More sun, more cider, and more s.... annoying-the-male-friend's-new-girlf

Tis apparently the last day of summer up North, and my sunburn will attest this fact for many weeks to come. The fronts and backs of my legs are nicely pink (3/4 days to tan), however that leaves a very white stripe down the side. I am adidas. I have been reeboked. Whatever. I look ridiculous.

And last night I managed to step on an upturned drawing pin. The Mother has kindly checked the vaccination records, and informed me that my tetanus has run out. Yay. So my day at the beach tomorrow is being interrupted by a GP appointment for a top up. Probably appropriate, seeing as I spent today wandering barefoot outside, with an open puncture wound.

Hopefully this run of bad luck can end tomorrow. We have a second viewing of the flat we saw on Friday night, because our other flatmate was away - another excuse to meet HOTTT property owner and reassess the place without having our moneyman over our shoulders.

Results on Tuesday! I even took my anatomy book sunbathing with me today, in the hope of prize orals! Or just cos I'm a geek. Either or.

As for the new girlf of my favourite male uni-based friend (as, of course, R is my best male friend). She is under the bizarre delusion that I have designs on her man. I don't, obviously, but it is hilarious to watch her bristle at finding him and me sunbathing together, otherwise alone.

*pisseddd*

Hehehehe :) Uni may be over for teh year, but it's schooool night!!! Tis times like these I heart my geek glasses.

I learned to french plait my own hair!!! I have french pleated pigtails!!! Why couldny' I have learnt this ten years ago? Gah!

School tie, check.
White shirt, check.
Visible bra, gah, check.
Emo nail varnish, check.
Fluoro leg warmers, double check.

Woooo!! I havnt been oyut on a fridya night in agesss!¬

To the pointe

Ballet starts again tonight! I am possibly the least graceful or elegant person you'll ever meet. No sense of timing, rhythm, balance.

But at every opportunity my toes are pointed. I wear thin flats at work so whenever no-one is looking, I can stand en-pointe. Badly.

The show is, like, four weeks away and I am terrified. I don't know the routine properly, and I still struggle with some of the moves. I can't do a consistent pirouette to save my life. Argh!

I'm not a natural performer. I only started ballet less than a year ago. I'm unfit. I'm the wrong shape. I'm the shy-body. But I am longing to prove myself.

To prove to myself that I can dance. To prove to myself that I am good at creative things as well as academic.

So I can continue to pretend to be a female version of Billy Elliot when I'm alone, that I'm not just kidding myself that I can dance. So when someone asks, "do you dance?" I can say "Yes. I performed in my dance school's show this year."

So if you happen to be at an amateur dance show in a few weeks time, spare a thought for that tall, awkward looking dancer. The one looking at her fellow dancers, not the audience. The one stumbling through the moves. The one half a beat behind the rest of the group.

She'll be loving every minute.

I'm turning into my mother

I swear, the older I get, the more like my mother I become.

Today, I went shopping with my best friend, H. We went round several shoe shops looking at gym trainers (I know, aren't we cool?) and I persuaded her to buy the cheap ones. Not because they were pretty, or a cute colour, or the most functional, but because they were the cheapest.

On the way home, I proceeded to lecture her on the importance of a university degree in getting a decent job, and how jetting off to Malaysia every few months interspersed with bar work was not a productive use of a gap year. I AM TURNING INTO A MONSTER.

I'm not joining my mates at the pub tonight because I want to curl up in front of Holby City with a nice glass of wine and retire early to bed with my new, glossy copy of Lippincott's Biochemistry. How sad. I'm only eighteen, for goodness sake! Just how dull and straight-laced am I gonna be at forty? I should be out getting smashed off my face on illegal drugs and copious amounts of alcopops, and coming home at dawn, yet my favourite social activity is lounging in a coffee shop - any coffee shop, I don't care which - with my oldest jeans and mis-matched socks on, and a fleece that my cat has moulted all over, with a giant mug of caffeine. And coming home in time for tea.

I think I need to act my age a bit more.

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Prince Harry arrived at work yesterday. Not the real one, obviously, but the new junior doctor bears more than a passing resemblance.

All of my female colleagues were admiring this new chap, until they realised that they have sons older than he is. Ha, he's all mine now, ladies. In my dreams, of course. Although at last check, I was the only young, single female in employment there.

It was just a shame that he turned up on the day that I:

a) Hadn't washed my hair
b) Had forgotten to put my contacts in
c) Had only rolled out of bed ten minutes before starting work
d) Was only staying awake through sheer willpower and a caffeine overdose

In summary, I looked like hell. Not to mention that I had a cough that could be heard all over the building, and that was producing blood as well as copious amounts of gunk. A very pleasant image indeed.

In future, I will wake up with enough time to find a clean work shirt, pop socks without ladders and cat-hair-free trousers. I will wash my hair, put my contacts in, and do my make-up. I'll even put on perfume. I'll get to work on time, and SMILE.

I think all those combined will kill my workmates with shock. The only day I ever manage to look half-decent is my day off.

Vanity (or my seemed lack thereof)

I got contacts last week. It's been a dream come true to be able to wear sunglasses. I haven't worn sunglasses since I was five (I'm now eighteen), but I seriously doubt that Minnie Mouse frames are in vogue anymore, so I think shopping is due.

Although the novelty of being spectacle-free is wearing off sharpish. It's got something to do with the time it takes to go through the whole routine: wash hands, rinse lenses, rinse case, pull eyelid up, pull other eyelid down, place lens on eye, blink rapidly at dust in eye, retrieve lens from cheek/sink/floor, rinse lens, try again. Then repeat on the other side until eyesight becomes equal.

It doesn't help that I collected a new lens on Saturday, with a different prescription to compensate for my eyes being a weird shape (my optician's words, not mine) and I think I may have forgotten to wash the solution off properly. Suffice to say I was curled up on the bathroom floor wimpering like a girl, while trying to claw the lens back out of my now extremely red and slightly puffy eye.

Maybe my glasses weren't so bad, after all.