Monthly Archives: July 2011

He ain’t heavy…

 July has been a very busy month, I’ve been at my parent’s house every weekend for London-based activities. It’s usually a pain in the arse staying there because I have to sleep on a shitty chair bed and there is never really enough room for everyone, but it’s been really lovely. For some reason returning home causes an increase in silliness and it’s excellent amounts of fun. And to continue the overarching theme of this blog, it’s sent me into unnecessary and sentimental state of reflection.

When my very babiest brother was born, I was almost 11 and spent a good hour sulking that I didn’t have a sister. Despite being a tomboy and as thick as thieves with my other younger brother, I wanted a sister who I could dress up with, talk about boys with and swap clothes with.

Instead I was saddled with another stupid BOY to play with.

But then I met him, became obsessed with cuddling him and spent most of my hours out of school helping my mum look after him. My “helping” was most likely not-all-that-useful, but still, he was ace.

I do still have pangs of wishing I had a sister, but my brothers really are truly brilliant. I spent last weekend inBelgiumwith one and took the smallest one to a third round of HP. I love taking him to the cinema – he always behaves appallingly to deliberately wind me up and I take huge delight in him being *so* naughty. It really did take me by surprise that he turned 14 this year – I find it hard to envisage him being any older than about 5. But 14 he is and he’s an incredibly daft, silly and surprisingly level-headed one at that. I love him to bits.

My other younger brother is 21 and I can’t really call him little anymore. But he always will be to me. We spent a couple of days in Belgium drinking every available beer, discussing politics, gossiping about family and generally having a brilliant time – he’s a jolly good drinking partner. Not to mention the fact he brought me breakfast in bed which will keep him in good favour for a while.

They drive each other mental most of the time, but for the most part when we are together we’ve always just ‘got on’ with each other. There’s never really any drama, we are all very different sorts with a shared sense of humour and a common despair at our parents. Seeing as we live in different counties, I don’t spend as much time with them as I did in my teens, but when I do, I feel like a kid again. It’s great.

I’m due back for a 6th and 7th consecutive weekend at my parent’s house over the next fortnight and whilst I’m craving a lazy weekend of TV, duvet and wine, I’ll just have to savour it all the more. Home means love, fun and silliness with two ace brothers I’m bloody lucky to have and I wouldn’t swap either of them for anything in the world. Not even a sister.

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In which I subject my friends to 48 hours of tears.

The tears came, they flowed, I wiped my snotty nose on my sleeve like a toddler and by GOD was it purging.

I’ve written before about how I enjoy a good cry and pondered whether Harry would help lubricate my tear ducts and sure enough, I was a bit of a mess. On both occasions. I crammed in two showings this weekend, hoping that the initial screening might mean I was a little better prepared for the second. Alas, not so much, I was still a snivelling bag of daftness.

Luckily my friends and family are accustomed to this. Housemate says she knows when I’m about to bawl at something, because the cushion that I normally cuddle up with in my default television-watching position, slowly moves further and further upwards until most of my face is covered. A bit like normal people hide behind cushions when they are scared. I squirrel myself behind a cushion when I’m about to blub.

That said – I’m not a massive crier when it comes to arguments, relationships etc. I know girls who can turn on the tears in true manipulative style when it suits them – and that sort of nonsense makes me cross. If I cry when we have an argument, it’s usually because you have genuinely upset me. You should FEAR the tears. That’s right.

So, after a weekend of blubbing, I think I’ve got most of the mourning out of the way, although I may be prone to outbursts of WAAAA over the coming days – I’ll be doing my best to avoid anything overly sentimental.

Instead, I’ll get myself worked up about going to this next week – yay! History and fit men ahoy 😀

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Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

I am quite willing and proud to confess that I am extraordinarily massive (literally and figuratively) Harry Potter nerd. I can’t think of any other subject that I get quite as animated about – and this is from a self-proclaimed cynic and a member of the upper echelons of the Council of Whinge. I can happily quote chunks of the book at will, recite all the incantations and correct mispronunciations like a good little nerd should. I tend to not even get wound up by the ‘haterz’ as I genuinely feel sorry that they have not had the same charming relationship with these books in the same way I have. It’s a pity.

