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
Saturday 31 January 2009
Friday 30 January 2009
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
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
Thursday 29 January 2009
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
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
Wednesday 28 January 2009
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
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
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Monday 26 January 2009
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
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
Sunday 25 January 2009
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.
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.
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