tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49466202609891117202024-02-19T16:01:26.761-08:00The Art of AwesomnessArielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-14091835444605147112013-02-05T09:43:00.002-08:002013-02-05T09:43:29.909-08:00Fire-Crackers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Welcome
to this intrepid tale of joy and excitement, and much mirth and joy, and so on
and so forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This tale centres on the
gathering of two families, and the events that transpired during a Christmas
meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But first, let me introduce the
cast of this frivolous adventure. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dramatis Personae:</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ariel:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le me</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kyle:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le brother</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sarah:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le brother’s partner</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hayley:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le Sarah’s sister</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sarah’s
mom: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le Sarah’s mom</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dad:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le my dad</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom:
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le my mom</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sarah’s
dad: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le Sarah’s dad</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">*It
should be noted, at this point, that none of the parents have names, well of
course they have real names in real life, but in this adventure, all parents
shall be referred to as mom/dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simply
because it would be weird to call my mom and dad by their real names, and thus,
in the interest of balance, Sarah’s mom and dad shall be referred to as ‘Sarah’s
mom and dad’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
sure we are all familiar with the traditional Christmas cracker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two people engage in the act of savagely
yanking each of the ends of the cracker, and lo and behold “CRACK” and out
falls a paper Christmas hat (often in a pleasing shade of bright green, red or
yellow) and the world’s worse useless items.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For last year’s Christmas, mom, dad and I, went up to Cambridge to Kyle
and Sarah’s house for Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sarah’s
family was visiting from South Africa, so we had a big Christmas meal with all
of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
day progressed much as you would expect: open presents, squeal in delight at
said presents, and progress to the Christmas day meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shan’t go into much detail, but of course
the food was delicious (how could it not be, we make fabulous lasagne).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course, the obligatory Christmas crackers
were present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At some point during the
meal, the crackers were cracked, and we all donned our lovely Christmas hats,
while some of us (i.e. me) looked in disgust at our useless cracker items (i.e.
a tiny set of screwdrivers that could not possibly be of use to anyone but Thumbelina).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us, however, received ingenious
little problem solver thingies; basically just bits of metal wire twisted in
such a way as to be impossible to separate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anyway, the emphasis here is on the paper hats…</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
some point, once the meal had been consumed, mom and Sarah’s dad were cleaning
in the kitchen, while the rest of us were still seated at the table, in various
stages of Christmas laziness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad however,
was engrossed in trying to solve the problem solver thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, someone, somewhere, somehow, managed
to get a paper Christmas hat perilously close to the flickering candle in the
middle of the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As expected, the
paper hat exploded in a ball of flames (…was set alight…).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Hayley or I were first to notice the
fire ball of death blazing on the table, I just remember going “woah woah woah”
(but with more emphasis).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sarah’s
mom took one look at the fire ball and shrieked, while Sarah, ever the quick
thinker, calmly stood and blew out the fireball like an oversized candle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, being made out of paper, the
fireball wasn’t very substantial, so Sarah’s act of extinguishing the fire
ball, promptly sent tiny flecks of paper ash in every direction, and of course,
poor dad, who was sitting right in front of the fireball, peacefully engrossed
in his problem solver, got a face full of ash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hayley and I also managed to NOT escape the wrath of Sarah’s fire ball
extinguisher blast, and we too had little bits of ash rain down upon us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad’s face of course, was priceless; the look
of surprise and puzzlement, the problem solver clasped in his fingers, his face
covered in (or rather sprinkled lightly with) ash. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
so ends this tale of Christmas and crackers and fireballs of death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All who endured it lived happily to tell the
tale, and Christmas was saved for all and everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But more importantly, the pudding survived
just fine.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">**Due
to the fallible nature of memory, the tale above may be prone to some
alterations and artistic licensing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
it was still pretty funny anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<![endif]--><br />Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-38799012951337425122012-02-06T08:26:00.000-08:002012-02-06T09:19:10.704-08:00Approaches to Literature<div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEFFKTEVETArrPfFneFgrrB1dKizVeT5929b1YByvvedP_lr7aHOEH0ik8AayX3dmq6pXQBSP2nHRzLBEChfcpQlV2KYPsyhAywKepoPFv3aChnnBRoQP_XmyhN4rfo5gg93LYi8iigY/s1600/funny-pictures-your-cat-tutors-you.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706070271134419298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEFFKTEVETArrPfFneFgrrB1dKizVeT5929b1YByvvedP_lr7aHOEH0ik8AayX3dmq6pXQBSP2nHRzLBEChfcpQlV2KYPsyhAywKepoPFv3aChnnBRoQP_XmyhN4rfo5gg93LYi8iigY/s320/funny-pictures-your-cat-tutors-you.jpg" /></a> My official course name is "Psychology with English Literature", and I think that I have recently come to the conclusion that this is probably a pretty good choice. Dad and I were talking about it the other day, and he likened the majority of my fellow class mates to "wine snobs". With this phrase I do of course refer to the people who wrote the wine book that nan and grandad have (not the people who read it). Nan knows how much I love her wine book, it's like a neat list of the most ridiculous and hysterical writing known to man. "The wine has a fruity scent which is reminiscent of a warm summers eve with sprinkles of twig and oak leaf, and a faint undertone of grass mixed with a heady taste of earth." I mean sure, some of these things probably do make sense to the experienced wine connoisseur (do they Nan and Grandad?), but do you ever think that maybe sometimes they've gone a bit too far?<br /><br />This is pretty much exactly what I experience every time I have an "Approaches to Literature" class. As I said to mom the other day, maybe the poet is saying what he's saying because it was just the basic facts of his surroundings. e.g. <em>English teacher: </em>"The use of the blue curtains in the poem clearly show a sadness withint the poet, and how he was in the midst of a meloncholic time in his life". <em>Poet: </em>"er... no... the curtains were just blue..." Don't get me wrong, I know that a lot of the meaning behind poetry is about the blue curtains representing sadness etc, etc, but I do sometimes feel like sometimes they're just making a whole lot of stuff up.<br /><br />Of course I wouldn't dare say this to any english teacher (mom and aunty Ada just erase all that you've read from your memories), in fact when I did voice this opinion to a fellow student, all I got was a blank look and "yeah but that's what Uni is about..." So no, I won't be sharing this opinion with anyone else, thanks very much. Which brings me onto the second experience I have of my english class... </div><br /><br /><div>Today in class we were supposed to do group presentations on a biography of a poet. Of course being the studious student that I am I prepared amply for this presentation (and by that I mean that I read through the first two sections of the biography, got bored, and went outside to play in the snow with Lily), but of course I wouldn't have to worry because it was a group effort and that meant that I could just present the little part that I had done and everyone else could fill in the rest! Cue presentation in english class, and I found myself sitting all alone. By myself. ALONE. Yeah that's right, apparently everyone else in my group also got distracted by the snow and hadn't bothered to even turn up for the lecture.