mean is that I broke in the morning (and I do literally mean about 12.30am) by watching 3 and a half hours worth of BBC period drama, slept for a few hours and then buggered off to the cinema and remained there for the larger portion of the day.

My friend and I went to see two films; The Lovely Bones, an Oscar-nominated poignant and moving tale about a family coping with the murder of their eldest daughter, and Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief; a shameless Harry Potter rip-off with American teenagers, Greek gods and a pen that becomes a sword when you click it. Seriously.

We watched The Lovely Bones first, and I spent the first half tensed so tightly I still have nail marks indented in my palms, and the second half weeping like a baby, and - having been directed by Peter Jackson (Lord of the Rings, King Kong) - I was tense/weeping for a LONG time. The bloke playing the murderer did a disturbingly good job (you'll never enjoy The Devil Wears Prada again) and the young Irish actress playing Suzie Salmon does a fantastic American accent. But. But, but, but. It was WEIRD! Nothing really seemed to happen for a solid hour in the middle; there was all of this surreal stuff about what happens when you die, some crying and that's more or less it. Now, some people will probably love the surreal stuff, but I do not. I get weirded out in Nanny McPhee, for Christ's sake, so hours worth of moving mountains, schizophrenic weather and a massive flower instead of a sun was not really the right way to appeal to me. There were also several moments that just irritated me. For instance, when the girl's mother, not coping with the murder of her eldest daughter, leaves her husband and two remaining children and buggers off to God knows where for a few months. I mean WHAT!?!? So your eldest daughter is murdered, and your reaction to this is to abandon your other two children to go and pick fruit in the middle of East Jesus nowhere?! Sorry, but I don't think so.

However, Percy Jackson was everything I expected; cheesy, cringey, exasperating, cliche and thoroughly enjoyable. My dad had read me a review a few days ago which absolutely slated it, and it has to be said that everything the review said was true. Yes, it was corny; nobody is pretending otherwise. Yes, it is 'emotionally unrealistic'; but it also features satyrs and Greek gods. Get a little perspective. Yes, it's a rip-off of Harry Potter, but Harry Potter is one of the highest-grossing franchises in cinema history; who wouldn't try and cash in on that? Basically, it was utter crap, but I enjoyed every second of it.

The conclusion I've come to is that people - well, people like me - don't actually want poignance, intelligence and surrealism in a film. We want cliche junk. I don't want to spend a film tense and weepy; I'd much sooner spend it laughing. We watch films, read books, listen to music, delve into stories for one reason, generally; we want to escape. Escape the mundane repetitiveness of everyday life and slip into a world that has action, comedy, romance, intrigue, cliches cheesiness and a happy ending.

So sure, The Lovely Bones is a much more 'intellectual' and arty-farty film. But, quite frankly, I'd rather watch stationary transforming into Ancient Greek weaponry.

Thanking whichever God was in charge of chocolate.

Okay, this is gonna be short, to the point and direct - namely because I was supposed to be at my friend's house ten minutes ago.

Basically, how much do we all love chocolate? I think I speak for everyone when I say, a lot. It's always there for you. Bad day at school, broken heart, night in with the girls, argument with dad, or just 'cause you feel like it. Whatever the situation, chocolate is there for you. Granted, it's not quite as good as your friends for advice, but it sure as hell makes you feel better. Well, until you realise you've just consumed 1000 calories in ten minutes flat, at which point the guilt kicks in.

So basically, if there is a God that was specifically in charge of creating chocolate (and I sincerely hope there was one), I would like to take this moment, on behalf of the female population of the human race to say one big, fat thank you.

WHY can't my mother accept that I will NEVER be a good cook?

Looking back at my history of the culinary art is like looking back over Kerry Katona's career; disastrous, humiliating and riddled with failures. However much my mother tries to drill cookery into my ears, it comes out the other side battered and bruised. It's not that I don't try, I'm just cursed! I don't even ignore instructions -- quite the contrary, I stick to instructions by the letter, but people never tell me to insert common sense in between the lines of the recipe, because they don't seem to realise that for me to produce an edible meal, I have to be given the kind of instructions you would give a five year old. Seriously.

