My Bipolar Relationship With Knitting

I do not claim to be very good at knitting. I can do a decent amount of work, and I can do it kind of quickly - as long as I'm not doing anything too complex. But that doesn't mean I'm good at it. However, I do enjoy it. In the same way that a recovering crack addict enjoys a relapse. That's a horrifying, but shockingly good metaphor. 
I go through phases - two, to be precise. First, I won't really knit at all. I'll look despondently at the needles and yarn on my floor, and sign, and carry on my way. Maybe every now and then I'll have a bit of a guilt trip, pick them an old project, knit a couple of stitches, sigh again, and carry on my way. This is a very vague state. I'll feel annoyed at myself. I'll end up doing a lot of heavy breathing, and thinking you could be doing something so much more productive right now. The needles will gather dust, and my messages will build up on Ravelry, until people just assume I've died, and been eaten by my gazillion cats. Then'll I'll forget for another three months and go back to frolicking heavily on the internet. 
The second phase is rather akin to a very crafty grandmother finally being let out of prison and being allowed pointy objects again. I will seize those needles, rip away any former projects I had going, and start afresh. God forbid anyone tries to hug me for the next few weeks, as certain death becomes a threat with every pair of needles and yarn I have stashed in every bag and pocket. Suddenly, any and all money I have will be thrown into buying nicer yarn, and better needles, and books about how to knit jackets that I don't have anywhere near the skill level for. If I'm given a free thirty seconds I will have whipped my wool out and done as many stitches as I have time for. I ill knit in lessons, on the bus, in bed, and in the cinema (but only if the film's really boring). 
I'm all or nothing when it comes to knitting. I'm either clean, or high as a kite.
And I've learnt something, writing this post, something very important.
Trying to make drug analogies with knitting really doesn't work. 
Sorry. 

Contemplating The Idea Of Home

At the beginning of the last episode of Wonders Of Life, Brian Cox said something rather... well, wonderful. He said;

"Home is such an evocative word, it will mean something to you. The place you went to school, they place you live, the place your kids had their first Christmas."

And it got me thinking. Home means a lot to me, and it always has. Home is where I am safe, ready and prepared. My home is like my base, it's clean, and settled. It's the place where I want to return to after a long day, or a night out. Time away from home makes me appreciate it all the more. 

So, I asked myself, what do I class as home? I have at least two actual buildings which I could class as home - where I live. I love school, but I wouldn't say it was the place where I was safe, ready and prepared. And obviously it's not going to be where my kids had their first Christmas. I don't have any. That's just Brian Cox rubbing it my face that I'm not part of his target demographic. 

After a lot of long, intense thinking (it was literally about three minutes), I came up with only one solution. 

Home is where your knickers are.

Maybe I Should Go To The Hairdressers

If I were to write a series of novels on my adventures with home hair dying kits, I swear to not-mine-cause-I'm-an-atheist God, every single book would have exactly the same plot:

1. Girl figures "Huh, home hair dying kits can't be so hard, what can go wrong?"
2. Girl purchases hair dye
3. Hair dye cheerfully ruins anything she had going in the looks department, and runs away cackling.
4. Girl realizes that she really should have seen this coming. 

I'm just hoping I can get to a Boot's before I see anyone I know. Scratch that, before I see anyone who's alive, and conscious. I have to say, I've had some run-ins with hair dye before, by this really takes the biscuit.

Sod it, I'm just going to dye the whole lot purple, and never speak to anyone ever again.

The fact that it seems to have developed a mullet isn't helping either.

Replying To Your Dilemmas With My Sexuality

It may seem odd that, being me, my all time favourite thing to be asked is:

"So are you really a lesbian?"

Oh my I'm-an-atheist-so-not-really-mine God. I love being asked this. Because the answer is yes. Yes, I am definitely a lesbian. I like making out with girls and everything. To be honest, I'll quite happily make out with boys as well, but there's a high chance I'll get bored quite quickly, and wonder off to make myself a sandwich. No sandwiches for boys. I'm not that much of a walking stereotype. 

So, yeah, I really am a lesbian. It's usually always slightly drunk, straight boys who end up asking me this, and there's a series of follow up questions that they go with, which make the initial conversation even sweeter.

1. "But I don't get that, I mean, how can that happen?"

Ok, so grammatically this makes no sense, but I see where you're coming from. I have explained it like this in the past; (this only works if you are a genuine straight male). Right, so you fancy girls, and want to touch them, and marry them. You do not want to do that to boys. It is exactly the same for me. I know this is hard to grasp - Is girl, therefore must like boys?! - but no, trust me, I like girls just as much as you do.

2."So you don't. like, fancy anyone?"