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSdMVXULP-VtsjPdXJVqQZqjfkLEVmzAJEJX935PHlqMaSY6KWURZwKw8BQSF11pNg-lx1ilJkfPoBFsKWnXsvmvXVYpTpSxTF5r90dL9mL5pkuYWWv0BBIrMAlVO5UxgeJ2WmKDjZxw/s1600/df68e373-57e6-43eb-bac7-2cd27b3fc94d.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 229px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706073023740945490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeSdMVXULP-VtsjPdXJVqQZqjfkLEVmzAJEJX935PHlqMaSY6KWURZwKw8BQSF11pNg-lx1ilJkfPoBFsKWnXsvmvXVYpTpSxTF5r90dL9mL5pkuYWWv0BBIrMAlVO5UxgeJ2WmKDjZxw/s320/df68e373-57e6-43eb-bac7-2cd27b3fc94d.jpg" /></a> Needless to say it was of extreme embarrassment to be sitting alone at a group of tables where all around me people were happily chatting in their little groups. Stupid people. Worse than this is of course when the lecturer notices me sitting on my own, gives me a quizzical look, and says "was it something you said", to which I obviously reply, "it must've been... maybe I also smell funny"... Shit... did that actually just come out of my mouth!!! Yes, it <em>actually </em>had. And yes the rest of the class did hear this, as they had now all turned to stare at me sitting all alone! Then the other lecturer (who doesn't know my name) says "all those who weren't here last week please join a group which is lacking in members"... a few moments of silence and of zero movement lead to this: "ahem... you boys there, go join... erm... that <em>girl</em> there at the back".<br /><br />Awesome, so now not only was I completely alone and embarrassed, but I had also been singled out as the poor little reject, whose name the lecturer didn't even know! F.M.L. Of course with the addition of the other three rejects, it was all up to ME to provide them with all the info for the presentation. Which of course I didn't have. Damn you snow!<br /><br />Fortuneately we were rescued last second by a late arriving group member who had the whole biography printed out. No, the presentation wasn't great, but after the whole debacle of being singled out and saying stupid things, I really couldn't have cared less. What I've learnt this week is that academic people don't get my warped sense of humour (no I don't actually smell you idiots!) nor do they think that the curtains "were just blue". </div></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-72046843463045115442012-01-27T15:32:00.000-08:002012-01-27T16:21:41.656-08:00The Spoon Conundrum<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdnR-uLm4OL-N2MIMfQdySv2BjJYwOk18gfOqRDeuXDpFqUYXTM_M2-GP5d3NvqWWAo5lit8OYJOE9MKjFKERMoOXsotmgypBe-2DSdvrC2aa2fElHxotC8KDS1g41aT4-z2HuhyZne0/s1600/spoon"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702470854815938770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWdnR-uLm4OL-N2MIMfQdySv2BjJYwOk18gfOqRDeuXDpFqUYXTM_M2-GP5d3NvqWWAo5lit8OYJOE9MKjFKERMoOXsotmgypBe-2DSdvrC2aa2fElHxotC8KDS1g41aT4-z2HuhyZne0/s320/spoon" /></a>How is it possible for a spoon to be a deadly weapon?! Well it is. In fact it is entirely possible, and if you are me, then it is also entirely likely to endure the wrath of the spoon. I have said this before, and I will say it again, I bruise like a soft peach. Right, so let me explain; about a week and a half ago, I was violently assualted by a spoon (and by that I mean I dropped it on my foot), so obviously the result was a slight reddening of the skin (and by that I mean a massive bruise that still hasn't gone away). I would simply like to know how on earth one can be injured so violently by a spoon of all things.<br /><br /><br /><div>Unfortunatly I think I am one of those people who does stupid things, I know, it runs in the family - the "twig" and the "you think you know me but you don't" incidents come to mind, so actually anyway you look at it, there is no escaping this tendency to do stupid things. For me anyway. My ever growing list includes blinding myself by melting my eyelashes together (it's got a lot to do with too much mascara and a hot oven), talking to someone about "someone else" only to discover I'm describing this person to themself, and nearly strangling myself with my own scarf in an attempt to take it off too hurriedly, amongst MANY other things.</div><br /><br /><div>I have however developed quite the knack for looking like I <em>meant</em> to do something; like "yes, I did mean to run for the bus, dig in my bag for my purse, then stop, curse under my breath, turn on my heel and walk in the opposite direction", (turns out I'd left my purse at home). Or "yes I did mean to violently throw my phone across the floor to be left standing like a startled fish with silent earphones hanging out my ears". Or my most common one "yes I did mean to do a little pirouette leap on the pavement because I didn't see that car coming round the bend as I almost stepped out into the road...". See, I'm a natural.</div><br /><br /><div>My most annoying stupid thing, however, is apparently quite commonplace (I've heard it described by at least one comedian). That embarrassing moment when yout speak after a while of having not spoken, and your voice either comes out all weird and squeaky, or all scary and deep and croaky. Luckily, the British people in general are too conservative to point out that you've just made yourself look like a complete fool, so they just do that smiley head nod thing that people do when they're embarrassed for you. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So what I've learnt from all this stupidity is:</div><br /><div>not to rush things (as I will either strangle myself, or throw a weeks worth of washing across the floor infront of complete strangers), </div><br /><div>to pretend to be really confident when you do something embarrassing "yes I meant to walk in here, (realise I was in the wrong place) look at my phone like I've just remembered something and walk out", </div><br /><div>and most of all, not to underestimate the danger of the common, household spoon.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-13964069828016217522012-01-20T09:29:00.000-08:002012-01-20T09:51:50.605-08:00The Onslaught of Science<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJBCktw8rrA8tMSBoFweSGSRcGwMQisvdJKI6Y043fep4eUcPEMGnOHgf7tuIhW9-YU0Nl_k0j05rCjn5dITHPS4yzmDtiuwWAKb_yrr4Edq_MQ5YYGCgyaahJi7RgbecU8wTRVj1feg/s1600/IMG_1077%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699773223328234754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJBCktw8rrA8tMSBoFweSGSRcGwMQisvdJKI6Y043fep4eUcPEMGnOHgf7tuIhW9-YU0Nl_k0j05rCjn5dITHPS4yzmDtiuwWAKb_yrr4Edq_MQ5YYGCgyaahJi7RgbecU8wTRVj1feg/s320/IMG_1077%255B1%255D.JPG" /></a> Right, so I guess that's week 1 done and dusted. Ok. Yes. Right. To be perfectly honest, I am beginning to fear the next two years, if the first week is anything to go by. I'm just clinging to the hope that it will get easier... Who am I kidding.<br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>English Literature is a piece of cake, well I think it is, I have yet to recieve any feedback on any work I've done, but otherwise I have no complaints in that department. Evidently <em>this </em>is what I'm cut out for. But why live life on the safe side, so here I am, with an extensive knowledge of art and english, studying for a science degree. Yes, that's right, a <em>science </em>degree! Ok I've known from the very beginning that it was a science degree... I just didn't ever stop to consider that it would be this "science-y".</div><br /><br /><div>Textbook 1; a slip of a book, with a mere 700 or so pages (almost A3 pages I might add), and textbook 2; another slip of a book (okay less slippy and more booky...) with a hearty 400 odd pages. I am not so concerned by the number of pages, rather it's that I find myself having to "translate" every second sentence from science-y academic language to normal-people language. This is where mom and dad come into good use: </div><br /><div><em>me - </em>"please translate this sentence for me!" </div><br /><div><em>dad - </em>"oh, that just means that these little things are doing these jobs". </div><br /><div>Well why didn't they just say that in the first place!</div><br /><br /><div>I did however manage the second chapter without much difficulty, which made me start thinking <em>oh what was I even worried about, I'll get used to this! </em>Only to discover that it was the whole SECTION I was supposed to be reading, not just one or two chapters. Insert panicked face... <em>now</em>.</div><br /><br /><div>I do think I jumped into the deep end without first checking I could swim (yeah I know, it's a really bad metaphor, but that's what it feels like!). But I am determined to be awesome at this whole university business. Also I am very determined (though less than I was before I knew what I was getting myself into) that I will be one of, if not, <em>the best. </em>Bring it on textbooks.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-24472543640564729882012-01-17T13:21:00.000-08:002012-01-17T13:37:05.290-08:00Studying<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywc9GE_9ChctfP06SyevArFrNmKHbwroHh7Xg3qeqhmSCpVfAr6Q-LZ3ZOL8BprjVpYa9s5kC44PV160cPgcCA4P5-YgpHWiMqZLYJBYw8nu0Ln_8VgWzsK5hfRpf1FXL1p9GmMXCCfc/s1600/_Books_by_funkeymunkey17.