There is something remarkably decadent about writing on your laptop whilst sitting on your bed, in your PJs. Not sure what it is – sitting at the PC in your nightwear is, I am sure, an activity practiced (at least occasionally) by a large proportion of you, and nobody thinks anything of it. And there is nothing overly odd about sitting on your bed to work either. It’s comfortable and softer than the floor. In my case I sit on the bed because it’s the only other sit-able-on piece of furniture in the room. I don’t count the floor. I do sit on the floor a lot. I just don’t class it as “furniture”. Furniture you can move. The floor shouldn’t move, unless you are in a lift (thats an elevator for you non-Euro-philes reading), or in an earthquake, and in neither of those occasions are you normally working.

Back to my point. I’ve been sitting on my bed, laptop at the ready, surrounded by books for the better part of the afternoon. I was working. The desk wasn’t looking good to me today, and I’d got done all I could done in the lab this morning. Also, Penny had the cricket on and, whilst I found it enjoyable, I was concentrating more on that than on the thesis, so home I had to come. I didn’t feel decadent then. I did feel I should be in a montage shot from some film – you know the bit: attractive but intelligent girl studying hard before the finals, books spread in a circle around her, laptop open, pencil held in teeth (or possibly behind the ear), another pen holding most of her hair back in a bun, but allowing a few locks to fall forward making her look fetchingly distracted, glasses (that she hasn’t up to this point worn) on the end of her nose, typing for a bit, then flicking over a page, cross-referencing in another book, typing some more, possibly occasionally taking sips of tea (or coffee) from the large mug with the cute cartoon kitten on it… all the while some music plays designed to show the men in the audience that, whilst studying normally isn’t cool, when she is doing it is, and that they should fall wildly in love with her…

You get the idea.

Now though, I feel decadent. Perhaps it is because it is after ten, or because it’s a combination of all the elements (laptop, bed, PJs, disheveled hair do, books). Or perhaps not. Either way, that’s what I’m doing, and that’s what I feel.

Yes, I am rambling more than normal because I am mildly jazzed up at the moment. Just went to see Grease the Musical at the Mayflower Theater. I’ve seen Grease the Movie more than once, and also seen it in a couple of different productions on the stage, but it was only £10 for the student ticket, and both Moose and myself enjoyed seeing Joseph so much last year we thought we’d take in another show whilst it was local. Be criminal not to. And Moose needed cheering up, so really I was being a good friend going along with her. It would have been mean not to go…

Yeah, having a hard time trying to convince myself as well. But it was fun! The girl playing Sandy had an amazing voice – we’re talking chills up the nape-of-the-neck great here. Danny was pretty good as well. Not quite as much charisma as when I saw Shane Ritchie (yes, the Alfie Moon from Eastenders) in the part, but still pretty damn hot. I did have an issue with the woman playing Rizzo – she was channelling Stockard Channing a little bit too much. Basically shouting every line, even the normal conversation, which meant when she was genuinely shouting she had nowhere left to go. But then she sang and I forgave her everything. I probably understood what the song “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” really meant for the first time. Again, chills were multiplying up my spine when she sang.^*1*

All in all, much fun. I’ve decided that my perfect man needs to sing as well as all the rest. Now, the DNCC-WINLHATF (Decidedly-Not-Cute-Canadian-Who-I-No-Longer-Have-A-Thing-For) already is a dab hand on the bass guitar, dances, climbs (and has the collar-bones of a climber to boot), is enough of a geek to understand gamers and enjoy cartoons, and, let’s not forget, is really rather easy on the eyes. If he could add singing to that mix you’d be scraping me off the floor from the puddle of girly-goo I’d just melted into.

But, as he, in addition to all of those things, seems oblivious to my charms, I think I’d better start the search elsewhere.

I’ve been looking for a new bag for a while now – I am picky, so it’s taken a bit to find what I wanted. I was looking for something small but groovy. It’s for when I go out you see. You need something big enough to keep your wallet, phone, keys, and eyeliner etc in (at least if you are me you do), but not something so big that you look odd when dancing. Alas, all the bags I have at the moment are of the black-hole variety. They fit EVERYTHING you could ever need and then some, but really spoil the line of an outfit.

So we were in H&M today, I was picking through the accessories in a desultry fashion, and then I saw the above. I hadn’t even picked it off the shelf when Moose went “oh yes, that’s perfect”. As I make a point of never arguing with Moose, especially when she is right, I got it. And it is. Perfect that is.

Shiny.

IT’S ALIVE!!!!!
IT’S ALIVE!!!!!

No, you haven’t stumbled by accident into a reproduction of Frakenstein’s Monster.

I am, in fact, talking about my wiki. Those in the know will know that getting the damn thing running properly has been… to say not easy would be a vast understatement. I’ve had it up and running for a good month or so now, but our computer services people kept refusing to press the button that would make it visible if you weren’t sitting in the lab. And as the whole point of the wiki was that people outside of the lab could use it, this was proving to be a slight problem.

Just when I thought the godhead was in danger of having exploding with anger, it suddenly went live as of (checks watch, then checks wiki to make sure she isn’t dreaming it) five minutes ago.

So I’m a happy bunny!

Sadly, I now have no excuse not to get on with the writing of the thesis itself now. But I’m not going to think on that today – for today is my day of jubilee.

Yipee!!!!

(I challenge you not to be happy and grinning like a fool by the end of this post ^*1*.)

