24th August 1995

I remember my grandmother coming to visit when I was a child. She always smelled a litle musty, and would insist on wearing the biggest most volumptuous outdoor coats "for travelling in", no matter what the season. Of course, as a pretentious, horrible and entirely self absorbed nine year old, I have very few memories of her before my ninth birthday.
I was busy sulking, because I'd been grounded for a fortnight and my party had been cancelled*. My grandmother came out to the garden, where I was busy trying to disentangle my hair from the rope swing, and she laughed. Armed only with a pair of nail clippers, she offered to cut me free if I'd listen to her speak for 30 minutes, then preceded to tell me a long and complicated story that lead to the purchase of her first pair of Manolos.
The moral of the story? I should eat what my parents told me to eat, because then I'd grow to be so tall I'd never need to wear expensive and horribly uncomfortable footwear.
Quite apart from this fixing a nasty Jack and the Beanstalk image in my mind**, this struck me as completely absurd; her shoes were beautiful- and this is what started the Junk Food Revolution that occured during my ninth year. However, I am completely convinced that my refusal to eat anthing remotely healthy for the next four or five years is not why I'm rather short; at five foot four, I'm actually lucky- my grandmother is 4"9 on a good day, and my mother is 5"0.
I also have this day to thank for my inability to ever grow my hair long again. And for the story my parents bring up at every gathering they've ever managed to drag me along to; The Time Imogen (aged nine and a bit) Asked For a Pair of Manolos For Christmas.

*Sources vary as to the reason.
**That pursues me to this day, as I think of Manolos- or watch Sex and the City.

Bruise pristine 2

As mentioned previously, I come from a teeny tiny rural backwater, where any venture outdoors initiates a flurry of heads peeping round doors and lacy curtains, and the necessity of making idle conversation with at least one of the neighbours, and this is a hard habit to absolve- I've lived in London for over a year under the guise of doing studenty things, and I still find myself expecting to have to exchange pointless pleasantries with a chance aquaintance, but it turns out my paranoia with regards to visits to Ann Summers and the like isn't entirely unfounded; one of my many very distant relations has apparently caught sight of me and the Bruise ("doing what", I clamour to ask, but I'm scared of the answer), and decided to call my parents and share this information. Which brought on the following conversation with my mother-

"Have you been involved in those riots Imogen?"
"What riots?"
"The riots that have been on the news!"
"Oh. Those riots. Erm, no- Mum? I don't go to uni in Birmingham, I live in London."
"So?"
"So, um, no, I wasn't there?"

OK, so my mother scares me. But I haven't been involved in any riots or political marches, or anthing else that might involve close contact with other people- no, not even that.

Bruise pristine

I'm not entirely sure how this happened, but I can hazard a guess- I have a somewhat hazy memory of being hit in the face by a lady with an aggressively outsize handbag whilst crammed in the lift*, with the result that I now have a black eye. I'm extraordinarily proud of it; I've never had a black eye in my life, but, on reflection, I'm quite impressed I've managed to avoid this for so long- due to my innate clumsiness, I walk into doors that are being held open for me, and I fall down steps on a reguar basis. I drop everything- I have been known to break every single cup in my flat**- and have even got a burn mark on my ear, as I missed my hair whilst toying with my beautiful flatmate Sophie's straightening irons- in future, I'll use flatmate Damien's straightners as they're special boy ones***, and very small- presumably to minimise the burn risk, as he has longer hair than me.
I suspect this bruise will lose its appeal as it starts to swell and turn green, but for now its ace, and has a certain comedy appeal- I just couldn't understand why I was getting so many sideways glances from complete strangers last night, but at encouragement from the ever amoral Alec I was lead to believe it was because I looked hot. He's such a bastard, and I actually live with an evil genius.


*I've never quite learned how to do stairs whilst wearing heels, without a death grip on the banister, but last night my nail polish was still wet and I didn't want to chip it.
**I have a nasty feeling that next year i'll have more trouble persuading people to live with me.
***As in, they come in a limited edition blue.

Good grief

"What is she doing here!?" I hissed under my breath, my grip on his arm tightening
"She's an old woman! Were we supposed to leave her out in the hall?" Uh, yes. What kind of time is this for Alec, resident meanie and generally amoral person to get a social conscience?
"And you did throw up on her posh shoes".
Point taken.

She's here. My boyfriends mother was in my flat when I trudged home today, raising a disparaging eyebrow at our nifty tin and polka dot cups- an eyebrow which quickly returned to normal level as i spilled tea on her handbag; this clumsy thing of mine may actually be a curse, but its hard to maintain a look of perfect disparagement when ones handbag is at risk of drowning; unfortunately, I also got tea on this weeks essay- done, for the first time ever, in plenty of time; but now I know better and am fully resolved to resume my normal course of action and leave it til the last minute in future.

