Mum just sent me our diary of 1990, and after leafing through it for ten minutes I can conclude that I was a very social eight-year-old!
To name but a few hobbies; St John's Ambulance Badger Club, piano lessons, French lessons! Not to mention all my extra-curricular activities, which included parties, barn dances, children's festivals, theatre trips and numerous holidays with both sets of grandparents. I really ought to thank my parents for providing all these fantastic opportunities! I had a better social life then than I do now...
It was a great pleasure to flip through those memories and try to recapture my childhood. I had to ask mum to explain a few entries, things like; Did my parents have to pay for the taxi my sister and myself got to school, when we lived outside the catchment area? What was the 'Easter Eggs-hiliration' we went to on Thursday 5 April?
Many curious entries and many more to explore. I know in the holidays we were always shipped of to grandma Joan, who would usually take us away with my auntie Anita to various YMCA's around the south west. Then we'd go to Swanage at the tail-end of the holidays and stay with dad's parents. Their house was amazing, my grandpa had about four greenhouses dedicated to just about every species of cactus imaginable. He had one huge one (like the ones you see in a Hollywood movie when they're cruising through the desert) that wore comedy fake sun glasses, taking on a personality all of it's own.
Then there was the collection of random videos we watched on rainy days, (I'm presuming some were cast-offs of my dad's and his two brothers), which included; Star Wars (the old ones), Top Cat and The Sound of Music. We'd watch these repeatedly until we knew the characters and songs by heart.
Then there was Grandma's cooking. She's Danish and big on food, so she'd stuff us and then make us eat more and more puddings. But her food was absolutely irresistible! She fed my grandpa so much that he's subsequently had various heart problems resulting in a heart attack. She now over-feeds my uncle's dog. Ziggy is a lurcher and she's supposed to be agile and trim, ready to out-run a hare in a heart beat. Not Ziggy, I could out-run her at a stroll. Poor girl, she just can't resist grandma's fine cuisine. She's got dog-diabetes now. And she's on a dog-diet.
It's not grandma's fault, she comes from a country that loves food and pleasing people with it. But in this day in age it's not the sort of thing you want to promote. Having said that, I'd kill for one of her chocolate crispy bars or a spoonful of her fruit pudding...
I'm so glad my dad has taken on her culinary flare, but at least he's a bit more health conscious with it.
Tuesday, 24 October 2006
Sunday, 22 October 2006
The Voice of a Seven-Year-Old Boy
I've been a very good girl this weekend. I've resisted all offers of Oyster Festivals and Beers Festivals to concentrate on my work. (With the exception of two hours spent guiltily watching "X" Factor and several gym sessions. And a few tea breaks!) It's been hard but very gratifying. I've completed two assignments and started research on two other projects. I'm desperate to get my screen play pitch into the Nick Darke Award scheme, but the deadline is Nov. 1st and they want a twenty page sample script and 2,500 word outline! It's going to be tough, but I'm going to try and submit.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
I've been a very good girl this weekend. I've resisted all offers of Oyster Festivals and Beers Festivals to concentrate on my work. (With the exception of two hours spent guiltily watching "X" Factor and several gym sessions. And a few tea breaks!) It's been hard but very gratifying. I've completed two assignments and started research on two other projects. I'm desperate to get my screen play pitch into the Nick Darke Award scheme, but the deadline is Nov. 1st and they want a twenty page sample script and 2,500 word outline! It's going to be tough, but I'm going to try and submit.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
So, I have been sat at this computer for a record number of hours and I'm developing a back ache. I must cram in as much internet exposure I can manage this week, I'm moving on Saturday and the phone line gets cut off at eight. I will be lost without it. I can't really complain, as their is an internet cafe on one side of the flat and a pub with wireless on the other. I could pick up a signal for free, I know this might work. Except my computer is four years old and doesn't have the built-in technology. How annoying. Maybe I will ask for some kind of wireless conducting device for Christmas.
The title of today's blog refers to the autodiegetic narrative I've just had to create for one of the assignments. I put myself in the body of a seven-year-old boy and write with his childish idiolect in mind. It was fun. It is really basic, but full of what I perceive to be paramount preoccupations of a young boy. In fact I'll paste it in now, for you'll to see for yourselves. (It's only 1,000 words.)