The release of the books have studded my childhood, got me through teenage melodrama and served and punctuated university revision with pockets of joy and familiarity when it was most needed. I confess that it does BORE me when idiot literature nerds get stuffy about adults reading the books, conveniently forgetting that they were published over a decade. I first picked up The Philosopher’s Stone in my school library when I was 11 and Deathly Hallows, the last in the series, was published in 2007, when I was 20. An adult. Who gives a shit if you’ve got grey hair and you fancy a bit of fantasy escapism? The themes and subject matter that the whole series deals with are not any less relevant to a 50 year old than they are to a 10 year old.

But I digress.

The only thing that cushioned the blow of the release of the final book (apart from locking myself in my house, with 4 tubs of Phish Food and taking the phone off the hook) was the small matter of there still being films to come. There was comfort to be had in Radcliffe and co. eking out the magic for just that bit longer. The films are by no means perfect, but I never try to cast too critical an eye over them (although I DO cast an expert eye over Grint – I would do terrible/beautiful things to him) because they do a wonderful thing – they bring alive the magic of the books. Of course they’ll never quite match the images you conjure up in your imagination and it can be a pain when eagerly awaited subplots and scenes are cut/added, but I’ll overlook dodgy acting and sometimes-odd pacing to hear my favourite lines being delivered or get a glimpse inside a castle I’ve spent over a decade revisiting.

I’ve been to Hogwarts when loved ones have died and I didn’t fancy facing the real world. I’ve been there when relationships have ended and needed reminding of my existing friendships. I’ve paid a visit when I’ve just bloody well felt like it and I’m certainly planning on taking my kids.

 Tonight, a massive chapter in my life will draw to a close and I feel no shame in admitting that I think I might spend the weekend mourning it.

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If any of these dreams come true I will hate my subconscious forever.

I’m utterly convinced that my dreaming is related to my hormones. That probably sounds mental, but I’m sure it’s true.

As far as I understand it – remembering your dreams isn’t necessarily a good thing since it suggests that you have not had yourself enough of that oh-so-precious REM sleep. I’ve noticed that I usually have a week or so of proper hardcore dreaming – where I wake up every morning remembering every detail of my night time adventures – and the rest of the month have no problem. My dreams are confined to my subconscious and I never get to bore anyone with them.

INTIMATE SCIENCE KLAXON

As it happens, during those pesky lady cycles, your body temperature rises by a degree or so. Since my body barely copes with any changes, I’m convinced that whenever this happens with me, it disrupts my sleep and my mental dreaming begins. That week was last week.

There were a couple of bland nightmares, followed by a horrible one in which I managed to survive a siege in a towerblock, despite being shot six times in the stomach. I couldn’t find a way to get to the hospital (a pregnant lady broke her waters all over my feet and stole my taxi) and realised the only person I knew nearby was my ex. He fielded all my phonecalls to the local Police harrassment unit, leaving me to wander the streets with six bullet holes in my belly. What a fucker.

He was always awful to me in my dreams when we were together, which always concerned him. Sometimes you really should pay attention to your subconscious telling you to GTFO.

However, the WORST dream of last week involved a man boarding my bus I get to work everyday, proceeding to shit himself all over the vehicle. I think this was inspired by the bridal shop scene in Bridesmaids (which is beyond brilliant, by the way) as I would really worry if I just imagined someone shitting everywhere.

Oh god, it really was the worst. I saw it happen, it was EVERYWHERE. I could smell and taste the horridness in the air. It was so REAL. To the extent it woke me up and I spent 20 seconds being really bloody nervous it didn’t actually happen to me in real life. It didn’t, for the record, but by god I was terrified for a moment.

I worry for my brain sometimes.

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I hate my face

Because it appears to be gradually falling apart under excessive weight and toffee consumption.

I have broken another tooth, despite my best efforts to not ruin my mouth after last years exploits in which I ended up with nearly 3 months of ridiculous dental work.

I’m really not very happy about it and will now retreat into a world of sulk. Hmpf.

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