A Note From The Idiot

I am sorry to announce that we lost Consette in Colombia. She suffered a disillusionment of sorts, contemplated the point of her existence, and is now doing missionary work in the Amazon Rainforest.
She sends you all her deepest respects, and not an ounce of illegal cargo,

The Idiot

Sabbati-Week

As from today, I shall be taking a Sabbati-week and half or so. Consette needs a break sometimes, and I will write when I can. But I probably won't.

Because as from Thursday I shall be in Colombia with the idiot, the parental unit, the fraternal unit, and the newly conceived Colombian in-law unit. Larks!

Consette x

Library

So at about 7pm we shuffled into the PS section of the library with the most tentative motions possible, sensitive and scholarly. On the way in, we passed this on the stairwell:

[TRANSCRIPT]

Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Hiya
[Suppressed anger evident in pout]
Little does he know man on end of phone presumably says: Hiya
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Yes, yes, so how did you find last night?
[Twirls a curl around a little finger and smiles sarcastically]
Little does he know man on end of phone presumably says: Oh you know, good.
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Don't you remember? We had this sort of argument.
[Deceptive, lighthearted snort]

*

And at 8pm we exited PS section, and there she was. With advancements.

[TRANSCRIPT]

Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: But Danny this is the fucking problem, you just don't care do you? I have been thinking about this all fucking day and, well, you always do this. And then I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for what other people thought. What do you think they think Danny? When you treat me like shit. Like SHIT.
Knows a bit more man on end of phone presumably says: Arrgooyaaaerrrr. Um.
Girl who shouldn't be in library on phone: Yeah well I suppose I'm going to go now. But this conversation isn't OVER Danny.
[Crosses legs, gets comfortable]

*

Nice to have a little domestic on a Sunday. In a ruddy library.

Consette x

Like a Kid on Jelly-Tots

She is so happy it's making me sick. She has no specific reason to be happy. Bitch thought she'd inflict it on the rest of us. I've put on some Leonard Cohen in an attempt to dilute this nauseating sunshine and smell of lavender oil.

I suppose the Hemingway essay is done and dusted, that must be it. In the last 10 minutes I've managed to unpick about 5 stitches in her argument, but I'm being tactful and staying quiet. I am a considerate Consette. Oh and that lunch, that too must have kicked the euphoria into shape. Then the result of the rugby which she didn't have time to watch in proper time, and a few youtube videos of people getting the first question wrong on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Fuck off Patrick Wolf on shuffle. She will explode from over-stimulation. Said the actress to the...etc etc.

The parental unit sent us an email the other day from New York, saying 'NY is rather big. We are rather small.' There be the truth. And the idiot just spoke to Grandmother on the phone. It was a case of reassurance duty and transferral of generational information from the second generation through the third to the first, which I suppose reminded her of that weekend in the Shire spent making biscuits and playing Scrabble. I think she's quite looking forward to these holidays, to reading and writing (or, at least, the possibility of reading and writing if she so desires) and seeing the Somerset lot. And she's more positive in one particular area than before, which is more than can be said for me and Chunky Blonde. I am the realist I feel.

And Colombia. And a new love of music. And the discovery of La Roux, who joins the list of women who she would. Rebecca Hall is no longer on her lonesome.

Bolognaise time,

Consette x

The Snows of Izzy Lockhart Smith

No time no time no time. Hemingway consumes. She's almost finished. Can't finish now, though, there's a whole litre of cider to drink before the tri-racket ball tonight. Busy busy.

Consette x

Hklemh

Errgh.

Hkloncsetteh x
(Imaginary friend of Hklemh)

Lemsip

Head like an oil spill.

And who even cares if that works or not, Consette is fucking ill. Fuck and kill.

Consette x

Guinness Cake

Guinness Cake is made from dark matter, so says Maud. So says Father Nathan. Or even Guinness is made from dark matter, boiled up to liquify. It is the don of dense, and hats off to Rachel and Happy St. Patrick's.

Consette x

Porridge Explosion

She was so excited at the prospect of using milk for the first time in a long time, but the counter top attacked and porridge went everywhere like the lumpiest sick with chunks of stomach lining. It was a veritable explosion. Her hand got a little burnt. It was kind of funny. Lawrence Ferlinghetti is on Radio 4 but I know she's only pretending to listen. Exhaustion sags, Oxford Literary Terms proffers itself with legs wide open, there's a mug stained and a teaspoon stained, Cloudy Lemonade, food crusts on the keyboard, a multitude of spiders in the curtain folds which I imagine are there and they might just be you never know, pink eyes, a book on bullfighting, warmth. Goodnight,

Consette x

The Grim

It's funny how things can change in that split time inbetween two seconds. Just so sunny. And now grim, with that human warcraft roleplay lot splicing the field open with black rags and axes. And there was a lot of positivity about the Hemingway essay (the next hurdle), but now dim grimness. The first line must attain assertive originality balanced with simple constraint, and be completely astounding in its poignancy. She can't find it. So we have stalled at the first 12 words of the title. I think she's finally realised that Colombia is in almost 10 days, and excitement and concentration are not too good at cohabitation. De dum de dum de dum.

