It being NYE and all I suppose I really should be doing some blog summing up something and recapitulating something and hoping something. But we know how much I like to do what I ought; nought.
Instead I'm going to tell you about wallpaper. Exciting wallpaper. Wallpaper which looks like trees, which I plan on putting in the nook behind the telly to make it look a bit like Narnia. I've been thinking about these trees for a while and tried to paint them myself, but it went a bit pear-shaped.
Free tree samples are coming in the post so I can select the Narnia of my choosing.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Saturday, 26 December 2009
pre-Spring Clean
My flatmate has gone away which enables me to do the kind of big clear out I love. A massive two day extravaganza of pulling everything out of the drawers and cupboards and putting it in piles before deciding what to keep or not. Entire rooms are devoted to piles. All clothing and bedding is in the kitchen, all papers in the lounge.
Towards the end of PhDogpoo I stopped domestically functioning at all. There was a point where all the spoons were in my room, but I couldn't tell where, so I just ate with teaspoons for a week.
The Catling has enjoyed the fort of papers covering my floor for the past month immensely, but the 2-foot high mountain of washing piled in the kitchen is temporary compensation.
I'm so in the mood for cleaning that I'm going to have to turn off 'Herbie- Fully Loaded' which has just begun on the TV. I always want to scrub all that orange crap off Lohan, like Pod's Deep Cleanse Phase on Snog, Marry, Avoid.
Perhaps we can make do with this satisfying scrubbification footage instead. Meet Scotland's Number 1 Male Barbie, lovely wee Ross.
Towards the end of PhDogpoo I stopped domestically functioning at all. There was a point where all the spoons were in my room, but I couldn't tell where, so I just ate with teaspoons for a week.
The Catling has enjoyed the fort of papers covering my floor for the past month immensely, but the 2-foot high mountain of washing piled in the kitchen is temporary compensation.
I'm so in the mood for cleaning that I'm going to have to turn off 'Herbie- Fully Loaded' which has just begun on the TV. I always want to scrub all that orange crap off Lohan, like Pod's Deep Cleanse Phase on Snog, Marry, Avoid.
Perhaps we can make do with this satisfying scrubbification footage instead. Meet Scotland's Number 1 Male Barbie, lovely wee Ross.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Merry X-MRI-Mass
New Years Resolutions don't work, because they are a punishment. So this year, as a present to myself and the freakshow that my ovaries have become, I'm going to give myself a present of looking after myself very nicely. I'm going to do what one of my friends once recommended and treat my body with the same care that I would my own small child.
I had a scan yesterday and a minor procedure which they finished off with silver nitrate. I anticipated bleeding glitter, but sadly that hasn't happened.
Turns out I have a tiny 5mm teratoma on my ovary. Not big enough to grow any of the weird shit like hair and teeth, and 50/50 it'll be gone in a few months. I feel towards my little dermoid cyst much as Ripley feels towards the Alien, but there's nothing like stress to exacerbate whatever is wrong with you and add a couple more problems for good measure.
May all your Christmases be humourous and tumourless! x
I had a scan yesterday and a minor procedure which they finished off with silver nitrate. I anticipated bleeding glitter, but sadly that hasn't happened.
Turns out I have a tiny 5mm teratoma on my ovary. Not big enough to grow any of the weird shit like hair and teeth, and 50/50 it'll be gone in a few months. I feel towards my little dermoid cyst much as Ripley feels towards the Alien, but there's nothing like stress to exacerbate whatever is wrong with you and add a couple more problems for good measure.
May all your Christmases be humourous and tumourless! x
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Backfire tiger
I've just read a blog over at Diary of a Mindless Minion which made me think about the poster I saw today on the tube. The poster had a big picture of a tiger's face on it, looking at the camera. It was by the World Wildlife Fund and the main premise was that tigers are an endangered species and this is not a good thing.
'What will you do when I am gone?' asked the tiger in bold white typeface, via the medium of telepathic graphic design.
