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.