No, baby no, of course I fancy people. I just don't fancy boys. I fancy people who are the same gender as me. And Brian Cox. But apparently, fancying the same gender doesn't count in your head. Only fancying people of the opposite gender counts. Babe, that's not how fancying works. Sorry to burst your bubble. I realize this must be very hard for you to come to terms with. Yes, I definitely fancy people, but just because they are girls, doesn't mean they don't count.

3. "I bet I can turn you."

This doesn't even deserve punctuation in it's answer: AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA no baby no you can't that's not how sexuality works you cannot somehow wave your magic penis wand and make me like men (especially now you've said that) if you made out with a guy you would probably not magically turn gay now leave me alone before I punch you in the balls and drive away in my big lesbian pick up truck.

It's ok. I realise you are a little drunk, and confused. It's probably my fault in the end, anyway. I don't own a single plaid shirt, which is probably why you're getting confused. Soz mate. 

PS Those are all genuine, word for word quotes said to me by confused, drunk, straight boys. Thank you for having the time to listen to me trying to explain this. Thank you for shutting up when I started shouting. 

Some other stuff what's going on:

My friend Lauren makes YouTube videos, go check them out!

I got a GoodReads account

Also I'm thinking of starting a side blog for my creative writing? I don't know. Thoughts please.

Summoning Brian Cox Like A Demon (But Sexier)

Three background points you need for this story:

1. I am currently deeply infatuated with Brian Cox
2. Brian Cox lives in Manchester
3. I went out in Manchester the other night with some friends.

Cue me sat in a pizza shop at half two in the morning, with my brother, staring at my phone and gently crying "Brian Cox never tweeted me back." In my defence, it was my brother's idea to tweet him in the first place. We were on Canal Street at the time, which is a part of Manchester which is world famous for it's gay village. I was talking (mostly to myself) about how awesome it would be to have Brian Cox in a gay club, and the tweeting him was suggested. Let's face it, it would have been hilarious. Unfortunately, as we were out clubbing, I ended  up a wee bit tipsy. I get scheme-y when I'm tipsy. And  then I came up with the idea that it's possible to summon Brian Cox, like a demon. Which is how I ended up outside TigerTiger screaming "D:REAM" at the sky. I have to admit, nothing happened. We walked back through the city to the hotel, and naturally, all spent most of the way with our eyes peeled, in case any unknowing physicists popped up anywhere.

None did.

However, When we got back to the hotel, OE and I got in bed, and stuck the telly on, only to witness Brian Cox, eating a curry. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. 

I take this as a sign from the universe that I need to try harder with my summoning.

Thats a stylised CERN logo on my forehead, there. The pink lipstick is in honour of all the  godawful bands he was in, in the 80's. All I need now are some candles, salt pentagram, and a large hadron colider.

Cats Are Great, Aren't They?

I have cats. I have five, to be precise. Four at my Mum's house, and one at Dad's. They are all sweet, and very, very mental. For the majority of our time, we stay out of each other's way, and this suits us just fine. It also means they never bother me for food every time I walk into the kitchen, like they do with Mum. I know a few people who have cats. The majority of them can quite neatly be grouped into three, quite neat, categories. (Cat-egories. Geddit? Huh? Huh? Oh God. Kill me.)

1. May or may not be from ancient Egypt. The cat is holy, and to be worshiped by all who dare to witness it. It is not allowed outside. It is not allowed to touch the floor. It has an eider down bed, and is regularly seen eating pasta and salmon from Waitrose. To be avoided. The cat owner will discuss the pros and cons of various feline grooming parlors for three hours at a time, and if you ever make the mistake of walking through their front door, you will be smacked in  the face with a pedigree certificate. 
2. Is 10% chocolate, 40% bad wine, and 50% regret. The one who always suggests you read Bridget Jones at bookclub, even though you're focusing on Gothic literature this month. Always female, aged between 30 and 40. Probably has a calender counting down desperately to their menopause. Will repeatedly go on dates in attempt to become fertilized in time, but unfortunately  mentions the cat every five minutes. Will claim that the cat is her one true friend, despite the fact that the tiny, evil bastard is ruing her life. 
3. Doesn't actually know they have a cat. One of two people: either has a farm, in which case; check the barn. You will be able to steal adorable kittens. OR, lives on a road that has a whore cat. Y'know, one of those ones that goes to about twenty different houses for food, cuddles and sleeps. This is the one you should be friends with; they aren't mental. Although at some point they will have had a deep and meaningful conversation with the cat, and told it all of their life secrets. Teach the cat to Speak English  Trust me, it'll be funny.  

Whatever. Have some stupid photos anyway.