I think my reaction was meant to be 'Oh no! No more tigers? Quick, let's give money in aid of saving them!'
But instead my thought process was a little more misanthropomorphic.
'Nothing tiger, I shall do nothing different. Because I don't really know any tigers and if you were all gone tomorrow I wouldn't know unless the newspaper told me. And I don't go to the circus because I am afraid of clowns and I think big cats aren't really for domesticating or training, but if I did like that sort of thing then I'd go see another slightly less endangered big cat and feel none the wiser.
In fact, I'm not sure that I'll miss you at all tiger. What makes you so special? Your big stripey face? It's kind of racist to prioritise animals on the basis of their fur pattern. Think you're so great because people wrote poems about you? Well, you've never done anything for me tiger. Nothing whatsoever, and that's why when you are gone I shan't give two figs.'
I felt so angry towards stupid tigers I had to bring forth an image in my mind of a baby one. They are very cute.
You know, there's a real bind for people like me who quite enjoy watching footage of baby animals on youtube, in that the main justification for raising endangered animals in captivity is precisely because they are endangered. But then they have muddled rearing instincts and abandon their cubs, which then get bottlefed by humans. It's a vicious circle of cute.
So tiger, I'm not sure what to do really. I think you should exist, but you should justify your existence by selling your soul to the media. Is that fair?
'What will you do when I am gone?' asked the tiger in bold white typeface, via the medium of telepathic graphic design.
I think my reaction was meant to be 'Oh no! No more tigers? Quick, let's give money in aid of saving them!'
But instead my thought process was a little more misanthropomorphic.
'Nothing tiger, I shall do nothing different. Because I don't really know any tigers and if you were all gone tomorrow I wouldn't know unless the newspaper told me. And I don't go to the circus because I am afraid of clowns and I think big cats aren't really for domesticating or training, but if I did like that sort of thing then I'd go see another slightly less endangered big cat and feel none the wiser.
In fact, I'm not sure that I'll miss you at all tiger. What makes you so special? Your big stripey face? It's kind of racist to prioritise animals on the basis of their fur pattern. Think you're so great because people wrote poems about you? Well, you've never done anything for me tiger. Nothing whatsoever, and that's why when you are gone I shan't give two figs.'
I felt so angry towards stupid tigers I had to bring forth an image in my mind of a baby one. They are very cute.
You know, there's a real bind for people like me who quite enjoy watching footage of baby animals on youtube, in that the main justification for raising endangered animals in captivity is precisely because they are endangered. But then they have muddled rearing instincts and abandon their cubs, which then get bottlefed by humans. It's a vicious circle of cute.
So tiger, I'm not sure what to do really. I think you should exist, but you should justify your existence by selling your soul to the media. Is that fair?
Sunday, 20 December 2009
On dissent
Dissent comes in many shapes and sizes. From MPs who quit over the Iraq war, to the woman who got her breasts out at Margaret Thatcher (remember the good old days when a bit of tit was shocking? These days boobs sell us everything from perfume to veganism.)
Dissent can look very mature and dignified, or childish and vulgar. My personal view is that you ought to be suspicious of any establishment that cannot tolerate having two fingers waved in its direction.
Last year I did not participate in the attempt to cheat Alexandra Burke out of the Xmas No 1 because her version of Hallelujah offended Buckley purists. Mostly because it felt petty to defend a different cover version that I mostly experience when watching sad bits on TV from another cover version off the telly.
But this year I have downloaded Killing In the Name Of by RATM. Initially I was reluctant to relive the irony of thousands singing on cue 'F you I won't do what you tell me', by buying it because someone on facebook told me to. But then I remembered that I've always enjoyed the song and I'd like lots of angry teenagers to share in the joy.
Then I bought the whole album. And like a slap-bass version of The Prophecies of Nostradamus I listened to it applying it to now, thinking 'Cor. This is eerie.' I kept thinking about Dr David Kelly.