She wants another Lost Friday, and I agree. Being imaginary, stalking handsome raving men is pretty easy and lots of fun. We danced in silly ways and couldn't give two shits, we drank cider and built up our immunity to the dreaded apple-y ache and drag, we forgot about important things in one sense and focussed on important things in another. It was the best.

Tonight is another night out, but of a different sort and kind of pivotal if it all goes to plan for her. I hope it does, however much I take the piss. I basically want the reflected glory. Refracted glory actually; I reckon my imaginary constitution makes me more nebula-based than flat surface mirror-based.

Consette x

Pinocchio

Rachel and the idiot went on a date today to see Pinocchio at the Puppet Theatre. It was so beautiful, even I succumbed to a touch of nostalgia. Junked on it in fact. There was a bit involving whales swallowing people, quite traumatic, during which Rachel cried. The only one, I think, in a theatre full of 5 year olds. The whole thing was just marvellous and Chunky Blonde misery got skimmed off the surface like gravy fat.

I'm sorry my posts are a bit runty these days. She needs the computer for this essay rush; desparate to get it all done before the Colombian weekend adventure.

Consette x

Chunky Blonde

Chunky Blonde is occupied I think, a locked door. Frolicking inside with some glorious specimen. Do work, do drink, do Lost Friday, continue. And repeat.

Consette x

The Great Unwashed

Oh she smells so bad. So bad. Essay fermenting. Brain stunted. Woken up at 4 this morning by loud sexing somewhere above or below, left or right. Annoyed at not being able to discern the culprit from grunts. So got up anyhow and did some work to the tune of pleasure. Been on this essay ever since. She's done now, but not the references. They take a day in themselves. Bum.

Again, idiot, go and have a shower.

Consette x

Metapizza

See, point proven. Found on thisiswhyyourefat.com.

Consette x

Meta-Blog

Today we talked about metanarrative and the incredulity thereof, and that was easy enough. But then what exactly is meta? You can pretty much put it in front of anything. And people do. The idiot had a meta-sleep at 2pm today in which the sheets almost consumed her whole. Then there was the meta-lunch and the bolognaise was made with red wine. And she has just finished a meta-squash match against the Beccles ladies, who are in themselves the personification of meta.

PG Tips make meta-tea bags.

Enough. It's Lost Friday in 3 days and I think everyone should attend. Last time was magic and so sweaty, so much dubstep (another phrase I bandy around in an elastic way and really have no clue.) She hasn't indulged in a VK binge in a very long while. The VK was the definitive nutrient of the first term. £1.50 for a fortnight's supply of sugar? Truly wondrous.

She's so sleepy all the time and I'm finding it a bit hard to communicate. The radiator should be turned off and hot drinks should be exiled. She doesn't seem to understand that this is the only way the essay will get done. 'In what senses did the US Constitution reflect the ideas of the Enlightenment?' My foot. Exams for next term are irritatingly random; only two, one on the 18th May and the other on 1st June. We live in meta-times,

Consette x

Friends

Some of her friends are trickling bit by bit into the arena of the insane, just a little at a time so that no one really notices. I notice, though, because I am special. Neither do I mention any names.

Ok, the essay is taking me over. It's gurgling in my ear. Threats. Shit, better go.

Consette x

Balloons

Someone's released the balloons left over from Emily's party from their kitchen quarantine; they're blowing all around Norfolk Terrace and popping at random. I keep thinking it's a muffled gunshot. We're up so early because Joao had to leave at 8.45am to go to Gatwick to go to Portugal. First Stacey, and now Joao. The flat crumbles.

I can't write much because I'm hungover from Maud's last night, and the thought of work is making the idiot jumpy and I'm on call for placation duty. She's reading Kant. She read it on the bus yesterday like so much look at me. I was embarrassed.

Consette x

Ick

Too late, today has failed. Yesterday failed rather.

Consette x with a kiss again

P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAUUUD!

Yellow Bricks

Oh just fuck all of you. Last night was excellent, and here you have the price paid. I'm a little crispy bit of dead skin, fucking off and hurting things in the process.

Fuck. Wasting 3 hours of our life watching Watchmen was not the most prudent of moves on a hangover.

Consette no kiss today

M and M

The bedroom is drowning in brownie smell (bejewled with M&Ms instead of walnuts). They have to be kept in here to cool because Emily could waltz into the kitchen at any given time, and then she would know about the M&M surprise and the whole shebang would go to pot. Don't know how much longer I can last without turning perverse. Peanuts and chocolate do things to me.