And just because:

Coming To Terms With Class

All my life, I have said that I don't know what class I am. I have said that since my parents are divorced, my Dad's social standing does not apply to me. I have, on occasion, and when I was much younger, played up how much physical labor my family partakes in on a weekly basis. I admit, our family budget does not extend to posh cheese and any wine made before roughly five years ago, but it's not like we've ever had to choose between meat and heating. Well, I certainly haven't, but this may have something to do with the fact that I don't eat meat. That point may be void.
Even so, I do own Cath Kidson bedding. It was given to me by my father's friend, but none the less, my duvet is currently eggshell blue, and covered in roses.
So, here I am, for the first time in my life, standing up and admitting: I am middle class.
No you all have to say it as well - assuming that it applies to you.
The majority of people I know are middle class. In fact, I'm pretty sure everyone I know is middle class. And I don't think I've ever met anyone who actively admits to being so. In fact, as my media teacher said last year - "If you don't think you're middle class, you're probably middle class." And he has a very good point. No one wants to admit that they're middle class. No one wants to admit to having a degree education, being able to pay the bills on time, and being able to buy nice clothes on a whim.
I think this is because, for some reason, in the UK, we seem to like complaining. The middle class really have very little to really complain about. I'm not one of those people who goes around screaming "YOU'RE WHITE, CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE, BITCH!", but I do often think to myself, "Yeah, you can't go out this weekend, but still, you ate three square meals today."
I think also people don't like admitting to being middle class (I nearly wrote male class, tee hee hee) because of the 'reputation' that goes with it. The wine-drinking, guardian-reading, politics-discussing reputation. Well balls to that. I like wine. I like the Guardian, and I like politics. I also like Radio 4, purchasing tea cups, and scowling at people on trains. I don't know which I am more; middle class, or middle aged. I have a niggling feeling that people feel that if we admit to being middle class, people will think we are boring, and angry. Of course we're boring and angry, we're British. Personally, I have become quite fond of being boring and angry - I can shout at Gorge Osborne on telly and no body cares. (Obviously this stereotypes does not apply to everyone... nah, come on, who are we kidding?)
My point is, I think we should start to actually admit that some of us may just be middle class, and embrace it. It's a blessing. I admit, some of us are much more middle class than others - for example, I live in a house that has no straight walls, and quite a small bath. I know some people who have only straight walls, and more than one large-type baths. With separate showers. However, at least I live in a house, and I have a bath.
Be thankful for being middle class, and stop being such a dick for pretending you're not. Embrace the films with subtitles, and cheese that smells of feet. Count your blessings (don't check your privilege).
My second point is that I'm going to wait till morning to post this. I had quite a lot of wine at book club, and drunk me is not to be trusted. Shut up. I'm 18. And middle class.

Sober, mid morning me thinks all of these point are valid. She has also realized that she needs to stop tweeting Brian Cox in the middle of the night, tell him how happy he makes her. Oh dear. 

Dear The Tories, We Don't Burn Protestants Any More

So, roughly three minutes ago, I watched a report on the news about how parliament will vote on whether or not gay people will be 'allowed' to get married. Ah, those crazy gays. They'll want the vote next.
So, apparently, a lot of Tories are getting very upset, and refusing to support this idea, or even leaving the party,  because they think that supporting gay marriage will make them loose the next election, as it goes against the "public's view of the institution or marriage". (Isn't that a horrible term? Institution or marriage? Makes it sound like a hospital mad house. Not that I'm insinuating anything.) CLEARLY IT DOES NOT. The Yougov poll in December found that 55% of British people support same-sex marriage. If you're like me, and terrible at maths, then that's more than half. That's the MAJORITY. HOW DOES THAT NOT TELL YOU ANYTHING? According to one Tory party member, the 'institution of marriage' (ugh) is the "union between a man and a woman, who will hopefully go on to raise children". 
Which kind of makes me want to drill into my skull.
IT IS NOT THE 1800'S ANY MORE. I genuinely don't understand how the contents of one's pants changes how 'valid' your love for another human being is? And has anyone told the Tories that gay people, can in fact, have children? It's mad world, I know. Besides, I'm pretty sure the need to have children went out of the window when people stopped being executed for not being Catholic. Which was quite a long time ago. I know the Tory party has a bit of a rep for being old fashioned, but that might just be pushing it. 
David Cameron, at least, seems to be rather happy about the idea of same-sex marriage, which I rather appreciate. I'm not sure if this is because he's A) genuinely quite a nice person, B) really wants the gay vote, or C) he and Clegg have a happy announcement coming up.
A member of the Tory party, who is one of the 25 who signed a petition to push back the vote for same-sex marriage, told the BBC that "It's not about being anti-gay." Well. Hmm. See, there are two problems with this. One - if you were pro-gay, you probably wouldn't be threatening to resign unless the vote was pushed back, and two - if you didn't really have an opinion about gay marriage, well, you still probably wouldn't be threatening your resignation.
I realize I may be a little biased on this matter. I would quite like to have a wife at some point though. And, y'know, be able to call her my 'wife', not my 'partner'. That's a lie, I'd love a partner, but only if it's followed by the words "in crime". I just hate how some people who are no relation to me, get to sit around and decide whether or not it will be legal to marry someone I love. Is it really that important? I don't think I'm asking all that much, really. I kind of get the feeling that, if you don't believe in gay marriage, and you try to stop it from happening, it's a little bit like how vegans like shouting at people who eat meat. And no one ever listens to vegans. Y'see?

