Blah blah blah life or something similar blah blah

OK. Now, only this morning I had a conversation with emony about how the world snooker championships were on at the moment and how I hadn't had the chance to see much of it because of classes. Then I said that I didn't mind much because it seemed that my ideal of snooker perfection (but, I must stress, only snooker perfection) Ronnie O'Sullivan had been knocked out in the first round. Which seemed bizarre, being that he's the greatest naturally talented snooker player since even before Alex Higgins... but that I'd heard a small amount of commentary that some big players including Steve Davis had been knocked out in the first round. I figured that I'd missed Ronnie's game (and pretty much every other game) because I was at classes during the daytime when a lot of the live coverage was on.

Or... I have such a bitch of a schedule, I've missed every single one of Ronnie's games, and practically everything except a snippet of a John Higgins game yesterday. Then I get back from class this evening (which included food at an italian restaurant) to find live coverage of a quarter final between Anthony Hamilton... and Ronnie O'Sullivan. I've missed so much I didn't even know who'd got through to the quarter finals! Man, I HATE MY TIMETABLE!

That said, I did catch the last 3 1/2 frames of the O'Sullivan/Hamilton match. Incendiary. When Ronnie is on, the man is unbeatable. I've seen him play some pisspoor snooker, but he was so good that by the penultimate frame, the other dude had practically given up so that Ronnie could win his 13th frame (it was best of 13) and they wouldn't have to go back in in the morning. Even O'Sullivan's dippy wire alice band to keep his hair out his eyes couldn't detract from it. I know I'm mostly bonkers to like snooker at all, and I'm really not the snooker sort when you think about it, but it was fabulous to watch. It was so great that Diarmuid's Great Adventure that followed it paled in insignificance, even though it was Bonkers!Maverick!Irish!Mad!Gardener Diarmuid Gavin and his quest to get a garden at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show. Actually, that just sounds kinda boring, although it was kinda funny cos the man is insane.

Of course, all that meant that I did very little (read: no) revision for my Big Exam tomorrow. I did quite a bit today during our breaks, and I found our teacher to be so unprepared to help us during class that I just left, but I should still do some more (at least complete the list of terms we need to know). I don't know how well I'm going to do, I really don't, because I don't honestly know how much of it all I've remembered and taken in. A lot of it is self-explanatory, but some of it isn't. I really didn't find class this morning at all helpful. It says a lot that I got more done sat on my own in the library listening to Led Zeppelin II.

AND! To add insult to injury, I got back this evening to find a parcel had arrived for me... now the security people take parcels in now (I've had to traipse across Sunderland in the past) but according to the card left in my letterbox, I can only go and get it between 1800-1900hrs. What kind of service is that? More than one day a week I don't get back until at least 7! Do they not realise that one measly hour of an evening is not always great for everyone? I appreciate that they're security dudes and not postmen, but a little flexibility would be nice. Hopefully I'll be in tomorrow to pick up stuff coming then, because I don't have class before the exam.

And so I shall now go. I'm not gonna go to bed until I've finished the list of terms, then I'm getting up sometime after ten (exam is at 2) to continue. Hopefully some of it will stay in my head- it's another 32 quid to retake, so I have a financial interest in not failing.

Lastly: I love Dean Martin. He never claimed to have done his own stunts.

Blah blah blah life or something similar blah blah

OK. Now, only this morning I had a conversation with emony about how the world snooker championships were on at the moment and how I hadn't had the chance to see much of it because of classes. Then I said that I didn't mind much because it seemed that my ideal of snooker perfection (but, I must stress, only snooker perfection) Ronnie O'Sullivan had been knocked out in the first round. Which seemed bizarre, being that he's the greatest naturally talented snooker player since even before Alex Higgins... but that I'd heard a small amount of commentary that some big players including Steve Davis had been knocked out in the first round. I figured that I'd missed Ronnie's game (and pretty much every other game) because I was at classes during the daytime when a lot of the live coverage was on.

Or... I have such a bitch of a schedule, I've missed every single one of Ronnie's games, and practically everything except a snippet of a John Higgins game yesterday. Then I get back from class this evening (which included food at an italian restaurant) to find live coverage of a quarter final between Anthony Hamilton... and Ronnie O'Sullivan. I've missed so much I didn't even know who'd got through to the quarter finals! Man, I HATE MY TIMETABLE!