Ok, I'm going to help her draw bricks onto a yellow top now. I am such a diligent imaginary friend,

Consette x

The Wizard of Oz

Tomorrow night it's EEB's Birthday Wizard of BoOZe and such and so, in preparation, the idiot and I sat down to watch the film for the first time. Quite well oiled. I'm sure we've seen snippets before, but never the whole fandango in its glorious entirety. The Bulmers in the pub no doubt added to the overall impression, but but but what. a. party for the kids. Toto in particular, very special.

We haven't chatted about chunky blonde for a while. His human manifestation (god made manifest perhaps into something ever so slightly inferior, skinnier and on the whole, not chunky blonde) is, well, absent, and thus, and with commerly consequences, I do profess, an absence for me. Too. Don't know when they're back. Gurgle. I wish the idiot would sort something out. These humans, both idiots. Me and chunky blonde (yes Granny, I know - Chunky blonde and I) could discuss their general idiocy over a scone and tea. Time for you and time for me. Or whatever it is. I can't suck up the energy required to stretch the distance between here and the shelf upon which Eliot lies. And who really gripes at misquotes, apart from Josh. To whom I extend my deepest apologies.

I think that this post is shotgunned with too many full stops. I should learn to stop stopping quite so enthusiastically. It's cheating.

We are stiff from aerobics and need to go and baste a chicken and then eat it, so goodnight one and all and wish her luck as the yellow brick road tomorrow. But I would, in general, advise against following her.

Consette x

Recent Chocolate Ventures

Another Short Entry

Busy day of piggy, red-rimmed swimmer's eyes. She needs to get some goggles. Nackered too. But also prepared for nuclear war after that Morrison's trip. 12 savoury muffins for a pound? Splendid.

Consette x

The Picaresque Epic

9 hours. Fucking 9. Hours fucking.

We could have gone to Paxos in that time. But instead, oh no, let's venture the distance between Somerset and Norwich. Just let's.

We did, however, get to see Jamielock for a quick coffee in Victoria which was pleasant. The last glimpse of him sans wifey. Then there was a man (or woman - I didn't actually see) improvising saxophone over the beat to Billie Jean; of course, wonderful. But apart from these minor alleviations, today was an arse.

To bed. To iPlayer.

Consette x

Qug

Why and how is that not a word?

Lost at Scrabble, lost at rugby. Simultaneously.

Goodbye,

Consette x

Cowpat Cookies

They have been christened Cowpat Cookies. When I get access to the necessary cables I shall be uploading the pictures in all their steamy glory. She was inspired by emotional Mat with one T winning Masterchef last night and has upped the ante in the kitchen; today saw the birth of The Biggest Biscuits in Existence (caesarean section) and pollo con pomodoro in tecia (chicken and tomatoes). Granny politely ate the entirety.

Home is good. The idiot is being most productive. Very little work has been achieved. She has, however, gone on 2 dog walks, made and consumed alot of food, and scrubbed a mystery brown smudge off the carpet at the top of the stairs. Oh, and scrawled a terrible poem onto some tracing paper. The poetry has stalled somewhat since last term. She needs a love interest, possibly, like that Fiennes chap in Shakespeare in Love...or she could just appropriate some of my ditties on chunky blonde.

So I know a chunky blonde,
A blonde of whom I'm fond,
With hair like custard,
(But breath like mustard),
And an expression perpetually monged.

Consette x

Cooking doesn't. Get tougher. Than this.

I'm going to attempt this as a Greg and John dialogue, and all words must be shouted as if someone is jabbing an egg whisk between their shoulder blades:

Greg: This - is - it, John.

John: Things could not be more tense right now.

Greg: These three EXCEPTIONAL cooks trying to make it as professionals.

John: And tonight they face their toughest challenge yet.

Greg: Tell you what, I'm on the edge of my seat.

John: Its the finals. Of Masterchef.

Greg: Gentlemen. Let's cook.

Ill be watching. Will you?

Consette x

Homebound

Going to get the 'Mid-Station Blues' perhaps, between Liverpool St. and Waterloo and all the scum inbetween. The idiot loves it, apple cores and soggy butts, concrete, men in suits, sweat and stubbly underarms on the tube. She has bizarre notions of romanticism. Then it's on down South Westerly to look after various addendums of the homely hearth. Namely dog and grandmother. I don't know, I'm quite pleased to be going back. She can work on her poetry for a few days (that's what she says she'll do) and perhaps make a start on these essays, and I can lie on the bed and dream of chunky blonde, who has more associations in Somerset than in East Anglia.

She ate much food yesterday, and none of it constituting the holy 5. A Rocky Road Rachel, and so much licking of spoons, pans and fingers to dab up the Rich Tea dust, and a pancake party in the evening. Now she feels a bit sick, still at 12pm. Should be a fun journey,

Yours in Somerset country slacks,

Consette x

Puncake

The inventory of pancakes:

lemon and brown sugar
apple and cinnamon and maple syrup
lemon and brown sugar

yes.

So what to give up tomorrow? I think I may take up something instead, adopt a child, grow a willy. It's a more positive move.