Big Voice, Little Man
Mummy told me I’m not supposed to pick scabs. I like picking scabs. Scabs turn into scars if you pick them enough, or if they’re big already, they leave a mark on your skin that you can feel to remember what you did. Mark’s got one on his knee; it’s where he fell over on the gravel in his dad’s drive. Sissy boy cried and we had to pick the bits of gravel out before his dad could put a plaster on it. Now it looks like an explosion happened on his knee. He says it still hurts. I don’t believe him.
I got two on the go, one’s from a mosquito bite that won’t stop itching. Other one’s from last week when I picked a mole on my arm. Mum got really mad and said,
“Your not supposed to pick moles, they never stop bleeding and they won’t grow back.” It did stop bleeding, not till after tea though. Who wants a mole? I have lots of them and I don’t like them. There’s this one on my back that’s like the size of a chocolate, but I can’t reach that one. It’s itchy as well.
“What’s wrong with scratching?” I asked mum. She said, “You can get infections, you’ll get scars and it’s not healthy.”
Never had a infection, so I’m not going to get one now. If I just squeeze my arm a bit, blood comes out where the mole was. I kept the mole, but I can’t find it now. I wanted to show it to Mark, see if I could dare him to eat it. I could put it in his sandwich and watch him eat it without him knowing. Then I’d laugh and he’d hit me till I told him what I’d done. I know you’re not supposed to eat other people’s blood, but if we’ve all got it, what’s wrong with that? I like the taste of blood; I can lick it off my arm. It tastes salty and warm. It fulls up again straight away. I can keep licking it and it will keep coming back.
If you drink blood don’t that make you a vampire? I like vampires. If I drink my own blood I’ll be stronger. I’ll grow sharp teeth and I will scare the girls at school. They don’t like me anyway. If a girl falls over she hates seeing the blood. When Abby fell over in the playground she cried for ten hours and wouldn’t look at her blood. It looked deep; blood went all down her legs. At school they put warm water and cotton wool on it and tell you it’s OK. Mum does more than that. She gets all these things from the cupboard and then puts a plaster on. One of those ones you cut to make a bigger one. I don’t like it because you can’t see anything.
Then when you peel it off it rips the hairs off you and the scab is all wrinkly and white. It’s soft and pink in the middle. It takes ages to go crusty again. Then it’s ready for picking. I like picking scars and looking at them close up. They look like pizza, with tomato and pepperoni. I did have a collection but mum took it away and told me I was disgusting. I like being disgusting it’s better than being nice. Girls are nice and they are boring. Except for Juno, she’s ugly. And she tries to hit me with stones.
Once, we were fighting in the playground and I threw a stick at her. She kicked me in the balls. It hurt so much I was nearly sick. I didn’t cry but I wanted to kill her. Miss asked what she did and I said,
“Juno kicked me in the balls.” She took hold of Juno and said to her, “You naughty girl. You must not kicks boys there because it is very sensitive and can seriously damage his private parts.” I didn’t like the way she said “private parts”, it sounded silly. Teachers always sound silly when they try to talk like that. Juno looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We hate each other and she will never get me again, because I know she doesn’t like getting in trouble. I didn’t tell mum about that, but it hurt all day and when I sat down. Miss asked if I was OK and I said “yes.”
Juno is more like a boy than a girl and that’s why we don’t like her. She tries to join in with us and when we don’t let her, she does things like kick you in the balls or screams. Girl screams are horrid. They make you want to put your hands over your ears. You want to scream back at them but you can’t. Boys aren’t supposed to scream or cry. They can shout. I’m good at shouting. When I shout mum tells me off and says, “Shut up”. You can’t shout at school. I shouted at Juno once and she screamed and then we both got told off.
My mosquito scab is itching again. It’s more a scar than a scab now, but I still like to itch it. I like scars. They tell stories. Heroes always have scars. Their enemies always have bigger scars. I’d rather be a enemy. Enemies get to have fights all the time and they get scars. Scars make a man mean. I want to be mean.
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
When I was eight...
Just got the strangest assignment today, but strange in a good way.
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
I've got to write an account of what my bedroom was like when I was eight. I kind of remember what it was like, but will definitely need some jogging of the old grey matter. I've asked mum and dad to find any diaries or photos of that year and asked them to contribute if they can remember anything significant. The aim of the project is to do some thorough research. I need to fully immerse myself in that time. The year of 1990. To get a proper understanding of 1990 I need to find out what I was wearing, what I was listening to, what I liked to eat, what was going on in the news, even what my favourite toy was!
I like the project because I like the idea of delving into my childhood again. I'd love to write an autobiography, so this will be good practise for me. If I do it successfully, then what's stopping me from recalling my fourth birthday? Or my first day at school? I remember my sister's first day very, very well and she's only two years younger than me. She really didn't want to go.
