will work for clean socks

Some days, I surprise even myself. In the last seven hours, I've written a 2000 word essay from scratch, having woken up with a worse version of the fluey symptoms that I went to bed with. It usually takes me two days or so to write a 2000 word essay but owing to my presentation yesterday and the time that took, I was just glad that I'd done my preparation last week.

This is the first time I've been so organised. I marvel at this because I've never been organised. I am messy, I am scatty, I am also a pothead. The chances therefore of something like this happening are so small, so absolutely miniscule that I feel like I've won the lottery or something really quite wonderful.

It may not be a great essay but under my constraints and my inner feelings of cotton-wool-head that seems to come with the flu, I will consider this an acheivement, at least until I get my mark.

So that's it, the final piece of work that I have left. And it's done. Everyone else is still beavering away, and I'll get to spend my days catching up on sorting my life out. I have three weeks worth of laundry to do and no clean sheets left. I am in desperate need of clean socks, the opportunity to see my boyfriend and generally, reclaim my life.

As of 4pm tomorrow, I will be found in my local laundrette, reading a magazine- something I haven't done in a while.

Week nine jibberish

I am once again joyous. Early this afternoon, I gave my presentation on Pretty Woman. BANG! Another piece down, thank God.

Now only a 2000 word essay stands in my way. I have aprroximately 36 hours in which to write it, deadline of 4pm on Thursday. Can I do it? Probably. Will I suffer at the hands of sleep deprivation again? Probably.

ARGH.

This post probably makes little, or no, sense. The more academic work I am forced to do, the less capable my brain becomes when it comes to simple tasks such as forming a sentence, or navigating around Sainsburys. I could draw a graph about it, charting the change. Instead, I'll do us all a favour and go to bed now.

Zzz.

Oh Fuck, It's Sunday

Oh god, it's Sunday. I hate Sundays. Well, I like Sunday-day, but Sunday night is my worst part of the week. When I was at school, I'd be sitting at my desk surrounded by textbooks, head in hands.

These days my anguish is not caused by the loads of homework due for the following morning but the morning itself. Tomorrow I have a 9am lecture. Whilst those of you who have chosen the office monkey route of life may cry 'so what?!', lest I remind you I am a student who mostly does not rise before 10:30- and that's an early start. Whilst the working population is crammed between someone else's sweaty armpit and the token lunatic on an overcrowded train, I like to be tucked up under my goosedown Habitat duvet, courtesy of the Student Loans Company.

And amongst these palid grey workers, I'd like you to find me one person, just one person who actually thinks 9am Monday is okay. The world would be a happier place if nothing could be done before 11am on that particular day. No more disgruntled workers walking in with AK47s, sleep deprived and probably rain sodden, that's for sure.

So tomorrow morning, I will wake up at the bumcrack of dawn, when it's still dark- I'm morally opposed to this. If the sun ain't up, then neither am I. I will force myself into the shower, pray that the plumming hasn't gone mad and that there's some hot water.

At least I am not alone. The other 30 odd students on my course all turn up as equally blurry eyed and oddly dressed as I do, now prepared for the igloo like climate in our lecture hall. I swear I've even seen one girl with those pocket heat packets that you crack for warmth. Over the weeks, I've tried to maintain some sort of fashion dignity but as term goes on and the temperature rapidly drops, my outfits are becoming more obscure. I've recently rediscovered some Abercrombie longjohns that my mother bought me for trips to Eastern Europe in the winter (more common in my family than you'd think). I have now taken to wearing them religiously under my skinny jeans in some vague stab at warmth and stylishness but when I walk into any room above freezing, I begin to sweat rapidly.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finally kick back and wear my sweatpants. Tucked into my uggs. Whilst part of me shudders at the disgustingness of this look, the comfort monster in me can't help but salivate at the idea of cosiness.

I have vague notions of what might win.

**as I'm a fan of shameless plugging, visit halagoogoo.com. Glam rock in fancy dress, you know you want it.

Doing a Becker...

Has anyone else noticed that the woman at the beginning of the Sandals advert bears more than a passing resemblance to Linda Barker, she who will endorse anything vaguely home related? Who could forget those disturbing commercials with David Seaman?

Today's blog will have to be equivalent in terms of length to Boris Becker's visit to Nobu's janitorial closet as myy deadlines are rapidly approaching and the panic is setting in, although not as much as it should as my essay deadline's been pushed back to Thursday. Thank the lord for the incompetence of the administration department.

