finally, the food post

A note on this post: I've made references to my eating disorder on this blog before but never really explained it. I was reading Shapely Prose today (it was in my head, yet again. God damn I love that blog), namely this post about calories. I was going to explain how I often find myself looking at the calorie content of foods and why that bothered me. And I started trying to explain why I should be loving food now and enjoying it - possibly even more so than most people - and to do so I added some parenthesis to explain. The following is what was in those parenthesis, I've never written about it before and aside from the occasional comment about my "problem with food" I don't really talk about it. My family treat it mostly as a rather awkward joke, now that I'm safely out of the other side and very few of even my closest friends understand much more than "[I] used to be fussy". Take it as you will.

I've had long and torturous struggles with food all my life, it started when I was three years old and continued right into adulthood. I got slightly better at sixteen, around the time I started eating meat but the problem wasn't cured. I just had a slightly wider array of set meals to cycle through. Then, in May of last year, I started eating. Really eating. Not just forcing food down my throat because I had to, or gorging myself on junk because sweets were the only thing that really tasted good but really, truly eating.

I used to have a food phobia, to the extent where if I didn't know, and like, every single ingredient within a dish I would not touch it. That wasn't as simple as it sounds either. The following is a small sample of the foods I did not like

Avocados, any kind of fish, bananas, mushrooms, tomatoes, kiwi fruit, beans, pears, broccoli, lentils, chick peas, sweetcorn, aubergines, courgettes, milk, eggs, brown bread, seafood, cheese that wasn't cheddar, seafood of all varieties, coconut, cherries, coffee, spinach, honey, marrow, melon, squash, leeks, cabbage, yoghurt... That's just the tip of the iceberg and oh yeah, and I was a vegetarian. The presence of any of these items even NEAR something I was meant to be eating rendered it completely untouchable.

But it was more than just that:

I wouldn't eat anything with a texture that wasn't as it should be. Cereal is meant to be crunchy therefore any sogginess whatsoever made it inedible, if I was persuaded to try yoghurt even one lump would make me retch, likewise custard. I couldn't eat icecream if it was even slightly melted and anything with "powdery" texture made me gag - I once didn't eat chips (my staple foodstuff) for two whole months because one had a slightly weird taste.

Even foods I liked weren't safe. A slight bruise on a strawberry would make me feel queasy, once a slice of apple browned it was no good to me (I once sat for nine hours - literally nine, it got dark and everything - at a picnic table while on holiday in France because I refused to eat the last bite of my cheese and apple baguette because the apple in it had browned. Good one Dad, if I wasn't going to eat it then I sure as hell wasn't going to eat it after it had been sitting in front of me for nine fucking hours). Slight charring on anything? Not a chance. It had to be just right, if a meal I loved wasn't served exactly how I was used to it I couldn't eat it. I cannot stress enough here how I'm not talking about wouldn't, I'm talking about actually, physically couldn't.

As you may have guessed forcing me to eat anything I didn't want to lead to me throwing up.

I latched on to any food I liked and would eat it two or three times per day, sometimes for several months, sometimes for a week, until I inexplicably "went off it". There was no rhyme or reason to me "going off" food I just did and nothing, upon nothing could change my mind. My mother, my ever loving long suffering Mother indulged me in this. We ate separate meals anyway (she lived off steamed fish and vegetables for most of my childhood - apparently problems with food run in the family) and it was much easier for her to cook me one of the four (or very occasionally five) meals that I would eat than to battle it out with me. I could happily go without food and an excuse to not eat supper would have actually been welcomed. For several months she baked an uber gooey chocolate fudge cake every single week - complete with fondant icing - because it was the only thing she could get me to eat for breakfast. I was fifteen.

And I got a little better in uni, I could pick bits I didn't like out of my food - or more accurately: pick out the few bits that I did. I developed a few staple dishes for restaurants so that I could always be sure to find something I could order. I hid it well, I managed it.

Food still sucked.

And then a year ago something snapped. It wasn't a gradual change but a sudden switch. I woke up hungover and dazed in the most inappropriate person's home that I possibly could have done. I was at the end of a massive spiral of bad behaviour and self sabotage. I dragged myself into the kitchen and numbly stared at the mug of coffee in front of me, coffee which I did not drink. As he placed the plate of food he'd made in front of me I was faced with my worst nightmare, scrambled eggs, burnt sausages, bacon with the fat left on, brown bread - toasted and charred at the edges and a heap of fried mushrooms glistening with oil. In that moment I had a single thought running through my mind and that thought was "fuck it".

From that day, from that moment I ate everything. I took bites out of things without even looking at them first (while I was digging into a Mediterranean salad in Pizza Express one day last summer my Mother cautiously asked what was on my fork. "I don't know" I replied taking a bite. "It's tasty though." This response brought her to tears), I learnt to cook (which, incidentally I rock at in the most amazing way), I thoroughly enjoy my food.

Which is why I went from a skinny size 8 (US size 4) in college to buying my first pair of size 14 (US 10) jeans last week. And I struggle with it sometimes, longtime readers may remember that at the beginning of this year I went on "a bit of a diet and exercise kick" (read: torture regime), and yeah I lost about 15lbs...by working out for over two hours per day and eating less than 1200 calories. I get obsessive about it - Last November I dropped down to about 800 calories a day. My period stopped, I spent a good two months convinced that I was pregnant and no amount of pregnancy tests could convince me otherwise. My body is not meant to do that. The women in my family are soft, we have curves and round faces and really truly terrible arms. We have boobs and hips and look sodding awful in T shirts. I've started to accept this and, while finding someone who seems to think I'm gorgeous no matter how much I weigh or what I look like in skinny jeans does help, I'm still working on it.

Which is why I get upset with myself when I look at the calorie information on the side of the cheesecake I pick up in the shop, it's why I get pissed with my idiocy when the deciding factor between the duck wrap and the fajita chicken is because the duck has fewer grams of fat (no mayo you see), it's why I hate myself for feeling proud when I wasn't hungry all day. Because my problems with food never, ever, EVER stemmed from my wanting to be thin. Because I had issues and I got over them and now that I can finally enjoy the pleasure I spent almost two decades denying myself I find myself faltering. It's why I read Shapely Prose, and why my copy of The Beauty Myth is dog eared and underlined. I'm still trying to come to terms with all the baggage surrounding the issue but I think, I hope, I'm almost there.

Still, at times like today when I chose the duck wrap, when I considered skipping Naan bread because "I [didn't] really need it", when I feel guilty for having more than one slice of cheesecake because I felt like it I realise just how far I have to go.

So... I've been away

I've been gone for a bit. Don't get me wrong, I've been here and everything I just haven't been here. As such.

