Eight Days a Week

I love my job.

Today I got paid to go to Liverpool, on actual day devoted to The Beatles.

We saw the Cavern Club. I resisted the tourist inside me, mainly because I broke my camera before my job started, but I'll leave that out when I tell the story. I also resisted screaming outside 'The Beatles Story' despite my thinking that everyone would appreciate my reconstruction of Beatlemania. After all, I was trying to look responsible in front of 50 Italian children. Then again, considering a built my relationship with them on my not so secret love of Twilight and shameless moves on the dancefloor, they probably wouldn't have been to surprised.

I'm not going to lie, it could have been crap and I'd have loved it. But it wasn't. It was amazing. Honestly, I adored the entire thing- apart from the slightly odd looking models of them in recording studio it was all very well done. Even though I hold a long standing dislike for the entire Yellow Submarine bag, the fact they'd got one you could walk through impressed both me and the thirteen year olds.

As of course, did the gift shop. I couldn't help myself, I had to do it- I told myself I would only buy things for Gavin, my Beatles guru, but of course then realised I had already bought him a Beatles mug the other Christmas and Revolver is my favourite album, so maybe I ought to keep the huge postcard I bought...

And if you think this is bad, wait until I blog after my visit to the Bronte house.

You are the case to my heart!

I take it all back. I love the Italian children, I never want them to leave. I may steal my favourites and buy a big house where I can live happily ever after, pretending they are my own.

Honestly, they may walk slowly, play 'Waka Waka' too often and speak unthinkably loud but I LOVE them.

Now that they have been here a few days and gotten to know us, they are all pretty talkative. They say hello to us when they see us, they come over to talk to us- one group even came up to me and asked if I could make sure I would be leading them in the afternoon activity. Most of them are around thirteen, which I suppose is the age in which you think a 20 year old lunatic is the coolest person ever.

We threw them a rave disco, which resulted in my fellow activity monitor Megan and I decked out in uv paint, pink legwarmers and green marker up are arms. Instead of being embarrassed, they all wanted paint like ours- and they copy our dance moves. It may be possible that my affection for them results primarily from the fact that unlike the majority of my acquaintance they think I'm hella cool but it warms the cynical depths of my heart to know that they're having a good time because of my efforts/ridiculous behaviour.

The older boys however are hilarious. They constantly joke with us and though on occasion they are the biggest pains in the arse known to existence, they can be very good fun at things like the disco. For example, picking me up and making me dance with them on a table, which resulted in the whole of the kids cheering and clapping.

Obviously they love my dancing.

But the funniest thing is their flirting- if they weren't Italian I'd be very worried by it, but it seems to be a trait of their male species. To us it's so over the top, telling us we are 'so beauty' and kissing our hands- one boy keeps telling me I am 'the case to his heart', which is rather amusing.

So despite their numerous annoying habits, they've won me over. Keep your eye on the news, I'm considering mass kidnap.

'And chaos shall fall, and he shalt be named Waka Waka!'

Solve the below equation:

Add 6 optimistic university students with 200 Italian under sixteens, multiply it by 1 disco, 3 bus journeys and two footballs. Multiply the sum by one very large and mostly unsupervised campus- what would be the product?

Chaos. Sheer, and utter chaos. Chaos with it's own theme tune even- chaos constantly accompnied by Shakira singing 'Waka Waka' over and over.

(Don't get me wrong, I totally LOVE Shakira, but even I can't handle it)

In three days we have had one child lost, one group claming to be another, not enough rooms, a teacher turning up two weeks early and demanding to be housed, failed attempts at maintaing curfew and one child in an ambulance with a broken leg.

To top it off, we're living in an 'eco-house'. Now, the house should be like a Thermos- hot when it needs to be, cold when it needs to be. BUT NO. IT IS ALWAYS, ALWAYS HOT. We're having some very hot days yet somehow, it is cooler outside in the glaring sun than inside our state of the art rooms.

What... the.... eff?

Side note- I'm enjoying it really. It's not a bad job, looking after all these kids. They are for the most part pretty sweet, and they're all quite nice. Last night at the disco I found it was my job to start the dancing. Que total humilation as I taught them the Cha Cha Slide, the Macarena and of course Saturday Night.

It was beautiful.

No, I will not let you get what you want!

And the way you always criticize The Smiths,

And Morrisey- Brand New 'Mixtape'

I don't like The Smiths. I honestly die a little inside when I hear the intolerable whine of Morrisey's voice and I am instantly distrusting of anyone who likes them- which is difficult because I appear to be one of the only people who doesn't like them. And maybe thats why everyone seems to assume I would like them too.

Now, I understand why they might think this. A few of my favourite films feature them on their soundtracks, they are Jesse Lacy's (lead singer of Brand New and my one and only true love) favourite band and my general personality and musical inclinations might well imply I would love The Smiths.

It's a bit like me and Dickens I suppose. When I was younger and I began my classics phase, Dickens was maybe the fifth author I came to and I expected to love him. I was convinced that his works would be my favourites, that I would adore them and re-read them again and again.

I can't stand them. Maybe I'll re-read them and suddenly enjoy them, but so far each one I've attempted has sent me running back to the safety of the Bronte's and Miss Austen. Maybe it's the anticipation- or maybe it's the face that the more people assumed I liked The Smiths, the more I began to detest them.

Gavin, who loves them, can never understand them. And though he mananged to convince me to give the Beatles a chance- yes I know, what a heathen I am! But I do now love them- he has never been able to bring me round to The Smiths. Everytime I hear their music it makes me want to imitate my three year old cousin and put my hands over my ears and scream to block it out.