Consette x

Magners

Hm yes I approve of the move to cider consumption at 3 in the afternoon. I approve wholeheartedly.

Milkbar and Bare-feet festival yesterday was goodness. But what IS rockabilly? What does it sound like? That's what I want to know.

Consette x

Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants

Things started pretty inauspiciously. We were stapled in by about four couples slurping away to themselves and looking foggy-eyed, and there was this smell, and the only supper had been a pack of Sweet Chili Chicken McCoys.

But Wild Beasts are, of course, magnificent. On this point I approve of her taste. The singer is called Hayden, which is enough in itself, who has a voice which will make your stomach collapse. (In fact in Josh's case this actually happened, resulting in an embarrassing incident in the smokers' area. Yes Josh, I read your texts too, over her shoulder. Frequently reprimanded for nosiness.)

So the Beasts are neither wild nor beastly, but they most certainly can growl. A growl which inspires behaviour of the most base and inappropriate kind, sparked up at random when performing the simplest of human/imaginary activities. Ordering a drink, for example, I almost stroked the barman's friendly imagination. His cheeks looked like the ripest peaches. So cute. And likewise, elbow those fucking couples in the groin.

A brilliant gig. They all dress in Beat clothing and are perpetually charming in their humble thank yous, breathy and a bit confused. Another reason to like them - those trousers are awfully tight and their words awfully funny.

Onwards now, the idiot needs the computer for early morning work. Most bizarre,

Consette x

Silent Rave

I wonder about some of the things she does. I wonder.

1.45pm, Castle Mall (defunct Zavvi entrance), Soulwax Remixes at the ready, earphones in, klaxon wail...
Well, actually, it was alot more discombobulated than that. She went off for a pre-cider with Leah in the Wild Man and they missed the start, but I'm told on good authority that a klaxon was involved. A good 25 minutes of raving, though. People on stilts, a man with a yellow happy face planted on his head, toddlers, ageing hippies, and some perplexed security guards. This makes it sound as if the full 1000 members of the Facebook group turned up, but I'd estimate it was about 1/12th of that at the most. Glorious, she said. And, if the manic trajectories of her arm flails are anything to go by, infinitely less inhibiting than dancing in a club.

Fuck the police, eh.

Consette x

Ugh

Oh nothing to report here other than perpetual boredom of the most vicious kind, and writer's block on her part coupled with mass Granny Smith genocide.

Chunky blonde is distracting.

Ugh,

Consette x

Rounded With a Sleep

We have to wake up at 7.30 AM tomorrow. She has an early haircut. I could get quite spherical with sleep all morning, but no no no thought for little me. Bigger than her. I am. Excuse the stunted sentencing; pushed outwards, quilted with soup.

It was The Tempest tonight. Maud was spectacular, and the bit where she scratched her nose was certainly the best bit. Prospero and the King, both also good. But Ferdinand and Miranda were unlovely lovers. Alot of wide eyed amazement and gesturely joy ensued.

There was a traumatic incident with trainers today. She had been saving up for weeks. Then, oh and I giggle maliciously in rememberence, she left them on the peg in the Castle Mall toilets. 5 minutes later and disparued. Ran and rang up every which way, and then rang Sole shoe shop too late. Two little girls had gone in with the shoes and demanded a refund. And, being refused, had upped and left. The thing that upsets the idiot most is that the girls would want money in exchange for the trainers...those trainers were beautiful. Heathens.

Consette x

Concepts

Tonight is a Concepts party for Heather's Birthday, starting at hers for cake and later Subterranean Homesick Beats which is worth going to if only for the name. The idiot is going to go as 'Expansionism'. It's very simple, all that is required is a sign reading 'I am Expansionism. Please feed me cake.'

She surprises me sometimes with her ingenuity.

Yours hungering for cake,

Consette x

P.S. Sometimes when I introduce myself, people mishear and think my name is 'Concept' which, on reflection, is quite a fitting name for an imaginary friend.

Men in Swimming Costumes

So before tonight, despite all my objections, she frequently expressed a desire to go to a School Daze LCR. It was pathological, she argued. She wanted to dress up as a little boy with muddy knees.

But then about half an hour ago we saw things on the bus, inhumane things, hideous things, things in tight things and lots of things singing. And now, thank goodness, she is cured.

The trauma was worth it. We had the best day. Walked into town listening to Joy Division and doing Ian Curtis spasms all over the pavement, then got to Cinema City just in time for Man On Wire which the idiot claims is one of the most beautiful films she has ever seen, forced down a free Peroni in the bar thanks to the student membership, dawdled for a good 2 hours, went to the Waterfront and fell in love. Me and her, we rarely agree, but The Kabeedies cannot be anything other than amazing. The sing about finding lego in sick and call the song 'Treasure Hunting.'