I would like to bring to your attention a piece of sheer television genius on BBC2 at the moment: “How To Start Your Own Country” (Wednesday evenings, 10 pm). The man really is starting his own country. In his flat. In London. All I can say is, go to the site, watch the series if you can, and try not to pee your pants laughing.

Watch the National Anthem. Please. You have been warned though, the tune is probably as catchy as the jingle from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, or the “Hate Something” Honda advert. I was humming it all through dinner.

We watched the show last night even though it meant missing most of the pilot for “Lost” on C4. That is how good it is.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to take my oath of citizenship. ^*2*.

The following post is aimed toward the female readers of the blog. Male readers, well, you’re going to enjoy the subject matter I suppose, just keep the sniggering down at the back, ok?

I have an ambivalent attitude toward my breasts. I am happy that I have them and I’d rather have them than the alternative, but there is no getting around the fact that, at times, I wish they were just… different. I am pretty much sure that most women feel the same way toward their breasts – bigger, smaller, different conformation, you name it – none of us are happy with what we’ve got.

For my own, I wish there were just that bit smaller. I’m not approaching Jordan, sorry Katie Price, in proportions, but I am certainly larger in that department than is average. It’s lucky I’ve got a naturally stocky build, or I would be in danger of looking all out of proportion. Most times this does not, shall we say, put me at a disadvantage? But then there come the days when I have to go clothes shopping.

That’s when the wheels fall off the wagon.

I can’t remember where I read the stats, but the ‘average’ woman is a size 12 or 14, and a size 36 B or C, so I’m nudging the upper range of normal. Clothes, on the other hand, are designed for Kirstin Dunst who probably approximates a size 6 and is a 32 A or something. For many years this was fine with me. You shop in the 18 plus and you get inured, if not contented, with voluminous clothes that most definitely weren’t designed with Kirstin Dunst in mind. But I’ve been working hard this past year or so on taming my recalcitrant body, and I’ve finally got to the point where I can wear (and look halfway decent) in clothes designed for normal people. Oh, the pleasure of taking a size 14 into the changing room and knowing that, even if it looks ugly, it won’t be the fit that is to blame! So I am finally able to wear trousers again after about five years of clown-pants and long skirts, and… now I can’t find tops that fit me.

Maybe my proportions are all wrong, but clothes just don’t seem designed for people with breasts. Any breasts, not just slightly-larger-than-average breasts. I tried on one of those looks-great-on-the-models silky camisole thingumies in H&M today. You know that moment when you’ve got the top over your shoulders, but it won’t go over your breasts, and you start to panic thinking “Oh my god, they’re going to have to cut me out of this, and it was the cute male assistant on duty today…“? Well, I had that moment and then some today. Fortunately I remembered some breathing exercises I picked up when playing the oboe that had the side effect of minimizing the bust. Managed to wriggle out of the top, with my dignity (and hairstyle) ruffled but more or less intact. Just hope they’ve not taken to putting cameras in the H&M changing rooms…

Even when I do find tops that fit, which is no easy matter, short of wearing a polo-neck I always end up exposing more cleavage than a nice girl should. I can wear vests underneath tops (fortunately the layered look is in right now), but I still catch more than a few men looking at my breasts instead of my face. As for when I want to wear that nice strapless or backless dress, well, something things are just never going to happen no matter how much we might want them to. I’m never going to be a world-class athlete. Nor, do I think, is au naturelle an option darlings.

Which kind of brings me to part two of my breast-related rant. Bra’s. I could swear that the sizings have got smaller in the last year or so. *eyes narrow* M&S must have some conspiracy going on with small-breasted women to make them feel better, because there is no way that at the same time as LOOSING lots of weight, my breasts have gone UP a cup-size.

Also, do they have to be so fricking expensive? You’re looking at the sharp end of £20 for a nice bra, then £5 or more if you want matching knickers. That’s my weekly grocery budget. Two sets and you practically have a new copy of Mac OSX. You can be sure that if there was a piece of clothing the majority of men had to wear it would cost a lot LOT less. Or be available free from the government or something. There’s a thought – bras on the NHS. Then again as a child who was inflicted with NHS glasses, perhaps not.

We won’t go into the fact that popcorn (anything I eat in the cinema) seems to have a fascination with my cleavage giving me the option of going searching (and incurring some very scandalised looks from the little old lady at the end of the row), or having popcorn where no popcorn was designed to go for the entirety of the film. But, as I said, we won’t be going into that today. That’s more to do with my clutziness than my breasts.

Yes, I love my breasts, and one or two other people have expressed a favorable opinion of them as well, but there are days when they do bug the crap out of me. Like today. No, I am not expecting anything constructive to come of this post, I just wanted to share.

There just aren’t the words to describe how much I laughed when Aoife emailed me these pictures this morning. Definately made my day.

Go here for a Flickr set of photos from our night out the other week. The night out in question was previously described here.

I know Dixons have announced that they are no longer going to stock 35mm cameras, and this makes me sad because digital cameras just aren’t as good, but the invention of digital cameras has certainly made it easier to record nights-out and how silly everyone looks whilst drunk.

There have been some memorable moments from this year, but this has to rank at (or near) the top. Going to miss these guys come October when we scatter to the four winds 🙁

One of my favourites: (end of the night. From left to right the Nordic Ninja, Cas (yes I really am that short), Jeff, and the Cute Canadian)