I think we can assume Zach de la Rocha (Zach de la Fitty we used to call him) is not actually psychic. But however angry I was at 14 at the state of the world, I really ought to be a damn sight more angry now. But life grinds you down, and grown-ups mistake acceptance of helplessness for wisdom.
Two of my favourite songs of art/dissent are by the Burqa Band, an all-female Pashtun indie band. Super catchy and funny and thought provoking. No one knows who they are.
In the following video Burqa Blue is followed up as it is on the EP by a song called No Burka! 'Naked boys and naked girls are selling news and cars and toys!'
Dissent can look very mature and dignified, or childish and vulgar. My personal view is that you ought to be suspicious of any establishment that cannot tolerate having two fingers waved in its direction.
Last year I did not participate in the attempt to cheat Alexandra Burke out of the Xmas No 1 because her version of Hallelujah offended Buckley purists. Mostly because it felt petty to defend a different cover version that I mostly experience when watching sad bits on TV from another cover version off the telly.
But this year I have downloaded Killing In the Name Of by RATM. Initially I was reluctant to relive the irony of thousands singing on cue 'F you I won't do what you tell me', by buying it because someone on facebook told me to. But then I remembered that I've always enjoyed the song and I'd like lots of angry teenagers to share in the joy.
Then I bought the whole album. And like a slap-bass version of The Prophecies of Nostradamus I listened to it applying it to now, thinking 'Cor. This is eerie.' I kept thinking about Dr David Kelly.
I think we can assume Zach de la Rocha (Zach de la Fitty we used to call him) is not actually psychic. But however angry I was at 14 at the state of the world, I really ought to be a damn sight more angry now. But life grinds you down, and grown-ups mistake acceptance of helplessness for wisdom.
Two of my favourite songs of art/dissent are by the Burqa Band, an all-female Pashtun indie band. Super catchy and funny and thought provoking. No one knows who they are.
In the following video Burqa Blue is followed up as it is on the EP by a song called No Burka! 'Naked boys and naked girls are selling news and cars and toys!'
Friday, 18 December 2009
You are joking, aren't you?
I've given up getting offended, but I struggled yesterday to hide my total horror when one of my colleagues, a lady who has devoted her life to helping people with disabilities and disadvantaged families, began talking about a plan to kill and or abandon some theoretical newborn kittens.
She is a lady who is generally kind to cats, and has taken in other people's cats when they are homeless. One such cat is female, and she loves this cat. Adores her. She'd like her to have one litter of kittens and then she'll give them away to people she knows.
I began to persuade her that getting the cat spayed was best. Because there are thousands of unwanted cats that need homes already. But my colleague wanted all the excitement of not knowing when she'd birth, and looking after the newborns. I told her to expect her house to stink of piss and shit for two to three months, and to expect a lot of worries about whether one or other of the the little kittens will make it through the night. All that stuff.
Then we got on to talking about the fact you can't control how many kittens will come out. Three or four she could handle, but what it it was six? Or eight?
That's okay, she said. She'd take the surplus newborns down to the cat rescue vets and have them put down. 'They're not like real cats at that point, they're just like little blobs'.
Now ladies and gents, regardless of how we feel about foetuses, I hope we are all in agreement that once you've been born, you are alive. This is not the 50s, and there are no free passes on kitten killing, when neutering is freely and cheaply available. Drowning newborn kittens in the river because you can't be bothered is not fundamentally different to having them euthanised because you can't be bothered.
I said that they would probably have to get the 'excess' kittens fostered and bottlefed, as they were unlikely to put healthy but abandoned newborn kittens down. But that when she brought the kittens in because they were 'extra', from a litter caused deliberately by allowing her cat to get pregnant, because she thought it would be 'nice', and the kittens already have a mum to nurse from but she's separating them deliberately, the rescue vets will be livid.
I just kept saying 'You are joking, aren't you?'
