Situations in which I like to blast my music:

Oh... What am I saying?

Situations in which I love to blast my music:

- In the ENT department (Ear, Nose and Throat) of York hospital, where they either can't hear you, can't speak to complain or can't talk without sounding like Gonzo from The Muppet Show.

-At the dentists, preferably when in the chair, so at least you can't hear the drill.

- When walking through one of the big parking lots around York where it echoes so it's like a cheap surround sound system. I should so just get a parking lot in my bedroom.

- When babysitting. Nothing like corrupting youthful minds to get your own back on their parents...

- When my sister's trying to watch TV. What? She doesn't do me any favours.


- Lunchtimes in Fulford Youth Centre, sat on the floor behind the pool and football tables.

- Hip Hop with JJ in the school quad when we're trying to put off doing some last-minute work before the exams. ("Oh God that was good." "Yeah we should totally just listen to that again some time.")

- Long car journeys, make them l-o-n-g-e-r I say!

... But my favourite one of all has to be listening to Eminem in the supermarket. There's nothing like walking around with a weird grin on your face because Eminem just recommended that we all "shove a gerbil in your ass through a tube".

Good going, man.

For some reason I always text in full English.

[Alternative title: C U L8er]

Text sent to my mum yesterday:

"'March 1933: After the Reichstag Fire over 25000 people were taken to official camps...' And thus concludes how much I have learnt since my room was invaded in June 2009. I have 60+ years of three different countries' histories to memorise for tomorrow and it would be BEYOND DIVINE if someone would let me try. I give it five minutes before I completely lose my shit. Have a nice day."

I'm really close to the end of the exams and also absolutely drained, so I might not post much (aiming for twice a week) while I recover from the longest seven weeks of my life since... the seven weeks before this one.

Fourteen weeks.

Whatever.

Basically, I'll be back after I:

> Burn all my books/uniform and perform a tribal fire dance.
> Convince my parents to let me go on a residential trip next year so I can go fall out of trees and get stuck in mud.
> Defuse the wrath of a cousin who is mad at me because I cut 80% of my hair off and didn't give it to her. (she luuurves real-hair extensions... crazy lady.)
> Have an all-out pavlova fight with Anna which she doesn't know about yet so shhh...

In which I learn that telling birds to 'chill' doesn't work.

Today something happened.

Yes. Believe me in that today, SOMETHING did happen.

Something PROFOUND.

Something AMAZING.

Something that had enough of an impact for me to shout "Oh for fuck's sake!" well within the hearing range of my elderly neighbours.

I was about to leave the house in a tearing dash because I was late for an appointment at the hospital which is on the other side of York when I heard something... strange...

Something that sounded uncannily like a bird flapping its wings. In my house.

Queue: "Oh for fuck's sake!"

I figured nobody would believe me unless I caught footage of the thing so whapped (love that word... Don't think it's a real one) out my camera.

Et voila.



"Chill... stay still. Chill, chill, CHILL."

I tried to be reasonable. I really did. But it just wouldn't listen to my pleas.

In short: Pidgeons suck. Pidgeons really suck.

A Cherry I never want to lose.

Since I first started Fulford School back in ye olde summer of '04, there was someone who instantaneously became the biggest pain in the ass ever: Cherry Smith.

Can we get a picture of me and Chez over here please?



Umm... No. Not quite.



Ahh... There we go. Honestly... You can't get the staff these days.

So anyway. This is Cherry, some 4.8 years after we first met. Please note that for about three of those years, we could Not Stop Arguing.

Not even to save our own mothers. No. Arguing came first.

But then, something magical happened. Something so magical I don't even know what it was.

We suddenly had the ability to get on alright. I have no idea how this happened.

And now? We are awesome. Completely and unanimously awesome. So awesome we can't ever come into close contact in case it causes too much awesome. That's how awesome we are.

So imagine the possibilities when Cherry joined Twitter.

Mwahahahaha...