That said, I did catch the last 3 1/2 frames of the O'Sullivan/Hamilton match. Incendiary. When Ronnie is on, the man is unbeatable. I've seen him play some pisspoor snooker, but he was so good that by the penultimate frame, the other dude had practically given up so that Ronnie could win his 13th frame (it was best of 13) and they wouldn't have to go back in in the morning. Even O'Sullivan's dippy wire alice band to keep his hair out his eyes couldn't detract from it. I know I'm mostly bonkers to like snooker at all, and I'm really not the snooker sort when you think about it, but it was fabulous to watch. It was so great that Diarmuid's Great Adventure that followed it paled in insignificance, even though it was Bonkers!Maverick!Irish!Mad!Gardener Diarmuid Gavin and his quest to get a garden at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show. Actually, that just sounds kinda boring, although it was kinda funny cos the man is insane.

Of course, all that meant that I did very little (read: no) revision for my Big Exam tomorrow. I did quite a bit today during our breaks, and I found our teacher to be so unprepared to help us during class that I just left, but I should still do some more (at least complete the list of terms we need to know). I don't know how well I'm going to do, I really don't, because I don't honestly know how much of it all I've remembered and taken in. A lot of it is self-explanatory, but some of it isn't. I really didn't find class this morning at all helpful. It says a lot that I got more done sat on my own in the library listening to Led Zeppelin II.

AND! To add insult to injury, I got back this evening to find a parcel had arrived for me... now the security people take parcels in now (I've had to traipse across Sunderland in the past) but according to the card left in my letterbox, I can only go and get it between 1800-1900hrs. What kind of service is that? More than one day a week I don't get back until at least 7! Do they not realise that one measly hour of an evening is not always great for everyone? I appreciate that they're security dudes and not postmen, but a little flexibility would be nice. Hopefully I'll be in tomorrow to pick up stuff coming then, because I don't have class before the exam.

And so I shall now go. I'm not gonna go to bed until I've finished the list of terms, then I'm getting up sometime after ten (exam is at 2) to continue. Hopefully some of it will stay in my head- it's another 32 quid to retake, so I have a financial interest in not failing.

Lastly: I love Dean Martin. He never claimed to have done his own stunts.

In which Clare is a twonk

I am a total twonk.

I bought a couple of v. cheap music books online the other day from a place I've used before (for the Complete Led Zeppelin, if you were wondering. I know you weren't). One was called 'Piano Time Classics', which I bought chiefly for Albinoni's Adagio, although I knew I'd like the rest. I was hoping it would be simple enough for me to translate into guitar, which it is. Mind you, it's so simple that the Adagio fits onto one page. Ah well.

But also, and this is where my candidacy for twonkiness comes in, I bought Franz Liszt's Liebestraum No. 3 because well, ever since seeing Lisztomania I've really loved it. It wasn't in the book, so I got a single copy of the piece for like, 2 quid.

I forgot one small detail.

Franz Liszt was a piano virtuoso with god-given talent and some of the longest fingers ever. He wrote music that reflected this. I am a girl who took keyboard lessons for about six years but never practiced much and despite quite long fingers (although I've heard these aren't really a requirement, more an aid) I will never ever ever be described as a virtuoso at anything, least of all piano. I didn't even do that for my GCSE music in the end (I did guitar and singing, a reflection of my life today, I suspect). Even then I got a C.

Looking at this music, there's no way in heaven, hell or anywhere in between that I'm ever going to be able to play this properly. Not least that my keyboard is 250 miles away. Ah well, I'll have a go, and if I break my fingers, at least I tried.

In which Clare is a twonk

I am a total twonk.

I bought a couple of v. cheap music books online the other day from a place I've used before (for the Complete Led Zeppelin, if you were wondering. I know you weren't). One was called 'Piano Time Classics', which I bought chiefly for Albinoni's Adagio, although I knew I'd like the rest. I was hoping it would be simple enough for me to translate into guitar, which it is. Mind you, it's so simple that the Adagio fits onto one page. Ah well.

But also, and this is where my candidacy for twonkiness comes in, I bought Franz Liszt's Liebestraum No. 3 because well, ever since seeing Lisztomania I've really loved it. It wasn't in the book, so I got a single copy of the piece for like, 2 quid.

I forgot one small detail.

Franz Liszt was a piano virtuoso with god-given talent and some of the longest fingers ever. He wrote music that reflected this. I am a girl who took keyboard lessons for about six years but never practiced much and despite quite long fingers (although I've heard these aren't really a requirement, more an aid) I will never ever ever be described as a virtuoso at anything, least of all piano. I didn't even do that for my GCSE music in the end (I did guitar and singing, a reflection of my life today, I suspect). Even then I got a C.