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698714292546102258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywc9GE_9ChctfP06SyevArFrNmKHbwroHh7Xg3qeqhmSCpVfAr6Q-LZ3ZOL8BprjVpYa9s5kC44PV160cPgcCA4P5-YgpHWiMqZLYJBYw8nu0Ln_8VgWzsK5hfRpf1FXL1p9GmMXCCfc/s320/_Books_by_funkeymunkey17.jpg" /></a> Day 2 of actual Uni, (i.e. involving lectures and work) and I feel like a brilliant an attentive student! I've got myself organised with folders, dividers, sub-dividers, sub-sub-dividers and so on and so forth. Ok, so it's only day 2, and there isn't THAT much work to be done (I've tried actually, but it turns out the reading lists, etc, haven't even been put up yet! One step ahead to me!) I am determined however to be a brilliant and attentive student for the rest of my time here! That is of course unless I freeze to death or have a nervous breakdown due to the Hyena living downstairs.<br /><br />Oh alright I won't actually freeze to death, but they should really invent heated umbrellas to keep you warm when walking from campus to campus... Especially when you arrive at a lecture only to be told it's been cancelled. Either tell me before I venture out in sub-zero temperatures with nothing more than a few dozen layers to keep me warm, or give me a heated umbrella! Still, I suppose I can survive the cold, it's the Hyena I've got to watch out for...<br /><br />Earphones are a wonderful invention, not only can one enjoy one's preferred choice of music, but one can also block out annoying and irritating sounds. Top of the list is the Hyena, I would like to point out at this point that no, I am not living at a zoo, but the girl in the room below me must definitely have some Hyena blood in her... I have never heard a laugh quite so extraordinary... or quite so loud. Or both. Put together. To equal teeth grinding madness. <br /><br />I might be able to retreat to the sanctity of my room, but apparently, APPARENTLY, even that is not meant to be. My radiator sounds like some kind of aquatic creature being murdered by some other vicious aquatic creature. *gurgle gurgle gurgle splutter gurgle.... GURGLE* yeah you get the picture. So thank goodness for earphones. Seriously.Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-81896824274901651052012-01-14T09:34:00.000-08:002012-01-14T10:00:09.516-08:00Uni Day 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVM9wRCu4vkDpL0SMoecO1q7sWzElRJdFLZQphD0-GGH51ZEV8eeOi3xnge0AS66vDnqvCnxGQVGZu7TuMSHHYgviEHmBv9nlx7wP1mgjxdQn2Ls5bQ7QBimYSAUydVgxToAPDpX_YH8/s1600/IMG_2739.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697548763004907298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVM9wRCu4vkDpL0SMoecO1q7sWzElRJdFLZQphD0-GGH51ZEV8eeOi3xnge0AS66vDnqvCnxGQVGZu7TuMSHHYgviEHmBv9nlx7wP1mgjxdQn2Ls5bQ7QBimYSAUydVgxToAPDpX_YH8/s320/IMG_2739.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfZSdgv43zxWJlu_ggxelqWDtJK7ENcnQXV70OjvcS_6u7kaOWgEI5-Jb6ALPJpsR6H4XDY732I4uQgMCZ1F-5xohAljYcaSYT-A7jrZ8vzJyT1PWuMoLRTh5RHYxB1wss1H6eqM9X98/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697548761598639778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfZSdgv43zxWJlu_ggxelqWDtJK7ENcnQXV70OjvcS_6u7kaOWgEI5-Jb6ALPJpsR6H4XDY732I4uQgMCZ1F-5xohAljYcaSYT-A7jrZ8vzJyT1PWuMoLRTh5RHYxB1wss1H6eqM9X98/s320/photo.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div>The milk is fine, in case anyone was wondering. Oh but actually I don't suppose anyone was wondering, because I'm the only one that knows about the milk in the first place. Just to keep you updated, I apparently can't close mini fridge doors, as when I got back to my room last night, the door was in fact open. But the milk is fine. So all is well in the world.</div><br /><br /><div>So yes, I do have a mini fridge in my room! How exciting and grown up! Though I do kind of wish it was a self rrefilling one (like hotel fridges) because then I wouldn't have to worry about buying food... it is on my list of things to do! But they keep feeding me here, and I haven't had time yet! Yesterday after registration, I went on the "compulsory" library tour. Uhm... I was the only Psychology student there... so my tour lasted all of three seconds with the librarian going "Psychology books are down that aisle! Thanks for coming!" so off I went, leaving the numerous law students to their own devices.</div><br /><br /><div>Later in the evening was a "meet and greet", a torturous affair where they shove all the new and frightened students into one room and tell them to "mingle". As you can imagine I just stood in a darkened corner and hissed at anyone that approached me. I didn't really. But I felt like doing that... No-one chose to tell me that I would be extremely terrified these first few days, that in fact I would feel like a 6 year old starting primary school for the first time (except with better hair). But I persevered regardless, I DID mingle with some other children (this time I'm not joking, they are practically children, being the ripe age of 18). But it was a fine night in the end. Also, note to self, do not swing on frosted over children's swings, as this results in one's bum being very icy cold.</div><br /><br /><div>This morning was supposed to involve a tour around the town, but my bed was just too warm and cozy to get up for 9, so I lazed about for probably the last time in a while. I was informed later, however, that I would probably know the (little) town very well withint about a week, so I'm not too concerned on that note. Next was onto Milton Keynes for a day of shopping (uhm I thought this was a Uni... not a holiday camp!). My highlight of the day was the Xscape; a large indoor arena with various shops and restaurants, the main attraction of Xscape is the indoor ski-slope, think ice-skating with a twist. Yup, real (cold) snow, with ski-lift, snow boards and eveything else in between. I definitely want to try that!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>After the ski-slope we went to see the Indoor Sky-diving. This of course looks super awesome and amazing. The indoor skydiving is just a massive veritcal wind tunnel that you float about in (it's a lot harder than it looks however). Also on the list of things I want to try! *Note to mom, both of the above are now on your "wild things" list. I'll be kind and accompany you on these <em>hardships</em>* <a href="http://www.xscape.co.uk/milton-keynes/">http://www.xscape.co.uk/milton-keynes/</a></div><br /><br /><div>Now for a brief respite before it's onto the next item on the list (a night out in Oxford - please remember to dress warmly). Also, of course, time for a hearty meal of cereal for dinner (I WILL get round to shopping I promise!) </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-83240491649378008342012-01-11T10:03:00.000-08:002012-01-11T11:11:34.053-08:00Madness Hamsters<a href="http://www.campusgifts.co.uk/acatalog/Madness-Hamsters-lg.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 218px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 218px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.campusgifts.co.uk/acatalog/Madness-Hamsters-lg.jpg" /></a> I'm not exactly sure when we started using the term "Madness Hamsters" to describe our charming pets, but it definitely does suit. Lily and Izzi could not be described as usual or normal pets, in fact I'm not sure they are even a dog and cat (respectively), but rather some weird hybrid of a variety of odd species.<br /><br /><p align="left"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696451675181463986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBVh60ZNWj-piCXBKLXqx-pjFPqeQAVTms7Cys2Ek_1TtzV1Zi6Yo5tOFPZ6U6VXmu84dwZdEX4Zb35KtR67Pp2PJPS85JfP2oiqM8eGy-KVRhbidNCqziLuZTq7Gcjm3v6DxsvmH2EY/s320/IMG_0856.JPG" /></p><br /><p>Let's look at Lily first; a cross between a sausage dog and a Jack Russell, our first thought when we chose her was "what a perfect combination of energy and laziness". I think she got the worst traits of both. Lily often has urges to perform mad dashes, whereby she runs around (like a madness hamster) furiously, her tail tucked between her legs, her ears flapping wildly in the wind, her tongue lolling out her mouth like a pink flag and her eyes bulging out her head like some weird doll. It is ridiculously funny to watch, because as soon as you cut off her escape route (best done in the house, because the garden just results in this run going round and round until you - the viewer - are positively dizzy), Lily rolls over onto her back and does the "wiggle".<br />The "wiggle" is a new addition to her repetoire of madness, she lies on her bag and twists and wiggles like a strange little doggy worm, it is super cute. Lily has obviously realised the power of her wiggle, as she performs this neat little trick everytime she wants some food from the dining room table (no she doesn't get it, but it's fun to see her squirm). Lily, in this wiggle state, is of course irresistible to Izzi, who is quite possibly even more mad that Lily. Izzi sees this as the perfect oppurtunity to mock-attack the dog, and she (as any good cat would) goes straight for the juicy bits; i.e. the throat or the thighs. </p><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6evSwCaz52HW8loQbO7wDZSVq99izwPZgaY9KCZoWgzHM0dY0RlC6PrdI1NfeZF4m02wRB2XupPIwB4HaCQNYFi_YEU_EoeI0p9qI8II4Ce6fpcZ4WA5mWGXsPFLZGWMyqKWI1BrVqY/s1600/IMG_0727.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 279px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696451681588428722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6evSwCaz52HW8loQbO7wDZSVq99izwPZgaY9KCZoWgzHM0dY0RlC6PrdI1NfeZF4m02wRB2XupPIwB4HaCQNYFi_YEU_EoeI0p9qI8II4Ce6fpcZ4WA5mWGXsPFLZGWMyqKWI1BrVqY/s320/IMG_0727.JPG" /></a> I'm not entirely convinced that Izzi is 100% cat however, I strongly suspect that she has a bit of pigeon; she makes the most unusual, albeit toe-curlingly cute "cooing" noise instead of meowing - maybe she is onto a new and innovative method of pigeon baiting - either way it's not the kind of noise you expect to come from a cat. *Izzi, lying infront of the warm laptop, goes "krrr krrr krrr*. I also believe she may have a bit of squirrel-monkey in her, she certainly does a brilliant impression of a lolloping monkey when she runs, and she has the same kind of nervous twitchy tree climbing ability as squirrels.