Round 1: Cackling as I watch her try to work out how the hell to use Twitter...

First tweet: "wondering how the hell Twitter works and if I even know anyone on here SAVE ME!!!"

...And then read all her tweets as she tries to find my profile. NICOLE, WHERE IS NICOLE?!

Round 2: Exchange of in-jokes that probably make us look like Communist fuck-buddies.

In regards to our history exams: "Remember the hotness the Lub(b)e caused... And that Stalin was a Communist, not a fairy."

Round 3: ZE GOOD FRENCH CAKE.

(...And other ways to remember what you learned in class.)

Me: "Ja ja le gut FRAAANNNCE CAKE YOU EAT IT LIKE DOG AND SHIT IT OUT AND YOU EEET IT EGEN YOU PEASANT."

Cherry: "You cannot use the French and German language together, it is a crime, have more respect!"

Me: "THE DUTCH DO IT!!! And you'd better believe me and the Dutch have a v. good rapport after my last Amsterdam weekend..."

Round 4: Ya momma's so fat...

Me: "Ya momma so fat... when she walks out in heels she strikes oil! BOOYAH!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat she has her own postcode! Suck on that!"

Me: "Ya momma's so fat I had to take a train and two buses to get on her good side, yo!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat when she jumped off a bridge, she went straight to hell!"

Me: "Ya momma's so fat that when she fell in love she broke it!"

Cherry: "Yo momma's so fat she had to go to SeaWorld to get baptized!"

At which point I gave up and let her win because she probably has a whole Google search engine of Ya Momma jokes at her disposal.

Cherry: "Yay! WW3 has ended!"

Me: "Make sure you tell ya momma..."

Round 5: FINALE - Pulling a Britney.

So today it was widely broadcast that I would be getting my hair cut. Why was this so controversial? Because I never cut my hair. Ever. It was the best part of a metre long. So when I returned home with the second most short hair I've ever had in my life from 3 years onwards, it had to spread around.

No less than three hours later, I threatened to pull a Britney and shave it all off.

Literally TWO SECONDS LATER, Cherry had responded.

Cherry: "Nicole you look gorgeous, I absolutely love your hair, don't do a Britney please you will look ridiculous! You look gorgey, love you!"

Can you not feel the hysteria behind that tweet? The panic?

10 out of big shiny 10 for the single most passionate tweet of the year.

Except in July when someone proposes to their girlfriend over Twitter.

You know it'll happen.

And at this late point I have come to three conclusions:

1. I love Cherry.

2. I use Twitter too much.

3. Pulling a Britney is not cool, kids, not cool.

I rest my case.

Love actually isn't all around.

I have noticed something appalling.

Out of the people in my troupe of oddballs I am persistently 'The Responsible One', also known as 'Grandma', or even 'Oma' if we are feeling our inner German (oo-er). I supply the condoms, explode at people if they, say, let their sort-of-not-but-still other half go around stealing things from HMV (though after this week's incident I'm feeling more forgiving), I roll my eyes when people go all mushy with each other, and perhaps storm off if I'm having an off day (5 out of 7 days a week).

But then I suppose that when you're perpetually single you tend to err on the side of 'aged' and forget how to act your age until someone shoves ice down your bra and you are forced to fight to the death on a trampoline for the sake of your pride, or lack of it.

Wait, what was I saying?

Ahh yes. I'm getting old. See? Senile dementia, right there.

Maybe that's an overstatement. I'm like a spinster - Bridget Jones without the capacious knickers.

And according to Love Actually and Bridget Jones' Diary, love can only occur inside of London, and as a Northerner, I know this would never work, because there is a North-South language barrier to consider on top of lots of other things, like congestion charges and Prince Charles.

However... I have a plan to conquer this. It is a proven fact that if Person From England goes over to America, they find Person(s) From America and live happily ever after. It's true, it was on Love Actually AND The Holiday, and if that's not solid proof I don't know what is.(And also to a lesser extent, this occurred on Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow, but we needn't go there. Ever. No matter how much Jude Law there is.)



