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Food is Nice

As is shopping.

This weekend, I went up to London with my mum. We stayed in a lovely hotel, right near Kensington Gardens, went to theatre (Dirty Dancing for the win!) and went shopping. I really needed some new underwear and some boots, and my darling mother offered to foot the bill. Which was lovely of her. We are really incompatible shoppers – she likes to get it over and done with, whereas I can spend forever browsing leisurely – but I am so grateful that she spent a disgusting amount of money on me.

Of course, as I was shopping for bras, I ended up crying in a changing room. I have a ridiculous bra size and so finding anything remotely pretty, or indeed simply not resembling a piece of machinery from the USS Enterprise, is bloody hard work. However, all was not lost as the lovely lady in Rigby and Peller said ‘If you wanted sexy, you should’ve said! I can do sexy!’ and promptly arrived back with several gorgeous bras. YAY! It’s bloody expensive there, but worth it for the service and quality you get.

Then we wandered around Harvey Nics, before strolling off to the Kings Road to buy me some boots! Boots were successfully attained but the real find was the glorious food market going on in Duke of York’s Square! OHMYGODTASTEBUDORGASM! It was a small market, but it was packed with so many wonderful things! Mum and I had some divine spicy Caribbean wraps, made for us by a smiley lady who addressed us in a mix of French and adorably accented English. The mixture of smells was heavenly – the scent of Brazilian, Lebanese, Caribbean, English, Italian and Indian food fighting each other for a place in the air. Divine! I don’t know what days the market is usually on, but we were there on a Saturday. I thoroughly recommend it. I can still taste those spices in my mouth.

Now, I need to attempt to start applying for study abroad! Scary.

Autumn Leaves

I’m bloody cold. And now, what with being All Growed Up and All That, I have to worry about things like heating bills so I have to man up and put on a jumper, rather than switch on the radiator. Grumblegrumble.

But I don’t really mind. I love the cold. I’m much more of an Autumn/Winter girl – mainly because you get to wear fab coats, but we’ll brush past that admission. What makes this time of year perfect is, cliché I know, the prettiness of the trees. Now, I spent last year complaining about my university’s isolated location. A lot. It does still piss me off to be honest; I hate how I have to factor in things like getting a taxi to Windsor or Kingston, rather than just into town, in order to go to a club. But today, my little corner of Surrey is making me smile. Off-campus students at Roho live either at the bottom of the hill in Egham (advantage: no hill to ascend on the way back from Tesco) or in Englefield Green at the top (advantage: no hill to ascend on the way to lectures). I live in the Green and I’m starting to fall in love with this little village. Ok, I’m living in the nice, main village rather than the council estate where most students live, so I have it a lot better than some but still…I can’t help being charmed. I’m looking out of my bedroom window and all I can see is orangey-brown leaves, still holding on strongly to their branches but knowing they’ll be falling off soon. Through them I can see the rooftops of large, pretty houses, owned by the rich villagers who live side by side with scummy students. Fair play – they deserve their big homes. I know that I can walk five minutes and be on Englefield Green itself. A small patch of greenery that was the site of the last fatal duel fought in England (between two bloody Frenchmen, nonetheless. Stupid Frogs). I can go to the off-licence on my road and have a laugh with the friendly family who smile when I buy more alcohol, but cheerfully tut at me when I buy cigarettes. I can walk under a mile and be in Windsor Great Park, a vast expanse of nature and beauty, where herds of deer run across your path, where you can see Windsor Castle, where you can explore to your heart’s content. Places like that are made for crisp, cold, clear autumnal days.

A reason to smile

A reason to smile

Which is why I don’t mind that now and then I have to put on an extra jumper.

Just a short blog because my brain hurts. I’ve failed at understanding these two essays I need to understand for my Literary Theories seminar tomorrow morning and instead I’ve succeeded in texting everyone I know about my discovery that my next door neighbour is rather delish.

When I don’t understand things I feel silly. Like a little child who doesn’t understand why it’s time for bed. I can’t comprehend the unfairness. But just one more minute! Just one more minute to try and take in all this information, pleeeease.