I remember mum dragging her out of the bedroom, kicking and screaming. As she approached the hallway with mum slightly in front, she grabbed onto a door frame and did not let go. Once mum released her fingers, one by one the tortured procession continued. All the way in the car, whine, whine, whine. "It's really not that bad" I'm thinking, but dare not say anything. She cried all the way there and then all the way into her class. It was almost a bad the next day, I guess you could of called her a real home girl.
Got to the gym for the first time in three weeks today. I hate having to go down a weight after getting to quite a good level of fitness, but my body just couldn't hack the pace I got to three weeks ago. Must stop eating so much, I think it's a winter hibernation instinct instilled in me from my Danish and Latvian roots. That's what I tell myself anyway.
Now my timetable has panned out, I've realised that I have got time to do other stuff like exercise and watching snippets of TV - for educational purposes of course!
Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We've got lectures until 2.30, then a course meeting til 4 and a guest speaker from 4.30 til late. Need to do a bit of research on our guest speaker in case we get to interview him. We will be discussing more about Bloc-Online as well, which seems like a daunting task, but could be very good practise. We've got a lot riding on our shoulders, with the Guardian Media nomination, our first issue needs to surpass the current standard - or at least match it!
Tuesday, 17 October 2006
There are Not Enough Hours in the Day
I have to admit, I'm finding it hard to prioritize my time at the moment. I've got so many exciting ideas and projects to complete but it seems like I have no time to actually execute them. There are a few writing projects not part of the course that I would love to enter, but I have to prioritize with my primary focus: course is king.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Any time I stray from the course content I get a niggling feeling - "Get back on the path," my conscience says. But at the end of the day, any reading or writing I do from now on is going to influence my course work.
Having been told today- "Do not research your next essay", I am greatly relieved. The format we have to follow is very simple, but after extensive research, it is very hard not to get lost in the information. It's only 800 words, but when you've got ten pages of research, it becomes impossible to focus on your original argument. This week's essay will be simple and easier to write (I hope.) I'm going to get going on it today, if I leave it any longer, I'll end up not having a weekend again.
On a lighter note; I heard the best conversation on the bus yesterday, I had to keep from laughing out loud at them. The conversation took place between two freshers, both with strong northern accents. Their conversation went something like this:
(Their discussion subject was fresher antics)
BOY 1: "I just can't keep up with them, living with seven other people, who try to out-do each other in crazyness. Like the other day, they turned the kitchen into an ice-rink. They just squirted a load of washing up liquid on the floor and skidded around."
BOY 2: "That's bad but not as bad as the food fight we had at mine the other night. There's still globs of stuff on the walls, I wasn't really involved, so I'm not cleaning it."
BOY 1: "Yeh mate, I try not to get involved but you feel a bit left out if you don't join in. We're freshers and this year's all about fucking up."
BOY 2: True, but I can't help thinking its gone too far. Our house has been involved with the police twice so far. I think our landlord might kick us out if we fuck up again."
BOY 1: "Don't talk to me about the police, mate. We were in Wetherspoons on Friday and we nicked a load of the fake plants and ran out with them. Then we had sword fights in the street and the police got aggro."
Typical new student behaviour, believe me; I've seen some pretty impressive pranks in my time. It's four years since I was a fresher and this conversation really took me back! I could picture the seven crazy flat mates trying to out-do each other, getting more and more extreme and ending up either badly hurt or in trouble with neighbours, the police or landlords.
I went to a party on Marlbourgh Road (a week or two after moving down here for my degree) and it was very loud and very busy. Later on when the house was full to the rafters, everyone drunk and dopey, an unexpected visitor arrived. It was the man from next door, with a hammer raised in his hand. He ran through the house and smashed the sound system up until it stopped playing. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Oh, to be that age again... No, I really don't miss it. In fact, it was a very confusing and awkward time, figuring out how to be independent for the first time and not getting anything right.
Wednesday, 11 October 2006
Hollywood Scriptwriter
Yesterday and the day before, I was lucky enough to be part of a group involved in a workshop with one of Hollywood's leading script writers; Blake Snyder. He was a man of boundless energy, infinitely passionate about writing and most importantly he keep me buzzing and awake, my stinking hangover a long lost memory. He opened up a whole new world to me: I desperately want to write a script. Who'd of thought most movies follow the same simple formula and you can write a good script as long as you've follow his easy fifteen beats method!
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