Some stuff happened. I went away with my friends from high school, one final hurrah before one of us weds. I spent a day teaching in a school and I have never been happier about my future. I spoke to the ex Mr TheOdd, for two hours, for the first time in a year and a half. I messed things up severely with a guy I've known for years, who crossed a line with me that we can't erase. A guy with a girlfriend. A guy I've come to realise that I can't live without. A guy who knows me so well it frightens me, who psychoanalyses me so accurately it makes me hiss and spit, a guy who loves me despite all that. A guy who got over it and wouldn't accept me doing anything other than the same. A guy that I've spoken with more in the last week than in the entire of our three year friendship. A guy who despite me spending most of our time together being downright cruel to him, never gave up on me. A guy who handled my freak out, my weirdness and yet still adores me. A guy who I'm now proud to call my best friend.

So I'm back.

I missed you guys.

quicker than quick

Because it's 10:30pm and I want to get more than three hours of sleep this is going to be a very speedy update. Also: I'm using G's evil laptop of DOOM because my PC finally gave up the ghost internet-wise and this thing has the most annoyingly laid out keyboard ever so I am incapable of typing on it for more than three minutes without throwing it at the wall.

First up I am alive. And tomorrow I give in my notice, which leaves me with only three months of torture until I am free... to indulge in an entirely new brand of masochism.

Anyways. I've been quiet of late because I have been boring of late. Evil wisdom teeth and my first trip to the dentist in four and a half years (long story involving way too little anaesthetic, blood curdling screaming and a toothectomy* that went ahead anyway) mean that I've been on antibiotics for the last couple of weeks. Specifically metronidazole, the antibiotic which makes you incredibly (and violently) ill when you mix it with alcohol. And yet! There is a bright spot shining out from my inbox. What's that you say? The end of my non-drinking existence coinciding with a visit from a particularly kick-ass Pajiban??!?! And that also coincides with pay day?

Surely not!

I'll keep ya posted.

Oh yes, I posted something over at Blog Me A Tale, go and take a look.


*Today's game is making up new words!

preparation, the (semi) live blog

17:00 - Right. Left work early so I could come home and work. Spent the last hour reading Perdido Street Station. Hmmm maybe I can justify it as an exploration into the morality of genetic engineering. I should really start planning

17:30 - Plan for the next six hours done. Easy money. Will just phone my mother for moral support.

18:00 - Bollocks. Plan no longer applicable. Never mind, will do research on the internet.

18:03 - Ooooh YouTube wants to work for me today!

19:48 - Phonecall from Doug wondering if he needs to pick up dinner or if I'll cook for him. Tell him to check with the people who will actually leave their rooms this evening.

20:15 - Actually, where the fuck are my housemates? They're blatantly in a bar having fun. Wish I was in a bar having fun.

20:39 - WooHoo! Three minutes of presentation done. And it only took me fifteen minutes to write. Wonder if it's factually accurate...

20:40 - I'll just check my facts.

20:45 - Bollocks.

20:47 - Hmmm maybe I'll just spend a few minutes checking through my reader...

21:55 - Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. Done fucking nothing. Shit, shit, shit. I'm going to be making acetates at three in the morning half crazed from lack of sleep. I have the strangest feeling that I was aware of this fact weeks ago.

21:56 - Oooh! Keys in the door! Doug's back. I should go and entertain him. It's rude to leave guests unattended and foraging for food.

22:43 - Well at least my shirt is ironed for tomorrow now. That's a good thing, right?

22:44 - Maybe I should just re-time what I have so far...

22:47 - What I have so far is crap. I should start again.

23:09 - Second draft looks exactly like the first draft. Begin on third draft.

23:37 - I really shouldn't be capable of writing a presentation this quickly at this time of night. Slightly concerned that other people will have spent weeks on theirs. Justifying it to myself in that this is an example of teaching capability and will not have three weeks to prepare and memorise before each and every lesson. This is far more realistic. Yes.

23:42 - Five and a half minutes. REALLY basic. Like, really REALLY basic. Maybe I should be focusing on one thing? All seems a little rushed. Fuck it. Don't care. It's almost midnight. Need to make acetates.

23:50 - Flatmates home. Need coffee. Rearranging seems to be a good idea. How does rearranging make something shorter? That's insane.

00:04 - Mmmmm. Coffee.

00:10 - Hmmm if I combine this section with that section then it might be easier to follow... then I can link it to that bit and I can spend longer on my examples. Ahahaha! I am a genius!

00:23 - A genius who is more interested in reading forums than finishing her presentation, evidently.

00:42 - Seriously.

00:52 - I'm out. Going to bed. I have a presentation without a point, no acetates and a headache. Will get up at seven tomorrow and continue the whole hideous process.

panic stations

I am. Freaking. The Fuck. Out.

Seriously people, this is an epic level freak out happening right now. I'm on about a level 4 on the "Alex is melting down I'm serious about this run for the hills do not stop to retrieve children or valuables well maybe that one vase as it could actually be worth something some day" scale. I'm screwed. Utterly screwed. Nobody is ever going to let me teach. Anywhere. Ever. I'm certainly not going to get on to my first choice course, the interview for which is on Thursday.

Why you ask? Well! I'll tell you.

I haven't spent the last nine years volunteering with sick children and teaching them to read. I haven't taken every day of annual leave I've had in the last two years and spent it mentoring underprivileged youths (although I wish I had). I have not spent the last six weeks rehearsing my presentation for my interview, in fact I haven't even started it. That last part? Utterly not hyperbole.

Shit.

Fuck.

I haven't spent a day in a school.

This is not my fault. It's the weirdest Easter ever right now. The schools aren't back yet. They don't answer emails. I have one possibility but I have to contact them after the school comes back in to session. On Monday. Four days after my interview. Useful. I fully intend on spending time in a school (because not to = fucking insane) I just haven't managed to yet.

This is entirely my fault. I should have started sooner. I applied too late. I'm not dedicated enough.

I made the mistake of reading message boards dedicated to applications for teaching. This was a bad idea. It made me freak out. I'm freaking out right now. Can you tell? Because, honestly? The people who visit websites dedicated to stuff are nerds and weirdos. I should know. I am one. Except I read scathing movie reviews, random sci-fi stuff, articles about sex and the evils of magazines, blogs on feminist issues and lots and lots and lots (and lots) of webcomics. I spend all day online working out exactly how many X-Men continuities I'm currently reading (three), daydreaming about my next tattoo and shoe shopping.

This does not make me a bad person. Really, it doesn't. At least I don't think it does. Shit.