But then again – sometimes it’s good to be a child again. To indulge yourself for five minutes and do something silly that will make you sick, make you laugh til your cry or simply rot your teeth. Something to make you feel free.

floss

…looks like it’s going to be a fantastic place to live for the next year! I’m actually excited about RoHomo this year, not constantly crying or bewailing the horridness of my Egham existence. This may have something to do with the fully stocked alcohol shelf in our living room, but I think it’s more to do with living with three wonderful girls and actually taking pro-active steps towards making this year at uni a good one.

Last year I didn’t put in the effort. I expected university to offer me happiness, excitement, laughter, adventure and fabulousness on a plate. This is fine if you’re at a university that is in a big city and caters to its students need for fun (Cardiff springs to mind), but RoHomo is just not that sort of university. You need to find your own way of making the most out of your time here. Staying in, feeling sorry for yourself, crying into vodka and Tom Waits songs (a valid expenditure of time, don’t get me wrong) isn’t going to help you. And it took me a whole year of feeling sorry for myself, crying into vodka and Tom Waits songs to realise this.

So now this year, I’m DOING THINGS! Quelle horreur! I’ve signed up to present a radio show with Tash (we ARE the next Kermode and Mayo, only with more boobs and less quiff), I’m doing a report on the London Film Festival for the student newspaper and am getting my gym on every morning. Which means that when I do fancy a jolly good cry, it’ll be justified. Because I’ve been trying to make things better and it’s not my fault if it all goes tits up.

Also, hopefully I will be studying in Canada this time next year, which will be exciting! Fingers crossed on that and I’ll keep you all posted!

Nice, snuggly feelings about life at the moment =)

Right-o. Time for a catch up on Ye Olde Blogg. Last time I left, I was due to pop off to Somerset with my fellow poets (an acronym for poncey old english, tantrum-ing students). That was lovely. Such beautiful, lush countryside and a real sense of peace. Living in England, I often forget how lucky I am to do so. Yes there are problems here, but one look at those rolling green hills makes me so proud and so happy that I live here. Oh God, you can almost hear the Elgar playing over that can’t you? Sorry.

After I got back from said Patriotic Epiphany, I attended two rather fantastic events in London. The first was the ‘J. W. Waterhouse: The Modern Pre-Raphaelite’ exhibition at the Royal Academy and the second was the Donmar Warehouse production of Hamlet at the Wyndham’s theatre. Both of them I attended with my friend Alexandra, who provided great company at both events.

The exhibtion was utterly brilliant. It documented the career of John William Waterhouse, one of my favourite painters, from his early days as a student of the Academy, to his later works. As such it almost seemed like a painting in itself; a snaking timeline of progression. I had seen some of the major works (The Lady of Shalott, for example) in the Tate before, but others came from private collections – how jealous I am of those lucky few who own such precious pieces of art – and I felt truly privileged to simply be looking at these rare, exquisite beauties. I know how flowery and artifical my language seems, but nothing but my crude exaggerations will allow me, in my infinite inferiority, to express simply how much I adore the pre-Raphaelites. Their paintings seem traditional, but are so passionate and subversive when observed more closely. They truly embody the title of ‘Desperate Romantics’, as the recent tv series claimed. Waterhouse was one of the later pre-Raphaelites (the original brotherhood being John Everett Millais, William Holman Hunt and Dante Gabriel Rossetti) and though Millais has always been my favourite – one of the few citizens of my hometown to be truly remarkable – you can really see how Waterhouse developed the style into something even more strikingly beautiful and powerful. The cool silence that echoed round the stuffy, crowded rooms was as poetic as the paintings that created it. Even the mumblings from the people observing – my own inane comments included – were soaked up by the canvases, until the only words left were Waterhouse’s visual ones.
Then I went shopping, so the day was just perfect really.

A few days later I returned to London in order to see HAMLET! I was jizzing myself in excitement at this prospect due to two factors; Hamlet is my favourite Billy S play and Jude ‘nomnomnommanslagbutyoustillwould’ Law was playing the Dane. Firstly, I was absolutely hit in the face with theatrelust when I walked into the Wyndham’s. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to make love to a building so much before. Such an exquisitely designed place, ornate yet intimate, and so lovely to be in. It seemed almost wrong that such a simply adorable place should be the home of such claustrophobic, festering family dynamics for three and a bit hours a night!