<br /><br />I think growing up with a dog has influenced Izzi to become the cat/pigeon/squirrel-monkey that she is today. She sometimes adopts Lily's mad running, although her run usually involves wild leaps which startle both the viewer and the cat herself. Izzi's new favourite place in the garden (not counting the entirety of the garden itself where she performs these acrobatic and startling leaps), is the "vegetable garden", or what remains of it. Dad recently dug up the little wooden fence that surrounded the old veggie patch, and now the rectangular pen is just standing abandoned in the garden. Izzi of course loves this, as she now has her own play pen. She can often be found just sitting within the perimeter of the fence, surveying her territory, or watching the unsuspecting Lily, waiting for the oppurtune moment to attack. </p><br /><p>These two furry little balls of madness make up for any craziness by just being so lovable and sweet (not all the time, but often enough for it to count), that you can't help but love them. Fuzzy little lap warmers with boundless love for their people, I am definitely going to miss seeing them everyday. I only hope mom and dad will survive the combined force of these two creatures without me to interfere...</p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-59833806273859416622012-01-10T09:32:00.000-08:002012-01-10T09:46:49.992-08:00For the Love of Mom<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrpNm4Fjhbd_ykgZl5NivNis1HkBkMT81Mj1cVB907nxayamzyYxDZeyk7DoGEsl3kocbABkzniFFU_FOQGjeRtbo1w4WxrmBBtDkTgbtqhqNxDsy_Y4-CQuOZRHdFO862GV68fsC9R4/s400/kitty.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 301px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrpNm4Fjhbd_ykgZl5NivNis1HkBkMT81Mj1cVB907nxayamzyYxDZeyk7DoGEsl3kocbABkzniFFU_FOQGjeRtbo1w4WxrmBBtDkTgbtqhqNxDsy_Y4-CQuOZRHdFO862GV68fsC9R4/s400/kitty.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>It's a commonly held belief that my mom is slightly unusual. Ok actually most of the family consider a bit crazy, but I was trying to be polite. Personally I think mom is rather hysterical, most often I don't even remember why I have been reduced to tears of laughter by mom, all the remains is the memory of sore stomach muscles and an incredibly funny mommy. </div><br /><br /><div>Take for instance mom's strange knack for messing up words or sayings, with most people it's faintly amusing, with mom however, it's classic comedy which should actually be written down and shared with the rest of the world. My most recent favourite is mom's new word for <em>pigeon</em>, I realise there's not much one can do to mess this word up, but like I said, mom has a certain knack. Needless to say we have no started referring to pigeons as "pijjsions" (yeah it's not that easy to say either). What's even funnier is that this word came about after mom had a sip of cider, no I'm quite serious, ONE sip of (mulled) cider. She should definitely be kept away from anything with a stronger alcohol volume than a wine gum.</div><br /><br /><div>Next is mom's strange and amusing daily acts she performs, no not something that she performs on purpose, but rather things she does accidentally, like, hmmm, I dunno accidentally dipping a chip into her coffee instead of a rusk? Yeah, you couldn't write this kind of stuff. I think mom also attracts this kind of funny behaviour, the phrase "you think you know me, but you don't" (yes she <em>did </em>actually say that to a complete stranger) come to mind. But on a more recent note, when I showed mom a birthday card, she screamed very loudly in a crowded shop, when she opened it (ok it was a singing card), but her reaction was priceless.</div><br /><br /><div>Whilst mom is hysterically funny, she is also, of course, a brilliant and lovely mommy (cue brownie points <em>now</em>), and whilst I hope she doesn't consider this little memento to be too "bulge" (see mom for details), I just want to say "love you lots mom".</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-86412397880653920652012-01-09T09:33:00.000-08:002012-01-09T11:37:19.646-08:00The Little Mermaid<a href="http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/363/2/2/the_little_mermaid_wallpaper_by_daekazu-dhc13v.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 603px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 450px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/363/2/2/the_little_mermaid_wallpaper_by_daekazu-dhc13v.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>What sudden burst of inspiration could lead to such impulsive behaviour? Very simply; clothes. Oh I know, I know, so materialistic and fickle and what not, but these clothes were especially beautiful, AND they're were specifically tailored for me! Actually, technically, TECHNICALLY, they weren't tailored for me as a person, but they were definitely tailored for my name! Ok, so not MY actual name, but the name of a well known Disney character, also known as The Little Mermaid. But still, I felt a certain kinship to these beautiful clothes, we do share the same name, this character and I, and it is a very unusual and beautiful name. That's my excuse anyway.</div><br /><br /><div>So these clothes perfectly and stylishly emmulate Ariel (The Little Mermaid, not me, I have not taken to talking about myself in the third person...), basically we're talking modern interpretations of a cartoon characters style, specifically a purple cardigan, green pumps and BRIGHT red hair (though the hair wasn't part of the original styling that I saw, I improvised a wee bit). Obviously this could only mean one thing, buy a purple cardigan and green pumps, and dye my hair BRIGHT red! This plan of course is so simple and fool proof. Obviously.</div><br /><br /><div>My first step was the purple cardi... erm... ok maybe I could move this step down the line, I wasn't really giving up, but after rather a few hours of searching for this cardi with no luck what-so-ever, I moved green pumps up to the first step. Count down another few hours and dying my hair red had moved to the top of the list. So what followed was an intense google search on how to *home* dye hair BRIGHT red. Onwards and upwards! </div><br /><br /><div>Two days later the dye was on my hair (*ahem* only a couple pounds down the line), and all that remained was waiting to wash and style (the hair). Oh, yeah, still no luck on the cardi or the shoes. Uhm, right, so the hair was now washed... well. Needless to say it's not <em>exactly </em>what I was expecting. Bright red was definitely involved in the hair... buuut only on the roots. And the rest was dark brown/red. Ok, so I mildly resembled someone with an all over scalp wound... Not ideal, but fixable. Second step: seek immediate help from a hairdresser (no thoughts at this point were spared on the cardigan or the shoes). </div><br /><br /><div>Fast forward 3-4 hours and a few more pounds later, and voila! Tick the box on the bright red hair! It's beautiful and lovely, even if I do say so myself. I won't go into detail but there is a lot of hair flicking and mirror glancing going on now. It is really lovely though! Thanks goodness for hairdressers, and lesson learned on not trying something extreme without the help of a professional. </div><br /><br /><div>So right now, I've got the name, I've got the hair, I've got the PURPLE CARDI! I'm well on my way to becoming The Little Mermaid! All I need now is my very own blue and yellow fish. Ok yeah, and the whole being a mermaid thing, but we'll gloss over that at this point. </div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-67122903828671658992010-12-02T13:36:00.000-08:002010-12-02T13:40:28.651-08:00Winter Wonderland<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGBjY47WuQt4rwv4sux-KekH0QNtK5lwRQ2PsZ2rWqpyeI8HnxkzNjRTFMzLn76BonoErsPAQOZsIXkOeE6C8zUncYIVYlxWgH1GPmOawyVAYl6bQ5vUu-P11ODrZ6DAv1fNmLIId9lI/s1600/IMG_0388.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 291px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 284px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546202372160736978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvGBjY47WuQt4rwv4sux-KekH0QNtK5lwRQ2PsZ2rWqpyeI8HnxkzNjRTFMzLn76BonoErsPAQOZsIXkOeE6C8zUncYIVYlxWgH1GPmOawyVAYl6bQ5vUu-P11ODrZ6DAv1fNmLIId9lI/s320/IMG_0388.JPG" /></a><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />OMG OMG SNOW!!! These may sound like the words of a small child, or perhaps Lily's silent dog words, but rather this is what I thought, and quite honestly, probably said when I looked out the window this morning. Yes, I know it is the third day of snow, but to me it is still so magically cool and awesome. I don't understand how other people can be "so over" the snow, yeah I'm over it, I'm over it when I do a mad leap across the pristine snow in the garden in a bid to not disturb it (incidentally this did not go as planned as I found myself surrounded by white walls of snow as I lay somewhat startled in the snow - I slipped).<br /><br />I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen snow... er... twice actually, so it's still pretty amazing to me. I hope I never get to that "I'm so over this" stage, if I do I shall spend lots of time with Lily whose boundless enthusiasm surpasses even my own. She is quite literally insane, I'm not sure what goes on in her little-doggy brain, but whatever it is, it sure is undeniably and rather disgustingly cute. As I write this she is lying against my shoulders, like some kind of cruelly dressed parrot (she is wearing her pink polka dot hoody, which is gorgeously sweet), she is also asleep, but at least she is nice and warm - like a moving back scarf...