NORTH COUNTRY FAIR

Nothing to do with Charlize Theron or Bob Dylan.

Name:
Location: Norwich, United Kingdom

Keep on Truckin'.

Monday, October 31, 2005

Happy Hallowe'en!

Hello treacles

This evening it's all about the standby-chocolate and pumpkin (ours is carved into a fetching hell-cat face...after we learnt that trying to scrape out pumpkin flesh with a spoon is akin to commiting yourself to 40 hours hard labour). This is the most sinister photo I could presently find, taken in the Tower of London. it's all history and s**t, innit. Kegs! Woo!


In typical Norfolk fashion, the Union's Hallowe'en party is actually being held tomorrow, Tuesday, which as many of you will know is actually All Souls Day (and therefore wholly inappropriate. Stupid in-breds). The Farmer-brained Student President has also ensured that tickets sold out a full week-and-a-half before the actual event (usually turning up is OK), leaving thousands of non-Freshers without a suitable portal through which to vent their fancy-dress frustrations. Hence we have agreed to host our own little shindig, and hence why Emma splurged a full £6 on decorations (including some essential glow-in-the-dark lizards (plastic, obv) to drown in the punch.

Now all that needs to be decided is what to wear. Do I go Devil? Cat? Zombie? Or just confuse everyone with a random costume fashioned out of a fitted sheet and that pink wig? Only time will tell!

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Carnage in Camden

Continuing the theme of 'Weekends In London', I've just got back from a short stint in Camden where, at The Lock Tavern, the Shakedown DJs did a set as part of the Adventures In The Beetroot Field (a 4-day event of bands, DJs, short films etc).

Negative moments were the jaw-dropping prices of a 2-day return on One-"When Rail Networks Go Bad"-Anglia, cold Burger-King on the run in Camden High Street, and my solo Coldplay-style run over London Bridge to catch the last train home to the Jaggard's (sister and brother-in-law), which is sarf of the rivaa. Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of being captured in slow-mo a la Chris Martin, neither do I have his yoga-trained limbs, therefore this particular sprint was all lop-sided (shoulder-bag, people) and panty as I attempted to overtake several drunk thirty-somethings who were weaving about the bridge clutching cans of Stella. With the jiggling that was going on I also managed to accidentally dial home, and therefore got a phone-call from the Mother as I tried to work out which platform I was supposed to be on.

Mother: 'Are you OK? You just called me.'
George: 'Irrr fine. I din' meana call yuer, I just tryin' to wor out wish train i nee. Auur you OK?'
Mother: 'Yes. You know where you're going, do you?'
George: 'Yerr, I know. Irr fine. Nigh''
Mother: 'Right. Goodnight'.

Positive twinkly things included the very generous glasses of white wine that were being served in the Lock Tavern, free entry to Koko (I was officially one of the 'Shakedown Eleven', don't you know), managing to blag myself a 6' high poster from behind the bar, the damn good music which, in contrast to Norwich, was de rigeur, and the last train itself, which went past a nicely lit-up Tower Bridge and Canary Wharf. Oh, and getting mistaken for someone called Samuel.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Is It A Full Moon?

It seems like some odd things are happening at the moment.

1. NHS workers in Putney:

2. The world of men seems to have caved in. So much so, even The Independent has picked up on it. Headline this week: 'WHY MEN ARE CRAP'. Oh dear.

I pinched this idea from another blog, but I'm going with it because it works:

You type in your first name plus the word 'needs' into Google and see what happens, e.g. 'Georgina needs';

Georgina needs to eat some hard, loud, and obnoxious candy.

Please note: Georgina needs 48 hours notice! Please tell Georgina and Hugh you found Stobo Home Farm through About Scotland!

Georgina needs her best friend Jas and the rest of the Ace Gang to help cheer her up, but meeting new Italian hunk Masimo seems to do the trick.

Letter from Georgina. (April, May 1999). Dear Fr. Philipe, ... Little Francisca, however, is doing very well, still needs nightly feeds. ...