I’d heard fairly sniffy comments about this production, but was determined not to let them colour my excitement. As the curtain rose on a stoney, imposing set and a lonely Hamlet, silent yet angry, on stage I was drawn in. The set was very simple throughout. Merciless, high grey stone walls; a large wooden door. All the actors were dwarfed by their surroundings, adding to the suffocating nature of Elsinore. As Claudius made his first entrace, a huge red flag was dropped to adorn the back wall, as sycophantic courtiers welcomed their new King. With this backdrop he seemed more like a political dictator than an old fashioned monarch, but this served to emphasise his cruel, domineering power. In contrast to his power, the women were dressed in dowdy, neutral costumes, establishing the patriarchy of this society, and how it is the control of men that determines the directions their lives take. In terms of style, I thought the simplicity of this production was excellent and suited Shakespeare’s text brilliantly.
The success of any version of Hamlet depends largely on the title performance and I am happy to say that Jude Law exceeded all my expectations. I’ve never thought of him as a terrible actor, but never as particularly good one either and I have to say that I had my reservations as to whether he could deliver in such a devastatingly powerful role as Hamlet. He did. He didn’t portray a Hamlet that I had ever envisaged whilst studying the text. I always imagine the introverted, quiet Hamlet – contemplative, brooding, never letting his emotions show themselves physically, not even when alone. Law was the complete opposite – in his soliloquies he seemed like a butterfly trapped in a glass, flitting about in confusion and terror. A terrific physical performance.

And, as I said to Alex as I left the theatre, “there is nothing I wouldn’t let that man do to me in the back of a car.”

I am a woman. Biologically, I have all the bits that would identify me as so. Bits that in due time will probably head unduly south and make me spend my entire life from about 35 onwards in a state of constant paranoid apoplexy. I am also what one would describe as very feminine, as well as female.

Yet somehow, this makes me feel very distanced from my own sex. Surely being both womanly as well as a woman would make me comfortable? Wrong. There is one thing that stops me feeling comfortable within my own gender. The big ‘F’ word. Feminism.

What the bloody hell does it mean? I am all for equal rights for women. A woman doing the same job as a man deserves to be paid the same as that man. Women should not be barred from certain pursuits or professions purely based on their biology. I know this. If that was all there was to it, I’d be fine. But there isn’t? Feminism, post-Feminism, post-post Feminism…they are all apparently things that are at odds with who I am. Let’s lay the cards on the table. I’m a walking poster for the ‘girly girl’. I love clothes, shoes, shopping, make-up, giggling, gossiping. If I get sad I eat chocolate ice cream whilst watching bad rom-coms, before moaning that I’ve got too fat.

Apparently this is Not Good. I know not all feminists are angry and dykey and dungaree-wearing, but I don’t think they lust after Jimmy Choos either. I can’t see how my lifestyle and the battle for female empowerment can ever be truly correlated, if feminism is to be taken for what I think – or have been told – it means. This makes me terribly uncomfortable. Am I the failing of modern womankind? Is it people like me, those who are educated and intelligent but still shoe fetishists, letting down the troops?

I honestly don’t know. What I do know is, there are lots of women like me. Women who think shopping should be an Olympic sport, and fret if they put on the tiniest amount of weight. Women who giggle a little bit and do the silly hair-flicky motion whilst talking to an attractive man. Women like me who talk to their beauticians about sex whilst getting a bikini wax, who count their hairdresser as a close personal friend, and even confidante. Women who like intellectual, philosophical art, but are also equally open to enjoying a shitty romantic film that openly exploits our tearducts. We can’t all have been socially conditioned into outdated gender roles, can we? Is conforming to the stereotype such a crime?