<br /><br />Lily can only be compared to a mix between a squirrel, a springbokkie and of course Jack. She LOVES the snow; to her it is white, fluffy edible joy. She can leap in it, she can dig in it, she can eat it, she can frolic to her heart's delight. Earlier we went out into the (dark) snowy garden for some icy play time. This mostly involved Lily doing her springbokkie thing; she has to do mad hop-jumps to keep her head above the snow, otherwise she ends up us just a tail and a bit of back amongst the snow. She also had a pink squeaky to play with, which provided much enjoyment, I think she liked it too. There was this little black hamster thing doing mad leaps for a snow encrusted squeaky – remind you of anyone? *cough* Jackles *cough*<br /><br />She also decided she rather liked snowballs, or perhaps she decided she rather disliked snowballs. Either way any snowball which comes towards her must be quickly demolished, either by means of eating and flinging wildly, or leaping about in the same spot. Yes, she does rather enjoy eating the snow, maybe what she enjoys more is seeing me suffer as my hands quickly freeze whilst I make these snowballs, but I don’t think she’s that cruel. I think she’s more like “I will come frolic on your NAKED face with my NAKED snow covered self. Take that.<br /><br />Needless to say, whilst I have been rambling on a bit, I do enjoy Lily’s frolic-iness a LOT. I shall end with Lily’s most famous words: “I’m running, I’m running!” *pause as she shivers with her tongue lolling out* “I’m naked! Woooo-hoooo-hoooo-hoooo!” (Please don’t get confused, once again, these are Lily’s words not mine… I would never do such a thing. I’d keep my tongue in my mouth whilst shivering) </div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-73290082290457336632010-11-08T07:36:00.001-08:002010-11-08T09:36:34.730-08:00Flaming Roosters<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtyRSd4iqx1JsRCKcXIjEazNmNUIH_CMd0BP3mx5uSdNJIUiDn-gAWM1ZNPOfJqwHtH9D4ZTdd2m4NGUCFdd0WXArCL93_06I2q1fcpH__r6N-4qHKkakLMXePcxp5mU_m2kZFA0BU90/s1600/funny-pictures-chicken-crosses-road.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 261px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537230496461426866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMtyRSd4iqx1JsRCKcXIjEazNmNUIH_CMd0BP3mx5uSdNJIUiDn-gAWM1ZNPOfJqwHtH9D4ZTdd2m4NGUCFdd0WXArCL93_06I2q1fcpH__r6N-4qHKkakLMXePcxp5mU_m2kZFA0BU90/s320/funny-pictures-chicken-crosses-road.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I realise this title may be misleading to some. Since I am a pescetarian (one who eats fish), the idea of roosters spontaneously combusting is not exactly something I would relish talking about. Especially in such a light hearted manner. What I mean by the title is more of a curse at roosters, similar to "those bloody roosters". On writing that however, I realise that bloody roosters are just as bad as flaming roosters.<br /><br />The point of this tale is not to discuss the best curse word to describe the rooster, rather it is about an event; an event which caused much laguhter and possibly a bit of hysteria. When we were in South Africa, Mom, Kyle and I went to tea with Nan and Grandad. We went to a place called Second Cup, which whilst very charming and quaint (etc, etc), was home to a dozen or so roosters. Why they all chose to live together is somewhat of a mystery, as I'm sure they outnumbered the hens at least 3 to 1.<br /><br />We were shown to a lovely table in the middle of the garden, cool and shaded, and surrounded by towering trees and colourful flowers. Oh, we were also surrounded by roosters, lots of roosters. Despite the fact that it was about 10 in the morning, the roosters still felt it necassary to crow every few minutes. Needless to say this did rather disrupt the quiet calm of the area in which we were seated. Mom thought that shouting at these roosters would help our case, they simply ignored her. Or I imagined they would have ignored her had they the brain capacity to perform the act of ignoring. Rather they just kept on cock-a-doodle-dooing. Very annoying.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Out of sheer desperation mom vehemently told the roosters that if they didn't stop shouting she would make sure they were turned into the day's chicken mayo mix. The roosters were not pleased. With a sudden flurry of wings and claws the roosters descended on our little table. Two of them landed on mom; one on her head, the other on her back, flapping wildy and sending feathers flying. Mom was now screeching (much louder than the roosters ever had) as another one landed on her plate, chicken mayo what? As these three dare devil roosters took off once again they stole Nan's cake decorations and serviette right from under her nose. Grandad seemed unflappable, Kyle found it highly amusing, Mom was in a state of rooster shock, Nan just seemed mildy surprised to find her serviette missing whilst I pretended that I hadn't in fact screeched and dived under the table. I swear, I really didn't. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The manager promptly arrived to apologize, his excuse being that the roosters had seen a rather attractive hen flaunting her feathers. I know the truth however, the roosters were quite obviously angered by mom's statement regarding the chicken mayo. We however had the last laugh. The manager informed us that the roosters would be in today's chicken mayo following this incident. We laughed nervously, not entirely sure if he was just joking. I'd like to think he was, those roosters looked much to tough to make a tasty chicken mayo mix.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>*<em>No roosters were harmed in the making of this tale*</em></div>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-6357382580865197532010-11-02T23:34:00.000-07:002010-11-03T00:14:45.207-07:00The Trains of Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkU7S0i6hd8BMSQY_rzPVh49Zub0vt5D4_R77mQAgcsJ2g2FBdIhc43PrU-BLd_gFQpobCIsFkRSup8OykrTq_m_KKXKvsHU2FiTKuQHFJI5RfMWs6PS475RAdtVl2I_5dhCXuffba80/s1600/funny-pictures-monorail-cat1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkU7S0i6hd8BMSQY_rzPVh49Zub0vt5D4_R77mQAgcsJ2g2FBdIhc43PrU-BLd_gFQpobCIsFkRSup8OykrTq_m_KKXKvsHU2FiTKuQHFJI5RfMWs6PS475RAdtVl2I_5dhCXuffba80/s320/funny-pictures-monorail-cat1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535217306083590626" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>With the time for me to be going back to the UK getting ever closer, people are continually asking me whether I will be getting dropped off at the airport, or if I will indulge in the Gautrain. My answer is, and always will be, I use the train enough in England, why would I want to use it here. Especially when I have a perfectly good car, and for that matter, chauffeur, who will drive me right to the airport doors. From this answer, I'm sure you can gather, that I am not the fondest of trains, or buses, or in fact taxis (English ones, we all know everyone loathes South African ones).</p><p> The reason you see, is an overindulgence in trains (and buses). The first time I was on a train it was very exciting, new and somewhat fun. You stare out the window and watch the scenery whizzing past, it's peaceful and quiet in your safe little earphoned world. Yes, what a change to back in SA. Fast forward a year down the line, trains, why they're just not so much fun anymore.</p><p>When I lived in Cornwall I endured a lot of 7 hour train journeys. These journeys were far from the exciting ones I had once experienced. Firstly, they were a good few hours longer, then there was the cramped noisy undelightfully smelling cabins. Airplanes I can endure, but trains, not so much. I recall one occasion when someone nearby was eating something that smelled like a mixture of sweat and something that had died (remember, no open windows!) then, despite my subtle glares at anyone who tried to sit next to me, a rather large man decided to invade my little sanctum regardless. Not only did I have to squash myself against the window, but his sweaty arm still kept bumping mine. He smelt funny, like old people and sweat, and he just sat staring at the back of the chair. Just a bit freaky deaky.</p><p>But endured I did, I breathed in fresh clean train fumes when I stumbled out from that trip. Fortunately I didn't have to take a bus anywhere. Buses are even more of a "least favourite" for me. One either has to sit squashed next to blank looking mothers with their screeching children, or stand in the aisle, and endure occasionally bumping into another passenger in a very uncomfortable way. Not only is the journey car sickening, one still has to wait for wasted minutes hanging around bus stop on the sides of roads. In the rain, sometimes even the snow. Oh what fun.</p><p>My worst bus journey was a late night trip back from work. I somehow managed to find myself seated in front of a very inebriated old man. He was sitting right forward, so that he was almost breathing down the back of my neck, leaving me to crane awkwardly forward without looking too obvious. Then he kept tapping me on the shoulder, I tried my best to ignore him, but he was relentless. I turned around slightly with what I hoped was an unimpressed look on my face, he wanted to know what the time was. First off, my watch was beneath many layers of sleeves and gloves, and second off, his watch was winking at me from his wrist. I gave him a vague answer and turned away, twisting myself even further away (and no I couldn't have moved, the bus was full... of drunk old men). It was then that my ipod decided to give up, so now I was stuck with no way to ignore him. He was still tapping my shoulder. I stubbornly kept my earphones in, leaned forward, and spent a very uncomfortable, very car sick hour back home.