Georgina had been prescribed Ritalin and been diagnosed with special needs because of her appalling temper tantrums and violent behaviour.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Climbing: The Aftermath

When the Lord maketh Skinny Jeans, he certainly did not reckoneth on the evil evil chaffing brought on by tight-denim-on-knees. Climbing was, dare I say it, really good fun on Wednesday. The problem came when I was supposed to "fall" to test (my housemate) Emma's safety skills on the other end of the rope (the B-Lay as we climbers call it, nudge, nudge), and did too much of a good job. Put bluntly, I threw myself off the crag with gay abandon, ricocheted onto the next wall along, spun around in mid-air and finally thumped myself back onto the crag, thus creating some nice sores on my knee (hence the problematic chaffing). Hats off to Emma, though, I didn't drop an inch.

This afternoon I'm heading back for more so I can be tested on whether I've remembered how to do a double figure-of-eight knot or whether, as I suspect, I really have the short-term memory capacity of a tadpole and have forgotten it all. In true hardcore style I'm then heading straight off to London where I'm meeting up with my graduate-student chums from the NHS. This summer we managed to raise a hefty £30 on the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? machine at work so we could have one, last, beautiful, night together (at The Shakedown, ahem). Hopefully our luck hasn't run out and we'll enjoy a cashback reunion over some swift pints in the Big Smoke.

If anyone happens to be in the Putney Bridge area tonight, we'll be more than receptive to tagger-alongers, just look for three people doing impressions of an Ox.

If not, (which is much more likely)...

I'm wishing you a superlative weekend and saying, 'don't let the rain, er, rain on your parade'.

X

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Post Sox

It appears these days that I am unable to post without anonymous finding my blog 'by chance' and sending me a thoughtful link to 'military loans', 'popular poker' and (my personal favourite) 'generic viagra'.

Just a thought.

Climbing The Walls

I was a bit bored of putting up good photos of myself/other things so I thought I would put a photo which accurately represents how I look when I'm typing (usually when I've just woken up, with no make-up, bush-hair and with 'emergency' glasses on [for when close-reading gets too much and I can't see anything unless I screw my face up like a constipated mole]). So take comfort. N.B. I don't always type with such a wry smile going on.

I'm a bit nervous today, because the reality of signing up to Climbing Society has hit home: I'm actually required to climb (read: mid-air flap). Not only this, but i'm required to climb in front of a large group of nubile young men and women, no doubt with rippling back muscles and just-went-surfing-this-morning hair this very afternoon. The last time I did this, I had what is known in the 'bizness' as disco-leg. It won't stop shaking, baby.

Those who know me well know that I have not a body designed for sport, though I do have the enthusiasm. On my school report, afro-haired Mrs. Simpson would annually write something like, 'physically inept, but at least she tries'. I did try; in my fervour for representing my class in 100m Hurdles at Sports Day I borrowed said Hurdles for extra practice at lunchtime. It was going quite well, until I set them up the backwards, fell at the first one and knocked myself out with the wrongly-positioned leg.

So what possessed me to put myself through this weekly, ritual, humiliation? Perhaps all those childhood blows to the head....

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Ritz Tea

Saturday saw Tea At The Ritz for me, myself, the Mother Ship, the Sister-Ship and, the, er, Brother-In-Law-Ship. As we walked in, the old boy in a uniform (albeit very friendly) said to us, 'Are you here for the tea? You look like you are' and showed us through to 'Palm Court'. Presumably the H&M jumpers and Burton suits gave us away. The tea itself was beautiful, but not, usually for us, without incident. First, the Sister told an inappropriate anecdote about constipation, and shouted the word 'DIAHORREA' (spelling?) during an unfortunate suite-wide silence. Then the Brother-in-Law, poking gamely at his fruit tart, discovered a tiny beetle scurrying about happily within the folds of hardened filo pastry. And finally, the waiter serving me with a Raspberry Compote, dropped said raspberry which didn't even have time to rest on the floor before it was spotted by another waiter and swiftly, "subtly", kicked to the far wall where it spent the rest of the evening.

I am now a sophisticated sort who takes Lapsang Souchong tea only* (loose-leaf, please) and will only eat cake with a cake fork. The cake must not exceed 2" in diameter. I will also require champagne. And scones. For this is the way of living I have been accustomed to.

If anyone wants me, I shall be preparing my tea-pot.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Oh Girl

Happy 8th Month Anniversary Girl of the North Country!

