The Mind Boggles.

Extreme levels of procrastination have led me to once again record a select few of the banalities of my life in a written format. Going to sainsburys to buy 'lobster bisque (with brandy and fresh double cream)' and watching youtube videos of a sock singing rick astley just don't provide adequate distraction anymore, and much as I feel satisfied that my life is fulfilled prowling round my room armed with a particularly hefty copy of King Lear with which to shamelessly massacre unsuspecting insects, I have recently felt an urgent need to seek something more to stem the ever-increasing imminence of work (that vomit-inducing word). In this instance, I decided to counter a few essays by going to see the Hobbit at the theatre. (Take THAT, my friend the 'degree'. I spit at your fruitless parries. But I shall shortly attempt to scrounge for forgiveness when denial has finished with me.)
So, I went to see the Hobbit. There. Oh, and I can't just leave it there, can I? That would bring me a step closer to the aforementioned 'work', and WE WOULDN'T WANT THAT. I can almost hear my work behind me singing mournfully 'TURNNN AROUNDDDDD' (undoubtedly hailing my bright eyes) while some stubborn external presence (that has nothing whatsoever to do with me), forcefully jerks my jacket back round and fixes me with a hypnotising stare. Nothing I can do.
I enter the theatre, smiling smugly at my successful venture into society at the expense of painstakingly slow studying (I call it for want of a better word. 'Fuckall' would have applied just as well, I'm sure some would think) The audience consists predominantly of families, but it's fine. I work with this. With flair and practised ease. I teleport to my row (just seeing how far I can stretch the credibility of this account)and glide (shuffle) over to my seat, the mystical atmosphere and eerie music filling the theatre in a way that makes me feel like I have stepped into some fantastical world from which a dragon will quite naturally sit down beside me. Of course, this is not the case, the no-smoking signs if nothing prevent it (I bet that's what they planned all along). Instead, on one side there is a woman who laughed only once during the performance (inexplicably during a particularly quiet bit, at the mention of an owl). I noted peripherally at the start her turning to her friend (unlike myself, she had thoughtfully brought company), concern etched on her face, muttering fervently 'Food?!?', to which her friend replied confidently 'Food.', triumphantly rustling a plastic bag by her feet. Woman number 1 sighed contentedly and withdrew from the bag (I was on the edge of my seat by this point) an apple. This was to provide the atmospheric 'crunch' that punctuated the first ten minutes of the play, aided tirelessly by a plastic wrapper located behind me, which paused its crackling briefly to sneeze.