</p><p>Another incident occurred on my way to college. I was sitting near the front, on one of the fold down seats, and sitting across from me was a chavvy man with his child bride and bratty children. Not to be rude or anything. As the bus lurched to the side, this man fell forwards, right towards me. I'm not sure who was more surprised, him or me, when he grabbed my leg in an attempt to stop falling. I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head, and I watched him apologize silently for a second before I realized I couldn't hear anything with my earphones in. I simply did a somewhat scared smile and turned away to stare out the window, which incidentally was also very uncomfortable, what with the window being directly behind me.</p><p>So, with those journeys being the cherry on top of my dislike for public transport, my reasoning for not wanting to take the Gautrain is, I think, perfectly sound. On to the airport, on to the plane. Oh my, don't even get me started on flights.</p><p> </p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-743295556096362352010-10-27T14:14:00.000-07:002010-10-27T14:17:34.194-07:00An Hommage<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpTF0uh79bB3PgDDZZD710JHaOXrMtHtPErm6eQ2tlaz9Ch0lJM7DZSKHaNc-t2iwU_JLYzxzDH9eroIksNwM9ozFA7Stz29kN1Q1mYHTlDMSbd-50VAwKkl8V0W3MQuvmqCfe6N4-D0/s1600/funny-picture-cat-picture-ehpien.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpTF0uh79bB3PgDDZZD710JHaOXrMtHtPErm6eQ2tlaz9Ch0lJM7DZSKHaNc-t2iwU_JLYzxzDH9eroIksNwM9ozFA7Stz29kN1Q1mYHTlDMSbd-50VAwKkl8V0W3MQuvmqCfe6N4-D0/s320/funny-picture-cat-picture-ehpien.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532837650011325394" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This is about someone whom I love very muchly. Since this person has asked me NOT to write a blog about them, I am doing the exact opposite. I am however, leaving out the identity of this person. They know who they are, and anyone who knows them knows who they are. But for privacy's sake, they shall remain anonymous.</p> <p>This person often shares stories with the family; some of these stories are just too ridiculous to believe, and my line after these stories usually goes something like this: (incredulous yet very amused expression) "you're so funny!". The funny stories I have heard from this person are too numerous to remember, I will however start with the unusual thing that first led me to the above line.</p> <p>My mom and this person speak very often on the phone, and what I find so bemusing is right in the middle of the conversation, I will hear mom say "ok, bye then", and put down the phone. This person, when they talk on the phone, just seems to randomly end the call - however, with experience, I have found that it is because the conversation is over... why waste time with sticky goodbyes? Very amusing.</p> <p>Another story which I remember fondly, is the mirror story. This person was wandering around a shop one day when they saw a person just in front of them, who stopped at the same time as they did. We have all experienced this awkward little dance, when both parties step in the same direction. So this person experienced that, they stepped to the left, the other person stepped to the left. They stepped to the right, the other person stepped to the right. They said, "after you", the other person said "after you". They chuckled, the other person chuckled. They said, "no really, after you", the other person said "no really, after you". Getting the picture? Whilst we have all had this experience, I can't imagine that more than a handful of people have had this experience with a reflection. A reflection of themselves in a shop mirror.</p> <p>Whilst there are many more tales I could recount, I will follow with this one: the story goes, that the one and only time this person has very been, possibly, a bit too slightly inebriated, the following may have happened: whilst possibly been driven back from wherever it was that all this possible drinking took place, this person may have wanted the car to be stopped. When asked why, they may have replied - with utter conviction - that they needed to roll up the white line and take it home. Yup, that's right, the white line on the road needed to be rolled up and taken home. (<em>Disclaimer: I am not saying that this person did drink, I'm just saying they may have).</em></p> <p>I would like to end with these words of wisdom: when this person experienced the word LOGMEIN on the start up screen of the computer, they came to me with some concern. I took one look at this word, shook my head (again incredulous and amused) and said, "you mean Log Me In"? Closely followed by "you're so funny". Another amusing anecdote involves MSN, this person innocently suggested that mom log on to SnM so they could chat. </p> <p>These days, I don't even have to say "you're so funny", this person knows full well what I would say. To this person, because I know they will read it (for which I am eternally grateful), thank you for looking after me, thank you for making me laugh (often hysterically), thank you for EVERYTHING. And I shall sorely miss you (both) when I return to the UK.</p> <p>Lots of Love Ari</p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-8317084028064785132010-10-19T05:22:00.000-07:002010-10-20T01:25:10.968-07:00Being Bing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvidosBDuaweiq633H-1_PBJuUP9z9uQf77CT305zNOngDBmxMA74f7hi85Ssl7W9fWwVKJQ_zYmGEs2PHqiC-MGMOCesBBmm6ogwRqkzE97XNxD7rDmBHo1K4ba_FISo-47Qc1BsO61I/s1600/cat-disguised-rabbit.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvidosBDuaweiq633H-1_PBJuUP9z9uQf77CT305zNOngDBmxMA74f7hi85Ssl7W9fWwVKJQ_zYmGEs2PHqiC-MGMOCesBBmm6ogwRqkzE97XNxD7rDmBHo1K4ba_FISo-47Qc1BsO61I/s320/cat-disguised-rabbit.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530040984620157458" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:12.0pt;line-height:normal">"Jack wee-ed on Bing!"<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>"No!"<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>"Yes!"<span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">"Wait... who's Bing?" </span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is the conversation that took place after the horrible discovery of a wee stained Rescue Rabbit, called Bing. In case you were becoming slightly concerned as to why the act of Jack wee-ing on a Rescue Rabbit is the topic of such light heartedness, let me just point out that Bing is a stuffed rabbit. And when I say stuffed what I really mean is Teddy-Bear like toy, not roast rabbit stuffed with garlic, or a dead, but taxidermied, bunny.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I found Bing in a Mr. Price Home.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">He was alone amongst shelves of garish baby toys, the only one of his kind left.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">He was underneath a giant pink hippopotamus (no I am not joking), and looked slightly perturbed (as much as stuffed toys can look perturbed) at being beneath this giant pink hippopotamus.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I rescued him from this fluffy fate and studied him; he looks like a baby pig crossed with a bunny, or whatever the designer imagined a baby pig crossed with a bunny would look like.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">But he is undeniably cute and ridiculously soft and cuddly to boot.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">When I found him, his long droopy ear had started to come unstitched – he was definitely in need of a rescue.</span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Picture this; a twenty year old wondering around with a gorgeous little rabbit toy, begging her mommy if she could keep him.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm not saying that </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I</span></i><span style="font-size:85%;"> did that... but picture it anyway.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Mom said sure, if I could get a discount on him.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">I asked the not-so-friendly ladies at the till; they just looked at me blankly before refusing.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">It seemed that Bing was to stay forever in that sad little shop.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">However, they did check, and he was already on discount.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">So it was that Bing came home with us.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">I stitched up Bing’s ear, and he had priority seating on my bed, his favourite place in the world.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Until that is the fateful wee incident.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Doreen had been away for a few days, which meant the house was in somewhat of a sorry state; it also meant that the animals were running rife throughout.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">It was then I discovered that Bing had a spray of sickly yellow over his side.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Jack wee.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Needless to say the dogs were banished, and I decided, as Bing NEEDED a wash, that I would do all the cleaning for the day.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Ironically, just when I had finished everything, Doreen got back, ready to clean.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Bing however, is newly clean and fluffy, he still has priority seating on my bed, and I'm pretty sure he bears his baby-pig-cross-bunny fangs at Jack every time he comes close.