So this is my plan. Like Colin Frissell himself said, "American girls would seriously dig me for my cute British accent".

Well, not girls.

No, really.

Ah, fuck it. I'll just go celibate with Susan Boyle.

Update: Trust no one because they don't trust you.

There's been a development in relation to yesterday's incident and I feel I have to share it, because that's what I do.

In the last thirty hours or so I have become paranoid. My sister has hidden my passport so I don't become one of those people who takes their passport with them everywhere in case (just on the off-chance) some guy asks for I.D. when you are clearly not fourteen.

So today I went to the shop to buy some bread, and there was a new sign next to the counter saying '1. THINK, DO THEY LOOK 18? 2. ASK THEIR AGE. 3. ASK FOR I.D.'

I handed over the loaf of bread with trembling hands.

"Uhh... Am I old enough to by bread?" *Meaningful nod at the sign* "Because I know where my passport is now, my mum hid it under the printer. It's not alcoholic yet, it only does that when the yeast ferments and releases-"

The cashier is looking at me, the line of people behind me is looking at me. I'm sure even the bread is looking at me.

"Umm..." *nervous giggle* "I'll just take the bread."

Next time I go there I think I'll plead insanity.

Get me the number of a reputable lawyer. Now.

Today I went to the big-ass shopping outlet just outside of York.

Designer Outlet, meet Blog, Blog meet Designer Outlet.

Designer Outlet is home to every big brand you can imagine and then some, and because it's an outlet you can buy things in bulk for less than anywhere else.

Then you realise that the brands are too expensive and fuck off home fuming over the time you wasted.

Makes for a good day out.

After this ritual I dragged my sister back to York for some more shopping, namely at HMV - the only place in York that sells a decent amount of DVDs since Zavvi went bust.

Ahh... Let me tell you that HMV has never let me down, from there I have obtained many things... Superman shirts, countless albums and DVDs, posters, games... the works.

So why oh why when I go to buy a cert-15 movie does some cocky shit ask me for ID?

Why?!

"Well," He said. "I can't sell you this without some I.D."

I honestly felt the tiny strings of calm popping in my head. Do I look fourteen?

It takes quite a bit for me to lose it completely, but this guy really found the target.

I listed all the various bits of I.D. I had on my person, "School library card?" [Note: It has never been used.] "Bank card?", "National Insurance Number?".

And he was just all: "They might not be yours."

I saw red. And at this point I'm going to have to highlight the difference between what I said and what I thought.

Now look here you surly bastard...

"But... all the details here match. All of these are mine." I whined. Probably not the best idea when trying to prove my age.

"You could have stolen it."

"..."

FUCK YOU, MAN.

"Well, whatever. What do I need to prove my age then?"

"Photo I.D. A passport or a driving license."

DO I LOOK LIKE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO CARRIES A PASSPORT AROUND WITH ME? WHAT IS THIS? EAST FUCKING BERLIN?!

"Right, okay, thank you."

---Charged home---

"WHERE'S MY PASSPORT?!"

My dad was mildly alarmed. "Uhh... what?"

"I said, where is my passport? And my driver's license, and my birth certificate, and that certificate I won in that K'Nex competition." (It may not have looked like that.)

Typical question: "Why?"

"Because, Father, I want to march back to HMV and shove it all up the arse of the guy who didn't let my buy my fucking DVDs."

So me and my dad searched the entire house for my goddamn passport which I must say my mum has hidden VERY well because now the only conclusion I can come to is that she has a nagging fear that I am going to flee the country soon because of all my talk of Seattle and living with my homies in a ghetto in South Chicago and let us not forget Finland which I love very very much.

We could not find that damn passport anywhere.

Next time I go to HMV I will be taking my passport, my birth certificate, a bus pass, ten years of medical record, my dentist and that guy's death certificate.

That'll fucking teach them.