On my other side is a friendly-looking fellow who I am to become more closely acquainted with during the course of my stay in this fantastical location. We even discuss his past jobs and the various parts of the country his grandchildren reside. When the interval starts, the lights come on, people leave for food/drink, and I sit resolutely in my chair as dictated by the usual sheer laziness that permeates my life. Anyone looking at the scene would naturally assume we two had come together, were it not for the fact that we both stared blankly in front of us, surrounded by a sea of empty seats. And of course, with the often sought-after talent of successfully managing to make any situation a million times more awkward than it ever need be, I fidget about and seem to thicken the silence to almost suffocating depths. Fortunately, this is only allowed to happen for a handful of seconds and conversation between us strikes up with alarming ease (I really should attempt the art of conversation more, it may help alleviate the strain of social ineptitude).
"Very loud, that last bit!"
I leap onto this morsel of communication "oh yes, terribly loud!"
terribly? Act normal.
I embellish. "...Such a dramatic end, with the big flash of light and the screams!"
Wonderfully eloquent, as always. Could never guess you study a subject involving the intellectual and coherent analysis of such stories and their realisations. And then yes, precede to re-enact the sudden flash of light through the medium of ambiguous handmovement and widened eyes. well done.
I am a beaming face looking up enthusiastically at a wise aged man. He admirably continues.
"Are you enjoying it? Did you come with a group of friends or just...?
alone. he's inching towards that terrifying word.
I give a small laugh, one which I fantasise would be described as 'tinkling' if a) I had the ability for such effortless grace, and b) this weren't reality. The resultant derisive snort was perhaps not the best response so I tried to disguise it a little by morphing it into a cough, unwittingly prompting further problems for myself by confusing the poor man.
"sorry, what was that?" he leans in enthusiastically to (re)hear the answer that I have not uttered. Oh no. How to repeat a response I haven't yet formulated in my head?! We're (yes, we.) going to have to resort to spontaneity. I can almost feel my brain cells scattering for cover, screeching incomprehensible orders across the vast expanse of sandy deserts up there, one sole cell in the centre desperately throwing its hands (it has hands) about its head, before it too, flees for the cover of the idle shade provided by apathy. Thankfully, I am well-versed in handling such social blunders in the way that only a true veteran can be. I keep a calm face, though inside contorted with the usual gordian knot of whatif scenarios from which one must select the most socially-acceptable response.
I attempt a breezy smile: "actually I came alone"
must justify self before am given a pitying look.
I fluster to explain my life to him so as to establish if only by inflection on the word 'alone' that I mean it in a purely temporary sense and not in an 'I'M SO ALONE IN LIFE AND THIS IS MY PLEA FOR HELP' way.
Suddenly, I decide I want an ice cream more than anything in the world. I explain this to my new chum, and bound over to the icecream stand.
'Double chocolate' I exclaim with relish. Then, just as money exchanges hands, disaster strikes! A man swipes the last remaining double-chocolate ice cream from beside me.
My face contorts into a slow-motion 'nooooo', and as I dive across the tray of tubs and latch onto that one tub of joy, pleading for its possession with tears glistening in my eyes, a chorus of angels appear and chant in flawless harmony 'helppp herrrr' to the innocent bystanders waiting in the queue. Sort of. Instead I look on dismayed, hopes deflating to make room for abject misery. Again, sort of. Where is Bruno Mars?! I think.
I've been led to believe he would catch a grenade for me, jump in front of a train for me, and he won't even turn up when I need him MOST??? He's been nothing but hypothetical promises since the start. Sometimes (and I know it's a long shot) I feel like he's not addressing me at all, but some sort of fictional generic 'you' who can somehow map onto every female in existence.
Dealing with the blows of these two crashing realities was no mean feat, and I watched the woman's hand hovering uncertainly over where the tub had been
too little too late
"What was it you wanted?"
YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHICH ONE I WANTED, WE HAVE BOTH JUST WATCHED IT WALK AWAY IN THE HANDS OF ANOTHER ELIGIBLE COMPANION FOR ITSELF, AND NOW YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE ME BELIEVE I IMAGINED THAT THERE WAS EVER A TUB THERE WHICH WAS SWEPT AWAY JUST AS I WAS FORMING AN EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT TO IT?!
"strawberry. It was strawberry."
Fortunately I am sufficiently fickle to switch allegiances to this new tub. I am then faced with the cataclysmic choice of whether to clamber over the seats or disturb an entire row of people (thereby creating a rippling domino-effect of grumbles of resignation all the way to the seat of shame (mine)). I opt for the former, and make an ungainly hop onto my row.
"I haven't had ice cream in a theatre in years!" I comment joyfully as I flop finally into my seat.
years? don't pretend to a grandfather that you have experience of life. This is not the time.
Predictably this is greeted by silence. Have I overstepped the mark? Perhaps I should have made a more general comment about the heat of the theatre (potentially could be misconstrued as flirtatious), the good 'turnout'(already covered with a fervent agreeing nod to his introductory comment about busyness of the theatre), or the quality of the seats themselves (feel my opinion is not strong enough to comment)?
His son and granddaughter in the seats in front return to their seats once we are again engrossed in idle chitchat, and the granddaughter offers me some of her sweets. It's not enough that it looks like I have stolen her grandfather, but I am now being invited to take her sweets too...I decline with a beam, pointing to my strawberry icecream, delight on my face (the entire family most probably mistaking me for someone incapable of showing any other facial expression by this point)
Now would not be a good time to eat how you would normally do and spill the entire contents of an ice cream pot down your lurid pink tshirt on which is emblazoned a waving smurf.

And I confess that I enjoyed the Hobbit. Think what you will...I even chuckled along. I'm not ashamed. (I'm a little ashamed)
Any play that starts with the word 'dwarves', a play in which 'mythril' is hissed with ardent awe, wins my heart any day (although that's not saying much, given what I displayed with the icecream choice fiasco), and if these characters can go on some great odyssey complete with 'misty mountains' in the space of two hours I have absolutely no reason to dillydally with writing a meagre 2000 words, surely? Perhaps now is the time to take my books out of the cupboard that I have hidden them in. But first I will watch a video of 'two dogs dining in a busy restaurant'. For nearly 7 minutes. It's actually rather good.

tomorrow...tomorrowwww...

Results day tomorrow! Though screaming inside, I take comfort that this isn't apparent in my outer countenance. The dithering about, agitated hand-running-through-hair, and abrupt, tense speech aren't giving me away at all...the fact I was up and showered before the crack of dawn, however, may have aroused suspicion from family members as a tell-tale anxiety sign. In fact, I’m more worried now that the nervous energy currently radiating from me will spark some sort of electrical explosion. My mind is so focused on the consequences of this pent-up static charge that tomorrow’s impending results barely feature in the assortment of thoughts flitting ceaselessly through my brain. That’s the brain that I hope regurgitated sufficient information in exams all those weeks ago.
But I’m ok. She says, gasping for breath. Prone though I am to intermittent spasms of realization that this time tomorrow I WILL KNOW, I am (dimly) aware that what THEY (‘they’ being the considerate public) say is true. I know that even if I fail (the very word blaring with vulgar brightness at me) to get into my first-choice university, it’s not ‘the end of the world’. Therefore, while quashing my doubts that I have accidentally tempted fate and in so doing, have prophesized the world’s end, I remind myself it will be FINE. My erratic capitalization assures me that I’m no longer fooling you, either, so I’ll attempt to tame my flustering attitude, and avoid the countless articles luring me over only to enrage me with assertions that “A-levels are getting easier”, “UNIVERSITIES ARE TOO FULL”, and similar reassurances.
I can’t help feeling that an assortment of letters shouldn’t have this torturous effect. And you understand, I say this while edging away from any electrically unstable items. Because there’s nothing to worry about – ‘everyone’ll get A’s anyway’.