So today, I'll leave you to entertain yourselves with Noel Edmunds.

Neighbours, suburban TV crack?

Another week, another morning being rudely awoken by the builders upstairs. As I type, they're drilling directly above me, rendering even thinking impossible. I just hope they get done before Neighbours starts.

I really shouldn't be watching TV, or for that matter blogging, when I have this much work but the deadlines are still a week away and to a procrastinator such as myself, this is a time to finely hone skills such as doodling and feed my addiction for daytime TV.

Allow me to sample my TV choices for you on an average weekday, in between the heady rush of my 11 hour uni week. I begin my day, between the hours of 10:30 and 12:30, with This Morning. I used to watch BBC in the morning, but since they brought back Philip Schofield to my mornings, well, that was it. It all harks back to saturday mornings watching him and Sarah Green on the Live and Kicking couch and those waves of nostalgia are oddly calming when having to wake before noon. However, I WOULD sack the stylist as I honestly can't believe the trite they allow in this 'fashion' segment. Pah.

Once Phil and Ferne have left my screen, I face a tricky decision - flick over to BBC for the remains of Bargain Hunt or stay for the ITV news. Frequently, I stick with the news on this channel, although I find it hard to digest with its sensationalist claims- a bit like what would happen if The News of the World or Daily Mail suddenly became a programme.

After I've finished with ITV news at 1:00, I often switch over for the BBC news. This is news I like, a bit more level and, well, its the BBC. Since I started at university, the one thing that I can't quite get my head around is the regional news. As a native londoner, I have become accustomed to stories of violence, drugs and generally, the grimier underbelly of the city. My local news on the other hand is filled with the plight of local wildlife and primary school initiatives, with only the odd mugging or two thrown in once a fortnight. As barbaric as it may sound, I find myself hoping for something a little grittier.

However, regional news is small fry and for this reason, I nominate this as a good time to take a quick shower, making it back in time to check the weather report, before the jewel in the crown of daytime TV scheduling, NEIGHBOURS! Over the years when I was at school, I drifted away from Neighbours but entering the realms of uni (and visiting the country of origin for this wonderful soap) has stirred something in me and made me LOVE it.

Neighbours is like crack.

I KNOW I shouldn't watch it, let alone twice a day. I KNOW I schedule my working week around this show and that it's very sad. I KNOW that if ever there was going to be a reason for me to fail my degree, it would be Neighbours. Neighbours is my daily treat.

But still I can't stop watching.

However, I am not alone. Since I started living in student accomodation, I have been surrounded by other Neighbours addicts. We gather in each other's rooms, huddling around TVs and sigh with happy relief as one as the opening bars of the theme song flood the room, getting our first hit. I have to admit that frequently, I'll watch Neighbours twice a day. Why not? There's nothing else even semi-decent during those particular slots [1:40-2:05 and 5:35-6:00 for those of you non-converts]. Sure, I could be out doing something but in the current Siberian climates, I'd rather be on the sofa with a cup of tea, blanket and Ramsey Street on the screen. I'm not alone though. Last year during an afternoon viewing of Neighbours with some friends and just how awful it was that we watched twice a day, my friend George suddenly piped up 'Well you have to don't you? Alone at lunchtime in your room and then with everyone else in the afternoon so you can discuss it.' I was dumbfounded. At last, someone had finally voiced this secret taboo that my flatmates and I lived with.

Enough about Neighbours. I'm sounding like some kind of weird born-again convert, which I suppose in a way, I am. After Neighbours, I am lulled into a nap or lunch by Doctors. I'm in two minds about this programme, I think I preferred the single episodic style to the continuous plot episodes now. Doctors (2:05 - 2:30) is not what keeps me on BBC1 though. The real reason is Diagnosis Murder (2:30-3:30)- Dick Van Dyke, a murder plot and some plucky younger sidekicks - what's not to love about this show?

This is the point where my loyalty to BBC1 fades and I switch to Channel 4 for Countdown (3:30-4:15). I'm yet to meet anyone who doesn't like this show. I mean it. The late Richard Whiteley was marvellous and I wasn't sure how much I'd like it when Des Lynham took over but credit where it's due - he filled some pretty big shoes.