I'm very happy in Norwich I am,

Consette x

Pished

I am not pished, as the Irish pished would say. I only drank drunk what she had. One Strongbow Wrongbow and a Snakebite. Lightweight swaying in the dregs of pished aspirations.

Consette x

Pocahontas

While she watches Pocahontas and claims it's research for an Expansionism presentation, I'm reflecting on yesterday. We weren't exposed to too many couples thank goodness, except for Maud and Doug and Emily and Stewart (all of whom are bearable), and spent most of our time pretending it wasn't happening. Then in the evening it was that Soapbox Alternative Valentine's in Norwich's own freezer drawer, with cheesy chips outside and miserable runny noses inside, but a seminal Susie performance and EP launch to finish so I suppose it ended okay. Sarnies (slang) are delicious. On the subject, a new classic is hard boiled egg, tomato ketchup, and burnt toast. Direct result of low food supplies. Invention through limitation.

Valentine's Day was so much more important when the idiot was younger. 11 year olds are, on the whole, more romantic and have greater reservoirs of optimism to draw upon. She still has a little pink box with the husk of a chocolate heart wrapper, a present from Rory Watson, and last night in the Birdcage she saw a red balloon just like the one Ben Conlin gave her at the age of 5. But now, not a gift or a card in sight. Me neither. Weirdly, though, it didn't matter so much for her. I miss my chunky blonde.

You know, sometimes I want to stuff a bazooka down the throat which makes that laugh. I hear that girl laugh for prolonged periods at least twice a day. Whoever the hell she is I wish she'd get some reserve. It's a fucking rubbish laugh, kind of like an engine running out of petrol and juddering. SHUT UP. The walls and windows of Norfolk Terrace might as well not be there.

Happy fucking Sunday,

Consette x

Valentine's Day

A plague on both your houses.

Consette x

Milkbar

I know it's a la mode to look as if you live off lentil soup, but some of those boys, some of those boys need fattening. Whilst the idiot kept falling down the Ponana steps in her lustful distraction, I could not have been less impressed. Their legs in black skinnies and concave stomachs, ill hollows under the eyes and cheekbones, tottering around on tiptoes to reduce their surface area. It's depiscable. Give me my chunky blonde any day.

On that subject, Valentine's Day tomorrow and I am lonesome as usual. Chunky blonde has not got in touch. Ruddy chunky splendid blonde boy of honesty and goodness. We could spend time talking about our idiots. He doesn't know it yet, but but but but there's time. I've got a butterfly net and he'll be all tangled up in there as long as he doesn't see my shadow coming.

Consette x

Getting Ready

As I write this, she's spurting around the room in ejaculations of anticipation. Milky anticipation. And of course she's completely ignoring my attempts to gain sympathy. I've even been crying. It's hard liking someone you can't see, and the idiot says a date is a practical impossibility at the moment. She really is the most...fuck no, she still wears that Tommy Girl piss? I should assert my tastes a bit more forcefully I think. It is PISS.

And I know the red lipstick will make her look like she's been assaulted. Slotted one in the mouth.

So milk with porridge for breakfast with apples and blueberrys and a scalding tongue, then Milk at the Odeon this afternoon (another lone cinema trip and almost a quiet blub), and now Valentines Milkbar. An abundance of the white stuff. Hm. Cheese is essentially milk, just harder, and so the imminent cheese omlette is also coherent with the theme. This brightens me up a bit.

MilkmilkmilkmilkmilkmilkstartstosoundfunnyifyousayitoverandoverandoverandI'veneverrealisedbeforehowdifficultitistotrainyourselftowrite without spaces,

Yours moderately miserably,

Consette x

On Thinking Inappropriately

Consette is not supposed to like people. This is le fact primaire of my identity. The idiot, she can like who she wants, stalk who she wants, get vulnerable over men who hold doors open for ladies, but I'm not allowed to.

So one of her friends has this Imaginary Friend.

Known him for years, and suddenly oh dear and oops.

I repeat: OH DEAR AND OOPS.

Consette x

Promises of Grotesque Admissions

I'm getting sentimental in my old age. Be warned, Consette is falling.

Sorry, I can't elaborate. The idiot has been hogging the computer all afternoon with 'intellectual pursuits', largely pursuited on BBC iPlayer as far as I can tell. And now anyway I have to go and watch her play squash against the Beccles ladies, and laugh as the whole team gets trashed by the menopausal deviants.

Consette x

Me The Great

Yes I'm almost half an hour behind schedule, but Emmy made me careless with her kerby gripped hair and plaid shirts oh so tenderly tucked in all the right places. Plus, the weather did odd things with rain all the way back. I am wet. Yeah, take that Maud. Consette has no fear and knows it is okay and good to say I. AM. WET.

Consette x

The Underdogs

She's already over the word limit for that Writing Texts essay, and nowhere near finished. The solution? Watch a programme called 'The Underdogs' on 4OD in which 'unruly, hopeless teens' have to train up 'mischevious canines' for Crufts, all the while mentored by sanctimonious psychologists (or 'teen experts'.) I give up.