Explaining my previous post...

GET READY FOR THIS. There is going to be hellish english-student-esque attitude in the following paragraph. I can only apologise.
I know this is an incredibly novel thing to do. A nagging voice in my brain is whispering "copyright it copyright it", but I shall sweep that aside in light of the urgency of the situation. I'm going to 'explain' my last post because I fear it is a trifle too confusing even for the most scattered of brains to assemble.
Basically, the confusing format in itself was (I'm guessing) supposed to be a reflection of how confusing, contradictory, and frustratingly inconsistent I found the religious 'material' to be. To add to this, there are occasional references to modernday (phones, television, meerkats, girls speaking aloud/allowed etc.) - this was to emphasise the (apparent) inability to apply the already inconsistent ideas to an updated reality - it was not, as may be assumed, because I have *misunderstood* the timelessness of the ideas involved. I can think of a latin quote to justify this idea of changing times but I am well aware I have far outstripped the not-being-beaten-up-by-the-class-bully level of geekishness so I will keep that little gem of knowledge to myself. (Hehe...I could be lying and none of you would know! Really, there is nothing to brag about. Get on with it.)
And yes, before you ask, this is all a rather shoddy justification attempting to excuse what is an extremely odd expression of confusion. Because it is really very convenient for me to explain that I wrote tenously-linked ideas and bemusingly meaningless dialogue because that's exactly the impression I wanted to create. Damn. Reminded of a Sherlock Holmes quote about twisting facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts, but the scale of my geekishness is reaching an alarmingly perilious height as it is. Guess I managed to get away with it there without actually having to put in quotation marks (teehee).
Anyway. If I haven't explained this all to a sufficient extent (if? what do you mean, "if"??) this pictorial accompaniment will no doubt render both these blogs entirely superfluous: http://miscellanea.wellingtongrey.net/2007/01/15/science-vs-faith/
Read on as you will. Interpret the confusion as you think best...IF YOU DARE.
I'm sorry. But I was aware I had managed to alienate even the most curious from reading the blog below, so I figured one more fear-driven incentive against wouldn't hurt.
Please, do read, and freely too. There's nothing (much) to fear. :)

A questionable inspiration

AND the LORD appeared unto generic-religious-song-writer-for-schoolchildren, who lived for [pick a number, any number - the notion of time is a novelty anyway] nine hundred..and four years. The LORD spake unto him: "Behold. I want more, more MORE. Jump! For my love". Thus saith the LORD, with the WORD of Girls Aloud, "they will say, the LORD hath not appeared unto thee, yet here is a promise I make (promise I make). A SONG shall proveth thy sanity as we fight (fight. fight.) for this love." And with a swoosh and a poof the LORD stormed out through the door, for he saw his archnemesis through the window, and wisht to sneak up on him. For his powers of seeing, knowing, and having power over all are dependent on signal. And his mobile phone displayeth only 1 bar. Lack of reception had caught him off guard. He knew the much-rumoured "O2" was neccessary for not only mortal but Godly survival too, and yet he dismisseth this truth as hogwash.
And so the songs cometh to this earth (the centre of the universe [It's fine. I know scientific advancement is a shade on the nonexistent side, but by the time people realise this arrogance is inversely proportional to the level of excellence neccessitating it, we will have the reverence achieved by time on side]). God looked upon these creations, and saw that they were...acceptable.

This song-writing must be, lest the children should inadvertedly stumble upon the holy scriptures and mistaketh them for the death-ridden threats of a jealous leader with a questionable taste for blood, small hint of desperation, and a claim to fame - for this describeth Big Brother contestants also, and yet we laugheth at them with credulity.

Where to start, where to start, muses the generic-religious-songwriter-for-schoolchildren, twirling a sporadically-present (God-given) goatee in search of the extra (God-given) wisdom it is rumoured among laymen to give. Beside our writer is a list of (God-given) words to, as they say, 'pad out' the (God-given) lyrics when the meaning threatens doom, or the badly euphemised imagery induces horror in the listener. These words restore lightheartedness and oblivious acceptance in the singer, "because, if I do say so myself, the tunes are just that catchy!" He proceeds with a flashy smile and offers me his business card. "Enough of these babies" murmers our writer, "and the meaning is successfully smothered into a sinister undertone". He pats the paper adoringly, caressing his favourite word with a loving eye. "Glory. How many scrapes have you helped me out of, eh? We're bffls for LIFE, 'n' that's as sure as eggs is God-given eggs." A hasty wink at the other words (among which 'shine', 'light', 'grace', 'love', 'joy' and similar sentiments of empty positivity are prolific) to reassure them they will get their mentions at regular intervals too.

"Now, a good rhythm and bouncy melody to really get the foot-tapping going! The music, as any fool knows, is key in drowning out the true meaning of the song, while establishing a bright tone that no one can argue with. They can learn that (God-given) punishment is a neccessary...*writer's eyes struggle to settle on a word on his list*...joy".

Yes, after all, societies led by fear are well documented as successful.