And normally I wouldn't care. Because I never care. I haven't prepared for an interview in my life. I am su-freaking-perb at interviews. I kick ass at presentations (speaking of: I really should get on with that, I have about 36 hours in which to complete it - 20 of those will be spent at work and/or sleeping, hmmmmm I wonder if I can do both simultaneously), I am confident and well spoken and look fierce in a suit. But I'm freaking out. Massively. Because for once in my life I actually want something. I want this so badly. Not just because I don't handle rejection well. Not just because I want to be a student next year. Not just because I hate my current job so much it makes me want to leap out of my third floor window.

But because more and more I realise just how important it is (yes, that's my question).

I want to teach my subject. I want to be an authority figure that is always sympathetic. I want to be one of the few adults who offers a completely safe space. I want to be a role model to young women who are conditioned against science, against speaking up, against acting out. I want to explain inheritance theory and the process of natural selection. I want to see the maniacal spark in the pacifist veggie kid's eyes as she cuts into her first rat and decides on a career in pathology (hello, me at thirteen). I want this. The only other thing I've wanted this much was my place at University. I got that. I want this.

I know that I want this because I'm planning for my rejection. This doesn't happen in Alex Land. In Alex Land when you get rejected for something it takes under thirty seconds to have yourself and everyone around you convinced that you didn't want it anyways. Let thirty more seconds pass and you've already moved on to your Next Big Scheme. That doesn't happen here. I'm planning for my rejection. If I get rejected my application goes on to the next place. And then the next. And then it's June and I'm in clearing. And then the process is closed, the slots are filled. Come October I'm temping, taking a TEFL qualification in the evenings. January comes around and it's goodbye London, hello Tokyo. My application for the next year has already been sent. Interviews begin again.

And I calm down a little.

But still, there's the little voice whispering at the back of my head. They need science teachers, they are under fucking subscribed. You haven't prepared because you don't need to, why do you think they pay you ten grand tax free to train? They should be begging you to apply. You are a natural. And it's that little voice that's fucking me over because for a few minutes I believe it and start feeling confident. Then I start feeling blase. Then I start feeling cocky.

And the swing from "cocky" to "gibbering ball of panic and stress" is so steep and so terrifyingly far that it makes my stomach churn.

Bollocksing buggering bastarding fuck.

I'm going to read comics and worry myself to sleep. An activity only marginally less productive than spending half an hour ranting about my unpreparedness. Half an hour I could have been using to prepare.

Oh for fuck's sake.

an update

RE: my move to a new address

If you subscribe to Circular Logic (soon to become Ink&Apples) at our old blogspot address via RSS feed (though why you would is utterly beyond me) then it will no longer update. If you feel the need to update your subscriptions www.inkandapples.com now registers as actually existing, which is always useful. The old address should redirect here but I'll put a reminder up in the blog header just in case. God, this is way more hassleful than I expected. I blame Vermillion and his shiny new layout. Curses. Speaking of (new layouts, not V) one is forthcoming, I've been sourcing graphics and finding templates to cannibalise - something I'd forgotten could be so much fun, because I am a massive loser.

I would apologise for being rubbish about posting of late but I hate when people do that so I'll just say leave me a comment, damnit so that I know you still love me.

re: my life

I still hate my job but now everyone knows I'm leaving come September, including my bosses which has taken the pressure off. Also: we finally have funding so there is a minute chance that I may get to do some actual lab work before my time is through, although I'd give you even odds that we start the day after I leave. Because the universe is convinced that it's a comedian. I'm spending the next week going to gigs and socialising with my flatmates (we've been doing a lot of that recently - last night was spent bowling (at which I suck), drinking beer and playing in the arcade (both of which I am awesome at). I'm pretty sure that all that DDRing counts as exercise.)

In slightly more exciting news: I have an interview coming up for my first choice college for teacher training which is very exciting and more than a little nerve wracking - I have questions to answer in a group exercise ("Where do stars go during the day?", "Can nuclear power solve global warming?", "Why can fanning flames make them bigger if you can also blow them out?"), a teaching situation to answer questions on and a presentation to give that's appropriate for 16 year-olds. I'm supposed to organise a day in a school science department before I go but with the Easter break being timed between hmmm let's see "now" and "the time of my interview" that doesn't look too promising. Still, I have the curriculum to read through (fun fact: I also have to be prepared to teach physics, astronomy and geology in addition to the subjects I actually have knowledge of which will be... interesting).

More tattooing at the end of the month after a rather long break. We're starting work on the background so I get to spend the first hour being drawn on with marker pen. We've vaguely discussed colour schemes and the basics of how it's going to look but with Kamil I can never tell until I actually see it - and I'm never disappointed. Also this session we should finally be re-working my snowflake, which was the entire point of starting this tattoo. So: yey!

I managed the entire of lent without getting on the scales (go me) and only slipped up on the chocolate once or twice (always when eating in company, damned restaurants and their limited desert menus). Apparently I weigh exactly the same when I starve myself and exercise like a maniac as when I eat pizza and spend all day playing video games. I do feel a hell of a lot better when I work out though so I'll be continuing to do it but not beating myself up when I really don't feel like it. Check it out kids: a balanced and mature attitude, who saw that one coming?

So yes, all is groovy in the world of me. How is everyone else?

thank you

To everyone who commented, to everyone who shared their experiences and gave their advice: thank you.

I'm going to sound like a complete sap when I admit that I was genuinely moved, almost to tears actually, by the responses I got (especially a certain epic email). Reading through all of your advice helped me massively and, over the course of the weekend, I came to my descision.

I started to write my Masters application for the millionth time, I started and I stopped, I got out my calculator and figured out my finances, I looked at possible job options, I deleted everything that I'd just written, I stared at the screen feeling like an utter failure. The words wouldn't come - the abstract ideas, the late night speeches that I gave so many times, the ideals and the plans I'd used to have everyone else convinced - they just wouldn't stay on the page. Slippery and elusive I couldn't hold on to them for long enough to pin them down. I got up, I wandered, I scribbled in the leatherbound book where my snippets of fiction reside, I wrote some dialogue about a cat with no ears, I poured myself a glass of wine.

The itches wouldn't go away and by now it was dark, the house was empty, nobody was answering their phone. I was too worked up to sleep, too antsy to read - my eyes kept skipping words and lines, splicing sentences together and muddling the prose. So I did something that a couple of months ago would have been hell: I worked out. I pushed myself and lost myself. I really thought, for the first time in a good while about what I wanted. I weighed up my options and saw myself in five years, I heard the future me speak, I saw her light up and beam with pride when she explained to a stranger what it was that she did with her days.

And so I showered off, quickly, not wanting to lose the thread of insight, scared to shatter the fragile and perfect plan. I sat down at my computer and the words flowed. For two hours I typed. I explained what I wanted to get out of my life and what I wanted to give. I gave the reasons that I would not only enjoy my work but also that I would excel at it. In two hours it was done. The entire thing. There was no hesitation, no doubt or uncertainty just the sweet feeling of purpose and the sensation of weight lifting from my chest and the final inhalation of breath.