I've noticed a nasty trend though; a universal law that seems to ensure that I simply cannot encounter someone unpleasant- be it an ex, or my current boyfriends wonderful mother- without them having the upper hand in an area that reallly matters; appearance. For example, today I not only had a hangover- from the two glasses of wine that may have inadvertently lead on to more- shall we say challenging, substances, but I'd also walked back from Oxford Street in nasty drizzly weather conditions. So, of course, I looked like hell when I finally crawled home- and she did, of course, look pristine.

Instant gratification

I just went for an emergency run to the shop for coffee and ice-cream; an innocent enough venture, I'm sure you'll agree. On the way back, my attention was drawn by a horde of giggling schoolgirls gathered around a notice by the entrance to my building- a relief, as I have instant paranoia, that generally kicks in when im alone and i hear people laughing for no discernable reason. Pushing past, I notice a printout stuck by the door, with what would appear to be wallpaper paste- but as I have less than no interest in DIY-esque things, I wouldn't stake my bear factory card on it. I took a photo, as, y'no, this is Britain, and it'll probably get rained on horribly soon and its words of wisdom will soon be forgotten forever.

"I am finding it very difficult to sleep at night with your noise. I appreciate you have moments of lust however i am being woken up by it at all hours repeatedly every night and morning and it is not pleasant. Why not try the more fruitful approach of the kitchen table in future so i cannot hear? Many thanks."

Despite the obvious lack of commas, I found this hilarious, and began giggling with the rest of the crowd, only to be shocked into silence when I noticed the number of the flat.
Freakishly Maternal Lady's abode.
What is the world coming to?

EDIT: Fine. I've been railroaded into babysitting for her kids- triplets, and they're all monsters and very small- while she tries to forcibly remove the notices that are scattered throughout the building. I agreed to all this, something I put down to shock and utter disillusionment, but it wasn't until I caught her chipping away at the one on our landing and sacrificing her nails that I had to put my foot down and insist she use a butter knife- its what any good neighbour would have done, but i'm still trying to work out when I was upgraded to this post.
Will i have to share my ice-cream with her?

Lost and found

Oh my goodness, I've just discovered Lost, and have been devouring it feverishly- I watched it solidly from 3am to now; bloody insomnia. I have nasty periods where I can't sleep- plus, i'm getting used to sleeping alone again; its a big transition, and I don't like it one bit. Although, i'm the first to acknowledge that waking up alone will be fabulous- once I get the sleep thing down to a T once more- its a fine art. But back the main topic- Lost. How scary were the first four episodes? Loud noises, crazy women, big but as yet unseen monsters, screaming people, and not a little suspense.
Although we here, of the House of Scepticism, aren't entirely sure how valid a touch the Polar bear was.
On a similar theme, in a flat full of students studying useless subjects, how well adjusted would we be in a similar situation? We have; one English student (the frightfully eloquent author of this piece), one Physics student, one Philosophy and two Drama students- I think its safe to say we'd be utterly useless.
Also, how hot is the guy who plays Boone? This was a unanimous decision, we all love him- Jack was also popluar, but to a lesser degree (four to one, them to me).
Hailing back to an earlier post, I bought us replacement cups today; they're fabulous. Made of tin, they came with a guarantee that proved correct. These cups are practically immortal, they don't smash, even when dropped from great heights- as proven by extensive testing.* By some alchemy, they also look cool and come in a varity of colours, complete with polka dot print.
So, the plant pots can go back to the work they were designed for**- but we'll have to buy some plants first. And maybe organise a watering rota, and impose rules on visitors as to what they're allowed to give it. No boiling tea or coffee, or the deadly concotion thats recently been doing the rounds, guinness, champagne, and vodka- this wouldn't be necessary, but at the last party we held on these premises, the venus fly trap in the bathroom died a gruesome death- alcohol poisoning was the final consensus.

* Not that it was me who dropped one from a sixth floor apartment window, but it was this freak occurance that enables me to inform the world and prospective buyers of such marvellous workmanship, that while they may not smash, they do dent. A little.

** and the Freakishly Maternal lady can have her baby cup back. Not that this was ever used, but did cause much amusement to visitors (bastards).

enforced celibacy

"Oh. shit", I said, and he looked at me with distinct pissyness.
"What? I thought you liked my mother".
"Honey, YOU don't like your mother. Why inflict that label on me?" He shot me a horrible look, and stomped off into the kitchen, making unnecessary amounts of noise banging cupboards and the like, looking for all the world like a bad drag queen at closing. Its the glitter nail varnish that'll do it.

His mother is coming to stay with him. For 11 days. I honestly can't see what I've done to deserve this, I really don't, but it's having a negative impact on my mental health already. He's been given three days to prepare for her visit, which means cleaning out all the leftover pizza from the fridge, no more takeout food- something that indirectly means he'll have to learn to cook, and also she would appear to be expecting to sleep in his, or, more recently and fabulously, our bed. This would be the bone of contention. Is it bad manners to leave her alone in his flat at night while he comes home with me? Or turn the music on and make her sleep out on the couch?
This is, incidentally, the woman who's shoes I may, in all likelihood, have thrown up on at J's sisters wedding. Fuck. Do I owe her, considering these were nifty Gina shoes?