He blithely continues: "I like to start with "Lord", and then reiterate this point on every line. This clarifies matters, while reflecting how the Bible is written. I find this prepares the child for when they are deemed old enough to move onto the real thing [cheeky nudge and wink], y'know, all that sacrifical gore, plagues, insect swarms...and all the wars that this God character 'orders'. A bit like pizza. When you're bored and watching some sort of entertainment. And yet more evidence of the Bible's application to real life! Ha...and people think we just pluck these connections out of thin air."

Then, using a popular culture reference showing how well infiltrated his own mind has been: "it's seemples really, as those meerkats have been saying throughout their centuries!"

Actually, you know those meerkats are a creation of someone's mind..

"Nono, it's true, my television said so. Anyway, it's just a matter of the words you use. For example, I'm going to use 'cleanse' here - children are familiar with this, understanding the neccessity of washing, purity, and hygiene; if instead I put 'mass slaughter leaving rivers of blood and discarded flesh' it loses that tasteful holiness we know and love - it may cause panic. And I would need to rethink my time signature - the whole perfect, upbeat rhythm I've got going on would be in jeapoardy" he admits. "They need to be able to sing this before lunchtime, you see, whereas if I use direct imagery from the Old Testament there's a risk they'll lose their appetite - I don't want government funding on my back! Plus I'd need written permission to insert a 'don't do this at home' warning" he jokes.

I'm liking you less and less, but please, go on. I'm riveted.

Then...an idea cometh to the writer - where 'pon thunders and lightnings bathe the scene, as a thick cloud descends on the raised bit of floor in the house, and the voice of a trumpet exceeds the suggested 'loud' guidelines set down by the authorities for our convenience. "Wow, felt a bit like Moses there...but how about this? We could outline a magic recipe for protection, we have all the ingredients, if you'll pardon that pun that I've spent hours thinking of!"

That...took you hours? I could have thought of it faster with my eyes closed. Because sight is not an interfering factor. And I'm amazing.

"I thought I was the arrogant one?"

Yes, I know, I was merely being inconsistent. It's not like people would believe such fluctuation of character anyway. Please go on.

And so on he gliby goes: "I like that image though - God with a culinary disposition - it gives excellent room for marketing - "God's recipes for survival", with a picture of God dressed as a chef, perhaps with his arms laden with herbs and fluffy little lambs.

"All the death though...[he seems to have broken into a light sweat in thinking it neccessary to justify it] it's just like cleaning up some surplus cake mixture, if you'll excuse the food reference again. Maybe I'm hungry - I think I need a sandwich. WIFE!" "Anyway," he continues, kindly returning to our conversation, "things like Noah's ark, the book of Joshua, they can seem a bit inyerface with death and punishment, but if we take it with a pinch of salt (WHERE IS MY SANDWICH?!) we realise God may have been a little overindulgent in his 'slapdash' overuse of 'be fruitful and multiply' - not because he's imperfect, you understand. That would be illogical. But some people have to go to heaven, some to hell, some to 'I'll decide later'" He explains, with a (suspiciously eugenics-implicative) description also applicable to the methods used when sorting through marbles. Of which it is dubious he possesses. "See, you and I can understand this, but younger people have trouble with the idea that important, powerful people are the sort who can make these rash decisions and contradictory hypocritical demands. Children live in ideals, which of course the Bible doesn't. Yes it does have ideals - good/evil, heaven/hell - but these are ideals as dictated by a figure of authority. This is what makes it believable.

"Personification plays its part too - it gives the impression of support and security, for example, here, I'm making the hills and trees clap along to really give that celebratory atmosphere. Obviously, they don't have hands, but use your imagination! There's obviously some miracle involved that we don't have the knowledge to understand."

Exceedingly imaginative.

"It's a lovely kinetic tool for the children too, getting them to make actions, click, clap, or struggle with the complexities of singing in canon. This gets them focused on something other than what they're singing. It was my wife's idea actually, but I know my Genesis. If it gets out I took my wife's advice...woahh I'm in the shit. Y'know?"

I know.

"because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife" is what made adam think things like uggs, harem pants, and mankinis were neccessary in the world, after all!

I see your point.

A personal favourite song of mine goes..

Really, there's no need to sin-

But already he is looking at me expectantly, bursting out in a deep baritone, "I was cold I was naked were you there were you there?"

No?

"It always throws the children into doubt. That way they look to the authoritative figures for reassurance, the teachers, who jovially warble the words with beaming faces. It's healthy to learn humiliation at a young age." His face darkens as he recalls some unresolved business. The pencil in his hand snaps.

"And now for something to shout at the end!" He's really on fire now. "How about "LOVE IS THE BEST!" We want them to love the (God-given) song, you see, and a 'hey' at the end really gives them a feeling of liberation (that's not God-given...don't be so barbaric). I'd better label it "one short, sharp 'hey', otherwise giddiness may strike".
Suspicious. But I'm not one to form opinions. What's that I hear? The sound of the underground...it must be a sign. I will hastily exclaim it is solely (or at least mostly) the documentation of such religion that I'm criticising, as I percieve it to be ill-articulated. And also, this is all entirely fictional (be that apt or not), so obviously couldn't be taken as gospel truth. I must be consistent with my contradictions, you understand.