I'm aware theres not much point to this blog. I just really don't like The Smiths.

Dangerous Liaisons

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single student under the influence of alcohol must be in want of a one night stand.

Yes- we've all done it. And even if we've not done it literally, most of us will at least have had a drunken embrace with a stranger in a dingy, sticky club. It's a funny thing, this act of sexual conquest. On the one hand you feel as if you should swagger along the next day, on the other you feel as if you should hang your head in shame and review your morals.

In light of my previous lament upon relationships, a friend and I got talking about the fact the despite our general lack of relationships, there’s always those drunken moments on a night out. I noted however that getting blind drunk and snogging some loose –pun intended- acquaintance is probably worse for us in the long run despite the temporary high it may put us on.

So why do we do it? For one, as my friend pointed out, its one of the easiest ways to meet potential partners. Of course, ending up in bed with them is probably not the best first impression but the point still stands. With a few drinks down you and dressed your best, we are probably more likely to start random conversations on a night out.

Of course, there is also the fact that we’re all in our twenties, we’re students and for some reason we think that exempts us from the usual rules of etiquette. A female friend of mine likes to live by the following motto:

If I can’t remember it, it didn’t happen

As students we live alone, we’re out of the clutches of our parents and generally we’re encouraged into oblivion by unthinkably cheap drinks. It’s okay if we’re so drunk we don’t know what we’re doing, it’s usually not a problem- everyone else is just as intoxicated as you are! Of course in my case, it’s often caught on camera- as you can see below….

Am I not just so unthinkably classy? (In my defence, this occurred as I attempted to save my friend Lucy from some weird fellow who had decided to dance literally on her. However, the floor is very, VERY slippy and I ended up rugby tackling her to the ground which, though not very classy, was an effective way of getting him to leave. Sadly, this is not the only time I fell in this club. There's a funny story that ends with me in hospital till 4am.)

Here’s the real truth of it all though: no matter how good an idea it seemed at the time, it will always come back to haunt you. My housemate Hannah has discovered this on many occasions and as for me I NEVER seem to be able to escape them

They appear everywhere. While you’re dragging myself round Sainsburys looking for cold medicine and comfort food, on a date with some one else, as an ex boyfriends housemate, out on a night out with another former datee that turns out to be their best friend.

It is never, ever, ever pretty. Never. Seriously. You will find yourself diving into a nearby clothes shop and knocking over eighty pound shoes in an attempt to escape them. You will never again be able to go out make-upless in your holey sweatpants to by unseemly amounts of chocolate. They will be there, popping round the corner of the aisle when you very least expect it for the rest of your university life.

Do not be deceived boys and girls- they are for life, not just for one night.

And how do you like your lobster cooked?

Well done, apparently.

Yes I have commited the createst of all sins. I have underestimated both my own inability to tan and the British weather. Despite lathering my usual points of burning- shoulders, chest, nose, ears with sun cream, I have managed to instead burn the back of my legs and my back. They are now a rather unattractive, and fairly painful shade of red.

I'm currently covered in sudacreme and probably will be unable to sit down for the next few hours. Needless to say I will probably be wearing knee length dresses for the next few day to ensure that I'm not quite so red when I got away this weekend as unlike my sister, who tans envibly easy, I'll probably just as pale as I was before. Maybe slightly more freckled, but that would be about it.

I should have known better than to sit out in the middle of the day. On holiday abroad I am generally the single oddbod hiding under a parasol peering nervously over a book while everyone else frolicks in the sun.

Dare I join them? Should I venture out? Maybe take a dip in the pool?

Haha, oh no no. This would result in either a) sunburn, b) over heating and eventual fainting or c) ten gruelling minutes in which I will sit there sweating whilst I attmpet not to smudge the ink and using copious amounts of suncream and water spray to try to prevent options a) and b) before eventually giving up and scurrying back into my dim lair.

LOVELY.

Upon my Apparent Decent into Spinsterhood

In a fairly bizarre conversation with my grandmother over Facebook chat- yes, my grandmother is on facebook- she inquired after my love life and I realised something terrible. I am the only single one. My sister, my cousins, even my bloody grandmother is in a relationship.

Good lord, I’m the last single one.

Now, don’t get me wrong- I’ve had offers, a few dates here and there. So technically (presuming of course that these offers would still stand after they realised what I’m really like, but that’s not the point), I could be in a relationship if I wanted to. Yes, I am aware that all the poor desperate single girls probably say that they don’t want a relationship then sit at home crying, but honestly I can’t imagine sharing my bed/space/food or giving them the countless hours I could otherwise spend watching shows online whilst playing video games.

However it is a little worrying. Not only am I the only singleton in the family, I seem to be quickly turning into Bridget Jones amongst my friends. Both my best female friends at home are in relationships, as is my best guy Gavin. April even has her whirlwind summer turned soul mate story to tell and though it makes me a little sick in my mouth, part of me is jealous and Gavin, once my cynical anti relationship cohort, posts facebook status that are often just his girl friends name. Even my single comrade in arms Keagan revealed to me recently that he had found himself considering a relationship.

Could it be that before I know it I will be alone on Christmas wearing god awful pyjamas, downing the vodka and doing a stunning rendition of ‘All by Myself’? Will I sit alone at dinner tables while the couples look upon me pityingly? Will I be the crazy lady with cats lamenting her lost youth?

(The last one is probably inevitable either way)