I know women have fought and suffered to progress our rights further, but a little part of me feels exasperated that this is constantly hurled at me as a reason why I should be more politically minded, or, at least, less retail minded. I do care about that, but my world isn’t about activism and philanthropy and getting angry about things. It’s about my friends and laughter and looking fabulous at all times. I think it’s much more rewarding being able to manipulate men through my femininity than through angry rants and ugly, flat shoes. I like men, too. I don’t see them as the enemy. Sometimes they are dickheads, but so are women. And I fail to see how it is a bad thing when one genuinely wants to take care of you.

I want a career. I want to be seen as intelligent and sophisticated and interesting. However, I also want people to think I’m beautiful, elegant. I want that lovely house in the country and the wardrobe full of Christian Louboutins. That’s who I am.

I am a woman, and I want things that women want. If that’s outdated and anti-feminist (whatever that ACTUALLY means), then so be it. I’d rather be anti-feminist than anti-feminine.

Now, feel free to shout at me. I’ll probably just cry and watch Bridget Jones to get over it.

I’ve been utter balls at keeping up this blog nonsense, haven’t I?

 

Last night Becci and I went to see a concert production of Les Misérables at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight. It was utterly fantastic, and the setting was gorgeous. For those who haven’t been, Osborne is a former Royal residence, built for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in the late 1840s as a private retreat by the sea. The architecture is simply stunning. Unfortunately the weather was not in our favour, but we huddled, shivering, under our umbrellas and let the music keep us warm.

I’m a big fan of Les Mis, both the book and the musical. A friend introduced me to the musical by way of lending me the Original London Cast soundtrack when I was about 14 and I immediately fell in love. I saw the show for my 16th birthday and read the book that year. The book is simply stunning, but is a bit of a hefty tome. I think the musical just condenses the story perfectly (no easy feat considering their source material is 1500 + pages long) and maintains the mesmerising spirit of Victor Hugo’s novel.

The plot is very multi-layered in both book and musical, but essentially revolves around one man’s battle to redeem himself from a society that condemns him to be unable to do so. Jean Valjean, the main protaganist (sp?), is a man sentenced to 19 years in jail for stealing a loaf of bread in order to feed his sister’s starving child. Upon his release he finds that the yellow ‘ticket of leave’ he must display by law to acknowledge him as an ex-con means employment, shelter and pity will be forever in short supply for him. As such, after an encounter with a kindly Bishop, breaks his parole in order to better himself. Other things follow (him becoming mayor, adopting the daughter of one of his factory workers etc) but throughout his life, Valjean remains pursued by the law. Namely in the form of police inspector, Javert.

Now Javert is one of my favourite characters in the book. He’s deliciously complex, with Serious Issues about things like the fact his mother was a slaggy gypsy who popped him out whilst in prison. His fierce dedication to the law stems from his feeling like a scumbag outcast due to his essentially chavtastic origins. Poor lamb. He refuses to let Valjean be free and pursues him tirelessly throughout the book/musical. I normally take him quite seriously as a character but last night I kept thinking about how he is actually ridiculously inept at catching Valjean and perhaps bears more similarity than first thought to another famous French police inspector

Anyway, the main point of this blog was to sum up how wonderful it was to be reminded of one of the most moving pieces of both literature and theatre in my life. I fell in love with Hugo, I fell in love with the musical and I fell in love with all these wonderful characters a few years ago now and remain in love. It’s such a wonderful, beautiful story full of poetic philosophy and delightful imagery.

Go read/see it now. Do both. The characters ARE slightly different in the novel and musical (for example, in the musical, Eponine = sympathetic, unrequited pretty street urchin, in the book? Nutter butter stalking type with a face like a slapped arse. I love her in both, but book ‘Ponine is genius).

You just need such an important story in your life.

Yesterday was a bit of a new experience for me. I went into Staines with a group of mates and hung out in the pub, just chilling, drinking, relaxing and talking. Normal stuff. Except that I was the only girl there. Now, I am not one of these cretins who believes that men and women cannot be friends -  I have loads of male friends who I absolutely adore – but I do believe that their friendships are likely to have a different dynamic. And I certainly very rarely spend large quantities of time in the company of just my male friends.