Looking at this music, there's no way in heaven, hell or anywhere in between that I'm ever going to be able to play this properly. Not least that my keyboard is 250 miles away. Ah well, I'll have a go, and if I break my fingers, at least I tried.

Peter Pan and Moi. Cos it's always about Moi.

Just got done watching Peter Pan (the new Jason Isaacs version, not proper Disney Peter Pan. Have seen that trillions of times). As always, I have a particularly ambiguous love/hate relationship with the story. I remember once searching for JM Barrie's story online and only finding the last chapter of the book and being totally beside myself at the unhappy ending.

I love Peter Pan because it's about a boy who never grew up and about a girl who doesn't want to. I hate it because at the end she does. Perhaps I hate it because I've yet to grow up, because I don't want to grow up and because I never want to have to actually do it.

So I loved this particular movie... except that at the end she really does grow up. They don't just sail off into the sky on Hook's ship like they do in the Disney version... he says he'll remember her and then never comes back. She grows up and has children. The fact that she tells the story of Peter Pan to her children doesn't matter. All children grow up except one, and it is the deepest cause of bitterness inside myself that I am not that one. I will admit to you right now that I was beside myself at the end of this otherwise fantastic movie... because I don't consider her going back to her parents and growing up to be anywhere near happy ever after.

It has been said that everyone has an 'inner age' that they remain however old they become. Mine, I think, is about 11/12. I can tell this because before that, I always felt a little more grown up than everyone else in my class. I don't mean that in an arrogant sense, and I was just as childish as they were... I just felt older. Of course there are days now that I feel older than Moses or Bob Dylan, but in my heart, soul and mind, I am still eleven or twelve years old. It was then (ironically, one of the least happy times of my life) that I began to feel a little younger than everyone. It was after that that I began to feel even more detached from everyone, and not just because of that. In my heart I will always be eleven years old. In my heart I will love riding my bike through the woods with my best friends, and it is probably the greatest tragedy of my life that the most 'right' time of my life has already passed.

I should've been like Peter Pan. Except not in a Michael Jackson/Cliff Richard creepy kind of way. Just... I shouldn't have ever been allowed to get older. I should've remained forever that little girl with a giant smile, sarcasm beyond her years and not a worry in the world. It turns out after all that the summer of 1993 was the last time I was allowed to be myself. Before Stanborough and all that entailed, before being forced to become older, before being made to grow the fuck up.

Peter Pan and Moi. Cos it's always about Moi.

Just got done watching Peter Pan (the new Jason Isaacs version, not proper Disney Peter Pan. Have seen that trillions of times). As always, I have a particularly ambiguous love/hate relationship with the story. I remember once searching for JM Barrie's story online and only finding the last chapter of the book and being totally beside myself at the unhappy ending.

I love Peter Pan because it's about a boy who never grew up and about a girl who doesn't want to. I hate it because at the end she does. Perhaps I hate it because I've yet to grow up, because I don't want to grow up and because I never want to have to actually do it.

So I loved this particular movie... except that at the end she really does grow up. They don't just sail off into the sky on Hook's ship like they do in the Disney version... he says he'll remember her and then never comes back. She grows up and has children. The fact that she tells the story of Peter Pan to her children doesn't matter. All children grow up except one, and it is the deepest cause of bitterness inside myself that I am not that one. I will admit to you right now that I was beside myself at the end of this otherwise fantastic movie... because I don't consider her going back to her parents and growing up to be anywhere near happy ever after.

It has been said that everyone has an 'inner age' that they remain however old they become. Mine, I think, is about 11/12. I can tell this because before that, I always felt a little more grown up than everyone else in my class. I don't mean that in an arrogant sense, and I was just as childish as they were... I just felt older. Of course there are days now that I feel older than Moses or Bob Dylan, but in my heart, soul and mind, I am still eleven or twelve years old. It was then (ironically, one of the least happy times of my life) that I began to feel a little younger than everyone. It was after that that I began to feel even more detached from everyone, and not just because of that. In my heart I will always be eleven years old. In my heart I will love riding my bike through the woods with my best friends, and it is probably the greatest tragedy of my life that the most 'right' time of my life has already passed.

I should've been like Peter Pan. Except not in a Michael Jackson/Cliff Richard creepy kind of way. Just... I shouldn't have ever been allowed to get older. I should've remained forever that little girl with a giant smile, sarcasm beyond her years and not a worry in the world. It turns out after all that the summer of 1993 was the last time I was allowed to be myself. Before Stanborough and all that entailed, before being forced to become older, before being made to grow the fuck up.