Female cats don't have the same motherhood issues humans have. Spayed female cats who never had a litter don't sip coffee mournfully, wondering whether society will accept her as a real female cat, or feeling cheated when they see another cat pushing a pram. They just want fud, skritching, unconditional attention, comfort, a territory. But mothercats separated from their little kittens know about it. Panic, searching, crying out. Horrible.
Sometimes people love their cats so much, they treat them like shit, eh.
Kittens from breeders and kittens from owners who don't bother spaying deny guys like this a home.
She is a lady who is generally kind to cats, and has taken in other people's cats when they are homeless. One such cat is female, and she loves this cat. Adores her. She'd like her to have one litter of kittens and then she'll give them away to people she knows.
I began to persuade her that getting the cat spayed was best. Because there are thousands of unwanted cats that need homes already. But my colleague wanted all the excitement of not knowing when she'd birth, and looking after the newborns. I told her to expect her house to stink of piss and shit for two to three months, and to expect a lot of worries about whether one or other of the the little kittens will make it through the night. All that stuff.
Then we got on to talking about the fact you can't control how many kittens will come out. Three or four she could handle, but what it it was six? Or eight?
That's okay, she said. She'd take the surplus newborns down to the cat rescue vets and have them put down. 'They're not like real cats at that point, they're just like little blobs'.
Now ladies and gents, regardless of how we feel about foetuses, I hope we are all in agreement that once you've been born, you are alive. This is not the 50s, and there are no free passes on kitten killing, when neutering is freely and cheaply available. Drowning newborn kittens in the river because you can't be bothered is not fundamentally different to having them euthanised because you can't be bothered.
I said that they would probably have to get the 'excess' kittens fostered and bottlefed, as they were unlikely to put healthy but abandoned newborn kittens down. But that when she brought the kittens in because they were 'extra', from a litter caused deliberately by allowing her cat to get pregnant, because she thought it would be 'nice', and the kittens already have a mum to nurse from but she's separating them deliberately, the rescue vets will be livid.
I just kept saying 'You are joking, aren't you?'
Female cats don't have the same motherhood issues humans have. Spayed female cats who never had a litter don't sip coffee mournfully, wondering whether society will accept her as a real female cat, or feeling cheated when they see another cat pushing a pram. They just want fud, skritching, unconditional attention, comfort, a territory. But mothercats separated from their little kittens know about it. Panic, searching, crying out. Horrible.
Sometimes people love their cats so much, they treat them like shit, eh.
Kittens from breeders and kittens from owners who don't bother spaying deny guys like this a home.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Freeee!
So I have three iddle widdle corrections to do, and then I can get my thesis bound. It may even be done by Christmas, depending on when the binders and department are open. Otherwise early new year.
I've spend a long time feeling like this.
And now I look forward to not.
I've spend a long time feeling like this.
And now I look forward to not.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Celebrate...zzzzzzzzzzzzz
Handed the PhDogpoo in again. On the train there spotted several mistakes that leapt into existence purely at that moment, I'm sure.
I hadn't slept, and was exhausted. I'd also (in a state of delusional belief that this time in my life it would all be finished the night before) booked tickets for the last ever event of The Whoopee Club for me and my friend. She had to put her baby to bed and wait for babydaddy to come home, so we agreed I'd nap then meet her there at 9:30pm.
It was meant to be a bit special because it was my friend who introduced me to the delights of the London cabaret scene (including but not restricted to Burlesque) and she was also my support through my Dogpoo, and it was meant to be Goodbye Dogpoo on the goodbye night of the club etc etc.
I awoke at 1:30am when my flatmate was coming in. 8 missed calls, 2 texts. And because she hadn't got the booking reference she'd had to pay £20 to get in to not meet me.
Ay! Terrrrible!
Luckily she bumped into a clown she used to live in a commune with, so for at least part of the night wasn't on her own, and she said the acts were good.
I apologised profusely, but she was really nice about it. Said she guessed I'd just not woken up, and that I if I wanted to work myself up into a state about it I could do that, but it wasn't really worth it as she was glad she'd had a night out.