And now I know why. I have to state right now that I absolutely ADORE the guys  at uni I am lucky enough to class as my friends. I haven’t known them all that long, but through living next door to Shaf, I’ve recently begun to spend some time with them and really enjoy their company. But yesterday was still odd. Most of my friends will acknowledge that, although I’m quite prissy and uptight at times, I’m fairly easy going and have a deeply inappropriate sense of humour. When I’m with my girls, I’m throwing out the smut and innuendo left, right and centre. Not so yesterday. Of course there was some sexual humour and crude banter being bandied about – we were a group of young friends hanging out in a pub. In Staines of all places (altogether now ‘Aiiiii!’). However, I wasn’t as comfortable about it as I usually am. I like to think that I can hold my own with a bunch of guys, but at certain points Shaf had to butt in with a ‘DON’T MAKE LAURA CRY!’ reproach to the others.

But the humour wasn’t the main issue. It was them commenting on EVERY SINGLE GIRL that walked past. I wasn’t offended by that – they are straight guys, they are attracted to girls, of course they will notice if a cute one walks past. What upset me was seeing that, had I been a passerby, I don’t think I would have got a positive comment. I think I’m reasonably attractive. I’m a bit squishy round the middle, but my face is quite nice and I dress well. However, I’m not some gorgeous, leggy hottie and, sadly, that seems to be type that these normal guys go for. That’s not a particularly surprising observation, but it wasn’t reassuring. I am by no means attracted to any of these guys, but I know they are nice and caring – hell, just normal, decent blokes. I don’t fit into the idea of beautiful even for nice guys. I don’t need reminding of that on a regular basis. i know this is deeply hypocritical. I’m a nice, normal girl but I still fancy really, really hot people. I know that, but I still felt a bit put out.

I just can’t handle the insecurity of that environment. I’m never going to be one of those girls who is ‘one of the lads’. It just feels like competition. Of course I’m happy to hang out with them, sharing pizza and watching Star Trek – it’s nice to be with people who don’t care about calories and just say ‘we want a fucking BIG pizza’ – but I don’t think I could ever hang out with exclusively with my guys as much as I do with my girls. I’m just one of the girls. Always have been, and I think I always will.

Last night I went with Gee and Elford to see As You Like It at The Globe. Whilst initially a bit miffed at being in the ‘peasant’ area (i.e standing up), I soon realised exactly how close I would be to the divinely beautiful actor who was playing Orlando and promptly cheered up. Plus, groundlings ticket prices were nice and cheap. Excellent.

The show was utterly fantastic. I laughed and laughed and laughed and came out feeling so happy – in spite of the foot cramp which was threatening to make my walk back to Waterloo rather nasty. The humour in the text was really played out by most of the cast. Personally, I think that Rosalind (Naomi Frederick), although perfectly good in most aspects (a couple of line fluffs aside!), missed a lot of the humour. This was a shame, as I really love the character of Rosalind. Similarly, Jaques (Tim McMullan) got all the melancholy right, but didn’t execute the humour and sheer ridiculousness of his character all that well. Also, he had a really bloody annoying nasal voice. And scary eyes. THEY WERE SO SMALL! However, there were also several stand out performances. Orlando can easily just be a fawning, foppish pansy, but the actor who played him on this occasion (Jack Laskey) was not only a prime example of God showing off (‘And God said, there shall be beautiful things *sparkledust*’) but also a really charismatic stage presence. He played the lovestruck idiot perfectly well, but with a knowing irony – a sort of twinkle in his eye that said ‘Yeah, I’m a dick, aren’t I?’  Celia (Laura Rogers) was also very good. Just adorable – cute, witty and in possession of the most wonderful facial expressions I have ever seen. However, the star of the show HAD to be Touchstone (Dominic Rowan). OH MY GOD THE MAN WAS A GENIUS! I can’t explain the number of wonderful moments where I thought I would just combust from laughing too much, but it was so joyous! He really made the most of all of the humour of the text and played off the audience beautifully. All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Lots of MAN WRESTLING at the beginning too – always good.