EDIT: She's just rung, to discuss "the final arrangements". To his credit, J did warn her I'm willing to defend my sleeping privileges to the first broken nail- not in those words, clearly, as she is a Proper Lady, and once told me off, in a very thorough manner, for corrupting her sons morals. Honestly. She doesn't seem to realise they were well on their way to full "corruption" before we began living in sin.
Anyway, if I'm honest and I try to be, I can't think of anywhere else to stash her as we can't really expect her to sleep on the couch, especially in a flat full to bursting of students. Admittedly less so than my own fabulous home, but full enough.

RE-EDIT: I've given in- predominantly due to the overwhelming sense of guilt that cripples me occasionally, when I think of the death of those shoes; shoes I might have, incidentally, inherited on her death, as his sister is, quite frankly, huge, in every sense of the word, but this happily includes her feet. But anyway, the womans having the bed, something bound to initiate an eleven day long foul mood.

Where do fishes go when they die?

Whats the proper mode of burial for a fish? Alec, being his usual insensitive self, thinks we should flush it down the toilet whilst saying the last rites- an option that secretly appeals to all of us, while Naomi, devastated ex fish parent, thinks we should invite people over and hold an all night vigil. Now, i don't want to be mean, but last time she conned me into holding an all night vigil (i think she made me go to Mass, but the reason escapes me) we fell asleep in the back of the church and missed the entire service.
So... choices, choices. Might I suggest a vote?

just desserts?

After a hard night i spent most of the afternoon watching channel four- i forgot to pay the sky bill, so we're newly stuck with the bare minimum, channelwise, which is a pity as my usual entertainment for Sundays is Toonami (but more on that at a later date; i might write a haiku in honour of its fabulousness). I watched the Hollyoaks omnibus, then various other things i've never even heard of- so maybe it really was, as Alec says, a good thing that i was scared away by an advert. Is it really necessary to show footage of Brittney kissing her husband on daytime tv? Night vision footage really isn't the most flattering of things- no matter how badly i wanted to be green when i was a child, something my mother swears i didn't grow out of till i was well into double figures. I think it was the closeup shot of the chewing gum in her mouth that did it though, and now i'm refusing to watch anymore bad daytime tv, as adverts appear to have progressed since my misspent youth. Plus, i broke the last of the coffee mugs in my horrified lunge for the off button- Naomi threw the remote out a while ago, ostensibly because she felt it was bad for her fish- and spilt coffee on one of my beautiful new red glittery boots.
I appear to be the only person mourning this event however; I'm told they were a bad idea in the first place, but i refuse to agree and i really would have appreciated some sympathy.
On another not entirely unrelated note, thats the fifth cup i've broken in the last two weeks, and now the last of the lot. Maybe plastic cups are in order? It'll have to wait till i get paid on Wednesday, so plenty of time to decide. We've had to resort to drinking out of flower pots until then, something thats making me terribly popular, but at least we managed to salvage 5- just enough for one each; I'm not decorating mine however, as I'm sure something'll happen to destroy it, and I wouldn't want to become too attached.

EDIT: I've just been given one of those plastic, completley unbreakable baby cups. It has Noddy characters on it, which may be its only drawback, but i think the fact that I can also knock it over without it spilling on anything else is marvellous and completely outweighs this point.

RE-EDIT: Fine. Alecs just ruined my excitement, by reminding me that it was the Freakishly Maternal Lady who gave me this present. So, it's highly likely it came straight from a small child- i have to admit, this is a horribly plausible idea; this is, after all, the same lady who left me several bottles of breast milk the first time i ever baby sat for her. Hmm.

an ominous beginning

I had my first (and quite possibly last, for the foreseeable future, at least) driving lesson today, despite not actually having applied for my provisional licence yet. The wonderful Dylan bravely offered to teach me- all i have to say on the subject is that i really am sorry, but at least this proves my point; one really should learn to go forwards before going backwards. I mean, why? Running before you can crawl, springs to mind.
In other news, it looks like employment is on the horizon, despite my long held desire to avoid this. My very own mildly pretentious Jerome returned from holidaying (is that word grammatically plausible?) with his parents this morning- his plane landed at 6am, he squelched through the door at 8 clutching a rose that had undoubtedly seen better days, a bottle of vodka, his passport and several application forms for part time supermarket jobs. Apparently, these are all the things he needs to live off for a week, until the rest of his paraphernalia arrives. I blithely and naively assumed the gaudy Tesco and Sainsburys forms were for him, but of course not.
Whilst quietly fuming about this necessary injustice- over coffee and baklava, of course (possibly the very best thing about visiting my family is this delightful and not always looked for side effect; they tell me i'm thin, which is nice, and sent me on my way with lots of food) i found this nifty little internet site- when i find it again i'll link it, but my Pirate Name is Olga Charity Rothbone. Who says those vital years at uni are a waste of time?