And now, we come to the show that I first mentioned in my blog, my latest addition, designed to fill the gap, my one opportunity to turn off my TV and get outside. Deal or No Deal ended all hope of breathing in some fresh air. Noel Edmunds has been missing from our screens for some time and yes, the first time I watched this show, I did think 'Where's Mr. Blobby?'. A quick summary: 22 people, 22 boxes with sums of money between 1p and £250,000. 1 contestant and his box join Noel to find the one with £250,000. There's a banker and lots of tension. Watch it because I can't be
bothered to summarise the rest. 'Why?' I hear you ask. Need you ask?

IT'S NEIGHBOURS TIME!

Hurrahs all round

Hurrah! I have reasons to celebrate!

Firstly, the simpler of the two - last night, I had my first ever poker win of £10. Hurrah!

And now to the second, a slightly complicated tale. I apologise if the following makes no sense, telling an abbreviated version of this story is a bit like trying to fit the dictionary on a piece of A4 paper...

Last term, at my dear institution of higher learning, we were given four choices to pick from for our final course this year. These included the following: Documentary II (following on from Documentary I which was subsequently cancelled), Hollywood Comedian Comedy, Race and Ethnicity and Post 1960s British Cinema. Eager as beavers, we all signed up to our chosen courses, with many people choosing the comedy course or British cinema.

A few weeks later, word spread that Documentary I and II had been cancelled. Annoyance levels were high as this was one of the most in demand courses offered -every film studies major I'm friendly with selected this as their first choice- but then we were struck with another blow, Comedy was cancelled.

So now, we had two choices- Race and Ethnicity or British Cinema, except that there wasn't really a choice as they carried different weighting - 18 and 30 credits respectably. Therefore, if you were a major, as I am, you had no choice in which course you were put on. Suddenly, my entire film class was to be reunited in Race and Ethnicity, the only choice out of the original four. Let me mention at this point that weighting was NOT mentioned when we were given our choice forms in the previous academic year.
Nor was the fact that our department was to merge with the Media Studies department and that the film students would be forced to do media courses for the duration of the Autumn term. There is no love lost between these two departments on a good day, so tensions were at an all time high.

Hence the already agrieved film students becoming even more agitated when we found out that we were being effectively farmed out to the Cultural Studies department, via Media. Cue much angry ranting at course tutors, writing of angry letters and petitions and finally, success.

On Thursday, we were all sent a very condescending email about how a 'small minority' of us would be allowed to do Hollywood Comedian Comedy. I will dig out the email in a future post, right now I'm still a little giddy from it all.

So Hurrah. Write the Wrong worked. Now, if only I could petition the beings above for warmer weather...

The grips of winter.

Oh. Fuck. It's. COLD. Seriously, last night walking back from Circus Oz to the taxi rank, we crunched across frosty grass and walked silently, each too cold to talk, listening to the sound of our teeth chattering.

What's happened? It's like bloody Siberia outside. Waiting for some friends outside the appointed restaurant we'd chosen for lunch, the boyfriend and I were forced to walk up and down the street in a bid to keep warm. We even went into the local library in an effort to ward off hypothermia, and this was mid-afternoonish. I dread going outside, as I have to shortly. I've taken every effort to layer up- fur lined booted, long johns, jeans, long top, hoodie and extreme polar jacket, as well as a scarf, hat and gloves.

I bet I get frostbite on my nose.

loud fights and whispered conversations

Last night I had a fight with my boyfriend. It was one of the most bizarre to date, for reasons as follow:

1. The fight we had took place within a very loud local rock club, whilst something by Pantera was playing in the background.

2. We were located either by the speakers or right behind the dance floor for the duration of the fight.

3. When fighting, we were both rather drunk.

For the reasons above, I'm not even entirely sure that the fight we were having was the same one, as neither of us could really hear the other, resulting in us both having to shout directly into one another's ears. Eventually, I left when it was clear nothing was to be resolved then and there, heading home and being accosted by a slimey white van man who offered me a lift the top of the hill. Luckily, I was literally at my gate, so I managed to pipe out a polite, if slightly on edge "No thank you!" and ran to my front door. Phew.

So today, Kate and I headed into town for a spot of retail therapy and lunch, a combination when presented to me will instantly lift my mood, although today I have to say, not much. I ended up spending money that I don't really have and can't really afford. However, I'm now in possession of a new rather swish black Vintage Process hoodie, a skull and cross bones vest top and two clutch bags. The mission for a silver clutch bag has been long and arduous. I've spent hours online, hanging around on ebay but nothing has really grabbed me. They've been too small, or too shiny, the wrong metallic shade, with odd openings, nothing has been right.