Friday, October 14, 2005

Online, but On The Town?


Hello puddings

I am officially blogging once more and diggidy-darn-it-feels-good. However, in the excitement of realising not only did I plug the thingy into the diddly-port right, but also successfully navigated the doo-dah screen and therefore am possibly the UK's answer to Bill Gates (I will take Belle for short-ish)*, but that I have absolutely diddly squat to blog about, seeing as I haven't managed to leave the house much at all. Even stupid Heat Magazine told me (and I quote) that Venus thought I should stay indoors from now on, as the nightly look for love was making me look "like a dog's dinner". I'm a bit peeved (albeit impressed) that the School of English has even managed to rope our planetary system into their evil scheme to keep me indoors with a stack of books to read for my dissertation and very little will to do so. Dover Street is experiencing a series of these third-year freak-outs, with Moo the latest casualty having done a search for graduate jobs last night on The Globular Inter-Web. Error.

Tomorrow I shall be breaking free of my weighty shackles and enjoying Tea at The Ritz (dahling). However, my Gran (who knows about these things) informs me that as it is at 7.30pm, it is too late to be 'High Tea' (apparently this happens about 4-5pm), nor is it 'Afternoon Tea' (which is even earlier) but some other inexplicable kind of Tea which they presumably take 'up-town'. Whatever happens, I'm planning on bypassing the cucmber sandwiches and going straight for the cake. If one can eat as much as one would like, one would not see the point in wasting vital room in one's stomach better used by foodstuffs not resembling remedial sea-life.

So I did find something to blog about.

*James was continuously on the phone throughout this ordeal, but that is by the by.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Rainy Days

Norwich can be a funny ol' place in the autumn. It's a cold jet engine blowing (always) towards you, so that you have to walk at a 45 degree angle in order to make it up any climbing gradient (luckily there are few here, though we've managed to find a house at the bottom of one of them). Like all towns near the sea, it never rains like it rains in, well, Thailand for example; it's piddling, drizzly, mizzly, miserable rain. I remember going to the night market in Chiang Mai once and the rain hit so hard that within minutes the road to my hostel was under 2ft plus of water, and I was wading along the street in a fast brown current up to my thighs. Then I turned the corner and some random Irishmen decided they were going to start a waterfight with me. That's fun, la vida loca-style rain (picture Ricky Martin shaking his bonbons). Not famed for its tropical location, Norwich boasts the kind of rain in which you would look a bit overzealous carrying an umbrella, but it attacks in such a way that your clothes are pure 80s-stretched and your hair, pure-Meatloaf. I did in fact ask a girl in one of my seminars, post-mizzle, whether I actually looked like Meatloaf and she merely giggled and changed the subject, so there you are.

The weather does have one good side, and that is being able to concentrate on the all-encompassing horror that is dissertation head. All of you doing this last year, in your locations of Fiji etc must be cackling with glee at this point. Only Moo and I in this house are doing dissertations this year (History girls Lyd and Emma will be rocking out the 'research project' next term), and it seems a bit unfair that she has until May, and I have until Christmas. The stewing bitterness caused by dissertation head is threatening to turn me into a workaholic...I swore this would never happen!

In the love life stakes, I am still single. In fact, this bothers me less than ever. I've become quite snooty towards "new boys" in my old age. Moo thinks I am quite a fussy person, but I don't think any of them measure up really. They're all little boys around here, and I mean that literally; single third year men are hard to come by, and the second years (who are 1-2 years younger than my withering self) can mostly be spotted on Unthank Road (the student strip I live off) peeing on clapped out Pandas at 3am. And as for Fresh(meat)ers, it's all a bit wrong, especially as its only week three and they've still got that lost fawn expression, coupled with a desire to beat up their new friends in front of other girls at the bus-stop. It's quite a relief to be spending my money on Galaxy ice-creams from the corner-shop to eat in front of 'Lost', rather than on trips to the cinema, fidgeting next to your date and trying not to brush them with your foot (and then feeling somehow inadequate when the unfortunate coitus scene appears).

A ha! It has stopped raining. Perhaps i'll go for a little snail-strewn stroll. But then I do have a dissertaion to be getting on with, you know....

Gaaah! I don't know who I am anymore!