I'm going to teach.

More than that: I'm going to get my Masters.

More than that: I'm going to write fiction.

I realised that I can do everything that I want to do, I don't have to sacrifice a single part of it. When it really came down to it the reason I wanted to do the Masters was not to get a job at the end of it. I love to write but I love it too much to sterilise it. I love the creation of characters and the weaving of worlds not writing a piece pushing a drug. The reason I wanted to take the masters was beacuse I wanted the knowledge and the skills, I wanted to read the material and write the essays. And so I don't have to do it full time, I don't have to do it in a college and I don't have to take it now. The Open University offers the course and I have the next fourty summers to work on it. I have the next fourty summers to rent a cottage in the highlands and hole up with my laptop and a wireless internet connection. I have the next fourty summers to tell the stories that swirl in my mind.

When I thought about not teaching it frightened me. Already it felt like opportunity lost and I'm too young to start regretting things. So many of you said that I have all the time in the world, that I don't have to decide what to do with the rest of my life right now, so I'm not going to. I'm going to do what feels right to me now and if, in the future, something else feels more right then I'll do that instead.

Once I'd made my decision and sent my application into the ether to be judged and (oh my god please) accepted I, of course, rang my Mother. When I told her there was an audible rush of breath - I could see her closing her eyes at the other end of the phone and slowly unfurrowing her brow.

"Oh, thank God."

She'd been waiting for me to come to the decision on my own. Standing by and relentlessly firing pros and cons at me. Telling me not to worry about the money, telling me not to worry about the lack of jobs, telling me how much hard work teaching would be, telling me what I good writer I am, what a good teacher I would be. She'd kept quiet while I theorised about finances, working hours, what I'd get out of it, whether the sacrifices were worth it. When I finally told her what I'd decided - and my reasons for it - she said that she'd never been prouder, that she knew I'd come to the right path on my own, that she was so happy I'd finally stopped listening to other people and decided on what was truly best for me.

I feel good today. I feel light and bright and frighteningly happy. I feel like a weight has lifted.

Now I just need to get on to a course.

a cry for help

Alright kids. I'm asking everyone who ever comments (and, in the event that more than three people actually read this, anyone who lurks) to help a sister out here.

I'm stuck, and I figure as you have access to the innermost workings of my MIND via the medium of blog you're just as qualified to advise me as anyone else in my life right now.

So what do I do with myself? I'm at a threeway fork in the road and the indecision is killing me. I cannot stand still. I just can't. I feel like ripping out my hair, peeling off my skin, fashioning the resulting goo into a minature model of l'Arc de Triumph and setting light to it in sacrifice to Athena. While dancing. Just so that I'll have something to do.

Not a good state of mind to be in.

Here are my options (complete with a nifty pro and con list for each) as they stand now:

Option 1
Take a Masters in Science Communication
Pros: It'll be amazingly fun, I get to be a student for a year, try my hand at documentary production, script writing and other creative malarky and I end up with a formal qualification in journalism.
Cons: I'll be a grand total of £30,000 in debt after it - a year of school will effectively double my total debt and it won't be low interest this time. I'll have to survive on practically nothing for a year. Everyone in the world wants to try their hand at journalism - competition for jobs at the other end is going to be beyond insane. It's not exactly a stable profession at the best of times.

Option 2
Qualify to teach high school level science
Pros: I'd be fucking amazing at teaching and it would keep me constantly stimulated and entertained, I could spend the long(ish) summer vacations writing fiction like I've always said I would. I'd have a job for life at a very liveable from salary. The course would be paid for and they'd help with my debt. Plus I could continue to freelance during vacations to keep my hand in.
Cons: Unless I want to go into management I'd never earn much, I'd have to be slightly more conservative in my future tattoo plans (although I was never intending to go to full sleves anyways). Unlike option 3 below I don't really have the option of jacking it in and doing the masters if I feel like it. It's a job for life.

Option 3
Apply for a graduate scheme in Marketing/PR/Advertising
Pros: Within a couple of years I'd be earning incredibly well. I'd always be busy. In theory I could branch out into the creative side (in practice: not so much), I'd be moving into the right industry if I do decide to take the masters. More experience = better and if I'm uber lucky (like, 1000:1 odds) I may find a company willing to support me through a masters.
Cons: I'd be selling my soul to the city, high stress and company politics have never really been my thing. Despite promises of creative input I'm willing to put down money on the fact I'd be chasing unpaid bills and doing pretty much the job I do now.

So what do you guys think? No matter who I talk to I get a different opinion:

Mother: Why aren't you teaching? You've wanted to do it since you were a kid. You'd make a great teacher. Or you could do your Masters. What's all this about a job in media all of a sudden, you're only saying that because G's doing it.

B&G the flatmates: Don't teach, you're copping out, you've never mentioned it before, it's a waste of your degree. Do a job that has prospects. Take the Masters you can do whatever you want with it afterwards [Alex note: bollocks to that, if I'm spending £15,000 on the thing it's better be worth every relevant penny]

H the co-worker: Do whatever makes you happy because in the end it's your life but the Masters is going to be expensive and how much will it really help you out in the end?

AAAAAAAAARGGGGHHH!!!! It's driving me insane.

Anyhoo: Masters deadline is the 22nd and my application is almost done, I'm registering for graduate teacher training this weekend and my CV is posted and some half-hearted applications have been sent. I'd simply love for some input.


Cause after writing those lists? I'm itching to bust out the frog dissection kit, laser pointer and lesson planner and get educational on some asses.

What do you guys think?

[Addendum: I am aware that I'm incredibly young and that I have my whole life ahead of me blah, blah, blibbity blah. I know that but right now that isn't helping. I have no choice but to leave my job now - pay's going up in May and again in August and if I stay past then I'll be on "hey, I can get whatever ink work I want done whenever I want, oooh look I can move into a bigger place, awww great this means I can have my Westie puppy... and a kitten! What's this? Enough cash to purchase all nine seasons of the X-files AND a pair of red stilletoes. And I don't have to do any kind of complicated mental calculation before buying them? Awesome!" money and I'll never leave. It's now or never folks.]

Edit: want to see how pissed this whole thing has gotten me? I'm broke and I just bought these:

On the up side: I now have hot red shoes.

Weird, I feel more relaxed already...

*insert seasonally appropriate song title here*

Tonight marks the end of another year: A chance to make resolutions you won't keep. And some you will.

An opportunity to kiss someone on the stroke of midnight (or if you're like me, thank your lucky stars for the bullet you've dodged this year).