Consette x

Writing Texts? Nope.

So I've been thinking. About very little, yes, but still thoughts. Whilst watching this pathetic shuffle in the general direction of an educated mind, and all the attendant bouts of grief and whining, I have been thinking that life seems remarkably short these days. Too short for her to spend her time writing an essay about introductions (of which: half a paragraph done, or indeed half an introduction). Observe with awe as I assume the role of comfort-giver, ready with some buttery toast and an episode of 'Hustle', whispering sweet nothings like 'look, idiot, this doesn't have to be done until next Friday. You don't really care about it anyway. As long as you pass. The question of what constitutes an introduction is not integral to your life quest. Breathe, and know you're not such a bad person after all for wanting to sleep all day. And wake up at 7 for gin consumption. This isn't heinous. Have a biscuit.'

So when she fails, I suppose you can blame me. But how can you blame me? I am a figment of her imagination. And you can't blame her either because reality is all in the mind. She will no doubt blame me too and who are you to tell her I don't exist?

Tricks and stuff,

Consette x

Daysleeper

She just fell asleep, with her glasses slipped into the greasy enclaves above her nostrils, and mouth propped open. At her desk because the Writing Texts essay is beyond dull. William Faulkner, on the other hand; fascinating. Not so much difficult as oddly phrased, and it doesn't have that exhausting drag to it like most 'difficult' things the idiot reads.

She swam again this morning, 40 lengths. It used to be 25 but then Emily and Steph came bounding in one evening boasting 40 and the competitive lurch lurched. I think, though, this could be why Writing Texts seems even more insurmountable than it did yesterday; she is tired from publicly drowning for an hour.

We're going to see Wilde tonight, and it's free because it's LGBT week.

Tara (raboombieyay),

Consette x

Frost/Nixon

Maud says that a / indicates slash fan fiction and that the producers of Frost/Nixon removed the / (pronounced 'uh') because of the connotations. They evidently didn't remove it, or Maud was just pulling the idiot's leg (whose leg is easily pulled). But anyway, having seen the film, I think that things would have been much more exciting had the / elements been more prominent. The idiot liked it, though. She thought it was an interesting examination of egotists. Who gives a shit what she thinks, someone needs to hear what I think for once.

I think that the Picturehouse is lovely. I think that the man next to me had breath like old carpet (don't question my simile, I had 2 hours to define that smell). I think that I could have done with some wine. I think that the idiot can get irrational on happiness. I think that she gets carried away on the miniscule details of a miniscule thing. I think that she needs to sleep and wake up in the morning with some perspective. I think that I'm being very kind in my circumlocution.

It's about the hour for Masterchef. Tickling drunk and not too tired and not tired enough.

Goodnight. Especially to you.

Consette x

Requiem for a Dream

No, doesn't want to smoke. I don't know where on earth that came from. Never wants to take anything ever again. Not even Fanta.

Consette x

Stock

We're making stock, taking stock, certainly not faking stock with cubes.

Cheap.

I don't think the rest of the flat is appreciating the smell of boiling chicken carcass, but if it makes the idiot happy then it must be done. And she is happy. She feels like a wifey.

Sorry this can't be long, she wants the computer to write some review or something. Tonight we're watching Requiem for a Dream for the first time. Apparently it makes you want to smoke. It leaves you with no alternative. This should be interesting, what with the resolve to quit last night, after a final baccy scab from Josh.

Night lovelies,

Consette x

Chicken

What an effort it is to write when on gin. ON GIN. Now there's a coinage.

But this afternoon was chicken dedication. Split bones, greasy slop, licky fingers. Yes. A whole chicken just for me. Just for her rather.

Bye,

Consette x

Apology

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat, remembering suddenly that I didn't post a post yesterday and this of course pains me greatly because I had grand plans for 'Chez Consette' and I am also a perfectionist. But yesterday was a busy day and culminated in much wine drinking, too much for memory. And it snowed for proper too which, as Writing Texts man with amazing face would say, defamiliarised the world; made it strange. It started out as an eiderdown and I'm glad I was up early to see the whiteness before the hordes spread their excitement in brown and grey ejaculations all over the place. All that remains today is a lone, and extrememly muddy, snowman marooned in the snowless grass. Do you remember that bit in The Snowman when the little boy goes out to see his friend and all that remains is a carrot and a scarf? The single most devastating occurence in the idiot's childhood.

I do like it here when it's like this. I like it here most of the time, but I get more sentimental on days like this. The lake is completely still and I'm not sure whether those silhouettes in the distance are houses or trees. Oh no wait, houses. The sun went behind a cloud for a second so that the mist making things confusing was not so bright.