THE EXAM ATMOSPHERE

Cue thunderbolt and crash of lightning.
(One day, I will see to it that these special effects take place on the site itself...but that would simply remove the originality of everybody's imagined versions of the special effects. Then you would become a passive reader. And I want you right there in the thick of it...so there. An immediate economic, time and effort save, all under the pretext of conserving originality.)
Exams........exams. We've all been through it...and if not, as with all things involving suffering, there can be no other true empathy than you having been through it yourself.
I choose to write this in the second person merely to increase a sense of community...to deny my insecurities that I am the only person going through this. Not really, but that is precisely the presumptious conclusion I would have expected people to make had I not specifically instructed against it. So now you know. (I'm watching you.) Granted, there may be underlying psychological issues, but you can have on the best of grounds that my use of the second person is purely for dramatic effect. *bored audience member flops off seat with a loud snore* Or some sort of effect anyway.

It's nearly time. The clock ticks closer (NOT LITERALLY...go back! go back! *waves away the man-dressed-as-clock who has been steadily hopping foward with a sinister utterance of 'tick'). You flick through your papers unneccessarily for the umpteenth time, hoping your brain will somehow soak up a flash of information as it whizzes past in the blind panic. Sheets scatter to the floor. You describe this as a 'last straw' while flopping hysterically down to ruffle them uselessly some more. You glare hatred through a mass of electrostatic hair at the casual loiterers who adopt an 'if you don't know it now, it won't go in' stance. Determinedly, you focus on your sheets, pinpoint a word, while flocks of thought spring to mind in quick succession, distracting you with their magnitude of emptiness. You look back up, where relaxed 'I've done all I can' people smugly yawn in perverse contentment. You narrow bloodshot eyes, attempting to pierce all those guilty of preparedness with a special eye laserbeam, secretly hoping it will penetrate their brain and somehow transfer knowledge along some sort of chain of excited electrons located in the (red) light beam. Five minutes wasted. Angrily, you refer back to the scattering of sheets around you, where illegible writing stares blandly back in an 'I'm so uncared for' sort of way. Movement catches your eye as people start to move to the EXAMINATION HALL. Extreme panic sets in, regret and doubt chasing eachother around your already exhausted brain. You join the gathering procession gloomily plodding towards the building. You stare downwards at the baked ground of a (cruelly) sunny day, as you all trek en masse to the (metaphorical) inferno. (Inferno here generally meaning extreme torture...there is, after all, never a guarantee that the hall will not be an icicle parlour. You are kept on tenterhooks by this luck-of-the-draw prospect.) Next comes the panicked quadruple-checking of THE CORRECT WRITING EQUIPMENT. Are 8 pens enough? What happens if they all simultaneously ignite? or explode? or simply refuse to work? A small scramble as everyone exchanges pens and replenishes their own stores. That's not even going into the doubt ascribed to calculator batteries...which you immediately wish you had an entire electronics shop at hand in case of restocking need. As you check equipment again, you feel the flash of panic followed by intense relief as you gaze frantically through your SEE-THROUGH PENCIL CASE, apparently playing a life-or-death game of hide and seek with your stationary. You memorise your seat number, inwardly cursing the amount of brainspace it takes up, while envisaging a conveyor-belt style of information storage. With horror, you imagine the lost piece of information sliding from the other end of a cliff, plunging to its death in the sea of "forgotten", while "Seat number BO8" snuggles down at the forefront of the quivering line of knowledge, unneccessarily safe from harm. You step into the hall, and extreme isolation strikes. The silence is oppresive, and you stumble towards a letter and number like a zombie. You resist the urge to raise your arms in true zombie style, though. After a few minor hiccups of 'going the wrong way' in the aisle and mistakenly ending up in a column of staring students sitting a different exam, you totter over to your seat. A quick alphabetical check informs you you are in the right area, if not in the right seat, while you angrily abuse the "Seat Number BO8" for its lack of sureness. Trains of "Maybe it was "BO7...or E12?" wisp around in your mind while you stare daggers to the front of the hall. And then, blankness sets in. Pure, blissful, lack of thought. You have room only to take note of the amount of tennis balls left in the sports nets around the hall, as you settle into your chair. You join those staring judgementally at the people who wander into the wrong aisle, smug and harshly satisfied now that you have your chair and graffitied desk with you. "It's every man for themselves now...." you silently mutter to the lost person's back, as they scuttle away. At least you have your table.
This gives you great opportunity to criticise all you can. Limited to the table and chair, you tut at the instablity of both, and the disproportionate sizes between them. 'How on EARTH can I pass this exam now?' you exclaim to yourself, wondering how many last straws have managed to classify themselves under that name.
A small, nasal voice permeates the air with unintelligible mutterings about RULES AND REGULATIONS OF THE EXAM BOARD, of which only occassional references to "correcting flooo-id" and "even if you do not intend to use it" filter through. Invigilators then use this moment to flock magnetically to the clock, a station which they will refuse to quit unless prised away by a waving arm somewhere at the back of the hall, which, after several minutes of apparent blindness they, disgruntled, feel obliged to attend to the matter (if only to say 'I can't help you'). Lurking around the clock, however, allows them utmost whispering opportunity, also permitting them to stand gloomily at the front, large coats and shawls draped over themselves like a frozen fashion show so that students are left in no doubt as to the torture the invigilators must silently submit to. When the exam starts, after the momentary flurry of paper, silence seems to (impossibly) increase and expand, disturbed only by the nervous cough and whirring of brains that seem to be traversing the hall in a ripple. After a few coughs of your own, you become aware of the unproportionate amount of 'silence' you are seeping up, and so try to limit your own coughing needs, wishing you hadn't used up your 'allowance' so carelessly at the start. This then leads to bitterness towards those who are exceedingly liberal with their silence-disturbance (exams really do bring out the best in you). Those invigilators that are brave enough, who feel strong enough to leave the comfort of the clock (thereby allowing its face to be exposed and actually seen by those taking the exam), commence a funeral-march through the rows. A forwarning of their approach is given by the sinister slow step which echoes behind you, and you can't help but be distracted by the shoe that creaks past with gloomy sureness. Light relief is provided by dancing birds on the roof, who supply interesting rhythmic figures in their tap dancing, mocking your confinement. This inevitably draws the attention of most in the room, and heads flick up on a continual basis. You become distracted and convinced by the idea that dinosaurs are trying to get in. A moment of extreme tension arises when the heater is turned on or off. The immediate jarring hum or jarring lack of hum startles you, and you glare about angrily, and roll your eyes. It is at this point that you notice how silence exaggerates your actions. You turn the pages and make your reaction known - a slump in your seat with a sigh as you see a question you don't understand - all in the mistaken assumption that you are alone in the room. Not surrounded by 100 people. You must at all costs not be fooled by the lack of noise. You then focus on one of the unfortunate invigilators, who are now placed strategically about so that they can be equally judged by equal proportions of the room. As time goes on, stress seems to set in as your writing becomes uselessly illegible and you end up juggling your pens across your table as quietly as possible as they roll around. You congratulate yourself on immense ninja skills when you manage to catch a falling pen, which took a bid to freedom at the first moment it could. You scold it with a look, which morphs into an 'oh you are a cheeky one' eye movement before safely returning it in the middle of the barricade of stationary you have set up. Other people are not so fortunate, loud clatters drawing glares and attention from the whole room, everyone silently gazing at an embarrassed student picking up the disgraced item. You quickly check your own items are not in similarly precarious positions. You see time is nearly up, experiencing again stomach-dropping panic, then overwhelming relief in misreading the time. Other students leave first, and you stare both jealously and in annoyance at them, clattering away into the sunshine. The last few moments are filled with stress, as you curse yourself for not having 'managed your time', and your writing reaches new levels of illegibility, and you see yourself scribbling symbols and squiggles you had never thought existed. You are instructed to put your pen down, and you throw it down with a 'can't do anything now' air of finality. The papers are collected in, and rows are dismissed, and like ants people scuttle through the empty rows of desks to the exit. You cause some confusion as you weave an incomprehensible route through the desks, misjudging the room between them and having to change course jerkily to avoid walking into a chair or desk. Nevertheless, you cause a few scrapes of noise in this bizarre navigation, feeling the fear as the desk seems to attach itself to you, holding you back. You tear yourself free and make it to the exit, and with one sigh of relief become a personified smile again for a few moments in the sun. Then panic settles with familiar assurance in forewarning of the need to start revising for the next imminent exam.
Really, exams are a barrel of laughs.
That's if the barrel were being repeatedly poked with poisonous spikes.