I've truly had a superb year: I started it off in a hotel room with the love of my life. Twenty four hours later we both realised it was over. In January we admitted it. In February I re learnt how to have fun. March came and I'd realised that being single was nothing to be ashamed of. April brought the realisation that my family made me safe. By May I'd doubled the number of people I'd slept with. By the end of June I'd fallen in love, and realised it was hopeless. July passed and I'd started to understand issues I didn't even know I had. August arrived and with it came my love of blogging and the start of a shiny new tattoo. By September I'd rekindled old friendships and realised how much I could of lost if I hadn't. Before the end of October I'd realised exactly what I didn't need. November saw me starting to sort out my future... and December? During December I was just happy. Deeply so.

And so this year ends: I have nobody to kiss at the chimes, for the first time in six years, and I find myself not caring. I have more friends now than ever, my future is bright and I really honestly believe that I'm blessed. Downstairs are friends: some new, some old. There are some boys I've made mistakes with and maybe even one that I could have fallen for had things been different. There are new couples: some who are only together because of the rebound, one are so in love with each other that it makes my heart skip. There are established pairs and people who will be missing their loved ones come midnight. There are people who love me.

So I sign off, to pick up my beer and head downstairs, to continue the party and usher in the next calendar cycle with laughter and love.

Happy New Year to all, I hope 2008 is as good to all of you as the last year was to me.

an Alex by any other name

A piece over at Jezebel this week on names a guy should never call you (personally nothing gets to me other than any variation on “crazy” a favourite of the ex Mr. TheOdd), as well as the fact that a large number of people have been calling me Miss O’____ all week (name change official – hurrah!) got me thinking about the matter of names, how we refer to ourselves and others. This is kind of an entry about the ex Mr. TheOdd also, as he had quite a large influence on me as far as names go.

My nicknames past and present

I have an inherently shortenable name. Alexandra, it turns out, is absolutely replete with possibilities for, how shall I put it? “Mangling”. I will state for the record, right here and right now, that I love the name Alex. I love that it’s unisex, disyllabic and has an Xtra Kool X at the end. Plus: there are hundreds of us, it works fine for a kid and a grownup alike and nobody spells it wrongly. Unlike….

Lecky

Nobody calls me this any more. And by “nobody” I of course mean “both my parents as well as my friends from high school” if I had my way it truly would be nobody. The people who do call me Lecky (a name that makes me cringe) are militant about it and point blank refuse to call me anything else, unless it comes with air quotes. They will sometimes shorten it to Lex though.

I was given the nickname after an ex (ie. current) girlfriend of my Father’s. He’d already decided, pre-conception, that I would be called Alexandra (and incidentally, would be female) and as soon as I was born he named me “Lecky” which stuck… and is yet another reason I hate the man.

I mean seriously.

There are some members of my family (and I’m talking close relatives) who, after twenty two years, still cannot spell this particular nickname. There are far more wrong spellings of it than I would have ever thought possible. Also, people use it on cheques. Not too bright as all my accounts are under my full name.

I kept the name all throughout elementary and high school (as well as a wide array of bizarre lengthenings including, but not limited to: Leckifer, Elecebeth, Leckyzandra, Lecticia, Lectoria oh and Leckerbocerglory. My friends are odd, this I know. One still insists on lengthening my name out, at the moment I’m Lexagonal, Lexophagus or Lexonical depending on her mood). It was University when I finally managed to shake it off and moved full time into…

Lex

My Father’s second wife Carolyn named me Lex because she, like any right thinking and sane person, hated the name Lecky. Of course originally it was “Lex Luthor” but let’s skip over that. Most people shorten Lecky to Lex now if they still call me that.

When I got to university I introduced myself to people as Lex, having never ever been called Alex by anyone it would have felt weird changing completely, and so that’s how anyone I met in my first few weeks of Uni knows me. I say “my first few weeks” because anyone I met after the ex Mr. TheOdd knows me as Alex. See below for the reasons why.

There is one notable exception to the rule though and that is my Biologist friends: My ex flatmate S calls me Lex despite having met me at the very end of First Year, all her friends call me Lex too because she is a vile harpy who has no respect for me or how I wish to be known. I’m kidding. Mostly. Although even if I do introduce myself to someone completely new while she’s around she will immediately jump into the conversation and correct me, invariably they end up calling me Lex too and I die a little inside. Her reasoning is as follows: there are four other Alexes in that particular group and it gets confusing. That’s the extent of it, I’d complain but she’s surprisingly determined on this matter.

Other than introductions sabotaged by S, everybody now calls me…

Alex

Before University I had one Physics teacher and three P.E teachers that called me Alex. Mainly because they hated me. But other than that I had never been known as Alex before. Upon meeting the ex Mr. TheOdd on the first afternoon of University I, of course, introduced myself to him as Lex. He, in turn, looked at me, frowned and replied “I’m going to call you Alex” and it stuck.

I confess that I had always wanted to be an Alex, but changing your name in high school is nigh on impossible and I’d always had a sneaking feeling that I wasn’t “cool” enough to be one (yeah… maybe we should skip over my past self worth issues). It turns out that one person (granted with the charisma of about twenty – the ex Mr. TheOdd was damned charming) using it stopped me from feeling like I was playing pretend and made me able to actually own the name I was born with. I know it’s terrible to be pleased at someone deciding they hate your name and hence rechristening you but I still can’t help it.

Lexie

Two people have called me Lexie in my time. One was my first Mr TheOdd, D, and the other is my amazing name lengthening friend from a couple of paragraphs up.

Anyone even considering calling me this now is liable to get one of the following ripped from their body: right eye, throat, spleen, spinal cord. Their choice of course. As the ex Mr TheOdd said (sorry this entry is rather “him heavy”) “It sounds like you should be entered in Crufts” and loathe as I am to say it: I agree with him.

Pet Names

This section goes some way to explain why the “names guys should never call you” thing got me thinking as most of the pet names I’ve ever had have just seemed slightly… off.

The ex Mr. TheOdd had a rather interesting take on pet names – he started off with the cutesy diminutives but about a year into our relationship he pretty much liked to call me things specifically to piss me off, getting slightly better once I resigned myself to it and played along. I started out as Pumpkin or Cherub (excuse me while I go and throw up, back in a sec) and then moved on to… Worm.

Does anyone else think that’s kind of offensive? I mean, it’s not just me right? It was said in an affectionate way and everything but my attempts at explanation as to why it bothered me were brushed off with the statement that I was a “crazy lady”…

That name stuck with me for a year and a fucking half.

Worm eventually became “bee” (along with the notion that I could literally fly and was fuzzy with black and yellow stripes… this man is currently doing a PhD in cancer research – I weep for humanity) which in turn led to “bug” a name I have it on good authority that he now uses for his new torture victim (or should that be “girlfriend”?). I don’t know about you guys but finding out that the fairly unusual pet name my new guy is using for me once belonged to a former beau would leave one hell of a sour taste in my mouth…


And that’s me, and all my incarnations in a nutshell. I confess that I act differently depending on what name people use for me – perhaps it’s something to do with the expectations tied to me from the period of time when that name was used, perhaps it’s something more elemental than that. But there we have it.