Now you probably haven't actually comprehended how bad I am yet, so let me give you some examples. My first cooking venture was undertaken at the tender young age of about ten. My mum was busy ironing and so left me to make myself some spaghetti on toast. Not difficult, really; put bread in the toaster, pour the spaghetti out of the tin and heat it up for however long it says on the packet. Unfortunately, no-one told me the last bit, so I left the spaghetti on the hob and nipped off for the first half of Friends. Needless to say, when I returned, the spaghetti was fused to the bottom of the pan. I did a similar thing with noodles several years later.

My most infamous story is the time I put pasta in the microwave.........wait for it.............without water. Yes, really. But at no point on the instructions did it say 'Pour water onto pasta', so it really wasn't wholly my fault.......... Either way, the pasta continued to get harder and blacker, until I rang my mum at work and had a conversation at work that went a bit like this: -
"Mum, there's something wrong with this pasta....."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's not going soft. It's gone all....black. And hard."
"What?! How long did you put it in the microwave for?"
"Only about seven minutes, like the instructions said!"
*long pause*
"Bex, did you put water in?"
".......oh."

Amongst others, there was the time I threw uncooked rice into chilli con carne mixture (we were having guests that time -- it was particularly humiliating), the many times I have cremated bacon and pizza, having forgotten about it entirely, the time I cooked chicken for about twenty minutes and nearly poisoned my family, the time I turned the gas on, forgot to ignite it and left it running for about twenty minutes and nearly blew up the kitchen and the time I stuck an omelette to the ceiling.

Yep, I am to cooking what Cheryl Cole is to heavy metal. Just don't go there. But despite this, my parents are still determined to send me off to university as the next Nigella Lawson, however many pans I ruin (and I think we're already in double figures), or maybe they just haven't learnt their lesson yet. However, I'm thinking tonight's little venture -- frying a chorizo sausage without realising that the greaseproof paper was still wrapped around it -- may be the cilncher........

It doesn't matter how old you are technically; when it snows, you're seven.

Anyone who lives in England will know that the past few days have been defined by one wintery, wonderful thing; snow. The whole country is covered in the stuff, and my home in north Derbyshire is (thank God) no exception. When I set off for school yesterday there was only a gentle dusting on the ground, but it started up again as I was walking and by the time I reached my school (only about twenty minutes later) I looked like I'd been frosted.

By the time we had finished first period - an ear-bleedingly crap General Studies lessons - it had somehow made it's way around the entire school that we were being sent home. No teacher had actually confirmed this, but call it student intuition; we can smell hometime. When it was actually announced, I swear most of Chesterfield will have heard the shriek of delight. In any case, we were all kicking our merry ways home by about ten in the morning, everyone feverishly planning to go home, grab a sledge and find a decent slope before they were all 'taken'.

I, however, was making slow, nervous progress towards my friend's house, not daring to go sledgin, or even up the hill that leads to my house, due to me unhelpful footwear. New Look boots may look pretty, but made to grip they were not. I lost count of how many times I slipped somewhere around number seven, and at one point managed what I can only describe as a truly spectacular front-flip into a hedge.

I felt hugely cheated of my sledging opportunity, and so became hugely excited when school was cancelled today as well. A group of about twenty mates, including myself (obviously) found a brilliant hill that made for excellent sledging without dumping you into a river or a tree. Several of us (who are all sixteen/seventeen, incidentally) started rolling down the hill, purely for the fun of it, and the more vengeful of us began a snowball fight that included burials, face-plants and the vicious ice-down-the-pants shots and everybody threw themselves face-first down the slope with reckless, elated abandon. We were acting like five year olds, and I'm not ashamed to say it.

As far as I'm concerned, it's a sign of irreversible maturity when you look out of the window, see snow and say, "Aw, dammit -- I can't get into work!" But even if you are one of those somewhat miserable old sods, as soon as you actually get into the snow and build a snowman, go sledging, have a snowball fight or make a decent snow angel, you revert to the behaviour of a small child, and, frankly, that's exactly the way it should be.

As far as I'm concerned, the purpose of snow is to free you from school, give you a chance to have fun and to get revenge on Callum for dropping what was less of a snowball and more of a snow mountain on top of your head. So I returned cold, drenched, aching and with a bruise the size of a football blossoming beautifully on my leg, but I had a fantastic time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.