P-yah-nOh (the instrument, not the cruises)

Disclaimer: I mean absolutely no offence to my teacher, who is a very talented, nice person - I seek only to record some of my lesson's atmosphere for future recall :D

The title has all I need for an introduction, so plunging straight in (there's a first time for everything)...
The scene is typical. *On-hand artist rapidly gets to work with swishing brush strokes* I cannot stress this typicality enough (though it would seem I am making my best efforts to), as this is a collection of events from my TYPICAL lessons. *clears throat busily*
I await my teacher for my piano lesson to commence, hovering indecisively by the instrument. The distant sound of doors forewarns me of his approach, and in a flash he has appeared in the room, sporting what looks to be a bandana as he bounds over to the piano, deftly kicking the heater en route to encourage it to splutter into life. I sit, while he flops into the armchair and glances through my books. After a few moments of general conversation, often involving descriptions of his latest exploits in testing the speedlimits and crash-endurability of his car, we begin. A short perusal of my scalebook informs him that it isn't very interesting, and he throws it to me, with a short instruction of "Thrill me."
I attempt to accomplish this rather odd command, with what little supplies I have (the scalebook and piano). This therefore induces my teacher to leap up and rip the book from my sight. When he is once more sprawled on the chair (one leg propped up on the side of the piano, one on the stool I am sat on), we begin a random quickfire round of scales and arpeggios. He flicks back and forth through the book, occassionally barking comments such as "Play it like you mean it", "That one sounded like a wet lettuce, play it again", while I sometimes merit a "That was COCK-ON! We want them all like that".
We make it onto the pieces, for which I am instructed to give 'full beans'. My teacher leaps up for these, as they spark more interest. He wanders about the room, supplying a drum backing for my Handel piece, getting a little carried away with a halfshuffle and forgetting to turn my page. He whirls round as I pause for a speedy pageflick, waving his hand with a: "No, No. Stop. From the top, you were playing that bit there" - vague hand gesture which easily covers the whole page - "like a WITCH'S TIT...do it properly". I desperately try to take this constructive criticism on board, trying not to examine too hard what in my playing had inspired this particular similie. I falter as he exclaims: "Are you hungover???"
"No", I reply meekly, in full knowledge that he has already decided on a 'yes'.
"You sure?" Quite sure.
"So you weren't out last night with your mates getting wasted and goodness knows what?" Ahh, so you're assuming I have a life amid the 30-or-so hours of work I have to do for this? Not only must I accept the immense workload and suffer in the knowledge that I sit at home turning slowly and surely into a bedraggled hermit in attempting to complete it, I must also be reminded of what having a life is actually like.
While I rant furiously in my head I give a small smile, so that he does not get the (true) impression of my lack of normality. A mysterious smile, which somehow transforms itself into a pained grimace for the outside eye. No doubt somewhat unnerved and unconvinced by my face expression, my teacher moves onto the interrogative part of the lesson.
"How much practice are you doing per day?". Ahh here we go. I mumble a number between 1 and 2 hours.