What a good friend.
I hadn't slept, and was exhausted. I'd also (in a state of delusional belief that this time in my life it would all be finished the night before) booked tickets for the last ever event of The Whoopee Club for me and my friend. She had to put her baby to bed and wait for babydaddy to come home, so we agreed I'd nap then meet her there at 9:30pm.
It was meant to be a bit special because it was my friend who introduced me to the delights of the London cabaret scene (including but not restricted to Burlesque) and she was also my support through my Dogpoo, and it was meant to be Goodbye Dogpoo on the goodbye night of the club etc etc.
I awoke at 1:30am when my flatmate was coming in. 8 missed calls, 2 texts. And because she hadn't got the booking reference she'd had to pay £20 to get in to not meet me.
Ay! Terrrrible!
Luckily she bumped into a clown she used to live in a commune with, so for at least part of the night wasn't on her own, and she said the acts were good.
I apologised profusely, but she was really nice about it. Said she guessed I'd just not woken up, and that I if I wanted to work myself up into a state about it I could do that, but it wasn't really worth it as she was glad she'd had a night out.
What a good friend.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Nnnnnnnnn
Okay, my n countdown system has gone a bit funny. My actual hand in date in Friday, and today is Wednesday, but I am determined to print the thing on Thursday. This is because when I submitted my PhDogpoo first time round in July I went to print it on a library laserprinter,several hours before the deadline. I only have a crappy inkjet when does five pages before declaring itself out of ink, then draws lines for a while.
And the library computer, a PC, scrambled all my formatting. Suddenly typefaces were changed, randomly. Justification went mad - centred, right, left, whatever. But more importantly every time I made changes and went to save it, it crashed. It took five hours to be able to just print the damn thing, mistakes and all. One of the questions at my viva was essentially 'Your typefaces. WTF?'
But it will be ready to print tomorrow and hand in first thing Friday morning.
All the while this week I have been also managing this thing. A rumbling domestic type dispute which has been going on for months but I don't publicly blog about because it would be hurtful for the other person to read. The sausage outburst was the point where it came to a head, and after the initial childish stomping I had to do grown up talking about awkward stuff. Anyway, it feels like a resolution has been come to after six months, albeit in a form in which I started off as Switzerland and ended up as Iran. The chapter title for this sub-drama should read 'Other people are hell. Including me.'
Roll on Friday.
And the library computer, a PC, scrambled all my formatting. Suddenly typefaces were changed, randomly. Justification went mad - centred, right, left, whatever. But more importantly every time I made changes and went to save it, it crashed. It took five hours to be able to just print the damn thing, mistakes and all. One of the questions at my viva was essentially 'Your typefaces. WTF?'
But it will be ready to print tomorrow and hand in first thing Friday morning.
All the while this week I have been also managing this thing. A rumbling domestic type dispute which has been going on for months but I don't publicly blog about because it would be hurtful for the other person to read. The sausage outburst was the point where it came to a head, and after the initial childish stomping I had to do grown up talking about awkward stuff. Anyway, it feels like a resolution has been come to after six months, albeit in a form in which I started off as Switzerland and ended up as Iran. The chapter title for this sub-drama should read 'Other people are hell. Including me.'
Roll on Friday.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
You what?
'Think' tank Reform have apparently suggested that we consider cutting frontline posts to deal with national debt. That's NHS frontline staff, and members of the police.
Now, I confess I haven't read their report yet, but I'm just going on 2 factors here which make me think it's a ridicudlous notion.
1. Frontline jobs are already being cut (by stealth or by necessity) in the NHS. Post freezes, and the winding down of locum posts once created to meet waiting list performance demands courtesy of the government. People are already feeling the pinch at the coal face. Clinical staff spend lots of time doing admin, because all the admin posts that can be cut have already gone.