Oh, and my next entry is going to be about shoes (more ex Mr. TheOdd ranting there too unfortunately, it’s all tied in with a pair of black stilettos you see…)

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ch-ch-ch-changes

You may not notice it but there have been some changes under the surface here at Circular Logic, in that everything has now been transferred over to my shiny new email address... to go with my shiny new name.

Yep, after about a year of talking about it I bit the bullet and started setting the wheels in motion - starting with changing my email address, transferring all of my emails over to my new inbox, sorting out my new reader account, switching my blogs over altering my contact details on every website under the sun...

God. This is what you get for having a sensible email account of the firstname.lastname variety. Why didn't I go with something inane and filled with numbers and references to cuteness instead? Then at least I wouldn't have to change it.

Oh well, lesson for today: the legal bit is actually the least stressful part of changing your surname. Who'd have thought it?

*sniff*

Well, here's a fun twist. I'm sick. And I hardly ever get ill, but on the few occasions that I do it tends to burn high and hot for a couple of days before my uber immune system kicks its ass.

Ex flatmate M theorises that the vast amounts of adrenaline and shock to my body on Wednesday shot my immune system to tatters making me susceptible to every October bug going round at the moment. I think I probably have all of them. Seriously guys, I'm the only girl I know who gets man-flu, I'm a seriously crappy sick person, I whine and bitch the entire time; demanding sympathy when I really don't deserve it .

So yep, I have an October bug, great. I'm two years out of uni and I still get Fresher's flu. The other alternative, of course, is sepsis and I'm not quite hypochondriacal enough to suspect that.

Downsides to being sick inlcude: not being able to detox this weekend, not being able to go to the pub to watch the rugby (aw shaddup, I would have gone along and drunk orange juice... actually I may still do that), feeling like crap so not sticking to my diet (which was going so well! I've lost around half a stone with only marginal effort), foggy head so not being able to work.

Upsides to being sick include: being able to spend my friday evening in bed reading magazines, having an excuse to watch the entire of Full Metal Alchemist uninterrupted (I promised myself I'd only watch it start to finish in one sitting so the box-set has been sitting on my shelf un opened for a while), flatmates cooking for me, legitimately gaining sympathy for the fact that I'm literally in pieces (I didn't realise quite how many movements involve using the muscles in my back, turns out it's "all of them" not good) rather than getting the, completely justified, "it's your own fault" response.

Tattoo pictures and a description of my first session are forthcoming on the very strict condition that there are no comments about any part of the image other than the artwork. I'm looking at you Vermillion. As it ended up being ever so slightly larger than intended I'm rather more, how shall I put it, exposed in the photos than I'd like and the only way they're getting posted is if we can all agree to over look that tiny insignificant detail. M'kay?

And can someone please explain how a nice girl like me essentially ended up with the beginnings of a bodysuit?

tuesday morning D&M

I'm in a self-analysing mood at the moment and lacking a digital camera, scanner or any other gizmo to make my post more entertaining than it currently is we're left with only my words to provide diversion. About this I am very, truly sorry. Today's post is one of big questions and fairly intense introspection. Again, I'm sorry.

I'm in one of my "happiness in blue" moods at the moment so forgive the semi-morose tone of my post. My very mild synesthaesia means that I associate colours with almost everything, days, numbers, pieces of music (although that's more of a dynamic thing) and also emotions. Those who know me well instinctively understand my happiness scale based on what colour I'm feeling - happiness in pink is the scary one, it's brightly chipper and usually steeped heavily in denial, happiness in green is my favourite because it feels something like closing your eyes and tilting your face towards the sun. Happiness in red is distracted and shivery, it comes from an evening surrounded by friends or catching a boy looking, it leads to humming and glazed over eyes. And then there's happiness in blue - it's a late Sunday night with a bottle of wine kind of happiness - it's reluctant, introspective and a little wistful because you know the feeling won't last, it's a quiet contentment that comes from understanding that while the rest of the world is out of control and careering off the rails that now, in this moment, you're doing OK and everything is quiet. My voice goes down a couple of notes when I'm happy in blue, the speed of my speech, usually lightning paced, slows down to be understandable, I feel happy to drift.

As some of you may know my life at the moment is a seemingly endless quest for some kind of purpose. My problem has always been that I'm an "all rounder" presented with far too many options. I know it seems wrong to complain about this, being faced with too many choices is always better than being faced with no choice at all, but I spend most of my life worrying that I picked the wrong course, chose the wrong path and that it's too late to turn back and run in the opposite direction. The first divergence and the one that my mother cites as being the one that I'm most unsure about was the day that I abandoned words. As a child I was in love with words, I still am, but back then they were the things that defined me. When it came down to making a choice between science and language I picked the former reasoning that although I loved both it was science that required the formal training, the further education. There's no real point in sharing this, you understand, except to provide some kind of background to my current confusion. I love science, I find it fascinating but I've been coming to realise more and more that it isn't the research that I find interesting. It's not the results and the charts that stir me - it's our interpretation of them, our reaction to the discoveries that others make.

I may have found a way to marry the two halves of me, or more precisely: those around me may have found it. Content as I am to drift at the moment and unsure as I am about what course I should be taking I decided to let three of the people who know me best, and love me most, give me their points of view and for once I actually listened. From the basic idea, through to the practicalities and finally the overcoming of obstacles it's quite shocking how three people outside my self can so quickly solve all the problems that I've spent the last five years at least constructing.

Why can't I do that?

It's a question of perspective I guess.

Aside from the question of "what am I going to be" the other one I'm facing is "who am I going to be". Oddly, this one is remarkably simpler to answer.

The basics of this is that this winter I will legally be changing my name. I'll still be Alex, I love my first name and despite its history it's too much a part of my identity to change it but I have no such attachments to my middle and surnames. My middle names are easy: I have two and I would only like to keep one of them. As it stands my three names are as such (and considering I have two of the world's most common middle names - in combination anyway - I have no qualms about revealing them to the internet in general, or rather the six people that actually read this blog and the one person who stumbled here via a search engine):

Alexandra Elizabeth Anne

I hate this for several reasons. Most mundanely, it doesn't fit on forms. More personally I dislike the reason I was given all three of my names, officially I was named after "the three princesses of England" which as a sentiment actually makes me want to vomit, my mother had nothing to do with this decision as she was told that she would be having a girl and her name would be as my father decided. Unofficially: I also share my name with one of my father's "ex" girlfriends. Cynical you may say but he chose a rather un-orthodox nickname for me, one I hated as a child and took me eighteen years to finally shake from all but a couple of family members and one or two childhood friends, and it just happens to be the name that she was known by. Still, Elizabeth is a family name - it belongs in part to my mother and my grandmother so I'm happy with it but I figure as long as I have the choice I'd rather drop the Anne - I never use it anyway.