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></span><span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p><br /><p><br /></p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-53528969431788833322010-10-13T01:16:00.000-07:002010-10-13T02:06:56.994-07:00Word Salad<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRUxIRACi5hoWi3rSKvfYQNIpl0oUHCZGFMuGVak-TUnuoF-HExb3FZto7F3OV_CanBwmPOrCGpaTia52hPg4SdRaZKL1tSlFcKje1NIHc9RgBktFDPYxjZ7Rd-o1RBRccnba8kbC2sA/s1600/funny-animals-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRUxIRACi5hoWi3rSKvfYQNIpl0oUHCZGFMuGVak-TUnuoF-HExb3FZto7F3OV_CanBwmPOrCGpaTia52hPg4SdRaZKL1tSlFcKje1NIHc9RgBktFDPYxjZ7Rd-o1RBRccnba8kbC2sA/s320/funny-animals-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527454222104571186" /></a><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Let me describe a situation: you are talking to someone, having a perfectly sane and understandable conversation, when suddenly you are struck by a case of Word Salad. No, this doesn't involve lettuce leaves and a page out of a book, rather it involves the embarrassing moment when your words come out of your mouth in a violently tossed salad format. Don't deny it, I bet it's happened to everyone at some point or another.</p><p>The problem I have with Word Salad is that it strikes more often than it doesn't, usually when I am meeting someone new, and in which case they assume I am crazy, or drunk. Or both. I don't mind Word Salad so much when I am amongst family or friends; first there is the slightly bemused look, then it is just rather funny. The meeting new people Word Salad still gets me though, and the worst case I can remember involved a puppy, a dog sitter, and a low cut red dress.</p><p>When mom and I decided to book our tickets to come to SA, we had to find someone to look after the new puppy Lily as soon as we could. Eventually we found a man who looks after dogs in his own home, his name is Matt. The day before we left, Matt was coming round to our house to meet Lily and sort out all the formalities, Mom, my friend Stussy, and I were all at home. I also happened to be wearing a rather low cut red dress - but we will get to that later.</p><p>Mom was on the phone, Stussy was watching TV, and I was engrossed in a book when Matt the Dog Man arrived. Mom shot me looks which told me I had better go open the door, so I leaped up, still mostly in another world and ran to the door, flinging it open as Matt had been standing out there. There was no-one there. Right, so I did look rather stupid, standing in the doorway looking slightly wild eyed as Matt climbed out of his car. <em>What do I do</em>, I thought, so I started to shut the door, but then I would be waiting just inside and he'd seen me anyway. Do I look busy, like I was picking up post, or do I wait nonchalantly.</p><p>I waited nonchalantly. "Hi, I'm Matt", he introduced himself as he stuck out his hand for a handshake. "Hi, I'm Ariel," I replied shaking his hand. "How are you?" he continued with the pleasantries. It is at this point that I was struck by Word Salad. The phrases, <em>nice to meet you, </em>and <em>fine and you </em>suddenly became tossed like lettuce leaves in my mind, so I came out with this classic: "Nice and you?" This is what I said to the slightly concerned looking dog sitter. Fantastic. </p><p>He smiled a little fearfully as I tried to cover up my mistake; which incidentally involved more Word Salad before I gave up and ushered him in. I walked quickly to the back room, only to find that he hadn't followed me and was still standing just in the entrance hall. So I went back and ushered him in as though he was a frightened animal; which I suppose, in a manner of speaking, he was. Mom was finished on the phone by now, and Stussy had emerged to meet the Dog Man. Lily, the puppy, had also appeared to greet Matt enthusiastically.</p><p>The thing about Lily is that her enthusiastic greetings often involve weeing with excitement. Which is exactly what she did. Right in front of Matt's feet. Obviously it then needed to be cleaned, so what do Mom and Stussy do? They suggest I do it whilst they chat to Matt. Cue the low cut red dress. There I was, on my hands and knees directly in front of Matt the Dog Man, with, yeah you guessed it, the very low cut red dress. I shudder at what he might have thought. </p><p>Needless to say he was looking slightly concerned, I was feeling as though the ground should just swallow me up, and Mom and Stussy were chatting obliviously. I excused myself to take Lily outside, and shortly afterwards he excused himself to get out of the mad house. The moral of the story is, don't wear low cut red dresses whilst cleaning up puppy wee in front of a stranger who is looking decidedly frightened. Also, think before you speak. </p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-74417599690790859212010-10-11T00:02:00.000-07:002010-10-11T00:22:26.667-07:00Fright Night<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.paraorkut.com/img/funnypics/images/s/scary_bird-12422.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 460px; height: 550px;" src="http://images.paraorkut.com/img/funnypics/images/s/scary_bird-12422.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Who doesn't love a good movie? I certainly enjoy them, and sometimes, just <em>sometimes, </em>I can even be persuaded to watch a horror film. The thing is though, I do get terribly frightened when watching horror movies, which of course begs the question - why do I watch them. But that is not the point of this story.</p><p>Yesterday, I spent most of the day watching a selection of so-called horror movies with Bianca. Two of them were ridiculously scary, and the other two... not so much. Even though it was broad daylight, Bee and I still spent much of the scarier movies cowered beneath pillows and screeching at anything that moved - including a few cats... and the curtain. </p><p>The fun really started in the evening however; what night could be more perfect for horror movies than the one we had last night - thunder and lightening which would have put any horror movie special effects to shame. The movie we were watching at the time involved an abandoned mental asylum, with ghosts in the typical white doctor's coats and lightly coloured patient's overalls. Just as we were on the verge of losing our minds in terror, we decided it was the perfect time for a breather to stretch our shaky legs.</p><p>So there we were standing, Bee and I almost huddled together as we chatted to Leanne. All of a sudden Bee looks over my shoulder and goes pale before letting out a blood curdling scream. As I am glancing around she shoves me forwards in an attempt to get away from whatever is making her scream. I set eyes on this horrific vision; illuminated by a flash of lightening stands a figure in a blowing white coat - something straight out of a movie. I screech loudly as I leap like a slightly lopsided yet startled rabbit into the next room, where I cower behind Leanne (who as it happens is about half my size).</p><p>Bee is curled up in a ball on the couch, a cushion clutched in front of her face. We both look up as Leanne's friend walks through the door, looking slightly perplexed at all the screaming. Bee and I look at each other and burst into nervous giggles, no we are not quite recovered from this shock. We do however move back into the TV room to continue with the evenings entertainment.</p><p>Eventually after a few more minutes of this film, Bee implores me to spend the night. I am definitely up for this as I don't really want to be driving home alone. I phone Kyle to let him know, and just as he answers a roar of thunder echoes over the house. Bee screeches loudly in my ear, which in turn makes me yelp out, all the while on the phone to Kyle. He sounds resigned, possibly slightly amused as I relay the plan to him. We did actually manage to finish the film, but I definitely don't think I'll be doing that again any time soon.</p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-70847058533869902572010-10-09T07:42:00.000-07:002010-10-09T12:19:37.322-07:00The Frog Princess<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.drugbuyers.com/freeboard/ubbthreads.php/ubb/download/Number/15197/filename/frog-pictures1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 357px; height: 285px;" src="http://www.drugbuyers.com/freeboard/ubbthreads.php/ubb/download/Number/15197/filename/frog-pictures1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Having an empty swimming pool quickly loses it's charms during a heatwave. Yes, it is rather amusing at first, leaping about the empty swimming pool with the dogs (and surprisingly the cat). Lying in the swimming pool and enjoying the fact that one's hair isn't getting wet and chlorine-ie... neither is the <em>rest</em> of one getting wet and chlorine-ie for that matter. However, on days like today when even the birds are slowly melting into little piles of feathers and sweat, having an empty pool is not ideal.</p><p>Still, I tried to see the positive in this situation, and I went down into the garden with the thought of going frog rescuing. Now the frogs in the garden have a funny habit of leaping into the empty swimming pool during the night, and unfortunately, with the heat and no water, dying and turning into mummified frogs (R.I.P little frogs, R.I.P). However today was different, after the rain the other night, there is a small pool of water in the bottom of the pool. I wandered down there, in search of more frogs to rescue from a horrible mummified death.