2. Based upon the sense of rage and injustice that the British people feel when they have to wait more than 'one in front' when they go to the supermarket and not all the tills are open, I am sensing that they will not react well to being in hospitals with less Health Care Assistants or Nurses. Because there you're not just waiting to get your ravioli scanned before you get back in the car in time for Eastenders, you are hoping that someone will spare you the indignity of pain, pissing yourself or dying.
Now, I confess I haven't read their report yet, but I'm just going on 2 factors here which make me think it's a ridicudlous notion.
1. Frontline jobs are already being cut (by stealth or by necessity) in the NHS. Post freezes, and the winding down of locum posts once created to meet waiting list performance demands courtesy of the government. People are already feeling the pinch at the coal face. Clinical staff spend lots of time doing admin, because all the admin posts that can be cut have already gone.
2. Based upon the sense of rage and injustice that the British people feel when they have to wait more than 'one in front' when they go to the supermarket and not all the tills are open, I am sensing that they will not react well to being in hospitals with less Health Care Assistants or Nurses. Because there you're not just waiting to get your ravioli scanned before you get back in the car in time for Eastenders, you are hoping that someone will spare you the indignity of pain, pissing yourself or dying.
Sunday, 6 December 2009
n - 4
Fellow Bloglanders,
I am getting on with it.
It is a banal sort of hell.
That is all.
See you on the other side. x
I am getting on with it.
It is a banal sort of hell.
That is all.
See you on the other side. x
Friday, 4 December 2009
What an asshole
I was just watching Newsnight, and a terribly English Professor of something from UEA was having a debate with a famous American climate change sceptic.
I may be wrong, but I'm fairly sure after a heated debate in which the scientist tried to explain science and the American man with bad hair shouted at him, the UEA professor finished the link by mouthing 'What an asshole!'
I could be wrong about this. Within an hour youtube will tell me.
Edit: I heard right!
I may be wrong, but I'm fairly sure after a heated debate in which the scientist tried to explain science and the American man with bad hair shouted at him, the UEA professor finished the link by mouthing 'What an asshole!'
I could be wrong about this. Within an hour youtube will tell me.
Edit: I heard right!
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Correctings: n-9
In nine days I must resubmit ThesisFromHell.
I am not finished! I am behind, again. I hate my behindness. I hate my behind. I look like a fat person ate me.
The thesis and me, it's like Little Red Riding Hood. I thought I would take a nice basket of goodies to Grandma, and instead I got eaten by the wolf. And now I am in the wolf's belly and all want is for the woodcutter to come and cut me out.
One long slice across the abdomen and out I'll come, all thin and finished and ready to live again.
At times like these I feel the strain of not having anyone to look after me, and anyone to look after. I wish there was someone to collude with me in having a break, but then kick my arse into working again. Someone to make sure I don't eat toast and oven chips for a week. There's no one to stop me from working at 3am (or more dangerously, counting on working at 3am but not doing it).
The best I can hope for is that my mother is snooping on my blog and will harass me. But some of you who read my blog are someone's mother. Maybe you can give me a little arse kick? When I look at my laptop the echos of Prokofiev bring me out in a cold chill.
I am not finished! I am behind, again. I hate my behindness. I hate my behind. I look like a fat person ate me.
The thesis and me, it's like Little Red Riding Hood. I thought I would take a nice basket of goodies to Grandma, and instead I got eaten by the wolf. And now I am in the wolf's belly and all want is for the woodcutter to come and cut me out.
One long slice across the abdomen and out I'll come, all thin and finished and ready to live again.
At times like these I feel the strain of not having anyone to look after me, and anyone to look after. I wish there was someone to collude with me in having a break, but then kick my arse into working again. Someone to make sure I don't eat toast and oven chips for a week. There's no one to stop me from working at 3am (or more dangerously, counting on working at 3am but not doing it).
The best I can hope for is that my mother is snooping on my blog and will harass me. But some of you who read my blog are someone's mother. Maybe you can give me a little arse kick? When I look at my laptop the echos of Prokofiev bring me out in a cold chill.
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