Now it’s nice and sunny outside. Dearest Daddy has just left after taking me out for lunch, so I might go outside and lie on the grass and read The Great Gatsby and listen to The Boss. I love this warm, comforting sunshine – the one that soaks you with happiness and is tempered by a lovely, light breeze. I love skipping about in little floral dresses, with my hair loose, like I’m a little flower pixie. Last Monday, the parents and I went to Petworth House (http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-petworthhouse/), which I thoroughly recommend.  Not only is the house gorgeous, but it also contains some beautiful artwork – including several Turner and Blake pieces. But the main happiness from this outing came when I was sat by the lake in the grounds, looking out over the rolling Sussex countryside, feeling the sun on my face and listening to the ducks quack. Whenever I’m at one of these National Trust places (my parents and I are perfect definitions of British middle-classness and hold memberships with the Trust) I always imagine that I’m in some fabulous period gown and about to enter into an engagement with some dashing, Byron-esque gentleman. I like to imagine the house is mine. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? This is sometimes a point of contention between my parents and I. They assume I am being rude and stand-offish, refusing to talk to them. This is not the case. I am usually just visiting my own little world. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Our own little worlds are usually so much better than this big one we have to share with so many others?

But then the people in the big world are actually real. Which I suppose counts for something.

Whilst I may look very feminine, chic and cool, I am, in fact, nothing more than a Big Nerd in A Dress. Just yesterday I once more picked up Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, to start my yearly ritual of reading all the books. Woe betide anyone who thinks Tudor history (or any history for that matter) is boring. I’m always buried in books. However, my nerdiness really doesn’t extend much to sci-fi. With one exception: Star Wars.

I can’t actually remember the first time I sat down and watched Star Wars, which is odd as I can recall this with, for example, the Indiana Jones films, which I adore in equal measure. What I do remember is thinking, after only a few bars of the theme tune, that any other film would have to do a lot to surpass this. Few have done so. Star Wars is just so special to me (we’re talking original three here, obviously) and that music sends a shiver down my spine every time I hear it.

Being such a big Star Wars lover, I obviously have never had any time for Star Trek. Trekkers/Trekkies are, after all, the enemy. To be honest, I’ve never watched more than a few clips of Trek, but have always dismissed it as being inferior and, of course, far more nerdy than our dear Star Wars.

Yesterday I went to see the new Star Trek film. I heard about its production a year or so ago and had little-to-no interest in it. George Lucas had already destroyed my soul (and childhood) with the Wars prequels and I had little faith that modern sci-fi films could actually be any good. However, as the film was press-screened, all the reviews I listened to, or read, about this new Star Trek were…well, good. I scoffed at them of course but secretly did want to see it. Then my friend Natalie, a fellow Star Wars fan, went to see it. She said it was brilliant. Balls, I thought, I better go commit an act of treachery then.

Last night I went to see it. It was utterly fantastic. Such a fun, enjoyable and enthralling cinematic experience. The film had such heart (I was emotionally destroyed about five minutes in) yet didn’t take itself too seriously when it didn’t need to, which is a hard sci-fi balance to strike. The actors were fantastic, being recognisable as but not carbon copies of the characters that Trek fans know and love. Being a big film, and a big sci-fi film at that, Star Trek could have got lost in CGI. Yes, the effects were incredible, but they weren’t there for the sake of saying ‘LOOK WHAT WE CAN DO!’ They were relevant to the story and simply enhanced the story on screen. The pacing was also very good – exciting but not rushed. All in all, a really fun yet thoughtful piece of cinema. Oh, and I now have the raging horn for Spock.

Does it beat Star Wars? Not for me, no. I don’t think anything will be able to unseat the place that Yoda & co have in my heart – they are imprints of childhood. What this does show, however, is that sci-fi can be done well in modern cinema. It is not something to be dismissed – something which the horrific Star Wars prequels would suggest – which can only be a good thing for nerds out there. I am now interested in watching some more Trek. Maybe sci-fi has a future, rather than just depicting the future.

Well done, J. J. Abrams. I give you a whole-hearted Vulcan salute. I have new respect for Trek.  May it live long and prosper.

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