"IS THAT ALL?"

"...yes, but with the theory and the sight reading it 's actually more and I have to do other stuff like for school and...." My voice trails miserably off until I speak the last couple of words in a strained whisper to the piano keys, bending closer and closer to them for each syllable. Before my nose has the chance to stoop right onto the keys (no doubt tricked by the logic that the further I sink the less existence I will have) I am confronted with another bout of questioning. "I'm not having a go at you" is a phrase repeated on a regular basis, meaning I must peak out from my mask of hair to give a weary "of course I know that" smile. "It's close! It's close! But we want it to be GREAT" he maintains. Next comes my moment to prove myself in response to his suggestions of how I'm practicing things wrongly - accepting it all in a professional, calm sophisticated style.

"Well, yeah, sorta, I guess." Wonderfully committed. I accompany my awkward replies with some shoulder movements. Fortunately I am saved from looking too twitchy by the distraction of a cat which has wandered into the room. Brief respite while we both watch her meow, stretch, and flop down next to the heater (me and my teacher watching the cat..any other combination would be slightly odd). "Cat porn" mutters my teacher jokingly as the cat rolls onto her back, and suddenly I feel uncomfortable staring at her with a smile on my face. I turn back to the piano, busying myself with the pages of my book. My teacher becomes distracted by his hatred of the classical music-route in life, tutting madly as he rifles through the pages of some books.

Time for another piece, and an instruction of: "If I'm not blown away by this I'm going to strangle you. Not that I'm putting you under any pressure of course". He conducts the peaks and falls of the piece, using a blunt pencil in his waving hand. We encounter a few problems with the page turning, as the page continues to turn back and he must bat it back down for me at regular intervals, providing an oddly rhythmic background to the piece. As I am instructed to go over a few sections, my teacher goes for a wander about the room.

At this point, another obscenity is uttered. What fresh hell? Has my playing deteriorated this much? I turn around to meet my fate head-on, or that is what I laughingly tell myself in the hopes of banishing cowardice. Of course, I am just being victim to what killed the proverbial cat. I find my teacher in a frozen stance, some metres away from the window. There is a wasp in the room. A few whispered instructions of 'don't move' prove contrast to my teacher's own cat-like prowling over to the piano. A dramatic lunge as the wasp shoots past, and my teacher grabs the nearest weapon to hand (my scalebook). He leaps up onto the sofa, with an 'on garde!' look in his eyes, pausing briefly to comment: "Why have you stopped playing? The house could be on fire and you should still be playing! From the top. With some balls." I delicately play a few notes - "STOP! Put some meat into it. Play it with ..with BALLS". But I'm a girl, I weakly protest, but nevertheless I subsequently apparently succeed to play with the desired qualities. "GOOD" my teacher announces, ducking the indifferent buzz of the wasp from his station (now stood on the windowsill). As I crescendo in my Beethoven piece the battle is brought closer to the piano, until the wasp comes to rest on the wall, pausing (I would like to think) to listen to my harmonious playing. However, it cannot satisfy its musical thirst for long as my teacher is fast approaching like a wraith with scalebook in hand. Fortunately (or unfortunately for the music-loving wasp) I have reached a calm part in the piece and so my teacher can sneak up behind the wasp. I see the shadow of the unfolding events on the wall in true agatha-christie style - the book comes down with a few furious swipes, interjected with my teacher's instruction: "KEEP-*whack*-PLAYING-*whack*". But it gets too much, I stop to watch the massacre. A deathly hush fills the room, and my teacher hands my book back to me, a sheepish expression on his face in acknowledgement of the immense dent in the cover. I take it in my hand, while he comments on improvements I can make on the piece. However, all is not over, as a feeble buzzing emerges from behind the piano - the scale book is whipped away from my hands once more, and used to waft the confused, dazed wasp out of the door.

This excitement over with, we resume the lesson, until I am told I am "free to go about my business.....well no. Another two hours to go", often accompanied with an unneccessarily fiendish chuckle.
"Do you want anything to drink? Water? Orange juice? Grapefruit? Cranberry? Cider?"
"Nono, I'm good."
"Sure you don't want anything? A couple of beers? Fag?"
"NO" I say, a little too forcefully. "Thankyou" I add as an afterthought.