Anyway, I bought two- a larger silver one which isn't quite the pewter I'd like but it'll do as nowhere seems to do what I'm after, and a sparkly green leather one with studded detailing, but I figure I'll just hide that side. It's a bit smaller than the silver one, hence quite useful for nights of less junk.

I really shouldn't have spent the money. I really shouldn't have bought both bags. In a way, it's my anger towards my boyfriend coming out. After much to-ing and fro-ing about what I wanted for our two year anniversary, I told him a silver, preferably leather clutch bag. For a long time, as I said earlier, the search was fruitless. But then, so was my physical shopping habit. It's getting so bitterly cold so suddenly that my trips out of the flat, bar the necessary, have been few and far between.

[sigh] I should go photocopy. I need to return books for my film presentation and go scout for books I need to write my english worldwide essay this weekend. It's funny how the library changes throughout the year- at the beginning of term, there's usually a handful of third years and eager over-achievers desperate to get books before anyone else. It's only around week 6 that things get busy, and by next week it'll be busier than the on-campus club during freshers week. So at least amongest all the drudgery of the mountains of work, there is at least the social aspect of being able to catch up with people you haven't seen all term as all you scour the bookshelves in vain.

This is what my life will soon be reduced to, socialising in the library. But can it really be a conversation if you're both whispering?[sigh]

BANG!

Oof, no posts for a few days- Over the weekend, I made a trip back home to indulge in the luxuries of my mother's house. Unfortunately, one of the luxuries that is not afforded is broadband, so I sent the weekend in internet Siberia, letting my library fines hike themselves up by another fiver simply because I couldn't handle the pain of slow loading pages. I know that good things come to those who wait but on a timeout site, jack shit comes to those who have to wait for their pages to load.

Last night, I tried to post but my computer was hijacked by Ellie, who subsequently navigated the page away from my pending post before I'd had a chance to save it.

[sigh]

Anyway. My flatmate now has a new occupation. It seems that the word of myspace.com appears to have her in the grips of early stage addiction. For the last two nights, she's stayed up til 4 am posting and tweaking.

When the builders came in this morning and started to lay a new floor directly above my head at 7:30, you can imagine that I was not impressed, and my flatmate even less impresssed.

We were eventually forced out of bed by the relentless banging, which appeared to only be occuring in the vicinity of our beds, to the living room where both of us watched GMTV for the first time in three years. I personally prefer to sleep until This Morning, waking only when Philip and Fern are firmly installed on my screen.

Anyway, I'm hungry.

"It would be like cutting off my left hand.."

This morning, in leiu of actually doing some work, I attempted to upgrade my mobile phone as our cleaning products have disappeared to my flatmate's boyfriend's house, meaning that I'm not able to exert my energy elsewhere.

So far, four phone calls. So far, no upgrade.

On my first attempt, I was passed from Upgrades to Customer Services, where I was promptly told that I wasn't allowed to access my own account. Right. After ranting at the obnoxious assistant, I hung up, hit the internet to be armed, and hit redial.

This time, going on information that I had been given by the first woman in Upgrades during my last call, I headed straight for the Customer Services option from the robot menu. A mechanical voice told me to redial on a different number. Ho hum.

Third call, different number, another robotic voice, which informs me that this number is no longer in use and to please dial the original number.

As I once again redial the first number, I'm beginning to feel every so slightly annoyed. After manoeuvering through the robotic voice menu, avoiding both the Upgrade and Customer Services buttons, I finally got hold of a human at the other end. Hallelujah.

However, what ensued was a complete farce. After finally being granted access to my account and explaining that I would like to upgrade my handset after six months as the one they sold me last time was cack, spend a small fortune with your services, yadda yadda yadda, the surprisingly sympathetic phone jockey put me on hold whilst she rang Upgrades to have a gander.

Some delightfully bland pop blared into my ear as I sat patiently on hold. Click. 'Hi, sorry, no can do. But you say the problem is your handset?'

Once again, I reiterated my story- when I have paid for a handset, I expect it to work correctly. As a text reliant user, I don't feel my handset is working properly when SMS messages take four days to arrive in my inbox. Nor do I feel that all is well with my handset when the display flips upside down whilst I am using it.
'Let me put you on hold, I'll get on the phone to Nokia about this.'