My surname is the main point of this name changing exercise. I have been estranged from my father - by choice (mine, not his) - for over seven years now. My paternal grandmother remarried when I was an infant so she doesn't share my name and, aside from one uncle and his wife, the only family members who do are my father, his father (comments regarding apples and the distance they fall are valid here incidentally) and my two younger brothers - both of whom I've never met, nor care to. It's a name that I feel no connection to. Up until a couple of years ago this was tolerable - my mother had kept her married name when they divorced in 1990 and so sharing my name with her was something I'd grown up with. Then she remarried. I had always planned on taking my husband's surname when I married - purely selfish reasoning on my part, I've wanted to jettison this name for as long as I can remember. But now more and more I'm beginning to feel itchy at the prospect, I'd like to keep my own name and my own identity when, if, I eventually marry but I'm not happy with the identity I have.

And so I have decided to change my name, not just to something random but to my step-father's surname. People have either declared this "sweet" or "weird" and the comments have come in equal measure. There are many reasons behind my choice: to share a name with my mother again, because although he would like to I am too old for my step-father to formally adopt me, because it sounds far, far nicer than my name now.

There, those are the two questions I am facing at the moment. I almost think I have them answered.

on the horrors of moving (again)

Apologies for the lack of posting of late, moving house has been an absolute nightmare. I'll be more prolific once the move is over and done with but for now the only things on my mind involve cardboard boxes and parcel tape. This whole weekend has been spent packing up boxes, which is a first as every other time I've moved  (that would be once per year since the age of 18 - I'm a glutton for punishment, what can I say?) it's been a "night before, oh holy hell why do I have so much stuff why can't I just embrace minimalism and only have three boxes to pack because seriously who needs this much stuff anyway and oh crap how can I not have enough boxes?" kind of deal. Never good for the blood pressure. So today, in between periodic bouts of working, rather than my usual video game breaks, I will be packing boxes, cleaning windows and scrubbing down woodwork. Fun!

As everyone insists on telling me ad nauseum moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do, according to RealAge it even has the power to take years off your expected life-span. And I do it once a year. Triffic.

What this all boils down to is the sinking realisation that at some point in the future I'm going to have to bite the bullet and think about buying somewhere in the near future. Even though I'm still crazily young and it won't be for a fair few years (at least until the PhD is out of the way) this still is a horrifying prospect. Aside from all the usual "oh my God I'd be seriously signing my life away and forced to settle down in one place with practically no freedom" thing there's just so much to think about. Even when it's completely simplified into terms even I can understand the house buying process is a scary one. It's enough to keep me up at night, and it does. Frequently.

Oh well, the chances of me affording a house in London in the near future are slim to none without some serious mortgage wranglings (and possibly a deal with the devil) I'm hoping to put it off for as long as humanly possible. Now if those nightmares would just go away....

Anyway - comments to keep me going please! Any sage words of advice concerning moving/buying/a way to stop nightmares about estate agents are always welcome!

my life in pictures - inside my head edition

Well I'm back at work after a fabulous bank holiday weekend (Phase V of my freakout has been fully completed for all those who are keeping tabs, so I'm back on an even keel now) and I was stuck for something to blog about. So, rather than providing you with a stream of consciousness ramble, or skipping posting all together (my life is about to get very busy so I'm taking every opportunity to post that I can) I've decided to allow anyone reading an unprecedented look into the inner workings of my mind.

I am a crazily unorganised person and as a result I carry a diary around with me at all times (I also have on me at any given time: my journal, a novel, my glasses case, a make-up bag, a mini hairbrush, my wallet, two sets of keys, my phone, my iPod charger, a comic/game manual, a mirror, assorted writable DVDs with random TV episodes on them, my iPod and about 6 pens of differing colours - that last one is going to make sense in a minute) everything I have to do for the schedulable future is contained in the pages along with numerous notes to self, lists of things to buy and the occasional doodle. Without it I'm completely lost.

(In fact since writing this I've managed to think of three more things to add to tomorrow.)

So, without further ado - this is what my week looks like so far:

click above for full size


same for this one!

That's it in a nutshell (with a quick couple of paint deletions), not very interesting is it? But, at least my scanner got to see something with colour on it for once! Comments are appreciated, as always, and I'll try to have something more entertaining for my next update.

Side note: yes, my writing really is that illegible and I do indeed skip/substitute letters on a regular basis. My brain works at a slightly faster pace than my hand and it shows.

decisions decisions....

In a continuation of my hideous week, we have now come to the beginning of "Typical Alex life freak out Phase III"* in that I'm quite tempted to run away. Here, as I see it, are my ten best possible options:

1) Move to the New York and intern for a newspaper or a journal, live in a flatshare with about 9 other people and eventually work my way up through the publishing world (problem: a million and one people want to do the same thing and I'll probably starve to death)

2) Become the next Internet sensation and ride the wave of the publicity onto chat shows and make a ton of money (problem: becoming the next internet sensation would probably be fairly difficult and embarrassing)

3) Move to Amsterdam and become a stripper, use my dubious connections to blackmail important businessmen (problem: if I end up meeting and falling in love with a minor member of the European royalty he'd be forced to break up with me because of my seedy past)

4) Move to Italy and get a job in a vineyard, learn about wine making and eventually take over the business when I marry the owners' rugged yet strangely sensitive son Marco. (problem: likelihood of my Italian ever being good enough to converse with Marco is slim to none)

5) Go on a countrywide tour with an up and coming rock band and learn valuable lessons about the value of family as well as gaining an important insight into who I really am (problem: as great as Almost Famous is, movie plots aren't really representative of real life)

6) Move to Fiji, spend my savings re-taking my PADI qualifications and spend my time doing marine conservation work, teaching diving in my spare time and bar-tending to earn money to pay the rent (problem: Lack of funds to afford the initial flights, diving lessons and accommodation)

7) Become a receptionist at a tattoo parlour, spend all my earnings on rent for a tiny box room in Camden and adding to my now completely acceptable tattoo collection (problem: I'd be poor for all eternity and my mother would disown me.)