So no, I'm not best pleased with the Tories at the moment of course. Don't worry, I'm still very much in love with Boris, it's just the rest of them that bother me. I apologies for any hideous mistakes, I'm not entirely up to date on political terms. 
Please read a review of the Yougov poll here.

Then I Exposed Yet Another Of My Terrible Habits

I do most of my work sitting on my bed, with my laptop. My bin is roughly a meter and a half away from me, and yet somehow I can never actually hit it when I try to chuck anything in it, while sat on my bed. I'm started to wonder if my terrible aim is a birth defect. I think I've managed to actually throw something in it once. The worst part is that I'm then always too lazy to go, get the thing that I've now thrown on the floor and put it in the bin. Not until about two days later, when I'll just feel very, very guilty about it. 

I'm so not getting any valentines this year.

An Incoherent Ramble About Pyjamas

If there is one  fashion trend that appeared in 2012, and that I actually like, it's got to be big pyjamas. I love big pyjamas. Proper 1940's, gentlemanly type pyjamas, with baggy trousers, and shirts with collars. I currently have one set, from River Island. It is dark blue, with mustard yellow polka dots. There's another set  on sale in Topshop, which is bright pink, and lovely. Some of the best, of course, are tartan, and are designed for doing nothing more than being worn while curled up in front of a fire, with soup and Radio 4. Then there are sets made of silk, or satin, for wearing around morning-after lovers, with floor length dressing gowns, in a contrasting colour. These look best while sprawled across a chaise longue, hair still in immaculate waves, while eating breakfast caviar off a cream cracker. 
Big pyjamas are possibly the most durable nightwear out there. They are suitable for summer, or winter, provided you have a suitable duvet, and you can answer the door to the post man without having to half duck behind a convenient wall, while peering out at a dodgy angle. They can be sexy, or cuddly, or just plain lovely. I have quite strong emotions about big pyjamas.
So quite often, when I'm having a day at home, or it's late and I'm tired, I'll wear my big pyjama trousers, and a shirt, and my red cardigan with the little embroidered anchor. For two reasons; one, it is a damn comfy outfit, and two, it makes me look a tiny bit like a 50's washerwoman from New York. I like this outfit. Which is why I'm questioning how socially acceptable it would be to wear it outside.  Not to a restaurant, or, I dunno, bowling or anything. And definitely not to any sort of large, social event. Possibly to meet David Cameron, but nor Nick Clegg. But on, say, an airoplane. I'm flying to Berlin at some point, and it really is very comfy. I quite like the idea of being on a plane, looking like a washerwoman, and if there was ever a place where it is socially acceptable to wear pyjamas, I'm pretty sure it's an airport. People don't care if you're dressed like a slob in an airport. You're about to be chucked in the air in a giant tin can. It's allowed. It also has the added benefit of nothing being made of metal, so you don't end up having to be shoved into a large tube, which stripes you naked using it's magic eye. Or an x-ray.
Whatever.

It's posts like this that make me realise that reading this blog has got to be a little like listening to a very drunk friend at a party, when they can't remember how to stop talking.

It's Just... I've Been REALLY Busy

I'm aware that I've been neglecting this blog a little, over the past few weeks. This may be because I now know I have an audience, there is more pressure to please, and write something interesting, which I just haven't been able to think of. It may be because I've been quite busy, and with the added pressure of coursework, haven't had that much time to blog.
Or it might just be that I'm really, goddamn lazy.
Either way, I got a new camera for Christmas so I thought I'd indulge myself, and show you all the things I've been doing which I haven't been online.

Whitby happened...

I dressed up like Noel Fielding to visit 221B Baker Street on my 18th...

I was coerced by my mother into taking this slightly shady photo  with a police man outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum...

I had my first legal drink at the Sherlock Holmes pub just before we went to see Spamalot...

CH and I walked the Monsal trail...

And it was hilarious...

And then SB and I both looked glorious at CG's party - a very happy birthday to her!

 I promise I'll get back to regular updates soon. But they may just be me crying over coursework.

Things That Happened... (Prizes if you guess the theme)
A fox with a camera
Another fox with a camera
Yet another fox with a camera
The best fox with a camera