Once again, my ear is blasted with the cheesiest of pop as I wait and wait. Click. 'Hi, sorry, Nokia can't give you a replacement handset, but they can repair it for you.' She then calmly adds that it would probably take about a week, maybe two. To this, I found myself calmly replying that I was a student and therefore unable to afford both a landline AND a mobile, giving them my only communication porthole with the world would be a bit like cutting off my left hand too.
The thing is, if I thought it was just my phone, then maybe I would consider sending it off. Unfortunately for Nokia, I've met other people with the same phone and the same gripes, so repairing it probably won't go a long way.

Again, there's nothing else they can do.

I feel like screaming blue murder at these people. Can I BUY a handset? Well, yes, for £300. Option shot down. I then proceed to point out that surely it's in the company's interest for me, the loyal customer, to have a phone that works, that I can use. A working phone means I will use it, the more I use it,the more money I will spend with the company. Everybody wins.

Sympathetic phone jockey emphasises and agrees that the system is ridiculous. I hope for her sake that the phone calls aren't recorded, or she could end up like one of my friends, Mark*.

Mark was a first year student I knew who supplemented his student loan with a part time job working for a large multimedia company in their customer services department. After working there for a while, listening day in day out to peoples' complaints, Mark finally cracked one day and day to agree with a customer who was ranting about the lack of service he received and about the company's CEO. A few days later, he arrived at work, to be called into the floor manager's office, where once he was seated, a small tape recorder was produced. The floor manager pressed play and the above conversation thundered out.

Mark was promptly fired and escorted out of the building by security. So perhaps this is why so many of customer services workers are snipey and rude. They simply fear that if they are vaguely nice to the customer, they risk the firing squad.

Enough story telling for today, I've spent far too much time griping and not enough time thinking about lunch.

[* -name changed to protect former employee's nuts from being mangled by heavies]

Minus wisdom teeth but plus a research project...

Week six of term and with a week of severe procrastination behind me, last Friday the universe decided to punish me for my laziness. I skipped along to my dentist's office, expecting just a check up and maybe a bollocking over my sugar habit but oh no, it was worse than that. Far worse.

Before I know it, comments are flying at me about whipping out my wisdom teeth 'now that I'm here' (what?! where's my baking soda clean gone?) and suddenly I'm on my back with a bright light being aimed directly at my eyes and my dentist is looking slightly manic as he brandishs one of those awful dental injection needles at me. After this, my whirling dervish of a dentist whips off upstairs 'to prep for surgery' (WHAT?! when did this become an operation?) and the nurse begins to ask me questions just as I lose all control of my face.

Why do they do this? Surely, when you're losing all feeling in your tongue and most of your mouth, it's best to leave the patient to sit quietly, perhaps with a magazine, rather than force them to risk the embarassing humiliation of drooling all over themselves as they try in vain to stop themselves from accidentally biting down on their numb tongues whilst simultaneously trying to answer questions about where they're going on their next holiday.

Needless to say, soon I couldn't feel a thing and my dentist reappeared, his slightly mad man-ish curls bouncing around him - aha! So, he was fixing his hair, not donning scrubs. Phew.

I will spare you most of the gory details but I will tell you this: the two top wisdom teeth popped out with no problems but my lower left, which was coming in horizontally was one bastard of a tooth.

Following my experience, I'd like to warn those of you out there, do NOT get your wisdom teeth removed when you have any vague plans whatsoever. I spent most of friday evening and the rest of the weekend high as a kite on a mixture of penicillin and super strength ibuprofen, spiked with other delightful numbing drugs, meaning there's no way that I can operate power tools, nor my car.

And now, four days on from my dentist inflicted torture, whilst the pain has subsided to a tolerable level but still to the point where loud noises make my teeth ache, I've suddenly stumbled upon the fact that my Research Project proposal form, the first step on the journey of an 8000 word dissertation, has to be ready for Thursday in some reasonably legible, coherent and fact based form.

Two days to plow through as much data as Ofcom can supply me with, in order to come up with some kind of hypothesis.

ARGH. If this wasn't bad enough, neither my flatmate nor I can figure out the intricate workings of our boiler, which we suspect might be some Ikea-like monstrosity, as the instructions all appear to be in Swedish and have apparently no mention of how to reset the timer device. I am doomed to shiver at my computer forever.