Consette x

Sunday

Why oh why oh why does it take her so long to write anything these days? Actually, I say 'these days' but what I mean is 'why does it STILL take her so long to write anything?' Surely she should be developing some sort of fluidity by now. She has spent all afternoon oscillating between her computer, the kitchen, her bed, the UFO, the loo, the kitchen, the loo again, and thus we have about 360/990 words of one thing and an unedited 350 of another. Le idiot supermassive.

She needs to do some squash, get out of here. It's snowing outside in dandruff waves, or perhaps it's rain now. I too am a lazy, festering victim of a Sunday and cannot be bothered to reach over and part the curtains. But anyway, she has just proposed to herself that maybe she won't bother with squash today, that maybe it won't matter, that getting out of her pyjamas (I know - feral isn't it) is too much of a hopeless act at 19:42. She would do it for the pub.

Soapbox yesterday was draining and brilliant. Brilliant in bits. Susie was brilliant, with the additional joy of a random blonde fawning at her feet, and Danny Whitehouse was brilliant, and Marcus Keeley was beyond brilliant. I'm not going to talk about the Open Mic before because they all did much better than I could ever do and I had no right to snort into my cider. The occasional snort. Not for Lucy, though; always a delight. But dear me, the culminative effect of the whole day was complete exhaustion. Sorry to Josh, it was my fault the idiot couldn't stay for longer than one orange liquor in Frank's. I was getting callouses on my ankles.

Right. Get up get up GET UP you fat beached whale and go and play squash.

She's going now, and I'm going to sit in here and warm my toes on the radiator.

Good night loves,

Consette x

P.S. Shit. Just realised I can't sit here and warm my toes by the radiator in her absence. I am imaginary.

Intense Relationships

I think I'm spending too much time with her. All my time in fact, all my time for 17 years. I am developing bad habits; sinister stuff will happen if I don't publish at least one blog a day (specific fear? That my toes will turn into chipolatas), I am starting to find flakes of Special K in my hair, and the only thing I seem to desire is a pair of yellow Nikes.

Back to the obsessive blogging, though. In an hour we are heading down to the Soapbox Festival, and I know that we won't be back in the vicinity of a computer until after 12 tonight. So I have to blog now. Thus why there is nothing to say.

You can watch me eat leftover curry for lunch of you want,

Love,

Consette x

Mud

For the second time this week she underestimated the mud around the lake. As a result, the trusty converse have transgressed so far beyond what is universally considered 'clean' and would do well to get their own parking permit. They are on the verge of sprouting little legs and hairy toes. The smell is bad, but in the comparison to the corridor smell in D01 Norfolk Terrace...well, can't complain.

The lake walk with Josh seems to have worked wonders. No longer is she a mopey floppy flannel of boredom and American Constitutionalism-related angst, but fresh and smiling like a lockjaw patient. When the weather is good here, it's really really good, and I've realised that the trouble with writing as a cynic means that my capacity for describing nature is somewhat limited. The lake looked like a glass eyeball sucked from a gash, ripped socket. The trees were fingering us with yellowing nails denting skin. And the mud, oh the mud, was actually dog faeces.

See? It's a tricky business. But what I really mean to say is that today is pretty.

She is opting out of an UHOHs gig tonight, but hopes to catch them later on in the term, preferably with Maud who is in London this weekend. Also, the Milkbar Launch Night was last night, and Tawny Owl and Francis & Louis more than supplied this week's quota of jawdropping sets. Tomorrow it's Soapbox, which the idiot is going to try and review for Concrete.

Oh shit. Someone has put on System of a Down in the room opposite. BUMS. Let's get out of here and eat the remainder of that Caterpillar Cake.

Splendid,

Consette x

Nostalgic - Already

The weather has turned again, so the good old Bostonian penguin mittens may have to make a return. They're awfully embarrassing; each mitten has a protruding yellow beak and red bow tie. But tonight we're going to the Milkbar Records Launch at the Arts Centre, and it's a cold walk from the bus stop. The idiot is the only one to have bought tickets. She doesn't seem to mind being alone at gigs, though. She has a happy time nodding her head along in a mouldering corner.

Tuesday was so perfect that she is already experiencing withdrawal symptoms, like all those children who can't face school the day after their Birthday and sink into a deep depression for about 24 hours. It's pretty pathetic. I've been watching her looking out of the window now since yesterday lunchtime, barely moving and sighing sighs of great gravity and meaning. Oh woe is her.

Tarra,

Consette x

Spoiling

We're listening to Elbow, and that song which you hear everywhere, the one used on emotionally fraught television commercials and such, is actually called 'One Day Like This'. A pleasant discovery, and a restorative tonic after yesterday.

The idiot is curdling like bad milk, spoiling after everyone's attentions. The parents excelled themselves and even suspended their animosity towards me for a day, concentrating instead on fatting the idiot with falafels from Frank's and chucking chins and oooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at their grown-up girl. Then the evening saw a cake party, and later Zak's Diner with portions the size of new-born babies. Naomi and Phoebe really triumphed in the present department, but the Birthday Girl paid for it this morning. That Constitutionalism lecture was a soggy disaster. The brain tried, it really did, flopping about in a few vain attempts before returning to its original mush.