8) Hole up in a cottage in the Highlands and write an astonishing debut novel winning several awards in the process (problem: lack of muse and easily distracted nature means that I would spend the entire time blogging or internet shopping and hence would die cold and alone but surrounded by beautiful yet ill-fitting shoes and bargain jewellery)

9) Move to Japan and get a job writing the scripts and story concepts for RPGs, spend my evenings learning to cook and hanging out in video arcades (problem: lack of knowledge of Japanese and any kind of programming skills may hinder me somewhat)

10) Suck it up, get over it, apply for more research jobs now, start working on my 4 year project application for this winter and wait for the new batch of PhDs to be advertised later in the academic year. (problem: If I wanted to be sensible and do that I wouldn't be having a freak out now would I?)

So there we have it. Now I just need to pick one.




*Phase I: anger, ranting, frustration. Phase II: anti-social behaviour, lack of communication, apathy. Look out for Phases IV (psychotic chipperness, optimism and unintentional honesty) and V (drastic image modification/inappropriate boy/extreme drunkenness/all of the above). Coming soon!

a smirk on a very bad day

I'm having the mother of all bad days today. Seriously, you know those days where everything goes wrong? Yeah, well I really wish I was having one of those. And typically, my prick of an ex has his psychic fuck Alex over instinct fully tuned in so he picks today to send me a charming little update about just how spiffy his life is right now. Tool. I'm normally a fairly sunny person but people have taken to avoiding me today, I guess my bad mood is pretty obvious from the face like thunder and the sub vocal growling. Plus I'm not explaining to everyone in ear-shot why I'm upset which is normally the sign of a major meltdown being just around the corner. (Yes, I am fully aware of my own neuroses thankyou doesn't mean I can do a damned thing about them though I'm afraid.)

There have been a couple of small consilations today namely:

1. I am much funnier when I'm pissed off so at least my workmates have been getting something out of this.
   
2. My ex-flatmate may be coming down for a spur of the moment visit this evening which means I have a fantastic excuse to drink large amounts of red wine and trash talk her boyfriend with her.
3. Realising just how many people are frightened by my bad moods from the number of very nicely worded and incredibly polite emails I have received today.

Also this made me giggle when it came up on my RSS feed:

Former News of the World chief Phil Hall becomes first tabloid editor to confess to feelings.

I'm off to drink even more coffee now, I'm jittering as it is but I guess it's better than smashing things.

bollocksing hell

Why did I sleepwalk through third year Bioinformatics?

Why?


Also: apparently being an office bimbo for the past year has had a serious effect on the number of functioning brain cells I possess. Seriously, I needed those. I can barely understand some of my final year practical write-ups let alone remember writing them.

Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

Also: every person I know who could give me a mini refresher on the subject of bioinformatics is either a) not speaking to me becuase I "intimidate" them b) being avoided by me because I have to keep turning them down or c) in a time zone 8 hours behind me.

Bollocks.

on the matter of house-hunting

Well, I'm quite frankly impressed with myself! I managed to get up on three and a half hours of sleep and spend the morning house-hunting yesterday. I should state now that I hate trying to find somewhere to live, just like every single other person on the planet, but this time I'm actually fairly hopeful about the process. Although to truly give a proper understanding of why my hopefulness is an unusual thing maybe I should explain my previous experiences in this area.

Back when we were students and hence scattered all over the country and had to make a special trip to this fine city then we only had a matter of days to find somewhere. The reasons for this ranged from the decent ("I have a biology field trip starting on Friday that's worth 15% of my second year so I kind of have to go") to the frankly insane ("Oh I can't do it on Monday or Tuesday because it's my year and seven month anniversary with my boyfriend"). Finding a four bed house in central London (where they don’t actually have families – no really, it’s a fact. I checked) on two days notice, slap bang in the middle of the time period that every other student is looking is not an easy task.

In fact such a “not easy task” that we chose to stay in our mouse infested, living room free home with the faulty boiler and a flatmate who drove us occasionally nuts (although now we don’t live with her she’s much less crazy inducing) for another year – just to avoid the pain of moving.

The second time it wasn’t so much the timing that was the issue so much as the cost. Two of us had no clue what we were even doing in the months to come (read: “or ever”) and although I knew that I’d get something semi-lucrative my other directionless friend was less sure – an ecology degree in the centre of the largest urban area in the country is actually surprisingly useless. I know: shocker. And the other is struggling on a PhD stipend. We spent weeks trudging round tower blocks (complete with pre-requisite burnt out cars and used needles), on the verge of crying before eventually saying “fuck it” and essentially selling our souls for our current flat. Sure, the rent is obscene, our land lady is batshit crazy (apparently the curtains in the living room are worth £2000 and the chandeliers in the living room and hall are supposed to be professionally cleaned on a monthly basis oh and also: no men or parties are allowed), the place is falling down (we went for a month without heating or hot water in the middle of fucking February) and I have to spend three hours a day travelling because I work on the other side of the city but it’s not so bad.

So why am I happy about the prospect of moving again (aside from the aforementioned psychopathic landlady, shitty plumbing and nightmare commute)? Well although we sacrifice one flatmate to the land of "doing a masters degree in conservation in the middle of the countryside" we gain another: in the form of my other flatmate’s boyfriend. This is fantastic news as it means that next year our rent is instantly lowered, because they’re sharing a room. Finding a two bed place is one hell of a lot easier than finding a three bed place and it means that unlike before we’re actually looking in the upper end of our price bracket so we’re not competing for places with students – and in a city where there is zero student housing this is a large bonus.


But why am I most excited? We’re moving to a cheaper area. And as we currently live in the pricey part of town (and I work in the scummy part) this means we just move closer and closer to where I need to be.

Let me explain: I currently have to wake up at 6:30 to drag myself out of bed by 7:00 so that I can get to work for 9:00am. If I’m lucky I get home by 7:30pm which gives me a grand total of three whole hours to myself before it hits half ten and I have to think about sleeping because otherwise there’s no chance I’ll even be conscious the next morning. Going out after work is completely out during the week because unless I want to be verging on the dead the next morning I have to leave early, and even if I don’t care about feeling like crap for a whole day staying out any later than midnight means it’s going to take me over three hours just to get home (which also translates into three hours of sleep that night - ace).

Moving to somewhere within a half hour journey of my work means that I save two hours every single week day on travel. And, because I don’t have to get up so early, I can actually start keeping the hours of a normal person again. Oh yes, this move potentially nets me an extra three to four hours of free time every single day. And what am I going to do with my newfound twenty hours of free time every week? Am I going to join a gym? Take up dancing again? Learn to play a musical instrument? Perhaps some form of charity work? No! There is something far more productive I can be doing with my time.

Why of course: I’m going to play video games and go to the cinema.


In other news: I actually got my application form in on time in the end so if there are any fingers to be crossed I'd appreciate it! I also managed to be moderation girl on Friday and even wake up yesterday sans my usual level of post-drinking paranoia so it appears my future predicting abilities are on the fritz. Oh and: Vive la Pajiba name formatting revolution!