"You need to chill the fuck out..." then, on realising the presence of a swear word: "oh shit..fuck! shit!" His hand covers his mouth too late. And then, I must start theory work, a much calmer period of the lesson, brief excitement often occuring only when I turn to face the window to find myself eye-to-eye with a sheep, curiously looking in from the other side.

There we have it (I always have these anticlimatic endings..perhaps I should incorporate some sort of firework display at the end....for those few people who actually DO make it to the end...all I can give you at present is my deepest respect, which is as useful and welcome as consolation flowers to competition runners-up who suffer from hayfever. ) Until next time folks.............................. -flashes a winning smile-

A title without an ellipsis - a signal of doom?

Hello. I am what I am...a facebookholic (First step is admitting it to yourself). That, I have no issue with, I happily accept my lack of willpower and life. The truth of the matter is, as soon as I log in, I may as well have pinned my soul up on a washing line wayyy out of reach, the unhooking of which requires long, hard effort that I cannot possibly be expected to face. In this way, I pride myself on being quite the connaisseur on matters of the bookofface. (teehee...the book-office! I had an overwhelming desire to point that out...) And my verdict on recent events, folks (*leans in confidentially*), is: not impressed.

I have grown used to the idea that Facebook never will be perfect. It has got to the point where, like with Xfactochhh, I comfortably moan and become incensed by everything to do with it (mostly its lack of point), and yet still hold no extreme need to tear myself away. Again, this I handle rather admirably, in my *cough* unbiased opinion. I have grown to almost enjoy (inwardly) screaming 'LEARN TO SPELL!' at my screen; giving angry eye rolls has its habitual appeal; and I become almost euphoric with joy on seeing "your" and "you're" correctly distinguished. I shall graze quickly (ironic statement of the century) over my incredulation at those who feel comfortable creating groups with spelling errors in, as I cannot fully trust myself to 'understand both sides of the argument' , when the certainty of self that assumes the whole of the world will understand one's meaning despite one's not bothering to use the correct form of one's intended word, I find bewildering. Surely the urge to create a group can be withheld for at most a minute, in order to verify its ease-of-comprehension? Nono, it would seem most of these group-creators are content with carelessly tossing their ill-expressed assertions into the facebook waters, ready to be juggled about by bored surfers (room for a 'board' joke there? NO. Let it lie. You're as bad as THEM), gobbling it up without care or thought.
But what REALLY got to me....was this removal of becoming a fan. Facebook is just one huge room of people, who come and go (apart from me it would seem, just lurking incessantly in the corner), and it seems necessary to have some sort of variety to break from the monotonous woes there depicted. (I'm liking this medieval style I have painted..*holds paintbrush in a state of pause in order to admire work* I'll be throwing words like 'ere' and 'thus' about next) But WHYYY? (No. I have stuck to simplicity.) I mean, I am all one for change (*politician whips out notepad eagerly) - not you (*politician disappears with a comical pop) - but really...we are going backwards here. It is as if we are all being reduced to one-celled organisms (though still able to access computers). My point (which is well and truly lost in the maze of this waffling....OOOH WAFFLES...) is that the conversion of 'becoming a fan' to 'like' is removing an element, it's EVOLUTION BACKWARDS. I'm going to let that grand statement sink in. Becoming a fan is NOT the same as 'liking' something (just to reiterate the point everyone has been making). It's just not the SAME...I continue to wail. We can't even like or comment on THE FACT someone has become a fan. And becoming a fan put me in mind of flagwaving, which is so much more exciting than a simple 'like'. Must they ruin everything?? If I didn't know better, I'd say this was all a plot from teachers to encourage students to get off the computer and do some work. However, your plan has backfired! I am here ranting about facebook, instead of doing my work...I WIN!
(*awkward pause as reader waits for blogwriter to acknowledge irony. She doesn't.*)

So, I'm putting my metaphorical foot down. And raising it again, as soon as I go back onto facebook. I know, very shortly I too shall join the throng who moaned about fb changes, and continue cruising it nevertheless. Because that's just what I'm like...I'm taken in by the pirate language and the exciting prospects it offers me...that sense of adventure when it flashes a piratical grin at me, waving 'treasure' and 'rum' in my face... I'm only human. So I will continue to grumble and oddly relish in hurling abuse at fb's decision to use enjambment in the presentation of statuses (SO MUCH AMBIGUITY...IS IT REALLY NECCESSARY?)....and its removal of the bubble-announcement of updates (THAT WAS JUST CRUEL). And while I wonder why it is that we are going backwards, why time seems to be recoiling in on itself, I will continue that calm, bored, countenance with which I scroll down to read 'fascinating' things about people I am equally 'fascinated' about. My insatisfaction shall undoubtably remain, but is there any need to increase it by removing the small joys that once greeted me on the bookofface? It would appear so. Back to facebook I go, as this all swirls into the dim and distant past...just remember folks, that once, at one delightfully joyous time, it was possible to like something AND be a fan. We were a greedy bunch.