So, aside from one baffling situation making the idiot even more idiotic, turning Twenty was a success. I can't elaborate on this situation because I am a loyal Consette and must remember that this isn't my little black book for blacklisting certain people.

Have a splendid afternoon,

Consette x

Life in the Ward

I am officially a carer for the elderly. Gosh,

Consette x

New Year

The parental unit has arrived, and I'm a bit nervous. I am disapproved of. They think, considering that their daughter will be Twenty tomorrow, that I am becoming an embarrassment. Plus, I have a tendency to binge on the christmas tree chocolates once a year and the idiot doesn't posess the initiative to blame it on herself. I am a martyr to the cause.

Year of the Ox, am i right? A whole duck was consumed, fingers got very sticky, and stomachs began to hinder movement. On the whole, a most satisfactory affair rendered even more satisfactory by Wes Anderson. The idiot and friends couldn't think of a Chinese film which wasn't anime, and apparently Lost in Translation would have been racist. Contrary to popular belief, I am an ambiguous imaginary friend at heart and would have welcomed a touch of Scarlet on a Sunday night. Next Sunday anyone?

The reading for this week's American Literary Identities lecture was Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and the idiot was greatly affected. She has decided to assume the role of Hemingway when it comes to one or two of her friendships. Those Fitzgeralds out there need a kick in the shins. That's what she thinks, don't slam me. The parallels are tenuous; the Fitzgeralds in her existence are not alcoholics, and she is a Hemingway who can't sustain prose for longer than a page. But whatever, I can't think. There is middle-aged white noise interfering with my thought processes. I am surrounded by people and am on someone else's computer, and they are yawning with meaningful looks in my direction. I better stop.

A quick note on the impending birthday:
The idiot does not want to grow up. She does not want old lady beards, bunions, or arm flaps which have to be kept in place by laundry pegs. As I said, though, she's an idiot. I quite fancy senility. I am going to get fat. I can develop the physique of a pin cushion, and she can be the spinsterly writer with no money and alot of knitting. It shall be glorious.

Goodnight loves,

Consette x

Poached Egg Eyes

She's awake. I'm awake. Cake all afternoon has turned her active in unnatural hours. Cake and rhubarb crumble, and the discovery of tea, and the discovery of green tea, and jam tarts and smoked salmon sandwiches. And half a hot cross bun, and some biscuits. Oh and a pop of fake sugar, the taste of which was so repellant more biscuits were required to mush it away.

She insists that the inventory above is a necessity. I am not to leave anything out, I am not to hurt anyone's feelings. Especially Rachel and that crumble. Maud's tea party was a triumph.

So I am Consette. Hello. The imaginary friend of an idiot, previous star of myspace (a reader from Norway!!), and a solid sort of girl. In posession of an exemplary pair of cheeks and hair down to my knees. The mutant amalgamation of a woman called Betty and a builder called Vincent; the idiot's first loves, and the obvious inspiration for a name like Consette. There's a silent B somewhere in there. Vincent used to donate sandwiches to her and the dog when he was renovating the kitchen back in '92. Betty was a babysitter of sorts with jellybabies hidden about her person when the idiot got homesick. This sounds like the start of a song. Brendan says he's got writer's block. There's a mine of diamonds here, Brendan. I won't ask for royalties.

University is lovely and Norwich is not the hole everyone says it is. Those who say it is know nothing of Norwich. Or holes. And we gambolled gaily in the Cathedral grounds for the first time today and my hems got muddy. There were two goths in front who looked like they were goths on probation, kind of amateur and not entirely sure about it yet. They kept looking back at us as if we were stalkers. We followed them right up into the lanes, but then I couldn't take it anymore because the black and white polka-dots on the backpacks were making me dizzy.

We're going to go swimming again tomorrow morning. It soothes the old lady hip, the one which aches in cold weather. She complains about that fucking hip all the time, so yes, swimming, when offered, is advantageous and I'm not going to stop her. Twenty years old on Tuesday, that makes me about Seventeen I'd hazard. She must start getting trendy again. Or perhaps more female. I might petition for the wearing of a skirt on Tuesday night.

In an unfortunate by-product of ageing, the idiot has begun to dip a tentative nail into the vast varnish of poetry. I offered to give her a bit of my blog as a charitable and imaginary friendly gesture, but somewhere in the liminal state between cut and paste, she balked. This is the sort of backwards behaviour I have to put up with on a daily basis. If only she'd take a leaf out of my freshly coined, uncliched, book of metaphors, not to mention learn from my alliterative faculties, then confidence would follow like the glint of sunlight on toilet porcelein.

Night my lovelies,

Consette x

P.S. The uncultured lot on blogger.com won't allow an acute accent on the 'e' of cliche. I hope we're all OK with pronouncing it 'CLISH' for now.