</p><p>Crouched in the shallow water, I found two frogs, a bigger one, who I will call Daddy Frog, and a littler one, who I shall call Baby Frog. I quickly scooped Baby Frog up - he didn't put up much of a fight - and carried him back to the fishpond, where I gently released him into the water. I had a momentary panic when I wondered if frogs could swim as Baby Frog sank slowly deeper in the water. He did, however, give a little kick and clung to the wall. I rushed back to the swimming pool, with the thought to rescue Daddy Frog, who, as it turns out, didn't really want to be rescued.</p><p>I persevered however, which did involve me leaping about after Daddy Frog, trying to catch him, with Jack standing near me looking slightly perturbed at the attention I was paying to what he would undoubtedly consider a live squeaky toy. I managed to gently grab Daddy Frog, remove the soggy leaf from my ear, and make my way to the fishpond to release Daddy Frog into Baby Frog's company. </p><p>I watched with the warm feeling of having done a good deed as Daddy Frog leaped into the water and swam energetically around. Baby Frog was still attached to the wall, watching Daddy Frog swim to the wall near him, then hop onto the wall, then, much to my surprise, and perhaps his too, leap off the wall and land in an undignified sprawl a few feet from Jack. Of course Baby Frog began to follow Daddy Frog, but not before I'd realised the error of my ways and scooped up a slightly concussed Daddy Frog and deposited him, with Baby Frog, in a bucket full of water.</p><p>If it was not obvious before, they made it painfully so then; I'd obviously deposited Baby and Daddy Frog in the wrong fishpond, or as I imagine, the fishpond of the rival frog clan. Not wanting Baby and Daddy Frog to be turned into fish food - or whatever it is rival frog clans to do one another - I quickly rushed them up to the smaller fishpond. I am still left wondering where Baby and Daddy Frog actually belong, as they did not seem very pleased with their new home. </p><p>Baby Frog simply clung to a plant and watched me warily with his beady eyes as I chased after Daddy Frog. Daddy Frog quite obviously considers himself to be a daredevil of sorts, as he did a flying leap from the edge of the fishpond to the ground. Jack was definitely becoming concerned by now as I chased Daddy Frog round and round the fishpond before he hopped towards the bushes in an attempt at freedom. Alas poor Daddy Frog, it was not to be, as I quickly scooped him up, plopped him in the water and ran away before I could see them try to escape again... and before my moral conscience made me rescue them. Again.</p><p> </p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-66977539292747817822010-10-08T06:18:00.000-07:002010-10-08T07:03:59.469-07:00The First Rain<div align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-drMe0j2F7j1Qe_g3k5mSFQu_fVhnnixWMEuBB9n4NguZN17ikvfsCl3hX4xym6e5N5g0ry1PpFWMsu1VKIZ7TFZpCf1TT1NR3ueD6Js-ay_yvvQBFa3Ky7653qDcMTfeBn1b6QMT4I/s1600/funny-pictures-cats-umbrella-rain-f.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-drMe0j2F7j1Qe_g3k5mSFQu_fVhnnixWMEuBB9n4NguZN17ikvfsCl3hX4xym6e5N5g0ry1PpFWMsu1VKIZ7TFZpCf1TT1NR3ueD6Js-ay_yvvQBFa3Ky7653qDcMTfeBn1b6QMT4I/s320/funny-pictures-cats-umbrella-rain-f.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525675498322623154" /></a><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">http://i224.photobucket.com/albums/dd88/Cats/funny-pictures-cats-umbrella-rain-f.jpg</span></p><p>I enjoy rain. I enjoy lying in bed at night as I listen to the sound of fat raindrops "thunking" the window. I enjoy the thunder and lightening even more; the bright flashes of white light that illuminate your whole room for a split second, the deep roar of the thunder which makes you snuggle deeper under the covers. This is my favourite thing about rain. </p><p>Unfortunately, however, living in England, I no longer get to experience these thunderstorms. All I have there is the constant light mist of rain which falls relentlessly. The great mystery, of course, is how I can become absolutely soaked from this irritating mist without even realizing it. But besides that, I do miss South African thunderstorms in England. </p><p>But let me not be so negative, I did once experience a thunderstorm. Well what I mean by that is that there was (for lack of a better word) a fart of thunder, which sent the Brits screaming and running for cover, and me wondering if someone's car had backfired. But that is not the point of the story.</p><p>I experienced my first South African thunderstorm last night, well <em>first</em> in about a year, but I was still very excited. I got home to find the electrician already here, pottering about with the electricity... I hope. I tried to make myself scarce, but when it started raining quite heavily I decided it was time to enjoy the rain. The three dogs and I rush outside, mostly I rush, and the dogs saunter after me, where we frolic about in the rain. It is when I am returning in doors that I notice the electrician and his helper standing just inside the garage. staring at me with slightly surprised, and possibly concerned expressions. It is also at this point that I realize I am in fact wearing a white t-shirt. Fabulous. Let me just slink back indoors to hide myself away.</p><p>You would think that would be the end of my outdoor frolicking in the rain, but it was not to be. And it was not to be that I should think to put on a darker coloured t-shirt. Thank you Gryphon for so kindly escaping up the road, where I had to run up and down in soaking flip-flops and a mostly see-through t-shirt. Could this get any worse?</p><p>Ah ha, but it can! After the electrician had left, he did seem a bit nervous when he spoke to me, I decided the black night sky would be a perfect backdrop to some lightening photos. As it turns out, trying to take photos of lightening is not as easy as it sounds. Especially when it starts raining. Of course the best way to remedy the rain on the camera is to hook your t-shirt over the top of the camera, leaving just the lens exposed. Which I of course did without a second thought. My plan was quickly foiled as I realized I was standing with a camera underneath my WHITE, now see-through, shirt in the pouring rain. On the balcony. For all the neighbours to see.</p><p>Right, I thought, no more rain. And with that I slunk back inside and snuggled under a blanket. Not before I had to arrange a series of bowls underneath the leaking roof above the only couch in the house. Stupid rain.</p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4946620260989111720.post-19479581657798066842010-10-06T12:04:00.000-07:002010-10-07T00:49:35.853-07:00First Come First Serve<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsjhbbztlwObDG5qQM6snmJPov_euKsCK0O07mljYfauUf3Mq8cL40UNJENIs5VSfYXQNnvWu7H91MnVEWO02nFVypRXY-DvSDdZdnrwjKmAu4ks22nbrxiJgRSZq1F_vRAVXN8deQ6U/s1600/Picture+2-7.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsjhbbztlwObDG5qQM6snmJPov_euKsCK0O07mljYfauUf3Mq8cL40UNJENIs5VSfYXQNnvWu7H91MnVEWO02nFVypRXY-DvSDdZdnrwjKmAu4ks22nbrxiJgRSZq1F_vRAVXN8deQ6U/s320/Picture+2-7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525207945022529218" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><em><span style="font-size:78%;">http://www.boingboing.net/Picture%202-7.jpg</span></em></p><p>Driving in South Africa is no easy task. It seems as though everyone has whole heartedly embraced the idea of "first come, first serve"... well in a manner of speaking anyway. I have been getting a lot of driving practice since I've been here, most often I am driving by myself, as the rest of my family seems to shrink into a nervous ball of... er... nerves. Though why this is I cannot say, as I drive perfectly adequately. Mostly.</p><p>Today I drove from Nan's house to Bryanston to meet Kyle and Sarah for dinner. The fastest route involved going along the highway. Fantastic. Not only have I never driven on a South African highway, but I have never driven on ANY highway alone! Now who's the nervous ball of nerves.</p><p>"Be cool, be calm," I told myself as I made my way towards the highway. At this point I would just like to thank the lady who altered my stress levels. By the way, no, it actually isn't helpful when you drive just slightly behind me, then slightly next to me, then slightly behind me, then slightly next to me (you get the picture) for the few MILES I am trying to move into that lane. It also doesn't help when you hoot wildly and shoot past me when I do decide I have had enough and begin changing lanes. Thank you again, and don't worry about the small tree I nearly killed as I swerved out of your way. </p><p>The drive was, for the most part, uneventful. I stuck to the speed limit on the highway, which meant of course that I was the slowest car there, I indicated when I changed lanes - another not so regular occurrence on the highway, and I tried to think positive thoughts when the taxis drove near me.</p><p>Finally the end was in sight, I took the turn off and began slowing down to stop at the very RED robots. To my surprise, a very fancy car came zooming past me, straight through the RED robots. I did a double take; oh, actually Ariel, the robots are GREEN. Right, so stay calm, stay calm *panic panic panic!* just pull off like you meant to do that. Oh but what's this, no, as it turns out, you can't pull off in 4th. So there I was, stalled on the turn off of a very busy intersection. Needless to say I was by then a nervous ball of frayed nerves. </p><p>This story has a happy ending though. I managed to turn the car back on, and drive off nonchalantly, as there were no other cars behind me. Though what the queues of traffic, stopped across from me, thought... I don't even want to know.</p><p> </p>Arielhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15401069837422454213noreply@blogger.com1